TALES
FROM A DUGOUT
TALES
FROM A DUGOUT
BY
ARTHUR GUY EMPEY
Author of "Over the Top," etc.
NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
1918
Copyright, 1918, by
The Century Co.
Published, October, 1918
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK
TO THE
"Army of the People Who Stay at Home":
the overaged, the women, the physically unfit
and the children. These are the ones to be
pitied, the ones who suffer most, because
their hearts are on the battlefields
of France, although their bodies
must stay at home.
FOREWORD
Picture a dugout in one of the front line trenches of France, damp and evil smelling, hardly deep enough to protect the inmates from a three-inch shell-burst. This hole in the ground will comfortably house four soldiers. Put seven of them with full equipment and a machine gun in it, and what results? I dare say in civilian life there would be only one outcome—TROUBLE. Well, in the army on the Western Front, this situation spells GOOD FELLOWSHIP.
If it were only possible for a giant dictograph to be invented, the transmitter being placed in any dugout of the American Army in France, while at the receiver, across the Atlantic, the American Public "listened in," many a heartache would disappear, worry for the "boys at the front" would more or less vanish in mist. If the mothers, fathers, wives, sweethearts, sisters and friends, could only hear these conversations, their hearts would be filled with joy and pride for the fighting men of America. Of course, at times, few and far between, they would be slightly shocked, as most eavesdroppers are, but on the whole, they would listen to wonderful sentiment, clean and wholesome Americanism.
It has been my misfortune not to have occupied an American dugout as yet, but I have crowded into one with the Britisher, with good old Tommy Atkins. We are of the same family, the same blood runs through our veins, so Tommy's ideas and conversations are identical with those of our brave American boys. Therefore, I hope that in a way these Tales from a Dugout will help fill the void of the absent dictograph.
It is only a matter of time before our boys and our Allies, God bless them all, will victoriously return to "Blighty," and be received in the arms of their waiting dear ones.
PREAMBLE
There were seven of them composing the crew of Gun No. 2, of the ——th Brigade Machine Gun Company. Their gun was the Vickers, light, .303, watercooled.
They were nicknamed as follows:
Curly, a Scotchman. Dubbed Curly on account of a cute little Delia Fox curl. He gave more attention to this curl than to his rifle. Many girls wrote to him, and he wrote to many girls.
Happy, a Londoner. He earned his title from his happy disposition. He helped Curly with his correspondence.
Hungry. His nickname needs no explanation. He was. Once Mr. Hoover dined with him, hence his food conservation idea. Hungry hailed from London.
Ikey. He was. Came from the East Side, London. Brave as a lion, and to our discomfort, musically inclined.
Dick. Irish, from Dublin. Always ready. Greatly admired the Kaiser because he started such a glorious scrap.
Sailor Bill. A Welshman. He had had a "cruise" in the Navy, and wanted everybody to know it. They did. He was detailed with the gun's crew to carry "ammo" (ammunition).
Yank. Got his handle because he was American. He hailed from the "Big Town" behind the Statue of Liberty, and was proud of it, too. Committed a "technical error" and got mixed up in the Great Fight.
They were soldiers of the King, and their further personal history does not matter. It will suffice to say that they were fighting in the British Army for Justice, Democracy and Liberty.
Scene of action: "Somewhere in France."
Time: A few months after the sinking of the Lusitania.
After "stand down" had been passed along the fire trench, they would repair to their two-by-four dugout, and it was their custom to while away the time by taking turns at story-telling. Some of these were personal experiences, while others were told to them by their mates, the majority of whom, by this time, have either "gone West," or reached that heaven of the British soldier—"Blighty."
"THROUGH THE BIG GUNS' THUNDER"
Over the top and give them hell,
Up the ladders and through the wire.
Out in front, go across with a yell,
With bullets cracking from rapid fire.
Then the death song of a ricochet,
A curse or moan as your pal goes under,
You cannot stop, you must not stay—
It's on—on—thro' the big guns' thunder.
It hurts to see him torn apart,
For you've shared his grub on "sentry go,"
And listened to tales of his sweetheart,
In dugouts by the candles' glow.
But war is war, the trench must be taken,
Whether your life's blood pays the cost.
If the wounded die in holes, forsaken,
It's part of the game; they played, and—lost.
If you get hit and the blood runs out,
Don't cry and whimper from the ground,
But FACE that trench, don't turn about,
Cheer, tho' it's from the Great Beyond!
When you reach their trench, then use the steel,
Sink it deep into Fritz's hide,
Send it home, so that he will feel,
How the women and children of Belgium died.
A.G.E.
"Somewhere in France"
June 30, 1916
My dear mother and sister.
Have volunteered to go over to the German lines tonight to capture prisoners. If you receive this letter you will know I went down with a grin. I am leaving it for our captain to mail in case of my death. With lots of love.
Guy.
Facsimile of letter written by the Author, when he went over the top for the first time.
CONTENTS
It was a cold and rainy afternoon. The gun's crew were huddled together in their dugout in the front line trench, about three hundred yards from the German lines.
If you should ask a Tommy Atkins "What is a dugout?" he would look at you in astonishment, and pitying you for your apparent lack of education, would answer, "What's a dugout? Why a dugout is a blinkin'—well, a dugout's a dugout."
This particular dugout was a hole in the ground. It was used to shelter the men in the trenches from shell fire. They also slept in it, or tried to. From their point of view, its main use was to drain the trenches of muddy water, and give them rheumatism. It also made a good hotel for rats. These guests looked upon them as intruders, and complained that they overcrowded the place. Occasionally the crew gave in to the rats, and took a turn in the trench to rest themselves.
The dugout was about eight feet deep, or, at least there were eight wooden steps leading down to it. The ceiling and walls were braced by heavy, square-cut timbers. Over the timbers, in the ceiling, sheets of corrugated iron were spread to keep the wet earth from falling. The entrance was heavily sandbagged and very narrow, there being only room for one person to leave or enter at a time. The ceiling was five feet high, and the floor space was eight feet by six. Through the ceiling a six-inch square air-shaft was cut. They used to take turns sleeping under this in wet weather.
The timbers bracing the walls were driven full of nails to hang equipment on. After ammunition, belt-filling machine, rations, equipment, rifles, machine-gun, etc., had been stowed away, there was not much space for seven men to live in, not forgetting the rats.
It was very dark in the dugout, and as they were only issued a candle and a half every twenty-four hours, they had to economize on light. Woe betide the last man out who left the candle burning!
In this hotel of theirs, they used to sit around the lonely candle, and, through a thick haze of tobacco smoke, recounted different experiences at various points of the line where they had been, or spin yarns about home. At other times they'd sit for an hour or more without saying a word, listening to a German over in the enemy's front trench playing a cornet. My, how that Boche could play! Just to make them hate the war, he'd play "Sewanee River," "Home, Sweet Home," or "Over the Waves." During his recital, the trenches were strangely quiet. Never a shot from either side.
Sometimes, when he had finished, Ikey would go into the trench and play on his harmonica. As soon as the crew saw that harmonica come out, it was a case of "Duck down low," for the Germans would be sure, when the first strains reached them, to send over "Five rounds rapid." That harmonica was hated by both sides. More than once Sailor Bill chucked one over the top, but Ikey would sit down and write a letter, and in about ten days' time would receive through the post a little oblong package, and then the crew knew that they were in for some more "Five rounds rapid." They didn't blame the Germans.
Still, that harmonica had its uses. Often they would get downhearted and fed up with the war, and "grouse" at everything in general. Then Ikey would reach in his pocket, and out would come that instrument of torture. The rest then realized there were worse things than war, and cheered up accordingly.
On this particular rainy afternoon the gun's crew were in a talkative mood. Perhaps it was due to the fact that Curly had made his "Tommy's cooker" do what it was supposed to do—make water boil in an hour and a half. A "Tommy's cooker" is a spirit stove, which is very widely advertised as a suitable gift to the men in the trenches. Many are sent out, and many are thrown away.
Anyway, the "cooker" lived up to its reputation for once, though a little behind its advertised schedule in making water boil. Curly passed around the result of his efforts in the form of an ammunition tin half full of fairly good tea. Each took a good swig, lighted a Woodbine cigarette,—they had "come up" with the rations the night before—and settled back against the damp earthen walls of the dugout to listen.
It was Dick's turn for a story. He cleared his throat two or three times and said—nothing. A chorus of "Come on, let's have it," from the rest of the crew did not help matters. In desperation Dick said, "I guess you fellows'll have to excuse me this time, I can't seem to remember a thing."
"Yank" helped him out with, "Say, Dick, tell us about Jim, the platoon mascot you used to have."
"Sailor Bill or Hungry could tell it better. Even Ikey knows it," replied Dick.
But after much coaxing from Happy, Curly and Yank, Dick started in.
JIM—SOLDIER OF THE KING
"Our company had just arrived at rest billets, after a hard eighteen kilo march from the front line sector.
"The stable we had to sleep in was an old, ramshackle affair, absolutely over-run with rats. Great, big, black fellows, who used to chew up our leather equipment, eat our rations, and run over our bodies at night. German gas had no effect on these rodents; in fact, they seemed to thrive on it.
"The floor space would comfortably accommodate about twenty men lying down, but when thirty-three, including equipment, were crowded into it, it was nearly unbearable.
"The roof and walls were full of shell-holes. When it rained, a constant drip, drip, drip was in order. We were so crowded that if a fellow was unlucky enough (and nearly all of us in this instance were unlucky) to sleep under a hole, he had to grin and bear it. It was like sleeping beneath a shower bath.
"At one end of the billet, with a ladder leading up to it, was a sort of grain bin, with a door in it. This place was the headquarters of our guests, the rats. Many a stormy cabinet meeting was held there by them. Many a boot was thrown at it during the night to let them know that Tommy Atkins objected to the matter under discussion. Sometimes one of these missiles would ricochet and land on the upturned countenance of a snoring Tommy, and for about half an hour even the rats would pause in admiration of his flow of language.
"On the night in question we flopped down in our wet clothes and were soon asleep. As was usual, our gun's crew were together.
"The last time we had rested in this particular village, it was inhabited by civilians. Now it was deserted. An order had been issued two days previous to our return that all civilians should move farther behind the line.
"I had been asleep about two hours when I was awakened by Sailor Bill shaking me by the shoulder. He was trembling like a leaf, and whispered to me:
"'Wake up, Dick, this ship's 'aunted. There's some one aloft who's been moanin' for the last hour. Sounds like the wind in the riggin'. I ain't scared of 'umans or Germans, but when it comes to messin' in with spirits it's time for me to go below. Lend your ear an' cast your deadlights on that grain locker, and listen.'
"I listened sleepily for a minute or so, but could hear nothing. Coming to the conclusion that Sailor Bill was dreaming things, I was again soon asleep.
"Perhaps fifteen minutes had elapsed when I was rudely awakened.
"'Dick, for God's sake, come aboard and listen!'
"I listened, and sure enough, right out of that grain bin overhead came a moaning and whimpering, and then a scratching against the door. My hair stood on end. Blended with the drip, drip of the rain, and the occasional scurrying of a rat overhead, that noise had a supernatural sound. I was really frightened; perhaps my nerves were a trifle unstrung from our recent tour in the trenches.
"I awakened Ikey, while Sailor Bill roused Hungry. Hungry's first words were, 'What's the matter, breakfast ready?'
"In as few words as possible, we told them what had happened. I lighted a candle and their faces appeared as white as chalk. Just then the whimpering started again, and we were frozen with terror. The tension was relieved by Ikey's voice:
"'H'I admit h'I'm afraid of ghosts, but that sounds like a dog to me. Who's goin' up the ladder to investigate?'
"No one volunteered.
"I had an old deck of cards in my pocket. Taking them out, I suggested cutting, the low man to go up the ladder. They agreed. I was the last to cut. I got the ace of clubs. Sailor Bill was stuck with the five of diamonds. Upon this, he insisted that it should be the best two out of three cuts, but we overruled him, and he was unanimously elected for the job.
"With a 'So long, mates, I'm goin' aloft,' he started toward the ladder, with the candle in his hand, stumbling over the sleeping forms of many. Sundry grunts, moans, and curses followed in his wake.
"As soon as he started to ascend the ladder, a 'tap-tap-tap' could be heard from the grain bin. We waited in fear and trembling the result of his mission. Hungry was encouraging him with, 'Cheero, mate, the worst is yet to come.'
"After many pauses, Sailor Bill reached the top of the ladder and opened the door. We listened with bated breath. Then he shouted:
"'Blast my deadlights, if it hain't a poor dog! Come h'longside, myte, you're h'on a lee shore, and in a sorry plight.'
"Oh, what a relief those words were to us.
"With the candle in one hand and a dark object under his arm, Sailor Bill returned and deposited in our midst the sorriest-looking specimen of a cur dog you ever set eyes on. It was so weak it couldn't stand. But that look in its eyes—just gratitude, plain gratitude. Its stump of a tail was pounding against my mess tin, and sounded just like a message in the Morse code. Ikey swore that it was sending S.O.S.
"We were like a lot of school children, every one wanting to help, and making suggestions at the same time. Hungry suggested giving it something to eat, while Ikey wanted to play on his infernal Jew's harp, claiming it was a musical dog. Hungry's suggestion met our approval, and there was a general scramble for haversacks. All we could muster was some hard bread and a big piece of cheese.
"His nibs wouldn't eat bread, and also refused the cheese, but not before sniffing at it for a couple of minutes. I was going to throw the cheese away, but Hungry said he would take it. I gave it to him. I suppose he ate it.
"We were in an awful stew. It was evident that the dog was starving and in a very weak condition. Its coat was lacerated all over, probably from the bites of rats. That stump of a tail kept sending S.O.S. against my mess tin. Every tap went straight to our hearts. We would get something to eat for that mutt if we were shot for it.
"Sailor Bill volunteered to burglarize the quartermaster's stores for a tin of unsweetened condensed milk, and left on his perilous venture. He was gone about twenty minutes. During his absence, with the help of a bandage and a capsule of iodine, we cleansed the wounds made by the rats. I have bandaged many a wounded Tommy, but never received the amount of thanks that that dog gave with its eyes.
"Then the billet door opened and Sailor Bill appeared. He looked like the wreck of the Hesperus, uniform torn, covered with dirt and flour, and with a beautiful black eye, but he was smiling and in his hand he carried the precious tin of milk.
"We asked no questions, but opened the tin. Just as we were going to pour it out, Hungry butted in and said it should be mixed with water; he ought to know, because his sister back in Blighty had a baby, and she always mixed water with its milk. We could not dispute this authority, so water was demanded. We would not use the water in our water bottles, because Hungry said it was not fresh enough for our new mate. Hungry volunteered to get some from the well—that is, if we would promise not to feed his royal highness until he returned. We promised, because he had proved that he was an authority on the feeding of babies. By this time the rest of the section were awake and were crowding around us, asking numerous questions, and admiring our newly found friend. Sailor Bill, during Hungry's absence, took the opportunity to tell of his adventures while in quest of the milk. His story was something like this:
"'H'I 'ad a fair wind, an' the passage was good until h'I cyme alongside the quartermaster's shack. Then the sea got rough. When h'I got aboard, h'I could 'ear the wind blowin' through the riggin' of the supercargo (Quartermaster-Sergeant snoring) so h'I was safe. H'I set my course due north to the ration 'old, an' got my grapplin' irons on a cask o' milk, an' cyme about h'on a port tack for my homeward bound passage. But somethin' was h'amiss with my wheel. H'I ran nose h'on into 'im, caught 'im on the r'il, h'amidships. Then it was repel boarders, an' it started to blow big guns. 'Is first shot put h'out my starboard light, an' I keeled over. H'I was in the trough o' the sea, but soon righted, an' then h'it was h'a stern chyse" (chase) "with me in the lead. Gettin' h'into the h'open sea, h'I myde h'a starboard tack an' hove in this cove with the milk safely in tow.'
"Most of us didn't know what he was talking about, but surmised that he had gotten into a mix-up with the Quartermaster-Sergeant. This surmise proved correct.
"Just as Sailor Bill finished his narration, a loud splash was heard, and Hungry's voice came to us It sounded very far off: 'Help, I'm in the well! Hurry up, I can't swim!' Then a few unintelligible words intermixed with blub! blub! and no more.
"We ran to the well, and way down we could hear an awful splashing. Sailor Bill yelled down, 'Look h'out below; stand from h'under: bucket comin'!' With that he loosed the windlass. In a few seconds a sputtering voice from the depths yelled to us, 'Haul away!'
"It was hard work, hauling him up. We had raised him about ten feet from the water, when the handle of the windlass got loose from our grip, and down went the bucket and Hungry. A loud splash came to us, and, grabbing the handle again, we worked like navvies. A volley of curses came from that well which would have shocked Old Nick himself.
"When we got Hungry safely out, he was a sight worth seeing. He didn't even notice us. Never said a word, just filled his water bottle from the water in the bucket, and went back to the billet. We followed. The mutt was still sending 'S.O.S.' with his tail on my mess tin.
"Hungry, though dripping wet, silently fixed up the milk for the dog. In appetite, the canine was a close second to him. After lapping up all he could hold, our mascot closed his eyes and his tail ceased wagging. Sailor Bill took a dry flannel shirt from his pack, wrapped the dog in it, and informed us:
"'Me an' my myte are goin' below, so the rest of you lubbers batten down 'atches an' turn in.'
"We all wanted the honor of sleeping with the dog, but did not dispute Sailor Bill's right to the privilege. By this time the bunch were pretty sleepy and tired, and turned in without much coaxing, as it was pretty near daybreak.
"Next day we figured out that perhaps one of the French kiddies had put the dog in the grain bin, and, in the excitement of packing up and leaving, had forgotten he was there.
"Sailor Bill was given the right to christen our new mate. He called him Jim. In a couple of days Jim came around all right, and got very frisky. Every man in the section loved that dog.
"Sailor Bill was put on the crime sheet for his mix-up with the Quartermaster-Sergeant, and got seven days field punishment No. 1. During Sailor Bill's two-hour periods tied to a wheel, Jim sat at his feet, and no matter how much we coaxed him with choice morsels of food, he would not leave until Sailor Bill was untied. When Bill was loosed, Jim would have nothing to do with him—just walked away in contempt. Jim respected the king's regulations—had no use for defaulters.
"At a special meeting held by the section, Jim had the oath of allegiance read to him. He barked his consent, so we solemnly swore him in as a soldier of the Imperial Army, fighting for king and country. Jim made a better soldier than any one of us, and died for his king and country. Died without a whimper of complaint.
"From the village we made several trips to the trenches; each time Jim accompanied us. The first time under fire he put the stump of his tail between his legs, but stuck to his post. When 'carrying in,' if we neglected to give Jim something to carry, he would make such a noise barking that we soon fixed him up.
"Each day Jim would pick out a different man of the section to follow. He would stick to this man, eating and sleeping with him, until the next day, and then it would be someone's else turn. When a man had Jim with him, it seemed as if his life was charmed. No matter what he went through, he would come out safely. We looked upon Jim as a good-luck sign, and, believe me, he was.
"Whenever it came Ikey's turn for Jim's company, he was overjoyed, because Jim would sit in dignified silence, listening to the jew's-harp. Ikey claimed that Jim had a soul for music, which was more than he would say for the rest of us.
"Once, at daybreak, we had to go over the top in an attack. A man in the section named Dalton was selected by Jim as his mate in this affair. The gun's crew were to stay in the trench for the second wave. Dalton was very merry and hadn't the least fear of misgiving as to his safety, because Jim would be with him through it all.
"In the attack, Dalton, closely followed by Jim, had gotten about seventy yards into No Man's Land, when Jim was hit in the stomach by a bullet. Poor old Jim toppled over and lay still. Dalton turned around, and, just as he did so, we saw him throw up his hands and fall face forward.
"Ikey, who was No. 3, on our gun, seeing Jim fall, scrambled over the parapet, and, through that rain of shells and bullets, raced to where Jim was, picked him up, and, tucking him under his arm, returned to our trench in safety. If he had gone to rescue a wounded man in this way, he would have no doubt been awarded the Victoria Cross. But he only brought in poor bleeding, dying Jim."
"At this point, Ikey got very red in the face and left the dugout. Dick, with a wink at us, went on with the story.
"Ikey laid him on the firestep alongside of our gun, but we could not attend to him, because we had important work to do. So he died like a soldier, without a look of reproach for our apparently heartless treatment. Just watched our every movement until his lights burned out. After the attack, what was left of our section gathered around Jim's blood-stained body. There wasn't a dry eye in the crowd.
"Next day we wrapped him in a small Union Jack belonging to Sailor Bill, and laid him to rest, a soldier of the king.
"We put a little wooden cross over his grave which read:
PRIVATE JIM
MACHINE-GUN SECTION NO. 1,
KILLED IN ACTION
June 10, 1915.
A DOG WITH A MAN'S HEART.
When Dick had finished, there was silence in the dugout. Then Sailor Bill spoke up: "It's funny, h'everytime h'I 'ear that story h'I learn somethin' new h'about myself."
Dick winked at the rest.
As Told by Ikey
THE PACIFIST
"What do I think of a blinkin' pacifist?" asked Ikey from a corner of the dugout.
"Well, what with this bloomin' war on, an' blokes goin' West by the thousands, a pacifist or conscientious objector, in my w'y o' thinkin', is one o' two things, 'e's either a blinkin' coward or a bloody pro-German. But it's funny the w'y some o' them blighters, with their swankin' West h'End h'ideas back in Blighty, changes their minds when they gets out 'ere in the mud, an' gets their first glimpse o' a wooden cross. It sort o' sets 'em a-thinkin', I reckon. It's either up against a wall in front o' a firin' squad for desertin' under fire, or else they win a blinkin' V.C. for some brave stunt. But generally they gets a 'Rise if Possible'" (R.I.P., Rest in Peace) "sign over their nappers.
"A strange thing it is, but true, those blokes never go through the trenches in an ordinary w'y like we fellows do, it's a case o' extremes. No 'in between stuff' for them.
"Next time you're on a burial party, at the syme time 'opin' that it's not me you're l'yin' aw'y, tyke a look at the third cross from the left in the fourth row as you enter that cemetery back o' that old caved in R.E." (Royal Engineers) "dugout. You know the one by the road. Well, under that cross, rests a bloke, who back in Blighty professed to be a pacifist, or a conscientious objector,—to me there's no difference in the titles.
"When the war started, 'e wouldn't blinkin' well volunteer, not likely; that bloke was for stayin' at 'ome. If they wanted 'im to go out there an' fight, well, they 'ad to bloody well come an' fetch 'im. They fetched 'im all right, conscripted 'im. Then 'e ups an' refuses to fight. Said it was against 'is principles, so they stuck 'im in the N.C.C." (Non-combatant Corps) "an' sent 'im out 'ere, 'anded 'im a pick an' shovel, an' put 'im to repairin' roads an' diggin' gryves. It didn't tyke long before 'e were properly fed up with 'is job, so 'e threw down the pick an' shovel, an' grabbed a rifle an' b'yonet. Oh, yes, 'e clicked it all right, went West, too. In fact, 'e was buried in one o' the gryves 'e 'elped to dig. H'I suppose some o' those college officers called it the 'irony o' fyte,' or some other blinkin' 'igh soundin' phryse" (phrase), "but we knows, don't we, that it were only common ordinary luck, 'cause it's l'id down that if you're goin' to get it, you'll get it, no matter if you're a gentleman's son or a bloomin' chimney-sweep.
"This blighter h'I'm a-talkin' about, never mind 'is nyme, you'll read it on the cross, was in my platoon when h'I was in 'C' Company, an' 'e used to give me the proper pip with 'is arguments against fightin' an' the likes o' that.
"The first time I saw 'im was in St. Armand. Our 'batt'" (battalion) "was in rest billets a-w'itin' a new draft before goin' up the line again. You see, we 'ad clicked it pretty rough at Fromelles, an' a platoon looked like a blinkin' corporal's squad when it lined up for paryde" (parade). "Our ranks were pretty thin, what with the blokes who 'ad gone West, an' the ones sent to Blighty. H'I was pl'yin' ''ouse' in that h'estaminet right across from that bashed-in church on the corner, when 'is Labor Battalion cyme through an' took over billets just opposite from the h'estaminet. My tyble was near the window, an' h'I watched them pass. A sorrier bunch o' specimens o' men I never saw. It fair turned my blinkin' stomach to look at 'em, what with their pysty" (pasty) "fyces, stooped-over shoulders an' stragglin' g'it" (gait). "After lookin' at 'em, h'I registered a prayer o' thanks we 'ad a N'vy. Right then an' there h'I admired the Germans for their system o' universal tr'inin'. H'if h'England 'ad o' 'ad a little more o' it, there never would 'ave been a war, an' right now we would be back in Blighty with our wives an' nippers, instead o' sittin' 'ere in these bloody ditches a-w'itin' for a shell to come over with our nyme an' number on it.
"After the Labor Battalion took over billets, several of 'em cyme into the h'estaminet, an' sat at a tyble near me. Now, remember, h'I don't s'y that Labor Battalions are composed of conscientious objectors, not likely, but this one 'appened to be o' that breed. They started to discuss the war an' voice their opinions about the 'top 'ats'" (Members of Parliament) "at 'ome. This bloke h'I'm a-talkin' about was the loudest o' the bunch. 'E seemed to 'ave a grouch on everything in general. H'I listened to 'im for a few minutes chuckin' 'is w'ight about until it bloody well got on my nerves. Chuckin' up my gyme o' ''ouse'—an' h'I 'ad p'id" (paid) "'alf a franc for my board—I leaned over to 'im an' said:
"'You must be one o' those bloomin' conscientious objectors we reads about in the pypers" (papers), "one o' those blighters who don't believe in fightin' themselves, but is willin' to sit back in Blighty an' let us blokes out 'ere do your bloody fightin' for you, while you gets a blinkin' good screw" (salary) "sittin' on a 'igh stool in some office.'
"'E turned to me an' answered: 'It's the likes o' you who volunteered for this war what keeps it a-goin'. If you all 'ad refused to go at first, there wouldn't be h'any war.'
"H'I couldn't see it 'is w'y at all, an' went right back at 'im with: 'Yes, an' if it wasn't for us volunteerin', the bloody German flag would now be flyin' over Buckin'am Palace an' King George would be in the Tower o' London.'
"'E thought a minute or two an' h'answered: 'Well, what of it, one flag's as good h'as another, an' h'as for the bloomin' King, what did 'e ever do for you, but myke you p'y taxes, so h'as 'e could bloomin' well sit around doin' nothin'.'
"This was too much for me, that blinkin' jellyfish a-slingin' mud at our King, so h'I lost my temper, an' tykin' my glass of Vin Rouge in my 'and, h'I leaned h'over close to 'im, an' said right h'under 'is nose:
"'When you mention the King's nyme, it's customary to stand an' drink 'is 'ealth. Per'aps 'e never did anything special for me, but h'I 'ave never done h'anything special for 'im, an' h'even at that h'I've done a damned sight more than you 'ave for 'im, so tyke this wine, an' drink 'is 'ealth, or h'I'll dent that napper o' yours so you won't be able to wear that tin 'at o' yours.'
"'E got kind o' pyle (pale) an' answered, 'Drink the King's 'ealth, not likely. H'it's through 'im an' 'is bloody top 'ats in Parliament that h'I'm h'out 'ere. Why in the blinkin' 'ell don't 'e do 'is h'own fightin' an' let us poor blokes alone?'
"H'I saw red, an' was just goin' to 'it 'im, when h'a big h'Irishman out o' the Royal h'Irish Rifles next to me grabs the glass o' wine from my 'and, an' lookin' the blighter in the fyce, yells:
"'Well, h'if the King h'ain't done nothin' for you h'English, 'e's done less for us h'Irish, but h'I volunteered to come h'out 'ere for 'im, an' 'ere h'I h'am, an' glad o' it, too, an' 'opes some d'y to get into Berlin with the King's forces. You won't drink 'is 'ealth, well, damn you, you can bathe 'is 'ealth.'
"With that, 'e threw the wine in the blighter's fyce, an' smashed 'im in the nose with 'is fist. The fellow went h'over like a log with the h'Irishman still agoin' for 'im. H'if we 'adn't pulled 'im h'off, h'I think 'e would 'ave killed that conscientious h'objector. The military police cyme h'in to see what h'all the row was h'about. H'I 'ad clicked three d'ys C.B." (confined to barracks) "an' 'ad no business in the h'estaminet, an' didn't want to get h'arrested, so h'in the confusion, h'I myde tracks for my billet.
"The next time h'I met the bloke was when we buried h'old Smith h'out o' the 10th Platoon h'in the cemetery h'at La Bassée. 'E was one o' the gryve diggers. H'all durin' the burial service, 'e stood lookin' h'at the Union Jack with a queer look h'on 'is fyce. When h'old Smith was lowered into the ground, an' the dirt was thrown h'on 'im, the conscientious h'objector cyme h'over to me an' pointin' h'at h'old Smith's gryve said:
"'H'I 'ear 'e was forty-'ight years h'old, an' left a wife an' three nippers back h'in Blighty. 'E were too h'old for the draft, weren't 'e? Then 'e must 'ave volunteered.'
"H'I answered, 'O' course 'e volunteered, an' there 'e lies, deader than 'ell, but h'I'll wager a quid 'is wife an' kids will be proud o' 'im—an' that's more than your kids will be about you.'
"'E sneaked h'off without answering. Three d'ys lyter" (later) "h'I nearly dropped dead when h'our lance corporal cyme h'into h'our billet with a bloody nose an' a beautifully trimmed lamp. When h'I awsked 'im 'ow 'e got knocked h'about, 'e told me that a fellow h'out o' the Non-combatant Corps, nymed Watkins (well, h'I've spilled 'is nyme), 'ad mussed 'im up just because 'e 'ad called 'im a white-livered coward.
"Watkins clicked twenty-one d'ys No. 1 on the wheel, an' when 'is sentence was finished, they transferred 'im to a fightin' unit an'—bang! h'into h'our platoon 'e comes.
"Many a talk h'I 'ad with 'im about that pacifist stuff, 'e 'adn't chynged a bit h'in 'is h'ideas—but 'e kept 'is mouth shut h'about the King an' the top 'ats at 'ome.
"Then we went into the trenches, an' h'I knew 'is finish was near. A firin' squad or 'rest in peace' was to be 'is lot; they h'all get one or the other sooner or later.
"After two d'ys h'in, Fritz got rough an' h'opened h'up with a pretty stiff bombardment.
"Watkins was h'in the fourth squad h'in a dugout in the support trench when a 'Minnie' registered a direct 'it on the roof an' caved 'er h'in. H'everyone but Watkins was killed. 'Ow 'e h'escaped was a marvel, the rest o' the squad bein' smashed h'up somethin' h'awful. We collected the pieces, an' buried them the next d'y. Watkins 'elped dig the gryves.
"For two d'ys Watkins scarcely spoke a word, just went round with a faraw'y look h'on his pyle fyce.
"H'on the third night after the burial, volunteers were called for a bombin' r'id, an' h'I could scarcely believe my ears when h'I 'eard that Watkins 'ad volunteered. It was the truth all right—'e went along.
"We crawled h'out h'into No Man's Land (yes, h'I volunteered, couldn't let Watkins show me h'up) under cover o' our barrage, an' w'ited. Watkins was next to me. Suddenly a star shell went h'up an' we crouched down h'in h'its light. H'I was l'yin' so that h'I could see Watkins—blime me, 'e 'ad no rifle or b'yonet.
"H'I whispered over to 'im. 'Where's your rifle?' 'E answered, 'H'I threw h'it aw'y.' Before h'I 'ad time to reply, the signal to rush the German trench was given, an' h'I lost sight of 'im.
"H'it were rough goin' h'in the German trench, an' we 'ad quite a little o' 'and-to-'and fightin'. Star-shells were goin' h'up all around us. One o' our blokes in front o' me was just goin' around the corner o' a traverse, when a big German got 'im through the throat with 'is b'yonet an' 'e went down. Somethin' sprang past me like a wild cat an' closed with the Fritz. They both went down together. Just then another German cyme at me from the h'entrance of a dugout an' h'I were busy. H'I managed to get 'im. Then our lieutenant an' two men cyme round the traverse, an' gyve the order to get back to h'our trenches. The lieutenant stumbled over the three bodies h'in front o' us. One o' them groaned. H'it were Watkins h'all right. H'unarmed 'e 'ad sprang at the German an' with 'is bare 'ands 'ad choked 'im to death, but 'e 'ad a nasty jagged b'yonet wound h'in 'is right side. We managed to get 'im back to h'our trenches, but 'e died h'on the firestep. Before cashin' h'in, 'e looked up h'at the lieutenant, an' with a grin h'on 'is fyce, said:
"'Tell the bloomin' King an' the top 'ats at 'ome that h'I died for h'England, an' h'I 'opes that my nippers, like h'old Smith's, will be proud o' their father. God syve the King!' An' 'e died.
"We buried 'im next morning.
"No, my opinion o' conscientious h'objectors an' pacifists 'as not chynged. They are h'either cowards or pro-Germans.
"You see, Watkins weren't h'either. 'E were a soldier o' the King, an' a damned good one, too."
PRIVATE GINGER
The gun's crew had been relieved from rest billets, and had again returned to their dugout. The weather was very pleasant for ducks, but not being ducks the crew stuck in the dugout. The air was heavy with smoke from their fags. Fritz, across the way, would send over an occasional whizz-bang, just to let the Tommies know that they still believed in German kultur. But this did not bother our crew because in the dugout they were safe from whizz-bangs, and they did not give a darn what Fritz was thinking about kultur; but they did agree with the Kaiser about that place in the sun business.
Dick turned to Yank, and asked:
"Remember Burton of A Company? Think he was in the Third Platoon; the fellow that was recommended for the V.C. and refused it. Got the recommendation for rescuing his platoon commander under fire."
Yank answered in the affirmative, and Dick "carried on" with:
"I never could see into that affair, because they seemed to be the worst of enemies. The officer was always picking on him, used to have him 'on the crime sheet' for the least offense. Got him several days of extra pack drill, and once he clicked twenty-one days' crucifixion" (Field Punishment No. 1, tied to a limber wheel two hours per day for twenty-one days). "No matter what dirty fatigue or working party came along, Burton's name was sure to head the list.
"This Burton appeared to be a surly sort of a chap. Kept to himself a whole lot, always brooding. Didn't have many friends in the Company, either. There seemed to be something on his mind. Most of the Company men said his sweetheart back in Blighty had thrown him down for some other bloke."
Happy butted in: "That's the way with this world, always hammering at a fellow. Well, I know this Burton, and there's not a better mate in the world, so let that sink into your nappers."
"Don't get sore, Happy," said Dick. "If you don't mind, let's have the story. I meant no offense. Just naturally curious, that's all. You can't deny that the whole affair has been quite a mystery to the Brigade. Spit it out and get it off your chest."
"Let's have it, Happy," they all chimed in chorus.
Happy, somewhat mollified, lighted a Woodbine, took two or three deep puffs, and started:
"Well, it was this way, but don't ask any questions until I am through.
"You know Burton isn't what you'd call a prize beauty when it comes to looks. He's about five six in height, stocky, a trifle bow-legged, and pug-nosed. To top this, he has a crop of red hair and his clock" (face) "is the boarding-house for every freckle in the United Kingdom. But strong,—say, that fellow could make Samson look like a consumptive when he got started.
"In Blighty, before the war, Burton and this Lieutenant—his name is Huston—went to the same college.
"Huston was nearly six feet high and slender. Sort of a dandy, fair-haired, lots of dough, which he never got by working,—his papa wished it on him when he went West" (died). "He was good-looking and had a way with the girls, which made them think he was the one and only. Didn't care much for athletics. Girls, dances, and card parties were more in his line.
"They were in the same class. Burton was working his way through, and consequently, Huston looked down on him as a bally bounder. Among the athletes, Burton was popular. Huston wasn't.
"Burton was engaged, or thought he was, to a pretty fine girl by the name of Betty. She thought Burton, or 'Ginger,' as she called him, was the finest thing out. One day Ginger took her to see a football game at the college; he was playing on the team, so she had to sit it out alone. During this 'sitting out,' she met Huston, and the trouble started. He was dead gone on her and she liked him, so he made hay while the sun was shining.
"She didn't exactly turn Ginger down, but he was no boob, and saw how things were, so he eased out of the running, although it almost broke his heart. He certainly loved that girl.
"This state of affairs widened the gap between Huston and Burton. They hated each other pretty fiercely, but Burton never went out of his way to show it, while Huston took every opportunity to vent his spleen. Ginger saw Betty very seldom, and when he did, she was generally accompanied by Huston.
"Then the war came. Ginger immediately enlisted as a private. He could have had a commission, but did not want to take a chance of having to mix with Huston.
"A few weeks after Ginger's enlistment, Huston joined too—was losing prestige in Betty's eyes by staying in mufti. He went into the O.T.C." (Officers' Training Corps). "In seven months he received his commission, and was sent to France. Ginger had been out three months.
"By one of the many strange coincidences that happen in this world, Huston was sent to the battalion and company that Ginger was in, and was put in command of Ginger's platoon. Then things happened.
"Ginger could hardly believe his eyes when he first saw Huston, and knew he was to be his platoon commander. He felt he was in for it good and plenty.
"That night Huston sent for Ginger and had a talk with him. Tried to make him believe that he harbored no animosity, and then detailed him as mail orderly, the first act of a campaign of petty cruelty. By being mail orderly, Ginger would have to handle Betty's letters to Huston, and Huston's letters to her. Ginger saw through it immediately, and his hate burned stronger. From that night on, it was one indignity after another, just a merciless persecution, but Ginger never complained; just stored up each new act and swore vengeance.
"It came to such a pass that Ginger could bear it no longer. He decided to kill Huston, and only waited for a favorable opportunity to present itself. I think it was only his love for Betty which had held him back so long; he couldn't bear the thought of her grieving for her dead lover. You see, Ginger thought Betty was madly in love with Huston.
"One night, in the front line trench, orders were received that after an hour's intense bombardment of the enemy's lines, the company would go over the top at six the next morning. Huston was to go over with the first wave, while Ginger was in the second. Here was his chance.
"All that night he crouched on the firestep, musing and brooding, nursing his revenge. He prayed to Betty to forgive him for what he was going to do.
"After the bombardment the next morning, over went the first wave, a line of bayonets and madly cheering men. Ginger only saw one in that crowd; his eyes never left Huston. His finger twitched and caressed the trigger of his rifle—his long looked-for opportunity had come.
"The first wave had gone about sixty yards, when Ginger let out a curse. Huston had been hit and was down, and he saw his revenge slipping through his fingers. But no, Huston was not dead. He was trying to rise to his feet! He was up—hopping on one leg—with the blood pouring from the other. Then he fell again, but was soon sitting up, bandaging his wounded leg, using a tourniquet from his first-aid packet.
"A surge of unholy joy ran through Ginger. Lifting his safety latch on his rifle, unheeding the rain of bullets which were ripping and tearing the sandbagged parapet about him, he took deliberate aim at Huston. Then he saw a vision of Betty, dressed in black, with tear-stained eyes. With a muttered curse Ginger threw the rifle from him, climbed over the parapet and raced across No Man's Land. No act of his should bring tears in Betty's brown eyes. He would save her worthless lover, and then get killed himself—it didn't matter.
"Reaching Huston, he hissed at him:
"'Damn you, I was going to kill you, but I won't. I'll carry you back to Betty. But always remember, it was the man you robbed who saved your worthless life, you despicable skunk.'
"Huston murmured: 'Forgive me, Burton, but for God's sake, get me out of this. I'll be killed—for God's sake, man, hurry, hurry!'
"'That's it, is it? Whine, damn you, whine! It's music to my ears. Lieutenant Huston begging a 'bally bounder' for his life, and the bounder giving it to him. I would to God that Betty could see and hear you now!'
"With that Ginger stooped, and by main strength lifted Huston onto his back and staggered toward our lines. The bullets and pieces of shrapnel were cracking and swishing all around. He had gone about fifty yards when a piece of shell hit his left arm just below the shoulder. Down he went, Huston with him, but was soon up, his left arm dangling and swinging at his side. Turning to Huston, who was lying on his back, he said:
"'I am hard hit—it's your life or mine. We're only ten yards from our trench. Try to make it on your own. You ought to be able to crawl in.'
"But Huston answered:
"'Burton, don't leave me here, I am bleeding to death. For the love of God, get me in! You can have Betty, money, anything I have, it is all yours,—just save my life. Answer me, man, answer—'
"'You want my answer, do you? Well, take it, and damn you!'
"With that, Ginger slapped the officer in the face. Then, grabbing him by the collar with his right arm, the blood soaking his tunic from the shell wound in his left, Ginger slowly dragged Huston to the trench, and fainted.
"A mighty cheer went up from our lines. Stretcher-bearers took them both to an advanced first-aid post, and their journey to Blighty and Betty was started.
"On the trip over, Ginger never regained consciousness. They landed in a hospital in England and were put in beds next to each other. You see, at that time, officers and men went to the same hospital.
"Ginger was taken up into the 'pictures' (operating theatre), where his arm was amputated at the shoulder. Huston's wound was slight,—bullet through the calf of leg.
"While Ginger was coming out of ether he told all he knew. A Red Cross nurse with tear-dimmed eyes was holding his hand. Occasionally she would look across at Huston in the next bed; he would slowly nod his head at each questioning glance of hers, while the red blood of shame mounted to his temples.
"Then Ginger came to. He saw a beautiful vision. Thought he was dreaming. Sitting by his bed, dressed in a Red Cross nurse's uniform, was Betty, Huston's Betty, holding his hand! Betty, with tears in her eyes, but this time tears of joy. The sweat came out on his forehead. It couldn't be true! He gasped out the one word—
"'Betty!'
"Stooping over, the vision kissed him on the lips, and murmured:
"'My Ginger, you have come back to Betty.'
"Then he slept. Next morning the Colonel of the hospital came to Ginger's bedside and congratulated him, telling him that he had been recommended for the V.C. Ginger refused the V.C. from the Government; said he had not earned it; would not give the reasons, but persisted in his refusal. You know they can't force you to take a V.C.
"Five months later Ginger and Betty were married. She cuts his meat for him now; says that all his faults were contained in his left arm. He lost that. So you see, Ginger was somewhat of a man, after all, wasn't he, mates?"
They agreed that he was. Ikey asked Happy how he came to know these details. He answered:
"Well, you see, it's this way. Betty happens to be my sister. Gimme a fag, someone. I am about talked out."
Sailor Bill mumbled out loud:
"I never thought there could be such a rotter as Huston in the English Army."
Happy, hearing this, came back with:
"Just a minute, Sailor. Huston wasn't a rotter at heart. It was a good lesson for him. When he recovered from his wound, he came out here again. Made quite a record for himself, won the Military Cross and a D.S.O. He was killed at Wipers—not so long ago, either.
"You know, the little wooden cross settles all debts in this world. Dying for one's country in a righteous cause, according to my view, entitles one to a reserved seat in Heaven."
THE LONE TREE SENTINEL
It was Dick's turn again. As was characteristic of him, he fidgeted nervously, looked around shamefacedly, and made one or two false starts. Then, gaining courage, he took a deep breath from the Woodbine he was smoking, and turning to Yank, said:
"'Yank, I'm going to tell you of a queer happening that took place before you joined this Section of the Suicide Club, and believe me, you will have to form your own conclusions—it has been a sore point of discussion among us ever since, and—"
"I know, it's about Jerry's brother an' the 'aunted Lone Tree," interrupted Ikey. "Now I want to tell you, Yank, it was no spirit at all, it was only 'eart—"
"You close your clock," said Dick, breaking into the middle of Ikey's speech; it's my turn at 'gassing,' and you know the law of this dugout: One story at a time and no interruptions from the rest. You have your opinion about Jerry, and I have mine. We both had a fair chance to form these opinions, and Yank's going to get the same square deal, without your influencing him by any of your propaganda remarks to swing him on your side. That's final, so shut up until I'm through."
"Oh, all right then. If that's the w'y you look at it, go a'ead," answered Ikey, "but, believe me, you had better tell the story h'exackly the w'y it 'appened, or I'll h'interrupt, dugout law or no dugout law."
"Shut up, Ikey," 'Curly' interposed. "Go ahead, Dick, we all might have something to say, unless you keep to the 'straight and narrow,' because we all have opinions about haunts and spirits."
Dick commenced.
"One afternoon a few months back, our gun's crew was sitting on the firestep, just in front of Gommecourt Wood.
"Happy was busily engaged in rigging up a flash screen to hide the flare of our gun, which we were to mount on the parapet that night.
"Sailor Bill—he hadn't at that time joined the Suicide Club—was sewing a piece of khaki cloth over his tin hat, because the night previous while on sentry go, standing in the moonlight, with his head over the top, the rays from the moon had reflected from his steel helmet, and a couple of German bullets had knocked up the dirt within a few feet of his head.
"Hungry was wrestling with a tin of bully beef, while Curly was hunting for cooties, or answering letters, I forget which.
"Ikey, with our mascot, Private Jim, was sitting on the firestep, his back leaning against a traverse, picking mud out of his harmonica with a sliver of wood. Private Jim was happy and contented, not knowing the fate in store for him. Two days later he was killed by a German bullet and we buried him behind the lines like any other bloke would be buried, wooden cross and all.
"After working a few minutes at the harmonica, Ikey paused, put it to his lips, and blew into it; a squeaky, rattly noise resulted,—you know the usual kind. Then, with a deep sigh, he resumed the picking process.
"I had just finished a letter home, and was sighing for the time to come when I would take the Kaiser, a prisoner, back to good old Dublin.
"Although it was warm and sunny, still the floor of the trench was about three inches deep in soft, sticky mud,—worse than it is now.
"On my right I heard a low muttering and a splashing in the mud, and around the traverse, into our firebay, carrying a box of ammo" (ammunition), "came the weirdest looking soldier I had ever seen. He was tall and gaunt, his long back seemed to bend in three places at once under the weight of the box of ammo on his shoulder. His tunic fitted him like a loose sling on a rifle, kind of flappy, his trousers were tight-fitting, except at the knees, where they were lumpy like a pocket full of rocks. From the top of his boots to his knees there was just space. I'll be damned if I can describe it, but those feet, just like a doll's! How he could balance such a swaying piece of skin and bones on them was a marvel. His neck was just stretching, thin and stretching, sort of curious-like. His head looked like—blime me, what did it look like—it looked like—where did I see that—by the King's hat—I've got it—say, Yank, remember that American coat of arms you showed us yesterday—well, his head was identical with the head of that eagle on it—thought I had seen it before when you showed it to me—but couldn't exactly place it."
"By the blinkin' 'ell, Dick's right," ejaculated Hungry—"I noticed the resemblance, too."
"As he passed in front of me he turned his gaze in my direction and a cold shiver ran up and down my spine as I looked into his eyes. Looked like two holes burned in a blanket. They were uncanny; a sort of vacant stare, as if the owner of them was looking into the Great Beyond; but his face was just a dirty pasty white as if he had been brought up on a diet of soap. As he staggered through the firebay, his back bending in and out under the weight of the ammo and passed from view around the next traverse, it seemed to me as if the Grim Reaper had stalked through and had marked us for a 'Rest in Peace' sign.
"Shuddering a little, I instinctively turned my eyes in the direction of the rest of the crew. They were also staring at the traverse, around which the gloomy looking soldier had disappeared.
"My heart sank to zero and I had a sinking sensation in the region of my stomach, and on the parados in front of me, like a cinematograph on a screen, flashed a cemetery, dotted all over with little wooden crosses. I felt queer and uneasy.
"Curly, in a low, half frightened voice, exclaimed:
"'Blime me, that was 'Aunted Jerry's brother, the one who clicked it by the old lone tree. If you blokes want to get the creeps, you ought to 'ear 'im talk. Some o' the fellows claim that it's unlucky to get 'im started. They sye that one o' 'is 'earers is sure to click it within a few days' time, but if you fellows want to tyke the chance, I'll go over to 'is section, which is occupyin' the second fireb'y on our left, and see if I can get 'im to tell us about 'is brother. But, now mind, this fellow is a little balmy in 'is napper, so don't myke fun of 'im.'
"I confessed that I was glad to be rid of him, but my curiosity overcame my fears, and I asked Curly to go ahead. The rest of the crew weakly assented, so Curly went after Jerry's brother. In about twenty minutes he returned with him. Jerry's brother came over and sat on the firestep next to me, his face blending in with the weather-bleached sand-bags on the parapet. He sat silent for a few minutes, and then, in a thin, piping, high-pitched voice, which I will try to imitate, Cockney, and all,—spoke:—
"'So you want to 'ear about Jerry, do you? Better not, better not, 'cause h'it is in writin' among th' spirits that h'every time I talk o' one o' them, someone who listens, or perhaps me, will 'ave to be joinin' of 'em before long. You calls it a bein' dead, but it h'ain't true, there h'ain't no long dead, nothin' dies, just wanders an' wanders. Their bodies is what's dead, only shells what's been shed an' left behind.'
"I was frightened stiff, because I admit I believe in ghosts, even if Ikey doesn't, and I didn't want to run the risk of clicking it later on by listening to the story. Even Jim felt my way; he had his tail between his legs and was trembling all over and moaning his protest in dog language. But of course, Ikey insisted that the story be told, so mournfully shaking his head, Jerry's brother carried on:
"'You shouldn't o' defied the spirits, but it is written that I 'ave to talk when awsked. I'm the Recruitin' Sergeant for the absent voices, detyled h'in Jerry's plyce.
"'You want to 'ear about Jerry? Fools—they called 'im 'Aunted Jerry, but 'e weren't 'aunted, 'e could just see—'e could see into the future—could sort o' tell what was a-goin' to 'appen. 'E talked to the dead bodies, the deserted 'omes o' the spirits, an' they, 'overin' in the h'air, 'eard 'im, an' talked back, an' told 'im what was a-goin' to 'appen.
"'E alw'ys 'ad spirits h'around 'im,—ghosts, you call 'em, but there h'ain't no such thing as ghosts,—they're souls a'wanderin' h'around—a'lookin' for recruits for the h'army o' the dead, as you ignorantly calls 'em. They're about us now—'
"I slowly eased down the firestep away from him.
"'Jerry used to talk to the departed. 'E would sit in a cemetery h'at night, in rest billets, an' receive messages from them what cawn't speak no more. Not the ones as what 'ad just been buried, it tykes time, it tykes time, but the ones what were just bones, the trained spirits.
"'Up the line, Jerry 'ad 'is mission. At night 'e would crawl out in front, an' listen to the voices, when the wind was dead and couldn't carry 'em. The Lone Tree was 'is 'eadquarters. Bodies were a-plenty at h'its roots, reconnoitering patrols, h'English an' German, meet out there.'
"Then he paused. A faint wind was blowing. Jerry's brother listened intently, sighed, and with an unearthly fire burning in his eyes, said—
"'The Lone Tree is a-callin', it's a-callin' me. Jerry is tryin' to myke me h'understand. I'm listenin', Jerry, I'm a-listenin'.'
"With that he stood up on the firestep, head and shoulders over the top. Blinking broad daylight it was, too. We were all afraid to pull him down. Looking out towards the Lone Tree, he started murmuring,—
"'Louder, Jerry, louder. I cawn't understand, the voices are mixed. Jerry, it's your brother a-callin'; what is it, lad, what is it?'
"Every second we expected to see his brains spatter the parapet from a German sniper's bullet. Suddenly, Crack! Crack! Crack! three bullets struck the parapet and went singing over the trench. We all ducked, but apparently Jerry's brother never moved.
"With a deep sigh he sank onto the firestep, saying, 'I can 'ear the voices, but as yet cawn't understand 'em, but I will—I will—it tykes trainin'.'
"I believe he did not know that he had been fired at. Anyway it never fazed him. My blood curdled at the thought of how near he had come to joining those spirits of his.
"Ikey placed his hand on Jerry's brother's knee and said:
"'Righto, mate, we know you can see far beyond us, but tell us about 'Aunted Jerry an' the poem 'e wrote the d'y before 'e clicked it at the Lone Tree.'
"Jerry's brother nodded in a comprehending way, and unbuttoning the pocket of his tunic, drew out a creased and muddy piece of paper, which he reverently and fondly opened out upon his knee, and then in an unnatural, sing-song voice, which sent cold shivers up and down my spine, recited the following, reading from the paper."
At this point Dick started searching the pockets of his tunic, pulling out, piece by piece, a collection of stuff that would have made a junk-man sit up and take notice. A look of disappointment came over Dick's face; he paused, thought hard for about a minute, and then with an exclamation of satisfaction, went over to his pack and extricated therefrom an old leather wallet, opened it and carefully removed a piece of paper, muddy, creased and torn. With a sigh of relief he exclaimed, "Blime me, I thought I had lost that poem. One of Jerry's brother's mates gave it to me after,—but that would be telling the story backwards."
Squinting very hard at the paper in his hand, Dick read aloud:
"Between the lines, in 'No Man's Land,'
With foliage gone, an' trunk what's torn,
A lonely sentry tykes 'is stand,
Silently watchin' from morn to morn.
When sun is gone, an' moon is bright,
An' spreads its rays o' ghost-like beams;
H'against the sky, that tree o' blight,
A ghastly 'angman's gibbet seems.
When night is black, the wind's faint sigh
Through its shell-torn branches moans
A call to men, 'To die, to die!'
They answers with groans and groans.
But obey the call, for 'more an' more,'
An' Death sits by an' grins an' grins,
Watchin' the fast growin' score,
'Arvest of 'is sentry's whims.
There they lie 'uddled, friend an' foe,
Ghastly 'eaps, h'English, French an' 'Un,
An' still those piles forever grow,
The sorry toll is never done.
No wooden cross to mark their fall,
No tombstone theirs, no carven rocks,
Just the Lone Tree with its grim call,
Which forever mocks an' mocks."
"When Jerry's brother had finished, a dead silence ensued. I nervously lighted a fag, and out of the corner of my eye noticed that Sailor Bill was uneasily squirming on the firestep.
"Letting out a sigh, which seemed to whistle between his teeth, our 'guest' carried on:
"'Jerry weren't much at cheerful writin', were 'e? But 'e 'ad a callin'. H'even back 'ome in Blighty, 'e weren't much for lights nor fun. 'E took after our mother. The neighbors called 'er 'aunted, too, but she weren't. She could see things like Jerry. Used to talk to the governor, set 'is plyce at table an' 'e dead these fifteen years."
"Then he went on telling us about the Lone Tree as if we had never seen it, and there it blinking well was about a hundred yards from us out in front. Many a time at night on patrol work have I stumbled over a dead body at its base. I tell you, Yank, it was creepy work listening to him.
"'This 'ere Lone Tree Sentinel, Jerry writes about in 'is poetry, is an h'old tree in No Man's Land a 'underd yards or more from the firestep. It is pretty well knocked about by bullets an' shell fragments. It mykes a good 'eadquarters for spirits an' voices, stickin' sort o' lonely-like up h'against the sky at night. It are the guide-post o' the dead, h'even though patrols uses it to show 'em the w'y back to their trenches. But those what follows its pointin' arm 'as started on their w'y to the absent voices.'
"We all shivered because every one of us had used that guide-post more than once while out in front.
"'Out there in the blackness h'it's easy to lose your w'y h'unless you 'ave spirits a-guidin' you, like me an' Jerry 'as. At h'its roots were many dead, just a rottin' out there, a tykin' o' their trainin' fer the spirits. When the wind was a-blowin' our w'y, to the ignorant it were sort o' h'unpleasant, but Jerry an' me knew, h'it were their message, they was answering the roll o' the spirits.
"'At that time No Man's Land were no plyce for mortals what with the bullets an' shells a-singin' o' their death song d'y an' night, but Jerry didn't mind, 'e 'ad 'is mission an' 'ad to answer the call o' the voices.
"'Every time our Captain called for volunteers fer a raidin' party or reconnoitering patrol, 'Aunted Jerry, as you call 'im, 'ad to volunteer 'cause 'e was a recruitin' fer the dead, same as me. After a while 'e was never awsked if 'e wanted to go, 'is nyme was just plyced on the list as a-goin'. When 'e returned from h'out in front 'e used to go to 'is dugout an' if any o' the party 'ad gone West 'e put their nymes in a book an' used to sit an' talk to them nymes. 'E were a teachin' 'em their first lesson o' the voices. 'E alw'ys kep' h'account o' the number o' dead at the tree. 'E could see in the dark, could Jerry, syme as me.
"'Sometimes in the d'ytime 'e would rig up a periscope on 'is own, and sit on the firestep for hours a-lookin' out in No Man's Land at the Lone Tree, and the bodies around it. This sort o' got on our Captain's nerves, an' 'e gave Jerry orders not to use a periscope. After this order Jerry used to sit h'off by 'imself on the firestep a-musin' an' a-musin'. The other blokes laughed at 'im, but I knew what he were a-doin'—'e were a-talkin' to the spirit o' the Lone Tree.
"'Then 'e got sort o' reckless, an' because it were against orders for 'im to use a periscope, 'e used to, in the bloomin' d'ytime, stick 'is 'ead over the top an' gaze at the Lone Tree. Bullets from German snipers would kick up the dirt an' tear the sand-bags all around 'im, but none of 'em ever 'it 'im. No bullet ever myde could kill Jerry, 'e were protected.
"'The rest o' the blokes in the trench would pull 'im down off the firestep. They thought they were a-savin' 'is life, but Jerry weren't afraid from bullets. 'E knew, same as me, that they couldn't 'arm 'im. Then our Captain—'e 'ad brains, 'e 'ad—said that Jerry was balmy, an' gave orders to the Sergeant-M'jor to tyke 'im back to the Doctors to send 'im to Blighty. Jerry was told about this the night before the mornin' 'e was to leave. 'E was greatly upset, 'e was, an' all that d'y did nothin' but talk to the spirits—the air were full of 'em—I could 'ear o' their voices. About ten o'clock Jerry was missed. The next morning 'e was still a missin'. For two d'ys nothin' was 'eard o' Jerry. Then the Royal Irish Rifles took over a sector o' trench on our right. A lot o' our blokes told 'em about Jerry bein' missin'. A few o' 'em got around me, an' I described Jerry to 'em, but I weren't afraid for Jerry—I knew where 'e was—'e were with his spirits.
"'That night an Irish patrol went out, an' when they returned they brought a body with 'em; said they'd found it at the foot o' the Lone Tree. It were Jerry, all right, but 'e weren't 'it nowhere. Two bloomin' doctors examined 'im, lookin' for wounds, but couldn't find none, because there weren't none. 'E was dead, all right, an' that bloomin' Captain—'e 'ad brains, 'e 'ad—was responsible for 'is death. 'E 'ad tried to tyke Jerry aw'y from 'is spirits, so Jerry crawled out to the Lone Tree to answer its call. 'E answered it, and now 'e's with the spirits 'e loves, an' sometime I'll join 'im an' 'em. 'E's with 'em, all right, I know—I know."
"Just then Jim started to whimper. If the truth were known, we all felt like whimpering.
"Without another word, Jerry's brother got up, and muttering to himself, passed out of sight around the traverse. As he disappeared from view, Sailor Bill exclaimed:
"'Blawst my deadlights, but if a bloke like that ever shipped in the Navy, in a fortnight's time 'e would bloomin' well be an Admiral, because 'e would be the only one left in the blinkin' Navy. Gives me the proper creeps. 'Ow in 'ell 'is company stands for 'im, I don't know. 'Ow about it, Curly—why 'asn't 'e been sent to Blighty as balmy?'
"'I'll tell you, Bill,' answered Curly; 'this bloke only gets these fits occasionally. He's a damned good soldier—always on the job, and next to Corporal French, and his brother, Haunted Jerry, he's the best scout for work in No Man's Land that ever put a foot in these blinkin' ditches. It's only lately that he's been having these spells so often, and yesterday the Sergeant-Major told me that he was under observation, and that it would only be a short time before he was shipped back.'
"Jim was still whimpering. This got on Ikey's nerves and he gave Jim a sharp cuff on the side of the head. This was the first time a hand had been raised against Jim since he had joined us months back. He gave Ikey a piteous look, and, sticking his stump of a tail between his legs, disappeared from the firebay.
"All afternoon we tried to be as cheerful as possible, but our merriment was very artificial. Every laugh seemed forced and strained. Haunted Jerry had sure put a damper on us."
Yank started to speak, but Dick, noticing his action, held up his hand and said,—
"That isn't all, Yank, the important part is yet to come, and after hearing the rest, if you don't believe in spirits, my idea of your intelligence will be greatly lessened.
"Shortly after Jerry's brother told us his story, we were relieved and went into rest billets. A month later we again took over the same trench and there was the Lone Tree same as usual, except for a part of the branch being shot away, the end looking just like a human hand beckoning. It certainly was queer looking. I hated to look at it against the sky. Seemed to be calling me.
"As fate would have it, Jerry's brother's company was on our right. I saw him several times but avoided him. Damn me, I admit I was afraid of him.
"Then our brigade got busy and decided to go over the top. The barrage lifted at six in the morning, and the first wave went over. We were in the second. The rifle and machine-gun fire was hot and the first wave soon thinned out before they had gone thirty yards.
"A fellow in the first wave, named Johnson, clicked it in the knee from a bit of shrapnel. I could see him through the periscope. He fell, tried to get up, got hit again and went down. He was only about six yards in front of our wire.
"After going down the second time, his tunic on the right shoulder red with blood, he remained motionless. I thought he was dead, but no, in a short while he moved and slowly rose on his good knee, pushing on the ground with his left arm, and started to call to us. Down on my right, a tussle took place among the blokes crouching on the firestep and suddenly a form loomed over the parapet and I saw Jerry's brother running high through a lane in the wire. He came to the wounded man who, seeing him, tried to crawl away. Jerry's brother stopped and, standing erect, stretched both arms in the direction of the Lone Tree. Just then a Boche machine-gun turned loose. The bullets knocked up the dirt all around the two. Jerry's brother never noticed them, but stooping, picked up Johnson, as if he were a feather, and throwing him over his shoulder, head hanging down in back of him, walked toward our trench. When he reached the parapet he let Johnson down. Half of Johnson's head was gone, literally torn off, and Jerry's brother wasn't hit. Seeing that Johnson was dead, Jerry paused, stooped over and gave him a long look, then, facing in the direction of the Lone Tree, he again stretched out his arms, and shouted, 'I'm a-comin', Jerry, I'm a-comin', one more, Jerry, one more.' Stooping, he lifted the dead Johnson on his shoulder and started at a slow run toward the Lone Tree, Johnson's arms dangling and flopping about his legs. Just then the word came for the second wave to go over.
"That night we were back in our original trench,—hadn't gained an inch. The stretcher-bearers brought in lots of bodies from out in front, among them Johnson and Jerry's brother. Yes, he was dead. And, Yank, the doctors could not find a mark on him, while Johnson's body had twenty-eight wounds. Now, if that isn't spirits, what is it?"
"'Eart trouble," ejaculated Ikey.
But Yank, slowly shaking his head, left the dugout and went into the fire trench.
As Told by Yank while on a Working Party, to a Squad of Royal Engineers, in Their Dugout
CHRISTMAS IN A DUGOUT
"You say you fellows have just come out and want to know how I enjoyed last Christmas. Well, I'll tell you the circumstances, and let you judge for yourself about the enjoyment part of it.
"I guess nearly all of you met our gun's crew at that show we gave at S——, so it will be unnecessary to introduce them. As well as I remember this is what happened:
"It was Christmas Eve, and cold; not the kind of cold which sends the red blood tingling through your veins and makes you want to be 'up and at 'em,' but that miserable damp kind that eats into the marrow of your bones, attacking you from the rear and sending cold shivers up and down your spinal column. It gives you a feeling of dread and loneliness.
"The three of us, Curly, Happy, and myself, were standing at the corner of Yankee Avenue and Yiddish Street, waiting for the word 'Stand to,' upon which we were to mount our machine-gun on the parapet and go on watch for two hours with our heads sticking over the top.
"Yankee Avenue was the name of the fire trench, while Yiddish Street was the communication trench leading to the rear. You see, we were occupying 'Y' Sector of the front line of our brigade.
"The trench was muddy, and in some places a thin crust of ice was beginning to form around the edges of the puddles.
"We had wrapped our feet and legs with empty sand-bags, and looked like snow shovelers on Fifth Avenue. My teeth were chattering with the cold. Happy was slapping his hands on his thighs, while Curly had unbuttoned one of the buttons on his overcoat, and with his left hand was desperately trying to reach under his right armpit,—no doubt a 'cootie' had gone marketing for its Christmas dinner.
"Then came the unwelcome 'Stand to,' and it was up on the firestep for us, to get our gun mounted. This took about five minutes.
"Curly, while working away, was muttering: 'Blime me, Christmas Eve, and 'ere I am somew'eres in Frawnce, 'alf starved with the cold.'
"Happy was humming, 'Keep the Home Fires Burning.' Right then, any kind of a home fire would have been very welcome.
"It was black as pitch in No Man's Land. Curly stopped muttering to himself and Happy's humming ceased. There was serious work in front of us. For two hours we had to penetrate that blackness with our straining eyes to see that Fritz did not surprise us with some German Kultur Christmas stunt.
"Suddenly, Happy, who was standing on the firestep next to me, gripped 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."
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.
"'Well, mate, as is usual under the circumstances, we talked, or at least I did. She did most of the listening. That wine sure untied my tongue; another drink or two and I would have promised her Buckingham Palace. I was just fool crazy in love with her. Once I caught her stifling a yawn when I was in the midst of one of my verbal barrages, but the pretty smile which quickly followed once again had me in a fool's paradise.
"'My back was to the door leading to the stables. Suddenly it opened. I sprang for my rifle which I had left leaning against the table close at hand. It wasn't there. I faced around and there in the door stood Lance Corporal Hawkins. A pretty looking sight he was, with hay in his hair, cap gone, and no rifle. One look at his eyes was enough. They were red rimmed and watery. The fool was drunk, I could see that at a glance, but he seemed to be fighting it off; he wabbled on his pins, blinked his eyes, and rubbed his forehead with his hand as if bewildered.
"'Angry at being disturbed, I yelled at him, "Well, what do you want? What's the matter?"
"'This seemed to sober him momentarily, because he blurted out in a thick voice, "'Scuse me, Sergeant, but—hic,—back in Blighty,—I could drink 'em all under the table, 'ad the name for a-doin' it in the pubs. Was champeen of 'em all—an' I know this blinkin' red ink I been a drinkin' ain't made me drunk—hic—it's mighty damned queer" (a hard look from me) "excuse me, Miss, but my 'ead's like a buzz saw."
"'I was getting madder and madder. Adrienne seemed to be getting fidgety. She was looking around nervously. I could stand it no longer, so I let out on Hawkins.
"'"You get back to that stable, you drunk, you're a disgrace to that uniform; I'll attend to you in the morning. You're under arrest." Hawkins didn't move and after a strong effort started talking, more to himself than to me,—he seemed in a daze.
"'"Sergeant, I—there's a horse—there's a horse, it's missing—the rifles are gone—can't find a nary one—only thirteen horses—one from fourteen's thirteen—had fourteen—one from thirteen's fourteen—"
"'I looked for my rifle. Adrienne smiled at me and reassuringly pointed to the far corner of the room. There was my rifle. But how did it get there? I was getting alarmed and uneasy. Noting this, Adrienne with her sweetest smile said,—
"'"I see my Sergeant is not used to our French wine; it plays many tricks on the mind." And she glanced significantly at Hawkins.
"'Hawkins, giving me a wondering look, mumbled, "Sergeant's got same kind of drunk—hic—I got—rifles walk—hic—horses fly."
"'Adrienne gave me a look of disdain which decided me. Turning to Hawkins, I ordered,—
"'"You get back to that stable, quick; not another word from you. I tell you, you are drunk."
"'Hawkins gave me a sarcastic salute and muttered loud enough for me to hear, "Sergeant has more brains than Lance Corporal—or wouldn't be sergeant—don't know there's a war on—thinks this is a blinkin' peace time maneuver—ter 'ell with the bloody horses—a bloomin' rifle's only extra weight." Then he turned around and stumbled out of the door.
"'I was mad to the core. Still I was uneasy about Hawkins's report concerning the rifles and horses and intended immediately to investigate.
"'Adrienne came over to me and, putting a hand on each of my shoulders, looked up into my eyes and said, "My sergeant has taken too much wine. I am sorry. I thought he was strong and could laugh at such trifles, but I see I was mistaken."
"'This sent me up in the air completely. I would show her. Removing her hands from my shoulders, I reached for the glass of wine. She gently took it from me and, just touching the edge of the glass to her pretty lips, passed it back and said in a voice of silver, "Drink, my Sergeant, drink to our betrothal. Drink to the honour of France. Drink to the honour of England. Drink to the confusion of our enemies."
"'I drank with my fool heart pounding against my ribs.
"'She started to fade into a mist,—she was laughing—there were three Adriennes—why was the table floating in the air—the horses—the rifles—we had been betrayed—crash—bang—a shell hit the house. Then blackness.
"'When I awoke, I was lying on the floor. My head seemed to be bursting with pain. The gray dawn was filtering through the curtained windows, and there in the middle of the room, with my Adrienne in his arms, stood a captain of Uhlans. I was a prisoner. I saw it all in a flash. She had betrayed me. Now I knew why she had wanted no guard posted,—why the horse was missing, the rifles gone. The wine we pledged our troth in was drugged. What an ass I had been! Hawkins was right.
"'I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep. They were talking in German. Pretty soon the captain came over and roughly shook me. I only grunted. With an exclamation of disgust, he called out in German. Two troopers came in, and, lifting me by the shoulders and feet, carried me out into the air. I slightly opened my eyes, and saw that I had been carried out to the gate, where two horses were standing with their reins thrown over a hitching post. By the equipment I knew one of the horses belonged to the captain, while the other was the orderly's. The two troopers dumped me down on the road, one giving me a kick with his boot. I was lying on my left side, and by a certain hard pressure on my ribs, I knew they had neglected to search me. That pressure was my automatic pistol. A feeling of exultation rushed over me. I had a fighting chance.
"'Fate worked into my hands. A hail in German came from the stables, and one of the troopers left to answer it. The odds were even, one against one. I slowly turned over on my face, as if in sleep, and my fingers grasped the butt of the automatic. But just then I heard steps on the gravel walk. The captain and Adrienne were coming toward me. She stopped beside me, and said in English: "You poor English fool! Make love to me, will you? Good-bye, my idiotic sergeant. While you are rotting in prison, think of your Adrienne, bah!"
"'My hand gave the butt of my automatic just the slightest squeeze. I was thinking of her hand on my shoulder. Well, two could play that game.
"'The captain said something to the orderly, who left in the direction of the house. Now was my chance. Springing to my feet and leveling the pistol at the captain, I grabbed the reins of his horse from the post and mounted. The orderly came running toward me, yelling out in German, and I could see Uhlans emerging from the stable. I had to work quickly.
"'When I mounted, the captain reached for his revolver. I covered him with mine. With a shriek of terror, Adrienne threw herself on his breast to protect him. I saw her too late. My bullet pierced her left breast, and a red smudge showed on her white silk blouse as she sank to the ground. I shot the orderly's horse to prevent immediate pursuit. Then I set off at a mad gallop down the road. It was a long chase, but I escaped them.
"'So that is my story, Yank. Just forget that I ever told it to you. Enough to make a fellow get the blues occasionally, isn't it? Just pass me a fag, and take that look off your face.'
"I gave him the cigarette, and, without a word, went out of the dugout, and left him alone. I was thinking of Adrienne. Upon reaching the trench I paused in wonder and fright. The sky was alight with a red glare. The din was terrific. A constant swishing and rushing through the air, intermingled with a sighing moan, gave testimony that our batteries were sweating blood. The trench seemed to be rolling like a ship. I stood in awe. This bombardment of ours was something indescribable, and a shudder passed through me as I thought of the havoc and destruction caused in the German lines. At that moment I really pitied the Germans, but not for long; suddenly hell seemed to burst loose from the German lines as their artillery opened up. I could hear their 5.9's screeching through the air and bursting in the artillery lines in our rear. Occasionally a far off rum-rum-rump-rump-Crash! Bru-u-un-nn-ng-g! could be heard as one of their high calibered shells came over and burst in our reserve. I crouched against the parados, hardly able to breathe. While in this position, right overhead, every instant getting louder, came a German shell—whi-z-z! bang-g-g! I was blinded by the flash. Down I went, into the mud. Struggling to my feet in the red glare of the bombardment, I saw that the traverse on my left had entirely disappeared. Covered with mud, weak and trembling, I staggered to my feet, and again rested against the parados, trembling with fear. I could hear what sounded like far distant voices coming from the direction of the bashed-in traverse.
"'Blime me, get 'is bloomin' napper out a th' mud; 'e's chokin' to death. Pass me a bandage—tyke 'is b'yonet fer a splint. Blime me, 'is leg is smashed, not 'arf h'it h'ain't. Th' rest o' you blokes 'op it fer a stretcher. 'Ello, 'e's got another one—quick, a tourniquet, the poor bloke's a-bleedin' to death. Quick, h'up against the parapet, 'ere comes another.'
"Whiz-z-z! Bang-g-g!
"Another flare, and once again I was thrown into the mud. I opened my eyes. Bending over me, shaking me by the shoulder and yelling into my ear, was Atwell. His voice sounded faint and far away. Then I came to with a rush.
"'Blime me, Yank, that was a close one. Did it get you?'
"He helped me to my feet and I felt myself all over. Seeing I was all right, he yelled into my ear:
"'We've got to leg it out of 'ere. Fritz is sure sendin' over whizz-bangs and Minnies. Number 9 platoon in the next firebay sure clicked it. About eighteen of them have gone West. Come on, we'll see if we can do anything for the poor blokes.'
"We plowed through the mud and came into the next firebay. In the light of the bursting shells an awful sight met our eyes. The traverses were bashed in, the firestep was gone, and in the parados was a hole that looked like a subway entrance. There was mud and blood all around. An officer of the Royal Army Medical Corps and several stretcher-bearers were working like Trojans. We offered our aid, which was gladly accepted.
"Every now and then ducking as a whizz-bang or Minnie came over, we managed to get four of the wounded on the stretchers, and Atwell and I carried one to the rear to the First Aid Dressing Station. We passed the dugout which I had left a few minutes before, or, at least, what used to be the dugout, but now all that could be seen was a caved-in mass of dirt; huge, square-cut timbers sticking out of the ground and silhouetted against the light from bursting shells. A shudder passed through me as I realized that if we had stayed in the dugout we would have now been lying fifteen to twenty feet down, covered by that caved-in earth and wreckage.
"Atwell jerked his head in the direction of the smashed-in dugout and, as was his wont, remarked: 'How about that fancy report you were writing out a few minutes ago? Didn't I tell you that it never paid to make out reports in the front line? It's best to wait until you get to Headquarters, because what's the use of wasting all that bally time when you're liable to be buried in a dugout?'
"Turning my head to listen to Atwell, I ran plump into a turn in the trench. A shout came from the form on the stretcher we were carrying: 'Why in the bloody 'ell don't you blokes look where you're a-goin'? You'd think this was a bloomin' Picadilly bus, and I was out with my best girl on a joy-ride.' I mumbled my apologies and the form relapsed into silence. Then the muddy Tommy on the stretcher began to mumble. Atwell asked him if he wanted anything. With a howl of rage, he answered: 'Of all the bloody nerve,—do I want anything? No, I don't want anything—only a bloody pair o' crutches, a dish of "fish and chips" and a glawss of stout.'
"When we came to the First Aid Dressing Station we turned our charge over to some R.A.M.C." (Royal Army Medical Corps) "men, and, ducking and running through the communication trench, we at last reached one of the roomy 'Elephant Dugouts.' We were safe. Stumbling over the feet of men, we came to an unoccupied corner and sat down in the straw. Several candles were burning. Grouped around these candles were a lot of Tommies, their faces pale and with a frightened look in their eyes. Strange to say, the conversation had nothing to do with themselves. They were sympathizing with the poor fellows in the front line who were clicking it.
"I must have dropped off to sleep. When I awoke it was morning, and after drinking our tea and eating our bread and bacon, Atwell and I reported to Brigade Headquarters, and again returned to the front line trench."
WINNING A D.C.M.
The gun's crew were sitting on the straw in the corner of the billet, apart from the rest of the section. The night before they had been relieved from the fire trench, and were "resting" in rest billets. Their "day's rest" had been occupied in digging a bombing trench, which was to be used for the purpose of breaking in would-be bombers.
Hungry was slicing away at a huge loaf of bread, while on his knee he was balancing a piece of "issue" cheese. His jack-knife was pretty dull and the bread was hard, so every now and then he paused in his cutting operation to take a large bite from the cheese.
Curly whispered to Yank: "Three bob to a tanner, Yank, that he eats the cheese before he finishes slicing that 'rooty.'"
Yank whispered back: "Nothing doing, Curly, you are Scotch, and did you ever see a Scotchman bet on anything unless it was a sure winner?"
He answered in an undertone: "Well, let's make it a pack of fags. How about it, Yank?"
"That's a bet," replied Yank.
(Curly won the fags.)
Sailor Bill was sitting next to Curly, and had his dog, Jim, (named after his former pet dog, Private Jim)—a scroggly-looking cur,—between his knees, and was picking hard pieces of mud from its paws. Jim was wagging his stump of a tail and was intently watching Hungry's operation on the bread. Every time Hungry reached for the cheese, Jim followed the movement with his eyes, and his tail wagged faster. Hungry, noting this look, bit off a small piece of the cheese and flipped it in Jim's direction. Jim deftly caught it in his mouth, and then the fun began. Jim hated cheese. It was amusing to watch him spit it out and sneeze.
Ikey reached over, took the candle, and started searching in his pack, amid a chorus of growls from the rest at his rudeness in thus depriving them of light. Yank was watching him closely and suspected what was coming. Sure enough, out came that harmonica and Yank knew it was up to him to start the ball of conversation rolling before Ikey began to play; for after he had once started nothing short of a German "five nine" shell-burst would stop him. Yank slyly kicked Sailor Bill, who immediately got wise, and then Yank broke the ice:
"Sailor, I heard you say this afternoon, while we were digging that trench, that in your opinion darn few medals were really won: that it was more or less an accident or luck. Now, just because your D.C.M. came up with the rations, and, as you say, was wished on you, there is no reason in my mind to class every winner of a medal as 'accidentally lucky.'"
This medal business was a sore point with Sailor Bill, and he came right back:
"Well, if any of you lubbers can tell me where a D.C.M. truly came aboard in a ship-shape manner; that is, up the after gangplank, and piped over the side, then h'I will strike my colors and lay up on a lee shore for a keel 'auling."
Ikey had just taken a long, indrawn breath, and his cheeks were puffed out like a balloon, preparatory to blowing it into the harmonica which he had at his lips. But he paused, and, removing the musical instrument of torture, exploded:
"Blime me, I know a bloke who won a D.C.M., and it wasn't accidental or lucky, either. I was right out in front with him. Blime me, I sure had the wind-up, but with French it was 'Business as usual.' He just carried on."
The rest chirped in, "Come on, Ikey, let's have the story."
"I will if you'll just let me play this one tune first," answered Ikey.
He started in and was accompanied by a dismal, moaning howl from Jim. Ikey had been playing about a minute, when the Orderly Sergeant poked his head in the door of the billet, and said:
"The Captain says to stop that infernal noise."
Highly insulted, Ikey stopped playing and said, "Some people 'ave no idea of music." The gun's crew unanimously agreed with him.
Somewhat mollified, he started:
"Corporal French is the same bloke who just returned from Blighty and joined the 3rd Section yesterday.
"We were 'oldin' a part o' the line up Fromelles w'y, and were about two 'undred yards from the Germans. This sure was a 'ot section o' the line, h'against the Prussians, an' it was a case, at night, o' keeping your ears an' eyes open. No Man's Land was full o' their patrols and ours, an' many fights took place between them.
"One night we would send over a trench-raiding party, an' the next night over would come Fritz.
"There was a certain part o' our trench nicknamed 'Death Alley' an' the company which held it were sure to 'click' it hard in casualties.
"John French—'e was a Lance Corporal then—was in charge o' our section. This was before I went to Machine Gunners' School an' transferred to this outfit. This French certainly was an artist when it came to scoutin' in No Man's Land. 'E knew every inch o' the ground h'out in front, an' was like a cat—'e could see in the dark.
"On the night that 'e won his D.C.M., 'e 'ad been out in front with a patrol for two hours, an' had just returned to the fire trench. A sentry down on the right o' Death Alley reported a suspicious noise out in front, an' our Captain gave orders for another patrol to go out an' investigate.
"Corporal Hastings was next on the list for the job, but, blime me, 'e sure 'ad the wind-up, an' was shakin' and tremblin' like a dish o' jelly.
"A new Leftenant, Williams by name, 'ad just come out from Blighty, an' a pretty fine officer, too. Now, don't you chaps think because this chap was killed that I say he was a good officer, because, dead or alive, you would 'ave to go a bloomin' long way to get another man like Williams. But, this young Leftenant was all eagerness to get out in front. You see, it was 'is first time over the top. 'E noticed that Hastings was a bit shaky, an' so did French. French went up to the officer an' said:
"'Sir, Corporal Hastings 'as been feeling queer (sick) for the last couple of days, an' I certainly would deem it a favor if I could go in 'is place.'
"Now, don't think that Hastings was a coward, because 'e was not. The best of us are liable to get the 'shakes' at times. You know, Hastings was killed at La Bassée a few months ago,—killed while goin' over the top.
"There were seven in this patrol,—Leftenant Williams, Corporal French, myself an' four more from B Company.
"About sixty yards from Fritz's trench an old ditch—must have been the bed of a creek, but at that time it was dry—ran parallel with the German barbed wire. Linin' the edge of this ditch was a scrubby sort o' hedge which made a fine hidin'-place for a patrol. Why Fritz had not sent out a workin' party an' done away with this screen was a mystery to us. French leadin', followed by Leftenant Williams, myself third, an' the rest trailin' behind, the patrol crawled through a gap under our barbed wire leadin' out to a listenin'-post in No Man's Land. Williams carried a revolver—one of those Yankee Colts,—and his cane. Blime me, I believe that officer slept with that cane. He never went without it. The rest of us were armed with bombs and rifles, bayonets fixed. We had previously blackened our bayonets so they would not shine in the glare of a star-shell. Reachin' the listenin'-post, French, under orders from Williams, told us to wait about five minutes until he returned from a little scoutin' trip on his own. When he left, we, with every nerve tense, listened for his comin' back. We could almost 'ear h'each h'other's 'eart pumpin', but not a sound around the listenin'-post. Suddenly, a voice, about six feet on my right, whispered, 'All right, the way is clear; follow me an' carry on.' My blood froze in my veins. It was uncanny the way French approached us without being heard.
"Then, with backs bendin' low, out of the listenin'-post we went, in the direction of the ditch in front of the German barbed wire. We reached the scrubby hedge and lay down, about six feet apart, to listen. French an' the officers were on the right of our lines.
"About twenty minutes 'ad elapsed, when suddenly, directly in front of the German wire, we could see dark, shadowy forms rise from the ground and move along the wire. Silhouetted against the skyline these forms looked like huge giants and took on horrible shapes. My 'eart almost stopped beating. Sixty-two I 'ad counted as the last form faded into the blackness on my left. A whisper came to my ear: 'Don't move or make a sound; a strong German raidin' party is going across.' It was French's voice. I did not hear him approach me, nor leave—Yank, he must have got his trainin' with the Indians on your Great Plains along the Hudson River." (Yank snickered, but it was unnoticed by Ikey.) "I could hear a slight scrapin' noise on my right and left. Pretty soon the whole reconnoiterin' patrol was laying in a circle, heads in. French had, in his noiseless way, given orders for them to close in on me, and await instructions.
"Leftenant Williams' voice, in a very low whisper, came to us: 'Boys, the men, in our trenches 'ave received orders not to fire on account of our reconnoiterin' patrol bein' out in front. A strong German raidin' party has just circled our left, an' is makin' for our trench. It's up to us to send word back. We can't all go, because we might make too much noise and warn the German party, so it's up to one of us to carry the news back to the trench that the raidin' party is on its way. With this information it will be quite easy for our boys to wipe them out. But it's up to the rest of us to stick out here, and if we go West on account of the fire from our trench, well, we have done our duty in a noble cause. Corporal French, you had better take the news back, because you are too valuable a man to sacrifice.'
"French, under his breath, answered: 'Sir, I've been out since Mons, and this is the first time that I've ever been insulted by an officer. If this patrol is going to click it, I'm goin' to click it too. If we come out of this you can try me for disobedience of orders, but here I stick, an' I'll be damned if I go in, officer or no officer.'
"Williams, in a voice husky with emotion, answered:
"'French, it's men like you that make it possible for our little Island to withstand the world. You are a true Briton, an' I'm proud of you.'
"I was hopin' that he would detail me to go back, but he didn't. Henderson was picked for the job. When Henderson left, Williams shook hands all around. I felt wet all over.
"You see, fellows, it was this way: Henderson was to tell the men in the trench that we had returned an' that it was all right for them to turn loose on the raidin' party with their rifle and machine-gun fire, without us clicking their fire. It was a damned big lie, but it would save the blokes in our trench from a bloody bashing. That Leftenant Williams sure was a lad, not 'arf he weren't.
"The next twenty minutes of waiting was Hell. Our man must have got in safe, because from out of the blackness, over towards our trench, rang that old familiar ''Alt! who goes there?' I recognized Corporal Johnson's voice as doing the challengin' and I said to myself, 'You lucky bloke, Johnson, in a trench, an' me out here to click it.' We hugged the ground because we knew what was comin'. Then, a volley from our trench, and four 'type-writers' (machine-guns) turned loose. Bullets cracked right over our head. One hit the ground about a foot from me, ricocheted, and went moanin' and sighin' over the German lines.
"Leftenant Williams sobbed under his breath:
"'God, we're in direct line of our own fire. The trench-raidin' party must have circled us.'
"Our boys in our trenches were sure doin' themselves proud. The bullets were crackin' an' bitin' the ground all around us. I wished I was safe in Blighty, or jail, it didn't matter.
"In between our trench an' our party, curses rang out in German as 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