by Will R Bird
We looked around, at the stars overhead. It was a long way back to camp, and if we only had some chocolate, a box of biscuit. “Are you game?” I asked, and he nodded. In a moment we had unfastened the tent flaps and were crawling inside.
I went to the left, feeling my way for the place was pocket-black. He went to the right. A moment we crawled, then there was a startled exclamation, a gasp, a struggle. It became furious, feet threshing the earth, striking boxes. I found a match and lighted it. The signaller and a “Y” man were entangled in deadly grips and rolling on the grassy floor. The “Y” man had been sleeping there just inside the tent, without covering, and had been awakened by the palm of a hand planted firmly in his face as the signals man crept forward. Instantly the sleeper had thrown up his arms and grappled with the intruder. Wakened out of a sound sleep, in a country where all had become change and route, he did not know who might be invading his tent.
When I could stop laughing long enough to light a candle and get them separated, the “Y” man took it all in good part. I told him frankly our intentions and he not only made us tea in his own private teapot but gave us a good feed and filled our pockets. He was a prince of a fellow and laughed heartily with us as we left, saying that he had had his biggest thrill since arriving in France.
The “big guns” came to see us but the inspections were easy. There was not much cry about polish and the speech that Clemenceau made was interesting. Generals were plentiful, Haig, Rawlinson and Lipsett, and we had a nice sing-song afterwards there among the cool trees. The weather continued wonderful, sunshiny and clear, with bombing planes at night. None reached our bivouac and we marched away towards Arras.
We marched nearly all one night, as I had seen the battalion going up to Ypres, drifting along with only the shuffle of heavy boots, the creak of equipment, our steps echoing as we went through sleeping villages. The moon was full and everything bathed in white light. It was calm and cool and far better than the heat of the day, but the hours had their influence; we thought of the boys that were not with us, Christensen, and Eddie, and Lockerbie, Boland, Cockburn, Thornton and Doggy, big Haldane and strange, slow-speaking Morris. I thought of Siddal wanting me to sit beside him until he “went to sleep,” of the touch I had had when sniping with Doggy. Sambro marched beside me and now and then asked questions about the boys. He was glad to be back and I was glad he had come.
We were in “Y” Camp at Duisans and there heard rumours of another great push. The Canadians were to attack Monchy and all that hilly, wooded country beyond. It was to be another big push, and there would be more missing faces. New men joined us, a rather poor lot, and we were not as friendly with them as we should have been. Then we went to Arras, that fine old city where all French history has its ghosts. It was there that Julius Caesar had his headquarters for a time, where at the time of the Revolution the guillotine in the square lopped heads like turnips are cut in the fields at autumn, a city with underground caverns that would hold divisions, with its Grande Place full of barbed wire and grass growing between the cobbles. We went through the streets at night and stopped at ruins on the outskirts, taking refuge in connected cellars as a rather severe strafing crossed our path. It was about three in the morning when we arrived there, and the rumours said we were to go into action at half past four. We sat there in the cellar, talking, eating, smoking. Hughes sat in front of me, Murray alongside me, Hayward next him. Across from us were Earle and Harvey and two new men. It was only a small place and “Old Bill” was near Earle. They had purchased some tinned salmon and as the old fellow was going into the scrap with us they were planning to keep together.
All at once I looked up and Steve was standing beside me. He did not say a word but looked around the cellar, then at me, and nodded toward the stairway. I placed my mess-tin on the stone where I was sitting and followed him across the steps.
“Don’t go up,” Hughes said. “There’s a lot of stuff coming pretty close, and orders are to keep under cover.”
“I’ll just be a minute,” I said, and never stopped. Steve was just ahead of me, as plain to my eyes as any of the others, and I was eager, keen. Would he speak to me?
As we stepped out of the entrance to the road a salvo of shells crashed into a field just in front and, like the smoke and mist that drifted away from them, Steve faded away from view. I stood peering, watching where I had seen him last and – crash! A terrific explosion in the cellar!
I plunged down. The place was pitch-dark. There were fumes of explosives, groans. I called out. No one answered. Then I struck a light, and stood, horrified.
The place was a shambles. Hughes was leaning against the wall where he sat, blood pouring from a great hole in his head. In the corner behind him Harvey was slumped, his head bowed low while another stream of blood poured from him. Two men lay on the floor. One had a gash on his forehead and was stunned. The other watched, moved, got up and bolted like a singed cat. I never saw him again – he had been shell-shocked before he saw a trench.
Hayward staggered towards me and said his back was on fire. I tore off his clothing and found that from his shoulders down was bathed in blood. He was pitted with shrapnel. An entrance had been cut through to the cellar of the next house. I had not noticed it before but now there were voices and scared faces looked through at us. A number of stretcher bearers, Imperial chaps, and ambulance men were there. I called to them to come and lend a hand but they were shivering with fright. The shelling overhead, and the cellar explosion, had frightened them badly. We swathed Hayward in bandages and helped him away, and then I saw that “Old Bill” was busy with Earle. Earle was hit in both thighs, in the body, in one arm, and another piece had entered above one eye and destroyed it. He was terribly wounded. Murray was beside him, his arms and wrists covered with blood. A new man had been loading his rifle and had discharged it in some manner, the bullet striking a bag of bombs in the middle of the cellar.
After we got the wounded bandaged we called to the Imperials to remove Earle. But they hung back. He was a big man and the cellar passage was narrow – and the shelling outside continued. “Old Bill” and Tommy and I seized our rifles and we prodded those lads to action in a manner they had not encountered before. Up we went to the roadway, a queer procession, and we saw to it that they carried him to an ambulance before they stopped. He was conscious twice on the way down to the Base, just long enough to hear a doctor say he could not possibly live, woke the third time in England, and finally recovered. But he never came to France again.
We left the cellars. My mess-tin had been crumpled out of shape by a bomb end, and I took one of the others left by the casualties and we divided their rations. We went up into trenches on the slope and made our way slowly. It was half past four in the afternoon, instead of morning, before the battalion got into action, and then our Company remained in the rear, in reserve. We could hear machine guns and bombs ahead, but moved rapidly to our objective and the only evidence of fighting we had was the dead Germans and 42nd men we passed.
Just before dark we were in a trench on an open slope. No officer had been near us and we were told to remain where we were for the night. One of the new men in the platoon behind us started to clean his rifle. It was discharged as he fumbled with it and the bullet shattered the leg of big Dave, the ex-policeman. He was carried away on a stretcher. The night was cool. About one in the morning I heard a low voice calling. “Otto – Otto.”
It came from grass and weeds a distance in front of our trench. I roused Tommy and he and I went out. We found a wounded German, a blonde chap, badly hurt. He had been bandaged and left there. We carried him to the trench and were kind to him. At first he had been very frightened and had mumbled pitifully. When he saw that we wanted to help him he smiled. We got Sykes to attend to him and had him carried away to the rear.
Just before dawn I got up from the trench where I was lying and looked around. We had no one in charge of our section. Poor Hughes was gone, and Ab had been left at the
transports – the “originals” were never taken in twice in succession in the big scraps – and Geordie was acting sergeant-major. Only Lofty remained and he was with another platoon for the moment, it having lost its sergeant. As I looked I saw heads appear above the thick grass. They came toward our trench, a long row of them, and then I saw bayonets. For the moment I was bewildered. How had the Hun got to the rear?
They came nearer, much nearer, and still I stood looking at them, unable to comprehend their movements or not knowing what to do. The men about me were still sleeping. “Who are you?” I called. I had suddenly seen that the helmets were “washbasins” and not “coal hods.”
An officer in advance aimed a pistol at me. “Who are you?” he shot back.
“Forty-twas,” I said. “Are you practicing some stunt?”
He almost wilted. Just behind him his men were all ready to throw bombs. They were of another brigade in our division and were to carry on the attack. Somehow orders were mixed and wrong directions given and had I not yelled when I did we would have been attacked. They had spotted me and thought that I was a Heinie sentry.
After they had passed on, walking upright and swearing among themselves, I roused Tommy and told him what had happened. It was well that the front ranks had passed on. The idea of being killed by his own kind as he rested did not appeal to him. That night we moved along to the ninth brigade area and after some waiting and uncertainty relieved the 58th Battalion. We were in trenches and there were rumours flying as thick as usual. It was said that the ninth brigade men had tried to take Jigsaw Wood and had been driven back after getting a foothold, and that we were to try to capture the place the next day. There is nothing worse than trying to oust a foe that has already repulsed an attack. They have the confidence while the attackers have not.
Towards morning Sparky came to me. His voice was unsteady. “Bill,” he said. “I’ve heard you chaps talk about fellows knowing when they’re going to get it. How – what gives them the idea?”
“I don’t know, Sparky,” I said. “I guess they fancy it themselves. I wouldn’t put much stock in it.”
I spoke much bolder than I thought, but it was of no use. “I never had a dream or saw or heard anything, and nothing’s happened to make me think the way I do,” he said. “But it’s just slid into my mind that I’m going to be killed to-day.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “We might be relieved without leaving these trenches. You just push that stuff out of your mind and you’ll be all right.”
“Don’t think I’m scared,” he returned, as if I had not spoken. “That’s the funny part. I’ve been scared bad most of the time, but now that I’m for it I don’t mind near as much, and if I get a chance at all I’m going to do something worth while.”
Word came that we were to attack, and without a barrage; the lines were too complicated to allow artillery support. Some of the boys looked shaky but the most of them were cool. Here and there I saw lips moving, and I believe that more mothers’ prayers were remembered in those jumping-off trenches than anywhere else on earth. I was not the least bit nervous myself. It was not that I had courage, but the fact that I could go over with a curious inexplicable feeling that my body was functioning quite apart from me. I saw myself doing strange things and seemed powerless to prevent or assist that which happened.
We left the trench, simply getting out of it without hurry and extended in groups and hurried to where rifle pits had been dug on the hillside. A machine gun fired and there was considerable sniping but not nearly the reception we had expected. Down the slope in front of us we saw a roof slanting outward, that of a little shelter, and two Germans were just outside it. I rushed toward them and Tommy and Sparky followed. The Germans ducked from view, showed themselves on the other side, and then five of them appeared and two had rifles. They fired at us. Sparky was running like a racer. I saw his body leap in the air, hurl itself, and then he was on the sod and rolling over and over. There was a look of horror and surprise in his eyes. His hands were clenched and his body jerked oddly. I asked him if he were hurt. He did not reply but caught at his middle as if suffering from cramps. His arms and legs made a few queer, stiff motions – and he was dead.
I fired at the Germans and Tommy or I winged one. The others yelled “Kamerad” and waited till we got up to them. It was a signallers’ shelter and they were all bright young fellows. They saw Sparky lying where he had huddled and I saw fear in their eyes as we approached, but we pointed back toward our trench and told them to hustle. They went in a hurry, gladly, but two of them looked behind every few steps. I went into the shelter and pocketed a map that was there as well as a photo that was stuck on the wall. It was a snapshot of the shelter and three of the men in the picture were among our prisoners.
We crossed the hollow at the foot of the slope and started up the opposite side. It was a much longer slope and grain was blowing and rustling in a soft wind. On the left we saw mounds that indicated a trench and then the Wood began. We were apparently to go up on the right of it. The sniping continued but there was very little machine gun fire. When we reached the next stop, a series of shell holes, Batten was next to us in place with McPhee and big Barney, the Lewis gunner. Suddenly, as we halted there, he looked up and said, “What does it feel like to be hit?”
“You’ll know when you get one,” said McPhee. “But would I know if I were?” he insisted. “Certainly you would,” McPhee retorted.
“Well, I never felt anything hit me,” he said, “but I can’t feel from my waist down. I’ve lost the use of my legs and I’m queer all over.”
We looked at him. He was sitting there, quite pale, and with questioning large in his eyes. Suddenly, without another word, he tipped forward, dead. A moment before he had been speaking in normal tones, asking questions. We pulled him over and found that a bullet had gone through his heart. He had died as he spoke the last time.
Sambro came over and joined me and we rushed up the hill to a small hole. Suddenly a few shells dropped about us, throwing earth sky high. There were only about a dozen of them and no one was hit. Over near the Wood we saw a runner go towards a dark entrance we knew to be a dugout. He stopped there in an instant, then ran over toward the trench. Presently an officer, one of the company commanders, walked that way with his batman. They went to the entrance and we counted eighteen Germans who came out of that dark hole with their hands above their heads.
The machine gun began barking again and we saw the platoon with the “wise guy” officer, he who had salvaged the latrine machine gun, at their head. He was leading his men toward a German trench at the beginning of the Wood. We saw several pot helmets appear and duck down again. Williams was over there, next the officer. A German captain stood up at the end of the trench and pointed his pistol at our officer and fired rapidly. Our man went down, wounded. Williams yelled and charged with his bayonet. The German fired at him three times, and sent a bullet into Williams’ thigh, then put up his hands.
“You – squarehead,” we heard Williams yell. “You needn’t put them up now.” He drove his bayonet into the captain with such force that both of them went into the trench among the Germans. But all the rest had surrendered. Hansen, one of our other Lewis gunners, had got to the edge of the Wood without being stopped, and he had a line on the trench, could have killed every man in it, so they did the “kamerad” act.
Fifteen platoon went into the Wood as soon as the prisoners were hustled away. A dozen of us kept well out and worked toward the field of grain. A maxim opened fierce fire from in front, its bullets whistled through the wheat. Jones and Mills had joined Sambro and Sykes and we made a rush that carried us to the crest of the grain field. To go further meant to show ourselves. As we lay there we heard the platoon on our left fighting with bombs in the Wood. Then, all at once, came a perfect downpour of rain, a shower that soaked us as we lay. We did not mind it the least. It was cooling, refreshing. The rain stopped as suddenly as it began and we rushed a distance before flopp
ing again. While upright, Jones had spotted the gunners, and he fired at them. The Germans fled, but we did not know it until they were almost gone from sight. We got up and followed them.
“Let’s keep them going,” yelled Tommy. He had come up from behind and joined us. Tulloch and Thompson followed him. We hurried on at a jog trot, then I saw a great spread of camouflage – and Germans!
Not one hundred yards from us was a pile of wicker work cases. Beside them we made out a dark vent that was blocked by white faces. Germans! All watching us. We were in an open field without a bit of cover. Was it a trap? “Come on,” I yelled, and put my bayonet level in front of me and charged in a manner that would have tickled the “canaries” at the “Bull Rings.”
We ran straight at the faces and as we neared them the Germans suddenly swarmed out of their underground place with their hands aloft. It was the emplacement of a big naval gun, a monster, with its pit the size of a house. All was concealed by a grass-carpet of camouflage spread across the cavity. A major headed the men and I ran at him and searched him. He eyed me sharply but made no move to protest as I took a beautiful gold watch and a pearl-handled Luger from his pockets. Then I plunged into the pit. Two machine guns were mounted by the entrance and if the crew had decided to fight they could easily have cut us down. Back of the big gun was a heap of hasty discards, Lugers, binoculars, those round cloth red-and-gray caps they wore, and a pile of newspapers. I had picked up a bomb bucket and I filled it with pistols and field glasses, then rushed up the entrance and told the boys that there were plenty of souvenirs about. They had searched all the prisoners and Tommy had found one chap wearing a revolver under his tunic. There were thirty-five in the crew and as I looked at them, one chap nodded to one side, indicating that he would like to see me there. I could not understand his signs but had my finger on my rifle trigger and let him come over to me. He at once began talking French so rapidly that I could not understand him at all, but some of the Germans did, and we had to shout at them and menace them in order to keep them back. I caught the word “spy” and at once hustled my lad back towards our second line who were coming towards us. I never saw the lad again or verified any of the rumours I heard but Tommy said that the man was a French spy who had been with the gun crew as a member and that he had maps of all that area concealed on him.