Hunting the Hun

by James Belton; E. G. Odell

As the "Zero Hour" was 5.30 A.M. we had lots of time to reach the jumping-off trench, yet, I could overhear remarks in a low tone of voice about the rum. It was still worrying the men. They were quite used to the machine gun bullets, and their only thought was how they might be cheated by fate of a small tot of rum before going "over the top."

I was then in a shell hole that was very shallow. As I looked over the lip of it, I saw someone making his way in short rushes towards me. The man I saw was Lieutenant B——. He was trying to locate me amidst all the shell holes. I went over to meet him. He told me that everything was all right and that the battalion had only four casualties who were taken out of the line. He then gave me exact directions to my place in the jumping-off trench.

There was a lull in the firing at this time, so I passed the word behind to the boys to advance and follow me closely.

Just then, the Germans opened up with machine-gun fire, and word was passed up for the stretcher bearer. That meant a man wounded and at this time it was very awkward. I could not spare my stretcher bearer, as we were going to advance, and again I could not allow a wounded man to die for want of attention. Neither could I endanger the lives of the men in my platoon more than was necessary for that of one man. However, I pointed out to the stretcher bearer who had crawled from a shell hole near by, his location on the ground and gave him an idea where he would find our platoon in the jumping-off trench. I told him if the man could walk to give him first aid if necessary, but if he could not walk, to see that word would be passed back to the firing line in the rear and have them send out stretcher bearers.

We crawled for a distance, and as there were no German white flares going up during this interval, we doubled up in a half crouching position until we reached and tumbled into our jumping-off trench. As I looked at my luminous watch, I noticed it was exactly midnight. We were packed like sardines in this little trench not more than 2½ feet wide by four feet. But that mattered not—we were nearing our goal.

I was reminded by the boys that they had not seen the rum carrier, my batman Lamb. I was also anxious to see him, so I passed the word along to my right and left flank that if anyone did see him, they were to tell him where I was located. A few minutes later, as a German white flare was sent up, I saw a figure crouching along the trench. It was Lamb, and under his arm he had the jar of rum. I heaved a sigh of relief, and Lamb at that particular moment was a very popular man. I could hear the boys passing the glad word down the line, "Good old Lamb has got the rum! Lamb's got the rum!"

I made room for Lamb to get beside me in the trench. The Huns then began shelling our front line trenches in the rear of us with "Minenwerfers," "rum-jars," and "fish-tails." The latter are short range trench shells that have a high trajectory and make considerable noise when they explode. I could feel the hot air as they went over my head.

Our guns were shelling the German trenches, so that we were between both fires without any overhead protection. The Germans, never dreaming for a moment that we were so close to them, kept on shelling to the rear of us. They imagined we were still in the front line trenches. We carefully posted sentries and warned them to listen for any noise, such as hammering on the faucets of gas drums, as the wind was favourable for the Germans to attempt a gas wave attack.

I began to think how many of us would come through this show, for I knew we had a tough proposition before us. I then remembered that my stretcher bearer had not returned, so I told my platoon sergeant to find out where he was. A little later, he appeared above the parados and got in beside us in the trench with his stretcher.

Too much praise cannot be given to the stretcher bearers. They are unarmed and many of them are killed. The moment a man is wounded, a stretcher bearer rushes to his assistance; no matter how heavy the bombardment may be, he is in the thick of the fight attending to the wounded and dying. All men in the ranks know the old familiar cry, "Stretcher bearer, stretcher bearer, on the double." Then we know it is blighty for someone; it may be a mere scratch, or it may mean death.