John Walters

by Sapper

  “Come here.” The terse command roused John from his semi-dazed stupor; he realised that the officer was speaking to him. “Put these over your ears, and tell me if you recognise who is speaking.”

  He handed a similar pair of discs over the table, which the Englishman clumsily put on his head. At first he could hear nothing distinctly but only a confused medley of chirrups and squeaks. Then suddenly quite distinctly there came a clear, metallic voice: “Halloa! is that the Exchange? Give me Don Beer.”

  “Gawd!” said John, in amazement. “Oo the ’ell is it?”

  “That’s what I want to find out,” snapped the German. “Do you know the voice?”

  “But it’s in English.” Our friend still gaped foolishly at this strange phenomenon.

  “Do you know who it is, you dunderheaded idiot?” howled the officer, in a fury.

  “Lumme; I dunno who it is. ’Ow should I?” John was aggrieved – righteously aggrieved. “Look out; the perisher’s talking again.”

  “Is that you, Don Beer?” The thin voice, came once again clearly to John. “Oh! Is that you, Sally? Heard anything more about that man of yours they got this morning?” John noticed the officer was writing.

  “Not a word, old dear. He was the world’s most monumental idiot, so I wish ’em joy of him.” Then once again the squeak chorus drowned everything else.

  But John had heard enough. Regardless of the somewhat unflattering description of himself, unmindful of the officer’s short laugh, he stared with amazement at the wall of the dug-out. For he had recognised that last voice.

  “Who was that? D’you know?” The officer looked at John sharply.

  “Well, I’m danged!” he muttered. “That last were old Sally – the old man.”

  “What old man, you fool?”

  “Why, our colonel, guv’nor. There ain’t more’n one old man.”

  “Oh!” The officer made a note. “So that was the colonel of your battalion, was it?”

  “It wor, guv’nor – sir. An’ if I might make so bold, sir, seeing as ’ow I ’aven’t ’ad any food like since last night–”

  “Silence, you worm.” The officer got up, and struck him in the mouth. “We don’t give food to Englishmen. Go back to your kennel. I may want you again.”

  He pointed to the corner, and resumed his seat, with the receivers of the listening apparatus over his ears once more. But John Walters was not interested – the entire performance left him cold. He wanted food, he wanted drink, and what German prisoners he’d seen had not wanted in vain. With a fierce smouldering rage in his heart, he lay hunched up, and his eyes never left the man at the table.

  A far quicker-witted specimen than our friend might well have been excused for feeling a little dazed by the position in which he found himself. To be suddenly torn from the peaceful monotony of ordinary trench life; to be removed forcibly from his friends, deprived of his breakfast and of his pipe; to be stunned by a blow on the head and on recovering consciousness to have the pleasure of hearing his colonel describe him as a most monumental idiot does not happen to everyone.

  To the unfortunate John, still partially dazed and therefore slower on the uptake than ever, the situation was beyond solution. The only dominant thoughts which filled his mind were that he was hungry, and that he hated the man at the table. Every now and then he fell into a kind of stupor; only to come to again with a start, and see the same officer, with the same arrangement over his head, writing – writing. He was always writing, it seemed to John, and the constant stream of orderlies annoyed him.

  God! how he hated that man. Lying in the corner, he watched him vindictively with his fists clenched and the veins standing out on his neck; then everything would go blurred again – his head would fall forward, and he would lie inert, like a log, practically unconscious. Men were moving; the officer was writing; he could still realise his surroundings dimly, but only with the realisation of light-headedness. At one time the dug-out seemed to be the tap-room of the “One Ton” – a hostelry largely patronised by our friend in the days of peace; while the officer who wrote took unto himself the guise of the proud owner. At another he thought he was in the battalion orderly-room and that the man behind the table was his CO. He tried to remember what his offence was, and why he was lying down, and why the escort was moving about instead of standing beside him. Then his brain cleared again and he remembered.

  The exact act which cleared his senses was yet a further application of the boot by one of the dimly-moving figures. With a grunt John sat up and found beside him a hunk of unappetising-looking brown bread and a mug of water.

  “Eat that up.” The officer was speaking. “Then I shall want you again – so be quick.”

  John needed no second order. The fact that the bread was mouldy troubled him not at all; a hungry man looks not a gift loaf in the interstices. With a rapidity which would hardly be commended in a brochure on etiquette, he fell upon that hunk of bread, and having demolished it he felt better. It was just as he was washing down the last crumb with the last drop of water that he saw the officer at the table spring to his feet, while the two orderlies beside him also straightened up and stood to attention. He looked round to find the reason of the commotion, and found another officer standing near him regarding him malevolently. Somewhat refreshed by his meal, the worthy John came to the conclusion that he disliked the new arrival’s face almost as much as his original enemy’s, and returned the look with all the interest he was capable of displaying. It was not a judicious thing to do, but our friend was not a past-master in the higher forms of tact. Once again the dug-out became animated. Hitherto untouched areas of his anatomy received attention from two scandalised orderlies, and the ruffled dignity of the newcomer – a bull-necked man of unprepossessing aspect – was soothed. It was only John Walters’ fury that increased until it almost choked him; but then to the other occupants of the dug-out John Walters’ fury was a thing of no account. And but for the next little turn in the wheel of fate, their indifference was quite justifiable. He was unarmed: they were not. And no man, even though he possess the strength of ten is much use when an ounce of lead goes in at his chest and out at his back.

  Completely disregarding the sullen prisoner, who stood breathing a little heavily just in front of an armed orderly, the two officers started an animated conversation. John, it is perhaps unnecessary to state, understood not one word; his school curriculum had not included German. Even had they spoken in English it is doubtful if their remarks would have conveyed much to him; though they furnished the reason of his temporary retention in his present abode.

  “Any success?” The newcomer pointed to the receiver-discs lying on the table.

  “Yes.” The other officer held out one of the sets. “Try them on, and see what you think.”

  “Have you identified any of the speakers?”

  The bull-necked man was adjusting his instrument.

  “Only the colonel of the North Sussex for certain. That unmitigated fool” – he glared at John, who scowled sullenly back – “is too much of a fool to tell one anything. He is the thing we got this morning asleep in a sap.”

  The other nodded, listening intently, and for a while silence reigned in the dug-out.

  To John the whole affair was inexplicable; but then a new and complicated listening apparatus might have been expected to be a bit above his form. He heard a salvo of shells come screeching past the entrance shaft, and realised with a momentary interest that they sounded much the same when they were English shells as they did when they were German. Then something hit the ground just outside with a thud, a something which he diagnosed correctly as a trench mortar bomb, and a second afterwards it exploded with a roar which deafened him, while a mass of dirt and lumps of chalk rained down the shaft.

  The occupants of the dug-out betrayed no excitement; only John longed, with an incoherent longing, that another sixty-pounder would roll down the shaft next time before it exploded. He felt he would cheerfully d
ie, if only those two accursed officers died at the same time.

  Then came another salvo of shells and yet another; while in rapid succession the Stokes and Medium trench mortars came crumping down.

  “A bit hactive tonight,” thought John, listening with undisguised interest to the bursts outside. After all they were his bursts; he had every right to feel a fatherly pleasure in this strafing of the accursed Hun, even though his present position as one of them left much to be desired. A gentle smile of toleration spread over his face, the smile of the proud proprietor exhibiting his wares to an unworthy audience – and he glanced at the two officers. He noticed they were looking inquiringly at one another, as if debating in their minds whether it was an ordinary strafe or whether –

  Suddenly the firing stopped, only to break out again as if by clockwork, a little farther away; and with that sudden change of target any doubts they had entertained as to the nature of the entertainment disappeared. They were being raided and they knew it; and any further doubts they may have still had on the matter were dispelled by a sudden shouting in the trench above them, coupled with the sharp cracks of bursting bombs.

  To John the situation was still a little obscure. His brain creaked round sufficiently to enable him to realise that something had occurred to break up the happy meeting and cause feverish activity on the part of his captors. Various strange instruments were being hurriedly stowed away in a corner of the dug-out to the accompaniment of much guttural language; but his brain was still trying to grasp what had happened when he saw a thing which quickened his movements. Completely forgotten in the general rush he stood by the table, while the others darted backwards and forwards past him, carrying the instruments; and then suddenly the quickener arrived. Rolling down the steps there came a little black egg-shaped ball, which John recognised quicker than he had ever recognised anything before. It was a Mills bomb, and the pin was out. He was no bombing expert, but the habits of a Mills are known to most people who live with the breed. Four seconds – and then a most unpleasing explosion, especially when in a confined space like a dug-out.

  So John acted. With a dispassionate grunt, he seized one of the orderlies who was brushing past him at the moment, all unmindful of the danger; and having picked him off the ground as if he were a baby he deposited him on the bomb, just in time. Barely had the dazed Hun alighted gently on the bomb when the bomb went off. So did the Hun, and the fun began. John’s playful action had – amongst other good effects – prevented the lights from being blown out; and so at the trifling cost of one orderly he was in what is known as a strategically sound position. More-over, he was in the most dreadful rage which had ever shaken his torpid disposition. Stunned by the sudden shock of the unexpected bomb and paralysed for the moment by the sight of the shattered man, the three Germans gazed foolishly at John Walters. And in that moment he went in at them. The second orderly fell like a stone with a blow on the point of the jaw which would have felled an ox; and only the two officers were left.

  With a howl of rage the bull-necked officer rushed at him, and John grinned gently. He had no particular animosity against him: it was the other one he was after. So he hit him – once – and the bull-necked one slept, even like a little child.

  Then for a moment or two John Walters stood still and contemplated the last occupant. Up above were his own pals, while down below his tormentor faced him alone. And they were on equal terms: they were both unarmed.

  With a grunt of rage John caught him by the throat and shook him like a rat. All the fury pent up for so many hours came out as he bashed at his face with his fist. “No food, you dirty swine!” he muttered – bash, bash. “Kicked in me stummick, ‘it in me mouth. I’ll show yer – you perishin’ ’Un! Come on upstairs and see the fun – come on, yer sausage-eating ’og!”

  Bumping, heaving, pulling, he dragged the semi-conscious German up the shaft and with a mighty effort heaved him into the trench. There was no one in sight, though all around him bombs were going off – while away on each flank and behind the trench a ceaseless series of explosions merged into one continuous blast. John grunted again, and heaved the officer on to the parapet.

  “Back ’ome with me this time, me beauty! Kicked in the stummick, no food since last night, and then a perisher trod on it. Gaw lumme, wot a life! Come on, yer swine!” and John got in the first real kick in the ribs with his boot. “Hup and hover. Gawd! – wot’s that?”

  Clear above the din there came from the British lines a discordant braying, which rose and fell like the wailing of a giant animal. It was the recall signal to the raiders.

  “ ’Op it, yer bla’guard, ’op it ’ard!” The bombing had died away, though the guns and mortars still roared. “In front of me, Mr ’Un – in front of me. Some of our boys be light on the trigger.”

  With the German firmly clasped to his chest the worthy John rushed him across No Man’s Land. “It’s Walters – John Walters,” he bawled at the top of his voice – “and a ’Un.” With a last final kick he sent him flying over the top of the parapet and fell in after him, breathing hard.

  “What the devil?” An officer in the trench got up and gazed at the pair in amazement. “Who the hell are you?”

  “John Walters, sir – and a ’Un.” He scratched his head and mechanically kicked the recumbent German. “Get up, yer swine, and speak to the orficer!”

  “Are you the fellow who was taken prisoner this morning?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s me.” He gazed vindictively at his enemy. “An’ not a bit of food since last night, and then some perisher trod on it. Gaw lumme, wot a life! Lucky as ’ow the boys come over, sir, or I wouldn’t ’ave ’ad none at all – not with that there swine.”

  “Great Scott!” murmured the officer. This sudden appearance of the lost sheep temporarily unnerved him.

  Not so John Walters. Having administered a final kick to the groaning Hun, he slouched moodily off into the night. His rage had abated – there only remained one thing to do before food. Absolutely unperturbed by various red and green lights which were now going up continuously from the German trenches as a signal for help, quite unmindful of the heavy shelling which had now started on our own trenches, our friend strode on to his appointed goal.

  “ ’Ave yer seen it lying about, mate?”

  An astonished sentry peering into the darkness swung round sharply at the sudden voice behind him.

  “Seen wot?” he demanded, crustily. “Wot are yer nosing abaht there for, and ’oo are yer, anyway?”

  “John Walters, mate – John Walters, C Company.”

  “Lumme, but you was took prisoner this morning by the ’Uns!”

  “I knows it – I knows all that. What I wants to know is – where’s my ruddy pipe wot I dropped? Not a bit o’ food since last night, and then some perisher trod on it. And now” – he was delving in the mud at the bottom of the sap – “danged if some other plurry perisher ain’t been and gone and trod on this too!” By the light of a flare he ruefully examined two bits of a broken clay pipe. “Gaw lumme, wot a life!”

  Chapter 2

  A Point of Detail

  “Hist!” The officer gripped the sergeant’s arm just above the elbow, bringing his mouth close up to his ear. “Don’t move.” The words were hardly breathed, so low was the tense, sudden whisper, and the two men crouched motionless, peering into the darkness which enveloped them.

  “Where, sir?” The sergeant slowly twisted his head till it was almost touching that of the man beside him; and he, too, whose normal voice resembled a human fog horn, scarcely did more than frame the words with his lips.

  “Behind that mound of chalk. Several of them.” The sergeant’s eyes followed the line of the outstretched hand until they picked up the dark, menacing lump in the ground twenty feet away. Sombre, grim, apparently lifeless, outlined against the night sky – it appeared almost monstrous in size to the men who lay on the edge of a shell hole, with every nerve alert. A bullet spat over them viciously, but they
did not alter their position – they knew they were not the target; and from their own lines came the sudden clang of a shovel. All around them the night was full of vague, indefinable noises; instinctively a man, brought suddenly into such a place and ignorant of his whereabouts, would have known that there were men all around him; men whom he could not see, men who flitted through the shadows bent on mysterious tasks, men who moved silently, with eyes strained to pierce the darkness. Behind the German lines a trench tramway was in use; the metallic rumble of the trolleys on the iron rails came continuously from the distance. And suddenly from close at hand a man laughed…

  “Do you see them?” Once again the officer was whispering, while he still grasped, almost unconsciously, the sergeant’s arm. “There – there! Look!”

  Two or three shadowy blobs seemed to move uncertainly above the edge of the chalk mound and then disappear again; and a moment afterwards, from almost on top of them, came a hoarse guttural whisper. The officer’s grip tightened convulsively; the night of a sudden seemed alive with men close to them – pressing around them. Almost involuntarily he got up and moved back a few steps, still peering, straining to see in the inky blackness. Something loomed up and bumped into him, only to recoil with a muttered oath; and even as he realised it was a German he heard his sergeant’s low voice from a few feet away. “Where are you, sir? Where are you?” The next moment he was back at his side.

  “Get back your own way,” he whispered; “we’ve bumped into a big patrol. Don’t fire.” And as he spoke, with a slight hiss a flare shot up into the night.

  Now had it not been for that one untimely flare this story would never have been written. Indecent curiosity in other wanderers’ doings in No Man’s Land is an unprofitable amusement; while the sound of strafing, to say nothing of revolver shots, is calculated to produce a tornado of fire from all directions, administered impartially by friend and foe alike. Wherefore it is more than likely that but for the sudden ghostly light both the Englishmen would have got away. As it was, John Brinton, MC, Lieutenant in His Majesty’s Regiment of the Royal Loamshires, found himself crouching in a slight dip in the ground and contemplating from a range of four feet no less than six Huns similarly engaged. There was the sharp crack of a revolver, a struggle, a muffled cry; then silence. Half a dozen more flares went up from each line; everywhere sentries peered earnestly towards the sound of the shot; a few desultory rifles cracked, and then the night resumed its whispering mystery. But at the bottom of the dip five Huns lay on the top of a stunned English officer; while the sixth lay still and twisted, with a revolver bullet in his brain.