Chapter 5

A trip to No Man’s Land is an excursion which you never forget. It varies in width and horrors. My impression was similar to what I should feel being on Broadway without any clothes—a naked feeling. Forty-seven and one half inches of earth are necessary to stop a bullet, and it’s nice to have that amount of dirt between you and the enemy’s bullets. The dead lie out in between the lines or hang up on the wire; they don’t look pretty after they have been out some time. It’s a pleasant job to have to get their identification disks, and we have to search the bodies of the enemy dead for papers and even buttons so that we can know what unit is in front of us. Flowers grow in between, butterflies play together, and birds nest in the wire. When the grass becomes too high it has to be cut, because otherwise it would prevent good observation. In some places grass doesn’t have a chance to even take root, let alone grow. The shells take care of that.

I managed to get a translation of a diary kept by a German soldier who fell on the field. Below is an exact translation and gives the point of view of a man in the trenches on the other side of the line. He was writing his diary at the same time I was writing mine, and we were both fighting around the salient at Ypres, Hooge being on the point of the salient farthest east. This part, which was once a place of beauty which people came long distances to see, is now like a great muddy Saragossa Sea which at the height of its fury has suddenly become frozen with the tortured limbs of trees and men, and wreckage and reeking smells, until it can again lash itself in wild fury into whirlpools. It is in all respects Purgatory, but of greater horror than Dante ever dreamt of.

_Diary of F---- P---- of the 6th Company, 3d Battalion, 132d Regiment. Killed at Hooge on August 9th, 1915._

On May 10, we were told to prepare for the journey to the front. Each man received his service ammunition and two days’ rations, and we then started with heavy packs on our backs and our water-bottles full of coffee. After a long march we reached our reserve position, where we were put into rest billets for two days in wooden huts hidden in a wood. We could hear from here the noise of the shells coming through the air.

On May 13, we moved into the trenches, in the night. We were a whole hour moving along a communication trench one and one-half metres deep, right up to the front line some fifty metres from the enemy. This was to be our post. We had hardly got in before the bullets came flying over our heads. Look out for the English! They know how to shoot! I need hardly say we did not wait to return the compliment. We answered each one of their greetings and always with success, inasmuch as we stood to our loopholes for twenty-four hours with two-hour reliefs.

At length early on the 15th, at four o’clock, came our first attack. After a preliminary smoking-out with gas, our artillery got to work, and about ten o’clock we climbed out of the trenches and advanced fifty metres in the hail of bullets. Here I got my first shot through the coat. Three comrades were killed at the outset of the assault, and some twenty slightly or severely wounded, but we had obtained our object. The trench was ours, although the English twice attempted to turn us out of it.

The fight went on till eleven o’clock that evening. We were then relieved by the 10th Company, and made our way back along the communication trenches to our old positions. Here we remained until the third day, standing by at night and passing two days without sleep. We were hardly able to get our meals. From every side firing was going on, and shots came plugging two metres deep into the ground. This was my baptism of fire. It cannot be described as it really is—something like an earthquake, when the big shells come at one and make holes in the ground large enough to hold forty or fifty men comfortably. How easy and comfortable seemed our road back to the huts.

We remained in the huts for three days, resting before we went up again to “Hell Fire,” as they call the first line trenches in front of Ypres.

Then suddenly in the middle of the night an alarm. Our neighbors had allowed themselves to be driven out of our hard-won position, and the 6th Company, with the 8th and 5th, had to make good the lost ground. A hasty march through the communication trenches up to the front, the night lit up far and wide with searchlights and flares and ourselves in a long chain lying on our bellies. Towards two in the morning the Englishmen came on, 1500 men strong. The battle may be imagined. About 200 returned to the line they started from. Over 1300 dead and wounded lay on the ground. Six machine guns and a quantity of rifles and equipment were taken back by us, the 132d Regiment, and the old position was once more in our possession. What our neighbors lost the 132d regained. There was free beer that evening and a concert! At 11 P.M. once more we withdrew to the rear, our 2d, 4th and 10th Companies relieving us. We slept a whole day and night like the dead.

On June 15th, we again went back to rest billets, but towards midday we were once more sent up to the front line to reinforce our right wing, which was attacked by French and English. Just as we got to our trenches we were greeted by a heavy shell fire, the shells falling in front of our parapets, making the sandbags totter. Seeing this, I sprang to the spot and held the whole thing together till the others hurried up to my assistance. Just as I was about to let go, I must have got my head too high above the parapet, as I got shot in the scalp. In the excitement I did not at once realize that I was wounded, until Gubbert said—“Hullo, Musch! Why, you’re bleeding!” The stretcher-bearer tied me up, and I had to go back to the dressing-station to be examined. Happily it was nothing more than a mere scalp wound, and I was only obliged to remain on the sick-list four days, having the place attended to.

June 24th. All quiet in the West, except for sniping. The weather is such that no offensive can take place. The English will never have a better excuse for inactivity than this—“It is raining.” Thank God for that! Less dust to swallow to-day! Odd that here in Belgium we are delighted with the rain, while in Germany they are watching it with anxiety.

To-day we shall probably be relieved. Then we go to Menin to rest. Ten days without coming under fire. It is Paradise!

Sunday, June 27th. At nine o’clock clean up. At eleven roll-call. At three o’clock went to the Cinema—very fine pictures. In the afternoon all the men danced till seven, but we had to take each other for partners—no girls.

July 2d. 11 P.M. Alarm. Three persons have been arrested who refused to make sandbags. They were pulled out of bed and carried off. Eight o’clock marched to drill. This lasts till 11. Then 1 to 4 rest. Six, physical drill and games. I went to the Cinema in the evening.

July 6th. Inspection till eleven. Three hours standing in the sun—enough to drive me silly. Twenty-three men fell out. Three horses also affected by the heat. Eleven to one Parade march—in the sun. Thirty-six more men reported sick. I was very nearly one of them.

July 9th. Preparation for departure. From seven to ten pack up kits. Eleven, roll-call. One-thirty, march to light railway. At seven reached firing trench. The English are firing intermittently over our heads; otherwise, all is quiet. We are now on the celebrated, much-bewritten-about “Hill 60.” Night passes without incident.

July 12th. At three in the morning the enemy makes a gas attack. We put on respirators. Rifle in hand we leap from the trenches and assault. In front of Hill 60 the enemy breaks, and we come into possession of a trench. Rapid digging. Counter-attack repulsed. At nine o’clock all is quiet, only the artillery still popping. This evening we are to be relieved. The 132d Regiment is much beloved by the English! In a dugout we found two labels. One of them had the following writing on it: “God strafe the 132d Regiment (not ‘God strafe England’ this time). Sergeant Scott (?) Remington, Sewster Wall (?).” On the other was, “I wish the Devil would take you, you pigs.”

At 7.20 Hill 60 is bombarded by artillery, and shakes thirty to fifty metres, as if from an earthquake. Two English companies blown into the air—a terrible picture. Dug-outs, arms, equipment—all blown to bits.

July 17th. Marched to new quarters. We have got a new captain. He wants to see the company, so at 8 A.M. drill in pouring rain. Four times we have to lie on our belly, and get wet through and through. All the men grumbling and cursing. At eleven we are dismissed. I, with a bad cold and a headache. I wish this soldiering were all over.

July 19th. At seven sharp we marched off to our position. Heavy bombardment. At nine we were buried by a shell. I know no more. At eleven I found myself lying in the Field Hospital. I have pains inside me over my lungs; and headache, and burning in the joints.

July 20th. The M.O. has had a look at me. He says my stomach and left lung are suffering from the pressure which was put on them. The principal remedy is rest.

July 21st. Thirty-nine degrees of fever (temp. 100° Fahr.). Stay in bed and sleep, and oh! how tired I am!

July 22d. I slept all day. Had milk and white bread to eat.

July 26th. Returned to duty with three days’ exemption, i.e., we do not have any outdoor work.

July 28th and 29th. Still on exemption. Nothing to do but sleep and think of home and of my dear wife and daughter. But dreaming does not bring peace any sooner. How I would love an hour or two back home.

July 31st. In rest. Baths going. Duke of Württemberg passed through our camp.

August 1st. Up to the trenches. Shrapnel flying like flies. A heavy bombardment; bombardment of Hooge. Second Battalion, 132d Regiment, sent up to reinforce 126th Regiment, which has already lost half its men.

August 4th. Heavy artillery fire the whole night. The English are concentrating 50,000 Indians on our front to attack Hooge and Hill 60. Just let them come, we shall stand firm. At three marched off to the front. Watch beginning again. Five o’clock marched off to the Witches’ Cauldron, Hooge. A terrible night again. H.E. and shrapnel without number. Oh, thrice-cursed Hooge! In one hour eleven killed and twenty-three wounded and the fire unceasing. It is enough to drive one mad, and we have to spend three days and three nights more. It is worse than an earthquake, and any one who has not experienced it can have no idea what it is like. The English fired a mine, a hole fifteen metres deep and fifty to sixty broad, and this “cauldron” has to be occupied at night. At present it isn’t too badly shelled. At every shot the dug-outs sway to and fro like a weather-cock. This life we have to stick to for months. One needs nerves of steel and iron. Now I must crawl into our hole, as trunks and branches of trees fly in our trench like spray.

August 6th. To-night moved to the crater again, half running and half crawling. At seven a sudden burst of fire from the whole of the artillery. From about eleven yesterday fires as if possessed. This morning at four we fall back. We find the 126th have no communication with the rear, as the communication trenches have been completely blown in. The smoke and thirst are enough to drive one mad. Our cooker doesn’t come up. The 126th gives us bread and coffee from the little they have. If only it would stop! We get direct hits one after another and lie in a sort of dead end, cut off from all communication. If only it were night. What a feeling to be thinking every second when I shall get it! ---- has just fallen, the third man in our platoon. Since eight the fire has been unceasing; the earth shakes and we with it. Will God ever bring us out of this fire? I have said the Lord’s Prayer and am resigned.

To-day I saw the “Mound of Death” at Saint-Eloi; it has been mined a number of times, and thousands of shells have beaten it into a disorderly heap of earth; the trenches are twenty-five yards apart; all the grass and vegetation has been blown away and never has had time to grow up again.

It’s all arranged for you, if there’s a bit of shell or a bullet with your name on it you’ll get it, so you’ve nothing to worry about. You are a soldier—then be one. This is the philosophy of the trenches.

What’s The Use?

War is a great ager. Young men grow old quickly here. It can be seen in their faces; they have lost all the irresponsibility of youth. I have met many men who have been here since Mons; they all look weary and worn out by the strain. Now new troops are coming forward and it is hoped that they will be able to send some back for a rest.

Several days ago the adjutant of the Tenth Battalion Sherwood Foresters came to me with this message which was sent through our lines:—

Arrest Officer Royal Engineers with orderly. Former, six feet, black moustache, web equipment, revolver. Latter, short, carries rifle, canvas bandolier. Please warn transports and all concerned.

Everybody kept a good lookout for these spies. One sentry surprised a real R.E. officer named Perkins who was working out a drainage scheme. Seeming to answer the above description, he stalked him,—“Come ’ere, you ---- ----, you’re the ---- I’ve been looking for.” The officer, nonplussed, commenced to stutter. “Sergeant, I’ve got ’im and he can’t speak a word of English.” The sergeant collected him in and guarded him until another engineer officer, known to the guard, came along. As soon as Perkins saw him, he said, “F-r-r-ed, t-t-tell this d-d-damn fool wh-ho I am.” “Who the hell are you calling Fred? I don’t know him; hold him, sergeant, he’s a desperate one.” Scarcely able to contain his joy, Fred went back to the Engineers’ Camp to tell the great news and Perkins spent three hours in the sandbag dugout listening to a description of what the sergeant and his guard would do to him if they only had their way.

The real spies, who did a great deal of damage, were finally rounded up and shot in a listening post trying to regain their own lines.

Enemy snipers give us a great deal of trouble. It is very difficult to locate them. One of our men tried out an original scheme. He put an empty biscuit tin on the parapet. Immediately the sniper put a bullet through it. Now thought the Genius, “If I look through the two holes it will give me my direction,”—so getting up on the firestep he looked through, only to roll over with the top of his head smashed off by a bullet. The sniper was shooting his initials on the tin.

We are all used to dead bodies or pieces of men, so much so that we are not troubled by the sight of them. There was a right hand sticking out of the trench in the position of a man trying to shake hands with you, and as the men filed out they would often grip it and say, “So long, old top, we’ll be back again soon.” One man had the misfortune to be buried in such a way that the bald part of the head showed. It had been there a long time and was sun-dried. Tommy used him to strike his matches on. A corpse in a trench is quite a feature, and is looked for when the men come back again to the same trench.

We live mostly on bully beef and hard tack. The first is corned beef and the second is a kind of dog biscuit. We always wondered why they were so particular about a man’s teeth in the army. Now I know. It’s on account of these biscuits. The chief ingredient is, I think, cement, and they taste that way too. To break them it is necessary to use the handle of your entrenching tool or a stone. We have fried, baked, mashed, boiled, toasted, roasted, poached, hashed, devilled them alone and together with bully beef, and we have still to find a way of making them into interesting food.

However, the Boche likes our beef. He prefers the brand canned in Chicago to his own, and will almost sit up and beg if we throw some over to him. The method is as follows: Throw one over ... sounds of shuffling and getting out of the way are heard in the enemy trench. Fritz thinks it’s going to go off. Pause, and throw another. Fritz not so suspicious this time. Keep on throwing until happy voices from enemy trenches shout, “More! Give us more!” Then lob over as many hand grenades as you can pile into that part of the trench and tell them to share those too.

It takes some time to distinguish whether shells are arrivals or departures, but after a while you get into the way of telling their direction and size by sound. Roads are constantly shelled, searching for troops or supply columns. I was coming home to-day, up a road which ran approximately at right angles to main fire trenches. At one place the road was exposed for a matter of thirty or forty feet, and again farther up it was necessary to go over the brow of a small hill. This was about three hundred yards farther on and was exposed to the enemy’s view. Thinking they wouldn’t bother about a single rider on a motor cycle, I went up past the first exposed position. My carburetor was giving me some trouble and I thought I would see if any rain had got into it, so I turned off the road down a cross-road and dismounted when _crash_! a shell landed right in the middle of the road as far up the exposed place as I was round the corner. Then five more followed the first shell. Had I gone on I could not possibly have missed collecting most of the fragments. The German gunners had spotted me in the first position and decided that a lone man on a motor cycle must be either an officer or despatch rider. So they tried to get him. The shells were shrapnel and the time was calculated splendidly. They had taken into consideration the speed of my motor cycle. Cross-roads are particularly attended to, for there is a double chance of hitting something, and in consequence it is always unhealthy to linger on a crossroad.

Dugouts are often made very comfortable with windows, tiled floors and furniture taken from neighboring shattered chateaux. I have even seen them with flowers growing in window-boxes over the entrance. They all have names. Some I saw yesterday were called “Anti-Krupp Cottage,” “Pleasant View,” and “Little Grey Home in the West.” There was one very homey site, well equipped and fitted, which had been dubbed the “Nut,”—the colonel lived there.

My old corps brought an aeroplane down with a machine gun last night. They were in a shell hole between the main and support trenches.

For the last few days I have been “up” looking for gun positions.

The lice are getting to be a torment. You have no idea how bad they are. Everybody up here is infested with them. I have tried smearing myself with kerosene, but that does not seem to trouble them at all. Silk underwear is supposed to keep them down. I suppose their feet slip on the shiny surface.

The food lately has taken on a wonderful flavor and I now know how dissolved German tastes. The cook, instead of sending back two miles for water to cook with, has been using water from the moat in which a Boche had been slowly disintegrating.

To-day I was able to see what a German seventeen-inch shell could do; one had made a crater fifty feet across and twenty feet deep in the middle of the road. The top of the road was paved—think it over—and pieces kill at a thousand yards. Thirty horses were buried in another hole.

I have been given a special job by the general to enfilade a wood over the Mound. I have my section now in the second-line trenches waiting till it is dark before making a move. We have to make a machine-gun emplacement in a piece of ground which is decidedly unhealthy to visit during daylight. I have been there in daylight, but I had to creep out of it. On the map it is called a farm, but the highest wall is only three feet six inches high.

Arrived home about two o’clock this morning. We crawled to the place we have to take up, and I put some men filling sandbags in the ruins and others even digging a dugout. The enemy had “the wind up” and were using a great number of star shells. When one goes up we all “freeze,” remain motionless, or lie still. They send them up to see across their front, and if they locate a working party, then they start playing a tune with their machine guns. Bullets and shells whistled through the trees all the time. They seemed to come from all directions. The men didn’t like it at all. I wasn’t altogether comfortable myself, but an officer must keep going. I walked about and joked and laughed with them. The range-taker said, “Some of us are getting the didley-i-dums, Sir.” I don’t know what that is, but I had a feeling that I had them too.

Of course, to start with, everybody thinks every single shell and bullet is coming straight for him. Then you find out how much space there is around you. One man came to tell me that two men were firing at him with his own rifle from the ruins of the alleged farmhouse, ten yards away from the dugout we are making. Just then a field mouse squeaked, and he jumped up in the air and said, “There’s another.” I told the men to fill sandbags from the ruins; they all crowded behind this three-foot-six wall for protection; they dug up a French needle bayonet—that was all right, but they afterwards dug up a rifle and I noticed a suspicious smell, so I moved them.

We came home very tired. We are attacking Hooge, a counter-attack, to take back trenches lost in the liquid fire attack—you will hear what we did from the papers, probably in three months’ time.

I’m writing this in a new home, this time a splinter-proof dugout. The Huns are again strafing us—last shell burst fifty yards away a few minutes ago. Several times since I started writing I have had to shake off the dust and debris thrown by shell bursts on to these pages. I was again sniped at with shrapnel this morning on my machine while reconnoitering the roads—they all missed, but they’re not nice. I’m filthy, alive, and covered with huge mosquito bites; you get sort of used to the incessant din in time. Even the forty-two centimeter shells, which make a row like freight trains with loose couplings going through the air, are not so terrible now.

Through a hole in my dugout I can see the Huns’ shells Kulturing a chateau. It was once a very beautiful place with a moat, bridges, and splendid gardens. Now it’s useless except that the timber and the furniture come in useful for our dugouts and the making of “duck walks,” the grated walks which line the bottom of the trenches.

Last night I was sitting in the Medical Officer’s dugout when a man I knew came in. He was an officer in the Second Gordons. “I feel pretty bad, doc.” He explained his symptoms. “Trench fever; you go down the line.” “No, fix me up for tonight and maybe I won’t need anything else.” He didn’t! All that is left of him is being buried now, less than a hundred yards from where I write this.

Before I came here I had to go to another part of the line, in which the “Princess Pats” distinguished themselves. We have been hanging on ever since, and a mighty stiff proposition it is. The O.C. to-day told me that he had not slept for fifty-six hours. The Germans in one place are only twenty-five yards away—so close that conversation is carried on in a whisper.

In one place they had stuck up a board with “Warsaw Captured” on it.