I, with others, was billeted in a house and barn tenanted by a little
French woman with a brood of several young children, whose husband
was fighting for France. Others were billeted, by the town major, in
warehouses, lofts, and other places.
After a few days’ rest in our billets, we were marched to the trenches.
The American front in France at this time, so far as there was any
front, was in Lorraine. In reality there was no American front,
because our army had not had the training to hold one. While we had
received the drill of ordinary soldiering, we lacked experience in the
prevailing war methods then in use.
While my regiment is marching forward to take up trench duties in front
of the enemy’s lines, let us take a look at what constitutes that part
of a modern army known as an infantry regiment; for infantry is the
body and mainstay of an army.
The old Civil War regiments were made up of ten companies of 152
officers and men; more often less. The modern company has 256 officers
and men; and the regiments made up by these twelve companies, has
103 officers and 3,652 men. The officers of the modern company,
while on a war footing are: One captain, three first lieutenants, two
second lieutenants, one first sergeant, one mess sergeant, one supply
sergeant, twelve sergeants, thirty-three corporals, four mechanics,
four cooks, two buglers, and 192 privates. One of the first lieutenants
is the captain’s assistant; the others each command one of its four
platoons of men.
The transportation equipment of a regiment is more elaborate than is
generally known. It consists of twenty-two combat wagons, sixteen
rolling kitchens for cooking food, twenty-two baggage and ration
wagons, sixteen ration carts, fifteen water carts, three medical carts,
twenty-four machine-gun carts, fifty-nine riding horses, eight riding
mules, three hundred and thirty-two draft mules, two motorcycles with
side cars, one motor car and forty-two bicycles.
Arrived at the trenches we were taught, among other things, to
“camouflage” as the French call it, which means to disguise, or
conceal. This has become an art in modern warfare, because cavalry is
no longer the eyes of an army as in former times, and airplanes reveal
what is not carefully hidden.
For illustration: an artilleryman of heavy guns now seldom sees the
object he is to fire upon. The directions for firing are given by
signals from air-craft. These locate the enemy’s line of battle,
trenches, machine gun and artillery emplacements, magazines or the
“dugout” of some general to be fired upon.
Hence, to disguise or _camouflage_ them is important. Heavy artillery
firing is not by sighting, but by directions given them by mathematical
calculation. The guns, even, are streaked with paint to resemble the
surrounding country, so that they may be more effectually concealed.
The concealment of artillery magazine stations, or other important
stations, has been brought to great perfection. Sometimes a road
leading to them is roofed by canvas and painted to resemble the
surrounding scenery of rocks or foliage.
The war trench is a ditch six feet or more in depth, with a fire step
that brings a soldier to the height needful for firing upon an enemy.
On the top of this trench, along the front edge of it, are laid bags
filled with sand, so disposed as to give loopholes through which a
rifle can be fired without requiring the soldier to expose his head.
This trench is not built on a straight line, but zigzag like the teeth
of an enormous saw, so that its machine-guns and riflemen can fire down
and parallel along the trench. At every twenty feet or more, there is
a barricade built across the trenches, so that if any enemy should get
possession of one part of it, he can not, by artillery, machine-guns or
rifles, fire down the whole length upon the men there; for this would
be tremendously destructive.
In front and about ten feet from the trench is a barricade of barbed
wire. This is made by setting stakes very firmly in the ground so deep
and solid that they can not be easily removed, and twisting barbed
wire around them. It is impossible to pass through this entanglement
without first destroying it by artillery fire, or cutting it; and this
is costly to life.
There are, in addition to this trench, three other rear trenches.
These are joined with the front trench by connecting trenches, through
which the soldier can pass with comparative safety.
In these rear trenches are first aid and food stations; and in a
dugout, safety sheltered and concealed in the rear, is the general who
directs the fighting. To his dugout, or station, are connected wires or
telephones and telegraph, so that he can conduct the fight, and receive
intelligence of everything taking place on the battle line. Though he
is in comparative safety his is a hard position; for he can not leave
it without losing some point of importance, in the work of direction.
The science of war, in its details, has vastly changed since the Civil
War, though the principles that govern its larger movements are the
same, modified somewhat by the new machinery used in fighting.
It was October, 1917, when we had landed in France; it was now
February, 1918, cold, bleak, and dreary. Rain, snow and sleet had made
soldiering uncomfortable anywhere; and the trenches were no exception
to this rule--but rather an exaggeration of it.
It has sometimes seemed to me, that in my army life the most
inconvenient times were always selected for its most disagreeable
duties. This rule held good for our introduction to life in the
trenches. It was a cold day. Snow covered the ground--at least that
portion of it not trampled into the chalky mud, which, partially
thawed, stuck to our feet like poultices. Marching, however, with heavy
packs soon warmed us, and we were glad to arrive at our destination.
The sector to which we were assigned for duty had been occupied by
some French troops, who were just moving out. They did not cheer
us--for cheers are out of place in some parts of soldiering, especially
where it may give information to the enemy. But they welcomed us with
brightening eyes, and nods, and smiles of approval, as we filed into
the trenches; and looked--so it seemed to me--not a little enviously at
our well-filled packs with the heavy blankets of our outfit.
We found the trenches which had been constructed for the _poilu_, a
little shallow for taller Americans. And as we had been warned not to
show our heads above the parapets, we had to crouch when moving through
them.
We were told that some of these trenches occupied by the French had
board flooring; but ours did not, except in spots.
“By Shorge,” said Peter Beaudett, “do they think we are feesh?”
“An’ sure,” said Pat Quinn in a hoarse whisper, “no dacent fish would
live here--it’s mud turtles that we are!”
“Hush up,” commanded the top sergeant, in a hoarse whisper, “no noise;
keep your ears and eyes open, but shut your mouths.”
Silence followed; but as we threw off our packs, and were told to make
ourselves comfortable, it seemed a little sarcastic.
“If we mustn’t talk,” said Sam, in a low tone, “I suppose they can’t
hinder us from keeping up a lot of thinking, can they?”
“An’ how can a man think,” muttered Pat, “with all this half-frozen mud
on his fate and moind?”
We had settled down, in the mud, as one of the sergeants said to
me with a wink, and with Yankee ingenuity were making ourselves as
comfortable as we could. Private Shaw made a stove by punching holes in
a metal bucket, and kindling a fire therein (which Corporal Sutherland
said was “a kind of lightning bug heater”). He sat with it between his
legs, trying to warm himself. Peter Beaudett, with his blanket wrapped
around him, was saying all sorts of funny things in a low tone, about
soldiering, and the irrepressible Quinn, with Irish combativeness, was
making contrary replies.
“What made me get into this mud,” grumbled Peter, “when I had a good
home and such beeg lot of comforts that I didn’t know that I had any?”
“An’ why,” said Quinn “didn’t ye’s stay tied to your mither’s apron
string, so ye’s could crawl under the bed whin it thundered?”
In spite of all this by-play of growling and seeming grumpiness, the
men were not dissatisfied at being face to face with their enemy, or at
least in the trenches opposite them.
The opposing lines, meanwhile, were so silent that our men, peering
cautiously through the “gun holes” as Sam called the spaces left
between the sand bags piled on top in front, were curious to see the
Boche, and could be hardly restrained from firing a shot to “stir them
up.” This feeling also was seen in those of higher rank; for is it not
natural for Americans to want to “see something doing”?
The French, who were acting as our instructors, and who had had
experience in these same trenches, cautioned us against this. They
said that there was a tacit agreement between the contestants, not to
needlessly stir up a fight.
There was a well of water just to our right, midway between the
opposing trenches where, by tacit consent, two men at a time were
allowed to resort; near it was an apple tree whose limbs enticed one,
provokingly, as good for firewood.
The next night following these occurrences was one of watchful waiting.
I was sergeant of the guard; but nothing of importance occurred during
the night, except that the weather moderated, and the rain came
pouring down in torrents and then turned to sleet. But when it came
my turn off, it was not too rainy for sound, dreamless sleep--and, as
soldiering goes, it was not so very uncomfortable to strong athletic
youngsters with hot blood in their veins; as grew apparent to us, by
contrast, later.
With the coming of morning, American restlessness and the desire to see
things moving became more apparent in our ranks, and even among our
officers.
“Phat the divil are we here for a’ tall?” said Pat Quinn. “Is it to be
sitting with our thumbs in our mouths like the little Jack Horner?”
It had ceased to rain. The sun had come out, and the clouds cleared
away sufficiently for us to catch glimpses of blue in the sky; and
American blood and impatience began to stir.
When two German soldiers without arms were seen at the well mentioned,
taking a wash and getting water, they were not at first molested,
though it could be seen that Yankee fingers were itching to take a shot.
After finishing washing, one of the Boches began cutting some branches
from the tree. That was too much for Private Shaw, who stuck his rifle
between the sand bags and _crack!_ went a shot at the Boches who,
dropping wood and water, scampered in unheroic haste for their holes.
“Who did that?” inquired the tall lieutenant of our platoon. “Who fired
that shot?”
“It was me, sir,” answered Shaw. “I wanted some of that wood myself!”
“Well,” said the lieutenant good-naturedly, “you stand a mighty poor
chance to get any of it now.” And just as he spoke and straightened up
a little, _ping!_ came a bullet that passed through the officer’s hat.
“The imperdence of the divil!” said Pat; “sure, Lieutenant, are ye
hurted?”
The lieutenant was mad, and walked away growling under his breath
without reply.
In a few moments, bang! bang! bang! bang! went our light guns; and then
came replies from the enemy that boded ill for quiet times, for the
Boche guns, speaking from their hiding places, seemed likely to reach
us in our burrows.
One great eight-inch shot struck near our parapet, exploding with a
crashing roar, breaking a broad path through the barbed-wire barricade
and leaving a hole big enough to bury a whole platoon.
“Faith, is that phat they call a Jack Johnson?” said Quinn, “or is it a
little light-weight fellow?”
Our French officer was understood to say that it was the latter. Peter
Beaudett, during the firing, had been struck by a small piece of spent
shell, which knocked him over while barely breaking the skin of his
jaws. He “rustled” as Shaw declared “like a hen with its head cut off;”
then, finding that he was not killed, though two of his teeth had been
knocked out, he angrily shook his fist towards the enemy, crying out:
“Py tam! I no like your doctor pulls my teeth; I fight you now, by tam!”
We had got our lesson, that two can play at a dangerous game; and after
this the opposing lines settled down for a while, to comparative peace
and quiet.
Such was our introduction to trench warfare, on the front line, which
finally grew in intensity and became exciting and dangerous enough
to satisfy the most enterprising Yankee. Even this first experience,
however, had convinced us that there were worse discomforts than rain,
snow, or mud.
Shortly after this, it was my duty to take a turn with a squad on the
listening post. I had with me a young German-American named Kepler,
whose father had been a soldier with my father during the Civil War,
and whose loyalty and patriotism were unquestioned. He was quiet,
phlegmatic, and resolute; absolutely to be depended upon, and, better
still, spoke and understood the German language.
Silently creeping through the excavation leading under our barbed wire
barricade and, leading to the front of the German trenches, we reached
our station. Here we listened for possible movements of the enemy, but
all was quiet and we had, as Sam said, who was another of our party,
“nothing to report, but a big lot of silence and chills.”
A listening post, here let me explain, runs underground, in most cases,
beneath the barbed wire barricade which protects the trench from
sudden invasion, such as mining to blow up our trenches; and sometimes
conversation and orders could be heard, which gave valuable information.
Of course the Germans, on their part, also had listening posts
constantly near us whose whereabouts were, however, not known, though
sometimes guessed at.
The duties of those on listening posts had not only a spice of danger,
but an appeal to the natural curiosity of a New Englander. Therefore,
with all its “cramped-up-itiveness,” as Sam called it, it was not
without its fascination for our boys.
When, after a tour of four days’ duty on the front-line trench, we were
relieved and marched to our rest billets in the rear, we found it more
than agreeable.
As Sutherland stood up at his full six-foot height, he said, looking
around and taking a full breath, “Say, isn’t this a big country!”
“Shure,” agreed Pat, “ye’s can get a white man’s braith and niver a
fear of getting a bullet to vintelite your head, or a piece of shell to
knock out your dintistry.”
At which Peter Beaudett rubbed his jaw and ejaculated, “Ugh!”
With all the badinage and by-play of rough jokes, the men were more
serious when coming from the trenches than when, with some forebodings,
they had taken up its duties.
My! how I enjoyed “chow” that night when mess call sounded! And the
dreamless sleep that followed, with clean straw and with a blanket
spread over it for a bed!