TALES
FROM A DUGOUT
TALES
FROM A DUGOUT
BY
ARTHUR GUY EMPEY
Author of "Over the Top," etc.
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
1918
Copyright, 1918, by
The Century Co.
_Published, October, 1918_
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK
TO THE
"Army of the People Who Stay at Home":
_the overaged, the women, the physically unfit
and the children. These are the ones to be
pitied, the ones who suffer most, because
their hearts are on the battlefields
of France, although their bodies
must stay at home_.
FOREWORD
Picture a dugout in one of the front line trenches of France, damp
and evil smelling, hardly deep enough to protect the inmates from a
three-inch shell-burst. This hole in the ground will comfortably house
four soldiers. Put seven of them with full equipment and a machine gun
in it, and what results? I dare say in civilian life there would be
only one outcome--TROUBLE. Well, in the army on the Western Front, this
situation spells GOOD FELLOWSHIP.
If it were only possible for a giant dictograph to be invented, the
transmitter being placed in any dugout of the American Army in France,
while at the receiver, across the Atlantic, the American Public
"listened in," many a heartache would disappear, worry for the "boys
at the front" would more or less vanish in mist. If the mothers,
fathers, wives, sweethearts, sisters and friends, could only hear these
conversations, their hearts would be filled with joy and pride for the
fighting men of America. Of course, at times, few and far between,
they would be slightly shocked, as most eavesdroppers are, but on the
whole, they would listen to wonderful sentiment, clean and wholesome
Americanism.
It has been my misfortune not to have occupied an American dugout as
yet, but I have crowded into one with the Britisher, with good old
Tommy Atkins. We are of the same family, the same blood runs through
our veins, so Tommy's ideas and conversations are identical with those
of our brave American boys. Therefore, I hope that in a way these Tales
from a Dugout will help fill the void of the absent dictograph.
It is only a matter of time before our boys and our Allies, God bless
them all, will victoriously return to "Blighty," and be received in the
arms of their waiting dear ones.
PREAMBLE
There were seven of them composing the crew of Gun No. 2, of the ----th
Brigade Machine Gun Company. Their gun was the Vickers, light, .303,
watercooled.
They were nicknamed as follows:
Curly, a Scotchman. Dubbed Curly on account of a cute little Delia Fox
curl. He gave more attention to this curl than to his rifle. Many girls
wrote to him, and he wrote to many girls.
Happy, a Londoner. He earned his title from his happy disposition. He
helped Curly with his correspondence.
Hungry. His nickname needs no explanation. He was. Once Mr. Hoover
dined with him, hence his food conservation idea. Hungry hailed from
London.
Ikey. He was. Came from the East Side, London. Brave as a lion, and to
our discomfort, musically inclined.
Dick. Irish, from Dublin. Always ready. Greatly admired the Kaiser
because he started such a glorious scrap.
Sailor Bill. A Welshman. He had had a "cruise" in the Navy, and wanted
everybody to know it. They did. He was detailed with the gun's crew to
carry "ammo" (ammunition).
Yank. Got his handle because he was American. He hailed from the "Big
Town" behind the Statue of Liberty, and was proud of it, too. Committed
a "technical error" and got mixed up in the Great Fight.
They were soldiers of the King, and their further personal history
does not matter. It will suffice to say that they were fighting in the
British Army for Justice, Democracy and Liberty.
Scene of action: "Somewhere in France."
Time: A few months after the sinking of the _Lusitania_.
After "stand down" had been passed along the fire trench, they would
repair to their two-by-four dugout, and it was their custom to while
away the time by taking turns at story-telling. Some of these were
personal experiences, while others were told to them by their mates,
the majority of whom, by this time, have either "gone West," or reached
that heaven of the British soldier--"Blighty."
"THROUGH THE BIG GUNS' THUNDER"
Over the top and give them hell,
Up the ladders and through the wire.
Out in front, go across with a yell,
With bullets cracking from rapid fire.
Then the death song of a ricochet,
A curse or moan as your pal goes under,
You cannot stop, you must not stay--
It's on--on--thro' the big guns' thunder.
It hurts to see him torn apart,
For you've shared his grub on "sentry go,"
And listened to tales of his sweetheart,
In dugouts by the candles' glow.
But war is war, the trench must be taken,
Whether your life's blood pays the cost.
If the wounded die in holes, forsaken,
It's part of the game; they played, and--lost.
If you get hit and the blood runs out,
Don't cry and whimper from the ground,
But FACE that trench, don't turn about,
Cheer, tho' it's from the Great Beyond!
When you reach their trench, then use the steel,
Sink it deep into Fritz's hide,
Send it home, so that he will feel,
How the women and children of Belgium died.
A.G.E.
[Illustration:
"Somewhere in France"
June 30, 1916
My dear mother and sister.
Have volunteered to go over to the German lines tonight to capture
prisoners. If you receive this letter you will know I went down with a
grin. I am leaving it for our captain to mail in case of my death. With
lots of love.
Guy.
Facsimile of letter written by the Author, when he went over the top
for the first time.]
CONTENTS
PAGE
Jim--Soldier of the King 11
The Pacifist 29
Private Ginger 45
The Lone Tree Sentinel 61
Christmas in a Dugout 87
A Siren of the Boches 105
Winning a D.C.M. 135
The Fusilier Giants Under Fire 157
"Blighty!--What Hopes?" 189
Rounding Up Spies 213
"Horses for France" 235
TALES
FROM A DUGOUT
TALES FROM A DUGOUT
It was a cold and rainy afternoon. The gun's crew were huddled together
in their dugout in the front line trench, about three hundred yards
from the German lines.
If you should ask a Tommy Atkins "What is a dugout?" he would look
at you in astonishment, and pitying you for your apparent lack
of education, would answer, "What's a dugout? Why a dugout is a
blinkin'--well, a dugout's a dugout."
This particular dugout was a hole in the ground. It was used to shelter
the men in the trenches from shell fire. They also slept in it, or
tried to. From their point of view, its main use was to drain the
trenches of muddy water, and give them rheumatism. It also made a
good hotel for rats. These guests looked upon them as intruders, and
complained that they overcrowded the place. Occasionally the crew gave
in to the rats, and took a turn in the trench to rest themselves.
The dugout was about eight feet deep, or, at least there were eight
wooden steps leading down to it. The ceiling and walls were braced by
heavy, square-cut timbers. Over the timbers, in the ceiling, sheets of
corrugated iron were spread to keep the wet earth from falling. The
entrance was heavily sandbagged and very narrow, there being only room
for one person to leave or enter at a time. The ceiling was five feet
high, and the floor space was eight feet by six. Through the ceiling
a six-inch square air-shaft was cut. They used to take turns sleeping
under this in wet weather.
The timbers bracing the walls were driven full of nails to hang
equipment on. After ammunition, belt-filling machine, rations,
equipment, rifles, machine-gun, etc., had been stowed away, there was
not much space for seven men to live in, not forgetting the rats.
It was very dark in the dugout, and as they were only issued a candle
and a half every twenty-four hours, they had to economize on light. Woe
betide the last man out who left the candle burning!
In this hotel of theirs, they used to sit around the lonely candle,
and, through a thick haze of tobacco smoke, recounted different
experiences at various points of the line where they had been, or spin
yarns about home. At other times they'd sit for an hour or more without
saying a word, listening to a German over in the enemy's front trench
playing a cornet. My, how that Boche could play! Just to make them hate
the war, he'd play "Sewanee River," "Home, Sweet Home," or "Over the
Waves." During his recital, the trenches were strangely quiet. Never a
shot from either side.
Sometimes, when he had finished, Ikey would go into the trench and play
on his harmonica. As soon as the crew saw that harmonica come out,
it was a case of "Duck down low," for the Germans would be sure, when
the first strains reached them, to send over "Five rounds rapid." That
harmonica was hated by both sides. More than once Sailor Bill chucked
one over the top, but Ikey would sit down and write a letter, and in
about ten days' time would receive through the post a little oblong
package, and then the crew knew that they were in for some more "Five
rounds rapid." They didn't blame the Germans.
Still, that harmonica had its uses. Often they would get downhearted
and fed up with the war, and "grouse" at everything in general. Then
Ikey would reach in his pocket, and out would come that instrument of
torture. The rest then realized there were worse things than war, and
cheered up accordingly.
On this particular rainy afternoon the gun's crew were in a talkative
mood. Perhaps it was due to the fact that Curly had made his "Tommy's
cooker" do what it was supposed to do--make water boil in an hour and
a half. A "Tommy's cooker" is a spirit stove, which is very widely
advertised as a suitable gift to the men in the trenches. Many are sent
out, and many are thrown away.
Anyway, the "cooker" lived up to its reputation for once, though a
little behind its advertised schedule in making water boil. Curly
passed around the result of his efforts in the form of an ammunition
tin half full of fairly good tea. Each took a good swig, lighted a
Woodbine cigarette,--they had "come up" with the rations the night
before--and settled back against the damp earthen walls of the dugout
to listen.
It was Dick's turn for a story. He cleared his throat two or three
times and said--nothing. A chorus of "Come on, let's have it," from
the rest of the crew did not help matters. In desperation Dick said,
"I guess you fellows'll have to excuse me this time, I can't seem to
remember a thing."
"Yank" helped him out with, "Say, Dick, tell us about Jim, the platoon
mascot you used to have."
"Sailor Bill or Hungry could tell it better. Even Ikey knows it,"
replied Dick.
But after much coaxing from Happy, Curly and Yank, Dick started in.
JIM--SOLDIER OF THE KING
As Told by Dick
JIM--SOLDIER OF THE KING
"Our company had just arrived at rest billets, after a hard eighteen
kilo march from the front line sector.
"The stable we had to sleep in was an old, ramshackle affair,
absolutely over-run with rats. Great, big, black fellows, who used to
chew up our leather equipment, eat our rations, and run over our bodies
at night. German gas had no effect on these rodents; in fact, they
seemed to thrive on it.
"The floor space would comfortably accommodate about twenty men lying
down, but when thirty-three, including equipment, were crowded into it,
it was nearly unbearable.
"The roof and walls were full of shell-holes. When it rained, a
constant drip, drip, drip was in order. We were so crowded that if a
fellow was unlucky enough (and nearly all of us in this instance were
unlucky) to sleep under a hole, he had to grin and bear it. It was like
sleeping beneath a shower bath.
"At one end of the billet, with a ladder leading up to it, was a sort
of grain bin, with a door in it. This place was the headquarters of our
guests, the rats. Many a stormy cabinet meeting was held there by them.
Many a boot was thrown at it during the night to let them know that
Tommy Atkins objected to the matter under discussion. Sometimes one of
these missiles would ricochet and land on the upturned countenance of a
snoring Tommy, and for about half an hour even the rats would pause in
admiration of his flow of language.
"On the night in question we flopped down in our wet clothes and were
soon asleep. As was usual, our gun's crew were together.
"The last time we had rested in this particular village, it was
inhabited by civilians. Now it was deserted. An order had been issued
two days previous to our return that all civilians should move farther
behind the line.
"I had been asleep about two hours when I was awakened by Sailor Bill
shaking me by the shoulder. He was trembling like a leaf, and whispered
to me:
"'Wake up, Dick, this ship's 'aunted. There's some one aloft who's
been moanin' for the last hour. Sounds like the wind in the riggin'.
I ain't scared of 'umans or Germans, but when it comes to messin' in
with spirits it's time for me to go below. Lend your ear an' cast your
deadlights on that grain locker, and listen.'
"I listened sleepily for a minute or so, but could hear nothing. Coming
to the conclusion that Sailor Bill was dreaming things, I was again
soon asleep.
"Perhaps fifteen minutes had elapsed when I was rudely awakened.
"'Dick, for God's sake, come aboard and listen!'
"I listened, and sure enough, right out of that grain bin overhead came
a moaning and whimpering, and then a scratching against the door. My
hair stood on end. Blended with the drip, drip of the rain, and the
occasional scurrying of a rat overhead, that noise had a supernatural
sound. I was really frightened; perhaps my nerves were a trifle
unstrung from our recent tour in the trenches.
"I awakened Ikey, while Sailor Bill roused Hungry. Hungry's first words
were, 'What's the matter, breakfast ready?'
"In as few words as possible, we told them what had happened. I lighted
a candle and their faces appeared as white as chalk. Just then the
whimpering started again, and we were frozen with terror. The tension
was relieved by Ikey's voice:
"'H'I admit h'I'm afraid of ghosts, but that sounds like a dog to me.
Who's goin' up the ladder to investigate?'
"No one volunteered.
"I had an old deck of cards in my pocket. Taking them out, I suggested
cutting, the low man to go up the ladder. They agreed. I was the last
to cut. I got the ace of clubs. Sailor Bill was stuck with the five of
diamonds. Upon this, he insisted that it should be the best two out of
three cuts, but we overruled him, and he was unanimously elected for
the job.
"With a 'So long, mates, I'm goin' aloft,' he started toward the
ladder, with the candle in his hand, stumbling over the sleeping forms
of many. Sundry grunts, moans, and curses followed in his wake.
"As soon as he started to ascend the ladder, a 'tap-tap-tap' could be
heard from the grain bin. We waited in fear and trembling the result of
his mission. Hungry was encouraging him with, 'Cheero, mate, the worst
is yet to come.'
"After many pauses, Sailor Bill reached the top of the ladder and
opened the door. We listened with bated breath. Then he shouted:
"'Blast my deadlights, if it hain't a poor dog! Come h'longside, myte,
you're h'on a lee shore, and in a sorry plight.'
"Oh, what a relief those words were to us.
"With the candle in one hand and a dark object under his arm, Sailor
Bill returned and deposited in our midst the sorriest-looking specimen
of a cur dog you ever set eyes on. It was so weak it couldn't stand.
But that look in its eyes--just gratitude, plain gratitude. Its stump
of a tail was pounding against my mess tin, and sounded just like a
message in the Morse code. Ikey swore that it was sending S.O.S.
"We were like a lot of school children, every one wanting to help,
and making suggestions at the same time. Hungry suggested giving it
something to eat, while Ikey wanted to play on his infernal Jew's harp,
claiming it was a musical dog. Hungry's suggestion met our approval,
and there was a general scramble for haversacks. All we could muster
was some hard bread and a big piece of cheese.
"His nibs wouldn't eat bread, and also refused the cheese, but not
before sniffing at it for a couple of minutes. I was going to throw the
cheese away, but Hungry said he would take it. I gave it to him. I
suppose he ate it.
"We were in an awful stew. It was evident that the dog was starving and
in a very weak condition. Its coat was lacerated all over, probably
from the bites of rats. That stump of a tail kept sending S.O.S.
against my mess tin. Every tap went straight to our hearts. We would
get something to eat for that mutt if we were shot for it.
"Sailor Bill volunteered to burglarize the quartermaster's stores for
a tin of unsweetened condensed milk, and left on his perilous venture.
He was gone about twenty minutes. During his absence, with the help
of a bandage and a capsule of iodine, we cleansed the wounds made by
the rats. I have bandaged many a wounded Tommy, but never received the
amount of thanks that that dog gave with its eyes.
"Then the billet door opened and Sailor Bill appeared. He looked like
the wreck of the Hesperus, uniform torn, covered with dirt and flour,
and with a beautiful black eye, but he was smiling and in his hand he
carried the precious tin of milk.
"We asked no questions, but opened the tin. Just as we were going to
pour it out, Hungry butted in and said it should be mixed with water;
he ought to know, because his sister back in Blighty had a baby,
and she always mixed water with its milk. We could not dispute this
authority, so water was demanded. We would not use the water in our
water bottles, because Hungry said it was not fresh enough for our
new mate. Hungry volunteered to get some from the well--that is, if
we would promise not to feed his royal highness until he returned.
We promised, because he had proved that he was an authority on the
feeding of babies. By this time the rest of the section were awake and
were crowding around us, asking numerous questions, and admiring our
newly found friend. Sailor Bill, during Hungry's absence, took the
opportunity to tell of his adventures while in quest of the milk. His
story was something like this:
"'H'I 'ad a fair wind, an' the passage was good until h'I cyme
alongside the quartermaster's shack. Then the sea got rough. When h'I
got aboard, h'I could 'ear the wind blowin' through the riggin' of the
supercargo (Quartermaster-Sergeant snoring) so h'I was safe. H'I set
my course due north to the ration 'old, an' got my grapplin' irons
on a cask o' milk, an' cyme about h'on a port tack for my homeward
bound passage. But somethin' was h'amiss with my wheel. H'I ran nose
h'on into 'im, caught 'im on the r'il, h'amidships. Then it was repel
boarders, an' it started to blow big guns. 'Is first shot put h'out my
starboard light, an' I keeled over. H'I was in the trough o' the sea,
but soon righted, an' then h'it was h'a stern chyse" (chase) "with me
in the lead. Gettin' h'into the h'open sea, h'I myde h'a starboard tack
an' hove in this cove with the milk safely in tow.'
"Most of us didn't know what he was talking about, but surmised that
he had gotten into a mix-up with the Quartermaster-Sergeant. This
surmise proved correct.
"Just as Sailor Bill finished his narration, a loud splash was heard,
and Hungry's voice came to us It sounded very far off: 'Help, I'm in
the well! Hurry up, I can't swim!' Then a few unintelligible words
intermixed with blub! blub! and no more.
"We ran to the well, and way down we could hear an awful splashing.
Sailor Bill yelled down, 'Look h'out below; stand from h'under:
bucket comin'!' With that he loosed the windlass. In a few seconds a
sputtering voice from the depths yelled to us, 'Haul away!'
"It was hard work, hauling him up. We had raised him about ten feet
from the water, when the handle of the windlass got loose from our
grip, and down went the bucket and Hungry. A loud splash came to us,
and, grabbing the handle again, we worked like navvies. A volley of
curses came from that well which would have shocked Old Nick himself.
"When we got Hungry safely out, he was a sight worth seeing. He didn't
even notice us. Never said a word, just filled his water bottle from
the water in the bucket, and went back to the billet. We followed. The
mutt was still sending 'S.O.S.' with his tail on my mess tin.
"Hungry, though dripping wet, silently fixed up the milk for the dog.
In appetite, the canine was a close second to him. After lapping up all
he could hold, our mascot closed his eyes and his tail ceased wagging.
Sailor Bill took a dry flannel shirt from his pack, wrapped the dog in
it, and informed us:
"'Me an' my myte are goin' below, so the rest of you lubbers batten
down 'atches an' turn in.'
"We all wanted the honor of sleeping with the dog, but did not dispute
Sailor Bill's right to the privilege. By this time the bunch were
pretty sleepy and tired, and turned in without much coaxing, as it was
pretty near daybreak.
"Next day we figured out that perhaps one of the French kiddies had
put the dog in the grain bin, and, in the excitement of packing up and
leaving, had forgotten he was there.
"Sailor Bill was given the right to christen our new mate. He called
him Jim. In a couple of days Jim came around all right, and got very
frisky. Every man in the section loved that dog.
"Sailor Bill was put on the crime sheet for his mix-up with the
Quartermaster-Sergeant, and got seven days field punishment No. 1.
During Sailor Bill's two-hour periods tied to a wheel, Jim sat at his
feet, and no matter how much we coaxed him with choice morsels of food,
he would not leave until Sailor Bill was untied. When Bill was loosed,
Jim would have nothing to do with him--just walked away in contempt.
Jim respected the king's regulations--had no use for defaulters.
"At a special meeting held by the section, Jim had the oath of
allegiance read to him. He barked his consent, so we solemnly swore
him in as a soldier of the Imperial Army, fighting for king and
country. Jim made a better soldier than any one of us, and died for his
king and country. Died without a whimper of complaint.
"From the village we made several trips to the trenches; each time Jim
accompanied us. The first time under fire he put the stump of his tail
between his legs, but stuck to his post. When 'carrying in,' if we
neglected to give Jim something to carry, he would make such a noise
barking that we soon fixed him up.
"Each day Jim would pick out a different man of the section to follow.
He would stick to this man, eating and sleeping with him, until the
next day, and then it would be someone's else turn. When a man had Jim
with him, it seemed as if his life was charmed. No matter what he went
through, he would come out safely. We looked upon Jim as a good-luck
sign, and, believe me, he was.
"Whenever it came Ikey's turn for Jim's company, he was overjoyed,
because Jim would sit in dignified silence, listening to the
jew's-harp. Ikey claimed that Jim had a soul for music, which was more
than he would say for the rest of us.
"Once, at daybreak, we had to go over the top in an attack. A man
in the section named Dalton was selected by Jim as his mate in this
affair. The gun's crew were to stay in the trench for the second wave.
Dalton was very merry and hadn't the least fear of misgiving as to his
safety, because Jim would be with him through it all.
"In the attack, Dalton, closely followed by Jim, had gotten about
seventy yards into No Man's Land, when Jim was hit in the stomach by a
bullet. Poor old Jim toppled over and lay still. Dalton turned around,
and, just as he did so, we saw him throw up his hands and fall face
forward.
"Ikey, who was No. 3, on our gun, seeing Jim fall, scrambled over the
parapet, and, through that rain of shells and bullets, raced to where
Jim was, picked him up, and, tucking him under his arm, returned to
our trench in safety. If he had gone to rescue a wounded man in this
way, he would have no doubt been awarded the Victoria Cross. But he
only brought in poor bleeding, dying Jim."
"At this point, Ikey got very red in the face and left the dugout.
Dick, with a wink at us, went on with the story.
"Ikey laid him on the firestep alongside of our gun, but we could not
attend to him, because we had important work to do. So he died like
a soldier, without a look of reproach for our apparently heartless
treatment. Just watched our every movement until his lights burned out.
After the attack, what was left of our section gathered around Jim's
blood-stained body. There wasn't a dry eye in the crowd.
"Next day we wrapped him in a small Union Jack belonging to Sailor
Bill, and laid him to rest, a soldier of the king.
"We put a little wooden cross over his grave which read:
PRIVATE JIM
MACHINE-GUN SECTION NO. 1,
KILLED IN ACTION
June 10, 1915.
A DOG WITH A MAN'S HEART.
When Dick had finished, there was silence in the dugout. Then Sailor
Bill spoke up: "It's funny, h'everytime h'I 'ear that story h'I learn
somethin' new h'about myself."
Dick winked at the rest.
THE PACIFIST
As Told by Ikey
THE PACIFIST
"What do I think of a blinkin' pacifist?" asked Ikey from a corner of
the dugout.
"Well, what with this bloomin' war on, an' blokes goin' West by the
thousands, a pacifist or conscientious objector, in my w'y o' thinkin',
is one o' two things, 'e's either a blinkin' coward or a bloody
pro-German. But it's funny the w'y some o' them blighters, with their
swankin' West h'End h'ideas back in Blighty, changes their minds when
they gets out 'ere in the mud, an' gets their first glimpse o' a wooden
cross. It sort o' sets 'em a-thinkin', I reckon. It's either up against
a wall in front o' a firin' squad for desertin' under fire, or else they
win a blinkin' V.C. for some brave stunt. But generally they gets a
'Rise if Possible'" (R.I.P., Rest in Peace) "sign over their nappers.
"A strange thing it is, but true, those blokes never go through
the trenches in an ordinary w'y like we fellows do, it's a case o'
extremes. No 'in between stuff' for them.
"Next time you're on a burial party, at the syme time 'opin' that it's
not me you're l'yin' aw'y, tyke a look at the third cross from the left
in the fourth row as you enter that cemetery back o' that old caved in
R.E." (Royal Engineers) "dugout. You know the one by the road. Well,
under that cross, rests a bloke, who back in Blighty professed to be a
pacifist, or a conscientious objector,--to me there's no difference in
the titles.
"When the war started, 'e wouldn't blinkin' well volunteer, not likely;
that bloke was for stayin' at 'ome. If they wanted 'im to go out there
an' fight, well, they 'ad to bloody well come an' fetch 'im. They
fetched 'im all right, conscripted 'im. Then 'e ups an' refuses to
fight. Said it was against 'is principles, so they stuck 'im in the
N.C.C." (Non-combatant Corps) "an' sent 'im out 'ere, 'anded 'im a
pick an' shovel, an' put 'im to repairin' roads an' diggin' gryves.
It didn't tyke long before 'e were properly fed up with 'is job, so 'e
threw down the pick an' shovel, an' grabbed a rifle an' b'yonet. Oh,
yes, 'e clicked it all right, went West, too. In fact, 'e was buried in
one o' the gryves 'e 'elped to dig. H'I suppose some o' those college
officers called it the 'irony o' fyte,' or some other blinkin' 'igh
soundin' phryse" (phrase), "but we knows, don't we, that it were only
common ordinary luck, 'cause it's l'id down that if you're goin' to get
it, you'll get it, no matter if you're a gentleman's son or a bloomin'
chimney-sweep.
"This blighter h'I'm a-talkin' about, never mind 'is nyme, you'll read
it on the cross, was in my platoon when h'I was in 'C' Company, an' 'e
used to give me the proper pip with 'is arguments against fightin' an'
the likes o' that.
"The first time I saw 'im was in St. Armand. Our 'batt'" (battalion)
"was in rest billets a-w'itin' a new draft before goin' up the line
again. You see, we 'ad clicked it pretty rough at Fromelles, an' a
platoon looked like a blinkin' corporal's squad when it lined up for
paryde" (parade). "Our ranks were pretty thin, what with the blokes who
'ad gone West, an' the ones sent to Blighty. H'I was pl'yin' ''ouse'
in that h'estaminet right across from that bashed-in church on the
corner, when 'is Labor Battalion cyme through an' took over billets
just opposite from the h'estaminet. My tyble was near the window, an'
h'I watched them pass. A sorrier bunch o' specimens o' men I never saw.
It fair turned my blinkin' stomach to look at 'em, what with their
pysty" (pasty) "fyces, stooped-over shoulders an' stragglin' g'it"
(gait). "After lookin' at 'em, h'I registered a prayer o' thanks we 'ad
a N'vy. Right then an' there h'I admired the Germans for their system
o' universal tr'inin'. H'if h'England 'ad o' 'ad a little more o' it,
there never would 'ave been a war, an' right now we would be back in
Blighty with our wives an' nippers, instead o' sittin' 'ere in these
bloody ditches a-w'itin' for a shell to come over with our nyme an'
number on it.
"After the Labor Battalion took over billets, several of 'em cyme into
the h'estaminet, an' sat at a tyble near me. Now, remember, h'I don't
s'y that Labor Battalions are composed of conscientious objectors,
not likely, but this one 'appened to be o' that breed. They started
to discuss the war an' voice their opinions about the 'top 'ats'"
(Members of Parliament) "at 'ome. This bloke h'I'm a-talkin' about was
the loudest o' the bunch. 'E seemed to 'ave a grouch on everything in
general. H'I listened to 'im for a few minutes chuckin' 'is w'ight
about until it bloody well got on my nerves. Chuckin' up my gyme o'
''ouse'--an' h'I 'ad p'id" (paid) "'alf a franc for my board--I leaned
over to 'im an' said:
"'You must be one o' those bloomin' conscientious objectors we reads
about in the pypers" (papers), "one o' those blighters who don't
believe in fightin' themselves, but is willin' to sit back in Blighty
an' let us blokes out 'ere do your bloody fightin' for you, while you
gets a blinkin' good screw" (salary) "sittin' on a 'igh stool in some
office.'
"'E turned to me an' answered: 'It's the likes o' you who volunteered
for this war what keeps it a-goin'. If you all 'ad refused to go at
first, there wouldn't be h'any war.'
"H'I couldn't see it 'is w'y at all, an' went right back at 'im with:
'Yes, an' if it wasn't for us volunteerin', the bloody German flag
would now be flyin' over Buckin'am Palace an' King George would be in
the Tower o' London.'
"'E thought a minute or two an' h'answered: 'Well, what of it, one
flag's as good h'as another, an' h'as for the bloomin' King, what did
'e ever do for you, but myke you p'y taxes, so h'as 'e could bloomin'
well sit around doin' nothin'.'
"This was too much for me, that blinkin' jellyfish a-slingin' mud at
our King, so h'I lost my temper, an' tykin' my glass of Vin Rouge in my
'and, h'I leaned h'over close to 'im, an' said right h'under 'is nose:
"'When you mention the King's nyme, it's customary to stand an' drink
'is 'ealth. Per'aps 'e never did anything special for me, but h'I 'ave
never done h'anything special for 'im, an' h'even at that h'I've done a
damned sight more than you 'ave for 'im, so tyke this wine, an' drink
'is 'ealth, or h'I'll dent that napper o' yours so you won't be able to
wear that tin 'at o' yours.'
"'E got kind o' pyle (pale) an' answered, 'Drink the King's 'ealth,
not likely. H'it's through 'im an' 'is bloody top 'ats in Parliament
that h'I'm h'out 'ere. Why in the blinkin' 'ell don't 'e do 'is h'own
fightin' an' let us poor blokes alone?'
"H'I saw red, an' was just goin' to 'it 'im, when h'a big h'Irishman
out o' the Royal h'Irish Rifles next to me grabs the glass o' wine from
my 'and, an' lookin' the blighter in the fyce, yells:
"'Well, h'if the King h'ain't done nothin' for you h'English, 'e's done
less for us h'Irish, but h'I volunteered to come h'out 'ere for 'im,
an' 'ere h'I h'am, an' glad o' it, too, an' 'opes some d'y to get into
Berlin with the King's forces. You won't drink 'is 'ealth, well, damn
you, you can bathe 'is 'ealth.'
"With that, 'e threw the wine in the blighter's fyce, an' smashed 'im
in the nose with 'is fist. The fellow went h'over like a log with the
h'Irishman still agoin' for 'im. H'if we 'adn't pulled 'im h'off, h'I
think 'e would 'ave killed that conscientious h'objector. The military
police cyme h'in to see what h'all the row was h'about. H'I 'ad clicked
three d'ys C.B." (confined to barracks) "an' 'ad no business in the
h'estaminet, an' didn't want to get h'arrested, so h'in the confusion,
h'I myde tracks for my billet.
"The next time h'I met the bloke was when we buried h'old Smith h'out
o' the 10th Platoon h'in the cemetery h'at La Bassée. 'E was one o'
the gryve diggers. H'all durin' the burial service, 'e stood lookin'
h'at the Union Jack with a queer look h'on 'is fyce. When h'old Smith
was lowered into the ground, an' the dirt was thrown h'on 'im, the
conscientious h'objector cyme h'over to me an' pointin' h'at h'old
Smith's gryve said:
"'H'I 'ear 'e was forty-'ight years h'old, an' left a wife an' three
nippers back h'in Blighty. 'E were too h'old for the draft, weren't 'e?
Then 'e must 'ave volunteered.'
"H'I answered, 'O' course 'e volunteered, an' there 'e lies, deader
than 'ell, but h'I'll wager a quid 'is wife an' kids will be proud o'
'im--an' that's more than your kids will be about you.'
"'E sneaked h'off without answering. Three d'ys lyter" (later) "h'I
nearly dropped dead when h'our lance corporal cyme h'into h'our billet
with a bloody nose an' a beautifully trimmed lamp. When h'I awsked
'im 'ow 'e got knocked h'about, 'e told me that a fellow h'out o' the
Non-combatant Corps, nymed Watkins (well, h'I've spilled 'is nyme), 'ad
mussed 'im up just because 'e 'ad called 'im a white-livered coward.
"Watkins clicked twenty-one d'ys No. 1 on the wheel, an' when 'is
sentence was finished, they transferred 'im to a fightin' unit
an'--bang! h'into h'our platoon 'e comes.
"Many a talk h'I 'ad with 'im about that pacifist stuff, 'e 'adn't
chynged a bit h'in 'is h'ideas--but 'e kept 'is mouth shut h'about the
King an' the top 'ats at 'ome.
"Then we went into the trenches, an' h'I knew 'is finish was near. A
firin' squad or 'rest in peace' was to be 'is lot; they h'all get one
or the other sooner or later.
"After two d'ys h'in, Fritz got rough an' h'opened h'up with a pretty
stiff bombardment.
"Watkins was h'in the fourth squad h'in a dugout in the support trench
when a 'Minnie' registered a direct 'it on the roof an' caved 'er h'in.
H'everyone but Watkins was killed. 'Ow 'e h'escaped was a marvel, the
rest o' the squad bein' smashed h'up somethin' h'awful. We collected
the pieces, an' buried them the next d'y. Watkins 'elped dig the gryves.
"For two d'ys Watkins scarcely spoke a word, just went round with a
faraw'y look h'on his pyle fyce.
"H'on the third night after the burial, volunteers were called for a
bombin' r'id, an' h'I could scarcely believe my ears when h'I 'eard
that Watkins 'ad volunteered. It was the truth all right--'e went along.
"We crawled h'out h'into No Man's Land (yes, h'I volunteered, couldn't
let Watkins show me h'up) under cover o' our barrage, an' w'ited.
Watkins was next to me. Suddenly a star shell went h'up an' we
crouched down h'in h'its light. H'I was l'yin' so that h'I could see
Watkins--blime me, 'e 'ad no rifle or b'yonet.
"H'I whispered over to 'im. 'Where's your rifle?' 'E answered, 'H'I
threw h'it aw'y.' Before h'I 'ad time to reply, the signal to rush the
German trench was given, an' h'I lost sight of 'im.
"H'it were rough goin' h'in the German trench, an' we 'ad quite a
little o' 'and-to-'and fightin'. Star-shells were goin' h'up all around
us. One o' our blokes in front o' me was just goin' around the corner
o' a traverse, when a big German got 'im through the throat with 'is
b'yonet an' 'e went down. Somethin' sprang past me like a wild cat an'
closed with the Fritz. They both went down together. Just then another
German cyme at me from the h'entrance of a dugout an' h'I were busy.
H'I managed to get 'im. Then our lieutenant an' two men cyme round
the traverse, an' gyve the order to get back to h'our trenches. The
lieutenant stumbled over the three bodies h'in front o' us. One o' them
groaned. H'it were Watkins h'all right. H'unarmed 'e 'ad sprang at the
German an' with 'is _bare 'ands 'ad choked 'im to death_, but 'e 'ad a
nasty jagged b'yonet wound h'in 'is right side. We managed to get 'im
back to h'our trenches, but 'e died h'on the firestep. Before cashin'
h'in, 'e looked up h'at the lieutenant, an' with a grin h'on 'is fyce,
said:
"'Tell the bloomin' King an' the top 'ats at 'ome that h'I died for
h'England, an' h'I 'opes that my nippers, like h'old Smith's, will be
proud o' their father. God syve the King!' An' 'e died.
"We buried 'im next morning.
"No, my opinion o' conscientious h'objectors an' pacifists 'as not
chynged. They are h'either cowards or pro-Germans.
"You see, Watkins weren't h'either. 'E were a soldier o' the King, an'
a damned good one, too."
PRIVATE GINGER
As Told by Happy
PRIVATE GINGER
The gun's crew had been relieved from rest billets, and had again
returned to their dugout. The weather was very pleasant for ducks,
but not being ducks the crew stuck in the dugout. The air was heavy
with smoke from their fags. Fritz, across the way, would send over an
occasional whizz-bang, just to let the Tommies know that they still
believed in German kultur. But this did not bother our crew because in
the dugout they were safe from whizz-bangs, and they did not give a
darn what Fritz was thinking about kultur; but they did agree with the
Kaiser about that place in the sun business.
Dick turned to Yank, and asked:
"Remember Burton of A Company? Think he was in the Third Platoon; the
fellow that was recommended for the V.C. and refused it. Got the
recommendation for rescuing his platoon commander under fire."
Yank answered in the affirmative, and Dick "carried on" with:
"I never could see into that affair, because they seemed to be the
worst of enemies. The officer was always picking on him, used to have
him 'on the crime sheet' for the least offense. Got him several days
of extra pack drill, and once he clicked twenty-one days' crucifixion"
(Field Punishment No. 1, tied to a limber wheel two hours per day for
twenty-one days). "No matter what dirty fatigue or working party came
along, Burton's name was sure to head the list.
"This Burton appeared to be a surly sort of a chap. Kept to himself a
whole lot, always brooding. Didn't have many friends in the Company,
either. There seemed to be something on his mind. Most of the Company
men said his sweetheart back in Blighty had thrown him down for some
other bloke."
Happy butted in: "That's the way with this world, always hammering at
a fellow. Well, I _know_ this Burton, and there's not a better mate in
the world, so let that sink into your nappers."
"Don't get sore, Happy," said Dick. "If you don't mind, let's have
the story. I meant no offense. Just naturally curious, that's all.
You can't deny that the whole affair has been quite a mystery to the
Brigade. Spit it out and get it off your chest."
"Let's have it, Happy," they all chimed in chorus.
Happy, somewhat mollified, lighted a Woodbine, took two or three deep
puffs, and started:
"Well, it was this way, but don't ask any questions until I am through.
"You know Burton isn't what you'd call a prize beauty when it comes to
looks. He's about five six in height, stocky, a trifle bow-legged, and
pug-nosed. To top this, he has a crop of red hair and his clock" (face)
"is the boarding-house for every freckle in the United Kingdom. But
strong,--say, that fellow could make Samson look like a consumptive
when he got started.
"In Blighty, before the war, Burton and this Lieutenant--his name is
Huston--went to the same college.
"Huston was nearly six feet high and slender. Sort of a dandy,
fair-haired, lots of dough, which he never got by working,--his papa
wished it on him when he went West" (died). "He was good-looking and
had a way with the girls, which made them think he was the one and
only. Didn't care much for athletics. Girls, dances, and card parties
were more in his line.
"They were in the same class. Burton was working his way through, and
consequently, Huston looked down on him as a bally bounder. Among the
athletes, Burton was popular. Huston wasn't.
"Burton was engaged, or thought he was, to a pretty fine girl by the
name of Betty. She thought Burton, or 'Ginger,' as she called him,
was the finest thing out. One day Ginger took her to see a football
game at the college; he was playing on the team, so she had to sit it
out alone. During this 'sitting out,' she met Huston, and the trouble
started. He was dead gone on her and she liked him, so he made hay
while the sun was shining.
"She didn't exactly turn Ginger down, but he was no boob, and saw how
things were, so he eased out of the running, although it almost broke
his heart. He certainly loved that girl.
"This state of affairs widened the gap between Huston and Burton. They
hated each other pretty fiercely, but Burton never went out of his way
to show it, while Huston took every opportunity to vent his spleen.
Ginger saw Betty very seldom, and when he did, she was generally
accompanied by Huston.
"Then the war came. Ginger immediately enlisted as a private. He could
have had a commission, but did not want to take a chance of having to
mix with Huston.
"A few weeks after Ginger's enlistment, Huston joined too--was losing
prestige in Betty's eyes by staying in mufti. He went into the
O.T.C." (Officers' Training Corps). "In seven months he received his
commission, and was sent to France. Ginger had been out three months.
"By one of the many strange coincidences that happen in this world,
Huston was sent to the battalion and company that Ginger was in, and
was put in command of Ginger's platoon. Then things happened.
"Ginger could hardly believe his eyes when he first saw Huston, and
knew he was to be his platoon commander. He felt he was in for it good
and plenty.
"That night Huston sent for Ginger and had a talk with him. Tried to
make him believe that he harbored no animosity, and then detailed him
as mail orderly, the first act of a campaign of petty cruelty. By being
mail orderly, Ginger would have to handle Betty's letters to Huston,
and Huston's letters to her. Ginger saw through it immediately, and his
hate burned stronger. From that night on, it was one indignity after
another, just a merciless persecution, but Ginger never complained;
just stored up each new act and swore vengeance.
"It came to such a pass that Ginger could bear it no longer. He decided
to kill Huston, and only waited for a favorable opportunity to present
itself. I think it was only his love for Betty which had held him back
so long; he couldn't bear the thought of her grieving for her dead
lover. You see, Ginger thought Betty was madly in love with Huston.
"One night, in the front line trench, orders were received that after
an hour's intense bombardment of the enemy's lines, the company would
go over the top at six the next morning. Huston was to go over with the
first wave, while Ginger was in the second. Here was his chance.
"All that night he crouched on the firestep, musing and brooding,
nursing his revenge. He prayed to Betty to forgive him for what he was
going to do.
"After the bombardment the next morning, over went the first wave, a
line of bayonets and madly cheering men. Ginger only saw one in that
crowd; his eyes never left Huston. His finger twitched and caressed the
trigger of his rifle--his long looked-for opportunity had come.
"The first wave had gone about sixty yards, when Ginger let out a
curse. Huston had been hit and was down, and he saw his revenge
slipping through his fingers. But no, Huston was not dead. He was
trying to rise to his feet! He was up--hopping on one leg--with the
blood pouring from the other. Then he fell again, but was soon sitting
up, bandaging his wounded leg, using a tourniquet from his first-aid
packet.
"A surge of unholy joy ran through Ginger. Lifting his safety latch on
his rifle, unheeding the rain of bullets which were ripping and tearing
the sandbagged parapet about him, he took deliberate aim at Huston.
Then he saw a vision of Betty, dressed in black, with tear-stained
eyes. With a muttered curse Ginger threw the rifle from him, climbed
over the parapet and raced across No Man's Land. No act of his should
bring tears in Betty's brown eyes. He would save her worthless lover,
and then get killed himself--it didn't matter.
"Reaching Huston, he hissed at him:
"'Damn you, I was going to kill you, but I won't. I'll carry you back
to Betty. But always remember, it was the man you robbed who saved your
worthless life, you despicable skunk.'
"Huston murmured: 'Forgive me, Burton, but for God's sake, get me out
of this. I'll be killed--for God's sake, man, hurry, hurry!'
"'That's it, is it? Whine, damn you, whine! It's music to my ears.
Lieutenant Huston begging a 'bally bounder' for his life, and the
bounder giving it to him. I would to God that Betty could see and hear
you now!'
"With that Ginger stooped, and by main strength lifted Huston onto
his back and staggered toward our lines. The bullets and pieces of
shrapnel were cracking and swishing all around. He had gone about fifty
yards when a piece of shell hit his left arm just below the shoulder.
Down he went, Huston with him, but was soon up, his left arm dangling
and swinging at his side. Turning to Huston, who was lying on his back,
he said:
"'I am hard hit--it's your life or mine. We're only ten yards from our
trench. Try to make it on your own. You ought to be able to crawl in.'
"But Huston answered:
"'Burton, don't leave me here, I am bleeding to death. For the love of
God, get me in! You can have Betty, money, anything I have, it is all
yours,--just save my life. Answer me, man, answer--'
"'You want my answer, do you? Well, take it, and damn you!'
"With that, Ginger slapped the officer in the face. Then, grabbing him
by the collar with his right arm, the blood soaking his tunic from the
shell wound in his left, Ginger slowly dragged Huston to the trench,
and fainted.
"A mighty cheer went up from our lines. Stretcher-bearers took them
both to an advanced first-aid post, and their journey to Blighty and
Betty was started.
"On the trip over, Ginger never regained consciousness. They landed in
a hospital in England and were put in beds next to each other. You see,
at that time, officers and men went to the same hospital.
"Ginger was taken up into the 'pictures' (operating theatre), where his
arm was amputated at the shoulder. Huston's wound was slight,--bullet
through the calf of leg.
"While Ginger was coming out of ether he told all he knew. A Red Cross
nurse with tear-dimmed eyes was holding his hand. Occasionally she
would look across at Huston in the next bed; he would slowly nod his
head at each questioning glance of hers, while the red blood of shame
mounted to his temples.
"Then Ginger came to. He saw a beautiful vision. Thought he was
dreaming. Sitting by his bed, dressed in a Red Cross nurse's uniform,
was Betty, Huston's Betty, holding his hand! Betty, with tears in her
eyes, but this time tears of joy. The sweat came out on his forehead.
It couldn't be true! He gasped out the one word--
"'Betty!'
"Stooping over, the vision kissed him on the lips, and murmured:
"'My Ginger, you have come back to Betty.'
"Then he slept. Next morning the Colonel of the hospital came to
Ginger's bedside and congratulated him, telling him that he had been
recommended for the V.C. Ginger refused the V.C. from the Government;
said he had not earned it; would not give the reasons, but persisted in
his refusal. You know they can't force you to take a V.C.
"Five months later Ginger and Betty were married. She cuts his meat for
him now; says that all his faults were contained in his left arm. He
lost that. So you see, Ginger was somewhat of a man, after all, wasn't
he, mates?"
They agreed that he was. Ikey asked Happy how he came to know these
details. He answered:
"Well, you see, it's this way. Betty happens to be my sister. Gimme a
fag, someone. I am about talked out."
Sailor Bill mumbled out loud:
"I never thought there could be such a rotter as Huston in the English
Army."
Happy, hearing this, came back with:
"Just a minute, Sailor. Huston wasn't a rotter at heart. It was a good
lesson for him. When he recovered from his wound, he came out here
again. Made quite a record for himself, won the Military Cross and a
D.S.O. He was killed at Wipers--not so long ago, either.
"You know, the little wooden cross settles all debts in this world.
Dying for one's country in a righteous cause, according to my view,
entitles one to a reserved seat in Heaven."
THE LONE TREE SENTINEL
As Told by Dick
THE LONE TREE SENTINEL