CHAPTER VII IN THE TRENCHES

I, with others, was billeted in a house and barn tenanted by a little French woman with a brood of several young children, whose husband was fighting for France. Others were billeted, by the town major, in warehouses, lofts, and other places.

After a few days’ rest in our billets, we were marched to the trenches.

The American front in France at this time, so far as there was any front, was in Lorraine. In reality there was no American front, because our army had not had the training to hold one. While we had received the drill of ordinary soldiering, we lacked experience in the prevailing war methods then in use.

While my regiment is marching forward to take up trench duties in front of the enemy’s lines, let us take a look at what constitutes that part of a modern army known as an infantry regiment; for infantry is the body and mainstay of an army.

The old Civil War regiments were made up of ten companies of 152 officers and men; more often less. The modern company has 256 officers and men; and the regiments made up by these twelve companies, has 103 officers and 3,652 men. The officers of the modern company, while on a war footing are: One captain, three first lieutenants, two second lieutenants, one first sergeant, one mess sergeant, one supply sergeant, twelve sergeants, thirty-three corporals, four mechanics, four cooks, two buglers, and 192 privates. One of the first lieutenants is the captain’s assistant; the others each command one of its four platoons of men.

The transportation equipment of a regiment is more elaborate than is generally known. It consists of twenty-two combat wagons, sixteen rolling kitchens for cooking food, twenty-two baggage and ration wagons, sixteen ration carts, fifteen water carts, three medical carts, twenty-four machine-gun carts, fifty-nine riding horses, eight riding mules, three hundred and thirty-two draft mules, two motorcycles with side cars, one motor car and forty-two bicycles.

Arrived at the trenches we were taught, among other things, to “camouflage” as the French call it, which means to disguise, or conceal. This has become an art in modern warfare, because cavalry is no longer the eyes of an army as in former times, and airplanes reveal what is not carefully hidden.

For illustration: an artilleryman of heavy guns now seldom sees the object he is to fire upon. The directions for firing are given by signals from air-craft. These locate the enemy’s line of battle, trenches, machine gun and artillery emplacements, magazines or the “dugout” of some general to be fired upon.

Hence, to disguise or _camouflage_ them is important. Heavy artillery firing is not by sighting, but by directions given them by mathematical calculation. The guns, even, are streaked with paint to resemble the surrounding country, so that they may be more effectually concealed.

The concealment of artillery magazine stations, or other important stations, has been brought to great perfection. Sometimes a road leading to them is roofed by canvas and painted to resemble the surrounding scenery of rocks or foliage.

The war trench is a ditch six feet or more in depth, with a fire step that brings a soldier to the height needful for firing upon an enemy. On the top of this trench, along the front edge of it, are laid bags filled with sand, so disposed as to give loopholes through which a rifle can be fired without requiring the soldier to expose his head. This trench is not built on a straight line, but zigzag like the teeth of an enormous saw, so that its machine-guns and riflemen can fire down and parallel along the trench. At every twenty feet or more, there is a barricade built across the trenches, so that if any enemy should get possession of one part of it, he can not, by artillery, machine-guns or rifles, fire down the whole length upon the men there; for this would be tremendously destructive.

In front and about ten feet from the trench is a barricade of barbed wire. This is made by setting stakes very firmly in the ground so deep and solid that they can not be easily removed, and twisting barbed wire around them. It is impossible to pass through this entanglement without first destroying it by artillery fire, or cutting it; and this is costly to life.

There are, in addition to this trench, three other rear trenches. These are joined with the front trench by connecting trenches, through which the soldier can pass with comparative safety.

In these rear trenches are first aid and food stations; and in a dugout, safety sheltered and concealed in the rear, is the general who directs the fighting. To his dugout, or station, are connected wires or telephones and telegraph, so that he can conduct the fight, and receive intelligence of everything taking place on the battle line. Though he is in comparative safety his is a hard position; for he can not leave it without losing some point of importance, in the work of direction.

The science of war, in its details, has vastly changed since the Civil War, though the principles that govern its larger movements are the same, modified somewhat by the new machinery used in fighting.

It was October, 1917, when we had landed in France; it was now February, 1918, cold, bleak, and dreary. Rain, snow and sleet had made soldiering uncomfortable anywhere; and the trenches were no exception to this rule--but rather an exaggeration of it.

It has sometimes seemed to me, that in my army life the most inconvenient times were always selected for its most disagreeable duties. This rule held good for our introduction to life in the trenches. It was a cold day. Snow covered the ground--at least that portion of it not trampled into the chalky mud, which, partially thawed, stuck to our feet like poultices. Marching, however, with heavy packs soon warmed us, and we were glad to arrive at our destination.

The sector to which we were assigned for duty had been occupied by some French troops, who were just moving out. They did not cheer us--for cheers are out of place in some parts of soldiering, especially where it may give information to the enemy. But they welcomed us with brightening eyes, and nods, and smiles of approval, as we filed into the trenches; and looked--so it seemed to me--not a little enviously at our well-filled packs with the heavy blankets of our outfit.

We found the trenches which had been constructed for the _poilu_, a little shallow for taller Americans. And as we had been warned not to show our heads above the parapets, we had to crouch when moving through them.

We were told that some of these trenches occupied by the French had board flooring; but ours did not, except in spots.

“By Shorge,” said Peter Beaudett, “do they think we are feesh?”

“An’ sure,” said Pat Quinn in a hoarse whisper, “no dacent fish would live here--it’s mud turtles that we are!”

“Hush up,” commanded the top sergeant, in a hoarse whisper, “no noise; keep your ears and eyes open, but shut your mouths.”

Silence followed; but as we threw off our packs, and were told to make ourselves comfortable, it seemed a little sarcastic.

“If we mustn’t talk,” said Sam, in a low tone, “I suppose they can’t hinder us from keeping up a lot of thinking, can they?”

“An’ how can a man think,” muttered Pat, “with all this half-frozen mud on his fate and moind?”

We had settled down, in the mud, as one of the sergeants said to me with a wink, and with Yankee ingenuity were making ourselves as comfortable as we could. Private Shaw made a stove by punching holes in a metal bucket, and kindling a fire therein (which Corporal Sutherland said was “a kind of lightning bug heater”). He sat with it between his legs, trying to warm himself. Peter Beaudett, with his blanket wrapped around him, was saying all sorts of funny things in a low tone, about soldiering, and the irrepressible Quinn, with Irish combativeness, was making contrary replies.

“What made me get into this mud,” grumbled Peter, “when I had a good home and such beeg lot of comforts that I didn’t know that I had any?”

“An’ why,” said Quinn “didn’t ye’s stay tied to your mither’s apron string, so ye’s could crawl under the bed whin it thundered?”

In spite of all this by-play of growling and seeming grumpiness, the men were not dissatisfied at being face to face with their enemy, or at least in the trenches opposite them.

The opposing lines, meanwhile, were so silent that our men, peering cautiously through the “gun holes” as Sam called the spaces left between the sand bags piled on top in front, were curious to see the Boche, and could be hardly restrained from firing a shot to “stir them up.” This feeling also was seen in those of higher rank; for is it not natural for Americans to want to “see something doing”?

The French, who were acting as our instructors, and who had had experience in these same trenches, cautioned us against this. They said that there was a tacit agreement between the contestants, not to needlessly stir up a fight.

There was a well of water just to our right, midway between the opposing trenches where, by tacit consent, two men at a time were allowed to resort; near it was an apple tree whose limbs enticed one, provokingly, as good for firewood.

The next night following these occurrences was one of watchful waiting. I was sergeant of the guard; but nothing of importance occurred during the night, except that the weather moderated, and the rain came pouring down in torrents and then turned to sleet. But when it came my turn off, it was not too rainy for sound, dreamless sleep--and, as soldiering goes, it was not so very uncomfortable to strong athletic youngsters with hot blood in their veins; as grew apparent to us, by contrast, later.

With the coming of morning, American restlessness and the desire to see things moving became more apparent in our ranks, and even among our officers.

“Phat the divil are we here for a’ tall?” said Pat Quinn. “Is it to be sitting with our thumbs in our mouths like the little Jack Horner?”

It had ceased to rain. The sun had come out, and the clouds cleared away sufficiently for us to catch glimpses of blue in the sky; and American blood and impatience began to stir.

When two German soldiers without arms were seen at the well mentioned, taking a wash and getting water, they were not at first molested, though it could be seen that Yankee fingers were itching to take a shot.

After finishing washing, one of the Boches began cutting some branches from the tree. That was too much for Private Shaw, who stuck his rifle between the sand bags and _crack!_ went a shot at the Boches who, dropping wood and water, scampered in unheroic haste for their holes.

“Who did that?” inquired the tall lieutenant of our platoon. “Who fired that shot?”

“It was me, sir,” answered Shaw. “I wanted some of that wood myself!”

“Well,” said the lieutenant good-naturedly, “you stand a mighty poor chance to get any of it now.” And just as he spoke and straightened up a little, _ping!_ came a bullet that passed through the officer’s hat.

“The imperdence of the divil!” said Pat; “sure, Lieutenant, are ye hurted?”

The lieutenant was mad, and walked away growling under his breath without reply.

In a few moments, bang! bang! bang! bang! went our light guns; and then came replies from the enemy that boded ill for quiet times, for the Boche guns, speaking from their hiding places, seemed likely to reach us in our burrows.

One great eight-inch shot struck near our parapet, exploding with a crashing roar, breaking a broad path through the barbed-wire barricade and leaving a hole big enough to bury a whole platoon.

“Faith, is that phat they call a Jack Johnson?” said Quinn, “or is it a little light-weight fellow?”

Our French officer was understood to say that it was the latter. Peter Beaudett, during the firing, had been struck by a small piece of spent shell, which knocked him over while barely breaking the skin of his jaws. He “rustled” as Shaw declared “like a hen with its head cut off;” then, finding that he was not killed, though two of his teeth had been knocked out, he angrily shook his fist towards the enemy, crying out: “Py tam! I no like your doctor pulls my teeth; I fight you now, by tam!”

We had got our lesson, that two can play at a dangerous game; and after this the opposing lines settled down for a while, to comparative peace and quiet.

Such was our introduction to trench warfare, on the front line, which finally grew in intensity and became exciting and dangerous enough to satisfy the most enterprising Yankee. Even this first experience, however, had convinced us that there were worse discomforts than rain, snow, or mud.

Shortly after this, it was my duty to take a turn with a squad on the listening post. I had with me a young German-American named Kepler, whose father had been a soldier with my father during the Civil War, and whose loyalty and patriotism were unquestioned. He was quiet, phlegmatic, and resolute; absolutely to be depended upon, and, better still, spoke and understood the German language.

Silently creeping through the excavation leading under our barbed wire barricade and, leading to the front of the German trenches, we reached our station. Here we listened for possible movements of the enemy, but all was quiet and we had, as Sam said, who was another of our party, “nothing to report, but a big lot of silence and chills.”

A listening post, here let me explain, runs underground, in most cases, beneath the barbed wire barricade which protects the trench from sudden invasion, such as mining to blow up our trenches; and sometimes conversation and orders could be heard, which gave valuable information.

Of course the Germans, on their part, also had listening posts constantly near us whose whereabouts were, however, not known, though sometimes guessed at.

The duties of those on listening posts had not only a spice of danger, but an appeal to the natural curiosity of a New Englander. Therefore, with all its “cramped-up-itiveness,” as Sam called it, it was not without its fascination for our boys.

When, after a tour of four days’ duty on the front-line trench, we were relieved and marched to our rest billets in the rear, we found it more than agreeable.

As Sutherland stood up at his full six-foot height, he said, looking around and taking a full breath, “Say, isn’t this a big country!”

“Shure,” agreed Pat, “ye’s can get a white man’s braith and niver a fear of getting a bullet to vintelite your head, or a piece of shell to knock out your dintistry.”

At which Peter Beaudett rubbed his jaw and ejaculated, “Ugh!”

With all the badinage and by-play of rough jokes, the men were more serious when coming from the trenches than when, with some forebodings, they had taken up its duties.

My! how I enjoyed “chow” that night when mess call sounded! And the dreamless sleep that followed, with clean straw and with a blanket spread over it for a bed!