by Sapper
“We might,” remarked another of the world’s workers, thoughtfully sucking his teeth – “we might ’ave a trapdoor, a ’eavy one, to let down over the ’ole once they was in.”
“Yus – and ’ow are we to know when they is in?” The third member of the party proceeded to justify his existence. “They won’t come over ’ere and fall into the ’ole and then shout to us to let down the trap.” He thoughtfully lit a Woodbine. “The ’Un will be strafing if there’s a raid on, and there’ll be the ’ell of a beano going on, and no one won’t never ’ear nothing.”
With which sage aphorism he relapsed into silence, and a gloom settled on the meeting.
“By Jove, you fellows, we must think of something! We must pull up our socks and think – what? After we’ve spent all this time clearing the bally place out we must really think of something – by Jove!” Percy gazed hopefully at his three supers, but it seemed that their contributions to the conversation were at an end, and for a space silence reigned, broken only by the gentle lullaby of the tooth-sucker.
“We might,” remarked Tomkins at length, after a period of profound thought, “ ’ave a trip-wire, wot would ring a gong.”
“That’s it – that’s it! ’Pon my word, you’re a doocid clever fellow, Thomson, doocid clever fellow – what?” Percy became enthusiastic. “Ring the gong where the fellah is who lets down the door. He lets down the door, and we bag the Hun. Dam’ good idea!”
“I don’t believe in no gongs,” remarked the musical one scornfully. “No – nor trip-wires either.” He eyed his audience pugnaciously.
“But, my good fellah – er – what do you believe in?” Percy’s spirits were sinking.
“Tins, china, cups and saucers, plates, old saucepans – anything and everything wot will make a noise when the ’Un falls on it. That’s the ticket, sir,” he continued, with gathering emphasis as he noted the impression he was causing. “Lumme – a trip-wire: it might break, or the gong mightn’t ring, or the blighter mightn’t ’ear it. Wiv china – every step he took ’e’d smash anuvver pot. Drahn a rum jar ’e would. But – a trip-wire!” He spat impartially and resumed his tune.
“By Jove, that’s a splendid idea!” The mercurial Percy’s face shone again. “Splendid idea! Fill it full of old tins and china – what? And when we hear the second fellah hit the floor and start breakin’ up the home we can pull the string and let down the trapdoor. Splendid idea! Doocid clever of you, ’pon my soul it is!”
“And where do you think of getting the china from?” Tomkins, fearing that his mantle of doocid cleverness was descending upon the tooth-sucker, eyed him unconvinced. “I wasn’t aware as ’ow there was a penny bazaar in the neighbourhood, nor yet a William Whiteley’s.”
“Yes, by Jove,” chirped Percy, “where do we get it all from? We shall want lots of it, too, don’t you know – what?”
“Get it?” The suggester of the idea looked scornful and addressed himself to Tomkins. “There ain’t no bully tins in the perishing trenches, are there? Ho no! An’ there hain’t no china an’ bits of glass and old cups and things in that there village about ’alf a mile down the road? Ho no! I reckon there’s enough to fill twenty ’oles like that there.” Once again the oracle resumed his hobby.
“Splendid!” Percy jumped to his feet. “The very thing! We’ll do it this next company relief, by Jove! Now, boys, two more hours. We just want to get the bedstead out and straighten things up, and we’ll be all ready for the dinner-service – what?”
Now there was another thing in which Percy FitzPercy showed that he had the makings of a true artist. He fully appreciated the value of secrecy in presenting his performances to the public at large. True, all his platoon were bound to find out, and the remainder of the company had a shrewd idea that something was afoot. But one does not walk along trenches – especially in the front line – for pleasure; and beyond a casual inquiry as to what new form of insanity he was up to now, the company commander was not interested in Percy’s doings. Now that the place had been cleared out, the opening was covered during the day by a trench-board carefully stolen from the nearest RE dump; while the members of the platoon assiduously collected old tin and china utensils, both great and small, which were thrown into the cavity and arranged tastefully by the stage-manager.
At night the trench-board was removed, and after careful weighting with two dud shells, a piece of rail, and the stalk of a sixty pound trench-mortar bomb, it was placed on edge beside the hole. It was so arranged that it leaned slightly inwards, and was only kept from falling by a cord which passed in front of it and which was attached to two screw pickets – one on each side. The hole itself was covered with a sack. So much for the scenery.
The stage directions were equally simple. The curtain rises on a German raid. Noises off, etc.; the flashes of guns, the bursting of rum jars, the dazzling brilliance of flares lighting up the lowering night. On the entrance of the Hun into the trench (if he did), a watch would be kept on the hole (if anyone was there to watch). On the sound of the first crash of breaking china, no action. On the sound of the second crash of breaking china, Percy himself (if alive) or a substitute (if not), would dash forward and cut the string. The trapdoor would fall; and then, having repelled the Hun, they could return and examine the bag at their leisure. So much for the plot. Now for the action.
It has always been my contention that Brigadier-General Herbert Firebrace rather brought it on himself. There are things which generals may do, and there are things which they may not; or shall we say, lest I be deemed guilty of lèse majesté, things it were better they did not? All things to them are lawful, but all things most undoubtedly are not expedient. And no one – not even his most fervent admirer – could say that the General’s action was a wise one. Let it be understood that when the more exalted ones of the earth desire to make a tour of trenches, there is a recognised procedure for doing it. First comes the sergeant of the platoon occupying the portion of the line under inspection – experience has shown the wisdom of having the only trust-worthy guide in front. Then comes the company commander, followed by the Colonel, the Staff officer and the Great One. Immediately behind, the Adjutant (taking notes), the platoon commander (partially dazed), the machine-gun officer (not essential), and the Sapper (if he’s been caught by the human avalanche) advance in echelon. At intervals the procession halts, and the same religious rite takes place.
SERGEANT (peering round the next traverse, in voice of fury): “Don’t drink tea out of yer tin ’at, yer perisher! ’Ere’s the General a-coming.”
COLONEL (prompted by the company commander): “Now from here, sir, we get a most magnificent field of fire behind – ah – those craters there. I thought that – where was it we decided? – oh, yes, by – ah – putting a Lewis gun here…er, well, perhaps you’d like to see yourself, sir.”
GREAT ONE: “Yes, very much. Have you got my periscope?” (Staff officer produces, and Great One peers through it.) “I quite agree with you.” (After long inspection) “You might make a note of it.”
STAFF OFFICER: “Just make a note of that, will you?”
ADJUTANT (makes note): “Make a note of it, Bill, will you?”
PLATOON COMMANDER (recovering slightly from stupor): “Make a note of what?”
MACHINE-GUN OFFICER: “All right, old boy. It’s my pidgeon.” (Sotto voce to SAPPER) “I’ve had a gun there for the last two nights.” (Aloud to OMNES) “An excellent place, sir. I’ll see to it.”
SAPPER (to MGO, with seeming irrelevance): “Well, when he got to the house he was told she was having a bath, and–” Procession moves on, while infuriated sentry on sap duty misses the point of the story. And that is the right way of touring the trenches.
Unfortunately General Firebrace was a new broom. It was quite permissible for him to do what he did, but, as I said before, I am doubtful if it was altogether wise. In a moment of rashness he decided to go round the trenches alone. As a matter of fact, at the moment of this resolve
the Brigade-Major was out, the evening was fine, and the General was energetic. Perfect peace reigned over that portion of the battle area which concerned him, and he was anxious to see that the arrangement of sentry groups in the various sap-heads met with his approval. His predecessor, he recalled, had had words with the still greater ones of the earth anent a couple of small, but nevertheless regrettable, incidents when men had been removed somewhat forcibly by the wily Hun from out those same sap-heads. So he settled his steel helmet firmly on his head, and stepped out of his dug-out into the communication trench.
Now in that particular part of the line the communication trenches were long ones, and by the time he reached the front line it was getting dark. A man of small stature, but withal fiery appearance, General Herbert Firebrace strode along through the deepening gloom, humming gently to himself. At first the trenches were fairly populous – he was in a part of the front line between two groups of craters – and he found it necessary to bark “Gangway!” continuously. Then he reached his goal, the saps behind one of the groups – short trenches which stretch out from the fire trench into No Man’s Land and finish on the near lips of the craters. He grunted with satisfaction as he found the first of the saps held to his satisfaction. The sentry group were quietly smoking; the sentry up at the head of the sap was watching fixedly through his periscope. The rifles and bayonets of the men rested close at hand, the Mills bombs were conveniently placed on a narrow ledge under cover.
“Ha, good! All quiet here, my lads?”
“All quiet, sir,” answered the corporal, scrambling up.
“That’s all right. Good night, corporal.” And the martial little figure disappeared round the corner.
Now the corporal was new in that bit of the line; to be exact, he had just returned from leave. That was one cause.
“Look out – oil-can!” The sentry gave a hail, and every one ducked. That was the other cause.
For at the precise moment that an oil-can exploded with a thunderous crump twenty yards or so beyond the trench, there was a sudden noise of ripping canvas, an agonised shout, and the heavy crash of a body encountering china. Then – silence. The sap parties heard only the oil-can; Percy FitzPercy for a wonder was not brooding over his invention, and there was no one who knew that close beside them in an odoriferous underground abode the Brigadier-General lay completely stunned, with his head in a metal soup tureen and his rather extensive set of uppers in a disused tin hitherto devoted to that painstaking gentleman, Mr Maconochie.
Up to this point it will be willingly conceded, I think, by anyone acquainted with trench etiquette that the unfortunate predicament of Herbert Firebrace, General and Great One, was only what he deserved. To depart so flagrantly from the spirit of the rules as to wander round front-line trenches alone and in the falling shades of night is asking for trouble; and if the matter had ended there I have no doubt – knowing the strict sense of justice which is one of the praiseworthy features of the house of Firebrace – I have no doubt that he would have sent for Percy FitzPercy and apologised handsomely for the inconvenience he had so unwittingly caused. But the matter did not end there; it only began. And the finale, reviewed dispassionately, undoubtedly gives one to think – one might even say think furiously.
A quarter of an hour after the regrettable occurrence just described Percy stood chatting lightly and inconsequently with his company commander in the support line. At the moment he was expatiating on the merits of a new pipe of his own invention designed for use in No Man’s Land on a dark night. Its exact beauties escape my memory; as far as I can remember one put the bowl in one’s mouth and the tobacco in the stem and blew. It was an invention typical of Percy – utterly futile. He had just called the company commander “dear old soul” for the tenth time, and was explaining how no sparks or glowing ash could be seen if you made use of this patent atrocity, when a Lewis gun started rattling away in front. Half a dozen Verey lights shot up, there was a sudden brisk burst of firing, with the explosion of a number of bombs.
“By Jove!” cried Percy, pipe and all else forgotten. “By Jove, dear old man – a raid – what? A Hun raid – now for the man-trap!” He departed at speed up the nearest boyau, leaving a trail of sparks behind him like a catherine-wheel that has been out in the rain; to be followed by his Captain, who had first taken the precaution of loading his automatic.
The first man Percy met was the tooth-sucker, who was shaking with uncontrollable excitement.
“There’s a perisher fell in the ’ole, sir! Three of ’em come in, and we killed two an’ the other fell in the ’ole.”
I am given to understand that on receipt of the news what little intellect our pipe-inventor ever possessed completely deserted him. Uttering hoarse cries, he dashed down the trench, and, unmindful of his own orders to wait on the chance of catching a second, he feverishly slashed at the string, and with an ominous clang and a squelch of mud the trapdoor descended into its appointed position. Certain it is, when the company commander came in sight, he was standing upon it, in an attitude strongly reminiscent of the heavy tragedian – out of a “shop” – holding forth in his favourite Bodega.
“What the blazes are you doing there?” howled his infuriated Captain. “Why aren’t you in number eight sap, instead of doing a dumb-crambo show?”
“The raid is over, sir,” answered Percy majestically. “The raider is – ah – below.”
“What the–” began the frenzied senior. And then he paused. “Great Scott! What’s that infernal shindy?”
From below their feet there rose a perfect orgy of breaking china and rattling tins, with ever and anon a loud musical note as of a bucket being belaboured with a stick. Grunts and guttural curses, followed by strange hollow noises indicative of pain, for a while drowned all attempts at conversation. Finally there was a grand finale of crashing cups and tinkling tins, the sound of a heavy blow, a grunt of muffled agony and – silence. The lights still hissed up into the night, stray rifles still cracked at intervals, but otherwise – silence.
At last Percy spoke. “Do you know, dear old boy, I believe there are two of them down there; ’pon my soul, I do – what?” He spoke with deliberation, as befits an inventor. “It seemed to me that the one who swore and the one who grunted were different people.”
The tooth-sucker opined likewise; also Tomkins, who had arrived on the scene.
“What is this dam’ foolishness?” said the Captain irritably. “Am I to understand there are two Germans inside there, under the trench?”
“One for certain; two possibly – or even three, dear old boy.” At the thought of three, he of the teeth played a tune in his excitement.
“Then for heaven’s sake get the top off and let’s get them out!”
It was then that the last cruel blow of Fate was dealt to the hapless Herbert. For after a brief period of feverish pulling, during which the company commander broke his nails and Percy fell over backwards, the trapdoor remained in statu quo.
“What the devil’s the matter with the beastly thing?” muttered the Captain savagely. “It’s your fool-trick, FitzPercy! Can’t you open it?”
“My dear old boy,” remarked the proud inventor vaguely, “it generally opens – ’pon my soul, it does.” He turned his torch on to the reluctant trench-board and examined it through his eyeglass. “By Jove! that’s it, dear old son, there’s the trouble. The dud shell has slipped forward and got wedged in the rafters. How doocid funny – what?”
“What is doocid funny, you blithering ass?”
“Why, if we’d gone on, dear old sport, the shell might have gone off. By Jove, that’s good, that is!” Percy chuckled immoderately. “If we go on, the shell goes off!”
“You’re the type of man who ought to be in a home,” remarked his senior officer dispassionately. “Get a saw as soon as you can, and cut through the board. And if the bally shell goes off and kills you, it’ll serve you right. You’re a disease, FitzPercy, that’s what you are. A walking microbe
; an example of atavism; a throw-back to the tail period.” Still muttering, his company commander passed out of sight, leaving the triumphant Percy completely unabashed and glowing in righteous success.
Now, in the trenches saws do not grow freely. You cannot wander round a corner and pick one up; in fact, a saw that will saw is an exceeding precious thing. Moreover, they are closely guarded by their rightful owners, who show great reluctance in parting with them. It therefore was not surprising that over an hour elapsed before a perspiring messenger returned with one and operations commenced. And during that hour Percy lived.
It is given to few to see their hopes and aspirations realised so beautifully and quickly; as in a dream he listened to the hideous cachinnations that floated up through the slabs of the trench-board. A continuous booming noise as of a bittern calling to its young was varied with heavy grunts and occasional blows of a heavy bludgeon on metal. And throughout it all there ran a delicate motif of crashing cups and tinkling tins.
“We have them, dear old soul,” murmured Percy ecstatically to himself; “we have them simply wallowing in the mulligatawny!”
But there is an end of everything – even of getting a saw out of an RE store. A glorious full moon shone down upon the scene as, an hour afterwards, the trench-board was removed and the entrance opened. An “up-and-over” – or trench-ladder – was lowered into the dug-out, and the excited onlookers waited to net the catch. At last the ladder shook, as the first of the prisoners prepared to ascend.
“Entrance, dear old man,” cried the stage manager majestically, “of what we have hitherto described as ‘male voices off.’”
“Get up, you swine, and get a move on!” rasped a voice in perfect English from the depths of the hole; while a palsied silence settled on the audience.
The ladder shook again, and at last there emerged from the bottom of the trench a large round tin which completely encased the head of its wearer, who followed slowly, maintaining a continuous booming roar. Immediately behind him came the owner of the voice, severely chipped about the face, but with the light of battle in his eyes.