IV

In the fire-trench--or perhaps it would be more correct to call it the

water-trench--life may be short, and is seldom merry; but it is not

often dull. For one thing, we are never idle.

A Boche trench-mortar knocks down several yards of your parapet.

Straightway your machine-gunners are called up, to cover the gap

until darkness falls and the gaping wound can be stanched with fresh

sandbags. A mine has been exploded upon your front, leaving a crater

into which predatory Boches will certainly creep at night. You summon

a _posse_ of bombers to occupy the cavity and discourage any

such enterprise. The heavens open, and there is a sudden deluge.

Immediately it is a case of all hands to the trench-pump! A better

plan, if you have the advantage of ground, is to cut a culvert under

the parapet and pass the inundation on to a more deserving quarter. In

any case you need never lack healthful exercise.

While upon the subject of mines, we may note that this branch of

military industry has expanded of late to most unpleasant dimensions.

The Boche began it, of course--he always initiates these undesirable

pastimes,--and now we have followed his lead and caught him up.

To the ordinary mortal, to become a blind groper amid the dark places

of the earth, in search of a foe whom it is almost certain death to

encounter there, seems perhaps the most idiotic of all the idiotic

careers open to those who are idiotic enough to engage in modern

warfare. However, many of us are as much at home below ground as above

it. In most peaceful times we were accustomed to spend eight hours a

day there, lying up against the "face" in a tunnel perhaps four feet

high, and wielding a pick in an attitude which would have convulsed

any ordinary man with cramp. But there are few ordinary men in

"K(1)" There is never any difficulty in obtaining volunteers for the

Tunnelling Company.

So far as the amateur can penetrate its mysteries, mining, viewed

under our present heading--namely, Winter Sports--offers the following

advantages to its participants:--

(1) In winter it is much warmer below the earth than upon its surface,

and Thomas Atkins is the most confirmed "frowster" in the world.

(2) Critics seldom descend into mines.

(3) There is extra pay.

The disadvantages are so obvious that they need not be enumerated

here.

In these trenches we have been engaged upon a very pretty game of

subterranean chess for some weeks past, and we are very much on our

mettle. We have some small leeway to make up. When we took over these

trenches, a German mine, which had been maturing (apparently unheeded)

during the tenancy of our predecessors, was exploded two days after

our arrival, inflicting heavy casualties upon "D" Company. Curiously

enough, the damage to the trench was comparatively slight; but

the tremendous shock of the explosion killed more than one man by

concussion, and brought down the roofs of several dug-outs upon

their sleeping occupants. Altogether it was a sad business, and the

Battalion swore to be avenged.

So they called upon Lieutenant Duff-Bertram--usually called Bertie the

Badger, in reference to his rodent disposition--to make the first move

in the return match. So Bertie and his troglodyte assistants sank

a shaft in a retired spot of their own selecting, and proceeded to

burrow forward towards the Boche lines.

After certain days Bertie presented himself, covered in clay, before

Colonel Kemp, and made a report.

Colonel Kemp considered.

"You say you can hear the enemy working?" he said.

"Yes, sir."

"Near?"

"Pretty near, sir."

"How near?"

"A few yards."

"What do you propose to do?"

Bertie the Badger--in private life he was a consulting mining engineer

with a beautiful office in Victoria Street and a nice taste in

spats--scratched an earthy nose with a muddy forefinger.

"I think they are making a defensive gallery, sir," he announced.

"Let us have your statement in the simplest possible language,

please," said Colonel Kemp. "Some of my younger officers," he added

rather ingeniously, "are not very expert in these matters."

Bertie the Badger thereupon expounded the situation with solemn

relish. By a defensive gallery, it appeared that he meant a lateral

tunnel running parallel with the trench-line, in such a manner as to

intercept any tunnel pushed out by the British miners.

"And what do you suggest doing to this Piccadilly Tube of theirs?"

inquired the Colonel.

"I could dig forward and break into it, sir," suggested Bertie.

"That seems a move in the right direction," said the Colonel. "But

won't the Boche try to prevent you?"

"Yes, sir."

"How?"

"He will wait until the head of my tunnel gets near enough, and then

blow it in."

"That would be very tiresome of him. What other alternatives are open

to you?"

"I could get as near as possible, sir," replied Bertie calmly, "and

then blow up _his_ gallery."

"That sounds better. Well, exercise your own discretion, and don't get

blown up unless you particularly want to. And above all, be quite sure

that while you are amusing yourself with the Piccadilly Tube, the

wily Boche isn't burrowing past _you_, and under my parapet, by the

Bakerloo! Good luck! Report any fresh development at once."

So Bertie the Badger returned once more to his native element and

proceeded to exercise his discretion. This took the form of continuing

his aggressive tunnel in the direction of the Boche defensive gallery.

Next morning, encouraged by the absolute silence of the enemy's

miners, he made a farther and final push, which actually landed him in

the "Piccadilly Tube" itself.

"This is a rum go, Howie!" he observed in a low voice to his

corporal. "A long, beautiful gallery, five by four, lined with wood,

electrically lighted, with every modern convenience--and not a Boche

in it!"

"Varra bad discipline, sir!" replied Corporal Howie severely.

"Are you sure it isn't a trap?"

"It may be, sirr; but I doot the oversman is awa' to his dinner, and

the men are back in the shaft, doing naething." Corporal Howie had

been an "oversman" himself, and knew something of subterranean labour

problems.

"Well, if you are right, the Boche must be getting demoralised. It is

not like him to present us with openings like this. However, the first

thing to do is to distribute a few souvenirs along the gallery. Pass

the word back for the stuff. Meanwhile I shall endeavour to test your

theory about the oversman's dinner-hour. I am going to creep along and

have a look at the Boche entrance to the Tube. It's down there, at the

south end, I think. I can see a break in the wood lining. If you hear

any shooting, you will know that the dinner-hour is over!"

At the end of half an hour the Piccadilly Tube was lined with

sufficient explosive material--securely rammed and tamped--to ensure

the permanent closing of the line. Still no Boche had been seen or

heard.

"Now, Howie," said Bertie the Badger, fingering the fuse, "what about

it?"

"About what, sirr?" inquired Howie, who was not quite _au fait_ with

current catch-phrases.

"Are we going to touch off all this stuff now, and clear out, or are

we going to wait and see?"

"I would like fine--" began the Corporal wistfully.

"So would I," said Bertie. "Tell the men to get back and out; and you

and I will hold on until the guests return from the banquet."

"Varra good, sirr."

For another half-hour the pair waited--Bertie the Badger like a dog in

its kennel, with his head protruding into the hostile gallery, while

his faithful henchman crouched close behind him. Deathly stillness

reigned, relieved only by an occasional thud, as a shell or

trench-mortar bomb exploded upon the ground above their heads.

"I'm going to have another look round the corner," said Bertie at

last. "Hold on to the fuse."

He handed the end of the fuse to his subordinate, and having wormed

his way out of the tunnel, proceeded cautiously on all-fours along the

gallery. On his way he passed the electric light. He twisted off the

bulb and crawled on in the dark.

Feeling his way by the east wall of the gallery, he came presently to

the break in the woodwork. Very slowly, lying flat on his stomach now,

he wriggled forward until his head came opposite the opening. A low

passage ran away to his left, obviously leading back to the Boche

trenches. Three yards from the entrance the passage bent sharply to

the right, thus interrupting the line of sight.

"There's a light burning just round that bend," said Bertie the Badger

to himself. "I wonder if it would be rash to go on and have a look at

it!"

He was still straining at this gnat, when suddenly his elbow

encountered a shovel which was leaning against the wall of the

gallery. It tumbled down with a clatter almost stunning. Next moment

a hand came round the bend of the tunnel and fired a revolver almost

into the explorer's face.

Another shot rang out directly after.

The devoted Howie, hastening to the rescue, collided sharply with a

solid body crawling towards him in the darkness.

"Curse you, Howie!" said the voice of Bertie the Badger, with

refreshing earnestness. "Get back out of this! Where's your fuse?"

The pair scrambled back into their own tunnel, and the end of the fuse

was soon recovered. Almost simultaneously three more revolver-shots

rang out.

"I thought I had fixed that Boche," murmured Bertie in a disappointed

voice. "I heard him grunt when my bullet hit him. Perhaps this is

another one--or several. Keep back in the tunnel, Howie, confound you,

and don't breathe up my sleeve! They are firing straight along the

gallery now. I will return the compliment. Ouch!"

"What's the matter, sirr?" inquired the anxious voice of Howie, as his

officer, who had tried to fire round the corner with his left hand,

gave a sudden exclamation and rolled over upon his side.

"I must have been hit the first time," he explained. "Collar-bone, I

think. I didn't know, till I rested my weight on my left elbow....

Howie, I am going to exercise my discretion again. Somebody in this

gallery is going to be blown up presently, and if you and I don't get

a move on, p.d.q., it will be us! Give me the fuse-lighter, and wait

for me at the foot of the shaft. Quick!"

Very reluctantly the Corporal obeyed. However, he was in due course

joined at the foot of the shaft by Bertie the Badger, groaning

profanely; and the pair made their way to the upper regions with all

possible speed. After a short interval, a sudden rumbling, followed by

a heavy explosion, announced that the fuse had done its work, and

that the Piccadilly Tube, the fruit of many toilsome weeks of Boche

calculation and labour, had been permanently closed to traffic of all

descriptions.

Bertie the Badger received a Military Cross, and his abettor the

D.C.M.

V

But the newest and most fashionable form of winter sport this season

is The Flying Matinée.

This entertainment takes place during the small hours of the morning,

and is strictly limited to a duration of ten minutes--quite long

enough for most matinées, too. The actors are furnished by a unit of

"K(1)" and the rôle of audience is assigned to the inhabitants of the

Boche trenches immediately opposite. These matinées have proved an

enormous success, but require most careful rehearsal.

It is two A.M., and comparative peace reigns up and down the line. The

rain of star-shells, always prodigal in the early evening, has died

down to a mere drizzle. Working and fatigue parties, which have been

busy since darkness set in at five o'clock,--rebuilding parapets,

repairing wire, carrying up rations, and patrolling debatable

areas,--have ceased their labours, and are sleeping heavily until the

coming of the wintry dawn shall rouse them, grimy and shivering, to

another day's unpleasantness.

Private Hans Dumpkopf, on sentry duty in the Boche firing-trench,

gazes mechanically over the parapet; but the night is so dark and the

wind so high that it is difficult to see and quite impossible to hear

anything. He shelters himself beside a traverse, and waits patiently

for his relief. It begins to rain, and Hans, after cautiously

reconnoitring the other side of the traverse, to guard against

prowling sergeants, sidles a few yards to his right beneath the

friendly cover of an improvised roof of corrugated iron sheeting, laid

across the trench from parapet to parados. It is quite dry here, and

comparatively warm. Hans closes his eyes for a moment, and heaves a

gentle sigh.

Next moment there comes a rush of feet in the darkness, followed by a

metallic clang, as of hobnailed boots on metal. Hans, lying prostrate

and half-stunned beneath the galvanised iron sheeting, which,

dislodged from its former position by the impact of a heavy body

descending from above, now forms part of the flooring of the trench,

is suddenly aware that this same trench is full of men--rough,

uncultured men, clad in short petticoats and the skins of wild

animals, and armed with knobkerries. The Flying Matinée has begun, and

Hans Dumpkopf has got in by the early door.

Each of the performers--there are fifty of them all told--has his part

to play, and plays it with commendable aplomb. One, having disarmed

an unresisting prisoner, assists him over the parapet and escorts him

affectionately to his new home. Another clubs a recalcitrant foeman

over the head with a knobkerry, and having thus reduced him to a more

amenable frame of mind, hoists him over the parapet and drags him

after his "kamarad."

Other parties are told off to deal with the dug-outs. As a rule, the

occupants of these are too dazed to make any resistance,--to be quite

frank, the individual Boche in these days seems rather to welcome

captivity than otherwise,--and presently more of the "bag" are on

their way to the British lines.

But by this time the performance is drawing to a close. The alarm

has been communicated to the adjacent sections of the trench, and

preparations for the ejection of the intruders are being hurried

forward. That is to say, German bombers are collecting upon either

flank, with the intention of bombing "inwards" until the impudent foe

has been destroyed or evicted. As we are not here to precipitate a

general action, but merely to round up a few prisoners and do as much

damage as possible in ten minutes, we hasten to the finale. As in most

finales, one's actions now become less restrained--but, from a brutal

point of view, more effective. A couple of hand-grenades are thrown

into any dug-out which has not yet surrendered. (The Canadians,

who make quite a speciality of flying matinées, are accustomed, we

understand, as an artistic variant to this practice, to fasten an

electric torch along the barrel of a rifle, and so illuminate their

lurking targets while they shoot.) A sharp order passes along the

line; every one scrambles out of the trench; and the troupe makes

its way back, before the enemy in the adjacent trenches have really

wakened up, to the place from which it came. The matinée, so far as

the actors are concerned, is over.

Not so the audience. The avenging host is just getting busy. The

bombing-parties are now marshalled and proceed with awful solemnity

and Teutonic thoroughness to clear the violated trench. The procedure

of a bombing-party is stereotyped. They begin by lobbing hand-grenades

over the first traverse into the first bay. After the ensuing

explosion, they trot round the traverse in single file and occupy

the bay. This manoeuvre is then repeated until the entire trench is

cleared. The whole operation requires good discipline, considerable

courage, and carefully timed co-operation with the other

bombing-party. In all these attributes the Boche excels. But one thing

is essential to the complete success of his efforts, and that is the

presence of the enemy. When, after methodically desolating each bay in

turn (and incidentally killing their own wounded in the process), the

two parties meet midway--practically on top of the unfortunate

Hans Dumpkopf, who is still giving an imitation of a tortoise in a

corrugated shell--it is discovered that the beautifully executed

counter-attack has achieved nothing but the recapture of an entirely

empty trench. The birds have flown, taking their prey with them. Hans

is the sole survivor, and after hearing what his officer has to say to

him upon the subject, bitterly regrets the fact.

Meanwhile, in the British trenches a few yards away, the box-office

returns are being made up. These take the form, firstly, of some

twenty-five prisoners, including one indignant officer--he had been

pulled from his dug-out half asleep and frog-marched across the

British lines by two private soldiers well qualified to appreciate the

richness of his language--together with various souvenirs in the way

of arms and accoutrements; and secondly, of the knowledge that

at least as many more of the enemy had been left permanently

incapacitated for further warfare in the dug-outs. A grim and grisly

drama when you come to criticise it in cold blood, but not without a

certain humour of its own--and most educative for Brother Boche!

But he is a slow pupil. He regards the profession of arms and the

pursuit of war with such intense and solemn reverence that he _cannot_

conceive how any one calling himself a soldier can be so criminally

frivolous as to write a farce round the subject--much less present the

farce at a Flying Matinée. That possibly explains why the following

stately paragraph appeared a few days later in the periodical

communiqué which keeps the German nation in touch with its Army's

latest exploits:--

_During the night of Jan. 4th-5th attempts were made by strong

detachments of the enemy to penetrate our line near Sloozleschump,

S.E. of Ypres. The attack failed utterly_.

"And they don't even realise that it was only a leg-pull!" commented

the Company Commander who had stage-managed the affair. "These people

simply don't deserve to have entertainments arranged for them at all.

Well, we must pull the limb again, that's all!"

And it was so.