Part 12

The evening had been amazingly quiet, nothing but desultory rifle fire, and unusually little of that. At a quarter to nine a Boche machine-gun dead opposite the centre of my half-Company began to traverse our line--his real objective, of course, being, not our line, but the line of trench, the old fire trench, in our rear. I know now that at that moment the slowest of "C's" diggers was underground. That burst of fire did not get a single man; not a scratch.

A fine rain, very chilling, began to fall, and got less fine as time went on. The wind rose a bit, too, and drove the rain in gusts in our faces. By good luck it was coming from the Boche trenches. At half-past ten they sent over ten or twelve whizz-bangs, all of which landed in rear of our old front line, except two that hit its parapet. Rifle fire was a little less desultory now, but nothing to write home about. They gave us an occasional belt or two from their machine-guns, but our men were lying flat, and the diggers were below ground, so there was nothing to worry about in that.

By half-past eleven I confess I was feeling deuced tired. One had been creeping up and down the line for over five hours, you know; but it wasn't that. One spends vitality; it somehow oozes out of you on such a job. I never wanted anything in my life so much as I wanted to get my half-Company through that job without casualties. And there was one thing I wanted even more than that--to make absolutely certain that no prowling Boche patrol got through my bit of the line.

Down on our flank at The Gut there were half a dozen little bombing shows between six and midnight, and one bigger scrap, when the Hun exploded a mine and made a good try to occupy its crater, but, as we learned next day, was hammered out of it after some pretty savage hand-to-hand work. Farther away on the other flank the Boche artillery was unusually busy, and, at intervals, sent over bursts of heavy stuff, the opening salvoes of which rather jangled one's nerves. You see, "A" Company could have been extinguished in a very few minutes had Boche known enough to go about it in the right way.

If only one enterprising Boche, working on his own--a sniper, anybody,--without getting through our line just gets near enough to make out that it is a line, and then gets back to his own trenches, our little game will be up, I thought. It wasn't restful. The men were getting pretty stiff, as you may guess, lying still in the wet hour after hour.

At half-past two "the Peacemaker" came along and whispered to me to take my men in: "Finished for to-night."

I wasn't sorry. I put my senior Sergeant on to lead, and myself brought up the rear. I was, of course, the last to get into Stinking Sap, and my Platoon Sergeant was waiting for me there to tell me that not one of our men had a scratch, nor yet a single man of "C" Company. One man of No. 3 Platoon, in "the Peacemaker's" half-Company, had a bullet through his shoulder; a Blighty, and no more. And that was our record.

But, look here, I absolutely must stop and censor some of the Platoon's letters before turning in. I'll write again as soon as ever I can and tell you the rest of it. But--a trench nearly 800 yards long, wire entanglements in front--casualties, one man wounded! Nobody felt much happier about it than your

"_Temporary Gentleman_."

A GREAT NIGHT'S WORK

In my last letter I think I told you all about our first night's work on the new trench; how it was cut, and the wire entanglements run out, between six in the evening and half-past two in the morning; and the casualty list just one man wounded! It may not seem much to you, but to us it seemed almost miraculous. I think the powers that be would have been quite pleased with us if we had managed it with, say, thirty or forty casualties.

Two and a half hours or so later, round about five o'clock, although you would have thought we should all be pretty tired, as no doubt we were (though not so tired, I fancy, as we mostly felt at midnight), everyone was interested in turning out for the morning Stand-to. We were all anxious to watch Mr. Boche's first glimpse of our night's work; not that we could see the expression on the faces of the Germans or hear their comments; but we could imagine a good deal of it, and wanted to see just what happened, anyhow.

A few sentry groups had been posted along the new line when we came in from it at half-past two; but these were withdrawn at the first glimmerings of coming dawn, since we could watch the front as closely from the original fire-trench, and it was possible, of course, that Fritz might just plaster the new line with shrap. and whizzes and so on as soon as he clapped eyes on it.

I was watching before the first greying of the dawn, from a sniper's post pretty close to the Boche line down near the beginning of Petticoat Lane. The first thing I made out in the Boche line, when the light was still only very faint, was the head of a sentry raised well above the parapet level, as he stared out at the nearest bit of our new wire. I turned half round and grabbed a rifle from a man in the trench, but the Boche had disappeared when I looked round again. Then the idea struck me, "Perhaps he'll bring an officer to look; a sergeant, anyhow." So I drew a very careful bead on that spot, and got my rifle comfortably settled on a mud rest.

Sure enough, in a couple of minutes that sentry's head bobbed up again in the same spot. I held my fire, waiting, on the officer theory. And, next moment, another head rose beside the sentry's, and came up a good deal less cautiously. I won't swear to its being an officer because I couldn't see well enough for that. But I think it very likely was. Anyhow, I had him most perfectly covered when I fired, and they both disappeared the instant I had fired, and never showed up again, so I am certain I got the second one. He was visible down to about his third tunic button, you see, and with a resting rifle, I don't think I could miss at that range. It wasn't more than 120, if that; sights at zero, of course.

It really was rather thrilling, you know, that Stand-to. We had all our machine-guns ready, and traversed Fritz's parapet very thoroughly. Upon my word, in the fluster of that first daylight minute or two, with the new wire under his nose, I believe Fritz thought we were going to make a dawn attack. I never saw so many Boches expose themselves. As a rule, they are a good deal better than we are in the matter of keeping out of sight; they take far fewer chances. But they didn't seem able to help looking this time, and our sniper did pretty well. So did the machine-guns, I think; I don't see how they could have helped it.

Then Boche got his machine-guns to work, and poured thousands of rounds all along our front--a regular machine-gun bombardment, for which he got precisely nothing at all, none of our people being exposed. But can't you imagine the excitement in the Boche line? The evening before they had seen our line exactly as usual. In the night they had apparently heard and suspected nothing. And now, with the first morning light, they saw a line of brand-new wire entanglement and a new trench line, that must have looked most amazingly close to them, and actually was in parts an advance of 400 yards from the old line. And then the length of it, you know--just on 800 yards. It certainly must have startled 'em.

We quite thought they'd start lambasting Old Harry out of the new line at any moment; but they didn't. I guess they had sense enough to conclude that we had nobody out there. But during the forenoon Master Boche registered on the new line at several points; about twenty rounds of whizzes and H. E., just to encourage us with regard to our work for that night, I suppose. And beyond that he didn't go--dignified silence, you know. But I bet he was pretty mad to think of all he'd missed during the night. In the afternoon Fritz sent a couple of 'planes up, I dare say with cameras, to get a record of the new line. But our Archibalds in the rear made it so hot for them I don't think they can have got any snap-shots.

When "A" Company filed out at six o'clock that night to take up protective duty along the new wire, as before, while the new trench was proceeded with, I think we might have been excused for feeling a bit creepy. I can't say how the men felt, but I confess I had made up my mind that my own chances of getting back were tolerably thin. One must move about a good bit to do one's job properly, and keep touch with a hundred men strung out over 300 yards of ground in pitch darkness. As a matter of fact, it was barely dark when we filed out. We daren't leave it a minute later, in case a strong Boche patrol should have worked inside our line, and been waiting for the working party when it came out with bombs. We simply had to be beforehand with 'em; and there was no getting away from the fact that the Boche had had all day in which to study this new line of ours and make his plans. I say I don't know how our men were feeling. I do know they were cracking little jokes themselves about it before we left the sap.

"This way for motor ambulances!" "Change here for Blighty and the Rest Cure!" "Where'll you have yours, matey?" I heard plenty of remarks like that as I worked my way down Stinking Sap to get to the head of my lot before we moved out.

"You'll be all right," said one of mine to a "C" Company man as he entered the sap. "Mister blooming Fritz can't get at you with 'A' Company out in front, you take it from me. We'll twist his tail properly if he does come." The "C" men were for digging again, you know.

It's impossible for an officer to feel shaky, however slight his experience, when he has men like ours to work with.

It wasn't exactly a proper trench that "C" Company went to work in that night. There were bits that were almost finished; and then, again, there were other lengths where it was only a chain of holes, linked together by bits a yard or two long, in which the surface had been shifted, just to mark out the trace of the new line. But every man was able to get into cover right away, even in the worst bits, because of these holes, and then, being in a hole, his job was to cut his way along into the next hole just as quick as his strength would allow him. The trench was cut narrow, you know; not a quarter the width of the old trenches we have occupied. This doesn't make for comfort in getting to and fro; but it does give far safer cover from every kind of projectile, and especially from the deadly shrap. and the slippy whizz.

While "C" slogged away at making connection right through, we lay out by the wire, as we had done the night before, and I crept up and down our line. There was no rain, and the night was so quiet that we could hear every little move among the diggers much more plainly than on the night before. I wondered if the Boches could hear it. They sent us little bursts of machine-gun fire now and again, such as they send throughout every night; and there was the normal amount of rifle fire and the normal number of flares and different kinds of lights going up from the enemy lines. Our men all lay as still as mutton, and when the lights rose near our way, or the M.G. fire came, I naturally kept very still.

Once I distinctly made out a figure moving very slowly and cautiously outside the wire. I should like to have fired, and, better still, to have been able to get quickly and silently through the wire and on to that moving figure, getting to grips, as we did with that German sniper not long since, without a sound. But there was no opening in the wire near; and with regard to firing, my orders were not to draw fire by expending a single round unnecessarily, and to fire only in defence. What I did was to get the O.C.'s permission shortly afterwards to take three men and patrol beyond the front of the wire. But we found nothing. No doubt I had seen one member of a Boche observation patrol on the prowl to find out what we were doing; and if only I could have got him it would have been excellent. From that time on we kept a continuous patrol going in front of the wire.

Then came a salvo of four whizz-bangs, all landing fairly near the new trench; three in rear of it, and one most infernally close in front of us. I suppose we all told ourselves the ball was just about to begin. But nothing happened for over an hour. Then came nine shells in quick succession, one of which, on my left, robbed my half-Company of four men, one killed and three wounded. The rest accomplished nothing. Then silence again, followed by occasional bursts of M.G. and the usual sort of rifle fire. Corporal Lane, of No. 2 Platoon, stopped a M.G. bullet with his left shoulder, I regret to say, and one man in the trench--"C" Company--was killed by a bullet through the head.

With every little burst of fire, one braced oneself for the big strafe that we naturally felt must come. It seemed the Boche was playing with us as a cat plays with a mouse. "I wonder what devilry he's got up his sleeve?" We probably all asked ourselves that question fifty times.

At two o'clock there wasn't a break anywhere in the new line. It was a connected trench throughout, and nowhere less than six feet deep, with two communicating trenches leading back to our original front line. At three o'clock the word came along that the working party had been withdrawn, and that I was to take my men in. As before, we left a few sentry groups, to be relieved at dawn by fresh sentries, since the new line was now to be guarded by day and manned by night.

And that was the end of it. I got my men safely in. Half an hour later the Boche sent over another ten or dozen shells on the new line, and once again before dawn he did the same, with the usual periodical bursts of M.G. fire and dropping rifle fire during the rest of the time. And nothing more. Wasn't it extraordinary, when he had had a whole day to think about it, and must have known we should be at work there that night? Possibly, however, in his crafty way, he assumed we should not go near the new line that second night for fear of strafing, and held his hand for that reason. And, possibly, our General assumed he'd think that, and acted accordingly. But there it is. We got our work done at next to no cost.

I was going to tell you about the rumours as to our push to straighten out the line, but my time's up. That will have to wait for my next letter. We are having an easy time now, but there were no free minutes last week. You'll hear again soon, from your

"_Temporary Gentleman_."

THE COMING PUSH

You are quite right in saying that I don't feel much interest in political affairs at home these days. The fact is, we do not often see the newspapers, and when we see them there isn't much time for really reading them or giving much consideration to what they say. The war news is interesting, of course; but all this endless talky-talky business, why, I can hardly tell you how queerly it strikes us out here. You see, we are very close to concrete realities all the time, and to us it seems the talky-talky people are most amazingly remote from realities of any kind. They seem to us to be very much interested in shadows, notions, fads, fancies, and considerations of interests which we think were washed out of existence at the very beginning of the war. They even seem able to strive mightily and quarrel virulently over the discussion of the principles and abstractions involved in things they propose to do when the war is over!

M-m-m-m-m-m! Seems to us the thing is to get it over, and in the right way. No, we are not much interested in the political situation. The tangible actualities of the situation out here seem to us very pressing; pressing enough to demand all the energies and all the attention; every atom of the strength of all the people of the British race; without any wastage over more remote things, abstractions, things _ante_ and _post bellum_. Here in France I can assure you men, women, and children are all alike in that they have no life outside the war. Every thought, every act, everything is in and for the war. The realities are very close here.

One thing in that last letter of yours especially pleases me. "We have now got to the point in England at which all the people of both sexes who are worth their salt are busy at war work of one kind or another."

That's excellent. Well, now rope in the ones who are not "worth their salt." You'll find they're all right, once they're roped in. I don't believe in this idea of some people not being worth their salt; not in England, anyhow. The stock is too good. You know the type of hoodlum who, with licks of hair plastered over his forehead, seems to spend his days leaning against a lamp-post. The fellow I mean has a perfectly beastly habit of spitting over everything in sight; when riding on top of a 'bus, for instance. Despised by decent men, he's a real terror to decent women. Same type, I suppose, as the Apache of Paris. Every big city breeds 'em.

Well, all I want to tell you about this gentleman is, never to run away with the notion that he can't be worth his salt. All he needs is to be taught the meaning of authority. It's only a matter of months; even weeks. With my own eyes I have watched the process at work. Nobody will ever again be able to delude me about it. In a country like ours there are no people "not worth their salt." The worst type of man we've got only needs a few months in a Battalion like ours, during the training period, to learn the meaning of authority, and, by means of discipline, to have his latent manhood developed. It's there all right. Only he'll never develop it of his own accord. Authority must be brought to bear. The Army method is the quickest and best. In a few months it makes these fellows men, and thundering good men at that. Worth their salt! They're worth their weight in--well, to take something real and good, say in 'baccy and cartridges--real men and real fighters.

Out here in billets, we get a deal more information about things generally than ever reaches us in the line. All the rumours come our way, and among 'em, here and there, I dare say, hints of the truth. We know that out there in the new trench we cut no dug-outs are being made. There's no evidence of any intention to inhabit that new front line. It is just fully manned by night and held by a few sentry groups in the day. (It's a deuce of a job getting along it by night when it's full of men. Being kept so narrow, for safety's sake, there are not many places where you can pass men, so you have to get along somehow over their heads or between their legs. Oh, it's great going on a wet night!) And this, in our eyes, is proof positive of the truth of the rumour which says we are to use it almost immediately as a jumping-off place, in a push designed to strengthen and straighten our front line by cutting off that diabolical corner of the Boche line opposite The Gut; to wash out The Gut, in fact, altogether, putting it behind our front line, with all its blood-soaked craters.

I don't think I ought to write much about it, though I suppose the Censor won't mind so long as I mention no places or names to indicate the part of the front we're on. But, in effect, if we can take several hundred yards of Boche trenches here, the gain to us, apart altogether from strategic considerations, will be equivalent to at least a mile. It's much more than just that, really, because it means getting a very advantageous and commanding position in exchange for a very exposed and deadly one, depriving Boche of a great advantage and gaining a great advantage for ourselves. Even the lesser of the two possible schemes, concerning less than 200 yards of Boche front, would give us all that. But the general opinion seems to be that we are to tackle the larger scheme, involving the seizure of a good mile or more of Boche front. We all think we know, and we none of us know anything, really.

But I must clear out. We have a new issue of improved gas-helmets, and I've got to see to dishing 'em out. Then every man will have two anti-gas helmets and one pair of anti-lachrymatory gas goggles. We are also renewing our emergency, or "iron," ration--and that all looks like a push, and is therefore exhilarating.

* * * * *

_Later._

Great and glorious news! The push is a fact. I mustn't say which day, and, just in case this letter fell into wrong hands, I think I'll hold it back, and not post just yet. The main thing is we are to push; and we are jolly well going to wipe out that Boche corner. It is the lesser of the two schemes--a local affair pure and simple, so I suppose you'll learn next to nothing about it from dispatches. You know our British way in the matter of official dispatches. The British have no shop window at all. One ought to be glad of it, I suppose. Ours is the safer, better, more dignified way, no doubt, and certainly never raises hopes doomed to possible disappointment. At the back of my mind I approve it all right. (Which should be comforting to the G.O.C. in C.) But, as touching ourselves, one cannot help wishing the dispatches would give you news of our show. Of course they won't.

"The night was quiet on the remainder of the Front." "Some elements of trenches changed hands in the neighbourhood of ----, the advantage being with us." That's the sort of thing. At least, I hope it'll read that way. It will, if "A" Company can make it so.

I'm particularly glad we had that turn in Petticoat Lane, you know. Now that I think we shall never occupy it again as a front line--by the time you get this, please the pigs, it'll be well behind our front line, and we'll be snugly over the rise where the Boche now shelters--I don't mind admitting to you that it's a heart-breaking bit of line. There's no solid foothold anywhere in it, and there's next to no real cover. It's a vile bit of trench, which we never should have occupied if we'd had any choice in those early days when the Boche first dug himself in opposite, and the French, having no alternative, scratched in here. For our sins we know every inch of it now, and, thanks to good glasses and long hours of study, I think I know the opposite lines pretty well--the lines I hope we shall be in.

Our fellows are queer, you know. Perhaps I've told you. Any kind of suffering and hardship they have to endure they invariably chalk up to the account against Mr. Boche. There's a big black mark against him for our spell in Petticoat Lane, and, by Jupiter! he'll find he'll have to pay for every mortal thing our chaps suffered there; every spoiled or missed meal; even lost boots, sore feet, and all such details. Our chaps make jokes about these things, and, if they're bad enough, make believe they almost enjoy them while they last. But every bit of it goes down in the account against Fritz; and if "A" Company gets the chance to be after him, by Gad! he'll have to skip! He really will.

I'm not going to risk giving away military information by telling you any more now. It will all be over, and Cut-Throat Alley will be behind us when next I write. And, understand, you are not to worry in the least bit about me, because I promise you I'll get through. I should know if I were not going to; at least, I think I should. But I feel perfectly certain we shall bring this thing off all right anyhow; and so, even if I did chance to go down, you wouldn't grieve about that, would you? because you'd know that's the way any fellow would like to go down, with his Company bringing it off; and, mind you, a thing that's going to make a world of difference to all the hundreds of good chaps who will hold this sector of the front before the war's over.