IN THE FIRE TRENCH
Shortly before midnight, the columns of marching Khaki Boys reached a
village that lay practically in ruins. Passing through one neglected
street after another, the company leading was halted just at the
turning of a street by an English major, astride a mettlesome horse.
"Who is in command of this company?" came the sharp query.
"Captain Reynolds, sir."
Saluting, a steel-helmeted officer stepped forward.
"Very good. See that every man in your command adjusts his gas mask at
alert. All cigarettes must be thrown away."
A moment and both orders had been carried out.
"Forward march by platoons, fifty feet apart," was the next order. "You
will be in range of shrapnel directly you leave here."
Obeying instantly, the first company passed on in the designated
order. Turning the corner, it started down a road that led straight to
the front. It was followed by a second and so on, each company being
briefly halted by the English major to receive similar instructions.
In silence, broken only by the thud of tramping feet, the two
detachments of Khaki Boys hiked steadily toward the trenches. All
realized that at any moment the German guns might tune up. If the two
detachments reached the front-line trenches without "clicking" any
casualties, they would be lucky, indeed.
Perhaps for the time being they bore charmed lives. More probably,
however, the foe was not aware of their advent into the trenches. At
any rate, not even a shrapnel shell was hurled at them by the German
artillery.
Amid a hush so deep that each soldier could hear the beating of his own
heart, the Khaki Boys finally entered the zig-zagging communication
trench, through which they must pass to reach the front-line trench
where they were to receive their first initiation into the hazards of
war.
Now they were no longer marching in fours. In single file, six paces
apart, they plodded mutely along, their tired feet sinking deep into
the mud. In the trenches mud is seldom absent. It scarcely ever dries
up sufficiently to make walking easy.
An hour from the time of entering the trenches, the Khaki Boys had
reached the front line of their sector, and had taken up their
positions. Sadly in need of a little rest, the majority of the men
seated themselves on the fire step. In the darkness a long line of
American soldiers filed past them, on the way to another communication
trench that would lead them away from the firing and back to billets
behind the lines. These were the men whom the Khaki Boys had come to
relieve.
In the front-line trench, however, a goodly number of veteran Americans
still remained to receive the new men and initiate them into the
mysteries of trench warfare.
Trying to catch satisfactory glimpses of the shadowy figures which
flitted past him in a long succession, Jimmy Blaise speculated as to
how long they had been on duty. He was amazed at the number still alive
and apparently unscathed. Remembering that, thus far, all night the
guns had been silent, he decided that this was the reason why so many
Sammies were left to return briefly to billets. He wondered if as many
more were still left in the trench.
His thoughts turning to his bunkies, he wondered what they thought of
it all. A corporal in his platoon, he knew that Bob, at least, was not
far away. In the dense darkness, however, there was a small chance of
locating him.
He wondered, too, what time it was. It had been almost midnight when
the marching men had been halted in the ruined village by the English
major. It must be after two now. Perhaps the Germans would attack just
before dawn. He had heard that with both sides this was a favorite hour
for attack. At that hour, a man's faculties were the least alert. He
was less likely to give good account of himself.
Although he was anything but at home in his new environment, Jimmy was
relieved in that he felt not in the least afraid. He had always hoped
that it would be thus. Yet he had never been quite sure of himself on
that point. He had always known that he should never be afraid in the
cowardly sense of the word. Still, he had often pondered as to whether
he would "have all his nerve with him" when the eventful front-line
hour arrived.
He was rather surprised to find himself as "nervy" as ever. He almost
wished that something would happen to break the deadly monotony around
him. Most of all he wished for daylight to come, so that he might take
stock of his surroundings and perhaps "bump into" his bunkies.
The night wore on and nothing happened. With dawn came the order "stand
down," and the two veteran sentries posted at each traverse along
the line got down off the fire step. To them had fallen the task of
standing there all night, heads above the top of the trench, eyes
straining into the darkness of "No Man's Land."
The passing of the word "stand down" was hardly more welcome to the
tired sentries than to the newly arrived Sammies huddled along the
fire step. It meant to the latter a certain relaxation from duty, and
a chance to sleep until the order "stand to" saw them back in their
places on the fire step, ready for whatever might come to them.
Attempting to rise from the fire step, Jimmy discovered that every bone
in his body ached. Crouching in a cramped position on a muddy ledge
was not conducive to great agility. Pulling himself together, Sergeant
Jimmy went through a series of limbering-up exercises. Burdened by his
equipment, which he had not been allowed to remove, he was not very
nimble at first. Soon he felt his muscles growing more flexible under
the persistent treatment he gave them.
Very promptly he saw to it that his men went through a similar set of
movements, which did them all good. To his delight, he found Bob only
a few men away from him. The latter's face looked rather wan, but his
black eyes were bright and snapping as ever.
"Some night," cheerily greeted Bob, as Jimmy hurried over to him.
"Nothing like a fire step for solid comfort--not. Thought the Fritzies
might send over a hot shot or two for a welcome. Nothing doing in
Dutchyland, though."
"Don't worry. We'll get ours soon enough. Maybe to-day. Still, we might
be here quite a while before anything happened. The Boches aren't quite
so ready as they used to be to keep hammering the Allies. They've
learned a few lessons since this war began.
"Here comes our coffee!" exclaimed Bob. "I certainly am ready for it."
Glancing up the trench, he had spied two men coming down the line,
bearing huge pots of the steaming beverage.
"The Tommies may have their tea for breakfast, but coffee for Blazes
every time!"
With this emphatic comment, Jimmy proceeded to extract from his
haversack the large metal cup belonging to his mess kit. Along with it
he brought out the remaining sandwich of the two issued to him on the
day previous. It was to be his breakfast.
Bob made room for him on the fire step, and the two settled themselves
to await the coming of the coffee men.
Very soon they were hungrily munching their sandwiches, and enjoying
the strong, black coffee, which was, indeed, welcome. It warmed them
through and through, and put new life into their chilled bodies.
"I'd give a good deal to see the fellows," sighed Jimmy, as, his
breakfast finished, he stood up and stretched himself. He was feeling
decidedly better, and very wide awake. "Wonder if we dare go up or down
the lines a little way."
"You're a sarge. You can travel around, I guess, with no come-back.
I wouldn't want to risk it, though. This front-line business doesn't
carry many privileges."
"Even so, we can't stick to the fire step all the time. We have to
sleep in the dugouts, and when it's quiet we'll be allowed to hang
around in them. It's at night that we'll have to do most of our work, I
suppose."
"Yes, I presume so. After we get used to this trench system we'll know
better how to manage our affairs," was Bob's sage opinion. "We'll have
to ask these fellows who are here to help us all about what to do."
Breakfast over and quiet still continuing, the men were ordered to the
dugouts for rest.
Earlier in the great war, the heroes of Ypres, Mons, the Marne, and of
other memorable battles, found trench life almost unendurable. Since
then trench conditions have changed for the better. To-day there are
plenty of dugouts, trench platforms, and many other conveniences which
help to make the men on trench duty vastly more comfortable than of old.
After seeing that his men were made as comfortable as possible, Jimmy
accompanied Bob to one of the dugouts, and flung themselves wearily
down on the narrow canvas cots provided for their rest. Just before
entering the dugout, however, both had gone a little way up and down
the line in search of their bunkies. Failing to find them, and sadly in
need of rest, they had agreed to postpone the search until later.
How long they slept neither knew. Both were awakened by a thunderous
roar that threatened to split their eardrums.
Instantly springing from their cots, they made a dash for the dugout's
opening, along with the rest of the men it contained. All knew what had
happened. The enemy had at last been heard from.
Among the first to gain the trench, Jimmy saw that a portion of the
parapet on his right had been demolished. It had fallen into the trench
completely blocking it. His heart stood still as he saw at the edge of
that heap of tossed-up earth an olive-drab arm moving feebly.
Others besides himself had now reached the scene, among them a veteran
lieutenant who ordered a pick and shovel detail to get busy at once.
"Back to dugouts!" was his sharp order to the Sammies who had run to
the scene. "Don't expose yourselves unnecessarily."
Jimmy, however, was one of the digging detail. Seizing a shovel, he
began to dig furiously into the soft earth. It yielded easily. Careful
lest he strike the body of the buried soldier with the shovel, he soon
had enough of the smothering mud cleared away to expose the man's head
and shoulders.
First sight of the victim's head, and Jimmy shuddered. The face under
the helmet was caved in, an unrecognizable, bloody pulp.
"Poor fellow," Jimmy muttered. "He got it pretty quick." He wondered
who the man was. Not one of his men. They had all been in the dugout
when the crash came.
While he continued at digging the dead man out of his prison, the rest
of the detail were busy clearing the trench of the piled-up earth that
formed a blockade.
"It was a 'Minnie,'" one of the veteran diggers informed Jimmy.
"Minnie" means a high-power trench mortar shell, of German invention.
It is used particularly by the Germans to demolish the Allied trenches.
Its real name is "Minnenwerfer." It is especially deadly, as it makes
no noise coming through the air. The English soldier is responsible for
giving it the name "Minnie."
"Funny they don't follow it up with some more," Jimmy observed to the
man, as the latter stolidly wielded a pick.
Hardly had he spoken when a hail of bullets set in from an enemy
machine gun. The Boches had begun to turn their energies to the
caved-in parapet. Occasionally a single bullet sped past the diggers,
but none of them were hit.
By this time another detail, composed of green and seasoned men, were
engaged in filling sandbags with earth and passing them on to still
another group who were rebuilding the parapet.
Farther down, a second deafening roar announced that another "Minnie"
had burst in the trench. Jimmy wondered how much damage it had done.
Already stretcher-bearers had come up on the double quick, and were
taking care of the shattered form which Jimmy had now released from
the pinioning earth. They would bear it away through the communication
trench to the rear. Presently it would be laid to rest in foreign
soil, and an identification tag would go speeding across the ocean
to tell its own gruesome story to the Sammy's dear ones back home.
Though he had not lived to fire even one shot at the Germans, he had,
nevertheless, done his bit. He had died for his country.