Chapter XI: Part 11

“Quite home-made, as you see, sir,” remarked the sergeant. “Used to fix them up ourselves in the trenches in odd hours--saved burying the refuse jam tins according to medical corps directions--and you threw them at the _Boches_. Had to use a match to light it. Very old-fashioned, sir. I wonder if that old fuse has got damp. No, it’s going all right”--and he threw the jam pot, which made a good explosion. Later, when he began hammering the end of another, he looked up in mild surprise at the dignified back-stepping of the spectators.

“Is that fuse out?” some one asked.

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir,” he replied. “It’s safer. But here is the best; we’re discarding the others,” he went on, as he picked up a bomb.

It was a pleasure to throw this crowning achievement of experiments. It fitted your hand nicely; it threw easily; it did the business; it was fool-proof against a man in love or a war-poet.

“We saw as soon as this style came out,” said the sergeant, “that it was bound to be popular. Everybody asks for it--except the _Boches_, sir.”

XXII

MY BEST DAY AT THE FRONT

Planning at headquarters--Trench maps--A “hot corner” north of
Ypres--The English in possession--Preparation for a gas
attack--Farming behind the lines--Reaching the tornado belt--
“Policing the district”--Man the most precious machine--A
general’s dugout headquarters--First aid to the wounded--Cave
men at home--The scream of a great shell--A close call--
Galleries to the front--The philosophy of shell-fire--The
flitting planes--An arc of shell fire--Lace work of puffs
from shrapnel bursts--“Artillery preparation for an infantry
attack”--Under a tornado of steel hail.

It was the best day because one ran the gamut of the mechanics and emotions of modern war within a single experience--and oh, the twinkle in that staff officer’s eye!

It was on a Monday that I first met him in the ballroom of a large château. Here another officer was talking over a telephone in an explicit, businesslike fashion about “sending up more bombs,” while we looked at maps spread out on narrow, improvised tables, such as are used for a buffet at a reception. Those maps showed all the British trenches and all the German trenches--spider-web like lines that cunning human spiders had spun with spades--in that region; and where our batteries were and where some of the German batteries were, if our aeroplane observations were correct.

To the layman they were simply blue prints, such as he sees in the office of an engineer or an architect, or elaborate printed maps with many blue and red pencillings. To the general in command they were alive with rifle-power and gun-power and other powers mysterious to us; the sword with which he thrust and feinted and guarded in the ceaseless fencing of trench warfare, while higher authorities than he kept their secrets as he kept his and bided their day.

That morning one of the battalions which had its pencilled place on the map had taken a section of trench from the Germans about the length of two city blocks. It got into the official bulletins of both sides several times, this two hundred yards at Pilken in the everlastingly “hot corner” north of Ypres. So it was of some importance, though not on account of its length.

To take two hundred yards of trench because it is two hundred yards of trench is not good war, tacticians agree. Good war is to have millions of shells and vast reserves ready and to go in over a broad area and keep on going night and day, with a Niagara of artillery, as fresh battalions are fed into the conflict.

But the Germans had command of some rising ground in front of the British line at this point. They could fire down into our trench and crosswise of it. It was as if we were in the alley and they were in a first-floor window. This meant many casualties. It was man-economy and fire-economy to take that two hundred yards. A section of trench may always be taken if worth while. Reduce it to dust with shells and then dash into the breach and drive the enemy back from zigzag traverse to traverse with bombs. But such a small action requires as careful planning as a big operation of other days. We had taken the two hundred yards. The thing was to hold them. That is always the difficulty; for the enemy will concentrate his guns to give you the same dose that you gave him. In an hour after they were in, the British soldiers, who knew exactly what they had to do and how to do it after months of experience, had turned the wreck of the German trenches into a British trench which faced toward Berlin, rather than Calais.

In their official bulletin the Germans said that they had recovered the trench. They did recover part of it for a few hours. It was then that the commander on the German side must have sent in his report to catch the late evening editions. Commanders do not like to confess the loss of trenches. It is the sort of thing that makes Headquarters ask: “What is the matter with you over there, anyway?” There was a time when the German bulletins about the Western front seemed rather truthful; but of late they have been getting into bad habits.

The British general knew what was coming; he knew that he would start the German hornets out of their nest when he took the trench; he knew, too, that he could rely upon his men to hold till they were told to retire or there were none left to retire. The British are a home-loving people, who do not like to be changing their habitations. In succeeding days the question up and down the lines was, “Have we still got that trench?” Only two hundred yards of ditch on the continent of Europe! But was it still ours? Had the Germans succeeded in “strafing” us out of it yet? They had shelled all the trenches in the region of the lost trench and had made three determined and unsuccessful counter-attacks when, on the fifth day, we returned to the château to ask if it were practicable to visit the new trench.

“At your own risk!” said the staff officer. If we preferred we could sit on the veranda where there were easy chairs, on a pleasant summer day. Very peaceful the sweep of the well-kept grounds and the shade of the stately trees of that sequestered world of landscape. Who was at war? Why was any one at war? Two staff automobiles awaiting orders on the drive and a dust-laden despatch rider with messages, who went past toward the rear of the house, were the only visual evidence of war.

The staff officer served the three of us with helmets for protection in case we got into a gas attack. He said that we might enter our front trenches at a certain point and then work our way as near the new part as we could; division headquarters, four or five miles distant, would show us the way. It was then that the twinkle in the staff officer’s eye as it looked straight into yours became manifest. You can never tell, I have learned, just what a twinkle in a British staff officer’s eye may portend. These fellows who are promoted up from the trenches to join the “brain-trust” in the château, know a great deal more about what is going on than you can learn by standing in the road far from the front and listening to the sound of the guns. We encountered a twinkle in another eye at division headquarters, which may have been telephoned ahead along with the instructions, “At their own risk.”

There are British staff officers who would not mind pulling a correspondent’s leg on a summer day; though, perhaps, it was really the Germans who pulled ours, in this instance. Somebody did remark at some headquarters, I recall, that, “You never know!” which shows that staff officers do not know everything. The Germans possess half the knowledge--and they are at great pains not to part with their half.

We proceeded in our car along country roads, quiet, normal country roads, off the main highway. It has been written again and again, and it cannot be written too many times, that life is going on as usual in the rear of the army. Nothing could be more wonderful and yet nothing more natural. All the men of fighting age were absent. White-capped grandmothers, too old to join the rest of the family in the fields, sat in doorways sewing. Everybody was at work and the crops were growing. One never tires of remarking the fact. It brings you back from the destructive orgy of war to the simple, constructive things of life. An industrious people go on cultivating the land and the land keeps on producing. It is pleasant to think that the crops of Northern France were good in 1915. That is cheering news from home for the soldiers of France at the front.

At an indicated point we left the car to go forward on foot, and the chauffeur was told to wait for us at another point. If the car went any farther it might draw shell-fire. Army authorities know how far they may take cars with reasonable safety as well as a pilot knows the rocks and shoals at a harbour entrance.

There was an end of white-capped grandmothers in doorways; an end of people working in the fields. Rents in the roofless walls of unoccupied houses stared at the passerby. We were in a dead land. One of two soldiers whom we met coming from the opposite direction pointed at what looked like a small miner’s cabin half covered with earth, screened by a tree, as the next headquarters which we were seeking in our progress.

It was not for sightseers to take the time of the general, who received us at the door of his dugout. The German guns had concentrated on a section of his trenches in a way that indicated that another attack was coming. One company already had suffered heavy losses. It was an hour of responsibility for the general, isolated in the midst of silent fields and houses, waiting for news from a region hidden from his view by trees and hedges in that flat country. He might not move from headquarters, for then he would be out of communication with his command. His men were being pounded by shells and the inexorable law of organisation kept him at the rear. Up in the trench he might have been one helpless human being in a havoc of shells which had cut the wires. His place was where he could be in touch with his subordinates and his superiors.

True, we wanted to go to the trench that the Germans had lost and his section was the short cut. Modesty was not the only reason for not taking it. As we started along a road parallel to the front, the head of a soldier popped out of the earth and told us that orders were to walk in the ditch. One judged that he was less concerned with our fate than with the likelihood of our drawing fire, which he and the others in a concealed trench would suffer after we had passed on.

There were three of us, two correspondents, L---- and myself, and R----, an officer, which is quite enough for an expedition of this kind. Now we were finding our own way, with the help of the large scale army map which had every house, every farm, and every group of trees marked. The farms had been given such names as Joffre, Kitchener, French, Botha, and others which the Germans would not like. One cut across fields with the same confidence that, following a diagram of city streets in a guidebook, he turns to the left for the public library and to the right for the museum.

Our own guns were speaking here and there from their hiding-places; and overhead an occasional German shrapnel burst. This seemed a waste of the Kaiser’s munitions, as there was no one in sight. Yet there was purpose in the desultory scattering of bullets from on high. They were policing the district; they were warning the hated British in reserve not to play cricket in those fields or march along those deserted roads.

The more bother in taking cover that the Germans can make the British, the better they like it; and the British return the compliment in kind. Everything that harasses your enemy is counted to the good. If every shell fired had killed a man in this war, there would be no soldiers left to fight on either side; yet never have shells been so important in war before. They can reach the burrowing human beings in shelters which are bullet-proof; they are the omnipresent threat of death. The firing of shells from batteries securely hidden and emplaced represents no cost of life to your side, only cost of material; which ridicules the foolish conclusion that machinery and not men count. It is because man is still the most precious machine--a machine that money cannot reproduce--that gun machinery is so much in favour, and every commander wants to use shells as freely as you use city water when you don’t pay for it by metre.

Now another headquarters and another general, also isolated in a dugout, holding the reins of his wires over a section of line adjoining that of the one we had just left. Before we proceeded we must look over his shelter from shell-storms. The only time that these British generals become boastful is over their dugouts. They take all the pride in them of the man who has bought a plot of land and built himself a home; and like him, they keep on making improvements and calling attention to them.

I must say that this was one of the best shelters I have seen anywhere in the tornado belt; and whatever I am not, I am certainly an expert in dugouts. Of course, this general, too, said, “At your own risk!” He was good enough to send a young officer with us up to the trenches; then we should not make any mistakes about direction if we wanted to reach the neighbourhood of the two hundred yards which we had taken from the Germans. When we thanked him and said “Good-bye!” he remarked:

“We never say good-bye up here. It does not sound pleasant. Make it _au revoir_” And he, too, had a twinkle in his eye.

By this time one leg ought to have been so much longer than the other that one would have walked in a circle if he had not had a guide.

That battery which had been near the dugout kept on with its regular firing, its shells sweeping overhead. We had not gone far before we came to a board nailed to a tree with the caution, “Keep to the right!” If you went to the left you might be seen by the enemy, though we were seeing nothing of him, nor of our own trenches yet. Every square yard of this ground had been tried out by actual experience, at the cost of dead and wounded men, till safe lanes of approach had been found.

Next was a clearing station, where the wounded are brought in from the trenches for transfer to ambulances. A glance at the burden on a stretcher just arriving automatically framed the word, “shell-fire!” The stains overrunning on tanned skin beyond the edges of the white bandage were a bright red in the sunlight. A khaki blouse torn open, or a trousers leg, or a sleeve cut down the seam, revealing the white of the first aid and a splash of red, means one man wounded; and by the ones the thousands come.

Fifty wounded men on the floor of a clearing station and the individual is lost in the crowd. When you see the one borne past, if there is nothing else to distract attention you always ask two questions: Will he die? Has he been maimed for life? If the answers to both are No, you feel a sense of triumph, as if you had seen a human play, built skilfully around a life to arouse your emotions, turn out happily.

The man has fought in an honourable cause; he has felt the very touch of death’s fingers. How happy he is when he knows that he will get well! In prospect, as his wound heals into the scar which will be the lasting decoration of his courage, is home and all that it means and those in it mean to him. What kind of a home has he, this private soldier? In the slums, with a slattern wife? Or in a cottage with a flower garden in front, only a few minutes’ walk from the green fields of the English countryside?--but we set out to tell you about the kind of inferno in which this man got his splash of red.

We come to the banks of a canal which has carried the traffic of the Low Countries for many centuries; the canal where the British and French had fought many a Thermopylæ in the last eight months. Along its banks run rows of fine trees narrowing in perspective before the eye. Some have been cut in two by the direct hit of a heavy shell and others splintered down, bit by bit. Others still standing have been hit many times. There are cuts as fresh as if the chip had just flown from the axeman’s blow, and there are scars from cuts made last autumn which nature’s sap, rising as it does in the veins of wounded men, has healed while it sent forth leaves in answer to the call of spring from the remaining branches.

In this neighbourhood the earth is many-mouthed with caves and cut with passages running from cave to cave, so that the inhabitants may go and come hidden from sight. Jawbone and Hairyman and Lowbrow, of the stone age, would be at home here, squatting on their hunkers and tearing at their raw kill with their long incisors. It does not seem a place for men who walk erect, wear woven fabrics, enjoy a written language, and use soap and safety razors. One would not be surprised to see some figure swing down by a long, hairy arm from a branch of a tree and leap on all fours into one of the caves, where he would receive a gibbering welcome to the bosom of his family.

Not so! Huddled in these holes in the earth are free-born men of an old civilisation, who read the daily papers and eat jam on their bread. They do not want to be there, but they would not consider themselves worthy of the inheritance of free-born men if they were not. Only civilised man is capable of such stoicism as theirs. They have reverted to the cave-dweller’s protection because their civilisation is so highly developed that they can throw a piece of steel weighing anywhere from eighteen to two thousand pounds anywhere from five to twenty miles with merciless accuracy, and because the flesh of man is even more tender than in the cave-dweller’s time, not to mention that his brain-case is a larger target.

An officer calls our attention to a shell-proof shelter with the civic pride of a member of a Chamber of Commerce pointing out the new Union Station.

“Not even a high explosive”--the kind that bursts on impact after penetration--“could get into that!” he says. “We make them for generals and colonels and those who have precious heads on their shoulders.”

With material and labour, the same might have been constructed for the soldiers; which brings us back to the question of munitions in the economic balance against a human life. It was the first shelter of this kind which I had seen. One never goes up to the trenches without seeing something new. The defensive is tireless in its ingenuity in saving lives and the offensive in taking them. Safeguards and salvage compete with destruction. And what labour all that excavation and construction represented--the cumulative labour of months and day-by-day repairs of the damage done by shells. After a bombardment, dig out the filled trenches and renew the smashed dugouts to be ready for another go!

The walls of that communication trench were two feet above our heads. We noticed that all the men were in their dugouts; none were walking about in the open. One knew the meaning of this barometer--stormy. The German gunners were “strafing quite lively” this afternoon.

Already we had noticed many shells bursting five or six hundred yards away, in the direction of the new British trench; but at that distance they do not count. Then a railroad train seemed to have jumped the track and started to fly. Fortunately and unfortunately, sound travels faster than big shells of low velocity; fortunately, because it gives you time to be undignified in taking cover; unfortunately, because it gives you a fraction of a second to reflect whether or not that shell has your name and your number on Dugout Street. I was certain that it was a big shell, of the kind that will blow a dugout to pieces. Any one who had never heard a shell before would have “scrooched,” as the small boys say, as instinctively as you draw back when the through express tears past the station. It is the kind of scream that makes you want to roll yourself into a package about the size of a pea, while you feel as tall and large as a cathedral, judged by the sensation that travels down your backbone.

Once I was being hoisted up a cliff in a basket, when the rope on the creaking windlass above slipped a few inches. Well, it is like that, or like taking a false step on the edge of a precipice. Is the clock about to strike twelve or not? Not this time! The burst was thirty yards away, along the path we had just traversed, and the sound of it was like the burst of a shell and like nothing else in the world, just as the swirling, boring, growing scream of a shell is like no other scream in the world. A gigantic hammerhead sweeps through the air and breaks a steel drumhead.

If we had come along half a minute later we should have had a better view, and perhaps now we should have been on a bed in a hospital worrying how we were going to pay the rent, or in the place where, hopefully, we have no worries at all. Between walls of earth the report was deadened to our ears in the same way as a revolver report in an adjoining room; and not much earth had gone down the backs of our necks from the concussion.

Looking over the parapet, we saw a cloud of thick, black smoke; and we heard the outcry of a man who had been hit. That was all. The shell might have struck nearer without our having seen or heard any more. Shut in by the gallery walls, one knows as little of what happens in an adjoining cave as a clam buried in the sand knows of what is happening to a neighbour clam. A young soldier came half stumbling into the nearest dugout. He was shaking his head and batting his ears as if he had sand in them. Evidently he was returning to his home cave from a call on a neighbour which had brought him close to the burst.

“That must have been about six- or seven-inch,” I said to the officer, trying to be moderate and casual in my estimate, which is the correct form on such occasions. My actual impression was forty-inch.

“Nine inch, h. e.,” replied the expert. This was gratifying. It was the first time that I had been that near to a nine-inch shell explosion. Its “eat-’em-alive” frightfulness was depressing. But the experience was worth having. One wants all the experiences there are--but only “close.” A delightful word that word close, at the front!

But the Germans were generous that afternoon. Another big scream seemed aimed at my own head. L---- disagreed with me; he said that it was aimed at his. We did not argue the matter to the point of a personal quarrel, for it might have got both our heads. It burst back of the trench about as far away as the other shell. After all, a trench is a pretty narrow ribbon, even on a gunner’s large scale map, to hit. It is wonderful how, firing at such long ranges, he is able to hit the trench at all.

This was all of the nine-inch style, for the time being. We got some fours and fives in our neighbourhood, as we walked along. Three bursting as near together as the ticks of a clock, made almost no smoke as they brought some tree-limbs down and tore away a section of a trunk. Then the thunder storm moved on to another part of the line. Only, unlike the thunder storms of nature, this, which is man-made and controlled as a fireman controls the nozzle of his hose, may sweep back again and yet again over its path. All depends upon the decision of a German artillery officer, just as whether or not a flower bed shall get another sprinkle depends upon the will of the gardener.

We were glad to turn out of the support trench into a communication trench leading toward the front trench; into another gallery cut deep in the fields, with scattered shell-pits on either side. Still more soldiers, leaning against the walls or seated with their legs stretched out across the bottom of the ditch; more waiting soldiers, only strung out in a line and as used to the passing of shells as people living along the elevated railroad line to the passing of trains. They did not look up at the screams boring the air any more than one who lives under the trains looks up every time that one passes. Theirs was the passivity of a queue waiting in line before the entrance to a theatre or a ball-ground.

A senator or a lawyer, used to coolness in debate, or to presiding over great meetings, or to facing crowds, who happened to visit the trenches could have got reassurance from the faces of any one of these private soldiers, who had been trained not to worry about death till death came. Harrowing every one of these screams, taken by itself. Instinctively, unnecessarily, you dodged at those which were low-- unnecessarily because they were from British guns. No danger from them unless there was a short fuse. To the soldiers, the low screams brought the delight of having blows struck from their side at the enemy, whom they themselves could not strike from their reserve position.

For we were under the curving sweep of both the British and the German shells, as they passed in the air on the way to their targets. It was like standing between two railroad tracks with trains going by in opposite directions. You came to differentiate between the multitudinous screams. “Ours!” you exclaimed, with the same delight as when you see that your side has the ball. The spirit of battle contest rose in you. There was an end of philosophy. These soldiers in the trenches were your partisans. Every British shell was working for them and for you, giving blow for blow.

The score of the contest of battle is in men down; in killed and wounded. For every man down on your side you want two men down on the enemy’s. Sport ceases. It is the fight between a burglar with a revolver in his hand and a knife between his teeth; and a wounded man brought along the trench, a visible, intimate proof of a hit by the enemy, calls for more and harder blows.

Looking over the parapet of the communication trench you saw fields, lifeless except for the singing birds in the wheat, who had also the spirit of battle. The more shells, the more they warble. It was always so on summer days. Between the screams you heard their full-pitched chorus, striving to make itself heard in competition with the song of German invasion and British resistance. Mostly, the birds seemed to take cover like mankind; but I saw one sweep up from the golden sea of ripening grain toward the men-brothers with their wings of cloth.

Was this real, or was it extravaganza? Painted airships and a painted summer sky? The audacity of those British airmen! Two of them were spotting the work of British guns by their shell-bursts and watching for gun-flashes which would reveal concealed German battery positions, and whispering results by wireless to their own batteries.

It is a great game. Seven or eight thousand feet high, directly over the British planes, is a single Taube cruising for the same purpose. It looks like a beetle with gossamer wings suspended from a light cloud. The British aviators are so low that the bull’s-eye identification marks are distinctly visible to the naked eye. They are playing in and out, like the short stop and second baseman around second, there in the very arc of the passing shells from both sides fired at other targets. But scores of other shells are most decidedly meant for them. In the midst of a lace-work of puffs of shrapnel bursts, which slowly spread in the still air, from the German anti-aircraft guns, they dip and rise and turn in skilful dodging. At length, one retires for good; probably his planecloth has become too much like a sieve from shrapnel fragments to remain aloft longer.

Come down, Herr Taube, come down where we can have a shot at you! Get in the game! You can see better at the altitude of the British airmen! But Herr Taube always stays high--the Br’er Fox of the air. Of course, it was not so exciting as the pictures that artists draw, but it was real.

Every kind of shell was being fired, low and high velocity, small and large calibre. One-two-three-four in quick succession as the roll of a drum, four German shells burst in line up in the region where we have made ourselves masters of the German trench. British shells responded.

“Ours again!”

But I had already ducked before I spoke, as you might if a pellet of steel weighing a couple of hundred pounds, going at the rate of a thousand yards a second or more, passed within a few yards of your head--ducked to find myself looking into the face of a soldier, who was smiling. The smile was not scornful, but it was at least amused at the expense of the sightseer, who had dodged one of our own shells. In addition to the respirators in case of a possible gas attack, supplied by that staff officer with a twinkle in his eye, we needed a steel rod fastened to the back of our necks and running down our spinal columns in order to preserve our dignity.

We were witnessing what is called the “artillery preparation for an infantry attack,” which was to try to recover that two hundred yards of trench from the British. Only the Germans did not limit their attention to the lost trench alone. It was hottest there around the bend of our line, from our view-point; for there they must maul the trench into formless _débris_ and cut the barbed wire in front of it before the charge was made.

“They touch up all the trenches in the neighbourhood to keep us guessing,” said the officer, “before they make their final concentration. So it’s pretty thick around this part.”

“Which might include the communication trench?”

“Certainly. This makes a good line shot. No doubt they will spare us a few when they think it is our turn. We do the same thing. So it goes.”

From the variety of screams of big shells and little shells and screams harrowingly close and reassuringly high, which were indicated as ours, one was warranted in suggesting that the British were doing considerable artillery preparation themselves.

“We must give them as good as they send--and more.”

More seemed correct.

“Those close ones you hear are doubtless meant for the front German trench, which accounts for their low trajectory; the others for their support trenches or any battery positions that our planes have located.”

We could not see where the British shells were striking. We could judge only of the accuracy of some of the German fire. Considering the storm being visited on the support trench which we had just left, we were more than ever glad to be out of it. Artillery is the war burglar’s jimmy; but it has to batter the house into ruins and smash all the plate and blow up the safe and kill most of the family before the burglar can enter. Clouds of dust rose from the explosions; limbs of trees were lopped off by tornadoes of steel hail.

“There! Look at that tree!”

In front of a portion of the British support trench a few of a line of stately shade trees were still standing. A German shell, about an eight-inch, one judged, struck fairly in the trunk of one about the same height from the ground as the lumberman sinks his axe in the bark. The shimmer of hot gas spread out from the point of explosion. Through it as through an aureole one saw that twelve inches of green wood had been cut in two as neatly as a thistle stem is severed by a sharp blow from a walking-stick. The body of the tree was carried across the splintered stump with crushing impact from the power of its flight, plus the power of the burst of the explosive charge which broke the shell-jacket into slashing fragments; and the towering column of limbs, branches, and foliage laid its length on the ground with a majestic dignity. Which shows what one shell can do, one of three which burst in the neighbourhood at the same time. In time, the shells would get all the trees; make them into chips and splinters and toothpicks.

“I’d rather that it would hit a tree-trunk than my trunk,” said L----.

“But you would not have got it as badly as the tree,” said the officer reassuringly. “The substance would have been too soft for sufficient impact for a burst. It would have gone right through!”

XXIII

MORE BEST DAY

“Without any anæsthetic”--Tea at a dugout--Over the wires “German
West Africa fallen”--Playing with death--A tragedy--Travelling
the “narrow cut of earth”--Good manners of the trenches--And
democracy--“The men who will rule England”--A periscope glance
at the German trench--A “direct hit” for the British--“Bombing
up ahead!”--A gas shell--Under heavy fire--“Like beating up
grouse to the guns and we are the birds”--Crash!--And safe
again!--A “dead heat” to cover--A touch of “nerves”--Back to
the dead land behind the trenches.

At battalion headquarters in the front trenches the battalion surgeon had just amputated an arm which had been mauled by a shell.

“Without any anæsthetic,” he explained. “No chance if we sent him back to the hospital. He would die on the way. Stood it very well. Already chirking up.”

A family practitioner at home, the doctor, when the war began, had left his practice to go with his Territorial battalion. He retains the family practitioner’s cheery, assuring manner. He is the kind of man who makes you feel better immediately he comes into the sick-room; who has already made you forget yourself when he puts his finger on your pulse. There are thousands of that kind at home. Probably you have sent a hurry telephone call for his like more than once.

“The same thing that we might have done in the Crimea,” he continued, “only we have antiseptics now. It’s wonderful how little you can work with and how excellent the results. Strong, healthy men, these, with great recuperative power and discipline and resolution--very different patients from those we usually operate on.”

Tea was served inside the battalion commander’s dugout. Tea is as essential every afternoon to the British as ice to the average American in summer. They don’t think of getting on without it if they can possibly have it, and it is part of the rations. As well take cigarettes away from those who smoke as tea from the British soldier.

It was very much like tea outside the trenches, so far as any signs of perturbation about shells and casualties were concerned. In that the battalion commander had to answer telegrams, it had the aspect of a busy man’s sandwich at his desk for luncheon. Good news to cheer the function had just come over the network of wires which connects up the whole army, from trenches to headquarters--good news in the midst of the shells.

German West Africa had fallen. Botha, who was fighting against the British fifteen years ago, had taken it fighting for the British. A suggestive thought that. It is British character that brings enemies like Botha into the fold; the old, good-natured, sportsmanlike, live-and-let-live idea, which has something to do with keeping the United States intact. A board with the news on it in German was put up over the British trenches. Naturally, the board was shot full of holes; for it is clear that the Germans are not yet ready to come into the British Empire.

“Hans and Jacob we have named them,” said the colonel, referring to two Germans who were buried back of his dugout. “It’s dull up here when the _Boches_ are not shelling, so we let our imaginations play. We hold conversations with Hans and Jacob in our long watches. Hans is fat and cheerful and trusting. He believes everything that the Kaiser tells him and has a cheerful disposition. But Jacob is a professor and a fearful ‘strafer.’ It seems a little gruesome, doesn’t it, but not after you have been in the trenches for a while.”

A little gruesome--true! Not in the trenches--true, too! Where all is satire, no incongruity seems out of place. Life plays in and out with death; they intermingle; they look each other in the face and say, “I know you. We dwell together. Let us smile when we may, at what we may, to hide the character of our comradeship; for to-morrow--”

Only half an hour before one of the officers had been shot through the head by a sniper. He was a popular officer. The others had messed with him and marched with him and known him in the fulness of affection of comradeship in arms and dangers shared. A heartbreak for some home in England. No one dwelt on the incident. What was there to say? The trembling lip, trembling in spite of itself, was the only outward sign of the depth of feeling that words could not reflect, at tea in the dugout. The subject was changed to something about the living. One must carry on cheerfully; one must be on the alert; one must play his part serenely, unflinchingly, for the sake of the nerves around him and for his own sake. Such fortitude becomes automatic, it would seem. Please, I must not hesitate about having a slice of cake. They managed cake without any difficulty up there in the trenches. And who if not men in the trenches was entitled to cake, I should like to know?

“It was here that he was hit,” another officer said, as we moved on in the trench. “He was saying that the sandbags were a little weak there and a bullet might go through and catch a man, who thought himself safely under cover as he walked along. He had started to fix the sandbags himself when he got it. The bullet came right through the top of one of the bags in front of him.”

A bullet makes the merciful wound; and a bullet through the head is a simple way of going. The bad wounds come mostly from shells; but there is something about seeing any one hit by a sniper which is more horrible. It is a cold-blooded kind of killing, more suggestive of murder, this single shot from a sharpshooter waiting as patiently as a cat for a mouse, aimed definitely to take the life of one man.

Again we move on in that narrow cut of earth with its waiting soldiers, which the world knows so well from reading tours of the trenches. No one not on watch might show his head on an afternoon like this. The men were prisoners between those walls of earth; not even spectators of what the guns were doing; simply moles. They took it all as a part of the day’s work, with that singular, redoubtable combination of British phlegm and cheerfulness.

Of course, some of them were eating bread and marmalade and making tea. Where all the marmalade goes which Mr. Atkins uses for his personal munition in fighting the Germans puzzles the Army Service Corps, whose business it is to see that he is never without it. How could he sit so calmly under shell-fire without marmalade? Never! He would get fidgetty and forget his lesson, I am sure, like the boy who had the button which he was used to fingering removed before he went to recite.

Any minute a shell may come. Mr. Atkins does not think of that. Time enough to think after it has arrived. Then perhaps the burial party will be doing your thinking for you; or if not, the doctors and the nurses who look after you will.

I noted certain acts of fellowship of comrades who are all in the same boat and have learned unselfishness. When they got up to let you pass and you smiled your thanks, you received a much pleasanter smile in return than you will from many a well-fed gentleman, who has to stand aside to let you enter a restaurant. The manners of the trenches are good, better than in many places where good manners are a cult.

There is no better place to send a spoiled, undisciplined, bumptious youth than to a British trench. He would learn that there are other men in the world besides himself and that a shell can kill a rich brute or a selfish brute as readily as a poor man. Democracy there is in the trenches; the democracy where all men are in the presence of death and “hazing” parties need not be organised among the students.

But there is another and a greater element in the practical psychology of the trenches. These good-natured men, fighting the bitterest kind of warfare, without the signs of brutality which we associate with the prize fighter and the bully in their faces, know why they are fighting. They consider that their duty is in that trench, and that they could not have a title to manhood if they were not there. After the war the men who have been in the trenches will rule England. Their spirit and their thinking will fashion the new trend of civilisation, and the men who have not fought will bear the worst scars from the war.

Ridiculous it is that men should be moles, perhaps; but at the same time there is something sublime in the fellowship of their courage and purpose, as they “sit and take it,” or guard against attacks, without the passion of battle of the old days of excited charges and quick results, and watch the toll pass by from hour to hour. Borne by comrades pickaback we saw the wounded carried along that passage too narrow for a litter. A splash of blood, a white bandage, a limp form!

For the second permissible--periscopes are tempting targets--I looked through one over the top of the parapet. Another film! A big British lyddite shell went crashing into the German parapet. The dust from sandbags and dugouts merged into an immense cloud of ugly, black smoke. As the cloud rose, one saw the figure of a German dart out of sight; then nothing was visible but the gap which the explosion has made. No wise German would show himself there. British snipers were watching for him. At least half a dozen, perhaps a score, of men had been put out by this single “direct hit” of an h. e. (high explosive). Yes, the British gunners were shooting well, too. Other periscopic glimpses proved it.

Through the periscope we learned also that the two lines of sandbags of German and British trenches were drawing nearer together. Another wounded man was brought by.

“They’re bombing up ahead. He has just been hit by a bomb.”

As we drew aside to make room for him to pass, once more the civilian realised his helplessness and unimportance. One soldier was worth ten Prime Ministers in that place. We were as conspicuously _mal à propos_ as an outsider at a bank directors’ meeting or in a football scrimmage. The officer politely reminded us of the necessity of elbow room in the narrow quarters for the bombers, who were hidden from view by the zigzag traverses, and I was not sorry, though perhaps my companions were. If so, they did not say so, not being talkative men. We were not going to see that two hundred yards of captured trench that was beyond the bombing action, after all. Oh, the twinkle in that staff officer’s eye!

“A _Boche_ gas shell!” we were told, as we passed an informal excavation in the communication trench on our way back. “Asphyxiating effect. No time to put on respirators when one explodes. Laid out half a dozen men like fish, gasping for air, but they will recover.”

“The _Boches_ want us to hurry!” exclaimed L----.

They were giving the communication trench a turn at “strafing,” now, and shells were urgently dropping behind us. There was no use of trying to respond to one’s natural inclination to run away from the pursuing shower when you had to squeeze past soldiers as you went.

“But look at what we are going into! This is like beating up grouse to the guns, and we are the birds! I am wondering if I like it.”

We could tell what had happened in our absence in the support trench by the litter of branches and leaves and by the excavations made by shells. It was still happening, too. Another nine-inch, with your only view of your surroundings the wall of earth which you hugged. Crash-- and safe again!

“Pretty!” L---- said, smiling. He was referring to the cloud of black smoke from the burst. Pretty is a favourite word of his. I find that men use habitual exclamations on such occasions. R----, also smiling, had said, “A black business, this!” a favourite expression with him.

“Yet--pretty!” R---- and I exclaimed together.

L---- took a sliver off his coat and offered it to us as a souvenir. He did not know that he had said “Pretty!” or R---- that he had said “A black business!” several times that afternoon; nor did I know that I had exclaimed “For the love of Mike!” Psychologists take notice; and golfers are reminded that their favourite expletives when they foozle will come perfectly natural to them when the Germans are “strafing.” Then another nine-inch, when we were out of the gallery in front of the warrens. My companions happened to be near a dugout. They did not go in tandem, but abreast. It was a “dead heat.” All that I could see in the way of cover was a wall of sandbags, which looked about as comforting as tissue paper in such a crisis.

At least, one faintly realised what it meant to be in the support trenches, where the men were still huddled in their caves. They never get a shot at the enemy or a chance to throw a bomb, unless they are sent forward to assist the front trenches in resisting an attack. It is for this purpose that they are kept within easy reach of the front trenches. They are like the prisoner tied to a chair-back, facing a gun.

“Yes, this was pretty heavy shell-fire,” said an officer, who ought to know. “Not so bad as on the trenches which the infantry are to attack--that is the first degree. You might call this the second.”

It was heavy enough to keep any writer from being bored. The second degree will do. We will leave the first till another time.

Later, when we were walking along a paved road, I heard what seemed the siren call of another nine-inch. Once, in another war, I had been on a paved road when--well, I did not care to be on this one if a nine-inch hit it and turned fragments of paving-stones into projectiles. An effort to “run out the bunt”--Cæsar’s ghost! It was one of our own shells! Nerves! Shame! Two stretcher-bearers with a wounded man looked up in surprise, wondering what kind of a hide-and-seek game we were playing. They made a picture of imperturbability of the kind that is a cure for nerves under fire. If the other fellow is not scared it does not do for you to be scared.

“Did you get any shells in your neighbourhood?” we asked the chauffeur--also British and imperturbable--whom we found waiting at a clearing station for wounded.

“Yes, sir, I saw several, but none hit the car.”

As we came to the first cross-roads in that dead land back of the trenches which was still being shelled by shrapnel, though not another car was in sight and ours had no business there (as we were told afterward), that chauffeur, as he slowed up before turning, held out his hand from habit as he would have done in Piccadilly.

Two or three days later things were normal along the front again, with Mr. Atkins still stuffing himself with marmalade in that two hundred yards of trench.

XXIV

WINNING AND LOSING

The Western front: a pulsating, changing line--Offensive with the
British--The buoyant youth of England--Not a “good show”--
English sportsmanship--A successful battalion--Psychology of
the charge--“Here we are again!”--Stories of the capture--The
“Keetcheenaires”--An army in the making.

Seeming an immovable black line set as a frontier in peace, that Western front on your map which you bought early in the war in anticipation of rearranging the flags in keeping with each day’s news was, in reality, a pulsating, changing line.

At times one thought of it as an enormous rope under the constant pressure of soldiers on either side, who now and then, with an “all together” of a tug of war at a given point, straightened or made a bend, with the result imperceptible except as you measured it by a tree or a house. Battles as severe as the most important in South Africa, battles severe enough to have decided famous campaigns in Europe in older days, when one king rode forth against another, became the landmark incidents of the give and take, the wrangling and the wrestling of siege operations.

The sensation of victory or defeat for those engaged became none the less vivid because victory meant the gain of so little ground and defeat the loss of so little; perhaps the more vivid in want of the movement of pursuing or of being pursued in the shock of arms in past times when an army front hardly covered that of one brigade in the trenches. For winners and losers returning to their billets in French villages, as other battalions took their places, had time to think over the action.

The offensive was mostly with the British through the summer of 1915; any thrust by the Germans was usually to retake a section of trenches which they had lost. But our attacks did not all succeed, of course. Battalions knew success and failure; and their narratives were mine to share, just as one would share the good luck or the bad luck of his neighbours.

You may have a story of heartbreak or triumph an hour after you have been chatting with playing children in a village street, as the car speeds toward the zone where the reserves are billeted and the occasional shell is warning that peace is behind you. First, one alights near the headquarters of two battalions which have been in an attack that failed. The colonel of the one to the left of the road was killed. We go across the fields to the right. Among the surviving officers resting in their shelter tents, where there is plenty of room now, is the adjutant, tall, boyish, looking tired, but still with no outward display of what he has gone through and what it has meant to him. I have seen him by the hundreds, this buoyant type of English youth. The colonel comes out of the farmhouse and he sends for some other officers.