Hunting the Hun

by James Belton; E. G. Odell

I had often gone over No Man's Land at night, and looked over it through my periscope in the daytime, but this was going to be my first time "over the top" in daylight. I did not feel afraid, yet I was naturally anxious as to what I should feel like, and also how my platoon would act under the ordeal. No man but one who has gone "over" can describe or try to make anyone realise the feeling. One wishes to get it over quickly; the time seems to drag until that moment, and then it seems to fly.

Suddenly, I was aroused from my reverie by a voice that sounded between us and our own firing line. I listened, and heard the same voice shout out these startling words, "Where in h—- is the end of this damned ditch?" The voice was clear and distinct and betrayed no sign of nervousness or fear. The Huns were strafing our front lines, we all knew he was not a soldier, therefore, he must be a civilian, and we wondered why he was out here. Then again he would have called a trench a trench, and not a ditch. I heard one of the boys say, "Well, he must have some nerve, whoever he is!" and then I heard another say, "I'm going to take a peep at the man." Another said, "He may be a German spy." I could see it was up to me to do something, so I told my platoon sergeant to take charge and gave instruction to the men to keep their heads down below the parapet.

With my batman I cautiously proceeded in the direction of the voice. Just then, I saw a civilian with a steel helmet on his head and a small box respirator on his chest. He was about 30 yards away from me and appeared to be carrying a machine gun. I raised my Colt automatic pistol and was ready to fire; the batman had also drawn a bee-line on him with his rifle. I called to him to come forward with his hands up and to drop what I thought was his gun, or I would kill him. He shouted back, "Don't shoot, friend, don't shoot. I'm a moving picture man and an American; I am going to take moving pictures of you fellows as you go 'over the top' and get the Germans on the run. I feel quite proud to be with you boys."

I went over to the shell hole and, by the aid of my luminous prismatic compass and the flares of the Germans, I examined his papers and found them in order. It appeared that he had been following a battalion up the communication trench. As they started to double forward, he had been left behind. He was determined to see the show through and be in the thick of it, taking our pictures as we proceeded to advance with our barrage in the attack. He was certainly a very cool customer. Unarmed, he was taking all kinds of risks in order to take the pictures of the boys as they went over. He told me the battalion he was supposed to be with, so I gave him one of my men as a guide and told him where to go.

If this is a sample of the Americans who have gone over to France to fight with us, then all I can say is that the Boche will have a hard time when the boys from the United States of America go "over the top."

I returned to my place in the trench and told the boys about the movie man. It certainly amused them. Lamb in the meantime commenced to dig with his entrenching tool foot holes in the trench for me. I noticed he had done the same thing for himself. All the other boys did likewise. This was to facilitate our getting out of the trench quickly at the last moment.

It was now four o'clock, still very dark, and I decided this was the best time to give the boys their tot of rum. This was welcome news indeed. It is the duty of every platoon commander to personally issue the regulation allowance of rum to each one of his men. As there was not sufficient room to allow passageway along the trench, my batman and I jumped out and worked our way along both flanks of the platoon. We served each man with his allowance of this beneficial fluid. I was glad when this task was over as it was slow work, and at any moment I expected we might be spotted by the Huns, especially as they were sending up large numbers of white flares. We had to assume all kinds of rigid, grotesque positions until the flares died out.

The Huns are great on fireworks. It is very seldom we send up a white flare. The Huns seem to have an unlimited quantity. They give us all the light we require—very often too much. Their nerves are on edge, as they are in constant dread of our raiding parties. I was glad to get back to my place in the ditch, as the American called it.

I looked at my watch and noticed it was 5:20 A.M. It was raining slightly. Our boys in the front line were no doubt "standing to." German white flares were still going up, also a few of their green and red rockets. I passed the word down the trench to "fix bayonets."