Chapter 6

My section worked until two o’clock and then the sandbags gave out, so we had to come home. This was a disappointment to me. I wanted to get the job finished. My men went on filling sandbags from the same place last night and discovered the remains of the late owner of the sword bayonet. He has now been decently buried, with a little wooden cross marked—

TO AN UNKNOWN FRENCH SOLDIER R.I.P.

When you read in the newspapers, that a trench was lost or taken, just think what it means. Think what happens to the men in the trenches; that’s the part of it we see. Stretchers pass by all day. Since I have been here the cemetery has grown—a new mound—a simple wooden cross. Nobody talks about it, but everybody wonders who’s next. The men here are splendid, the best in the world, and the officers are gentlemen.

A French Soldier.

We have moved to the famous Langhof Chateau on the Lille road. This is supposed to have belonged to Hennessey of “Three Star” fame, but the Germans had been through the wine cellars. We looked very, very carefully, but only found empties. My batman has made me comfortable. I’m writing this on a washstand; in front of me I have a bunch of roses in a broken vase. My trench coat is hanging on a nail from a coat-hanger. A large piece of broken wardrobe mirror has been nailed up to a beam for my use. One of the men just came in to ask if a trousers press would be of any use. We have a fine little bureau cupboard of carved oak; we use this for the rations. A pump, repaired with the leather from a German helmet, has been persuaded to work and has been busy ever since. The roof of my cellar is arched brick and has a few tons of fallen debris on the floor upstairs. That strengthens it. It is shored up from inside with rafters. This makes the roof shell-proof, except for big shells, and the enemy always use big shells. The cellar floors are concrete.

It is very strange the lightness with which serious things are taken by men here, and it took me some time to understand it. I met a young captain of the Royal Marine Artillery who was in charge of a battery of trench mortars. He was telling me of how one of his mortars and the crew were wiped out by a direct hit. He referred to it as though he had just missed his train.

Two days later I went up with the Machine-Gun Officer of the Second Gordons to look at a piece of ground. To get there we had to crawl on our hands and knees. In one part of our journey we came to a sunken road. The day was fine, so we lay there. He asked me about Canada. He wanted to know something about the settler’s grant. He said: “Of course you know after a chap has been out here in the open, it will be impossible to go back again to office life.” I boosted Canada and suddenly the irony of the situation occurred to me. Here we were lying down in a road quite close to the German lines, so close that it would be suicide to even stand up, and yet here we were calmly discussing the merits of Canadian emigration. I commented on this and he replied: “My dear fellow, when you have been out as long as I have, you will come to realize that being at the front is a period of intense boredom punctuated by periods of intense fear, and that if you allow yourself to be carried away by depression it will be your finish.” He had been out since just after Mons.

I remembered this and I found that the nonchalant and care-free attitude of the average British officer was really a mask and simulated to keep his mind off the whole beastly business: this great big dirty job which white people must do.

I was sitting one afternoon by the side of the canal bank about two hundred yards in front of my chateau having tea with the officers of the East Yorks when suddenly the chateau-smashing started again. To go back was dangerous and useless. My men were under cover, resting, so that they would be ready for the night work. The shelling was intermittent. One shell went over and presently I heard _crack_,—_crack_,—_boom_, _crack_, _crack_,—_crack_; my heart was in my boots and I was unable to move.

The colonel listened for a few seconds, then said: “Keene, do you know what that is?” I lied: “No, sir.” I thought it was the explosion of my machine-gun bullets in their web belts and I dreaded to go up to see my section. I had worked with them and tried hard to be a good officer and the feeling that I should probably only find their mangled remains sickened me. The colonel said: “That’s the ‘Archie’ in Bedford House. I think the last ‘crump’ got it. You two”—indicating myself and another officer—“go up and see if we can do anything. See if they want a working party and let me know.”

We started to run. On the way up I looked into the cellars to see the men whom I, the minute previously, had mourned for, and found two asleep, three hunting through their shirts, and the rest breaking the army orders by “shooting craps.” From Bedford House a long trail of smoke was rising and the explosions became louder. We suddenly discovered the “Archie” in flames. It was in the courtyard and for camouflage had been covered with branches. It was mounted on an armored Pierce-Arrow truck. The “crump” had hit it, and gasoline, paint, branches, and hubs were supplying the fuel which was cooking out the ammunition, the _crack_, _crack_, being the report of single shells, whereas one loud _boom_ signified the explosion of an entire box. These shells were going off in all directions and it became dangerous to stay too near.

The flames on the car were of pretty colors. It is surprising the amount of inflammable material there is on a car. The late owner of the car, a lieutenant in the Royal Marine Artillery, was cursing in a low, but emphatic, marine manner, and several other officers from nearby batteries were attracted by the noise and the pyrotechnic display. I spoke to the lieutenant and sympathized with him, and he retorted: “Gott strafe Germany. Why they should hit the ‘bus’ when I have a brand-new pair of trench boots that I had never worn, I dunno.” Just then and there the case cooked out and a piece of shell cut between us and buried itself deep in the support of a dugout, so we got under cover.

“Whiz-Bangs.”

In the group was a splendid type of army chaplain. He came over almost at the start of the war and had seen a great deal of the open warfare at the commencement of hostilities. He said: “My friend Fritz is not through; he’ll try to do some more yet.” As the smoke died down and the cracking stopped, the enemy decided that an attempt would be made either to carry out salvage of whatever they had hit or else we would try to get the wounded away. So without any preliminary warning the whole area was covered by a battery fire of _whiz bangs_, and the shrapnel bullets came down like rain, several men being hit. The fire eventually died down and the wreck was allowed to cool off. The “Archies” are used so much to keep the aeroplanes up, and next to the loss of his boots the officer in charge was worried by the fact that the enemy would send an aeroplane over to see what they had hit. It was very necessary to keep the planes away, because at this time there were one hundred and fourteen batteries of artillery in the neighborhood.

Later on the battery commander came down, and as he looked at the red-hot armor plates he said: “Five thousand pounds gone up in smoke. Sorry I missed the fireworks.” The Divisional general called him up at the dugout and gave him areas for the distribution of the four anti-aircraft guns and cars comprising his battery. After he was through the commander replied: “Very good, sir, that will be done with all the guns except the third gun.” The voice over the wire became very dignified, a preliminary to becoming sulphuric. “What do you mean, all but the third gun?” “Because, sir, the enemy has just ‘crumped’ the third gun and all that remains of it is scrap iron.”

One of the battalions has a fine victrola in the officers’ mess dugout with a good selection of records. I have heard Caruso accompanied on the outside by an orchestra of guns. It was a wonderful mixture. Speaking of canned music reminds me we have a small portable trench machine, which closes up like a valise, easily handled and carried about. One man near had a box full of needles distributed in his back by a bomb; he considers himself disgraced; he says it will be kind of foolish in years to come to show his grandchildren twenty-five or thirty needles and tell them that they were the cause of his wounds.

The Tommies play mouth organs a great deal and it is much easier to march to the sound of one, even

’Ere we are; ’ere we are, ’Ere we are agin. We beat ’em on the Marne, We beat ’em on the Aisne, We gave ’em ’ELL at Neuve Chapelle, And ’ere we are agin—

sounds well with the addition of a little music.

Anything is used for trench work; often if we waited for the proper materials we should be uncomfortable, so it is one of the qualifications of a good soldier to find things. Sometimes we steal material belonging to other units, then stick around until the owners come back and help them look for them; however, it is always advisable to steal materials from juniors in rank; if they find it out, and are senior, then you are in for a one-sided strafe.

One of the other battery subalterns found a deserted carpenter’s shop and he let his men loose to dismantle it. They took the parts of steel machines and used them for the construction of a dugout. One man said, “It’s like coming home drunk and smashing up the grand piano with an axe.” They must have attracted the attention of the ever-alert Boche, for no sooner had they moved out than the place was shelled to the ground. Everything I now look at with an eye to its value for trench construction; thus, telegraph poles, doors, iron girders, and rails are more valuable to us out here than a Rolls Royce.

The “Crump.”

Slang or trench language is used universally. My own general talks about “Wipers,” the Tommy’s pronunciation of Ypres, and I have seen a reference to “Granny” (the fifteen-inch howitzer) in orders “mother” is the name given to the twelve-inch howitzer. The trench language is changing so quickly that I think the staff in the rear are unable to keep up to date, because they have recently issued an order to the effect that slang must not be used in official correspondence. Now instead of reporting that a “dud Minnie” arrived over back of “mud lane,” it is necessary to put, “I have the honor to report that a projectile from a German Minnenwerfer landed in rear of Trench F 26 and failed to explode.”

Sometimes names of shells go through several changes. For example, high explosives in the early part of the war were called “black Marias,” that being the slang name for the English police patrol wagon. Then they were called “Jack Johnsons,” then “coal boxes,” and finally they were christened “crumps” on account of the sound they make, a sort of _cru-ump!_ noise as they explode. “Rum jar” is the trench mortar. “Sausage” is the slow-going aerial torpedo, a beastly thing about six feet long with fins like a torpedo. It has two hundred and ten pounds of high explosive and makes a terrible hole. “Whiz bang” is shrapnel.

Shelling is continuous. We have thousands of pieces of shells and fuse caps about the premises. I have in front of me a fragment of a shell about fourteen inches long and about four and one-half inches across, which came from a German gun. The edges are so sharp that it cuts your hand to hold it. I use it as a paper-weight.

This morning I experienced a wonderful surprise. I had gone up to one of the North Stafford Batteries to borrow a clinometer. The major, while he was getting the instrument for me, casually remarked: “There’s yesterday’s ‘Times’ on the bench if you care to look at it.” I turned first to the casualty list and later to the “London Gazette” for the promotions, and wholly by accident perused carefully the Motor Machine Gun Service list and there noted the announcement, “Keene, Louis, 2d Lieut., to be 1st Lieut.,” and for a fact this was the “official” intimation that I had been promoted. I had a couple of spare “pips”, rank stars, in my pocket-book, so I got my corporal to sew them on right away.

We are all very happy at times, very dirty, and covered with stings and bites; have no idea how long we are to remain up. Getting used to the shell fire, and can sleep through it if it’s not too close. When it comes near it makes you very thoughtful. Still working at night and resting during the day. Made another emplacement for one of my machine guns last night; had twenty men digging; surprising how fast men dig when the bullets are flying.

It’s about 2 A.M. We have just come in. My new emplacement is splendid; we’ve made it shell-proof and have it ready for firing. I was coming home this afternoon after having been to the fire trenches when I heard a shout: “Keene!” I looked up on the canal bank and I saw the general with one of his A.D.C.’s sitting watching an aeroplane duel. “I’ve come up to see your gun position, Keene.” I saluted, waited for him, and took him to it. It is below the level of the ground under tons of bricks in the ruins of a farmhouse. He was standing on the roof of it and said, “Well, where’s the emplacement?” “You’re standing on it, sir.” “Tut, tut, ’pon my word, that’s good.” He was delighted and congratulated me on it. My preliminary work under the eyes of the general has gone off quite well. I start firing to-night.

Intimacy between generals and lieutenants is unusual, but it looks as if mine had taken an interest in me, because when he noticed my insect-bitten face, he sent me down some dope he had used with good effect in India. I expect the mosquitoes in India were the ordinary kind, but, believe me, trench “skeeters” are constructed differently and are proof against the general’s pet concoction.

I have several miners in my section who take a personal pride in the digging and shoring up of dugouts. So far the other two sections of the Battery are always behind in this work but they may look better on parade.

The canal has one big lock suitable for swimming; a lot of “jocks” were bathing there to-day. I ordered a bathing parade for my section. Later I found that the swimming had livened three Germans, long submerged—the bathing parade is off.

A Belgian battery commander has just wakened up and his shells are rattling overhead. From the fire trenches an incessant rattle of rifles is heard; all the bullets seem to come over here; constantly the whine of a musical ricochet bullet is heard. Otherwise things are dead quiet. It’s getting on for three, so I’m going to bed in my blankets on one of the late chateau owner’s splendid spring mattresses and carved oak bedstead. Oh! how nice it would be to sleep without lice. From an adjoining cellar my section are snoring, and I’m going to add to the chorus. Good-night, everybody.

We have been having Sunday “hate.” Eight-inch crumps are once more busting “up” the chateau. How they must detest this place. My tea and bully beef are covered with dust of the last shell. You have no idea how terrible the shell-fire is. First you hear the whistle and then a terrific burst which shakes the ground for a hundred yards around; when it clears away you find a hole ten feet across and six feet deep. At least fifteen have dropped around us in the last half hour.

This place isn’t somewhere in France, it’s somewhere in Hell! It has been the scene of a great many encounters; decayed French uniforms, old rifles, ammunition and leather equipment and bundles of mildewed tobacco leaves are strewn all over the place. I found the chin-strap of a German “Pickelhaube” in the grounds, the helmet of a French cuirassier, and the red pants of a Zouave, close together. When digging in the trenches or anywhere near the firing line you have to be careful: corpses, dead horses, and cattle are buried everywhere. I’m building a trench to my emplacement and we have a stinking cow in the direct line; this will have to be buried before we can cut through.

Everybody is cheerful and going strong. Yesterday some of my men went swimming in the moat of the chateau; a shell dropped in the water near them, and threw up a lot of fish on to the bank. That kind of discouraged the Tommies swimming, so they cooked the fish and decided that safety comes before cleanliness out here.

It’s hot and sticky, and when you have to wear thick clothes and equipment it makes you very uncomfortable, but it’s all in the game.

All through the night we fired single shots from a machine gun; my orders were to fire between half-past eight at night and four o’clock in the morning. We have a number of guns doing this. It harasses the enemy and keeps them from sleeping; anything that will wear a man down is practiced here.

I’ve constructed a fire emplacement amongst the ruins underground; to get to it you have to travel through a tunnel eighteen feet long; inside it’s very damp. I was working with my corporal, crouched up; we were both wet and cold, and so to cheer things up every now and again we let off a few rounds and warmed our hands on the barrel. Outside it poured with rain, and mosquitoes sought refuge inside and mealed off me. The corporal was immune. I had a water bottle full of whiskey and water. We used it to keep out the cold, but it wasn’t strong enough. In a case like that you need wood alcohol. I would like to have had some Prohibitionists with me here. We had no light except the flash of the gun and the enemy star shells.

At daybreak I came home dead beat. I got into my cellar, was so tired that I threw myself down on the bed and wrapped myself up in my blankets, boots, mud, lice and all. I hadn’t been asleep long before the Huns started “hating” the chateau. They have put over twenty-five large calibre shells into my place, the grounds and the house. They are still at it. Every time a shell bursts it makes a hole big enough to bury five horses, and it shakes the foundations all round. The shells are bigger than usual. The smoke and earth are blown up fifty or sixty feet in the air. The effect is a moral disruption. _Why can’t they keep that cotton out of Germany?_

I have divided my section up into two teams, one in the cellars and one in the gun-pits. I relieve them every twenty-four hours, and I practically have to be in both places at once, but I have got a telephone in between the two places. I have it by my bed so that I can constantly know how things are going. However, the wire is cut two or three times a day by bullets and shell splinters, my linesman has a constant job.

Fired all night; came back at six o’clock this morning, very tired. Had a telegram from the general to fire two thousand rounds in twenty-four hours; this is quite hard work. Actually we could fire the lot in five minutes, but it would attract too much attention. The enemy use whole batteries of artillery to blot out machine guns which attract attention, so we have to fire single shots.

We have for neighbors four dead cows and an unexploded six-inch shell, liable to go off any time, all in a radius of one hundred yards. We have smashed holes through five walls so that we can go through the ruins unobserved. In one place we pass over a dead cow, and in another we wade through several tons of rotten potatoes, and I believe we have a corpse handy; and part of our trench goes through another heap of rotten mangles. I’m an authority on smells. I can almost tell the nationality of a corpse now by the smell. It will soon be necessary to wear our smoke-helmets to go into the emplacement. I don’t think that I have told you that I cross the Yser canal about six times a day. I’d been up a week before I knew what it was. Now it only has a few feet of water in it, the rest being held in the German locks. The part I cross over is full of bulrushes, and is the home of moor-hens, water rats, mosquitoes and frogs.

On one side of the canal is a bank which is in great demand by the machine gunners, who are able to get a certain amount of height and observation of their fire. The general has ordered a field gun to take up a position on this bank. He refers to it as his “Sniping eighteen-pounder.” It is firing at seven hundred yards right at the German line and smashes up their parapet in a style that is pretty to watch. The machine gunners are in a great state, because the enemy will soon be “searching” with his artillery for the eighteen-pounder and the lairs of the smaller hidden guns will suffer.

The men are hunting for lice in their underwear. This is the kind of conversation that is coming through from the next cellars: “I’ve got you beat—that’s forty-seven.” “Wait a minute”—a sound of tearing cloth—“but look at this lot, mother and young.” “With my forty and these you’ll have to find some more.” They were betting on the number they could find. I peel off my shirt myself and burn them off with a candle. I glory in the little pop they make when the heat gets to them. All the insect powder in the world has been tried out on them and they’ve won.

All sentries here are doubled; one thing it’s safer, and another it’s company; even when things are quiet, rats and mice scamper about and it sets your nerves on end. Things which are inanimate during the day become alive at night. Trees seem to walk about. I wonder what it tastes like to have a real meal in which tinned food does not figure; fancy a tablecloth; my tablecloth is a double sheet of newspaper, and even then I can’t have a new one every day.

Had a good night’s rest; came in about twelve o’clock and slept until eight-thirty this morning. One eye is completely closed up by a sting.

A German aeroplane has been hovering over our positions looking for my gun, so we have stopped firing and all movement. I know just how the chicken feels when the hawk hovers over it. Few people realize how much aeroplanes figure in this war, for war would be much different without them. They do the work of Cavalry only in the sky. Whenever they come over, the sentries blow three blasts on their whistles and everybody runs for cover or freezes; guns stop firing and are covered up with branches made on frames. If men are caught in the open they stand perfectly still and do not look up, for on the aeroplane photographs faces at certain heights show light; dugouts are covered over with trees, straw or grass. We use aeroplane photographs a great deal; they show trenches distinctly and look very like the canals on Mars.

The Huns have been “hating” the road one quarter of a mile away all the morning. That doesn’t worry us a bit as long as they don’t come any closer. I’m willing always to share up on the shelling.

This order has just been issued. It speaks for itself:—

All ranks are warned that bombs and grenades must not be used for fishing and killing game.

I went over another farm to-day. It is one of the well-ventilated kind, punched full of holes. In the kitchen, stables and outhouses there was a most wonderful collection of junk: ammunition, British and French bandoliers, old sheepskin coats abandoned by the British troops from last winter, smashed rifles, bayonets, meat tins, parts of broken equipment, sandbags, stacks of rotten potatoes and three dead cows. The fruit trees are laden with fruit, and vines are growing up the houses with their bunches of green grapes.