A Rifleman Went to War

by Herbert W. McBride

  There is a spurt of orange flame in the darkness at a height of a hundred feet some yards ahead. A leisurely sort of a hiss mounts rapidly and ends abruptly in an explosion: Shrapnel. But they go on, waiting for the next to see whether it is worth while to take cover.

  After a while they arrive at their position; which is neither in Berlin nor St. Petersburg, as has been suggested – for the ears of the guide – several times en route; it is the front-line trench.

  A comparatively quiet sector affords the best opportunity for observing the soldier and noting the little incidents and scraps of conversation which indicate something of his attitude. If these seem quite undramatic, free of excitement, horror and ghastly unreality, you are on the right track. They are concerned with such things as the posthumous career of Adolph. Adolph was once a Bavarian Lieutenant. When I first saw him the insignia of his rank had been stripped off. I was told that he had been cashiered. But that same day there was another court sitting on the case. He was being tried for having been a good soldier. I am sorry that I haven’t a complete record of the evidence introduced and of the findings, not only of this but of dozens of other trials which he had undergone – and still continued to undergo, for there was hardly enough of him left now to bury. He had been buried, originally, I understand, shining helmet and all. No one knew when this had taken place. His first appearance, so far as our history went, was on a fine morning in the midst of breakfast, when a minnie, evidently intended for the dugout, unearthed him. He was pretty badly scattered about; but when breakfast was over, he was raked together and buried again, the helmet, bearing a suitable inscription and identification as to rank and regiment, being affixed to the top of the grave.

  Within a few days he was out again. It seemed hardly worth while to attempt to keep him down. There was not much of him now; a half-dozen bones, a skull, a portion of one leg of his trousers and a fragment of coat with some bits of piping in red. Someone had made him look as tidy as possible, supporting him on a strand of old wire and placing his battered helmet in position. The shells had quite destroyed the parados immediately beside the entrance to the dugout, and it had never been rebuilt; so that he was in plain view – only a few feet away – to all who passed along the trench or paused for a breath of fresh air, or to finish their tea, at the entrance. Most of the men were on familiar terms with him, but with each new trip in the line there were some new men, and these were curious. Their questions resulted, in the end, in quite a long and somewhat contradictory history. He was treated very kindly, and sometimes so brilliantly that he ceased to be a ragged old coat, relict of the comedy of war, and became a splendid young Bavarian with flashing eyes and a quick smile, wearing his nice new uniform with a manner, saying good-bye with a pleasant jest and promising to return soon.

  Somebody, seeing his utter defenselessness, had in time supplied him with an old bayonet. In the mornings after stand-to, while waiting for breakfast, they would stop to exchange greetings with him or to congratulate him on being damned well out of it, or to inquire as to what he knew about the plans of the High Command. But there was nothing strange about his fate, and he was not a constant reminder that at any minute a similar fate might overtake one of them. They didn’t need such reminders; death was their business; they treated it familiarly because they were familiar with it. They forgot all about it, and waited impatiently the return of the ration party with their oatmeal, bacon and tea.

  “Ah here we are fellows; Fritz is sending us a few pineapples for breakfast.” The sound was like that of a rifle firing defective ammunition. When the grenade had exploded, near the trench apparently, but thirty yards to the right, there were other reports, and for perhaps five minutes the miniature bombardment continued. Then it tapered off, with one now and then, at long irregular intervals, at the whim, possibly, of some German soldier who had nothing else to do.

  “Hey, two of you fellows come along here and help with the rations.” Two men set off without question, first calling down the dugout: “All right down there; you can eat your jam and bread and dig up a can of bully. There’s brains in the tea this morning.”

  But the tea was all right. So was the oatmeal and bacon; though there was a big dent in the side of the dixie: “Who was it?” “Smith and McGregor. Mac is done for. Smith got a knee-cap torn off.” “Dammit; why in the hell don’t they keep their eyes open!” “All right, fellows, I’m not going to be here all day dishing this out.”

  Such incidents were not frequent in the quiet sectors after things had settled down into the long siege of trench warfare. During my last few weeks in France it was not unusual for a battalion to make its tour of front-line duty with so few casualties that they went almost unnoticed. But no matter how frequently they occurred, they did not, as a rule, bring death any closer to the survivors. Each one went on with his business in hand as if he were quite certain he would live to see the end of it and return to peace-time pursuits. It was not a matter of believing this or knowing it. It may better be called hope; but it was hope without its opposite of doubt or fear. A man might in an odd moment think about it and face quite frankly the possibility that before another day had passed he would be pushing up daisies, but meanwhile he carried on on the very definite assumption that he would not. This was an imperatively necessary attitude. Without it a man could not face a hail of machine-gun bullets and showers of whining shrapnel. With it, he faced them without thinking of the danger. He ducked only to rise again and carry on. But he did not need to remember the casualty list – or look at the men falling on each side of him – to know that it was only an attitude. So in the instant while he waited he faced the possibility of never rising again. This instant might be filled with a thousand reactions, all so brief that perhaps two of them were clear; and these might be, first, a momentary shrinking wonder as to where the damned thing would hit and, second, a dim bitter reflection that this is a goddamned fine end for a man. It was only an instant; the ground shook, the fuse assembly of a shell whirred and buried itself in the mud under his nose, and he was up and away, with a queer, excited, short laugh or a shout to his comrades. Maybe, in the next shell-hole, he would say to one of them: “That damned Boche thought he had my number that time.”

  This came to be a very common expression of that attitude. Sometimes it took a hold so deep that it amounted almost to a superstition; and I can readily imagine how this might come about from watching high-angle shells, at times when a man had nothing to do but watch them, as on an idle afternoon when Heinie decided to liven things up a bit by trying for a machine-gun emplacement or battering down a few yards of trench. He would put a minnenwerfer to work. You had to watch them in order to be somewhere else when they came to earth, because if one of the big ones landed within twenty feet of you you were taken directly to the cemetery, unless you were very close, in which case they might have difficulty finding you. You didn’t have to be hit; you might be killed without a mark.

  To get the full and awesome effect, though, you had to see them at night, sometime when our guns were doing a bit of intensive shelling, for a raid or as a feint when the artillery began preparation of the way for an attack on another front. You needed enough of it so that Heinie got the wind up in proper fashion and sent along a few parachute-lights in addition to the shower from Very pistols. When everything was as it should be, the air above the front-line trenches and all between was lighted like the scene of about twenty particularly elaborate Fourth of July fireworks displays all rolled into one, though there was nothing to suggest that it was not a grim and unearthly business; no bursts of laughter and applause, no smooth, green lawns sprinkled with deck chairs and people in brightly striped jackets. There was only this chasm, born of a thunderous and shrieking uproar, dotted with puffs of black, white or yellowish smoke and the orange glare of bursting shells, and above it the signal flares of the artillery drifting singly or in pairs or threes, white, green, red, and everywhere the trail and burst of Very lights with now and then the white
glare of a parachute. A man was fortunate to be able to witness such a display with little to do except witness it; particularly a new man, who could thus get his baptism of fire without also getting a baptism of blood. He had nothing else to do except listen to the hiss and crack of bullets (if you heard them then you could be certain they were close) and dodge the stuff that fell in the trench. There was no fighting, no feverish activity or duties to distract the attention. Some men were quiet, others shouted constantly to men beside them. It was difficult to say what their faces betrayed. It might have been the effect of the lurid light on them.

  When such a show was at its height, such small objects as pineapples were frequently visible, if you happened to catch them just right; and the minnies could nearly always be seen. They rocketed upward, and before they reached the top of their flight you could spot them. They seemed to be in no hurry. Their sides gleamed like dull copper in the sulphurous light. At the apex, they bundled themselves and turned slowly downward, two hundred pounds of steel and T.N.T., nosing about like something uncannily alive scenting its prey. The old timer or any man in complete control of himself was little concerned with those that were visible broad-side on: “Come on, you dirty bastard; old Lady Krupp doesn’t even know my number.” But he kept an eye and an ear for those directly in front. These were more difficult to see. Sometimes at the top of their flight they plunged out of sight or became but dim shadows: “All right there, my lad, watch out for this one.” If they were long or short they were, generally speaking, much more easily seen than when the angle of descent would bring them to the position of the watcher. But at best, while matching their wits against visible death, there might come a soft, earth-shaking thump at the end of the traverse, and instantly they were down in the mud as deeply as possible, with no chance to do anything about the one on which they had had their eyes and which might be expected any second to land about the small of the back.

  After such an experience, it didn’t require a nervous or timid man to develop a sort of a superstitious awe of these monsters. Standing again beside the parapet, watching them rocket up into the sulphurous air and slip downward toward the trench, he would suddenly remember the five minutes during which he had done this all unmindful of the one which might have at any time dropped unseen. It was not difficult to imagine his regimental number etched on its sinister surface. But it wasn’t on those to either side. It might be on one there in the smoke above him. But none came, and he became aware again of the bullets whistling across, sometimes ending abruptly in a soft spat. Anyone of them might have his number. But the one he heard never did have it; for he wouldn’t hear the fatal one.

  Men got used to them of course. You kept down when it was possible, but when you had to go you might as well go on as though there were no bullets about. You hurried when visible, or over a known danger spot; but at night, walking across the open in support areas or beyond, a man might duck if a gun opened directly to his front when by its sound he knew it was firing toward him; then, when it had swung to one side, he might get up to be stopped by a bullet slipping in at a long angle from a gun which he had hardly heard. Some men always ducked or were inclined to; others paid no attention whatever to traversing guns, walking on as though they were firing blanks. Sometimes it was necessary to travel overland for long distances. Of a file of men coming in under such conditions half of them might drop into each bit of shallow trench they came to, following it as long as possible; the other half stuck to the bank until they reached a real trench. I recall intercepting a water-party one night to get a supply for a gun-crew whose known address was the front-line but which was that night about two hundred yards back. The support trench was hardly more than a crooked muddy ditch, in which no one stayed. I went along this to about the point where the water carriers would reach it coming overland. The area was being swept at intervals by guns from either flank and from the front. The frontal fire was probably safely overhead here, being intended for that vast nightly movement which went on farther back. I sat and listened to the guns and their hissing little slugs until the party showed up – six vague blurs in the darkness somewhat to my right as I sat. Four of them immediately dropped into the little trench, while the other two turned along the bank. They all stopped when I spoke and offered my six empty water-bottles.

  “Right-oh,” said the first of the two men on the bank. I have forgotten his name, though I remember his build and features very distinctly, and also that he came from some place up in the woods of Ontario, around Cochrane. I waited for him to get into the trench, where the others had already leaned against the bank, content to rest for a few minutes and pass the time of day. But he didn’t come down.

  “Let’s have one,” he said. I passed the bottles out, giving him one of them. And just at that minute, almost as if the gunner had seen the man stop there, a gun opened up with the sharp distinct report which told that the muzzle was not pointed the other way. I noticed at once that it was not the gun I had been hearing from that quarter, the one which I thought was firing overhead. I noticed, too, that he was traversing, while the other, I thought, had been fixed.

  “You damned fool,” somebody said, “you had better get down.”

  “Hell, they won’t hurt you if they don’t hit you.” Then, turning to me he added: “Did you ever see that well where we’ve been getting water? There’s a little piece of brick wall there, and they’ve just about cut it down with machine-gun bullets. You have to wait off a little distance to keep from getting brick dust in your eyes; and then while you are awaiting some other damned party gets in ahead of you.”

  In the meantime they had begun filling my bottles. The man on top had picked up one of his petrol tins, caught it between his knees and, bending over, held the bottle to catch the water. This necessitated putting his head down fairly close so that he could see a little of what he was doing. Then the gun opened again. The first burst had been a short one. It seemed now to have got down to business, and the bullets were ripping across at a slow rate of fire some distance to our right, and the rising report of the gun told us that it was coming our way.

  “Aw, shoot, you damned squarehead,” the man said. Then “Well, I’m a – Hey you fellows; fill the bottles out of this tin; it’s got two extra holes in it.”

  Trench warfare soon became routine stuff, though each new sector offered its little variations in the matter of living conditions, supplies, communications, machine-gun and artillery activity, facilities for observation, etc.; and each day, almost, brought to light some strange incident or quirk of fate or insignificant circumstance which decided between life and death. Some of these came to hold in trench gossip a place comparable to many of our traditional superstitions; but they were never superstitions; they were never held for more than they were worth. The best known example, perhaps, is the pocket testament which turned aside the bullet aimed for the heart. Another favorite talisman was the steel pocket mirror. A man would transfer it from his haversack to his pocket with every indication of grave concern that he was about to forget it: “Hell, man, this damned thing will probably save my life; not that I give a damn; I’m simply looking out for a good woman back in Medicine Hat.” “Medicine Hat, my eye! You’ll be growing poppies in Ballieul when another spring-time comes around.”

  No; they didn’t worry much about it; and anyone who was inclined to do so couldn’t very well keep it up. Another thing; I don’t think we ever took God into the trenches with us. The Germans have been known to carve over the entrance to their dugouts such inscriptions as the “Gott mit uns,” on their belt buckles. This is well enough, perhaps; but I think most of us left God out of it. Those of us who were very religious had a better God than that; we might in a pinch call on him to get us out of it; but we didn’t charge him with partiality in the affair.

  Of the more exciting business of actual battle it is not so easy to write. In the first place there are battles and battles. There is a vast difference between such a nasty business as the St. E
loi affair – insignificant though it was – and that of the Somme, which was significant. Of the two, I think anybody would choose a half-dozen Sommes rather than one St. Eloi. On the Somme we went somewhere, got it over with, consolidated, and were relieved. At St. Eloi we crept or were blasted back and forth over the same area daily and nightly for some weeks. There were some splendid moments, but there is something depressing and pathetic about splendid moments that end repeatedly in nothing but more blood and mud. How did the men behave? They carried on.

  But there is a vast difference in conditions even when considering those battles which resulted in real advances, as planned. And in the same battle, much depends upon whether you started it or ended it, or came in at the middle. Frequently those troops who launch the assault and gain the first objectives fare better than others who take up the advance on subsequent days. Usually the first assaulting troops leave from fairly comfortable positions which become untenable only about the time they are leaving them for the German front line and points East. They may see as hard fighting as anybody, but they are usually in better shape at the beginning. They have come in after less hard marching and with less harassing delay; and this little matter of waiting is usually more trying than fighting. They know exactly when they are to start and that they needn’t, usually, worry about exposure on either flank. They have only to wait for the barrage to lift, and this interval is usually utilized in checking up and reviewing any special instructions that may have been considered. Generally, however, conditions do not favor talk of any sort; and when the enemy puts down his counter-barrage, conversation becomes almost impossible. Men will shout now and then into the ears of those near them, and sometimes in the course of these words there may be brief mutual reminders to see that those back home are informed that there was nothing particularly distressing about the end; for most men face at this time the possibility that their remaining time on earth may be numbered by minutes. I have seldom noticed any evidence of particular concern about it. There is nervous tension, of course, a greater strain than most men realize; though it is not induced by the imminence of death, in itself; but only because it is in terms of death that results of the next throw of the dice are to be stated; the tension differs only in degree from that to be noted before any event on which much depends, which is final, after which no mistakes can be rectified.