And We Go On (24 page)

The raid took place. It was postponed more or less, but at last the big night came and we were all watching and listening for results. Though more successful than the other attempts, it was a fizzle. Smoke bombs were used and under their screen the party pushed over, but tumbled into wire that had been put up the previous night, and after the scouts had reported. The Germans spotted their visitors and gave them harsh welcome, but rifle grenades were used and the raiders got into the enemy trench and chased the garrison, the fiery officer leading and the “original” with him. The officer was badly wounded and when his men tried to get him back the Germans had got in from the other side, and but for very plucky work by the “original” things might have gone more badly than they did. As it was they got their leader back to our lines and we met them in the trench, their faces blacked, armed to the teeth, winded and much excited. Next day there were many arguments about the unsuspected wire.

We went once more to hold the front line, this time in the sector about the “Minnie House.” It was a ruin that had, beneath its cellar, a concrete hold that would have turned quite a large shell. It was a roomy place, large enough for a platoon to live in in comfort, and dry. I was warned for a patrol and went out with “Flighty,” a sergeant of one of the other platoons. After we were a short distance beyond our wire he stared at the ruins about us and whispered that it was a very dangerous place and that we had not better go too far. I said, “You're in charge,” and never offered a suggestion.
We did not get ten yards further, but worked a little, left and right, still in sight of our wire, and there put in two hours. Later I heard the sergeant-major telling that “Flighty” had brought in a good report and that he had been very near the German posts.

Just before dawn Sparky came hurrying to me. An officer wanted me to come over to a post on the right. It was just breaking light. I went. Two of the new men were on post and were staring over the parapet. The officer was pacing back and forth. There had been some wiring to do, some work in a spot well out in front, and he had had charge of it. He had, of course, a covering party out, and to ensure his safety while he superintended the work, he had put them well out, near some trees of an old garden. The Hun had loosed a few rounds of machine gun ammunition just as the work was finished and, as the party hurried in, the officer had forgotten his covering crew. Now he had suddenly remembered them, but did not know exactly where they were, and it was almost day. He was in a state bordering on hysteria. He was new to the front, new to everything, and didn't want to get in wrong. Would I look for his men?

All this was said in the hearing of the sentries and Sparky. I asked who were out and was told that Mills was one, he was with us again, and Jones another. Jones was an “original” who had just returned, a big fellow, and one of the best chaps in the battalion. I went out. There was no time for crawling. The sun was nearly due. I left my steel hat and rifle, so as not to be hampered, and ran in a stooping position to trees that were nearest. There was no one there. I dodged over to the next ones. No one there. The third group were further out, but I hurried there, expecting every second a fusilade from the German trench. There were the boys, their rifles ready, wondering who was coming. They followed me without a word, but when we got to the trench there were very harsh and bitter ones. They had lain there five hours, waiting the order to come in, thinking something necessitated their staying there, and Mills spoke his mind freely. They thanked me warmly and I hustled out of the way. I did not want to hear the officer make his explanations.

The next night I went again on patrol, and was paired with the famous “original.” We started out without a word. An enemy machine gun post had been bothersome and was to receive the attention of the Stokes if it could be located. My man was not friendly. He crawled without looking to see if I were following him and he did not ask me a question or give an
order. We went out until we were among the ruins that I supposed housed the maxim, and there we prowled over brick heaps and up ditches until I was sure we were in enemy territory. But not a Hun did we see or hear, and we returned slowly, listening long intervals. He made his report without saying anything to me and I went back to my dugout.

On the third night it was the turn of our platoon to do the patrol, and Davies very kindly offered to let another go in my place as I had been out two nights. I refused and only asked that Tommy go with me. Two or three men were all we used there, as the lines were not definite and the crawling had to be done around old buildings. We went out rapidly. I had only one intention and that was to go out further than we had gone the night before, and to stay until I located a German post. Tommy was willing. There was enough cover to protect us from any sudden machine gun fire and enough moon to let us see where we were going. We found a ditch that was not too wet and went up it a long distance. Not a German was to be seen or heard. I was dumbfounded. Something seemed wrong. We lay there and waited, listening, and had grown quite careless of our movements when three Germans suddenly appeared. They were walking along a path by a ruin near us and were as unconcerned as if in a back area. They walked by us and went on up the way we had come and into a post formed by an angle of walls, all that remained of a ruin. A machine gun was mounted there and we had not seen it as we crawled by. They soon fired a few rounds, and then were still. The moon grew brighter and Tommy and I lay there in the ditch, close together, staring at the ruin.

We dare not move. We were blocked by a high jumble of rubbish on one side that shadowed us, and to go the other way meant to cross their path in plain view. At long last, after we were cramped and stiff, the moon clouded, and we took a chance. We got to our feet and, keeping crouched, walked across the Hun path and into rough ground beyond. There we could crawl and use cover that would protect us from the gun. We got back safely to our trench and found that our officer was on duty, so reported to him and after much pointing showed him the location of the German gun. It was not over one hundred yards from where we stood. He promised to go to headquarters and report in full, and told us to go and have a drink of hot tea.

We went and having the rest of the night off, tried to sleep, but could not; we were too excited over what we had seen. At last we went up to the
trench again and to the officer's dugout, intending to inquire from him what the O. C. had said. The officer had a batman so furtive and small that we dubbed him “The Rat,” and he had a brazier stationed at the foot of the stairway, cooking something on it. Just inside the gas blanket at the top of the steps someone had left the empty rum jug, and as we arrived a runner came plunging by us. He was known as “Doggy,” a big, clumsy-footed youth who did not seem frightened of anything. He struck the rum jug and knocked it down the steps. It hounded through the air, striking the stairway but twice, and Doggy shouted, “Look out – rum jar.”

Bang! The rum jar struck the brazier fairly and over it went, frying-pan and all, in a flurry of sizzling flame, smoke and fumes.

We stopped and looked at each other. What would the officer say? So we about-turned and waited in the trench until Doggy appeared. He was convulsed with laughter and maintained that when he reached the dugout both the Rat and his master were trying to get back of the iron cot at the rear. As we talked with him Earle came along the trench with water cans, old petrol tins, and asked me if I would go with him in search of “do-loo.” The men were parched. Rations had been slim and it was said that the Rat had pinched the water supply in order to provide a bath for the lieutenant.

Earle and I walked and walked. The moon had gone and it was pitch dark. We had to feel our way around corners and it took us an hour to reach a water line the engineers had lain. There we filled our tins. It was just dawn and we could make out a Y.M.C.A. sign in the trench. It pointed to a cellar some distance away, but a passing soldier informed us that the place was closed, was never used in daytime and was under enemy observation. I had some money with me and had not seen a canteen for some time. Tinned fruit would be delicious, and chocolate … I set my tins down and ran out over the hard ground, using the footpath. Earle followed and we reached the entrance to the cellar, but the door had been fastened. I picked up a plank that lay there and drove in the entrance, walking in over the wreckage. We selected all we could buy and I laid the money on the counter. The man in charge slept in a nearby dugout and we knew that he would reach the place as soon as anyone. Then we did a sprint to the trench, wended our way back to the “Minnie House,” and breakfasted in style. Tommy was not well in the morning but he would not go sick. Once at Vimy he had had terrible cramps after three days of wading in slush and water, and had joined the sick parade. It was a time when
the rations were short and no bully or hardtack available. All the new men circled the cook wagon like gulls and even sick men were hungry. The padre usually attended those morning sessions. He was a fluent speaker, a nice singer and really led a neat “church” service, but his place was with the officers and we all knew it. He made some remark about food and Tommy cut loose in his usual fashion, and found himself hoisted out of the place without ever being questioned. From that time on he never reported sick no matter how he felt, and would have died in a dugout before complaining in the military way.

I got him excused from duty. None of us were in good health and the long strain was telling on the nerves of many. Men were jumpy, too watchful, too quick to take alarm. Twice outposts in the ruins had tried to shoot each other. Rumour came that we were to be relieved, but we simply hooted at it; we were past believing any rumour. But it was true. At last, after fifty-five days, we were withdrawn from the trenches and taken back beyond reach of machine guns.

It gave us curious feelings to be in the back areas again, to even see French people. We were billeted in a little village and there some of the boys went wild. They got wine and brandy and were hilariously drunk, shouting and marching around their billets. Others simply walked into the fields, along the hedges, and sat down and stared about them. It seemed wonderful to be back again where one could stand straight and walk about in daylight. After that one riotous night the boys sobered and were more like themselves. We marched again, on legs unused to such exercise, on cobbles we had not trod for a long time. Flowers were everywhere and all the world was flooded with glorious sunshine. We inhaled the breath of the fields and trees and there were spasms of singing. Emotions gripped us and one felt queerly choked. We passed places where the “outside” soldiers lived, and saw hut frontages adorned by flower-pots, white-washed stone circles and crests and doodads that did not seem to us in accord with war.

And then we came to St. Hilaire. It was a village of friendly people and there were shops and places where we could buy eggs and chips. We were billeted in barns, on clean straw, and after vigorous bathing and clean shirts felt more like living again. It was wonderful weather, sunny, warm, balmy. Poppies were like blood drops on banks of green, and the white-walled cottages seemed to enhance the verdure of the fields. Rations
improved and parades were sensible. It was good to have survived the spring.

We slept in a ring around the building. “Old Bill” was near the door. Beside him were Walton and Morris, two husky lads who had come back to the battalion after being wounded at Vimy. Along one wall slept Harvey, a MacLean Highlander, a strong-built man; Rees, a young Welshman, with a sweet tenor voice; Thornton and myself. Along the end were Honer, another singer, suspected of having a “girl,” at Ferfay; Ted, a little Liverpool lad, Tommy and Sparky. In the next barn were Earle, and Barron, and Murray, and Hughes, “Waterbottle,” Williams and McPhee. Rats were very thick, the mud and straw walls of the buildings being honeycombed by their passages. Some of the boys tried to sleep with ground sheets over their heads, but were too warm. Our officer had gone from the line. He was indisposed. Four months up front was a long time for one of his kind. Tommy and I found out that he had never reported our location of the gun post; it was his turn to lead a raid.

Thornton slept with his mouth open and snored. I was roused by whiskers on my face one night and opened my eyes to see a huge rat scanning me gravely. He backed a trifle as I looked at him and pushed himself into the palm of my hand. Instantly I pitched him towards Thornton. There was an odd, choking gurgle, a strangling noise, a squeal. The rat had dived into Thornton's widespread mouth and Thornton had convulsively closed his teeth on the rodent's head. The rat's feet had clawed wildly on his chin and when Thornton released his mouthful the creature squealed as it sprang away and into the wall. Thornton sat up and spit for an hour afterwards and I rolled in mirth.

Honor was frightened of the rats. He sat up several times in the night and fought them with clubs he had brought in to his bed. We cut cheese into small fragments and slyly scattered them in the straw about his head. That night the rats came in gangs. Honor sat up with his clubs and a candle and held them off until one o'clock in the morning when he took his ground sheet and went outside. He finished the night under an apple tree.

We all began sleeping outside. The nights were deliciously cool and fragrant. Our cooks were down the street a distance, and when reveille blew we never roused. At the breakfast call we simply got up and reached for our mess-tins. Shortly there would be a parade that never failed to bring mirthful cackles from the peasants coming into the village with their dogs
drawing two-wheeled carts. We went without our kilts, in shirts and boots, digging the sleep from our eyes, and then paraded back with steaming tea and porridge on which reposed strips of bacon.

I got acquainted with many of the new men. Some of them were good singers and entertainers and we had splendid evenings around the different farms. We got eggs and chips each night and I began to put on flesh again. Tommy was like himself once more. Christensen got books from some source and he and Sykes, who was our stretcher bearer, spent much time in reading. Eddie was the sergeant of thirteen platoon and we became accustomed to a new regimental the boys called “The Farmer.” He had a slow way of speaking and walked as if following a plow. MacFarlane had been wounded.