It is interesting to follow the variations of German military opinion on the subject of the Allied artillery. Bernhardi, writing a year or two before the war, gives it as his opinion that the Krupp gun is slightly superior to all other weapons, as, at that time, before the perfection of the French "soixante-quinze," it probably was. He advocates the abandonment of shrapnel for "universal" shell, and throws doubts upon the ability of a German commander to use efficiently all the batteries at his disposal. The outbreak of war found the Allies, as regards "field" artillery, that is to say mobile ordnance throwing a shell of from fifteen to twenty pounds, in the possession of superior weapons in slightly inferior numbers. As regards "heavy" artillery, grouping under that heading all natures of ordnance heavier than a field gun, to every twenty pieces brought into action by the enemy we possibly had one. It will probably be the verdict of history that the rapidity of the hostile advance up to the Marne, and the ability of the enemy to establish himself, practically unmolested, upon a strong defensive line, were due entirely to this fact. Documents captured lately, however, have revealed that the higher German artillery advisers consider that, weapon for weapon, our guns have a slight superiority, and in numbers available upon the Western front a distinct preponderance. They also impress upon battery commanders the need of study of our method of concealment and observation, as being in many ways preferable to their own.
Of the gunner himself a few words will suffice. He is of a traditional type, big, burly and equipped with a vocabulary that has been known to fuse the delicate windings of an over-sensitive telephone. His gun, for which his terms of endearment are expressed in profanity, is his only care, in his spare time he will sit in its emplacement as in his natural home. The "limber-gunner," an old soldier selected for each gun to keep it groomed and immaculate, is jealous of his charge as he has been for all time, since the day when Alfonso d'Este of Ferrara hurled the brazen statue of Pope Julius II into the melting-pot wherewith to cast more cannon. Hear him discoursing to a group of youngsters on the regimental motto. "Ubique," he says, "ubique, that means, my sons, that whenever there's a scrap on you an' me an' the bloomin' old pop-gun's got to up an' trek an' earn our blessed rum ration doin' ten days' work in one." And I think he speaks the truth.
II
'O.P.'
The mystifying habit of speaking in abbreviations, the result of a constant use of rapid means of communication, is one that is developed to its maximum degree in the jargon of artillery. For instance, "L.X.C. El. 25° 30´, 15´ M L ORD BYF 40´´" is a very common type of order, and is the form in which that order would be transmitted. Consequently, whether in writing or in speech, the Observation Post is invariably referred to as the O.P. What more fitting than that these two letters should stand at the head of a sketch that proposes to deal with some of the aspects of these same observation posts?
The modern battery is so concealed that the view from it is often restricted to a few hundred yards in any direction. It therefore follows that the officer who wishes to direct its fire must discover some place from where he can see the target he proposes to engage, and from whence he can establish communication, in practice almost invariably by telephone, with his battery. He may be lucky enough to find some point near at hand, such as a church tower, from which he can obtain the necessary range of vision, and such points certainly have the advantage that they usually afford an extended view. But far more frequently, especially if his target is a hostile trench only a few yards from our own lines, some point right up forward must be selected, for preference just behind our own front line. This usually involves the selection of alternative positions, both because the view from each is usually restricted to a very small section of the hostile line, and also in the not-uncommon event of the observation officer being shelled out of his post, the battery is out of action until he has established himself somewhere else. The forward observation officer (F.O.O.) is the eye of the artillery, it is his business to observe not only the shooting of his own battery, but also to keep a watch over the whole of the enemy's territory visible from his post; to learn by constant inspection every detail, to perceive the smallest alteration or movement that may give a hint from which enemy plans or dispositions may be deduced. Hence it is clear that the selection of a good observation post is one that demands no small skill and experience. Nor is this selection altogether devoid of humour. A battery arrives, apparently from nowhere, its officers have a bundle of unfamiliar maps thrust into their hands, and are told to go and find as many O.P.s as they require to see a certain prescribed area. "So-and-so will go with you, if you like, he knows all about this part of the world." So-and-so is eventually, after a prolonged search, unearthed from the one comfortable chair in his mess, it being, as he bitterly explains, the only afternoon he has had off for a month. We start, preferably along a road pitted with shell-holes that look disconcertingly recent. Our guide informs us with melancholy pride that two telephonists of the 652nd Battery were killed there yesterday. "But it's usually pretty healthy——" A small and particularly vicious shell whizzes apparently just over our heads and bursts a hundred yards or so away. We change the conversation. We come to a place where the road ends, and where it seems as though some lover of beauty had cut a narrow winding course for a merry little streamlet that murmurs contentedly between its banks. Some yards away stands what was once a house, but the doors have been wrenched off their hinges, the windows are blocked up—no loss to internal illumination, for a dozen huge gaps in the wall amply supply the deficiency—and the roof has collapsed, leaving only the chimney-stacks standing. "That might do for you," says our guide, "750th Battery used it for months." "How do we get there?"—for the country looks suspiciously open and deserted beyond our present retreat behind the hedge. "Oh, they don't often snipe here, we can walk across one at a time, or there's the communication trench," pointing to the streamlet. Heroes all, we elect a soldier's death rather than wet feet, and the first of our party starts to walk across the open. Before he reaches the shelter of the house, zip! comes a bullet with the ugly sound that marks the rifle fired in one's own direction. He makes a wild dive for shelter, from which he subsequently watches us as we wade, cursing its maker, knee-deep along the communication trench, and exhorts us to be careful to change our socks when we get home. After much argument, we decide that the house will suit us, and we splash homewards through our clay-coloured rivulet, by no means comforted by the thought that this is the only safe means of access to our new-found property, unless we propose to go there before daylight and stay till after dark. Small things provoke humour where amusements are few. I subsequently discovered that the depth of water in this trench was about two inches less than the length of my gum-boots, and that, therefore, by careful progression, I could navigate it safely. Whilst doing this one day, a large dog, presumably frightened by a shell bursting near him—although animals of all kinds get extraordinarily accustomed to such things as a rule—plunged into the water within a foot of me. The wave of his impact overflowed my boots—they have never been really dry since—and the splash soaked me to the skin. As I stood telling the world at large what I thought of war and dogs and trenches, a gentle voice, near at hand but unseen, demanded of me, in the catchword of the day, "Daddy, what did you do in the great war?" A sense of humour will make, even of war, the finest game in the world.
Frequently the guide is young and enthusiastic, apt to let his confidence outstrip his local knowledge. A representative of this type volunteered to take one of us to a place from whence he declared we could see a particular point that puzzled us. The two set out smiling, and promptly entangled themselves in a maze of unfamiliar trenches. The guide declared he knew every inch of them, and for many hours as it seemed the two wandered in and out, like trippers in the maze at Hampton Court. At last they reached the ruins of a farmhouse. "If you climb up there you can see all right," said the guide. The unwary pilgrim did so, and found himself, outlined against the evening sky, gazing at the German trenches not thirty yards away. My friend is the soul of discretion, he hurled himself rather than jumped into the security of the trench, followed by a rafale of machine-gun and rifle fire. Nor was he mollified by the words of a choleric and indignant infantry major, who came up and wanted to know what the devil he meant by acting like an infernal clown and drawing fire on his trench—I soften his epithets. There was a marked coolness between the three for many days to come.
More harrowing still is the whispered legend of two adventurous spirits who, in the early days of the war, when the armies were not, as now, divided by an unbroken line of trenches, set out to seek for some commanding position from which to survey the surrounding country. At dusk they found a piece of rising ground, that seemed to promise the fulfilment of all their hopes. Seeing a group of men at work upon it, they strolled up to them and enquired whether it were possible to observe the Germans from there. "I know of but one place more suitable, gentlemen, and that is Berlin," was the reply, and in a very short time they were on their way thither. They had chanced upon the headquarters of a German division!