Planning at headquarters—Trench maps—A “hot corner” north of Ypres—The English in possession—Preparation for a gas attack—Farming behind the lines—Reaching the tornado belt—“Policing the district”—Man the most precious machine—A general’s dugout headquarters—First aid to the wounded—Cave men at home—The scream of a great shell—A close call—Galleries to the front—The philosophy of shell-fire—The flitting planes—An arc of shell fire—Lace work of puffs from shrapnel bursts—“Artillery preparation for an infantry attack”—Under a tornado of steel hail.
It was the best day because one ran the gamut of the mechanics and emotions of modern war within a single experience—and oh, the twinkle in that staff officer’s eye!
It was on a Monday that I first met him in the ballroom of a large château. Here another officer was talking over a telephone in an explicit, businesslike fashion about “sending up more bombs,” while we looked at maps spread out on narrow, improvised tables, such as are used for a buffet at a reception. Those maps showed all the British trenches and all the German trenches—spider-web like lines that cunning human spiders had spun with spades—in that region; and where our batteries were and where some of the German batteries were, if our aeroplane observations were correct.
To the layman they were simply blue prints, such as he sees in the office of an engineer or an architect, or elaborate printed maps with many blue and red pencillings. To the general in command they were alive with rifle-power and gun-power and other powers mysterious to us; the sword with which he thrust and feinted and guarded in the ceaseless fencing of trench warfare, while higher authorities than he kept their secrets as he kept his and bided their day.
That morning one of the battalions which had its pencilled place on the map had taken a section of trench from the Germans about the length of two city blocks. It got into the official bulletins of both sides several times, this two hundred yards at Pilken in the everlastingly “hot corner” north of Ypres. So it was of some importance, though not on account of its length.
To take two hundred yards of trench because it is two hundred yards of trench is not good war, tacticians agree. Good war is to have millions of shells and vast reserves ready and to go in over a broad area and keep on going night and day, with a Niagara of artillery, as fresh battalions are fed into the conflict.
But the Germans had command of some rising ground in front of the British line at this point. They could fire down into our trench and crosswise of it. It was as if we were in the alley and they were in a first-floor window. This meant many casualties. It was man-economy and fire-economy to take that two hundred yards. A section of trench may always be taken if worth while. Reduce it to dust with shells and then dash into the breach and drive the enemy back from zigzag traverse to traverse with bombs. But such a small action requires as careful planning as a big operation of other days. We had taken the two hundred yards. The thing was to hold them. That is always the difficulty; for the enemy will concentrate his guns to give you the same dose that you gave him. In an hour after they were in, the British soldiers, who knew exactly what they had to do and how to do it after months of experience, had turned the wreck of the German trenches into a British trench which faced toward Berlin, rather than Calais.
In their official bulletin the Germans said that they had recovered the trench. They did recover part of it for a few hours. It was then that the commander on the German side must have sent in his report to catch the late evening editions. Commanders do not like to confess the loss of trenches. It is the sort of thing that makes Headquarters ask: “What is the matter with you over there, anyway?” There was a time when the German bulletins about the Western front seemed rather truthful; but of late they have been getting into bad habits.
The British general knew what was coming; he knew that he would start the German hornets out of their nest when he took the trench; he knew, too, that he could rely upon his men to hold till they were told to retire or there were none left to retire. The British are a home-loving people, who do not like to be changing their habitations. In succeeding days the question up and down the lines was, “Have we still got that trench?” Only two hundred yards of ditch on the continent of Europe! But was it still ours? Had the Germans succeeded in “strafing” us out of it yet? They had shelled all the trenches in the region of the lost trench and had made three determined and unsuccessful counter-attacks when, on the fifth day, we returned to the château to ask if it were practicable to visit the new trench.
“At your own risk!” said the staff officer. If we preferred we could sit on the veranda where there were easy chairs, on a pleasant summer day. Very peaceful the sweep of the well-kept grounds and the shade of the stately trees of that sequestered world of landscape. Who was at war? Why was any one at war? Two staff automobiles awaiting orders on the drive and a dust-laden despatch rider with messages, who went past toward the rear of the house, were the only visual evidence of war.