Chapter XIII: “petit Post”

Out where the night seems the blackest, where one is unable to see his hands before his face, and where, in many instances, due to close proximity of the enemy trenches, one is compelled to be as quiet as a mouse, there is located in a shell-hole or the like is the _Petit Post_ (or listening post), which is employed by all armies engaged in carrying on modern trench warfare.

Out in front of even your own barb wire, with no form of protection from the enemy, two men must be constantly on watch, in order to send up signals in the event that Fritz decides to come over with his nippers for the purpose of slashing a passage in the wire that his men may come through quickly in order to prevent the machine guns from collecting too much toll. It is necessary for the men at the post to lie flat and listen for the nip of the wire clippers. If this comes, it is their duty to signal the front-line trench, and, with star shells, the machine-gunners can discern the enemy and put the finishing touches on the wire-clipping party.

The end generally comes before they even get started. As soon as these men know that the enemy are over, in addition to sending up their signals, they throw out six or eight hand grenades, and then run back to their trenches as best they can and assist in the defense in the case of an attack. But the thing to imagine is lying out there in the rain and mud with absolutely no protection, the wind cutting to the marrow and moaning mournfully as it sweeps over “No Man’s Land,” whistling through the barb-wire entanglements. The night seems just that much blacker after the star shell dies out, for such is the blinding effect on the eyes.

There have been many instances where enemy patrols have stumbled right into these little listening posts while they are on patrol duty in “No Man’s Land,” and other instances have been known where one patrol would be walking side by side with an enemy patrol until someone would happen to discover the fact and then there was always a fight. A few exchanges of shots, a few thuds from the swinging of butt ends of guns and all was over in a few moments.

Picture yourself on such duty where even a whisper will bring you a present in the form of a hand grenade, and when there are no wire-cutting operations on, or enemy patrols to bother you, it rains, and you wallow in mud like an animal with your knees knocking together, and your clothing so wet that it sticks to your body. But this is very important work and must be performed. Two lives out there may mean the saving of hundreds in the trenches.

All such operations as cutting the wire and patrol duty are carried on under the cover of darkness, with only the intermittent star shell, which is sent up like a rocket to impede the work. When these are in the sky it is necessary for everyone between the trenches to lie flat on the ground because a man standing with this light on him would be a mark for the enemy sniper.

I have known of instances where men on patrol duty have been shot early in the morning while inspecting the wire, and, falling over, hung there entangled in utter helplessness. The light coming on prevented their comrades from rescuing them and they lay there for days at a time with the German machine guns trained on them. Once in a life time on _Petit post_ is enough—an abundant sufficiency.