Between the Lines

by Boyd Cable

[1] Servant.

[2] The identity of the town is very effectually placed beyond recognition by the Bombardier's pronunciation.

THE SIGNALLER'S DAY

The gun detachment were curled up and dozing on the damp straw of their dug-out behind the gun when the mail arrived. The men had had an early turn-out that morning, had been busy serving or standing by the gun all day, and had been under a heavy shell fire off and on for a dozen hours past. As a result they were fairly tired—the strain and excitement of being under fire are even more physically exhausting somehow than hard bodily labour—and might have been hard to rouse. But the magic words 'The mail' woke them quicker than a round of gun-fire, and they sat up and rubbed the sleep from their eyes and clustered eagerly round the Number One (sergeant in charge of the detachment) who was 'dishing out' the letters. Thereafter a deep silence fell on the dug-out, the recipients of letters crowding with bent heads round the guttering candle, the disappointed ones watching them with envious eyes.

An exclamation of deep disgust from the Signaller brought no comment until the last letter was read, but then the Limber Gunner remembered and remarked on it.

'What was that you was rearin' up an' snortin' over, Signals?' he asked, carefully retrieving a cigarette stump from behind his ear and lighting up.

The Signaller snorted again. 'Just 'ark at this,' he said, unfolding his letter again. 'I'll just read this bit, an' then I'll tell you the sort of merry dance I've 'ad to-day. This is from an uncle o' mine in London. 'E grouses a bit about the inconvenience o' the dark streets, an' then 'e goes on, "Everyone at 'ome is wonderin' why you fellows don't get a move on an' do somethin'. The official despatches keeps on sayin' 'no movement,' or 'nothin' to report,' or 'all quiet,' till it looks as if you was all asleep. Why don't you get up an' go for 'em?"'

The Signaller paused and looked up. 'See?' he said sarcastically. 'Everyone at 'ome is wonderin', an' doesn't like this "all quiet" business. I wish everyone at 'ome, including this uncle o' mine, 'ad been up in the trenches to-day.'

'Have a lively time?' asked the Number One. 'We had some warmish spells back here. They had the range to a dot, and plastered us enthusiastic with six- an' eight-inch Johnsons an' H.E. shrapnel. We'd three wounded an' lucky to get off so light.'

'Lively time's the right word for my performance,' said the Signaller. 'Nothin' of the "all quiet" touch in my little lot to-day. It started when we was goin' up at daybreak—me an' the other telephonist wi' the Forward Officer. You know that open stretch of road that takes you up to the openin' o' the communication trenches? Well, we're just nicely out in the middle o' that when Fizz comes a shell an' Bang just over our 'eads, an' the shrapnel rips down on the road just behind us. Then Bang-Bang-Bang they come along in a reg'lar string down the road. They couldn't see us, an' I suppose they was just shooting on the map in the hopes o' catching any reliefs o' the infantry on the road. Most o' the shells was percussion, after the first go, an' they was slam-bangin' down in the road an' the fields alongside an' flinging dirt and gravel in showers over us. "Come on," sez the Forward Officer; "this locality is lookin' unhealthy," an' we picked up our feet an' ran for it. Why we wasn't all killed about ten times each I'll never understand; but we wasn't, an' we got to the end o' the communication trench an' dived into it as thankful as any rabbit that ever reached 'is burrow with a terrier at 'is tail. After we got a bit o' breath back we ploughed along the trench—it was about ankle deep in bits—to the Infantry Headquarters, an' the F.O. goes inside. After a bit 'e comes out an' tells me to come on wi' him up to the Observation Post. This was about eight ac emma [A.M.], an' just gettin' light enough to see. You know what that Observin' Post of ours is. The F.O. 'as a fond de-looshun that the Germs can't see you when you leave the support trench an' dodge up the wreckage of that hedge to the old house; but I 'ave my own opinions about it. Anyway I've never been up yet without a most un-natural lot o' bullets chippin' twigs off the hedge an' smackin' into the ditch. But we got into the house all right an' I unslings my Telephone—Portable—D Mark III., an' connects up with the Battery while the F. O. crawls up into the top storey. 'E hadn't been there three minutes when smack . . . smack, I hears two bullets hit the tiles or the walls. The F. O. comes down again in about ten minutes an' has a talk to the Major at the Battery. He reports fairly quiet except some Germ Pip-Squeak shells droppin' out on our right, an' a good deal o' sniping rifle fire between the trenches in front of us. As a general thing I've no serious objection to the trenches snipin' each other, if only the Germs 'ud aim more careful. But mostly they aims shockin' an' anything that comes high for our trench just has the right elevation for our post. There's a broken window on the ground floor too, lookin' out of the room we uses straight at the Boshies, an' the F.O. wouldn't have me block this up at no price. "Concealment," sez he, "is better than protection. An' if they see that window sandbagged up it's a straight tip to them this is a Post of some sort, an' a hearty invitation to them to plunk a shell or two in on us." Maybe 'e was right, but you can't well conceal a whole house or even the four walls o' one, so I should 'ave voted for the protection myself. Anyhow, 'e said I could build a barricade at the foot o' the stairs, where I'd hear him call 'is orders down, an' I'd be behind some cover. This motion was seconded by a bullet comin' in the window an' puttin' a hole in the eye o' a life-size enlargement photo of an old lady in a poke-bonnet hangin' on the wall opposite. The row of the splinterin' glass made me think a Jack Johnson had arrived an' I didn't waste time gettin' to work on my barricade. I got a arm-chair an' the half of a sofa an' a broken-legged table, an' made that the foundation; an' up against the outside of them I stacked a lot o' table linen an' books an' loose bricks an' bottles an' somebody's Sunday clothes an' a fender an' fire-irons an' anything else I thought any good to turn a bullet. I finished up by prizin' up a hearthstone from the fireplace an' proppin' it up against the back o' the arm-chair an' sittin' down most luxurious in the chair an' lighting up my pipe. That's a long ways the most comfortable chair I've ever sat in—deep soft springy seat an' padded arms an' covered in red velvet—an' I was just thinkin' what a treat it was when I hears the rifle fire out in front beginnin' to brisk up, an' the Forward Officer calls down to me to warn the Battery to stand by because o' some excitement in the trenches. "Major says would you like him to give them a few rounds, sir," I shouts up, an' the F.O. says, "Yes—three rounds gun-fire, on the lines the guns are laid." So off goes your three rounds, an' I could hear your shells whoopin' along over our heads.