Blasting and Bomardiering

by Wyndham Lewis

  It was from this observation-post that I 'registered' batteries upon the last vestiges of a village: and as I have said elsewhere, experienced a certain satisfaction at the thought that it was reputed to be empty. 'Registering' merely means that a conventional point is selected on the map, and one or more batteries begins firing at it. You, through your field glasses—up in your

 

 

  observation-post—observe the 'burst'. You telephone back to them (by field telephone) to 'shorten' or 'lengthen', according to whether the shell fell beyond, or short of, the object aimed at. (Same procedure, of course, if it is wireless instead of telephone.) This is called 'bracketting'. This conventional object, will be, of course, the point d'appui for their other calculations, once they have hit it a time or two.

  On this particular day little observation work could be done because the wires were incessantly being cut by the enemy fire, which was very heavy. The attack had not materialized—if it was to have been an attack—but the enemy were in a very irritable mood. No sooner would I get through to the battery, than bang the line would go—no more messages would come through. It was then the very disagreeable task of the signallers to go and follow the line back and mend it where it was broken.

  That evening we evacuated our pill-box under a perfect fusilade of shells. I lost my pipe as we went steeplechasing in and out of trenches. In the distance I turned to look back at this obnoxious death-trap, as one turns to look back at a mountain whose top one had just visited, once one is down below. The sunset had turned on its romantic dream-light and what had been romantic enough before was now absolutely operatic. A darkening ridge, above a drift of saharan steppe, gouged and tossed into a monotonous disorder, in a word the war-wilderness; not a flicker of life, not even a ration-party—not even a skeleton : and upon the ridge the congeries of 'bursts', to mark the spot where we had been. It was like the twitching of a chicken after its head had been chopped off. We turned away from this brainless bustle, going on all by itself, about an empty concrete easter-egg, in a stupid desert.

  CHAPTER IX

  Hunted with Howitzers

  The most interesting observation post in my experience was one I never saw. This is how it happened. I offered to take another officer's O.Pip duty one day, because he'd been poisoned with some bottled prawns. I was instructed to, if possible, reach, and precariously occupy—for as long as possible—an observation post, but not to take it too seriously.

  It was of the most evil report. It was a washout into the bargain. There was nothing to be seen from it, even if you had been allowed to look. Only one of us had been up to it. He was blown into it by a shell, and just after he left it another shell had frisked in by the front door. It was even doubtful if it was still there at all.

  To say that I was eager to see this observation post would be an exaggeration. To do any observing from it was out of the question: all you could do was to hang on to it by the skin of your teeth; and, as soon as you decently could, shake the dust of it off your feet and turn your back on it—if it let you. However, I thought I'd look it over. I would observe it, even if it would not allow me to make use of it for observation. For quite certainly it itself was far more dangerous than any of the things I could observe from it. I was perfectly resolved if I noticed more than three shells abreast and at a time going in the front door, to squat down and invest it—rather than carry it by a frontal assault and occupy it. And my orders were, in any case, de ne pas insister. Not to insist: to have a certain regard for the lives of myself and my men. Our present O.C. was as much agreed as the rest of us that O.Pips were a snare and a delusion. If they had any use, except for 'registration', it was moral rather than technical.

  Even in its position it was not like other observation posts.

  It was, I was told, only to be approached by a route that itself was possibly even worse than the thing itself.

  The road up—tracks as usual, though there was firmer ground on the successive ridges—had not been improved by tropical rains. There were no duckboard tracks along the roads themselves, and upon one of these the mud reached well over my knees on occasion. The cork-pulling exertion required for the extraction of each leg in order to progress at all was considerable. But at last we left behind that opaque river; and I suppose about *half was terra firma, where the ground was higher.

  But the way up was an epic of mud. We passed a row of gunners with their pants down sitting on a pole, and saw them chased off it by an inopportune shell-burst, like squibs in a lavatory, and then, in that condition, observed them become stuck like houseflies upon a section of flypaper, in a marshy patch. We observed several casualties, also transfixed in rufous mud, in a working party outside an Anzac telephone exchange —'Blightyones' but bleeding men are more grim to others than themselves: this was just as, for the last time, we had done the cork-pulling trick in the road that was a trough of mud. I went into the pill-box and had a talk with the Aussies who were as merry as grigs at their switchboards.

  Now the ridge was in sight, where the O.Pip was situated, on top of the front-line. The signaller N.C.O. had been up before, he was our guide. Here again was the empty space behind the front line trenches, of considerable depth this time, a regular rolling waste, and we were crossing it diagonally.

  It was then that I first became fully conscious of the German sausage-balloons. They; seemed to be immediately over the ridge; surprisingly lowdown and shockingly far forward. For why on earth were they allowed to stop? They hung there with an impudent air of being chez soi, right over our front line.

  As we approached they became more and more menacingly near. And it was now that I began to see why it was this particular observation-post was not like other observation-posts, but in a class by itself. The explanation was patent—and I remembered that the officer who had visited it before me had talked a lot about sausage-balloons, but I had paid no attention to him.

  What was the matter with this O.Pip was obviously that it was itself observed by another O.Pip—but one above it, suspended in the air. That was what was the matter with it. An expert Observer, vertically above him, was observing any Observer who might take it into his head to use this particular spot for his so-called 'observations'. The sausage-balloons generally had artillery officers in them as Observers, who sat up there with impunity 'observing' for all they were Vorth, of course, and possessing a godlike advantage over those upon the ground. Our balloons were nothing like so numerous nor so impudent, nor did artillery Observers use them so much. From the German sausage-balloons Observers could direct the fire of the batteries with which they were in touch upon any point they wished, and were apt to be right on top of our infantry. At the last observation-post I have spoken about there were none. It was just as it happened. And of course they were not usually right overhead.

  And now, indeed, with this situation which I saw looming up in front of me, the futility of our O.Pipping reached its perfect climax. For it was a case of O.Pip versus O.Pip, but with our opponent given not only all the trumps but the whole pack of cards.

  We did not have to wait till we reached our proposed observation-post to cross swords with the enemy-observer. He had doubtless been watching us for some time. He had seen us pulling our legs, with a sodden pop, out of the mud of the sunken road: he had seen me enter the Anzac telephone pillbox; and he had remarked with a savage grin of glee, the signaller-corporal point to the famous O.Pip in the distance, as we started upon our last lap. 'Na na... So kommt doch! Kommt doch her, Ihr Soldatchen! Wir warten schon! Habt keine Angst, wir werden nicht roh sein. Also!'

  We reached the final bog of bogs, which cut off the front line from the rest of the world. A hundred yards across or more it stretched along the near side of the ultimate ridge. It was spanned by a duckboard track.

  We five would-be 'observers' stood upon the margin of this sea of mud. Nothing so far had happened. The sausage-balloon, startlingly near by this time, looked down on us like a strangely levitated
black slug—a low form of life, in airy repose. Indeed, asleep. There was shelling behind us, out of sight, from where we had come, and there was a little shelling along the ridge where the front line was. Otherwise a peaceful autumn morning invited us to relax. Had there been no gas-bag floating there, I should have congratulated myself upon this auspicious calm. We filed out upon the duckboard track, I leading the party. I did not hurry. You must never suggest to a sausage-balloon that you are afraid of it.

  The last of our party had left terra firma a few yards behind him when the first shell came down. It whooped out of the air and into the mud some yards to the side of us. I accelerated. The sausage had seen us! Shell number two a second later crashed behind us. They tended to go over! But this was followed by a shell twenty yards ahead. Still in the mud. But the next one settled it. For it got a direct hit upon the duckboard track immediately in front of me.

  At this I turned and found that one of the hindmost signallers had already reached terra firma, and a second one was in the bog. I shouted out to get back and we returned to the 'shore' at the double. As we ran the shells continued to thump down and the splinters to whizz round us. It was obvious that it was our party that was the object of this shelling, and I thought the best thing to do was to get far enough away from this unpleasant pontoon to outdistance the over-personal attack. We then would see what was to be done next.

  But as my party in this way beat a retreat, the shells followed us. There was no question at all that the shells were following us. They were not aimed at an area, or a track, or a movement of troops, but at five individuals. I looked back. The duckboard track was no longer molested. Clearly we were being chased. The accursed sausage-balloon was doing it. From its howdah, or gondola, we were being hunted. I felt more like a lion every minute—a lion who realizes that he cannot contend against creatures of another dimension. But forest-craft must be brought into play! There was nothing for it but to take cover at once. This fusillade would continue so long as we offered ourselves as desirable targets. We must make ourselves small. A shell came rushing down ahead of us. I bent my tin-hat to the blast and jumped into a shell-hole. The N.C.O. who was on my heels came in at my back.

  'We'll stop here till this is over,' said I. 'It's not too good.' 'It's not, you're right, sir,' said he. The next shell came very near indeed, with a furious wallop. It shook the earth at the side of us, in providing our shell-hole with a mate. I got under the lee of our little excavation, and my companion pressed up against me silently, all knees and elbows. No fellow human has ever impinged with so resolute a pressure upon my own flesh, as did the body of this N.C.O.

  Fore and aft the shells came down—one short of us, the next one the other side. We knew well enough what that must mean.

  'The bastards are bracketing!' muttered the N.C.O. upon my chest, as in this none-too-deep—this disgracefully shallow apology for a shell-crater, we made ourselves scarce, in almost an amorous embrace. 'That's what they're doing!' I said, in grim agreement.—'They've got us properly taped!' said he.— 'They seem to know we're here!' I answered. My voice was drowned in another explosion, and the corporal became still more affectionate.

  For a quarter of an hour, it must have been, or it may have been ten minutes, the cannonade continued. I do not believe that unless you are about to meet your death you ever feel as if you were. My sensation was resignation to an ordeal, rather than expectation of extinction. The bitter taste of stupidity was in my mouth, rather than a fore-relish of death.

  I should think you could count on the fingers of your hands the soldiers who have been fired at in this personal way by weapons of such dimensions—and a whole battery of them if it was the whole battery that was after us. For obviously for that to happen you have to have all the various factors that made it possible. First, a sausage-balloon sitting with impunity up in the air above you, upon a nice clear day: secondly the Observer in the balloon with plenty of time on his hands, and in the mood for a little sport: and thirdly, two men practically underneath it,

  in an empty landscape. Again, were it a larger collection of people, then it would no longer be personal.

  What occurred was about on a par with having a man emptying a heavy pistol at you at a range that could not, seeing the weapon, ensure precision, but near enough so that the odds were, if he re-loaded and went on firing, he would get you in the end—if you stayed put, as perforce we did. It must be remembered that the Observer in the balloon overhead could see our eyelashes and the mole on the back of the corporal's hand, and the pip on my shoulder-strap, as he gazed down at us through his field-glasses. We were present to him in the most intimate way, as if we had been in his balloon with him. So, as he was probably an artillery-officer I think I am justified in surmising that nothing quite so personal as this happened to any artillery officer before as happened to me on this occasion. Whoever the fellow was up in the sausage-balloon, we came in considerably closer contact than theoretically it is possible for artillery officers on opposite sides to come with each other.

  At last he stopped firing, though he still I expect was watching us. Not far off there was a dugout at the entrance of which I saw an Aussie standing. We left our shell hole and went over to the dugout, pursued by a shell or two. I indicated this rendezvous to the remaining two signallers who were emerging from an adjacent shell-hole. The fifth was not a casualty but had just disappeared. The last time I saw this fifth member of our party was while I was getting into the shell-hole—I glanced round first to satisfy myself that the three signallers were all right. What he intended to do I could not imagine. Perhaps he had decided to go back to the battery I thought, like a homing pigeon or a lost dog, and I should find him there on our return. Or he might be wounded. At all events he was gone for good.

  After a chat with the jolly Diggers—I forget what they were doing there all by themselves, but they had much that was disobliging to relate with respect to the lonely bog upon whose bank they lived—I went out again to essay the crossing. Before we got on to the wooden track the shelling started. But this gangway was no longer intact. It had been broken in two places. We should be bebogged among other things and with a murderous directness the fire was still bracketed on us. So I decided to retire once more in good order upon the Anzac refuge (which was much more amusing than the O.Pip would be and just as good) and wait for a more propitious moment, when my friend in the sausage-balloon had his hands full elsewhere.

  This moment did not present itself. Further sallies were punctually met by a conscious directness of fire, and I thought their marksmanship got better instead of worse. The objective, I decided, namely the misbegotten O.Pip beyond the bog, was not worth the certainty of casualties. As it was it astonished me that none of us had been hit.

  So I never saw that O.Pip. And after my report of what had happened to us, in conjunction with the report of my predecessor, another site was selected, further down the Line.—As night came on I withdrew, shaking my fist at the sausage balloon.

  We had not got far when out of a deserted trench appeared the missing signaller, who fell in behind, without any comment, I on my side affecting not to notice his return. No doubt he had kept us under observation as closely as had the occupant of the sausage balloon.

  The above is an exact account of a brush between one Observer and another Observer—not so wholly negative as it may at first sight seem, seeing that we occupied a 'five-nine' battery, plus an extremely competent Observer, and a balloon full of valuable gas (with necessary personnel) for an entire day.

  Clearly the odds against us were prohibitive : we were unable ourselves to 'observe' anything, yes; but we successfully prevented an ideally placed Observer (who might have done untold damage elsewhere) from 'observing' anything else except us, so absorbing did he find us.

  In conclusion let me reiterate the claim I have made above. Men have been hunted with rifles—for this was hunting not fighting, it must be remembered : they have been hunted with arrows, spears, lassoes and
even harpoons. But what men before or since have been hunted by a howitzer? This is not a game at which two can play. The gunner, as I have said, is not a fighting man. But I have shown he can become a hunter if not a fighter, potting at solitary figures with no less a fowling piece than a howitzer.

  CHAPTER X

  Among the Brass Hats and Sir William Orpen

  My best friend in this battery was my partner, the officer of No. 3 gun. He had a great pal who was an artist, and so had become acclimatized to the artist's habits of mind. He felt less strange with me than the others did. It was like having a nice girl on the other gun—I do not mean this offensively, only that nature having endowed him with the gift of 'intuition' and given him a light touch, it was better than having somebody there who was regarding me as a rival cock who had to be crowed over and fought. The rank and file being the hens, of course : for they play the passive role. They stand round and watch the officers crow and fight.

  My partner was so seriously wounded that we supposed he would pass out when he was taken away. He did not, as I heard from him after the War. I was broadcasting a story on the Radio and he wrote to me. A percussion shrapnel got a direct hit on a dugout and he was wounded in both lungs. This was a few days before I returned to England on leave.

  The battery-position was no joke at all at night. It was heavily shelled from nightfall to daybreak. They were mainly high velocity shells. To look at, a high velocity shell is elegant compared with its more pedestrian fellows. It's what a Hock bottle is to a Burgundy bottle, beside the latter. Instead of the heavy arc of sound, reminiscent of a whoop, which gives you a fair warning, a high velocity shell just swishes over. They were swishing overhead all night at this place. When I was on duty at the guns, I would fall asleep in the duty-dugout with these things uninterruptedly skimming the roof at the speed of a comet. In the daytime I have had an H.V. dash into the ground a few yards away. We took no notice of them. They disappeared into the ground and were more unpleasant for the earthworms than for us.