by Will R Bird
Doggy and I were to go with the sergeant-major and captain and find how the rest of the company was established for the night. I saw a thirteen platoon man, big Dave, an ex-member of the Edinburgh police force, escorting nine Germans down a trench we reached on the left, and at once went up the way he had come. We found 42nd men in three different directions and all seemed well. There did not seem anything for me to do as Doggy was sent with a message and so I wandered up one trench until I met Tommy. He was seated on planks at a bashed-in dugout entrance binding up the hurts of a man from one of the other companies. Beside him were dried pools of blood and stained cotton wads and when I looked around the bay I saw a dead Hun lying there, a chap with both arms bandaged.
Tommy was excited. We were glad to see each other and after comparing notes I was sure that he had had the more hectic afternoon. He said that “Waterbottle” and Earle and Lockerbie and Barron had made the greatest team he had seen in action. They had got far in advance as they cleared the trenches and an officer of the 44th Battalion had followed along, cheering them, advising them.
“Old Waterbottle was worth four ordinary men,” said Tommy. “Him and Lockerbie rushed old Heinie so fast he couldn’t get set anywhere. They kept right on his heels and Earle and Barron were there to take their turn. Waterbottle twice caught stick bombs, snatched them as they came at him, and threw them back. He hit a Heinie with a Mills bomb and knocked him down. Potato mashers went off all around them. He and Lockerbie ran right at about half a dozen Germans who were slinging bombs as fast as they could pull the strings and neither man was hit. Once I saw a potato masher burst beside Waterbottle and he only jumped and yelled. He and Lockerbie were terrors with the bayonet and that’s how Lockerbie got killed.”
“Killed?” I said.
“Yes,” said Tommy. “He tried to get in on four Heinies who were waiting around the bay, rushed them with the steel and they shot him full of holes. Then a big Hun ran along the bank of the trench and threw an egg bomb at Barron so hard that it broke his shoulder bone – and yet the bomb never exploded. Earle and Waterbottle went on. Thornton got his, up on a firing step trying to fight two Heinie guns at once. He put one chap out of business, we found him afterwards, and then he got a dozen bullets in the head.”
I went up the trench with Tommy. Dead Germans were around every traverse, some killed by bombs, some by bayonets, some by bullets. “Old Bill” and Hayward had been stationed to watch at a branching sap and a trio of Huns had appeared with an antitank gun. The Germans had expected the tanks in our attack. We found three of those “elephant guns” in and near the trenches, and there were many more seen. When the three faced “Old Bill” he let out a yell and charged them and he and Hayward shot one fellow. The rest beat it.
Then there had been a block to be rushed and in the excitement Morris, the new man, got ahead and into the Huns. He was terribly wounded before the rest of the boys got to him but the Germans were routed. They fixed him up as best they could, bandaging his wounds, and went on up the trench. A second block faced them but before they could attack it a party of Huns came overland and attacked from the rear. They rushed back by Morris and managed to escape the sandwich, then scattered the flanking party, killing most of them. It was an hour, however, before they fought through and cleared the trench where Morris had lain. He was not there but they found him further up the trench. He was lying on a length of bath mat, and his badges, even his tunic buttons were gone. The Germans had tried to carry him away with them, but our boys had pressed them too closely. He told the fellows that the Heinies had had six men killed there at the block and had carried them all back before they retired, and that they had threatened him, Morris, with their bayonets as they left him. But an officer had saved him, driving his men away. He was very white then and had asked Tommy when they could take him to an ambulance. Tommy had made him some promise and gotten away. He knew that Morris would never leave the trench alive. He died at dusk.
Beyond a low road the clearing party had sighted the same wide, deep trench that we had found up our way. But a machine gun had been placed on the bank of the deep trench, facing the long part of the “T” and they knew it would be suicide to try to rush the place. Fourteen platoon, however, had another new officer. Since Mcintyre had been killed at Passchendale new officers had been the platoon’s epidemic. This particular one had had no experience in France but a great deal of tactical work on parade grounds and in lecture halls. He promptly ordered the men forward. One quick rush would cow the Huns. The party hung back, staring at him, and pointing out the position of the gun. “Pooh!” he snorted. “I’m ordering you to rush it.”
Earle and Waterbottle had been fighting continually for five hours and were in no mood for such an order. The officer had not been near them at all the critical points, only the 44th major keeping the work organized, and Earle faced around and very plainly told the man that he was a fool and that they were not going up the trench-unless he chose to lead them. The officer grasped his revolver. “Go,” he shouted, “or I’ll …”
He got no further, as he was looking into the small dark barrel of a Lee-Enfield, and was hearing several very cool voices telling him that just one more little move would be the last he would make on this earth. He choked, sputtered, went white, but put back his revolver. His mouth opened and shut but no words came. The men ignored him and began to plan as to how to take the machine gun post. In his excitement the officer stepped too far ahead of where they were standing. He was barely in view at the end of a sixty-yard stretch, yet the Maxim sent a blast of bullets and one pierced his neck. He bled like a stuck pig, yet after he was bandaged and helped away down the trench was so enraged that he sought out the captain and reported Earle and his band of brigands. His effort was entirely wasted; the captain knew his men.
As soon as the officer was out of the way Earle and Waterbottle planned to rush the Hun from overland by two parties. Earle got out on the left and sent over a rifle grenade and then began sniping from a shell hole. The Huns at once gave him all their attention. They simply cut the earth to powder with machine gun bullets and hurled stick bombs in showers. All the while big Waterbottle was creeping through foot-high thistles on the right. When within a few yards of the cross trench, he rose up, rushed like a great moose, leaping the trench, and was in on the terrified Huns yelling like a berserk killer. He speared the man at the gun before he could swing the weapon and all the crew and bomb throwers surrendered.
They had gone on then until they reached a second road where they had established for the night. Tommy said that he believed Waterbottle and his three with him had accounted for over fifty Germans, killed and captured. There were all kinds of rumours as I made my way around the maze of trenches. It seemed that in spite of the fact that over four miles of the network had been captured we had not cleared the Hun from the sector, and there was to be more work in the morning. Meanwhile we were to get ready to repulse night attacks. I heard that Boland had been killed, fighting his Lewis gun to the last, and that there were several boys wounded. As I went back to get around to my “original’s” post someone called to me faintly. A wounded man was lying on the trench floor. It was Siddall, with whom I had chummed at Ferfay.
He was badly wounded, too hurt to live, and I saw it as I knelt beside him. He looked at me a moment before he spoke and then he whispered. “Tell me straight – have I got mine?”
It was a hard question, but I answered him as I would have wanted anyone to answer me in a like position. “Yes, I think you have,” I said. “Is there anything I can do?”
He smiled. “Just a drink of water, that’s all,” he said. “I’m glad you told me. I can get myself ready now.”
I hadn’t a drop left in my bottle and so I went back to the place where the three officers lay and into the dugout where the cold water was to be found. I filled two bottles there, his and mine, and brought them back to where he lay. It was all the pay I wished to hear him murmur his thanks and then he begge
d that I sit beside him for a while until he went “to sleep.” It was strange to sit there in the dusk, sit without speaking, and wait till he quieted. I gave him water several times and then after a long silence – even the distant guns seemed stilled – I looked at him and he was rigid.
As I got up I remembered the Lugers I had taken and hidden in the morning and I made my way around to the trench and found them. A voice startled me. The German I had bandaged had not died. He was still conscious though he had lain there all those hours in the hot sun, and he wanted a drink. I gave it to him, and after he thanked me he said that he did not hold any grudge against anyone; that we were all fighting for our different flags, and might the best side win. At the foot of our trench I found several men of the different platoons. Some of them had acted as stretcher bearers and some had escorted prisoners to the rear. A wounded German lay in the next bay. He was to be carried back as soon as a stretcher came, and he was moaning softly. Batten was with the men and I talked with him a time and then we lay back in the trench in a reclining position and slept. At least we tried to, but I could not stop seeing all that happened that day passing in kaleidoscopical procession. When I did doze Batten roused me. “Just listen to that noise, will you,” he muttered. “I can’t sleep on account of him. What’ll I do?”
I had not noticed the sound, but the German seemed delirious and was calling continually some word that sounded like “water – water.”
“Go around and put him to sleep,” I said, jokingly, and dozed again.
A rough foot wakened me. “Who stuck that Heinie?” demanded Sykes.
I got up in amazement and followed him. A bayonet was driven into the German to the hilt, the rifle leaned over to one side resting against the trench wall. It was a sickening thing. “I can‘t tell you,” I said. “I never saw anyone go near him.”
Sykes made a fuss. He hated such work, and I went back to my place. Batten had his boyish face upturned and was sleeping like a child.
CHAPTER IX
Jigsaw Wood
Before dawn we were astir. Most of us had only slept an hour or two and were feeling draggy, but there was work to be done. There were two posts on the road to be cleared and I was called to the trench block the “original” had established. An officer from another company was there and he was going to lead an attack up the trench. It was the same narrow, straight way we had retreated from the previous afternoon and I knew it would be sheer suicide to venture up it. I went to the sergeant-major and told him so, but he said I might be mistaken. The face of the officer was enough for me. I saw him shake hands with the captain and lead by the block. The “original” fell in behind him. I was third, a new man fourth, and then there was a gap before the rest of-the party followed. It was well that gap existed. As soon as the officer stepped around the bend the machine gun fired, so suddenly, that we all went down as by a blast. The lieutenant took most of the bullets, was instantly killed. The “original” was shot through the neck. I flopped backward and bowled the new man off his feet as bullets whistled over us. The rest had not come close and none were hit. I had turned as I fell and the whole bottom part of my mess-tin, which was strapped to my haversack at the back, was shot away.
We went back and it was decided that there were better ways to manage Heinie. A flanking party caught him by surprise and he was soon put out of action. Shortly afterward we were in possession of all that ground. Another officer had been wished on us, one from the other platoons. He had been to France before and was supposed to be a dare-devil. Murray had chased a Heinie who was carrying a small machine gun, a queer weapon almost as light as a rifle. The fellow ducked into a sap leading to a latrine and was shot as he tried to scramble overland. He and the gun both fell back into the latrine pit.
The officer arrived and wanted to examine the gun. At the same time Tommy and I were sent out across the road at the head of the trenches to a forward post where we could watch and listen. It was about twenty yards in front of the trench and after having a drink of tea we were sent out again and told to keep moving on a half circle. The posts were so spread that every man was needed. Shells came over, gas shells, and Sykes and some others who were eating in a concrete underground became sick and had to get into the open.
Just before midnight we heard a German patrol quite near and shot at them. They shot back at us and then crawled to hiding. We did not know where they had gone and as we tried to locate them by listening our officer came up the trench with the gun he had resurrected. It stank dreadfully, but he had been having several issues of rum – possibly intended for the troops – and did not mind. Not satisfied with tinkering with the thing he came to our part of the front and began hammering at it in an effort to fire it. Tommy was so enraged that he took a German egg bomb from his pocket and threw it at him. The bomb exploded just a few feet from the officer and sent him scuttling down the trench, and Tommy said he wished it had gone nearer.
All the rest of that night the Germans prowled about. A party of them came down a sap towards the post Earle was on and called out in English, “Are you the Pats?”
One of the new men shouted back “no we’re the ‘forty-twas’,” before Earle could stop him.
There was silence for a moment and then two stick bombs came sailing towards them. Earle and another jumped over the trench bank and ran nearer with Mills bombs which they threw. Next morning a dead Heinie was lying in the sap. The moon was very bright and bombing planes were over. We could hear the crashes of their “eggs” back in the village and even in the support trenches. We held the safest position. All the next morning we waited for a relief and about four o’clock in the afternoon began to be withdrawn. I had had nothing to eat since morning and sat on a firestep boiling a mess-tin of tea. In order to keep awake I cleaned my rifle. I oiled the parts and had the magazine lying on the bank beside me. As I extinguished the tommy cooker I heard sudden guttural voices. The next instant a German stepped around the bay and confronted me. I had a stomach-sinking tension of nerves, but acted as if on wires. One swift motion threw the rifle up and I released the safety and pulled the trigger before my arms had straightened. There was only a dull click. The magazine and its contents were lying on the firestep. My knees weakened. I never was more frightened, but the face of the Hun was that of a man under torture. He had no means of knowing that the rifle was not loaded and I had acted so quickly that he could not dodge. We stood a few heart beats, staring at each other, then I noticed that he was unarmed. Instantly I swung the rifle club-fashion and would have used it had not a rough voice inquired “What the — is wrong here?”
I looked beyond my chap and saw other Germans huddled against the trench wall, peering at me. Pushing by them was their escort, a husky “forty-niner,” and he grinned from ear to ear as he looked at the German and my ready rifle. I told him what had happened. When he had gone I went to company headquarters on an errand and was sent from there as a guide for a platoon of the 13th Battalion which was relieving us. When I got them in place I again reported to the headquarters post. They were at the entrance to one of the concrete shelters, the cooks and signallers and runners and batmen, all seated around with their loads ready. The trench was very deep and wide and the banks were like small cliffs above us. As we waited for the captain I once more heard the German language and again had a touch of heart failure. The Huns were not in the trench but were approaching overland and it seemed impossible that any up there should be prisoners. In an instant we were all ready for action but once more it was a false alarm. A “forty-niner” had merely lost his way and was wandering around with four Germans in tow.
When we went back to the village a body was lying out near the end of the trenches. I raised the ground sheet that covered the face. It was Doggy – good old, big-footed Doggy – all through with fighting.
We billeted in rough quarters, some ruined buildings, but could have slept on spikes. An hour after we were laid down and enjoying slumber that even a bombing plane did not disturb, a
new man, up with a new officer as batman, came plunging in where Tommy and I lay, shouting, “Germans – on the road!”
I woke, but not enough to realize what he was saying. In some vague way I knew I should move, but seemed incapable of action. Tommy was the only hero. He had been sleeping soundly but he sprang up and seized his rifle and rushed out ready to do or die. He saw the Germans – a file of prisoners marching along in the moonlight. Wham! It was a cruel blow, and the batman went down heavily, but Tommy was highly-strung, had been wakened out of a sleep that was sorely needed. He settled down again, but the rest of the night was filled with sudden wakenings. We would start up, bathed in perspiration despite the slight chill of the air, again facing the Huns, again watching a potato masher come sailing for us. Each hour some man cried out and ground his teeth and muttered curses.
We moved next day to Hamon Wood. It was a glorious spot. Tommy and I had a bivvy on a slope that was shadowed by great trees. Sambro came back to the battalion and was beside us. We went to the River Luce and washed away all the sweat and grime of our fighting and marching and then lay around in the cool green wood, resting and sleeping. The new officer called me to his place and lectured me because I did not have a kilt. I wore shorts, my old trues cut off above the knees, my battered steel hat, a very ragged shirt and was brown as a berry. “You,” he said, “are a very poor specimen of a soldier.”
After I escaped him I saw him in conversation with the company quarter-master but no new kilt reached me. I heard that the 85th Battalion was over near Caix Wood and when the brigade signaller came and visited me that evening I asked him to go with me to see them. We walked nine kilometers to find them. My brother was there, in good spirits, had come through the fighting without a scratch. Stanley was there also, had got his wish – his passage back to France – and he was looking forward to another big scrap in which he might take part. We sat around and talked with the boys until ten o’clock then started on our way back. Half-way home we became very hungry. It had been a long hike and we had not had a hearty supper. A Y.M.C.A. tent loomed through the night, but evidently it had been closed for some time. We saw a lone soldier near and he told us that the “Y” had just moved there that day and had not been set up. As he left us we made the discovery that neither of us had any money.
