WILIBALD THE HUN
[This and the following chapter are representative of the two sides of
sniping--_i.e._--shooting and observation. The incidents occurred.]
“Who’ve you got there?”
“Mr. Harrison, sir; killed, sir.”
A short, red-haired officer ranged up alongside the stretcher, turned
back the blanket, and somewhat hurriedly replaced it.
“Damn those pointed bullets,” he said, speaking in a detached kind of
way and half to himself. His mind was working already on its problem.
“Where did it happen?”
“Caisson Trench, sir. That sniper Wilibald.”
“When?”
“Just after nine, sir.”
“Anyone with him?”
“Sergeant Small, sir.”
The officer turned, and the stretcher-party resumed its way. He
stood watching them for a little, his thoughts roving from the
horrible way in which a pointed bullet, fired from a rifle with a
muzzle-velocity of 3,000 feet a second, will at times keyhole, to
the deeds and too-haunting personality of Wilibald the Hun. British
troops have throughout the war given names to any German sniper
whose deeds lent him a personality. Fritz is generic; but once let
a Hun impress himself by skill, and he is christened. Thus we have
known Adolfs, Wilhelms, Old Seven-trees, Bluebeard, and a hundred
others. At first, thanks to the Duke of Ratibor, who collected all
the sportsmen’s telescopic-sighted rifles in Germany--and it is proof
of German far-sightedness that a vast percentage of them took the
military cartridge--the Hun sniper took heavy toll against our blunt
open sights. Later, things happened, and the plague was stayed; but in
the days of this incident the Hun and the Briton were still striving
unevenly for mastery.
The officer turned at length, and walked slowly down the trench till
he came to company headquarters. A second-lieutenant, standing at the
entrance to the dug-out, was unloading a rifle.
“Hullo, Bill,” said the officer. “Whose rifle?”
“My batman’s.”
“What have you been doing with it?”
“Wilibald shot Jack Harrison through the head. I----”
“Don’t,” said the red-haired officer shortly.
“Why not?”
“Have you ever shot with that rifle?”
“No.”
The red-haired officer raised his eyes wearily.
“Wilibald’s bag is big enough already. Wilibald sits over there”--he
indicated the German position with a swinging movement--“in some hole
or other as snug as a bug in a rug, _with_ a telescope sighted rifle
which he knows to the inch. You go and look for him with a rifle you
don’t know to a yard. You ---- fool!”
“All right, Red. We know your hobby. Only we wish you’d deliver the
goods.”
“Meaning Wilibald?”
“Yes. Wilibald is becoming a public nuisance. He’s got nine of us,
including an officer and an N.C.O., and he’s got more than a dozen of
the West Blanks who relieve us. He’s ... Damn! that’s him.”
A shot had rung out, followed by an ejaculation. The two officers
hurried along the trench to where in a bay a consequential private was
pouring iodine into a sergeant’s cheek. Three or four other privates
were talking excitedly.
“It come from the ’Un trench.”
“It didn’t. It come from the trees in the spinney.”
“That’s right. The fifth tree.”
“Naw. The sixth.”
“Garn!”
Red, with a word, broke up the group, and addressed the sergeant:
“Hullo, Small. What’s happened?”
“I was takin’ a spy, and Wilibald ’ad a drive at me. Clipped my cheek,
’e did,” said Small, in the aggrieved voice of the N.C.O. whose dignity
has been touched.
“Then, for God’s sake, don’t take a spy, Small, until you learn how to
do it without offering a target. Let’s see your cheek. Only a scratch.
That’s lucky. Now, did you see where the shot was fired from?”
“Beyond that it come from the left flank, I did not, sir. I----”
“All right. Go and get your cheek bandaged.”
As the sergeant saluted and went off down the trench, Red, having
ordered the observers to keep a good look-out upon the enemy trench,
took off his cap, and, fixing it on his stick, told Bill to raise it
slightly above the parapet until the badge of a famous regiment glinted
in the sun, while he watched.
Nothing happened.
Red laughed.
“Wilibald’s not a dasher,” said he. “He’s a regular Hun. Probably has
some rule about not firing unless he can see half the head he’s aiming
at. ‘Shoot to kill’ is his motto. Useful man, Wilibald. I wonder if his
company commander appreciates him.”
After passing along the trench and warning its garrison not to give
unnecessary targets, Red went a round of his observers. They were
stationed at loopholes and in O.P.s.
“Keep a good look-out, and try to spot Wilibald if he fires again. The
light will be pretty good when the sun works round behind us.”
“Which part of the trench do you think he is in, sir?” asked a
lance-corporal.
“Don’t know; perhaps not in the trench at all. Some of the Royal
----shires thought he was in the spinney, and some thought he was in
the willow-trees. He got twelve of them. He must be dealt with.”
“Yes, sir,” said the lance-corporal optimistically.
It was four o’clock in the afternoon when Red, having passed down
an old disused trench in the rear of the British position, crawled
cautiously out behind the parados. Here was an area seamed with shell
holes, each half-full of green, scummy water, little piles of rotting
sandbags, rusty wire, nettles, and coarse grass. About fifty yards
behind the front line a heavy shell had fallen almost on the top of
the almost imperceptible rise which culminated at that point. This
shell hole was Red’s objective, for from it he could, he knew, get a
fair view of the German trenches. It was not a safe place to visit in
the morning, when the sun was behind the German lines, and everything
in the British stood out clearly to their Zeiss glasses; but in the
afternoon the position was reversed, and the Hun observers were in
their turn looking into the sun.
To this place Red made his way. It was long before the days of
snipers’ robes of canvas, painted yellow and green and black, which for
such work would have been useful, though the earlier patterns, cut like
a greatcoat, were difficult to crawl in. Later a pattern of overall
shape was issued, which gave free play to the knees; but, as we say,
such issues were not yet “available.”
At length, Red reached the shell hole, and slowly made a place for his
telescope among the clods of earth upon the crater-lip. Then he bent
himself to a careful study of the scene.
The line of the German trenches was marked in white, for it was a
somewhat chalky country, with here and there loophole plates sticking
gauntly up on the top of the parapet. To these Red gave no attention.
Many of them were dummies; the danger-spots, he knew, were set lower;
often upon the ground level, where, through some gap in the rusty
wire, the German sniper’s eyes watched ceaselessly for a “target.”
Very carefully Red examined the German trenches. Well he knew their
appearance. One by one he picked up the familiar landmarks; here a
machine gun emplacement, there a suspected sniper’s post. All was
quiet. Once a sentry fired, and the bullet hummed like a bee high
above him. Next, Red turned more to the business in hand--the location
of Wilibald. No easy business, since there was a great divergence of
opinion. He had been located so often; in a sniping-post by the black
sandbags--for at one point in the Hun trenches there were a number
of black sandbags; the Germans used all colours on that front. Red
turned his glass on that point. Yes, there seemed to be a post there,
but there was nothing to prove that it was tenanted. Then he tried
the spinney; but neither the third tree nor the fifth yielded up any
secret. Then the ruined house or hovel; after that, the wide expanse
of No Man’s Land. As he watched, Red remembered the words of the Corps
Commander: “There is no No Man’s Land. It must be our land right up to
the enemy trenches.” That was an ideal to live up to. But stare now as
he would, and as he continued to do for an hour, he saw nothing, could
see nothing of Wilibald. Broken wire, shell holes, sandbags, pulverized
bricks and mortar, men lying in queer positions, men whose ragged
tunics the evening wind stirred strangely, men who would never move
again.
All Red’s life he had been apt, in moments of tension, to recur to a
phrase which made a kind of background to his thoughts, and now he
found himself repeating:
“Exiled and in sorrow far from the Argive Land.”
He turned round and glanced at the sun. It was sinking red, like a
cannon-ball. Then he turned for a last look at No Man’s Land and the
Hun positions. Nothing stirred. Far away on the right, a mile or two
away, a machine gun sounded like a rapidly worked typewriter. A bat
flew and turned above the British trench fifty yards in front of him.
Red crawled back.
In the trench he met his brother officer Bill.
“Hullo, Red. Any luck?”
“No.”
Bill laughed.
“Wilibald’s some man.”
Red nodded.
That evening at mess Wilibald formed the topic of conversation. The
Colonel spoke of him very seriously.
“He must be a splendid shot,” said he. “He puts it through the loophole
in the post in Bay 16, two shots in three--at least, so Carpenter, of
the Blankshires, was telling me. Said he supposed he’d got one of those
big Zeiss telescopic sights which magnify four times. Shooting with ’em
must be as easy as falling off a log.”
“Yes, sir,” said Red.
It was a full hour before dawn that the chill woke Red in his dug-out.
His thoughts switched at once on to the subject of Wilibald. The man
had taken over twenty British lives. He pictured him waiting at his
loophole, his bearded cheek pressed to the stock of his rifle. A fine
shot, no doubt--Carpenter had said that he put two shots out of three
into the loophole of Bay 16 sniping-post.... Good shooting. ... Dashed
good. It was cold, though! The first cold morning. By Jove!----
Red had an idea. He rose and dressed hastily, his dressing consisting
of little but pulling on his boots and tunic. He took his telescope and
made his way along the dark trench until he came to Bay 16. A figure
was leaning against the side of the post. Red realized that it was
Corporal Hogg, a N.C.O. of sound sense.
“Corporal!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Anyone in the Post?”
“No, sir. You told me not to have it manned at night, lest the flash
should give it away.”
“Quite right. Now listen. I want the loophole shut. As soon as it is
light enough to shoot--at 5.15 say--I want you to open it cautiously.
Open it from the side, in case Wilibald--got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Understand. Loophole to be closed till 5.15 a.m. Then to be opened by
you cautiously, and from one side. I shall be out in the shell hole
behind the parados.”
Half an hour later Red crouched in the shell hole, his telescope
discarded, since its field of view was too narrow. In front of him lay
his watch, which he had synchronized with that of Corporal Hogg. The
hand marked 5.11. The moments passed. Red’s heart was beating now. He
glanced--a last glance, a very hurried glance--at his watch. It was
past the fourteen minutes! Hogg would be opening the loophole.
Bang!
A shot had rung out. From the garden--or what was once the garden--of
the razed house, not seventy yards distant, a little wisp of gas
floated away to the cold morning star. Very cautiously Red wrapped a
bit of sandbag round his telescope, and pushed it on the little plot of
turnips.
At first he saw nothing.
Then he was aware of some turnip-tops moving, when all the rest were
still. A moment later he had made out the top of Wilibald’s head,
garlanded with turnip-tops, and the upper part of Wilibald’s large
German face. This, then, was the explanation of the accurate shooting
and the long death-roll. Wilibald had been firing at short range.
Red felt it was almost uncanny.
Hitherto, in trench warfare, as far as daylight was concerned, the Huns
had seemed to him almost an abstraction, creatures apparent to the
sense of hearing certainly, but troglodytes who popped above ground for
only a passing moment, and then only to disappear. But this man, not
one hundred yards away....
Red withdrew into the shell hole, and quickly mapped out his course.
He must at once get back to his own trench. To do so meant a crawl
over what must be the skyline to Wilibald, and consequently a point
Red could hardly hope to pass unobserved. Red marked a thistle. It was
there that he would come into view. He would remain so for about ten
yards. Of course, could he once regain his own trench he could take
steps to deal with Wilibald, but at present the Hun held the better
cards. Red smiled grimly when he thought of his crawl to the shell hole
of the previous evening. To the sun, which was shining straight into
Wilibald’s eyes, he most certainly owed his life. Now that sun was
behind Wilibald.... Red started. As he neared the thistle, his heart
beat fast and quick. He passed the thistle. He felt very like a fly
crawling over an inverted plate while someone with a fly-trap waited to
strike. He was crawling straight away now. The thistle was behind him.
Another four yards--two--one--still Wilibald did not fire, and with a
deep sigh of relief Red hurled himself into the disused sap and safety.
Later the C.O. was speaking.
“So Wilibald’s gone west?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How did you spot him?”
“The cold woke me. I have noticed how the gas from a rifle hangs on
chilly days. Wilibald forgot that. He had a shot at the loophole of
No. 16 Bay Post, and I was watching, and spotted him. He was lying out
in the turnips, about seventy yards from our line. He had turnip-tops
fixed round his cap, and lay in a hole he’d dug. He must have come out
before dawn and gone back after dark. He was a pretty gallant fellow,
sir.”
The C.O. nodded.
“D----d gallant,” said he.
“I thought, sir, if you’d no objection, I’d take a patrol out and fetch
him in--for purposes of identification.”
So Wilibald was brought in. His cap, some letters in his pocket,
and his shoulder-straps were forwarded to Brigade; but his rifle,
beautifully fitted with a Zeiss telescope sight, which had taken over
twenty British lives, turned its muzzle east instead of west, and began
to take German lives instead.