the Boches clicked the fire from the English trench. Star-shells were
shootin' into the air an' droppin' in No Man's Land. It was a great,
but terrible sight which met our eyes. Fritz's raidin' party was
bein' wiped off like numbers on a kid's slate. Ten or fifteen dark
forms, the remnants of the German raidin' party, dashed past us in the
direction of the German trench. We stuck close to the ground. It was
our only chance. We knew that it would only be a few seconds before
Fritz turned loose from his trench. We were caught, all right, you see.
If we had legged it for our trench we would have been wiped out by our
own fire. You see, our boys thought we were safely in, and would have
mistaken us for Boches. Up went Fritz's star lights, and the clock
jumped twelve hours, turnin' midnight into the blaze of noon, and Hell
cut loose. Their bullets were snippin' twigs from the hedge over our
heads.
"Suddenly, the fellow on my left, MacCauley by name, emitted a muffled
groan and started kickin' the ground: then there was silence. He 'ad
gone West. A bullet through the napper, I suppose. There were now five
of us left. Suddenly Leftenant Williams, in a faint, choking voice,
exclaimed:
"'They've got me, French, it's through the lung'--and then
fainter--'you're in command. So that--' His voice died away.
"Pretty soon he started moaning loudly. The Germans must have heard
these moans because they immediately turned their fire on us. French
called to me:
"'Ikey, come here, my lad, our officer has clicked it.'
"I crawled over to him. He was sittin' on the ground with the
Leftenant's head restin' in his lap, and was gettin' out his first-aid
packet. I told him to get low or he would click it. He answered:
"'Since when does a bloomin' Lance Corporal take orders from a bloody
private? You tell the rest of the boys, if there's any of them left, to
leg it back to our trench at the double and get a stretcher, and you
go with them. This lad of ours has got to get medical attention, an'
damned quick, too, if we want to stop his bleedin'.'
"Just then a German star-shell landed about ten feet from us, an' in
its white, ghostly light I could see French sittin' like a bloomin'
statue, his hands covered with blood, tryin' to make a tourniquet out
of a bandage an' his bayonet. I told the rest to get in an' get the
stretcher. They needed no second urgin', an' soon French was left there
alone, sittin' on the ground, holdin' his dyin' officer's head in his
lap. A pretty picture, I call it. He sure was a man, was French; with
the bullets crackin' overhead and kickin' up the dirt around him."
Just then Happy butted in with: "Were you one of the men who went in
for the stretcher?"
Ikey answered: "None of your damned business. If you blokes want to
hear this story through, don't interrupt."
Happy vouchsafed no answer.
"About ten minutes after the fellows left for the stretcher, French got
a bullet through the left arm."
Sailor Bill interrupted here:
"How do you know it was ten minutes?"
Ikey blushed and answered:
"French told me when he got back to the trench. You see, he carried the
officer back through that fire, because the stretcher-bearers took too
long in coming out."
Yank asked Ikey how Corporal French, being wounded himself, could carry
Leftenant Williams in, when he must have been a dead weight.
Ikey answered, "Well, you blokes give me the proper pip, and you can
all bloomin' well go to hell," and he shut up like a clam.
Hungry got up and silently withdrew from the circle. In about ten
minutes he returned, followed by a tall, fair-haired Corporal, who
wore a little strip of gold braid on the left sleeve of his tunic,
denoting that he had been once wounded, and also wore a little blue and
red ribbon on the left breast of his tunic, the field insignia of the
Distinguished Conduct Medal.
Hungry, in triumph, brought him into the circle an' handed him a fag,
which he lighted in the flame from the candle on the mess tin, an'
then Hungry introduced him:
"Boys, I want you to meet Corporal French."
We shook hands all around.
Ikey got red an' was tryin' to ease out of the candle light, when
Sailor Bill grabbed him by the tunic and held him.
Then Hungry carried on: "French, I'm goin' to ask you a mighty personal
question, and I know you'll answer it. How in hell did you, hit in
the left arm, bring Leftenant Williams back from that reconnoiterin'
patrol?"
French got a little red, an' answered: "Well, you see, boys, it was
this way. Ikey an' I stuck out there with him, an' taking the slings
from our rifles, Ikey made a sort of a rope which he put around my
shoulder an' under the arms of the Leftenant, an' Ikey gettin' the
Leftenant by the legs, we managed to get him into the trench. You know,
I got a D.C.M. out of the affair, because I was the Corporal in charge.
Damned unfair, I call it, for they only handed him the Military Medal.
If the true facts were known he was the bloke who deserved the D.C.M."
They all turned in Ikey's direction. Sailor Bill, in his interest, had
released his hold on Ikey's tunic and Ikey had disappeared.
Happy asked French if the Leftenant had died in No Man's Land. French,
with tears in his eyes, answered: "No, but the poor lad went West after
we got him to the first aid dressin' station, an' next day we buried
him in the little cemetery at Fromelles. He sure done his bit, all
right, blime me, and here I am, bloomin' well swankin' with a ribbon on
my chest."
A dead silence fell on the crowd. Each one of them was admirin' the
modesty of those two real men, French an' Ikey. But such is the way
in the English Army,--the man who wins the medal always says that the
other fellow deserved it. An' German Kultur is still wonderin' why it
cannot smash through the English Lines.
THE FUSILIER GIANTS UNDER FIRE
As Told by Yank
THE FUSILIER GIANTS UNDER FIRE
"Come on, Yank, give us that baseball story you promised," pleaded Dick.
"All right. Here goes," answered Yank.
"We were sitting on the firestep. It was bright and sunny and we were
bubbling over with good humor. There were two reasons for this: First,
our Battalion was to be relieved at nine that night and we were going
back for a two weeks' rest. Second, it was spring. We could smell it
in the air. Even the wind blowing from the German trenches in our
direction had a sweet and 'springy' smell.
"About thirty yards down a communication trench 'to the left' was an
orchard. The trees were scarred from bullets and fragments of shell;
but even these battered trunks could not resist the feel of spring,
for here and there on the twigs and branches could be seen bursting
buds. Flitting around were numerous birds, chirping or sometimes
wrangling among themselves.
"It seemed odd that birds could accustom themselves to war.
Occasionally a German shell, or perhaps one of ours, would go screaming
over the orchard. The birds did not seem to mind the noise,--just
carried on with their nest building.
"In our company was another American, called 'Alex,'--his last name
doesn't matter. Naturally, we were very chummy. Alex and I were the
chief 'Amusement Promoters' in the company, the Tommies constantly
looking to us for some new diversion.
"You know you Tommies seem to have the idea that an American's chief
vocation in the United States is to invent, and keep on inventing.
Well, this bunch was just like the rest, had the same idea. Of course,
Alex and I did not in any way try to dissipate their idea; in fact we
encouraged it, and took great pride in being looked up to in this way;
but, believe me, it kept us hustling to keep them amused.
"It was getting too warm for soccer football, and we knew as soon as we
got into rest billets that the issue would be put right up to us, 'How
are you going to amuse us while we are behind the lines?'
"We were Americans, and red-blooded; spring was in the air, and our
thoughts turned to what every American boy is thinking of upon the
arrival of spring--baseball.
"I turned my eyes to the muddy parados of the trench, and fixed my
gaze on a fragment of German shell imbedded in the mud. Pretty soon
this fragment changed into a baseball player, with mask, protector and
catcher's mitt. He was crouching behind the home-plate and signaling
to the pitcher. Just then Alex said, 'Say, Yank, I wonder if we could
teach the Tommies how to play baseball.'
"I immediately turned in his direction. He was also staring at that
fragment of shell.
"I answered: 'Did you ever try to teach a Chinaman how to speak French?'
"He got it right away. A dejected look spread over his countenance, and
he let out a long-drawn sigh.
"A Tommy sitting on my right butted in with: 'Did you sye byse-ball,
Yank? Why, I saw a gyme in London. It's absurdly easy to plye, but I
cawn't sye I fawncy h'it.'
"With a look of disgust Alex turned to me and said, 'I guess you're
right, Yank, it would be easier to teach the Chinaman French!'
"That night we were relieved and went behind the lines.
"The next afternoon, after parade" (drill), "we were sitting in an
orchard drinking tea. About a month before, Alex and I had taught the
Tommies how to pitch horseshoes. There was great rivalry among the
different squads, each squad having a team.
"Just then Corporal Watkins came over to us and asked, 'Where are the
'orse-shoes, I cawn't find 'em?'
"Another Tommy answered: 'Strafe me pink, where are your h'eyes? Cawn't
you bloomin' well see the h'officers usin' 'em be'ind that billet over
there? Blime me, they're always a-gummin' the gyme.'
"Sure enough, the officers were using our horseshoes.
"Alex, with a look of determination, turned to me, and said, 'Well,
here goes, Yank. Steve Brodie took a chance, so I might be able to get
away with this.'
"Then, turning to the Tommies, he said, 'Did any of you blokes ever
hear of John McGraw?'
"Three of the Tommies answered, 'Yes.'
"A sunny smile and a look of hope flitted across Alex's face, and he
breathlessly asked, 'Who is he?'
"The three started to answer at once, but Alex majestically extending
his hand, palm forward, said, 'Get in line, one at a time. Now,
Perkins, who is John McGraw?'
"Perkins answered, 'Why, 'e's a Lawnce Corporal in the Royal Irish
Rifles.'
"According to Alex's look, that Tommy should have immediately dropped
dead. Turning to the next, he said, 'Thwaites, for the Love o' Mike,
who is he?'
"Thwaites, with a knowing look, answered, ''E runs the King's Arms
Public 'ouse, down Rye Lane.'
"With a piteous look, Alex glanced in my direction and I jerked my
thumb in the direction of the other Tommy, who seemed to be bursting
with suppressed eagerness. Alex looking at him, ejaculated: 'Spit it
out before you choke.'
"This fellow, with a superior air, turned in the direction of the two
dejected Tommies, and answered, 'John McGraw, why everybody knows 'im;
he was the fellow in the London Scottish who clicked crucifixion for
stealing the rum issue at Wipers. 'E was a lad, not 'arf he weren't.'
"A hissing noise issued from Alex's lips, and he collapsed like a
punctured toy balloon. After a few seconds he straightened up and a
look of determination came into his eyes. Addressing the Tommies, he
exploded: 'You blokes are enough to make Billy Sunday take to drink.
Now, listen here, and let it sink in deep. John McGraw is the manager
of the New York Giants. He is a baseball player; get it? A baseball
player. He's a guy what manages a baseball team. And any fellows who
can't make good on his team, or in the bush leagues, he sends 'em a
cricket bat with their name inscribed on it and pays their passage to
England. Get me?'
"Several Tommies took exception to this, and said that they had
followed cricket all their lives, but had never heard of any American
cricketers being sent over by Mr. McGraw. At this I exploded with
laughter, and Alex went up in the air. Standing up and turning to the
bunch under the trees, pointing his fingers in their direction, he let
out:
"'Now listen, this is good. I'm going to send down to the Ordnance
Corps and get a dozen gimlets and some funnels. With these gimlets I'm
going to bore holes in your nappers, and using the funnel I'm going to
pour into those garrets of yours a little brains. Then, after you've
acquired gray matter, I'm going to teach you the great American game of
baseball; and then when through teaching you, I'm going to retire to
the Old Soldiers' Home as physically and mentally unfit, because I know
the job will put me there.'
"The Tommies did not take exception to his pointed remarks about their
lack of brains. They overlooked this because they were very eager to
learn how to play baseball. A chorus of, 'Go to h'it, Yank, that's
what we want; something new out 'ere in this bloody mess of mud and
"cooties."' Alex said that we would have to talk the matter over, and
beckoning to me, went in the direction of the billet. I followed. He
then outlined his scheme.
"We were to form two baseball classes, Alex in charge of one, I of
the other. On the plaster of the billet we carefully scratched out a
baseball diamond, and then called the Tommies in. They sat around
like little children in a school, eagerly intent. For two hours we
explained the game to them. When we got through they all knew how to
play baseball--on paper. We dismissed them, telling them another class
would be held the following afternoon. That night Alex and I, around
the stump of a candle, went into details for organizing two teams.
Everything appeared rosy, and we were highly jubilant. A Tommy eased
over in our direction and innocently asked:
"'I sye, Yank, isn't it necessary to 'ave byse-balls and clubs? We
cawn't very well plye without 'em.'
"This was a bomb-shell to us. In our eagerness and excitement we had
quite forgotten that bats, balls and gloves were necessary. I thought
Alex was going to burst. Letting out a 'Well, I'll be blowed,' which
nearly blew the candle out, he turned a silly look in my direction,
and I looked just as cheap. At last the Tommies had stumped us, and
we could see our reputation fading into nothing. A dead silence
reigned. Then Alex started to madly open his haversack. I thought he
had suddenly gone crazy. I reached my hand in the direction of my
bayonet, fearing that he was looking for a Mill's bomb. When he drew
his hand out, hanging to his fist was a writing pad. I guiltily let go
of my bayonet. Borrowing a pencil from me (Alex was always borrowing),
he started writing. I thought perhaps he was going to commit suicide
and was writing a farewell letter home, and asked him what was up. He
whispered to me:
"'Yank, we're two bloody fools not to have thought of this long ago.
All we've got to do is to write home to one of the New York papers
asking the readers to send out baseball stuff to us and it will only be
a matter of a few weeks before we will have enough to equip two teams.'
"I offered to write the letter, and with Alex bending over me, I
eagerly wrote an appeal to the readers of the New York _Evening
Telegram_, and turned the letter over to the Mail Orderly.
"We then explained to the Tommies that equipment was necessary and that
we had written home, but while waiting for the baseball stuff to arrive
we would carry on with our instruction classes. The next day Alex and
I made a woolen baseball out of an old puttee, fixed up a temporary
diamond, and showed the Tommies the general run of the game. Their
antics were awful. If we had used regular baseballs I don't think there
would have been a Tommy in the squad without a black eye. Did you ever
watch a girl trying to catch a ball? Well a girls' team alongside of
some of these Tommies would have looked like the winner in our World's
Series. It was hard work keeping their interest up.
"Two weeks later we went 'up the line'; then came back again for
another rest. The interest in baseball was dying out and we were at our
wit's end. Time passed, and we figured out that we should be hearing
from our appeal, but nothing came. Then once again we went into the
front line trench. The Tommies were getting very skeptical and every
time baseball was mentioned they would gaze in our direction with a
sneering look. This completely got our goats.
"One evening we were sitting in a dugout of the support trench: it was
raining like the mischief, and we were cold and downhearted. Pretty
soon the rations came up. As you know, the ration party generally
brings the rations down into the dugouts, but the two men carrying our
dixie set it down in the mud of the trench and almost shot the chutes
down the entrance to the dugout. They were breathless with excitement.
One of them yelled out:
"Yank, there's a limber" (small two-wheeled wagon) "full of parcels
down in the Sergeant-Major's dugout. They're all addressed to you, and
they're from America.'
"Alex let out a shout and I felt warm all over. How we lorded it over
those poor Tommies. That night we were to be relieved and go back to
rest billets. We could hardly wait for the time.
"The next morning was Sunday, and after church parade we made a mad
rush to the Orderly Room to get our mail. The Quartermaster-Sergeant
was waiting for me, and behind him stood every officer in the company,
trying to disguise the expectant look on their faces. Every eye was
turned in the direction of a heap of parcels. I thought the 'Quarter'
never would start. Even the Captain could not stand it, and suppressing
his eagerness, said: 'Sergeant, you had better issue the mail.' Alex
and I were breathless with anxiety.
"Then, stooping down, the Sergeant took up a parcel and read off my
name, and threw it over to me. I caught it on the fly. The Sergeant
kept on reading out 'Yank' and parcels came through the air like a
bombardment. The first parcel I picked up was stamped 'Passed by
Censor' and contained twelve brand new balls, or, at least, eleven, and
the remains of one. This twelfth ball was stamped 'Opened by Censor,'
but search as I could, I could find no stamp reading 'Sewed up by
Censor.' We did the sewing up, but that ball looked like a duck's egg
when we had finished. Alex and I roundly cussed the Censor. Later, we
both cussed the inventor of baseball. There was a reason.
"The readers of the _Telegram_ had nobly responded to our appeal. There
were enough gloves and balls for two teams, and even a chest-protector
and mask. The mask was an article of great curiosity to all. Some of
them thought it was a bomb protector. Everyone in turn tried it on, and
everyone, upon learning that the catcher was to wear the mask, wanted
to immediately sign up for that position. Alex and I could have been
elected to Parliament right there. The next afternoon, the candidates,
forty in all, and the rest of the company, turned out _en masse_ on the
baseball field, which we had laid out during our previous stay in rest
billets.
"From that day on, Alex and I led a dog's life. Though on paper
everything looked bright, and the candidates were letter perfect in
the game, or thought they were, on the field they were dubs of the
worst caliber,--regular boneheads. If McGraw had had that mob wished
on him, he would have chucked up his job and taken the stump for Women
Suffrage, so you can appreciate our fix.
"Alex was a really good pitcher; plenty of curved stuff, having played
semi-pro ball in the United States. It was my intention to catch for
him, and fill in the other positions with the most likely candidates.
This scheme did not work in with the popular version a little bit.
Out of the forty trying for the team, twenty-eight insisted on being
catcher. They wanted to secure that mask. If there had been a camera,
each of the forty would have had a photo taken of himself wearing
the 'wire cage.' Here was a great dilemma. At that time I was only a
private, and there were Sergeants, Corporals, and even an officer who
wanted to catch. Alex again came to the rescue. Calling me aside he
said:
"'Leave it to me, Yank, I'll fix 'em. I'll try out each one in turn.
Let him wear the mask, and I'll send in some curves, and after the ball
cracks them on the shins a couple of times you couldn't pay 'em to put
on the cage.'
"The Tommies were strange to curved balls, and Alex had speed. It did
my heart good to see him dampen their ardor and dent their anatomy at
the same time. The Tommies would see the ball coming to them and would
reach up their hands to get it. Then the ball would break and hit them
on the shin or knee. After five or six had retired, rubbing sore spots
and cussing Alex out, no one else wanted to catch, and the situation
was saved.
"Tommy is a natural born soccer player and clever with his feet, but
stupid with his hands when it comes to baseball. Several of them
had a bad habit of stopping grounders with their feet, especially
our shortstop. He would see a hot grass-eater coming his way; then,
instead of using his hands, he would put the side of his foot in front
of it. The ball would climb his leg and hit him in the chin or eye.
After receiving a puffed-up lip and a beautiful black eye, he flatly
refused to play unless I would let him wear the mask. (Americans,
picture a shortstop wearing a catcher's mask, and then sympathize with
Alex and me.) The shortstop was a Sergeant, and through diplomatic
reasons I gave the mask to him. At this every infielder wanted to wear
it. Alex solved this by putting in another shortstop and giving me the
mask. (In England they have a game called 'Rounders,' in which you are
supposed to hit the base runner with the ball to put him out. This
is generally a tennis ball and does not hurt very much.) Well, those
Tommies had a habit of lamming the baseball with all their might at
the unfortunate runner. Many an early practice was broken up this way,
because the team would lose interest in baseball when they had a chance
to view a fight between a giver and receiver.
"After about ten days' practice we had picked two pretty fair teams and
arranged for a scrub game. Alex's side won, thanks to his pitching.
Then, as is usual in baseball, things began to happen. A jinx seemed
to rest on our candidates. Every time we had to go up the line on a
working party, one or two of the players would get wounded or killed;
in fact, being a baseball player got to be a perfect Jonah, and the
Tommies became superstitious. If one of our team happened to be working
among ten or twelve other company men, he was sure to get hit, while
the other fellows came through without a scratch. Alex and I also began
to get frightened, and decided to chuck up the whole thing before we
clicked it ourselves.
"Then we went further back behind the lines. During this stay we
rounded out a passable team. A Canadian Battalion, just sent out from
England on their way to 'Wipers,' went into billets about a mile from
us. This was our chance. Alex went over and proposed a game with them
for the following Sunday. The challenge was accepted. We had a week's
time in which to strengthen some weaknesses and to teach the bunch a
little 'inside' baseball. Then the jinx popped up again. On the morning
of the game with the Canadians, our cleverest infielder, the first
baseman, picked up an old German hand grenade, and brought it to the
billet. This man was a great souvenir collector; always hammering at
'dud' shells, trying to remove the nose-caps.
"On seeing him fooling around with the German bomb, I told him to throw
it away, saying that one could never trust those things, and that I did
not want to take any chances of losing a first baseman; but being of a
naturally curious disposition, he refused to do so, and taking the bomb
out behind the billet proceeded to take liberties with its mechanism:
result, right hand blown off, and another vacancy to be filled at first
base. What we said about him would have met with the highest approval
of exponents of German Kultur.
"The game was scheduled for two o'clock, and at exactly one-thirty-five
Mr. Fritz plunked a stray 'five-nine' shell into our infield between
home and first base, making a hole big enough for a limber to hide in.
This meant picks and shovels for all hands to fill in the hole. By this
time a large crowd of rooters of both sides had lined themselves along
the foul lines. The compliments that were wafted back and forth made
the Sky Pilot pick up and leave before the game started.