CHAPTER TWELVE
Our regiment was now shifted from the position where the Germans had tried to drown us out to another section near a place which we afterwards christened “The Glory Hole.” The German lines and ours were very near to each other here. On the night of our arrival we could hear the Huns talking, and after we had settled ourselves in our trenches, we could hear them now and again whistling “Highland Laddie.” It was evident that they knew who we were, as that is the tune to which we “march past.”
I was now initiated into the use of the hand grenades. The kind we got were later termed the “hair-brush.” Now and again, the Germans would take a mad turn and lob a few of their grenades over at us, and in turn, we returned the compliment. This form of fighting was then in its infancy, and we nearly all had our own ways of doing it. I used to tie two or three of the bomb handles together with a rope; get hold of the end of it, which was knotted; and, in the same way as an American athlete throws the hammer, I would swing the bombs over my head and let go in the direction of Fritz. In this way I could accomplish a few yards more than anyone who threw in the ordinary way. Sandbags were piled about three feet high on top of the parapet with loopholes through which we fired our rifles. When I wanted to throw the grenades in the fashion I have just described, I would go to the more level ground at the back, throw them, and jump back into the trench where I always had ample room, as the others, with varying criticisms of my enterprise, gladly cleared the way before I started operations. They fully expected me at some time to make a mistake and land the grenades among them instead of in the boches’ trench.
As we did not have one common system of throwing these grenades, a few of the non-coms and men were selected to practise—a little way behind the lines—the proper method. Our Acting-Colonel, J. T. C. Murray, and three men were killed when a lance-corporal, in swinging a grenade, accidentally struck the ground with it, causing it to explode.
At times we were treated to some lyddite shells by the boches (at least we believed them to be lyddite, though I have since learned that they were gas shells). I was never caught in the fumes myself, but I saw many men who had been. This particular gas simply snuffed the life out of the men without their even knowing what had happened. As they lost consciousness, they turned a yellow-brown colour, and never made any attempt to stir—just went to sleep and did not awaken—while those who got just a slight touch of it, would stagger about, as if deeply intoxicated.
Volunteers were asked, one day, to go to a V-shaped sector where the British and the German lines were so close that grenades could be easily thrown from one trench to another—and they were! Thinking that it would be an easier job than what I had been doing, I gave in my name. I think nearly half of my company volunteered, but I was among the first eighteen to be picked. We were armed with grenades enough to do an hour’s bombing. Two of the men were detailed to keep renewing the sandbags as they were torn down by the boches’ constant bombing. The German grenades, set with a time fuse, exploded a few seconds after leaving the thrower’s hand. The boches were evidently nervous about these grenades, for they almost invariably cut the time fuse too long or threw the bomb too soon after cutting it, so that our men frequently caught the unexploded grenades and hurled them back at the Germans.
The first two to go “west” when our volunteer party got into action were the sandbag men, and at the end of that hour there were only four of us left to come out of that Hell, ten being killed and four badly wounded. After our turn, volunteers were entirely out of the question, so each section had to take an hour at it. The trench point where the bombing occurred was called the “Glory Hole,” and it was well named.
Upon getting back to the trench, I swore off “bombing,” and decided that I would stick to scouting, although almost all the old scouts had been killed. Why I was not, is still a mystery to me. After a few days at the “Glory Hole” we were sent to the rear to billets.
You will remember that there were thirteen bullet holes in the Potsdam bugle which I brought back from the charge on the German trenches near La Bassée. How many of them were made after the bugle came into my possession and was put in my pack, I do not know, but, at any rate, I believe that thirteen is my lucky number. This is the reason: After a short rest in billets, we were returned to a portion of the trench near a part we had occupied before. The regiment had been recruited up to full strength again, and I can tell you that there were very few of the original Black Watch left. In fact, the personnel that we now had was almost a third regiment. In order to reach the high broken ground to our right, where there was a great deal of patrolling and scouting to be done, it was necessary to cross an absolutely exposed strip of ground about thirty yards long. So many men had been killed here that we called it “crossing the bar” when we had to traverse this neck of land. You must remember, we did not have a decent air fleet in those days and infantry patrolling and scouting were much more important than they are to-day. From the high ground to the right, much information of the movements of German troops could be gained. Whenever they saw even a single man “crossing the bar,” the Huns would let loose a salvo of artillery fire.
I usually waited until it was dark enough to see the flashes of their guns before crossing this strip, and whenever I saw the first flash I would sprint a few paces toward it and then flop down. The Germans had the range exactly. By sprinting, I stood a good chance of getting in ahead of the burst, and as shrapnel carried forward, the ruse worked nicely. In order to show a party of the new scouts the way across the bar, I was sent out with twelve of them, thus making a party of thirteen. Before we started I drew a rough sketch for them and told them, as exactly as I could, just what to do when we were fired upon. That we would be fired upon was a certainty.