Jim Brent

by Sapper

  “Bring me some more breakfast. That walk gives one the devil of a hunger.” The brigadier was back once more in his dugout, while, outside, the mist had lifted and the autumn sun shone down on a world of mud.

  The brigade-major was shaving; the staff captain – a non-starter in the morning’s walk – was demanding corrugated iron from the unmoved sapper.

  “I tell you this roof is a disgrace. Cascades of water pour through into the soup at dinner. Why don’t you do something?”

  “What do you propose I should do, brave heart? Sit on the roof and catch it?”

  The subject was a complicated one, touching deep problems of supply and demand, to say nothing of carrying parties; so let us leave them to their warfare.

  The signal officer was looking wise over something that boomed and buzzed alternately; the machine-gun officer may, or may not, have been enjoying another toothful.

  In short, the supers, the stage-managers had departed. The last directions had been given, and the play was due to start in an hour and a quarter. All that could be done for its success had been done by those who were behind; now it was up to the men who sat and sprawled in the mudholes in front, with the blue smoke of their cigarettes curling upwards and their equipment and rifles stacked beside them.

  A desultory bombardment on each side droned stolidly on, while away to the front three British aeroplanes, seemingly come from nowhere, tumbled and looped round two Germans like mosquitoes over a pool. A row of sausage balloons like a barber’s rash adorned the sky as far as the eye could see. Just an everyday scene on the Somme, and meanwhile the actors waited.

  “Come up to the top. There’s ten minutes to go.” The staff captain and the sapper – their dispute settled – strolled amicably to the top of the hill behind the dugout and produced their field-glasses. Away in front Essex Trench could be seen, and the men inside it, standing to. For them the period of suspense was nearly over – the curtain was just going up.

  “One minute.” The sapper snapped his watch to and focused his glasses. “They’re off.”

  Suddenly from all around, as if touched by a spring, an ear-splitting din leaped into life. In the valley behind them it seemed as if hundreds of tongues of flame were darting and quivering, sprouting from what a moment before was barren ground. The acrid smell of cordite drifted over them, while without cessation there came the solemn boom – boom – boom of the heavier guns way back. Like the motif of an opera, the field-guns and light howitzers cracked and snorted, permeating everything with one continuous blast of sound; while the sonorous roar and rumble of the giant pieces behind – slower, as befitted them – completed the mighty orchestra. Neither man could hear the other speak; but then, they were both watching too intently for that.

  Hardly had hell been let loose when a line of men arose from Essex Trench and walked steadily to their front. Just ahead of them great clouds of smoke rose belching from the ground; clouds into which they vanished at times, only to reappear a moment later. They were advancing behind a creeping barrage, and advancing with the steadiness of automatic machines.

  “Good lads! Good lads!” The staff captain’s lips framed the words; his voice was inaudible.

  Every now and then a man pitched forward and lay still; or muttered a curse as he felt the sting of something in his arm. A section on the left dropped suddenly, only to worm on again by ones and twos, trying to avoid the dreaded toc-toc – slow and menacing – of a German machine-gun. Then the bombers were there. Crouching back a man would pull the pin out of his bomb, run forward, and hurl it into the trench where the Germans were huddled in groups. And away behind the South Loamshires, on the shell-pocked ground that now boiled and heaved like some monstrous sulphur spring, with thick black and yellow fumes drifting slowly across it, there lay the first fruits of the harvest: a few of the gaps in the evening’s roll-call.

  On the flank a machine-gun was going, taking them in enfilade. In front, Germans – numbers of Germans – glared snarling at them out of the trench, or whimpered in a corner with arms upraised, as was the nature of the beasts. A non-commissioned officer picked up a bomb and hurled it at the advancing platoon sergeant; only to cry “Kamerad” when it failed to explode…

  And so the South Loamshires, or such as were left of them, came to their objective; the first part of the play was over. The machine-gunner who had enfiladed them passed in his checks, fighting to the end, brained with the butt of a rifle.

  Occasionally a wounded man crawled into the trench; a German officer sat sullenly in a corner stanching a gaping hole in his leg. Behind them, toward the Essex Trench, the air was now clearer; the bombardment had moved over the line they had won, and thundered down on the German communications.

  “Runner!” A company commander stood shakily trying to patch up a wound in his arm. As far as he could tell from a hasty reconnaissance, he was the senior officer present. “Give this to the CO: ‘Objective won. Situation on right doubtful. Estimated casualties two hundred.’” He handed the man a slip of paper.

  At a steady lope the runner went over the back of the trench, into the barrage of German shrapnel and high explosive. They saw him reach it, stop suddenly, twist round, and slither slowly forward.

  “Runner down, sir.” A sergeant standing by spoke almost casually.

  “Runner!” Once again the officer called; once again a man went off at a jog-trot. They saw him reach his predecessor; stop a moment, and bend down. He looked round and shook his head and went steadily on. The luck of the game – that’s all. And it’s only when one’s sitting still – waiting, that one asks “Why?” Ten minutes later he was with the CO, waiting for the answer to take back.

  And so the drama is over; the play has been a success. From the wings the staff captain and the sapper have returned to brigade headquarters.

  “Saw ’em getting over the top, sir. Then they got into the smoke and we lost ’em. Like a witches’ cauldron.”

  “We shan’t hear anything for two hours.” The general thoughtfully knocked the ashes out of his pipe. They were his men who had gone into that witches’ cauldron; with them daily he lived and daily died. Their Dream’s End was his too. But – a sense of proportion, always. “We might as well have lunch,” he remarked casually.

  Gradually the bombardment died away, though from time to time the guns burst into sullen mutterings, as though hungry at being baulked of their food.

  The same old aeroplanes – or different ones – buzzed busily about; the same old stoical balloons looked more rash-like than ever.

  And then suddenly outside the brigade office there was a stir.

  A runner had hove in sight, and the signal officer emerged to get his tidings.

  “Good,” he muttered to himself; “the old man will be pleased.” He went into the general’s dugout.

  “Message just through, sir, from CO South Loamshires: ‘Objectives obtained. AAA. Situation on right somewhat obscure. AAA. Estimated casualties 200 all ranks. AAA. Will be consolidated tonight. AAA.’”

  The ‘old man’ was pleased.

  And so, on the afternoon of the 21st, we gained a small success. We advanced our line on a front of six hundred yards over an average depth of a quarter of a mile, etc. etc.

  It wasn’t much, my friends at home; but – that runner will run no more, and some eight odd of that odd two hundred have cooked their last ration of bacon. Their ‘Why?’ is answered.

  No, it wasn’t much; but it wasn’t – nothing.

  Bendigo Jones – His Tree

  My story – such as it is – concerns a camouflage tree and Bendigo Jones: both of which – or whom – will require a little more introduction. That Bendigo would indignantly repudiate any such necessity, I am fully aware; nevertheless, even at the risk of offending him, I propose to outline briefly his claims to greatness, before embarking on the incident in his military career which forms the subject of these pages.

  First, however – the camouflage tree. It is only meet that the
material and sordid details of the stage properties should be given, before branching into any discussion of the capabilities of the actor. The phrase, then, does not imply – as the ignorant might possibly be led to believe – a new type of tree. It does not grow in the tropics amongst a riotous tangle of pungent undergrowth; it does not creak sadly in the north wind on the open hill. It shelters not the hibiscus anthropoid, it gives not lodging to the two-tailed newt. From a botanical point of view, the tree is a complete and utter frost. It is, in point of hard and bitter fact, not a tree at all.

  ‘Camouflage’ is that which conceals: it is a fraud, and speaketh not the truth. I am not even certain whether it is a noun or a preposition, but the point is immaterial. Along with other canons of military matters, its virtue lies in its application rather than in its etymology. What the eye doth not see the trench mortars do not trouble is as true today as when Noah first mentioned the fact; and camouflage is the application of this mighty dictum.

  The value of any particular piece of camouflage depends entirely on its capability for deceit; but to the youthful enthusiast I would speak a word of warning. I have in mind the particular case of young Angus MacTaggart, a lad from Glasgow, with freckles and a sunny disposition. He was a sapper by trade, and on his shoulders there devolved, on one occasion, the job of covering a trench mortar emplacement with a camouflage of wire and grass which would screen the hole in which sat the mortar from the prying gaze of Hun aeroplanes. It was a deep hole, for the mortar was large; and the screen of wire was fastened to a framework of wood. When the gun wished to do its morning hate, a pessimistic individual first scoured the heavens with his glasses in search of Hun planes. If the scouring revealed nothing, the screen was lowered, and the gun was made ready. Then the detachment faded away, and the gun was fired by a man of great personal bravery by means of a long string. Ever since the first trench mortars, which consisted of a piece of piping down which a jam-tin bomb was dropped in the hopes that, when the charge at the bottom was lighted, the bomb would again emerge, I have regarded trench mortars as dangerous and unpleasant objects, and the people who deal with them as persons of a high order of courage. One remembers the times when the bomb did not emerge, but stuck halfway and exploded violently; one remembers when the entire gun fell over and propelled the bomb in the direction of battalion headquarters; above all, one remembers the loathing and contumely with which the mere arrival of the trench mortar in any part of the trenches was greeted. Then there was no attempt at camouflage; one’s soul endeavour was to avoid being killed by the beastly thing.

  To return, however, to Angus. Though of a sunny disposition, as I have said, he was a somewhat earnest individual – and thorough withal. He determined that as a camouflage, his should stand pre-eminent; it should be the model and pattern of all camouflages. He succeeded.

  Labouring at night – largely with his own fair hands – he produced a screen cunningly woven with grasses and weeds which he swore would defy the most lynx-eyed pilot. He even went so far as to place in the centre of it a large bunch of nettles, which he contended gave it an air of insouciance and light-heartedness that had been lacking before.

  Now, as I mentioned above, the value of camouflage depends on its capability for deceit; and it is by this criterion that I claim his work as a success. It should be added, however, in no uncertain tones, that it is the Germans whom one is desirous of deceiving, and that is where my warning to the youthful enthusiast comes in.

  The thing came too quickly for warning. Suddenly from above the inhabitants of the hole, with whom Angus was consuming a midday glass of port, was heard the voice: “It must be somewhere about here, sir, I think.” The voice was right – it was.

  They came through in a phalanx of five, and descended abruptly on the detachment below. It was a magnificent compliment to the work, but it was unfortunate that the general should have been the one to consume the nettles. However, I have always thought that Angus’ voice of disgust as he contemplated the wreckage of his screen did not improve matters.

  “The door,” he remarked, with painful distinctness, “is full of possibilities.” With that he left.

  I trust the moral of my digression is obvious…

  Having then, in a few well-chosen phrases, discussed one type of camouflage, I would pass on and lead the thirster for information still farther into the bypaths of knowledge. Just as there are many and divers types of deceit, varying from that which conceals what is, to that which exposes what is not – involved that last, but think it out – so are there many types of camouflage. And the particular one with which I am concerned, deals with a tree.

  On a certain slight eminence in what was otherwise a flat and dreary outlook, there stood the stump of a tree. It was a tired stump, strongly reminiscent of the morning after. It had had a hard life, and much of its pristine glory had faded. No longer did the sprightly sparrow chirrup cheerfully to its young from leafy branches; no longer did cattle recline in its shade during the heat of the day. It was just a stump – a stump complete with splinters.

  Its sole claim to notoriety lay in its position. It commanded a view of the German lines which was not to be had elsewhere; in fact, from the eminence on which it stood you could obtain the only good observation of the opposite trenches in that particular sector of the line.

  It was the brigade major who first suggested the idea in the fertile brain of the CRE of the division, who happened to be talking to him at the moment. They were in the support line trenches, and close to where they stood, the tree – gaunt, repulsive and toothpicky – raised its stunted head to heaven.

  “What a pity that tree ain’t hollow!” ruminated the staff officer thoughtfully. “Splendid view from it of the Huns. Can’t do anything in that line, can you, Colonel?”

  The CRE thoughtfully considered the proposition. “Afraid not, old boy,” he answered after a few moments’ deliberation. “Bit of a job hollowing out a tree. All the same, you’re quite right. It would make a great OP.”

  “Why not make another down in your yard, and put it up instead?” The brigadier joined in the discussion. “We must have better observation in this sector if we possibly can.”

  “Cut this one down one night and put up a dummy in its place.” The CRE once again considered the wretched stump. “Not a bad idea, General; the only question is who is to do it. It will have to be a good model, or the Huns will spot the difference; and…” Suddenly his face cleared. “By Jove! I’ve got it – Bendigo Jones. He’s the man for the job.”

  “And who the deuce is Bendigo Jones?” asked the general, as the sapper rapidly jotted down something in his notebook. “He sounds like a prizefighter or the inventor of a patent medicine.”

  “Bendigo Jones, General, is my latest acquisition. I have it on no less an authority than his own that he is a very remarkable man. I gather that he is futurist by inclination, and dyspeptic by nature, which I take to be a more or less natural sequence of events. At present he adorns my office, and looks intense.”

  “He sounds rather like a disease,” murmured the brigade major. “From what you say, I gather he considers himself an artist.”

  “He sculpts, or whatever a sculptor does when he gets busy.” The colonel smiled gently. “How he ever blew out here I cannot imagine, but these things will occur. I offended him mortally, I regret to say, the first day he arrived, by confessing that I had never even heard his name, much less seen his work, but I think he’s forgiven me. I allowed him to arrange the timber-yard today more aesthetically, and the sergeant-major thinks he is soft in the head, so Bendigo is supremely happy.”

  “He sounds a perfect treasure,” remarked the brigadier dryly. “However, as long as he models that tree and we get it up somehow, and I never see him, I shall be quite happy, old boy.”

  “It shall be done,” answered the CRE, “by our little Bendy himself. A life-size, hollow camouflage stump shall replace the original, complete with peep-hole and seat.”

  Thus lig
htly was settled the immediate future of one of the world’s great ones. In view, however, of the fact that the world is so often lamentably ignorant of greatness, it now becomes necessary for me to carry out my second introduction and enlighten the Philistines as to what they have missed by their miserable and sordid materialism.

  Be it known then that for several years Bendigo Jones had been in the habit of inflicting upon a long-suffering and in-offensive public a series of lumps of material. What these lumps were supposed to represent no one has yet discovered; and I am given to understand that unless the proud perpetrator noted it himself on completion, he too was usually unable to elucidate the mystery. It was not of great account, as he ran not the slightest risk of contradiction whatever he said; and as no person ever willingly went twice to his exhibitions, he could vary the title daily without fear of discovery. Another great point about his work was its many-sidedness. A lump looked at from one side would perhaps represent ‘Pelican with young’, while on the other ‘The Children’s Hour, or six o’clock at Mud View Villa’, would be depicted. This, needless to say, economised greatly in space and matter; and in case any special exhibit failed to arrive in time, or was thrown away by mistake, an old one turned upside down at once remedied the defect.

  His nearest approach to fame occurred during the period which followed the perpetration of his celebrated ‘Mother with her Child’. It was announced that the gifted sculptor had worked on it for five years; and a certain amount of light was thrown on his methods by an interview he managed to get published in some obscure journal.