And We Go On (8 page)

Across from me there slept a Scotchman who was always singing “Maggie frae Dundee,” or quarreling with Stevenson, who had charge of the hut. Next him was a tall clean-built man, MacMillan, an original 92nd man. He and I became friends, and he told me about the Somme, and what he said sank in my memory.

We had been a month in France when we went back for our second trip in the line. It was the first week of January and the wind was raw with driving rain. Once more we were on working parties, this time in the “Quarry Line,” cleaning trenches and helping with dugouts. At nights the Very lights soared like great soap bubbles and often there were salvos of shells near us. There would be a screaming, whistling sound, a clanging, crashing explosion, and clods of earth and chalk would come flying about, then smoke and fume would drift across the trench and sting our nostrils.

All this time we had not got to know an officer, and had seldom seen one. They were in better quarters, we knew, and would not come through the mud and rain to bother us. One night Tommy and I were detained by Stevenson, who was determined to finish a parapet before we returned. We were very wet and cold and the rations were slim, six men to a loaf of bread, and only a few hard tack and tins of bully to help out. The hot tea and occasional mulligan were very acceptable. We got our mess-tins from our bunks and went over to the corner where a sullen-faced man dished out “the dinner.” He stayed in the dugout and heated it in dixies over a very “gassy” fire, and we did not envy him his lot, though he avoided all shell-fire. There was no tea for us, he said, and as we stood looking at one another Stevenson came and got his mess-tin full. I stepped forward and looked in the dixie. There was plenty more in it, and I said so very clearly. The cook looked up and snarled that we had better be in France five minutes before starting to run things, and Tommy took charge. He offered eagerly to make the fellow's face much less an ornament than it was, and
gave him just one short minute to fill his mess-tin. The cook looked up and down, and gave us our portion. Later, when we were supposed to be sleeping, I heard the “oldtimers” discussing us. It was agreed that it would be a bad policy to try to “run” us, and the cook had little sympathy.

The next night there was great excitement. An officer and four men were to try to rush an enemy post on Patricia Crater. We waited tensely after they had gone. Not a sound was heard over the way, then, much later, they returned. They had gotten over safely without being seen, but when they entered the German post no sentries were there. Dumbfounded, they waited, and waited, resolving to capture the first Hun to pass along. None came and the moon began to rise, shedding too much light for a safe return. So they cautiously withdrew before any “goose stepper” came to their clutches.

We felt old soldiers as we went back to Mount St. Eloi that time, and “Maggie frae Dundee” rang out merrily. We ragged Freddy but he remained as inconsolable as ever. Big Herman kidded him continually. This time there were parades and we saw our company commander, a genial-looking gentleman whose appearance I rather liked. We were marched to baths, an old building the wind whistled through, and which was floored with muddy slime. There was a tiny trickle of water from overhead pipes, always failing when a man succeeded in soaping himself before he became too cold to endure the operation. We had little soap and we slipped about on the greasy surface and helped each other all we could. When we went to get dressed we found ourselves with shirts we could not enter, with unmatched socks, anything a bleary-eyed assistant cared to pitch our way.

When we went back to the line our sergeant told me that I would be one for Vernon Crater, and from the way he said it I judged that something was unusual. I asked questions and learned that it was a three-sentry post not usually held in daylight, and not over fifty yards from the German lines. We were to hold it for four days.

We went into the trenches heavily laden. It was bitterly cold and all the ground was frozen hard. We wore leather jerkins over our greatcoats and had socks pulled over our hands in place of gloves; there had only been enough of the latter to supply the oldtimers. It was very clear weather and every sound carried, so that we moved carefully and slowly. The main trench was a long black-shrouded ditch full of dark figures, scuffling,
muttering to each other, and there were hissed curses when a steel helmet clanged against a rifle.

We reached a low-walled sap where a sentry stood and pointed to Smaillie, the lance-corporal in charge. Up we went, moving carefully, bowed over like skulking Indians. We were relieving the Princess Pats and four of their men came hurriedly by us and went on to the main trench. Our post was a wide affair, in three sections. In the right-hand corner, like an enlarged well with a firestep, two men were placed, a short lad, Dunbar, one of our draft, and Doucette, another. They were to take turns in doing sentry in that position. On the left, ten yards from them, was a similar post, and in it were Laurie and old “Dundee.” I was at the centre post, a cup-like hollow, and MacMillan was my mate. Behind us was a roofed space about six feet square and in it Smaillie stayed. He had a seat there, and his flares and pistol, as well as extra bombs and ammunition. A blanket was hung over the rear entrance.

We prepared to meet the cold. I had drawn sandbags over my boots and tied them at the knee and ankle. We had on our woollen caps underneath the steel helmets, and little cloth gas bags to put our heads in in case of gas attack. They were frightful arrangements with nozzles to breath through, and we were glad when the box respirators arrived. We had sandbags over our rifle muzzles, and kept breech covers on them all the time. Our rations, mess-tins, and haversacks were in the shelter with Smaillie.

MacMillan told me all there was to learn about sentry duty, and I did not duck when the first flares went up. We could hear plainly the Germans coughing in their trenches, hear them walking on frozen boards, and hear the creaking of a windlass drawing chalk up from some dugout. The first night passed uneventfully. At daylight we put up small periscopes on slivers stuck in the sandbagged parapet and watched in them till dark. Several times during the day we heard “fish tails” and “darts,” German grenades, going over into our lines, but none came near us.

The next night I saw my first uncaptured German. I had looked at prisoners in the cages back of the lines, and saw their queer top boots and gray uniforms with the two buttons at the back of the tunic, but now I had seen a real enemy. He was only a boy, as young-looking as Mickey, and he was standing waist-high above his trench wall as one of our flares burst directly above him and placed him in dazzling light.

He did not move at first, but his face looked very white and ghost-like, and then I knew that he had seen me for I was standing as high as he on our side. Some wild impulse caused me to wave to him – later I would not have done it – and he waved back. The light flicked out and I jumped down as MacMillan cursed me soundly. After midnight I stepped back to talk with Smaillie and as it was bright moonlight pushed aside the blanket at the rear and looked out. Ping! A bullet embedded itself in the wooden post beside me. I ducked in again, very frightened. A few minutes later there were hurried steps outside. It was a corporal from the trench and he had come to see if I were hit or not. A new draft of men, mostly New Brunswickers, French-Canadians, had come into the line and had been placed on duty. One of them had thought I was a German, had been watching our post, and only his poor aiming had saved me. I felt shaky for a time.

The third night in we saw more Germans. A light snow had fallen and whitened the scalloped wilderness between the lines. There was a wrecked cart near the German wire, and I used the part of a wheel that was above the mud as a guide when looking in the periscope. As I peered at it in the night it blotted out, then appeared again. I told MacMillan and he was instantly alert. In a short time he had detected two of the enemy crawling towards us. We had visions of special leave and medals if we could capture those two prowlers, but we felt that if the rest were to assist there would be little more than a complimentary message from the colonel. So we prepared to catch the pair ourselves. We stripped our greatcoats and equipment with great haste, shed our steel hats and examined our rifles. Unluckily mine had been stood at the back of the post and water from melted snow had run down the barrel and frozen. MacMillan's had the breech uncovered and it was a lump of mud and ice. We could not use the Lee-Enfields, and we jumped for bombs. If the Germans had come to that post that hour they would have had an easy time. We could only use our bayonets. The bombs were little blocks of frozen mud, and we could not clean them in time to use them. We worked frantically with our army issue knives, and the Germans, after a few minutes crawling around, slipped back under their wire and disappeared.

When morning came we had cleaned our rifles and bombs and everything was in working order. We told Smaillie what we had seen and he sent
up flares during the dark hour before dawn, fearing that a raid might be intended. I was quite excited and MacMillan was also nervous. Each morning a sergeant had brought in a rum issue just before it was light, and always there was a surprise because I did not care for mine. Six of our draft would not take it. This morning the sergeant was a little late, and an officer was with him. As they served the rum they talked to us and the officer seemed a very fine man. When I did not take my rum he told the sergeant to give my share to old “Dundee.” Then he put his foot on the firestep and said he wanted to look over, as he had been told that our post was the nearest of any to the German trench. I told him it was not safe to look, that snipers had shot away my periscope not five minutes before. He said he would move quickly, and rose up. I was so close that I seized him without reaching and tried to hold him back. It was too late. Clang! His steel helmet flew back over the rear wall and lodged in the wire, and brains and blood were spilled all over the front of my overcoat and on my arms as the officer sank down at my feet. He had been shot between the eyes with an explosive bullet that had torn his helmet away, breaking the strap under his chin. It was the first death I had witnessed and yet I found myself strangely calm. I straightened the dead man in the trench, leaving just room enough to stand beside him, and placed a clean sandbag over his face. MacMillan was as white as paper and trembling.

We told the others what had happened and the sergeant rushed over from “Dundee's” corner, swearing wildly. There was nothing he could do, however, but go back and report, and we could not remove the corpse until it was dark again. The sergeant went down the sap on his hands and knees as it was getting lighter. Old “Dundee” was like a wild man. He cursed the Germans and proceeded to clean his rifle, swearing vengeance. I heard a report and rushed to his post. Laurie was standing there looking quite pale. “Dundee” had let off his rifle as he cleaned it and the bullet had gone under Laurie's legs and struck an iron post, splintering itself. One fragment had gone through the top of his foot and it stung him sharply. “Dundee” was shaking and wilder than ever; he had had too much rum. He suddenly raised up and put his rifle over the parapet. Crack! He fell back before he could pull the trigger. The bullet had gone in his cheek on one side and out his eye on the other. He threshed about in agony and blood poured from him. Laurie got out his field dressing and he and MacMillan bandaged the old chap as well as they could but the bleeding
would not stop. We looked at each other. The orders were that no one was to leave the post in daylight, but could we let old “Dundee” bleed to death? I tore off my equipment and started down the sap as I had seen the sergeant do, and Smaillie did not check me. I was half way along it when I tired of slow crawling and rose in a crouching position and ran. Crack! A bullet burned the back of my neck just as a hot iron would have done. I dropped and crawled the rest of the way, and was very scared when I reached the main trench. A stretcher-bearer and our sergeant at once went back with me, taking a stretcher with them, and a runner was sent to make sure the doctor was at his dugout. We got back to the post without incident and got old “Dundee” on the stretcher. Taking him out was a terrible task. He would not lay quiet or listen to orders, and had to be forced down while the stretcher was worked along the sap, dragged and pushed by the men at either end. They were an hour getting him to the main trench. All day I sat beside the dead man.

At dark we were relieved by the Pats and I barely escaped being detailed as one of a party to carry the officer to the quarry line where the transport would get him and take him out for burial. We went to Neuville St. Vaast again and into caves there. It was weird to go down and down and suddenly enter a quiet that startled one. The place was musty and had a damp chill that was peculiarly depressing. Before morning we were called out, five of us, as a ration party, and I saw how easily a man might get a “blighty.” We passed an old ruin with a long wall extending beyond it and light flickered through a small opening, perpetually shifting and stirring in a noiseless flighty dance. One aperture overlooked no man's land and the flickers were from the flares which rose and fell all night long. As we paused by the opening there was a sudden snapping of machine gun bullets overhead, but they were disregarded as the wall protected us. We filed by and the fifth man yelled in pain. A bullet had come through that brick-sized opening and entered his leg. We bandaged him and he went cheerfully “down the line.” At the place where we got our rations I saw Freddy, and spoke to him. He was as wan and unchanged as ever, and told me, in dull voice, that one of our draft, a man from my own county, had been killed that afternoon.

When we returned with the rations I slept several hours and then was wakened and told that I was to take my pack and go with three other men to Mount St. Eloi. There we would meet a sergeant who would take us to
a bombing school. I hated the idea, but made no objection. I had had my fill of talks on explosives, and had listened to dreary descriptions of the hairbrush bomb, the “lemon,” the “cricket ball,” and all the rest and I especially despised the wooden handled ones with long cloth streamers, but it never pays a new man to argue with an oldtimer.