by Thomas Hodd
Renforth was standing by McCann when a single gun fired from some point ahead. With a jarring crash that seemed to lift him, the barrage opened. It was indescribable. The deafening clamour reverberated in a mighty unison, and it seemed as if a cataract of rushing things were pouring overhead. Far ahead Renforth saw a continuous play of flashes, and twin red lights, breaking high. He tried to ask Bull their meaning but could not hear his own voice. Through him ran sensations that cried for action, and yet his limbs trembled. A hand pushed him forward and the next moment he was in file. The battalion was moving to the attack.
Down a grade they swung, clearing the wood. As they gained the lower ground the din lessened and he could hear shouted orders. Not far from their path sudden geysers of smoke and soil puffed up and mushroomed. They reached a small river. Across it stretched a swaying pontoon bridge. Renforth slipped into position behind Bull’s broad back and made the passage, his mind stunned by the awfulness of the gunfire. A grey mist enveloped them and they halted in a trench. Each man adjusted his equipment and everyone smoked. Word was passed along that they were to remain ready to advance, but that there would be a wait of twenty minutes.
Near Renforth was a scholarly looking man, whom Bull had called “Perfesser.” With a few casual words Renforth found the man friendly, and they conversed until the signal whistle blew.
Renforth learned that his adoption by Bull had caused considerable merriment in the section, as the big man’s aversion to “white collars” was an unfailing topic. The “Perfesser” explained that a legacy of Irish blood had made Bull too sudden with his fists; bush creeds and lumber camp jargon had not blended with the conversation of fourth-year students in economics, and the veterans of the platoon had been clannish. As a result Bull never fitted. “He hates us for being ‘white collars,’” said the “Perfesser” as they stood to go. “I hope you change his opinion, for I believe he’s a diamond in the rough.”
The mist had lifted and they left the trench to deploy in open ground. Ahead was a slope and all at once Renforth was aware of waspy noises above his head. The line broke into a run, and then he saw, a hundred yards farther on, a grey-clad figure leap from cover to race madly up the hill. A man dropped to his knees and fired once—twice—three times. The runner spun awkwardly and tumbled to earth. Others in grey jumped up. Some halted to shoot back and again he heard the waspy singing of bullets. His blood ran quickly, his head throbbed and his heart was pounding like a mad thing; at last he was in battle.
They topped the rise and swarmed down into a ravine. Before it spread a field of grain. As they advanced a German rose in front of the khaki wave. With one quick motion Renforth threw up his rifle and fired, seeing too late that the Hun was unarmed and had his hands up. His victim sagged to the ground, groaning. Renfoth ran to him and knelt to see the wound, but the German flinched from his touch.
“I’m sorry, so sorry,” Renforth exclaimed. “I shot before I knew.”
The German seemed to sense his tone was kindly for he muttered some reply. “Come on ya wild killer!” Renforth was jerked to his feet. Bull had run back to seize him and was shouting gaily. “Ya can’t stop to frisk Heinies till we git th’ objective. Th’ white collars won’t like yer bloody ways, either. We gives a guy a chance when he sticks up his fins.”
“I shot too quick,” blurted Renforth, smarting with remorse. “It will not happen again.”
They reached the ravine. A German gun crew was struggling to take the covers off a battery of whizz bangs, but threw up their hands at the sight of the Pats. Bull charged down the bank like a runaway train and Renforth saw his goal. Two Hun officers, with helpers, were setting up a machine gun. Bull flung a bomb as he rushed and it exploded in front of the tripod. Three of the Germans and the gun went out of action. Another heart beat and Bull was among the survivors. He bayoneted the remaining officers, wrenched loose his weapon, and butt-ended a gunner. The remainder “kameraded” with speed.
It was all over in a moment but Renforth was thrilled by Bull’s performance. The big blond was a war machine in himself.
The company gathered in the ravine. The battery was chalked as a capture to the credit of the University company of the PPCLIs, and the prisoners were herded back over the slope. So far only three casualties had resulted. Two men had been wounded, and on the very brink of the ravine lay the “Perfesser”—dead. Renforth turned to look at him as they moved on.
“That’s what happens to these lousy highbrows,” snorted Bull, following his look. “That ‘perfesser’ knowed a lot in books but that don’t count in this war. He stopped there, gawkin’, when he oughta charged down. White collars gits napooed quicker’n any others out there.”
They went on but the advance had become a rout, a mere march-through. Cavalry and the tanks took up the battle and they watched from a distance. Near Renforth was a dead German. He looked down curiously at the “Gott Mit Uns” belt and the absurd-looking gas mask. Bull watched him.
“Glad to see you’ve got guts enough to look at a stiff,” he remarked. “Some of these white collars would get pink around the gills.”
“Give white collars a rest, will you,” said Renforth sharply. “You’re getting monotonous.”
The answer was a throaty chuckle.
***
Eight days after the Pats attacked Parvillers. The village had been in the path of the war back in ’16 and was honeycombed with underground passages and deep trenches. At dawn a short barrage was laid down and then they swarmed into the Hun lines. As they waited zero hour a nervousness struck at Renforth’s heart. The inferno of explosions was terrific, and he was chilled to a shivering point. Glancing around he saw Bull rasping the edge of his bayonet with a broken file, apparently unaware of the din beyond. The sight restored Renforth’s morale.
Suddenly the barrage lifted, a whistle blew, and the Pats sprang up and over. Renforth bent low as he rushed. Bullets hissed and snapped about him. Twice he fell and scrambled up again, using some of Bull’s grotesque oaths. Wire tore at his puttees, holding him back, and he tore away angrily. Bull had vanished in that split second. The next instant he plunged into the Hun trench.
It was wide and deep and as he landed a tall grey form leaped at him with bayonet extended. Scarcely knowing his actions, Renforth braced himself for the shock, parried the thrust and saw his own point go home above the German’s belt. The man’s hands opened convulsively, dropping his rifle, and he clawed at the steel in his stomach. Renforth surged back wildly and felt the body slide off his weapon. He leaped by to avoid the horror and crashed headlong into three Huns who were backing down the trench. His bayonet missed the first man but he swung up his butt and drove it with all his strength into the nearest face. Bright crimson gushed over the pallid features as they disappeared. So close was he crowded, Renforth could not get a blow at the second German. He was carried against the side of the trench, struggling to get his rifle free, while the third Hun gripped it and thrust moist, distorted features close to his own.
The trio had evidently been retreating from fighting farther up the trench and for the moment, in the confines of the narrow way, could not strike effectively at the Canadian. One tugged at his belt and Renforth saw a wicked-looking trench knife appear. With a desperate lunge he drove the pair backward and plunged his knee into the groin of the nearest. The fellow groaned in agony. A blade flashed and just missed Renforth’s arm. Releasing his rifle he leaped backward, and tripped over the man he had felled. His hands came into contact with the Hun’s rifle and he had barely time to tip its point upward when the German with the knife hurled himself forward.
There was a sickening sound and the rifle was nearly torn from Renfoth’s grasp as the Hun was impinged on the bayonet. Like a madman the Canadian dashed forward and seized his own rifle again. The man he had kneed was still rocking in pain and, without taking aim, Renforth shot him.
He rushed on down the trench,
crazed with the fever of battle. Rounding a corner he came into an awful carnage. There were dead men everywhere. The barrage had hit with full force, fair on the trench. Parapets were broken; debris was strewed everywhere. Near him a machine gun and its crew had been blown into the side of the trench and partially buried. A hand, dripping with blood, reached out of the heap. Over it, and amid the appalling wreckage, a furious struggle was in progress. Three Pats were engulfed in a wild melee of butts and bayonets. Dead men lay entangled with the Boche wounded, and as Renforth rushed to the assistance of his mates a stricken Hun wrapped arms about his ankles. Renforth struck savagely and the hold relaxed. He charged on, striking, thrusting, slashing, shooting. It was a frenzied survival of the fittest and ended with only one other Pat unwounded.
This chap, whom Renforth had heard discussing Religion the night before, grinned fantastically through blood streaks and yelled: “Come on, old top! It’s a hell of a picnic. Let’s go!”
They tore around bays and over blown-in portions until they reached a wider part. There were more dead and fragments of dead. Standing in their midst, like a gladiator of old, was Bull McCann, swinging as a club the blood-spattered leg of a machine-gun tripod. Even as they arrived he dealt a blow that crashed the skull of his assailant like an egg shell. His steel hat was gone, his tunic was slashed to ribbons, one shoulder was completely bare, but he was drunk with the wild joy of battle. “Safe enough now, Kidddos,” he whooped in his great voice. “Come right along, the main scrap’s finished.”
The careless derision maddened Renforth. “Hell!” he snarled as he hurled bodies to confront the big man. “This is only one corner. There’s been a dozen scraps as good as this right along the trench.”
Bull’s grin grew broader. “Reg’lar spittin’ wildcat, ain’t ya?” he mocked. “If enough of ya white collars git around one Heine ya might down him.”
A red mist seemed to blind Renforth. “You infernal fool!” his voice was almost a scream. “I’ve a good mind to—”
“What’s this?” came a shout. “Here, men. Come down this way. The Boche are using underground passages and must be checked.”
It was an officer. Renforth swallowed his rage and followed the others, but he resolved to prove to Bull that white collars were as good as he. They climbed over a blockade and came to where a shell had blown in a ton of sandbags, but above the debris the top of a dugout entrance was still showing, its gas alarm intact. A man could squeeze in and out of the opening. “Two of you get in there,” said the officer, “and find out if it’s just a dugout or a passage. The other man come with me.”
Bull turned. He had salvaged a rifle and the exasperating grin still rode on his features. “Come with me, Kiddo,” he said teasingly. “Ya might run into another scrap.”
Without answer Renforth ran by him and slid feet foremost into the opening. A slight wriggling and he was through enough to drop to a stairway inside. Bull, grunting and squirming, followed, and dropped beside him.
“Just a sec, Kiddo,” he whispered. “I got a candle.”
He lighted it and they descended a stairway leading to a depth that surprised Renforth. At the bottom was a door with a sliding window.
“Wait,” wheezed Bull. “There might be a surprise party here. Git yer rifle ready an’ don’t miss when ya shoot.”
He pushed the door open with a sudden shove. Nothing happened. Candles were burning on a table in a well-finished room. There were chairs, a desk with telephone, a stove, and two beds. The place was floored with wood and the walls were burlapped. Over the table was a picture of the Kaiser and an inscription in German. On the walls were spiked helmets and caps, long coats, and tunics.
Bull stared in every corner. “Kiddo,” he said softly. “This must be th’ front room of old Hindenburg’s layout. It’s sure fixed up swell. Ah-h! Here’s a door. Watch out.”
Very cautiously he pushed it open. The candlelight disclosed a long passageway, lined on both sides with comfortable bunks. Tumbled equipment, blankets, and clothing lay everywhere.
Everything denoted haste and confusion. “I’ll go ahead,” said Renforth determinedly. “You can look over me without trouble and you can hold the candle.”
Bull looked down at him quizzically. His grin was fading.
Cr-rump! The jar of explosion overhead rocked the door shut behind them and snuffed out the candle. A pungent odour of high explosives drifted in as Bull opened the door again. Every candle in the outer room was extinguished. Bull struck a light and they went to the stairway. Bits of earth still tumbled down the lower steps. Above, the passage was blocked full. They were shut off completely and Renforth realized they would smother long before they could dig themselves out. He looked at Bull. The big man’s grin had vanished.
“Got to find another way out, Kiddo,” he said quietly, “and not much time to waste. The air’ll git bad quick.”
They hurried back through the sleeping quarters and entered a long dining room that branched to one side. It was fitted with tables and benches and at the end of the chamber was the kitchen. On a table there were sausage and bread, some jellied meats and coffee. Bull peered at the smoke vent that ran from the stove.
“Must be a hole leadin’ outside, Kiddo,” he muttered. “We’ll try it an’ see.”
They made a small fire but had to extinguish it at once. The smoke came back and set them coughing. The vent had been closed. They hurried back to the sleeping room and discovered another blocked stairway, then began to search for digging tools, neither speaking. Renforth took time to look in a desk of the first room and saw it contained maps, binoculars, papers, magazines, stationery engraved with the Iron Cross. A folded print was a plan of the dugout. He was studying it as Bull came from the kitchen.
“Cripes, Kiddo,” he exploded. “Don’t be foolin’ with them things. We gotta git a move on.”
“Just a minute.” Renforth peered closely at the drawing. “Bring that candle out here by the bunks. Hold it up—high—along here. There—watch that flame, and you can feel the draught. That big iron pipe is a ventilator. We can take our time digging out.”
Bull stared, wet his finger and proved that Renforth was right. “By gosh, Kiddo, you’re correct.” There was humility in his tones. “It’s queer I missed it. Let’s go fill up with dog meat.”
They went to the kitchen and ate a hearty meal, then, after exploring both passageways, decided the one by the bunks would require less effort to clear. “First, though, Kiddo,” said Bill, yawning mightily, “I’m goin’ to have a laydown. There’s lots of time, have a bed yourself. They can’t be any lousier than where we been sleepin’.”
Renforth stretched himself on a blanket-lined bunk and relaxed. The food had made him drowsy and he was more tired than he knew. He fell asleep marvelling at the strangeness of war. In dreams, he again passed through the wild frenzy of the morning, to be depressed by an indescribable menace. Something horrible and sinister seemed closing on him. He struggled and awoke. For a long breath he stared, then closed his eyes and shuddered. He must be dreaming. But when he looked again he knew the truth. Within a foot of his own was the face of a German officer, and the features were so livid with snarling hate, the eyes so animal-like, that he knew the man was insane.
For a long minute Renforth remained motionless, then stirred to rise. The suspense was unbearable and he would have chanced a blow had he not glimpsed an automatic pressed to his tunic. “Schwein!” hissed the German. “Stupid English! You should die, but I can use you better alive. Kick this other pig awake.”
Renforth was amazed at the perfect English the German used, but he made no answer beyond a respectful, “Yes, sir.”
He shook Bull, who was snoring loudly, and stepped back. The big man awoke, looking fairly at the German. With a startled oath he reached for his rifle. It was not where he had left it. “Halt, pig, or die!” The words were snarled rather than spoken.
“To the floor at once.”
Bull, too dumbfounded for words, did as he was bidden. The officer pointed down the passageway. “Vorwarts—march!” he rasped.
Each captive grunted with surprise. The solid wall, of burlap, at the close of the passage, was swung back, disclosing a dugout of the size the Canadians termed “elephant.” Wonderingly they gazed about them as they marched in, for the place was lighted by many candles. To their left was another blown-in entrance, beyond it a massive, box-like affair, with coarse wire netting over a hole in its door. Farther on were stacks of ammunition, cased mortars, bundles of flares and wicker shell containers. At the end of the place was a huge concrete vault.
Two things caught Renforth’s eyes. One was the body of a German lying in state among lighted candles, the other the number of rats that scurried about at their approach and turned defiantly at holes and tunnels. They were of an enormous size, some black and some grey; all fierce-eyed and quick moving.
“Halt!”
The prisoners obeyed promptly.
“Do not move.”
There was that in the harsh commands that told Renforth their only hope lay in implicit obedience, and so he did not move a muscle as he heard the false door moved back into place. Bull was as rigid as he. The German took a position in front of them and near the dead body. His automatic pistol was balanced in his right hand. He glared at his captives, then glanced at the corpse. A great black rat had stolen near enough to nibble at the hand of the dead Hun. Almost quicker than the eye could follow was the leap of the German’s arm, and a streak of fire flashed from the Luger. The rat’s head was severed from its body. There were many rustlings in the corners, protesting squeals, then the officer spoke. “You are Canadians, yes. We know, for only such stupids would think to drive the famous Maikafer Guard Fusiliers from their holdings. Your dead lies thick in the trench above, yes, and already our victorious troops are repairing the trenches. Bah! What is an opening blown in? A few more dead for the Fatherland! We will survive. This Vize-Feldwebel was with me at this entrance when it was blown in. He was killed, but I am holding the position. You think I was to question you? Stupids! The German Intelligence Service knows all. For the time I spare you, yes, for I must bury this man beyond those rats. Bah! They are bad as Canadians. What is your rank, officer?”