“WHOM THE GODS LOVE”
“No officer wounded since we came out in October,” said Edwards: “we’re
really awfully lucky, you know.”
“For heaven’s sake, touch wood,” I cried.
We laughed, for the whole of our establishment was wood. We were
sitting on a wooden seat, leaning our hands against wooden uprights,
eating off a wooden table, and resting our feet on a wooden floor.
Sometimes, too, we found splinters of wood in the soup--but it was
more often straw. For this dining-room in Trafalgar Square was known
sometimes as the “Summer-house” and sometimes as the “Straw Palace.”
It was really the maddest so-called “dug-out” in the British lines,
I should think; I might further add, “in any trench in Europe.” For
the French, although they presumably built it in the summer days of
1915 when the Bois Français trenches were a sort of summer-rest for
tired-out soldiers, would never have tolerated the “Summer-house” since
the advent of the canister-age. As for the Boche, he would have merely
stared if anyone had suggested him using it as a Company Headquarters.
“But,” he would have said, “it is not shell-proof.”
Exactly. It would not have stood even a whizz-bang. A rifle-grenade
would almost certainly have come right through it. As for a canister
or H.E., it would have gone through like a stone piercing wet paper.
But it had been Company Headquarters for so long--it was so light and,
being next door to the servants’ dug-out, so convenient--that we always
lived in it still; though we slept in a dug-out a little way down Old
Kent Road, which was certainly whizz-bang--if not canister--proof.
At any rate, here were Edwards and myself, drinking rather watery
ox-tail soup out of very dinted tin-plates--the spoons were scraping
noisily on the metal; overhead, a rat appeared out of the straw thatch,
looked at me, blinked, turned about, and disappeared again, sending a
little spill of earth on to the table.
“Hang these rats,” I exclaimed, for the tenth time that day.
Outside, it was brilliant moonlight: whenever the door opened, I saw
it. It was very quiet. Then I heard voices, the sound of a lot of men,
moving in the shuffling sort of way that men do move at night in a
communication trench.
The door flew open, and Captain Robertson looked in.
“Hullo, Robertson; you’re early!”
It was not much past half-past seven.
“You’ve got those sand-bags up by 78 Street?” he said, sitting down.
“Yes, 250 there, and 250 right up in the Loop. The rest I shall use on
the Fort. Oh! by the way, you know we are strafing at 12.5? We just had
a message up from Dale. I shall knock off at 11.45 to-night!”
“I’ll see how we get on. I want to finish that traverse. Righto. I’m
just drawing tools and going up now.”
“See you up there in a few minutes.”
And the muttering stream of “A” Company filed past the dug-out, going
up to the front line. The door swung open suddenly, and each man looked
in as he went by.
“Shut the door,” I shouted. Our plates themselves somehow suddenly
looked epicurean.
Soon after eight I was up in the front line. It was the brightest
night we had had, and ideal for sand-bag work. The men were already at
it. There was a certain amount of inevitable talking going on, before
everyone got really started. We were working on the Fort, completing
two box dug-outs that we had half put in the night before; also,
we were thickening the parapet, between the Fort and the Loop, and
building a new fire-step.
“Can’t see any b---- sand-bags here,” came from one man.
“We’ll have to pick this, sir,” from another.
“Where’s Mullens gone off to?” sharply from a sergeant.
[Illustration: Good sand-bag work.]
But for the most part the moonlight made everything straightforward,
and there was only the spitting sound of picks, the heavy, smothered
noise of men lifting sand-bags, or the “slap, slap” of others patting
them into a wall with the back of a shovel, that broke the stillness.
On the left “A” Company were working full steam ahead, heightening the
parapet and building a big traverse at the entrance to the Matterhorn
sap. “Robertson’s traverse” we always called it afterwards. He got his
men working in a long chain, passing filled sand-bags along from a
big miners’ sand-bag dump, the accumulation of months of patient R.E.
tunnelling. These huge dumps rose up in gigantic piles where-ever there
was a shaft-head; and they were a windfall to us if they were anywhere
near where we were working. On this occasion quite a thousand must have
been passed along and built into that traverse, and the parapet there,
by the Matterhorn. It was fascinating work, passing these dry, small
sacks as big as medium-sized babies, only as knobby and angular under
their outer cover as a baby is soft and rounded. Meanwhile the builders
laid them, like bricks, alternate “headers” and “stretchers.”
* * * * *
And so the work went on under the moon.
“Davies,” I cried, in that low questioning tone that might well be
called “trench voice.” It is not a whisper; yet it is not a full,
confident sound. If a man speaks loudly in the front trench, you tell
him to remember the Boche is a hundred yards away; if he whispers in a
hoarse voice that sounds a little nervy, you tell him that the Boche’s
ears are not a hundred yards long. The result is a restrained and
serious-toned medium.
“Sirr,” answered a voice close beside me, in a pitch rather louder than
the usual trench-voice. Davies always spoke clear and loud. He was my
orderly.
“Oh! there you are.” Like a dog he had got tired of standing, and
while I stood watching the fascinating progress of the erection of a
box dug-out under Sergeant Hayman’s direction, he was sitting on the
fire-step immediately behind me. Had he been a collie, his tongue would
have been out, and he would have yawned occasionally; or his nose might
even have been between his paws. Now he jumped up, giving a hitch to
his rifle that was slung over his left shoulder.
“I’m going round the sentries,” I said.
Davies said nothing, but followed about two paces behind, stopping when
I stopped, and gazing at me silently when I got up on the fire-step to
look over.
The low-ground in the quarry was very wet, and the trench there two
feet deep in water, so it was temporarily abandoned, and the little
trench out of 76 Street by No. 1 Sniping Post was my way to No. 5
Platoon. It was a very narrow bit of trench, and on a dark night
one kept knocking one’s thighs and elbows against hard corners of
chalk-filled sand-bags. To-night it was easy in the white moonlight.
It was really not a trench at all, but a path behind a sand-bag dump.
Behind was the open field. There was no parados.
All correct on the two posts in No. 5. It seemed almost unnecessary
to have two posts on such a bright night. The outline of the German
parapet looked clear enough. Surely the sentries must be almost visible
to-night? Right opposite was the dark earth of a sap-head. Our wire
looked very near and thin.
“Everything all right?”
“Yes, sir!”
I saw the bombs lying ready in the crease between two sand-bags that
formed the parapet top. The pins were bent straight, ready for quick
drawing. The bomber was all right; and there was not much wrong with
his pal’s bayonet, that glistened in the moonlight.
As usual, I went beyond our right post, until I was met by a peering,
suspicious head from the left-hand sentry of “C” Company.
“Who’s that?” in a hoarse low voice, as the figure bent down off the
fire-step.
“All right. Officer. ‘B’ Company.”
Then I passed back along the trench to the top of 76 Street; and so on,
visiting all the sentries up to 80 A trench, and disturbing all the
working-parties.
“Way, please,” I would say to the hindquarters of an energetic wielder
of the pick.
“Hi! make way there!” Davies would say in a higher and louder voice
when necessary. Then the figure would straighten itself, and flatten
itself against the trench, while I squeezed past between perspiring
man and slimy sand-bag. This “passing” was an eternal business. It was
unavoidable. No one ever said anything, or apologised. No one ever
grumbled. It was like passing strap-hangers in the crowded carriage of
a Tube. Only it went on day and night.
Craters by moonlight are really beautiful; the white chalk-dust gives
them the appearance of snow-mountains. And they look much larger than
they really are. On this occasion, as I looked into them from the
various bombing-posts, it needed little imagination to suppose I was up
in the snows of the Welsh hills. There was such a death-like stillness
over it all, too. The view from the Matterhorn was across the widest
and deepest of all the craters, and I stood a long time peering across
that yawning chasm at the dark, irregular rim of German sand-bags. I
gazed fascinated. What was it all about? The sentry beside me came
from a village near Dolgelly: was a farmer’s boy. He, too, was gazing
across, hardly liking to shuffle his feet lest he broke the silence.
“Good God!” I felt inclined to exclaim. “Has there ever been anything
more idiotic than this? What in the name of goodness are you and I
doing here?”
So I thought, and so I believe he was thinking.
“Everything all right?” was all I said, as I jumped back into the
trench.
“Yes, sir,” was all the answer.
About ten o’clock I went back to Trafalgar Square. There I heard that
Thompson of “C” Company had been wounded. From what I could gather he
had been able to walk down to the dressing-station, so I concluded he
was only slightly hit. But it came as rather a shock, and I wondered
whether he would go to “Blighty.”
At eleven I started off for the front trench again, viâ Rue Albert and
78 Street. There was a bit of a “strafe” on. It started with canisters;
it had now reached the stage of whizz-bangs as well. I thought
little of it, when “woo--woo--woo--woo,” and the Boche turned on his
howitzers. They screamed over to Maple Redoubt.
A pause. Then again, and they screamed down just in front of us,
evidently after the corner of 78 Street. I did not hesitate, but pushed
on. The trench was completely blocked. Rue Albert was revetted with
wood and brushwood, and it was all over the place. Davies and I climbed
over with great difficulty, the whole place reeking with powder.
“Look out, sir!” came from Davies, and we crouched down. There was a
colossal din while shells seemed all round us.
“All right, Davies?” And we pushed on. At last here was 78 Street, and
we turned up to find another complete block in the trench. We again
scrambled over, and met “A” Company wiring-party, returning for more
wire.
“The trench is blocked,” said I, “but you can get over all right.”
We passed in the darkness.
Again “Look out!” from Davies, and we cowered. Again the shells
screamed down on us, and burst just behind.
“Good God!” I exclaimed, “those wirers!”
Davies ran back.
There was another block in the trench, but no sign of any men. They
were well away by now! But the shell had fallen between us and them
before they reached the block in 78 Street!
Out of breath we arrived at the top of 78 Street, to find “A” Company
just getting going again after a hot quarter of an hour. Luckily they
had had no casualties. All was quiet now, and the moon looked down
upon the workers as before. A quarter past eleven.
I worked my way along to the Fort and found there a sentry rather
excited because, he said, he had seen exactly the spot from which they
had fired rifle-grenades in the strafing just now. I got him to point
out the place. It was half-left, and as I looked, sure enough I saw
a flash, and a rifle-grenade whined through the air, and fell with a
snarl behind our trench.
“Davies,” I said, “get Lance-Corporal Allan to come here with the Lewis
gun.”
Davies was gone like a flash.
The Lewis guns had only recently become company weapons, and were still
somewhat of a novelty. The Lewis gunners were rather envied, and also
rather “downed” by the sergeant-major for being specialists. But this
they could not help; and they were, as a matter of fact, the best men
in my company.
Allan arrived, with one of the team carrying two spare drums of
ammunition. We pointed out the spot, and he laid his gun on the
parapet, with the butt against his shoulder, and his finger on the
trigger, and waited.
“Flash!”
“There he is, sir!” from the sentry.
“Drrrrrr-r-r-r” purred the Lewis gun, then stopped. Then again, ending
with another jerk. There was a silence. We waited five minutes.
“I’ll just empty the magazine, sir.”
“Dr-r-r-r-r.”
Lance-Corporal Allan took off the drum, and handed it to the other
Lewis gunner. Then he handed down the gun, and we talked a few minutes.
He was very proud of his gun. After a time I sent him back, and made my
way along to “A” Company.
There I found Robertson. We talked. A tremendous lot of work had been
done, and the big traverse was practically finished.
“I’m knocking off now,” said I. It was a quarter to twelve, and I went
along with the “Cease work” message.
“All right,” said Robertson, “I’m just going to have another look at my
wirers. I’ll look in as I go down.”
By the time I had reached the top of 76 Street, the trench was full of
the clank of the thermos dixies, and the men were drinking hot soup.
The pioneers had just brought it up. I stopped and had a taste. It was
good stuff. As I turned off down the trench, I heard the Germans start
shelling again on our left, but they stopped almost directly. I thought
nothing of it at the time.
It was just midnight when I reached Trafalgar Square and bumped into
Davidson coming round the corner.
“I was looking for you,” said he. “You’ve heard about Tommy?”
“Yes,” I answered. “But he’s not badly hit, is he?”
“Oh, you haven’t heard. He died at eleven o’clock.”
Died! My God! this was something new. Briefly, tersely, Davidson
told me the details. He had been hit in the mouth while working on
the parapet, and had died down at the dressing station. I looked
hard at Davidson, as we stood together in the moonlight by the big
island traverse at Trafalgar Square. Somehow I felt my body tense; my
teeth were pressed together; my eyes did not want to blink. Here was
something new. I had seen death often: _it_ was nothing new. But it was
the first time it had taken one of us. I wondered what Davidson felt;
he knew Thompson much better than I. Yet I knew him well enough--only a
day or so ago he had come to our billet in the butcher’s shop, and we
had talked of him afterwards--and now--dead----
All this flashed through my brain in a second. Meanwhile Davidson was
saying,
“Well, I’m just going off for this strafe,” when I heard men running
down a trench.
“Quick! Stretcher-bearers. The Captain’s hit,” came from someone in a
low voice. The stretcher-bearers’ dug-out was just by where we were
standing, and immediately I heard a stir inside, and a head looked out
from the waterproof sheet that acted as curtain in front of it.
“Is it a stretcher-case?” a voice asked.
“Yes,” was the reply, and without more ado two stretcher-bearers turned
out and ran up 76 Street after the orderly. At that moment there was a
thud, and a blazing trail climbed up the sky from the left.
“D----,” I muttered. “We must postpone this strafe. Davidson, we’ll
fix up later, see? Only no firing now.” As Davidson disappeared to his
gun-position, I ran to the telephone.
“Trench-mortar officer,” I said. “Quick!”
But there is no “quick” about a signaller. He is always there, and
methodically, without haste or flurry, he takes down and sends
messages. There is no “quickness”; yet there is no delay. If the world
outside pulses and rocks under a storm of shells, in the signallers’
dug-out is always a deep-sea calm. So impatiently I watched the
operator beat his little tattoo on the buzzer; looked at his face,
as the candle-light shone on it, with its ears hidden beneath the
receiver-drums, and its head swathed by the band that holds them over
the ears. In the corner, the second signaller sat up and peered out of
his blanket, and then lay down again.
“Zx? Is there an officer there? Hold on a minute, please. The officer’s
at the gun, sir; will you speak to the corporal?”
“Yes.” I already had the receiver to my ear.
“Is that the trench-mortar corporal? Well, go and tell Mr. Macfarlane,
will you, to stop firing at once, and not to start again till he hears
from Mr. Adams. Right. Right. Thanks.” This last to the signaller as
I left the dug-out.
“Thud!” and another football blazed through the sky.
Macfarlane was the officer in charge of the trench-mortar guns of our
sector. I knew him well. Davidson was in charge of the Stokes gun,
which is a quick-firing trench-mortar gun. Macfarlane’s shells were
known as “footballs,” but as they had a handle attached they looked
more like hammers as they slowly curved through the air.
We had arranged to “strafe” a certain position in the German support
line at five minutes after midnight. But I wanted to stop it before
retaliation started. The doctor had gone up the front line, and
Robertson would be brought down any minute.
Outside I met Brock. He said little, but it was good to have him there.
A long while it seemed, waiting. I started up 76 Street. No sooner had
I started than I heard footsteps coming down, and to make room I went
back. I was preparing to say some cheery word to Robertson, but when I
saw him he was lying quite still and unconscious. I stopped the little
doctor.
“Is he bad, Doc?”
“Well, old man, I can hardly say. He’s got a fighting chance,” and
he went on. Slowly I heard the stretcher-bearers’ footsteps growing
fainter and fainter, and there was silence. Thank God! those footballs
had stopped now!
Did I guess that Robertson too was mortally wounded? I cannot say--only
my teeth were set, and I felt very wideawake. In a minute both Davidson
and Macfarlane came up, Davidson down 76 Street, and Macfarlane from
Rue Albert. I told Macfarlane all about it, and as I did so my blood
was up. I swore hard at the devils that had done this; and we agreed on
a “strafe” at a quarter to one.
* * * * *
I stood alone at Trafalgar Square. There was a great calm sky, and the
moon looked down at me. Then with a “thud” the first football went up.
Then the Stokes answered.
“Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!” Up they sailed into the air all
together, and exploded with a deafening din.
“Thud--thud!”
“Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!”
Then the Boche woke up. Two canisters rose, streamed, and fell,
dropping slightly to my right.
But still our trench-mortars went on. Two more canisters tried for
Davidson’s gun.
I was elated. “This for Thompson and Robertson,” I said, as our
footballs went on methodically.
Then the whizz-bangs began on Trafalgar Square.
I went to the telephone.
“Artillery,” I said briefly. “Retaliate C 1 Sector.”
And then our guns began.
“Scream, scream, scream” they went over.
“Swish--swish” answered the Boche whizz-bangs.
“Phew,” said Sergeant Tallis, the bombing-sergeant, as he looked out of
his dug-out.
“More retaliation,” I said to the signaller, and stepped out again.
A grim exaltation filled me. We were getting our own back. I did not
care a straw for their canisters or whizz-bangs. It pleased me to hear
Sergeant Tallis say “Phew.” My blood was up, and I did not feel like
saying “Phew.”
“The officer wants to know if that is enough,” said the telephone
orderly, who had come out to find me.
“No,” I answered; “I want more.”
The Boche was sending “heavies” over on to Maple Redoubt. I would go on
until he stopped. My will should be master. Again our shells screamed
over. There was no reply.
Gradually quiet came back.
Then I heard footsteps, and there was Davidson. His face was glowing
too.
“How was that?” he asked.
How was that? He had fired magnificently, though the Boche had sent
stuff all round him. How was that?
“Magnificent! We’ve shut them up.”
“I’ve got six shells left. Shall I blaze them off?”
“Oh, no!” said I; “I think we’ve avenged Tommy.”
His face hardened.
“Good night, Bill!”
But I did not feel like sleep. I still stood at the corner, waiting for
I knew not what.
“Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!” went the Stokes gun. There was a pause,
and “bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!” came the sound of them bursting.
There was a longer pause.
“Bang!” I watched the spark floating through the sky.
“Bang!” came the sound back from the German trench.
I waited. There was no answer. And for the first time that night I
fancied the moon smiled.
[_Copy_]
DAILY SUMMARY. C 1. (LEFT COMPANY)
6 p.m. 18.3.16--3.30 p.m. 19.3.16
(a) _Operations._
11.0 p.m. Enemy fired six rifle-grenades from F10/5. The
approximate position of the battery was visible from the FORT,
and Lewis gun fire was brought to bear on it, which immediately
silenced it.
11.30 p.m. Enemy fired several trench-mortar shells and H.E.
shells on junction of 78 Street and RUE ALBERT (F10/6), a few
falling in our front line trench by the MATTERHORN. No damage was
done to our trenches.
12.45 p.m. Our T.M. Battery fired 12 footballs, and our Stokes
gun 32 shells at enemy’s front line trench in F10/5. The enemy
sent a few canisters over, but then resorted to H.E.’s. Our
artillery retaliated. Our Stokes gun continued to fire until
enemy was silent, no reply being sent to our last 6 shells.
7.45 a.m. Enemy fired several rifle-grenades and bombs. Our
R.G.’s retaliated with 24 R.G.’s.
(b) _Progress of Work._
{ 30 yards of parapet thickened two feet.
F 10/6 { 25 yards of fire-step built.
{20 coils of wire put out.
{ 20 yards of parapet thickened two feet.
F 10/5 { 2 dug-outs completed.
{20 yards of fire-step built.
J. B. P. ADAMS, Lt.,
O.C. “B” Coy.