my arm, and in a low, excited whisper, asked:
"'Did you see that out in front, Yank, a little to the right of that
black patch in the barbed wire?'
"Turning my eyes in the direction indicated, with my heart pounding
against my ribs, I waited for something to develop.
"Sure enough, I could make out a slight movement. Happy must have seen
it at the same time, because he carefully eased his rifle over the top,
ready for instant use. My rifle was already in position. Curly was
fumbling with the flare pistol. Suddenly a loud 'plop,' as he pulled
the trigger, and a red streak shot up into the air as the star shell
described an arc out in front; it hit the ground and burst, throwing
out a white, ghostly light. A frightened 'meouw,' and a cat, with speed
clutch open, darted from the wire in front of us, jumped over our gun
and disappeared into the blackness of the trench. Curly ducked his
head, and Happy let out a weak, squeaky laugh. I was frozen stiff with
fear. Pretty soon the pump action of my heart was resumed, and once
more I looked out into No Man's Land.
"For the remainder of our two hours on guard nothing happened. Then we
'turned over' to the second relief and, half frozen, waded through the
icy mud to the entrance of our dugout.
"From the depths of the earth came the notes of a harmonica playing
'Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag, and Smile, Smile, Smile.'
Stumbling down the muddy steps we entered the dugout. This was a
regular dugout, not like the two-by-four one we generally had wished on
us.
"Eight boys of our machine-gun section, sitting on their packs, had
formed a circle around a wooden box. In an old ammunition tin six
candles were burning. I inwardly shuddered at this extravagance but
suddenly remembered that it was Christmas Eve. Sailor Bill was making
cocoa over the flames of a 'Tommy's cooker,' while Ikey was toasting
bread in front of a fire bucket, the fumes from which nearly choked us.
"As soon as we made our appearance in the dugout the circle stood up,
and, as is usual with you English, unselfishly made room for us to
get around the fire bucket to thaw out our stiffened joints. In about
twenty minutes or so the cold of the trench was forgotten and we joined
in the merriment. The musician put his harmonica away, which action
was greatly appreciated by the rest of us. It was Ikey. Bursting with
importance, 'Sailor Bill' addressed us:
"'Gentlemen, it is now time for this ship's company to report progress
as to what they have done for the Christmas feed which is to be held
tomorrow at eight bells. Yank, let's hear yours.'
"I reported one dozen eggs, two bottles of white wine, one bottle of
red wine, eight packets of Gold Flake 'fags' and one quart bottle of
champagne, which had cost me five francs, my last and lonely note on
the Banque de France, at a French estaminet.
"This report was received with a cheer. Ikey was next in order. He
proudly stated that he had saved his rum issue for the last eleven
days, and consequently was able to donate to the feast his water
bottle, three-fourths full of rum. We knew he had 'swiped' the rum, but
said nothing because this would help out in making brandy sauce for
the plum pudding. Sailor Bill informed us that he had a fruit cake,
a bottle of pickled walnuts, and two tins of deviled ham, which had
been sent out to him from London. Each man had something to report. I
carefully made a list of the articles opposite the name of the person
donating them, and turned the list over to Bill, who was to act as cook
on the following day.
"Just then Lance Corporal Hall came into the dugout and, warming his
hands over the fire bucket, said:
"'If you blokes want to hear something that will take you home to
Blighty, come up into the fire trench a minute.'
"None of us moved. That fire bucket was too comfortable. After much
coaxing, Sailor Bill, Ikey, and myself followed Hall out of the dugout
up into the fire trench. A dead silence reigned, and we started to
return. Hall blocked our way, and whispered:
"'Just a minute, boys, and listen.'
"Pretty soon, from the darkness out in front, we heard the strains of
a cornet playing 'It's a Long, Long Trail We're Winding.' We stood
entranced till the last note died out. After about a four or five
minute wait the strains were repeated, and then silence. I felt lonely
and homesick.
"Out of the firebay on our left a Welsh voice started singing the song.
The German cornet player must have heard it, because he picked up
the tune and accompanied the singer on his cornet. I had never heard
anything so beautiful in my life before. The music from the German
trench suddenly ceased, and in the air overhead came the sharp Crack!
Crack! of machine gun bullets, as some Boche gunner butted in on the
concert. We ducked and returned to our dugout.
"The men were all tired out, and soon rasping snores could be heard
from under the cover of blankets and overcoats.
"The next day was Christmas, and we eagerly awaited the mail, which was
to be brought up by the ration party at noon.
"Not a shot or shell had been fired all morning. The sun had come
out, and although the trenches were slippery with mud, still it was
warm, and we felt the Christmas spirit running through our veins. We
all turned in and cleaned up the dugout. Making reflectors out of
ammunition tins, sticking them into the walls of the dugout, we placed
a lighted candle in each. Sailor Bill was hustling about, preparing
the Christmas spread. He placed a waterproof sheet on the floor, and
adding three blankets spread another waterproof over the top for a
table-cloth, and arranged the men's packs around the edges for chairs.
"Presently the welcome voice of our Sergeant came from the entrance of
the dugout:
"'Come on, me lads, lend a 'and with the post.'
"There was a mad rush for the entrance. In a couple of minutes or so
the boys returned, staggering under a load of parcels. As each name was
read off, a parcel was thrown over to the expectant Tommy. My heart was
beating with eagerness as the Sergeant picked up each parcel: then a
pang of disappointment as the name was read off.
"Each of the others received from one to four parcels. There were none
left. I could feel their eyes sympathizing with me.
"Sailor Bill whispered something to the Sergeant that I could not get.
The Sergeant turned to me and said:
"'Why, blime me, Yank, I must be goin' balmy. I left your parcel up in
the trench. I'll be right back.'
"He returned in a few minutes with a large parcel addressed to me.
I eagerly took the parcel and looked for the postmark. It was from
London. Another pang of disappointment passed through me. I knew no one
in London. My mail had to come from America.
"Then it all flashed over me in an instant. About two weeks before I
had noticed a collection being taken up in the section and at the time
thought it very strange that I was not asked to donate. The boys had
all chipped in to make sure that I would not be forgotten on Christmas.
They eagerly crowded around me as I opened the parcel. It contained
nearly everything under the sun, including some American cigarettes.
"Tears of gratitude came to my eyes, but some way or other I managed
not to betray myself. Those Tommies certainly were tickled at my
exclamations of delight as I removed each article. Out of the corner of
my eye I could see them nudging each other.
"A man named Smith in our section had been detailed as runner to our
Captain and was not present at the distribution of the mail. Three
parcels and five letters were placed on his pack so he would receive
them on his return to the dugout.
"In about ten minutes a man came from the trench loaded down with
small oblong boxes. Each Tommy, including myself, received one. They
were presents from the Queen of England, and each box contained a small
plum pudding, cigarettes, a couple of cigars, matches and chocolate.
Every soldier of the British Army in the trenches received one of these
boxes on Christmas Day, as most of you know.
"At last Sailor Bill announced that Christmas dinner was ready and we
each lost no time in getting to our respective packs, sitting around
in a circle. Smith was the only absentee, and his parcels and letters,
still unopened, were on his pack. He was now a half hour overdue.
"Sailor Bill, noting our eagerness to begin, held up his hand and said:
"'Now boys, we're all shipmates together. Don't you think it would be
better to wait a few minutes more for Smith?"
"We all assented, but, soldier-like, cussed him for his delay.
"Ten minutes passed--fifteen--then twenty. All eyes were turned in
Sailor Bill's direction. He answered our looks with: 'Go to it, boys,
we can't wait for Smith. I don't know what's keeping him, but you know
his name is in orders for leave and perhaps he is so tickled that he's
going to see his wife and three little nippers in Blighty, that he's
lost his bearings and has run aground.'
"We started in, and waxed merry for a few minutes. Then there'd be an
uncomfortable pause and all eyes would turn in the direction of the
vacant place. Uneasiness prevailed.
"Suddenly, the entrance to the dugout was darkened and a form came
stumbling down. With one accord we all shouted:
"'Come on, Smith, you're missing one of the best Christmas dinners of
your life."
"Our Sergeant entered the dugout. One look at his face was enough. We
knew he was the bearer of ill tidings.
"With tears in his eyes and a catch in his voice, he asked:
"'Which is Smith's pack?'
"We all solemnly nodded our heads in the direction of the vacant place.
Without a word the Sergeant picked up the letters, parcels and pack and
started to leave the dugout.
"Sailor Bill could stand it no longer, and just as the Sergeant was
about to leave he asked:
"'Out with it, Sergeant, what's happened?'
"The Sergeant turned around, and, in a choking voice, said:
"'Boys, Smith's gone West. Some bloody German sniper got him through
the napper as he was passing that bashed-in part in Yiddish Street.'
"Sailor Bill ejaculated:
"'Poor old Smith, gone West.' Then he paused and sobbed out: 'My God,
think of his wife and three little nippers waiting in Blighty for him
to come home for the Christmas holidays.'
"I believe that right at that moment a solid vow of vengeance
registered itself in every heart around that festive circle.
"The next day we buried poor Smith in a little cemetery behind the
lines. While standing around his grave our artillery suddenly opened
up with an intense bombardment on the German lines, and as every shell
passed, screaming overhead, we sent a prayer of vengeance with it.
"As the grave was filled in, I imagined a huge rainbow embracing the
graves in that cemetery on which, in letters of fire, was written,
sarcastically in German, 'Peace on Earth, Good Will Toward Men.' But
such is war.
"So, boys, that was my last Christmas. Where I'll be next Christmas,
God only knows.
"Next day my mail came in from America, and didn't cheer me much
because I was thinking of Smith's wife and nippers.
"So long, boys, I've got to go."
A SIREN OF THE BOCHES
As Told by Yank from a Personal Experience Related to Him by a
Soldier Named Atwell
A SIREN OF THE BOCHES
The British Lion was roaring and his growls could be heard all along
the Western Front. Many German Generals were stirring uneasily in
their large and sumptuously furnished concrete, shell-proof dugouts,
kilos behind the German front line trenches, as the ever increasing
thundering roar reached their ears. Way down in their hearts there was
an unknown dread, perhaps a weakening of faith in the all powerful
might of their 'Me und Gott.'
"We had a close-up view of the King of Beasts, in his majestic might,
as he crouched ready for a spring, his tail furiously and impatiently
thumping the ground. In a way he was a sorry-looking specimen; patches
of hide were missing, revealing wounds, some of which had entirely
healed, while others were still freshly bleeding, exposing the raw
flesh. If these scars had been labelled it would have been easy to
read, 'Lusitania,' 'Hospital Ships Torpedoed,' 'Zeppelin Murders,'
'Poison Gas,' 'Liquid Fire.' The memory and pain of these atrocities
increased his impatience to spring, whetted his appetite to rend and
tear.
"The British bombardment of the German Lines was on, a bombardment
which lasted for eight days and nights. At night the sky was a red
glare, as if the world were on fire. Scarlet tongues of flame would
suddenly shoot up from the German lines and as suddenly die out, only
to be replaced by countless others as thousands of British shells burst
in the air or buried themselves in the ground searching out the German
Rats in their holes.
"Continuous flashes from the British rear paid tribute to the
artillerymen, stripped to the waist, sweating and scorched by the
breath of their guns, as they fed shells to the iron monsters. Overhead
a rushing noise like the passing of an express train, or a moaning
sigh through the air meant that the steel messengers of death and
vengeance were on their way, on their way to give the Germans a taste
of the Hell that they had prepared for others. The earth seemed to
heave and crack as if some huge giant had been buried alive and was
struggling for the air. This bombardment was the forerunner of the
'Battle of the Somme.'
"Atwell and I were alone in the machine gunners' dugout of the support
trench, the gun's crew being on duty, in the fire trench. Atwell, a
great big lovable fellow, was my mate. We had both been detailed to
the Military Police of the Divisional Intelligence Department and
were engaged upon 'spy work.' Atwell, although of a naturally cheery
disposition, occasionally lapsed into fits of despondency.
"By the light from the stump of candle I was making out my previous
day's report to turn in to Brigade Headquarters. At intervals the
entrance to the dugout would light up red as a shell burst; the candle
would flicker and almost go out from the pressure of the air. My mate
was sitting on his pack, his back leaning against the dank and muddy
wall of the dugout. Finishing my report, I got out a fag, lighted it,
and with an anxious, lonely feeling hearkened to the roar of the hell
outside. A long drawn sigh caused me to look in Atwell's direction. The
rays from the candle lighted up his face, the rest of his body being in
semi-darkness. Never before in my life had I seen such a dejected and
woebegone countenance. This, in a way, angered me, because I, myself,
right then had a feeling of impending disaster, a sort of dread,
intermingled with a longing for the faraway fields and flowers in
Blighty. I wanted to be cheered, expected it, but Atwell's face looked
like a morgue.
"Forcing a smile, which, in comparison no doubt made a graveyard look
like a musical comedy, I leaned over, slapped him on the knee and said:
"'Come out of your trance and cheer up. We've both got a damn good
chance for Blighty with this bombardment on.'
"Atwell looked in my direction, and in a tone which I had never heard
before from him, answered:
"'I've been out here since '14. I've buried many a mate'--(this to me
was very cheering)--'and I've seen many a lucky bloke on a stretcher
bound for Blighty, and many an unlucky one on a stretcher bound for a
hole in the ground, and never gave it a thought, but right now I feel
that my stay in the trenches is short.'
"I butted in with, 'Cheero, mate, we all get downhearted at times. You
are going to march into Berlin with the rest of us.'
"'March into Hell!' Atwell answered. 'I tell you that I am going to
click it, I can feel it coming. Whether it's Blighty or a wooden cross,
remains to be seen. I've had something on my mind since September,
1914, and it's been worrying me pink. I'm going to tell you the story
and I'll give you my oath that you're the first one that ever heard it
from my lips. I've got to get it out of my system.'
"Just then came a whizzing through the air. We both instinctively
turned our eyes towards the entrance of the dugout and waited for the
burst. Nothing happened.
"'Another bloomin' dud,' ejaculated Atwell. 'A few more German marks
gone to seed.' Then again the gloomy look spread over his countenance.
I was getting nervous and uneasy. Fritz was dropping his shells too
near for comfort. Trying to hide my fear, I said:
"'For th' love o' Blighty, Atwell, crack a smile. Give us that story
of yours, or else I'll go balmy. You'd better get it off your chest,
because Fritz is replying to our strafing, and if an eight-inch shell
ever hits this dugout they'll need no wooden crosses for us. Our names
will appear on the Roll of Honour, under the caption "Missing."'
"With another sigh escaping from his lips, which sent a cold shiver up
and down my spinal column, he lighted a fag and started in. This is
what he told me:
"'It was back in September, 1914. You know I came out with the First
Expeditionary Force, the time when all the fighting was being done in
the open. The Germans were smashing everything before them in their
drive to Paris. Our Brigade was one of the few opposed to Von Kluck.
It was a case of hold them for a few hours and then retreat,--always
retreat,--with the German tide lapping our heels. We didn't even have
time to bury our dead. The grub was rotten, and we were just about
fagged out, dead tired, with no prospect of relief or rest in front of
us, and Hell behind.
"'It was customary for small patrols of ten to twenty men, under a
Sergeant, to reconnoitre on our flanks. One day I was sent out in
command of one of these parties. Oh, yes, I was a Sergeant then, but
I lost my stripes,--no, I wasn't busted,--just resigned of my own
accord. I was in for a commission, too, but of course I let it go
with the Sergeant's stripes. Guess I was lucky at that, because if I
had received it, no doubt by this time I'd be pushing up the daisies
somewhere in France. In those days, you know, officers didn't last
long,--made fine targets for the Boches.
"'The patrol I was in command of carried rations for three days. We had
orders to scout around on our left flank, keeping in touch with the
advancing Germans, but not to engage them,--just get information. If
the information was valuable, I was to send it in by one of the men.
There were fourteen of us, and we were mounted. I was in the Lancers
then, and was considered a fair rider,--got transferred to this outfit
after I resigned from Sergeant,--guess they smelled a rat.
"'The first day nothing happened. We just scouted around. By nightfall
we were pretty tired, so when we came to a village,--wasn't a village
either; just five or six houses clustered around a church,--I decided
to go into billets for the night.
"'Riding up to the largest house, which had a stone wall running
around its garden, I dismounted at the gate and knocked at the front
door--the house was on a sort of knoll. Then the sweetest voice I ever
heard called out in trembling tones, in perfect English, too, with just
the suspicion of an accent:
"'"Who is there, please?"
"'I answered: "Just a few English Lancers who desire a place to rest
for the night. The barn will do. We don't want anything to eat, as we
have rations with us. So, if you will accommodate us, miss, I will be
much obliged." I was in love with that girl before I saw her--the voice
had done the trick. She answered: "Just a moment, please, until I ask
father." And then the door shut and the light disappeared. We didn't
have to wait long before the door reopened, and she called to me:
"Father bids you welcome, and so do I, soldiers of England!"
"'We could hear her dainty steps approaching. Then she opened the gate.
There she stood on the gravel path with the lantern held shoulder
high. I trembled all over--thought I saw a vision. I tell you, mate,
she was beautiful. One of the kind you would like to take in your arms,
but wouldn't for fear of crushing. No use for me to try to describe
her, it's out of my line; but she captured me heart and soul. There I
stood like a great, big boob, shaking and stuttering. At last I managed
to blurt out a stammering, "Thank you, miss."
"'She showed us the way to the stables, and stood in the door holding
the lantern so we could see to unsaddle. I was fumbling around with
the buckles, but for the life of me I couldn't get that saddle off.
One of the men, with a wink and a broad grin, came over and helped
me. That grin got my goat, so on the sly I kicked him on the shin.
He let out an explosive "damn." After that the silence was painful,
only broken by our horses impatiently champing their bits. The poor
fellow felt like a fool, and I felt worse. I could have killed him for
his thoughtlessness. But our embarrassment was short-lived. A silvery
laugh came from behind the lantern, a laugh that was not loud, but
that echoed and reëchoed among the rafters overhead,--even the horses
stopped to listen. I can hear it right now, Yank.
"'After the horses had been unsaddled and fed, the men looked
appealingly at me. I knew what they wanted--they were dog-tired, and
dying to hit the hay. Just as I was about to ask permission for them to
turn in, the angel butted in with:
"'"Poor, tired soldiers, sleepy and hungry. Come right into the house.
Father has some supper and wine ready for you."
"'We stammered our thanks and followed her into the house like a string
of sheep, I in the lead. To me that meal was a dream. She flitted
around the table, filling a glass here and there, laughing with us, and
making us feel at home. The war was forgotten. By this time I was madly
in love with her, and she knew it, for when she leaned over my shoulder
to replenish my glass with red wine, her hair would brush my cheek, and
once she rested her hand on my shoulder and gave it just the slightest
squeeze. I was in heaven.
"'It was getting late, and the wine was beginning to tell on the men.
They were falling asleep in their chairs. I had a hard job waking four
of them to go on guard. They got their rifles and were standing around
me for instructions, when our hostess came over to me, and, resting her
hand on my arm, with again the slightest of squeezes and pleading eyes,
interceded for them.
"'"Sergeant," she said, "let the poor boys sleep. They are so tired.
There is no danger. The Germans are miles away. I know this to be true.
Do this for me." And again that squeeze.
"'I, like a fool, listened to her, and gave an unwilling assent. The
men looked their gratitude. Jean, an old manservant, led them out to
the barn, where an abundance of hay had been spread for their beds. I
was following when a whisper in my ear made my head swim:
"'"Don't go yet, my Sergeant, stay with me."
"'I stayed, worse luck.
"'We sat on a settee, talking, and her arm stole around my waist. I
wasn't slow, either, and as you know, mate, I have a pretty good reach.
Once she spoke to me in French, but I shook my head in bewilderment.
In a few minutes the servant returned, and Adrienne--she told me her
name--called him to her, and said, "Jean, go down into the wine cellar
and get some of that old port and give it to the soldiers of England.
Poor boys, it will warm them." She added something in French I could
not understand, then she said: "Leave a bottle here for the Sergeant
and me."
"'I protested against more wine for the boys. Her pleading overruled my
good judgment, and I consented. The servant left to do her mission, and
I proposed. Her answer was a kiss. I was the happiest man in France.
"'Presently Jean returned with a basketful of bottles, and placing
one, which had the cork removed, on the table, he silently withdrew in
the direction of the stable.
"'Adrienne poured out a glass of wine and offered it to me, but as my
head was already beginning to buzz, I refused it. With a shrug of the
shoulders and a peculiar sort of smile, which made me feel ashamed of
my rudeness, she said: "Perhaps my Sergeant will refuse to kiss me."
"'This came as a jolt to me, because our English girls are not so free
in asking for kisses. I fancy something in my face betrayed my feelings
in the matter, for she came right back at me: "I see the English
sergeant does not understand the customs of France,--" And she puckered
up her lips and I kissed her.