Last week we abandoned the rural billets in which we had been remodelling some of our methods (on the experiences gained by our first visit to the trenches), and paraded at full strength for a march which we knew would bring us right into the heart of things. No more trial trips; no more chaperoning! This time, we decided, we were "for it."
During our three weeks of active service we have learned two things--the art of shaking down quickly into our habitation of the moment, as already noted; and the art of reducing our personal effects to a portable minimum.
To the private soldier the latter problem presents no difficulties. Everything is arranged for him. His outfit is provided by the Government, and he carries it himself. It consists of a rifle, bayonet, and a hundred and twenty rounds of ammunition. On one side of him hangs his water-bottle, containing a quart of water, on the other, a haversack, occupied by his "iron ration"--an emergency meal of the tinned variety, which must never on any account be opened except by order of the C.O.--and such private effects as his smoking outfit and an entirely mythical item of refreshment officially known as "the unexpended portion of the day's ration." On his back he carries a "pack," containing his greatcoat, waterproof sheet, and such changes of raiment as a paternal Government allows him. He also has to find room therein for a towel, housewife, and a modest allowance of cutlery. (He frequently wears the spoon in his stocking, as a skean-dhu.) Round his neck he wears his identity disc. In his breast-pocket he carries a respirator, to be donned in the event of his encountering the twin misfortunes of an east wind and a gaseous Hun. He also carries a bottle of liquid for damping the respirator. In the flap of his jacket is sewn a field dressing.
Slung behind him is an entrenching tool.
Any other space upon his person is at his own disposal, and he may carry what he likes, except "unsoldierly trinkets"--whatever these may be. However, if the passion for self-adornment proves too strong, he may wear "the French National Colours"--a compliment to our gallant ally which is slightly discounted by the fact that her national colours are the same as our own.
However, once he has attached this outfit to his suffering person, and has said what he thinks about its weight, the private has no more baggage worries. Except for his blanket, which is carried on a waggon, he is his own arsenal, wardrobe, and pantry.
Not so the officer. He suffers from embarras de choix. He is the victim of his female relatives, who are themselves the victims of those enterprising tradesmen who have adopted the most obvious method of getting rid of otherwise unsaleable goods by labelling everything For Active Service--a really happy thought when you are trying to sell a pipe of port or a manicure set. Have you seen Our Active Service Trouser-Press?
By the end of April Bobby Little had accumulated, with a view to facilitating the destruction of the foe--
An automatic Mauser pistol, with two thousand rounds of
ammunition.
A regulation Service revolver.
A camp bed.
A camp table.
A camp chair.
A pneumatic mattress.
[This ingenious contrivance was meant to be blown up, like an
air-cushion, and Bobby's servant expended most of the day and much
valuable breath in performing the feat. Ultimately, in a misguided
attempt to save his lungs from rupture, he employed a bicycle
pump, and burst the bed.]
A sleeping (or "flea") bag.
A portable bath.
A portable washhand-stand.
A dressing-case, heavily ballasted with cut-glass bottles.
A primus stove.
A despatch case.
The "Service" Kipling (about forty volumes.)
Innumerable socks and shirts.
A box of soap.
Fifty boxes of matches.
A small medicine chest.
About a dozen first-aid outfits.
A case of pipes, and cigarettes innumerable.
[Bobby's aunts regarded cigars as not quite ascetic enough for
active service. Besides, they might make him sick.]
About a cubic foot of chocolate (various).
Numerous compressed foods and concentrated drinks.
An "active service" cooking outfit.
An electric lamp, with several refills.
A pair of binoculars.
A telescope.
A prismatic compass.
A sparklet siphon.
A luminous watch.
A pair of insulated wire-cutters.
"There's only one thing you've forgotten," remarked Captain Wagstaffe, when introduced to this unique collection of curios.
"What is that?" inquired Bobby, always eager to learn.
"A pantechnicon! Do you known how much personal baggage an officer is allowed, in addition to what he carries himself?"
"Thirty-five pounds."
"Correct."
"It sounds a lot," said Bobby.
"It looks precious little!" was Wagstaffe's reply.
"I suppose they won't be particular to a pound or so," said Bobby optimistically.
"Listen," commanded Wagstaffe. "When we go abroad, your Wolseley valise, containing this"--he swept his hand round the crowded hut--"this military museum, will be handed to the Quartermaster. He is a man of singularly rigid mind, with an exasperating habit of interpreting rules and regulations quite literally. If you persist in this scheme of asking him to pass half a ton of assorted lumber as a package weighing thirty-five pounds, he will cast you forth and remain your enemy for life. And personally," concluded Wagstaffe, "I would rather keep on the right side of my Regimental Quartermaster than of the Commander-in-Chief himself. Now, send all this stuff home--you can use it on manoeuvres in peace-time--and I will give you a little list which will not break the baggage-waggon's back."
The methodical Bobby produced a notebook.
"You will require to wash occasionally. Take a canvas bucket, some carbolic soap, and a good big towel. Also your toothbrush, and--excuse the question, but do you shave?"
"Twice a week," admitted the blushing Bobby.
"Happy man! Well, take a safety-razor. That will do for cleanliness. Now for clothing. Lots of socks, but only one change of other things, unless you care to take a third shirt in your greatcoat pocket. Two good pairs of boots, and a pair of slacks. Then, as regards sleeping. Your flea-bag and your three Government blankets, with your valise underneath, will keep you (and your little bedfellows) as warm as toast. You may get separated from your valise, though, so take a ground-sheet in your pack. Then you will be ready to dine and sleep simply anywhere, at a moment's notice. As regards comforts generally, take a 'Tommy's cooker,' if you can find room for it, and scrap all the rest of your cuisine except your canteen. Take a few meat lozenges and some chocolate in one of your ammunition-pouches, in case you ever have to go without your breakfast. Rotten work, marching or fighting on a hollow tummy!"
"What about revolvers?" inquired Bobby, displaying his arsenal, a little nervously.
"If the Germans catch you with that Mauser, they will hang you. Take the Webley. Then you can always draw Service ammunition." Wagstaffe ran his eye over the rest of Bobby's outfit. "Smokes? Take your pipe and a tinder-box: you will get baccy and cigarettes to burn out there. Keep that electric torch; and your binoculars, of course. Also that small map-case: it's a good one. Also wire-cutters. You can write letters in your field-message-book. Your compass is all right. Add a pair of canvas shoes--they're a godsend after a long day,--an air-pillow, some candle-ends, a tin of vaseline, and a ball of string, and I think you will do. If you find you still have a pound or so in hand, add a few books--something to fall back on, in case supplies fail. Personally, I'm taking 'Vanity Fair' and 'Pickwick.' But then, I'm old-fashioned."
* * * * *
Bobby took Wagstaffe's advice, with the result that that genial obstructionist, the Quartermaster, smiled quite benignly upon him when he presented his valise; while his brother officers, sternly bidden to revise their equipment, were compelled at the last moment to discriminate frantically between the claims of necessity and luxury--often disastrously.
However, we had all found our feet, and developed into seasoned vagabonds when we set out for the trenches last week. A few days previously we had been inspected by Sir John French himself.
"And that," explained Major Kemp to his subalterns, "usually means dirty work at the cross-roads at no very distant period!"
* * * * *
Major Kemp was right--quite literally right.
Our march took us back to Armentières, whose sufferings under intermittent shell fire have already been described. We marched by night, and arrived at breakfast-time. The same evening two companies and a section of machine-gunners were bidden to equip themselves with picks and shovels and parade at dusk. An hour later we found ourselves proceeding cautiously along a murky road close behind the trenches.
The big guns were silent, but the snipers were busy on both sides. A German searchlight was combing out the heavens above: a constant succession of star-shells illumined the earth beneath.
"What are we going to do to-night, sir?" inquired Bobby Little, heroically resisting an inclination to duck, as a Mauser bullet spat viciously over his head.
"I believe we are going to dig a redoubt behind the trenches," replied Captain Blaikie. "I expect to meet an R.E. officer somewhere about here, and he will tell us the worst. That was a fairly close one, Bobby! Pass the word down quietly that the men are to keep in to each side of the road, and walk as low as they can. Ah, there is our sportsman, I fancy. Good evening!"
A subaltern of that wonderful corps, the Royal Engineers, loomed out of the darkness, removed a cigarette from his mouth, and saluted politely.
"Good evening, sir," he said to Blaikie. "Will you follow me, please? I have marked out each man's digging position with white tape, so they ought to find no difficulty in getting to work. Brought your machine-gun officer?"
The machine-gun officer, Ayling, was called up.
"We are digging a sort of square fort," explained the Engineer, "to hold a battalion. That will mean four guns to mount. I don't know much about machine-guns myself; so perhaps you"--to Ayling--"will walk round with me outside the position, and you can select your own emplacements."
"I shall be charmed," replied Ayling, and Blaikie chuckled.
"I'll just get your infantry to work first," continued the phlegmatic youth. "This way, sir!"
The road at this point ran through a hollow square of trees, and it was explained to the working-party that the trees, roughly, followed the outlines of the redoubt.
"The trenches are about half-finished," added the Engineer. "We had a party from the Seaforths working here last night. Your men have only to carry on where they left off. It's chiefly a matter of filling sandbags and placing them on the parapet." He pointed to a blurred heap in a corner of the wood. "There are fifty thousand there. Leave what you don't want!"
"Where do we get the earth to fill the sandbags?" asked Blaikie. "The trenches, or the middle of the redoubt?"
"Oh, pretty well anywhere," replied the Engineer. "Only, warn your men to be careful not to dig too deep!"
And with this dark saying he lounged off to take Ayling for his promised walk.
"I'll take you along the road a bit, first," he said, "and then we will turn off into the field where the corner of the redoubt is, and you can look at things from the outside."
Ayling thanked him, and stepped somewhat higher than usual, as a bullet struck the ground at his feet.
"Extraordinary how few casualties one gets," continued the Sapper chattily. "Their snipers go potting away all night, but they don't often get anybody. By the way, they have a machine-gun trained on this road, but they only loose it off every second night. Methodical beggars!"
"Did they loose it off last night?"
"No. To-night's the night. Have you finished here!"
"Yes, thanks!"
"Right-o! We'll go to the next corner. You'll get a first-class field of fire there, I should say."
The second position was duly inspected, the only incident of interest being the bursting of a star-shell directly overhead.
"Better lie down for a minute," suggested the Engineer.
Ayling, who had been struggling with a strong inclination to do so for some time, promptly complied.
"Just like the Crystal Palace on a benefit night!" observed his guide admiringly, as the landscape was lit up with a white glare. "Now you can see your position beautifully. You can fire obliquely in this direction, and then do a first-class enfilade if the trenches get rushed."
"I see," said Ayling, surveying the position with real interest. He was beginning to enjoy selecting gun-emplacements which really mattered. It was a change from nine months of "eye-wash."
When the German star-shell had spent itself they crossed the road, to the rear of the redoubt, and marked the other two emplacements--in comparative safety now.
"The only trouble about this place," said Ayling, as he surveyed the last position, "is that my fire will be masked by that house with the clump of trees beside it."
The Engineer produced a small note-book, and wrote in it by the light of a convenient star-shell.
"Right-o!" he said. "I'll have the whole caboodle pushed over for you by to-morrow night. Anything else?"
Ayling began to enjoy himself. After you have spent nine months in an unprofitable attempt to combine practical machine-gun tactics with a scrupulous respect for private property, the realisation that you may now gratify your destructive instincts to the full comes as a welcome and luxurious shock.
"Thanks," he said. "You might flatten out that haystack, too."
* * * * *
They found the others hard at work when they returned. Captain Blaikie was directing operations from the centre of the redoubt.
"I say," he said, as the Engineer sat down beside him, "I'm afraid we're doing a good deal of body-snatching. This place is absolutely full of little wooden crosses."
"Germans," replied the Engineer laconically.
"How long have they been--here?"
"Since October."
"So I should imagine," said Blaikie, with feeling.
"The crosses aren't much guide, either," continued the Engineer. "The deceased are simply all over the place. The best plan is to dig until you come to a blanket. (There are usually two or three to a blanket.) Then tell off a man to flatten down clay over the place at once, and try somewhere else. It is a rotten job, though, however you look at it."
"Have you been here long?" inquired Bobby Little, who had come across the road for a change of air.
"Long enough! But I'm not on duty continuously. I am Box. Cox takes over to-morrow." He rose to his feet and looked at his watch.
"You ought to move off by half-past one, sir," he said to Blaikie. "It begins to get light after that, and the Bosches have three shells for that cross-road over there down in their time-table at two-fifteen. They're a hide-bound lot, but punctual!"
"Thanks," said Blaikie. "I shall not neglect your advice. It is half-past eleven now. Come along, Bobby, and we'll see how old Ayling is getting on."
* * * * *
Steadily, hour by hour, in absolute silence, the work went on. There was no talking, but (under extenuating circumstances) smoking was permitted. Periodically, as the star-shells burst into brilliance overhead, the workers sank down behind a parapet, or, if there was no time, stood rigid--the one thing to avoid upon these occasions is movement of any kind--and gave the snipers a chance. It was not pleasant, but it was duty; and the word duty has become a mighty force in "K(1)" these days. No one was hit, which was remarkable, when you consider what an artist a German sniper is. Possibly the light of the star-shells was deceptive, or possibly there is some truth in the general rumour that the Saxons, who hold this part of the line, are well-disposed towards us, and conduct their offensive operations with a tactful blend of constant firing and bad shooting, which, while it satisfies the Prussians, causes no serious inconvenience to Thomas Atkins.
At a quarter-past one a subdued order ran round the trenches; the men fell in on the sheltered side of the plantation; picks and shovels were checked; rifles and equipment were resumed; and the party stole silently away to the cross-road, where the three shells were timed to arrive at two-fifteen. When they did so, with true Teutonic punctuality, an hour later, our friends were well on their way home to billets and bed--with the dawn breaking behind them, the larks getting to work overhead, and all the infected air of the German graveyard swept out of their lungs by the dew of the morning.
As for that imperturbable philosopher, Box, he sat down with a cigarette, and waited for Cox.