Private Spud Tamson

by R. W. Campbell

These arrangements, of course, were an indication to the rank and file that something was on. That was all they knew, for in this war the Allies had learned the need of secrecy and the folly of allowing war correspondents to publish the orders of the day. This system is wise, though annoying to the soldier and civilian with an inquiring turn of mind. It makes the soldier feel like a chessman on a board—a mere atom to be [pg 275] moved forward to death, or back into cover at the will of the master-hand. It is the German system, and a splendid one, for published orders and war correspondents are the curse of an army. South Africa proved that. Intelligence agents of the Boers used to cable back the illuminating paragraphs which had been sent by "Our Special Correspondent." The new system naturally upsets the podgy club critics, who like to direct the affairs of Britain from behind the cover of roast-beef and whisky. "K," however, is a master-hand in dealing with this type. He knows his job, and he has the will to overrule the clubman and the crowing cocks at our parish pumps. But we must get on with the killing business.

Meantime the Germans had not been idle. With that vigour and thoroughness so characteristic of the nation, they prepared for "The Day"—another of the THE'S, of course. Victory was certain, for the Kaiser had invoked the aid of his God. In a general proclamation sprinkled with oaths, imbecile pleas, and biblical embellishments, he called on his generals and army to charge for the Fatherland. He would be with them—miles to the rear, of course—and he would [pg 276] stand waiting with thousands of iron crosses to plaster round his soldiers' chests. God was to be on the side of his big battalions.

The plan on this occasion was the old one—dense masses of men. Line after line of conscripts to be thrown to death and destruction. But the preliminary bombardment was a thing which they also relied on. This commenced at the dawn of a cold and drizzling day. The boom of the first shell roused "Sunny Jim" and the Staff of the Mixed Division. A tinkle of a telephone bell stirred the British gunners to action. Observers cunningly concealed in some haystacks in the forward part of the line immediately 'phoned back the range of the German batteries. The crash of our shells 'midst the guns of the enemy was a fitting reply. The range was accurate and the toll a deadly one. However, these German gunners have a wonderful pluck and persistency. Their observers saw many guns, new trenches, and here and there fields dotted with turbans, caps, and badly concealed guns in the Allied lines. Eagerly they worked out their range tables, and crash went their guns again. One great line of trenches with Indian turbans and [pg 277] Tommies' caps peeping over was bombarded with three hundred powerful shells. The parapets were wrecked, trenches burst, and great craters made in the surrounding fields. Deadly gunnery and deadly havoc. No wonder Krupp's hirelings gained the iron cross. The exposed guns were crushed to smithereens, and the gunners near knocked down like dollies in a fair. This made the German observers glad. To them the battle promised well. But one of the German observers, stationed in an old windmill, received sudden marching orders through the agency of a powerful British shell.

"Sunny Jim" was pleased to allow the "hits" of the German batteries. His unorthodox methods had proved supreme. With his wonderful cunning he had prepared those long and exposed lines of dummy trenches, dotted with turbans and caps. The "guns" which they had smashed were simply trees resting on the wheels of old farm carts. The "gunners" killed had been made out of old khaki suits filled with straw. True, the Germans had registered some good hits on the real trenches and live men, while here and there a gun had been knocked out of [pg 278] action. Yet the stagecraft of this clever G.O.C. had lessened the casualty roll and drawn the enemy's fire away from the hives of our warriors. Britons are not so stupid as they seem. As for our guns, they were a match for Krupp's newest and latest. The Mixed Division was armed with weapons of a powerful range and a deadly type. There was no useless aiming or extravagant shooting. Almost every shell burst near a breech block and mangled its defenders. For six hours they pumped death and destruction into the gun-pits, trenches, and masses of grey-coated Germans waiting for the assault. This was very annoying to Kaiser Bill, sitting in his three-ply armour-plated travelling booth. But it did not alter his decision. "Forward" was his order after the bombardment. As he himself was excused the honour of advancing, he made certain of the fulfilment of his commands.

There was an air of death and stillness in those British lines towards which the deep ranks of the Germans marched. The gunners must have done well. A spirit of victory filled them: more eagerly they marched to Calais—the Kaiser's dream. But the reckoning was to come. Deep in their burrows lay [pg 279] thousands of expectant British warriors. Every magazine was charged, and every sentry coolly watching the stern advance of the German host. Nearer, still nearer they came. At last they reached the deadly zone—300 yards.

"Rapid fire," roared Colonel Corkleg, and every other commander in that great, long line. The crash was terrific, the surprise amazing, and the shrieks of death and pain alarming. The great line paused in terror, but only for a moment. On they came again, the living jumping over the dead. Do not call them cowards. They can fight and die. They faced their punishment nobly. Maxims and rifles poured death into line after line; still on they came. With a devilish delight the Glesca Mileeshy watched their advance.

"They're near Bannockburn noo," said Spud to his pals as the enemy ran towards the pits.

"They're in! They're in!" he yelled as the first line tumbled down into the death-traps. Hundreds floundered to an awful end in front of the British lines. The cries of the struggling mass were even heard above the din of shooting. The next line [pg 280] paused in horror, and many tried to run, but the officers' swords and revolvers drove on the men in rear and shoved still more into the chambers of horror. At last they were filled, and over the mangled and moaning men the others charged to the trenches.

"Rapid fire!" ordered Spud, and every other section commander all along the line. The response was startling. Worse, something caught the feet of the first line. It was the low entanglements. The running men were thrown forward on to the jagging stakes and piercing wire. Again the advance was stemmed, and again the British maxims and rifles exacted a frightful toll. To the sensitive soul such a sight is awful and sickening. Brutality is triumphant, and war shown in all its hellish aspects. There is little culture in the business. It is simply the awful expression of Hate. Nevertheless, such men as the Glesca Mileeshy viewed almost calmly the scene. They even joked and laughed as they sent their bullets into the reeling masses of men.

"They're comin' again—Rapid fire," commanded Spud to his men once more. The weight of numbers had pushed the living over the maimed. They clambered across [pg 281] their bodies towards the high entanglements. A crisis was near, and every man in the Glesca Mileeshy fixed his bayonet, then opened fire again. Dead men paved the way to the higher entanglements.