GOING IN
The excitement of getting away from camp and the knowledge that we
were soon to get into the thick of the big game pleased most of us.
We were glad to go. At least we thought so.
Two hundred of us were loaded into side-door Pullmans, forty to the
car. It was a kind of sardine or Boston Elevated effect, and by the
time we reached Rouen, twenty-four hours later, we had kinks in our
legs and corns on our elbows. Also we were hungry, having had
nothing but bully beef and biscuits. We made "char", which is
trench slang for tea, in the station, and after two hours moved up
the line again, this time in real coaches.
Next night we were billeted at Barlin--don't get that mixed up with
Berlin, it's not the same--in an abandoned convent within range of
the German guns. The roar of artillery was continuous and sounded
pretty close.
Now and again a shell would burst near by with a kind of hollow
"spung", but for some reason we didn't seem to mind. I had expected
to get the shivers at the first sound of the guns and was surprised
when I woke up in the morning after a solid night's sleep.
A message came down from the front trenches at daybreak that we
were wanted and wanted quick. We slung together a dixie of char and
some bacon and bread for breakfast, and marched around to the
"quarters", where they issued "tin hats", extra "ammo", and a
second gas helmet. A good many of the men had been out before, and
they did the customary "grousing" over the added load.
The British Tommy growls or grouses over anything and everything.
He's never happy unless he's unhappy. He resents especially having
anything officially added to his pack, and you can't blame him, for
in full equipment he certainly is all dressed up like a pack horse.
After the issue we were split up into four lots for the four
companies of the battalion, and after some "wangling" I got into
Company C, where I stopped all the time I was in France. I was
glad, because most of my chums were in that unit.
We got into our packs and started up the line immediately. As we
neared the lines we were extended into artillery formation, that
is, spread out so that a shell bursting in the road would inflict
fewer casualties.
At Bully-Grenay, the point where we entered the communication
trenches, guides met us and looked us over, commenting most frankly
and freely on our appearance. They didn't seem to think we would
amount to much, and said so. They agreed that the "bloomin' Yank"
must be a "bloody fool" to come out there. There were times later
when I agreed with them.
It began to rain as we entered the communication trench, and I had
my first taste of mud. That is literal, for with mud knee-deep in a
trench just wide enough for two men to pass you get smeared from
head to foot.
Incidentally, as we approached nearer the front, I got my first
smell of the dead. It is something you never get away from in the
trenches. So many dead have been buried so hastily and so lightly
that they are constantly being uncovered by shell bursts. The acrid
stench pervades everything, and is so thick you can fairly taste
it. It makes nearly everybody deathly sick at first, but one
becomes used to it as to anything else.
This communication trench was over two miles long, and it seemed
like twenty. We finally landed in a support trench called
"Mechanics" (every trench has a name, like a street), and from
there into the first-line trench.
I have to admit a feeling of disappointment in that first trench. I
don't know what I expected to see, but what I did see was just a
long, crooked ditch with a low step running along one side, and
with sandbags on top. Here and there was a muddy, bedraggled Tommy
half asleep, nursing a dirty and muddy rifle on "sentry go."
Everything was very quiet at the moment--no rifles popping, as I
had expected, no bullets flying, and, as it happened, absolutely no
shelling in the whole sector.
I forgot to say that we had come up by daylight. Ordinarily troops
are moved at night, but the communication trench from Bully-Grenay
was very deep and was protected at points by little hills, and it
was possible to move men in the daytime.
Arrived in the front trench, the sergeant-major appeared, crawling
out of his dug-out--the usual place for a sergeant-major--and
greeted us with,
"Keep your nappers down, you rooks. Don't look over the top. It
ayen't 'ealthy."
It is the regular warning to new men. For some reason the first
emotion of the rookie is an overpowering curiosity. He wants to
take a peep into No Man's Land. It feels safe enough when things
are quiet. But there's always a Fritzie over yonder with a
telescope-sighted rifle, and it's about ten to one he'll get you if
you stick the old "napper" up in daylight.
The Germans, by the way, have had the "edge" on the Allies in the
matter of sniping, as in almost all lines of artillery and musketry
practice. The Boche sniper is nearly always armed with a
periscope-telescope rifle. This is a specially built super-accurate
rifle mounted on a periscope frame. It is thrust up over the
parapet and the image of the opposing parapet is cast on a little
ground-glass screen on which are two crossed lines. At one hundred
fifty yards or less the image is brought up to touching distance
seemingly. Fritz simply trains his piece on some low place or
anywhere that a head may be expected. When one appears on the
screen, he pulls the trigger,--and you "click it" if you happen to
be on the other or receiving end. The shooter never shows himself.
I remember the first time I looked through a periscope I had no
sooner thrust the thing up than a bullet crashed into the upper
mirror, splintering it. Many times I have stuck up a cap on a stick
and had it pierced.
The British sniper, on the other hand--at least in my time--had a
plain telescope rifle and had to hide himself behind old masonry,
tree trunks, or anything convenient, and camouflaged himself in
all sorts of ways. At that he was constantly in danger.
I was assigned to Platoon 10 and found they were a good live bunch.
Corporal Wells was the best of the lot, and we became fast friends.
He helped me learn a lot of my new duties and the trench "lingo",
which is like a new language, especially to a Yank.
Wells started right in to make me feel at home and took me along
with two others of the new men down to our "apartments", a dug-out
built for about four, and housing ten.
My previous idea of a dug-out had been a fairly roomy sort of cave,
somewhat damp, but comparatively comfortable. Well, this hole was
about four and a half feet high--you had to get in doubled up on
your hands and knees--about five by six feet on the sides, and
there was no floor, just muck. There was some sodden, dirty straw
and a lot of old moldy sandbags. Seven men and their equipment were
packed in here, and we made ten.
There was a charcoal brazier going in the middle with two or three
mess tins of char boiling away. Everybody was smoking, and the
place stunk to high heaven, or it would have if there hadn't been a
bit of burlap over the door.
I crowded up into a corner with my back against the mud wall and my
knees under my chin. The men didn't seem overglad to see us, and
groused a good deal about the extra crowding. They regarded me with
extra disfavor because I was a lance corporal, and they disapproved
of any young whipper-snapper just out from Blighty with no trench
experience pitchforked in with even a slight superior rank. I had
thought up to then that a lance corporal was pretty near as
important as a brigadier.
"We'll soon tyke that stripe off ye, me bold lad," said one big
cockney.
They were a decent lot after all. Since we were just out from
Blighty, they showered us with questions as to how things looked
"t' 'ome." And then somebody asked what was the latest song. Right
here was where I made my hit and got in right. I sing a bit, and I
piped up with the newest thing from the music halls, "Tyke Me Back
to Blighty." Here it is:
Tyke me back to dear old Blighty,
Put me on the tryne for London town,
Just tyke me over there
And drop me anywhere,
Manchester, Leeds, or Birmingham,
I don't care.
I want to go see me best gal;
Cuddlin' up soon we'll be,
Hytey iddle de eyety.
Tyke me back to Blighty,
That's the plyce for me.
It doesn't look like much and I'm afraid my rendition of cockney
dialect into print isn't quite up to Kipling's. But the song had a
pretty little lilting melody, and it went big. They made me sing it
about a dozen times and were all joining in at the end.
Then they got sentimental--and gloomy.
"Gawd lumme!" says the big fellow who had threatened my beloved
stripes. "Wot a life. Squattin' 'ere in the bloody mud like a
blinkin' frog. Fightin' fer wot? Wot, I arsks yer? Gawd lumme! I'd
give me bloomin' napper to stroll down the Strand agyne wif me
swagger stick an' drop in a private bar an' 'ave me go of 'Aig an'
'Aig."
"Garn," cuts in another Tommy. "Yer blinkin' 'igh wif yer wants,
ayen't ye? An' yer 'Aig an' 'Aig. Drop me down in Great Lime Street
(Liverpool) an' it's me fer the Golden Sheaf, and a pint of bitter,
an' me a 'oldin' 'Arriet's 'and over th' bar. I'm a courtin' 'er
when," etc., etc.
And then a fresh-faced lad chirps up: "T' 'ell wif yer Lonnon an'
yer whuskey. Gimme a jug o' cider on the sunny side of a 'ay rick
in old Surrey. Gimme a happle tart to go wif it. Gawd, I'm fed up
on bully beef."
And so it went. All about pubs and bar-maids and the things they'd
eat and drink, and all of it Blighty.
They were in the midst of a discussion of what part of the body was
most desirable to part with for a permanent Blighty wound when a
young officer pushed aside the burlap and wedged in. He was a
lieutenant and was in command of our platoon. His name was Blofeld.
Blofeld was most democratic. He shook hands with the new men and
said he hoped we'd be live wires, and then he told us what he
wanted. There was to be a raid the next night and he was looking
for volunteers.
Nobody spoke for a long minute, and then I offered.
I think I spoke more to break the embarrassing silence than
anything else. I think, too, that I was led a little by a kind of
youthful curiosity, and it may be that I wanted to appear brave in
the eyes of these men who so evidently held me more or less in
contempt as a newcomer.
Blofeld accepted me, and one of the other new men offered. He was
taken too.
It turned out that all the older men were married and that they
were not expected to volunteer. At least there was no disgrace
attaching to a refusal.
After Blofeld left, Sergeant Page told us we'd better get down to
"kip" while we could. "Kip" in this case meant closing our eyes and
dozing. I sat humped up in my original position through the night.
There wasn't room to stretch out.
Along toward morning I began to itch, and found I had made the
acquaintance of that gay and festive little soldier's enemy, the
"cootie." The cootie, or the "chat" as he is called by the
officers, is the common body louse. Common is right. I never got
rid of mine until I left the service. Sometimes when I get to
thinking about it, I believe I haven't yet.