Now the enemy are firing on the little village behind our lines, dropping shell among the houses, and always near the house where certain staff officers are at work. A curious point this—how close they get to the house when they can't possibly see the result of their fire. The explanation must be "spies." They are everywhere here; they wear British uniform and French uniform, and, most dangerous of all, civilian dress. It is our own fault; we allow the French population to return to the village right in our midst, and who in these times can question every one's rights? The other day three men in civilian dress were found near our lines sitting in trees; they were armed with wire-cutters, and said they were engaged in cutting vines. Now there are no vineyards near, but our wire entanglements were just beyond the wood. Again, one night we were to attack a small position at a given hour, but the order was afterward canceled. However, at the appointed time the enemy opened fire upon the ground we should have crossed and lighted the scene with rockets.
Nighttime is a period of continuous strain. The sentry peers into the darkness, imagining every bush to be an approaching enemy. Distant trees seem to change their position; bunches of grass, really quite close, seem to be men coming over the sky-line. One man questions another; the section commander is called upon. He in turn explains his fears to an officer. A single shot is ordered at the suspected object, and no sound is heard. So the night goes on. When we were new to the game a single shot was enough to alarm the whole line, and thousands of rounds were fired into the darkness. Now we know better. So also do the enemy. And it was satisfactory to find that our ammunition had not all been wasted, for a patrol recently discovered more than a hundred dead Germans in a wood in front of us. The ammunition had not been wasted that time. But, oh, what a wasteful war!
The Baptism of Fire
[From The London Times, Nov. 4, 1914.]
The following letter, thoroughly characteristic of the pluck and cheerfulness of the young British officer, was received from a cavalry subaltern at the front:
October 27.
YOUR two boxes of cigarettes were heaven. We've been in the trenches two days and nights, but no excitements, except a good dose of shrapnel three times a day, which does one no harm and rather relieves the monotony. I've got my half troop, 12 men, in this trench in a root field, with the rest of the squadron about 100 yards each side of us, and a farmhouse, half knocked down by shells, just behind. We get our rations sent up once a day in the dark, and two men creep out to cook tea in the quiet intervals. Tea is the great mainstay on service, just as it was on manoeuvres. The men are splendid, and as happy as schoolboys, and we've got plenty of straw at the bottom of the trench, which is better than any feather bed. We only had one pelting night, and we've had three or four fine days. We have not seen any German infantry from this trench, only one patrol and a sniper or two. Their guns, too, are out of sight, but hardly a mile away.
Our first day's real close-up fighting was the 19th. We cavalry went on about a day and a half in front of the infantry. We got into a village, and our advanced patrols started fighting hard, with a certain amount of fire from everywhere in front of us. Our advanced patrols gained the first group of houses, and we joined them. Firing came from a farm in front of us, and then a man came out of it and waved a white flag. I yelled, "Two hundred; white flag; rapid fire." But —— wouldn't let us fire. Then the squadron advanced across the root fields toward the farm (dismounted, in open order), and they opened a sharp fire on us from the farm. We took three prisoners in the roots, and retired to the houses again. That was our first experience of the white flag dodge; we lost two killed and one wounded.
Then I got leave to make a dash across a field, for another farm where they were sniping at us. I could only get half way, my Sergeant was killed and my Corporal hit. We lay down; luckily it was high roots and we were out of sight; but they had fairly got our range, and the bullets kept knocking up the dirt into one's face and all round. We just lay doggo for about half an hour, and then the fire slackened, and we crawled back.