S.O.S. Stand to! Part 13

So that when we finally tumbled in, it was long after the witching hour of night.

The dugout we occupied we had built ourselves, and we took great pains to make it as roomy and comfortable as possible; hence the tendency of the fellows to make it their rendezvous. Our bunks consisted of sandbags spread out on the floor, and the ceremony of retiring occupied about one minute or less.

A half-m.u.f.fled shriek woke me from a sound sleep and brought me bolt upright in the bunk. In the blackness I could just discern the outline of a man standing in the middle of the dugout and gulping as if trying to catch his breath. I jumped up and went to him. It was Billy. "What is it, Billy? What's the trouble?"

"Oh, Reg," he gasped, "I have had the most horrible dream!" He was shaking like an aspen. I put my arm around him and drew him over to my bunk. "Come, lie down with me, old man, and you will be as right as the rain in a minute." He laid down alongside of me and, still s.h.i.+vering, he recounted his dream to me.

"Do you remember that night I was telling you about when I was out observing?"

"Yes," I answered.

"Where we lost Thompson and the others when the flare went up? Well, you know that big Prussian I told you about, that came so near getting me?

Do you know that fellow's face has never been out of my thoughts since I killed him, and I dreamed we were out there on that same spot again, and again the flare went up and we were rushed, and who should come at me but this man I had killed. I shrieked: 'You're dead! I killed you once.

Get to h.e.l.l out of here!' But he only gave a ghoulish grin and came at me. I dodged his blow and ran my bayonet through him, as I thought, but there he was coming at me again. Again I dodged and plunged into him, and again he was coming. Suddenly all power left me; my hands, arms and legs became nerveless, and I stood rooted; he clubbed his rifle, and as it crashed on my skull I awoke, and that must have been the time I cried out. And, Reg, just as sure as I am lying here, my number is up. I am as good as dead, I tell you."

"Now, don't talk such utter d.a.m.n nonsense, Billy," I said, doing my utmost to comfort him.

"No d.a.m.n nonsense about it. You know yourself we started out yesterday with thirteen men and Lawrence got it, and here tonight every letter we got was postmarked the thirteenth, and I just can't get it out of my nut, and I am not going to try any further."

"Billy, don't you want to live to get back home? Don't you know what it will mean to your mother and your father if anything happens to you?

Well, what's the use of tempting fate? If it will come, it will come, and nothing you or I can do will prevent it; but there is something that helps a man--call it luck, or fate, or providence, or what you will--by keeping the idea firmly fixed in your mind that nothing can harm you."

I knew in my heart that nothing could prevent the dread messenger's visit when it was actually headed for one, still my philosophy had taught me that so far as I myself was concerned my determination to think positively about the matter had sustained me through many a trying moment when the fires of h.e.l.l had surged about me, and up to that time I was as much alive as any man could wish to be, and I determined to stick to the philosophy, no matter how foolish it might seem when the cold light of logic played upon it.

A deep sigh was his answer. I continued for half an hour to encourage and jolly him, telling him that dreams always went by the contrary, and my efforts were rewarded by his growing calm and promising he would fight tooth and nail against the thought, and we finally dropped off to sleep.

"Show a leg, Grant, show a leg, cookhouse up," was yelled at me as daylight broke, and up we tumbled. I was much relieved that Billy was looking and acting as if nothing whatever disturbed him, except the possibility of being a second behind anybody else in getting to the cookhouse.

Although we were bosom friends and companions, there was just a shade of the big-brother idea on my part of the fellows.h.i.+p, and I kept track of him whenever and wherever I could. This was not alone because of the congenial soul that was within him, but, also, because I had learned through him to know his mother. And such a mother! It is a forward impetus on life's journey to know such a woman, and I knew instinctively she would expect me to keep an eye on him. And so, while I was fulfilling my duty, I had the double satisfaction of having combined with it the pleasure of a.s.sociation with a fellow whose tastes and ideals were absolutely akin to my own. There was no confidence we did not share; we laid bare our hearts to each other; in short, we were chums in every sense that the word implies.

Billy was ready for breakfast a second or two ahead of me, and he started up the steps, out through the door of the dugout. "I'm coming,"

I called, and grabbed my mess-tin and went up the steps two at a time.

I reached the top and the door of the dugout, and, simultaneously, a roar and rush of air struck me, and I was thrown to the floor, stunned for the moment. My senses quickly recovered themselves, and I found my face and clothes dripping with blood. I commenced looking for my wound, but failed to find any. The discovery momentarily mystified me. It was blood, but whose? There was no report or explosion. A dead sh.e.l.l! A terrible fear took possession of me, and I shot up the steps into the trench. The Thing that met my eyes stilled my heart with a chill. The headless body of Billy lay at my feet. It was his life's blood that covered my face and clothes. A mist shrouded my brain for a moment, as I leaned against the side of the trench, utterly unable to speak or think.

Then as the truth of the Thing worked its way into my brain, I glanced around for the cause. A large, jagged hole had been torn through in our front trench wall by a 300-pound sh.e.l.l, had snuffed out my pal's life in its course, and buried itself in the parados of the trench. There it was, the rear end of it just inside the outside edge of the hind trench wall, and when it exploded it meant death for any living thing within a radius of several yards.

Nature's primal law a.s.serted itself and I dragged the remains of my best-loved friend several yards away and took from his pockets all his belongings and trinkets, and when I came to the photograph, partly stained with his heart's blood, hot, scalding tears blinded my eyes, and in deference to my dead friend's desire, I retained the photo, intending to get the news and picture back to her--in person, if possible. The O.C. took charge of the balance of his effects.

Disregarding all thought of my own peril from the unexploded sh.e.l.l which lay at the mouth of our dugout, I ran down the steps and got a blanket, in which I wrapped the poor headless body, and then reported to the O.C.

and received orders to keep my men away from the spot for twelve hours.

I hastened to the cookhouse and imparted the news to the men, as well as the orders. Heartfelt expressions of regret came from all, for in spite of his const.i.tutional nervousness, Billy was a prime favorite. But I knew that I was the only one with whom the pain and sting would live; the men were so calloused by such happenings that they no longer made a lasting impression.

That was the longest and dreariest day I ever remember throughout my three years of campaigning. No thought of my turn coming entered my head, as I had so schooled myself into the belief that Fritz could not make a sh.e.l.l for me that I had long since ceased to give the matter any consideration whatsoever.

The day's work kept me from giving way to grief, and at nine o'clock that night, when in the cookhouse, I heard a whistle and someone shouted my name. It was our O.C., Major Wright. I hastened to his dugout.

"Sergeant Grant, I want you to take a party of six and make a grave and bury poor McLean. I know something of the relations.h.i.+p that existed between you, and I know that you will spare no effort to see that he is properly buried. While you are working I will try and fas.h.i.+on a cross for him. Report as soon as you are finished."

"Yes, sir," and I saluted and went to the dugout occupied by my squad.

The men were either reading or writing letters, and not only the six, but the ten of them responded, dropping their letters and books, and asked to take part in the burial. So we paddled through the darkness and the mud to where the body lay, and as we approached we noticed several huge rats scurrying away from it. A hatred for the vermin almost as intense as for the Hun has possessed me ever since. Of course, the b.e.s.t.i.a.lity of the latter has descended to such depths of infamy that it is impossible quite to cla.s.s them with any other breed of vermin; it would be an insult even to the rat.

We dug the grave as well as we could, a.s.sisted by such light as we got from the intermittent flashes of the guns and the edge of the flare gleams sent up by the enemy every little while. When the melancholy work was almost complete, I hurried over to the O.C. and he handed me the simple cross he had made,--just two pieces of wood with the inscription, "William McLean, C.E.F., September 30th, 1916, R.I.P."

"When you have finished, Grant, take the party and build up the part of your trench that was shot away this morning."

I saluted and returned to the grave. The boys had finished; there was nothing more on earth we could do for Billy.

"O.C. says to build up the hole in the trench that was shot away this morning; you can go, fellows; get busy and I will be with you in a minute." They started and I was alone. Bitter tears again half blinded me as I placed the sign of the Christ at the grave's head; I couldn't place it at Billy's, because the sh.e.l.l had obliterated all traces of his head. With a short but very earnest prayer that G.o.d would help his mother and dear ones to sustain their loss and soften their grief, I hurriedly rejoined my men. On the way over I could not help thinking how lonely it would be that night in the dugout without Billy, and memories of the hundred and one incidents connected with our toil and trouble and joy in fixing up our nest flocked through my tired mind.

They were hard at work mending the damage done at daybreak by that messenger of h.e.l.l. As I reached the spot, one of the boys remarked, "If that sh.e.l.l explodes before we get through, there will be no need of a grave for us." Very nearly fifteen hours had pa.s.sed, however, since it had struck, and none of us felt there was any danger from that direction, as it was quite uncommon for any of them to burst if they had not done so within at least twelve hours, and I answered, "Oh, no, fellows, there is nothing to fear from it." I stepped to the back of the trench where the sh.e.l.l was imbedded in the parados and examined the spot. "I guess it is there for keeps," I said, and returned to work. In a few minutes one or two of the boys complained of thirst, and I volunteered to get water. I ran down the steps into my dugout, got Billy's water bottle and my own, and doubled down to the cook's dugout, filled them with drinking water, and was just starting back when the ground under me shook with an explosion, splinters coming from all directions, and one of them slightly wounding the cook. I thought at first Fritz had struck an ammunition depot, so tremendous was the roar.

I grabbed the bottles and shot back to my party.

They did not need the water; they had been swept into eternity by the dead sh.e.l.l, and I was the sole surviving man of the thirteen-squad that I had taken into the line the night before.

CHAPTER XV

SATAN'S Sh.e.l.lS AND SCENTED GAS

Prior to an attack in the morning, we cleaned up the gun and ammunition, getting everything in shape and retiring at 11:30. "Stand to!" was called at four o'clock, firing commenced at 4:30, and we worked our guns for two hours, during which time the boys went over, took three lines of trenches from Fritz and in a remarkably short time, hundreds of prisoners were turning into our lines without escort.

That night the prisoners were employed going up and down our lines carrying out wounded. I shall never forget the contented look on the faces of these captives as they worked inside our lines; they did everything required of them with a willingness and cheerfulness that at first seemed to be amazing. Most of them were young Bavarians and presented a very shabby appearance.

We then decreased our rate of fire, letting go one round every two minutes, giving us time to sit around and chat about the big surprise we had given Fritz and the success of our attack. Before giving the word to fire I would first warn the men, so they could look out for their eardrums, besides getting out of the way; we never fire unknowingly to any of the men as the concussion works a severe hards.h.i.+p on the ears.

One of the boys was sitting on an ammunition box, leaning against the gun wheel, with his feet on a little fireplace that we had taken a chance on installing, thinking the fog was so thick Fritz would not notice the smoke. As usual, our ammunition was stationed in our rear.

One fellow was squatting on the sand bags and leaning against the sh.e.l.ls; I was sitting in seat three, between the gun wheel and the left side, while another was on seat four, also between the gun wheel and the gun on the right; another man was standing ready to put a sh.e.l.l in the muzzle.

"Fellows, are you ready?" I asked.

"All right."

"Fire!"

The next instant I felt my feet giving way from under me. The gun had blown off at the s.h.i.+eld, the muzzle being blown to pieces, gas and fumes filled the air, the spokes were blown out of the wheels, splinters striking me on the feet and legs. I started to the front of the gun and fell on top of Graham.

"What happened?" he asked. "I don't know," I said. There were several pieces of tube lying about that looked like parts of a German sh.e.l.l.

Graham yelled to know what had happened. "A German sh.e.l.l hit the gun," I said. He was then seized with sh.e.l.l shock and became uncontrollable.

Park, who was leaning against the ammunition, was blown up, the sh.e.l.l having driven clean through his spine; the man loading the sh.e.l.l had a fragment driven clear through his stomach. The man leaning against the gun wheel was beheaded as cleanly as any king's executioner with his ax could do it, his head lying in the fireplace! The cartridge had exploded but the sh.e.l.l did not.

The trouble was caused by what is known as a "defective" sh.e.l.l.

I left the gun pit to help Graham over to the dressing station and I had a job on my hands; he was suffering from a bad attack of brain concussion. After attention a couple of Fritzies carried him to the rear.

Returning to the gun pit I found a state of wild confusion among the fellows as to what had really happened. On examination I found it was this defective sh.e.l.l; over to the right of the gun I picked up a chunk of it over a foot long.

Those who remained of our gun crew went that night to the wagon lines, spending a few days there while waiting for our gun to be replaced.