My Year of the War Part 18

But I did not think that it was an invitation for a non-combatant to accept. If the bullet went over the top of the trench it had still two thousand yards and more to go, and it might find a target before it died. So, in view of the law of probabilities, no bullet is quite waste.

"Now, which is my house?" asked Captain P------.

"I really can't find my own home in the dark."

Behind the breastwork were many little houses three or four feet in height, all of the same pattern, and made of boards and mud. The mud is put on top to keep out shrapnel bullets.

"Here you are, sir!" said a soldier.

Asking me to wait until he made a light, the captain bent over as if about to crawl under the top rail of a fence and his head disappeared.

After he had put a match to a candle and stuck it on a stick thrust into the wall, I could see the interior of his habitation. A rubber sheet spread on the moist earth served as floor, carpet, mattress, and bed.

At a squeeze there was room for two others besides himself. They did not need any doormat, for when they lay down their feet would be at the door.

"Quite cosy, don't you think?" remarked the captain. He seemed to feel that he had a royal chamber. But, then, he was the kind of man who might sleep in a muddy field under a wagon and regard the shelter of the wagon body as a luxury. "Leave your knapsack here,"

he continued, "and we'll see what is doing along the line."

In other words, after you had left your bag in the host's hall, he suggested a stroll in the village or across the fields. But only to see war would he have asked you to walk in such mud.

"Not quite so loud!" he warned a soldier who was bringing up boards from the rear under cover of darkness. "If the Germans hear they may start firing."

Two other men were piling mud on top of a section of breastwork at an angle to the main line.

"What is that for?" the captain asked.

"They get an enfilade on us here, sir, and Mr.------ (the lieutenant) told me to make this higher."

"That's no good. A bullet will go right through," said the captain. "We'll have to wait until we get more sandbags."

A little farther on we came to an open s.p.a.ce, with no protection between us and the Germans. Half a dozen men were piling earth against a staked chicken wire to extend the breastworks. Rather, they were piling mud, and they were besmirched from head to foot. They looked like reeking Neptunes rising from a slough. In the same position in daylight, standing full height before German rifles at three hundred yards, they would have been shot dead before they could leap to cover.

"How does it go?" asked the captain.

"Very well, sir; though what we need is sandbags."

"We'll have some up to-morrow."

At the moment there was no firing in the vicinity. Faintly I heard the Germans pounding stakes, at work improving their own breastworks.

A British soldier appeared out of the darkness in front.

"We've found two of our men out there with their heads blown off by sh.e.l.ls," he said. "Have we permission to go out and bury them, sir?"

"Yes."

They would be as safe as the fellows piling mud against the chicken wire, unless the Germans opened fire. If they did, we could fire on their working-party, or in the direction of the sound. For that matter, we knew through our gla.s.ses by day the location of any weak places in their breastworks, and they knew where ours were. A sort of "after- you-gentlemen-if-you-fire-we-shall" understanding sometimes exists between the foes up to a certain point. Each side understands instinctively the limitation of that point. Too much noise in working, a number of men going out to bury dead or making enough noise to be heard, and the ball begins. A deep, broad ditch filled with water made a break in our line. No doubt a German machine-gun was trained on it.

"A little bridging is required here," said the captain. "We'll have it done to-morrow night. The break is no disadvantage if they attack; in fact, we'd rather like to have them try for it. But it makes movement along the line difficult by day."

When we were across and once more behind the breastworks, he called my attention to some high ground in the rear.

"One of our officers took a short cut across there in daylight," he said.

"He was quite exposed, and they drew a bead on him from the German trench and got him through the arm. Not a serious. .h.i.t. It wasn't cricket for anyone to go out to bring him in. He realized this, and called out to leave him to himself, and crawled to cover."

I was getting the commonplaces of trench life. Thus far it had been a quiet night and was to remain so. Reddish, flickering swaths of light were thrown across the fields between the trenches by the enemy's Roman candle flares. One tried to estimate how many flares the Germans must use every night from Switzerland to the North Sea.

On our side, the only light was from our braziers. Thomas Atkins has become a patron of braziers made by punching holes in buckets; and so have the Germans. Punch holes in a bucket, start a fire inside, and you have cheer and warmth and light through the long night vigils. Two or three days before we had located a sniper between the lines by seeing him swing his fire-pot to make a draught against the embers.

If you have ever sat around a camp-fire in the forest or on the plains you need be told nothing further. One of the old, glamorous features of war survives in these glowing braziers, spreading their genial rays among the little houses and lighting the faces of the men who stand or squat in encircling groups around the coals, which dry wet clothes, slake the moisture of a section of earth, make the bayonets against the walls glisten, and reveal the position of a machine-gun with its tape ready for firing.

Values are relative, and a brazier in the trenches makes the satisfaction of a steam-heated room in winter very superficial and artificial. You are at home there with Tommy Atkins, regular of an old line English regiment, in his heavy khaki overcoat and solid boots and wool puttees, a st.u.r.dy, hardened man of a terrific war. He, the regular, the s.h.i.+lling-a-day policeman of the empire, was still doing the fighting at the front. The new army, which embraces all cla.s.ses, was not yet in action.

This man and that one were at Mons. This one and that one had been through the whole campaign without once seeing Mother England for whom they were fighting. The affection in which Captain P------was held extended through his regiment, for we had left his own company behind. At every turn he was asked about his arm.

"You've made a mistake, sir. This isn't a hospital," as one man expressed it. Oh, but the captain was bored with hearing about that arm! If he is wounded again I am sure that he will try to keep the fact a secret.

These veterans could "grouse," as the British call it. Grousing is one of Tommy's privileges. When they got to grousing worst on the retreat from Mons, their officers knew that what they really wanted was to make another stand. They were tired of falling back; they meant to take a rest and fight a while. Their language was yours, the language in which our own laws and schoolbooks are written. They made the old blood call. For months they had been taking bitter medicine; very bitter for a British soldier. The way they took it will, perhaps, remain a greater tribute than any part they play in future victories.

"How do they feel in the States?" I was asked. "Against us?"

"No. By no means."

"I don't see how they could be!" Tommy exclaimed.

Tommy may not be much on argument as it is developed by the controversial spirit of college professors, but he had said about all there was to say. How can we be? Hardly, after you come to know T.

Atkins and his officers and talk English with them around their camp- fires.

"The Germans are always sending up flares," I remarked. "You send up none. How about it?"

"It cheers them. They're downhearted!" said one of the group. "You wouldn't deny them their fireworks, would you, sir?"

"That shows who is top dog," said another. "They're the ones that are worried."

I had heard of trench exhaustion, trench despair, but there was no sign of it in a regiment that had been through all the h.e.l.l and mire that the British army had known since the war began. To no one had Neuve Chapelle meant so much as to these common soldiers. It was their first real victory. They were standing on soil won from the Germans.

"We're going to Berlin!" said a big fellow who was standing, palms downward to the fire. "It's settled. We're going to Berlin."

A smaller man with his back against the sandbags disagreed. There was a trench argument.

"No, we're going to the Rhine," he said. "The Russians are going to Berlin." (This was in March, 1915, remember.)

"How can they when they ain't over the Balkans yet?"

"The Carpathians, you mean."

"Well, they're both mountains and the Russians have got to cross them. And there's a place called Cracow in that region. What's the matter of a pair of mountain ranges between you and me, Bill? You're strong on geography, but you fail to follow the campaign."

"The Rhine, I say!"

"It's the Rhine first, but Berlin is what you want to keep your mind on."