As we worked at digging the trench we naturally, being intelligent volunteers, had many sub-directors, and much grumbling at so much unofficial ordering. Randall, during one of his rests, delivered himself with much disgust. “There never was an American,” said he, “who could take orders. Each man thinks he knows best. We need to learn to obey.” Well, once we were down in the trench, it was Randall’s head that was continually popping up, and continually being ordered down; and it was Randall who would light cigarettes, though ordered not to. An hour and three quarters is a long time to wait, and the cramped space was very tiring. Further, we were excited by the sound of firing, I suppose from the driving in of the detachment which the lieutenant had taken off to the east, so of course everyone wanted to see. In addition, our two sergeants, who have none too much authority, were together at one end of the platoon, away from the most impatient of the men, and so were quite unable to control Randall and other restless spirits. Randall, arguing that no one could see him, would pop up his head, others imitated, and so on the whole a fine example of discipline our platoon made. But David, lost in wonder at such wilfulness, never raised his head above the parapet.
Well, at last we heard the captain’s whistle, and steadied. His voice came: “Range, eight hundred and fifty yards.” We set our sights. “At one o’clock, to the right of the cemetery, fire at will!” We stood upright (it was a relief to straighten out!) and I saw, across the valley, beside a little cemetery on the top of the further hill, some moving figures, at which I fired a couple of clips. Then “Cease firing!” We locked our pieces; the men had disappeared. “Down, men!” And we crouched again. But next we heard “Battle sight—at four o’clock—fire at will,” and when we stood up there was a line of skirmishers advancing out of the woods beyond the railway cutting, about where the figure four would be on a great clock-face if spread before us on the landscape, we ourselves being at the six. But while I was popping contentedly away at these men our platoon was ordered first to cease firing, and then to leave the trench and rush to the top of the hill, which we did helter-skelter, none, not even our leader, knowing why.
At the very ridge we were met, slap in the face, by a fierce wind of which we in the trench had as yet got no inkling, which blew our ponchos all about, and savagely drove heavy drops of rain in our eyes. In the midst of this surprise we were confronted by an orderly, who pointing along the ridge, told us that we were to form in column of squads. In which direction we should face, and which squad first, 7 or 10, he did not say. It is easy enough now to see what our leader should have done. He should have said: “Men, get down out of the line of the enemy’s (highly imaginary) fire. Now, my good messenger, what are my orders? And meanwhile, my wise privates, keep silence.” But nothing of the sort. There we stayed on the ridge, and there we finally formed in column of squads, all the time in full view of the enemy, who might have potted the last man of us. The major at last came to the rescue, got us down from the ridge, and in the hearing of us all roasted poor Jones quite as well as the lieutenant did yesterday. “If you have a brain, sir, don’t use it. Stay in sight of the enemy and be shot.” Then he sent us by a way I never should have chosen in cold blood, across the top of a steep slope, with sliding sand and loose stones underfoot, while all the time the same wind and rain whipped and beat us unmercifully. At last we were halted behind another hill, put in skirmish line, and told what we were to do. We were to rush the ridge, then to run down to a trench made and occupied by our engineers, while they, being worn out by many days of fighting in it, were to vacate it. We executed the order smartly, dashing down to the trench, the engineers, at sight of us, scrambling out and running for cover. I found myself jumping down into a trench as deep as my shoulder, very finely made. Different from our trench, which was protected from enfilading only by cross walls at intervals, this trench zigzagged; moreover, its parapet was wattled. The engineers must have worked at it from early dawn, unless they brought their hurdles with them.
(There, I have at last got my hay!)
Well, there was but little more. A man emerging on a distant slope, commanding a ridge along which any successful attack must come, I hit him squarely in the middle, only to discover when too late that he was an umpire. Two of our fellows claimed to have shot a buzzard, and contended for the honor. When at last we saw real enemies, two platoons coming into full view below us, we shot them all to pieces. An umpire told them that they were dead, whereupon they formed in line and went through the manual of arms, to get themselves warm. Then we were collected and marched back, triumphant. It seems that we were told that if we held our line till one o’clock, we won. It was past the hour, and our victory was complete. We marched to camp in good spirits, being especially pleased to hear the major (the opposing major!) compliment Captain Kirby on the excellence of his trench. Our trench! We finished two hundred and fifty feet in an hour and twenty minutes. We are told that the trench was quite invisible, even after we had begun firing, and that we were betrayed only by the white bands on our hats.
I have talked with one of the men who was left at a bridge to tell any pursuers that it was blown up. He said that it gave him great pleasure to loll on the railing and watch a platoon ford the cold stream up to their waists.
With great relief I left the ground. We have so carefully policed each camping place that I had awful visions of having to fill in the trenches and replace the sod. But by some arrangement with the owner of the land we left the trenches as memorials of our great fight. How many cows will they trap, I wonder.
Our breakfast was at six, and we had no lunch till two o’clock. Whether we were hungry? In spite of this settled cold rain, which curiously is from the west, the men are in good spirits, though they show it by yowling at every bugle call that summons them out.
This letter is written up to date, and so I’ll close it. Love from
Dick.