III Winter Sports: Various
I
Hush Hall having become an even less desirable place of residence than had hitherto been thought possible, Headquarters very sensibly sent for their invaluable friends, Box and Cox, of the Royal Engineers, and requested that they would proceed to make the place proof against shells and weather, forthwith, if not sooner.
Those phlegmatic experts made a thorough investigation of the resources of the establishment, and departed mysteriously, after the fashion of the common plumber of civilisation, into space. Three days later they returned, accompanied by a horde of acolytes, who, with characteristic contempt for the pathetic appeals upon the notice-boards, proceeded to dump down lumber, sandbags, and corrugated iron roofing in the most exposed portions of the garden.
This done, some set out to shore up the ceilings of the basement with mighty battens of wood, and to convert that region into a nest of cunningly devised bedrooms. Others reinforced the flooring above with a layer of earth and brick rubble three feet deep. On the top of all this they relaid not only the original floor, but even the carpet.
“The only difference from before, sir,” explained Box to the admiring Staff Captain, “is that people will have to walk up three steps to get into the dining-room now, instead of going in on the level.”
“I wonder what the Marquise de Chilquichose will think of it all when she returns to her ancestral home,” mused the Staff Captain.
“If anything,” maintained the invincible Box, “we have improved it for her. For example, she can now light the chandelier without standing on a chair—without getting up from table, in fact! However, to resume. The fireplace, you will observe, has not been touched. I have left a sort of well in the floor all round it, lined with some stuff I found in Mademoiselle’s room. At least,” added Box coyly, “I think it must have been Mademoiselle’s room! You can sit in the well every evening after supper. The walls of this room”—prodding the same—“are lined with sandbags, covered with tapestry. Pretty artistic—what?”
“Extremely,” agreed the Staff Captain. “You will excuse my raising the point, I know, but can the apartment now be regarded as shell-proof?”
“Against everything but a direct hit. I wouldn’t advise you to sleep on this floor much, but you could have your meals here all right. Then, if the Boche starts putting over heavy stuff, you can pop down into the basement and have your dessert in bed. You’ll be absolutely safe there. In fact, the more the house tumbles down the safer you will be. It will only make your protection shell thicker. So if you hear heavy thuds overhead, don’t be alarmed!”
“I won’t,” promised the Staff Captain. “I shall lie in bed, drinking a nice hot cup of tea, and wondering whether the last crash was the kitchen chimney, or only the drawing-room piano coming down another storey. Now show me my room.”
“We have had to put you in the larder,” explained Box apologetically, as he steered his guest through a forest of struts with an electric torch. “At least, I think it’s the larder: it has a sort of meaty smell. The General is in the dairy—a lovely little suite, with white tiles. The Brigade Major has the scullery: it has a sink, so is practically as good as a flat in Park Place. I have run up cubicles for the others in the kitchen. Here is your little cot. It is only six feet by four, but you can dress in the garden.”
“It’s a sweet little nest, dear!” replied the Staff Captain, quite hypnotised by this time. “I’ll just get my maid to put me into something loose, and then I’ll run along to your room, and we’ll have a nice cosy gossip together before dinner!”
In due course we removed our effects from the tottering and rat-ridden dug-outs in which we had taken sanctuary during the shelling, and prepared to settle down for the winter in our new quarters.
“We might be very much worse off!” we observed the first evening, listening to the comfortably muffled sounds of shells overhead.
And we were right. Three days later we received an intimation from the Practical Joke Department that we were to evacuate our present sector of trenches (including Hush Hall) forthwith, and occupy another part of the line.
In all Sports, Winter and Summer, the supremacy of the Practical Joke Department is unchallenged.
II
Meanwhile, up in the trenches, the combatants are beguiling the time in their several ways.
Let us take the reserve line first—the lair of Battalion Headquarters and its appurtenances. Much of our time here, as elsewhere, is occupied in unostentatious retirement to our dug-outs, to avoid the effects of a bombardment. But a good amount—an increasing amount—of it is devoted to the contemplation of our own shells bursting over the Boche trenches. Gone are the days during which we used to sit close and “stick it out,” consoling ourselves with the vague hope that by the end of the week our gunners might possibly have garnered sufficient ammunition to justify a few brief hours’ retaliation. The boot is on the other leg now. For every Boche battery that opens on us, two or three of ours thunder back a reply—and that without any delays other than those incidental to the use of that maddening instrument, the field-telephone. During the past six months neither side has been able to boast much in the way of ground actually gained; but the moral ascendancy—the initiative—the offensive—call it what you will—has changed hands; and no one knows it better than the Boche. We are the attacking party now.
The trenches in this country are not arranged with such geometric precision as in France. For instance, the reserve line is not always connected with the firing-lines by a communication-trench. Those persons whose duty it is to pay daily visits to the fire-trenches—Battalion Commanders, Gunner and Sapper officers, an occasional Staff Officer, and an occasional most devoted Padre—perform the journey as best they may. Sometimes they skirt a wood or hedge, sometimes they keep under the lee of an embankment, sometimes they proceed across the open, with the stealthy caution of persons playing musical chairs, ready to sit down in the nearest shell-crater the moment the music—in the form of a visitation of “whizz-bangs”—strikes up.
It is difficult to say which kind of weather is least favourable to this enterprise. On sunny days one’s movements are visible to Boche observers upon distant summits; while on foggy days the Boche gunners, being able to see nothing at all, amuse themselves by generous and unexpected contributions of shrapnel in all directions. Stormy weather is particularly unpleasant, for the noise of the wind in the trees makes it difficult to hear the shell approaching. Days of heavy rain are the most desirable on the whole, for then the gunners are too busy bailing out their gun-pits to worry their heads over adventurous pedestrians. One learns, also, to mark down and avoid particular danger-spots. For instance, the southeast corner of that wood, where a reserve company are dug in, is visited by “Silent Susans” for about five minutes each noontide: it is therefore advisable to select some other hour for one’s daily visit. (Silent Susan, by the way, is not a desirable member of the sex. Owing to her intensely high velocity she arrives overhead without a sound, and then bursts with a perfectly stunning detonation and a shower of small shrapnel bullets.) There is a fixed rifle-battery, too, which fires all day long, a shot at a time, down the main street of the ruined and deserted village named Vrjoozlehem, through which one must pass on the way to the front-line trenches. Therefore in negotiating this delectable spot, one shapes a laborious course through a series of back yards and garden-plots, littered with broken furniture and brick rubble, allowing the rifle-bullets the undisputed use of the street. The mention of Vrjoozlehem—that is not its real name, but a simplified form of it—brings to our notice the wholesale and whole-hearted fashion in which the British Army has taken Belgian institutions under its wing. Nomenclature, for instance. In France we make no attempt to interfere with this: we content ourselves with devising a pronounceable variation of the existing name. For example, if a road is called La Rue de Bois, we simply call it “Roodiboys,” and leave it at that. On the same principle, Etaples is modified to “Eatables,” and Sailly-la-Bourse to “Sally Booze.” But in Belgium more drastic procedure is required. A Scotsman is accustomed to pronouncing difficult names, but even he is unable to contend with words composed almost entirely of the letters j, z, and v. So our resourceful Ordnance Department has issued maps—admirable maps—upon which the outstanding features of the landscape are marked in plain figures. But instead of printing the original place-names, they put “Moated Grange,” or “Clapham Junction,” or “Dead Dog Farm,” which simplifies matters beyond all possibility of error. (The system was once responsible, though, for an unjust if unintentional aspersion upon the character of a worthy man. The C.O. of a certain battalion had occasion to complain to those above him of the remissness of one of his chaplains. “He’s a lazy beggar, sir,” he said. “Over and over again I have told him to come up and show himself in the front-line trenches, but he never seems to be able to get past Leicester Square!”)
The naming of the trenches themselves has been left largely to local enterprise. An observant person can tell, by a study of the numerous name-boards, which of his countrymen have been occupying the line during the past six months. “Grainger Street” and “Jesmond Dene” give direct evidence of “Canny N’castle.” “Sherwood Avenue” and “Notts Forest” have a Midland flavour. Lastly, no great mental effort is required to decide who labelled two communication trenches “The Gorbals” and “Coocaddens” respectively!
Some names have obviously been bestowed by officers, as “Sackville Street,” “The Albany,” and “Burlington Arcade” denote. “Pinch-Gut” and “Crab-Crawl” speak for themselves. So does “Vermin Villa.” Other localities, again, have obviously been labelled by persons endowed with a nice gift of irony. “Sanctuary Wood” is the last place on earth where any one would dream of taking sanctuary; while “Lovers’ Walk,” which bounds it, is the scene of almost daily expositions of the choicest brand of Boche “hate.”
And so on. But one day, when the War is over, and this mighty trench-line is thrown open to the disciples of the excellent Mr. Cook—as undoubtedly it will be—care should be taken that these street-names are preserved and perpetuated. It would be impossible to select a more characteristic and fitting memorial to the brave hearts who constructed them—too many of whom are sleeping their last sleep within a few yards of their own cheerful handiwork.
III
After this digression we at length reach the firing-line. It is quite unlike anything of its kind that we have hitherto encountered. It is situated in what was once a thick wood. Two fairly well-defined trenches run through the undergrowth, from which the sentries of either side have been keeping relentless watch upon one another, night and day, for many months. The wood itself is a mere forest of poles: hardly a branch, and not a twig, has been spared by the shrapnel. In the no-man’s-land between the trenches the poles have been reduced to mere stumps a few inches high.
It is behind the firing-trench that the most unconventional scene presents itself. Strictly speaking, there ought to be—and generally is—a support-line some seventy yards in rear of the first. This should be occupied by all troops not required in the firing-trench. But the trench is empty—which is not altogether surprising, considering that it is half-full of water. Its rightful occupants are scattered through the wood behind—in dug-outs, in redoubts, or en plein air—cooking, washing, or repairing their residences. The whole scene suggests a gipsy encampment rather than a fortified post. A hundred yards away, through the trees, you can plainly discern the Boche firing-trench, and the Boche in that trench can discern you: yet never a shot comes. It is true that bullets are humming through the air and glancing off trees, but these are mostly due to the enterprise of distant machine-guns and rifle-batteries, firing from some position well adapted for enfilade. Frontal fire there is little or none. In the front-line trenches, at least, Brother Boche has had enough of it. His motto now is, “Live and let live!” In fact, he frequently makes plaintive statements to that effect in the silence of night.
You might think, then, that life in Willow Grove would be a tranquil affair. But if you look up among the few remaining branches of that tall tree in the centre of the wood, you may notice shreds of some material flapping in the breeze. Those are sandbags—or were. Last night, within the space of one hour, seventy-three shells fell into this wood, and the first of them registered a direct hit upon the dug-out of which those sandbags formed part. There were eight men in that dug-out. The telephone-wires were broken in the first few minutes, and there was some delay before word could be transmitted back to Headquarters. Then our big guns far in rear spoke out, until the enemy’s batteries (probably in response to an urgent appeal from their own front line) ceased firing. Thereupon “A” Company, who at Bobby Little’s behest had taken immediate cover in the water-logged support-trench, returned stolidly to their dug-outs in Willow Grove. Death, when he makes the mistake of raiding your premises every day, loses most of his terrors and becomes a bit of a bore.
This morning the Company presents its normal appearance: its numbers have been reduced by eight—c’est tout! It may be some one else’s turn to-morrow, but after all, that is what we are here for. Anyhow, we are keeping the Boches out of “Wipers,” and a bit over. So we stretch our legs in the wood, and keep the flooded trench for the next emergency.
Let us approach a group of four which is squatting sociably round a small and inadequate fire of twigs, upon which four mess-tins are simmering. The quartette consists of Privates Cosh and Tosh, together with Privates Buncle and Nigg, preparing their midday meal.
“Tak’ off your damp chup, Jimmy,” suggested Tosh to Buncle, who was officiating as stoker. “Ye mind what the Captain said aboot smoke?”
“It wasna the Captain: it was the Officer,” rejoined Buncle cantankerously.
(It may here be explained, at the risk of another digression, that no length of association or degree of intimacy will render the average British soldier familiar with the names of his officers. The Colonel is “The C.O.”; the Second in Command is “The Major”; your Company Commander is “The Captain,” and your Platoon Commander “The Officer.” As for all others of commissioned rank in the regiment, some twenty-four in all, they are as nought. With the exception of the Quartermaster, in whose shoes each member of the rank and file hopes one day to stand, they simply do not exist.)
“Onyway,” pursued the careful Tosh, “he said that if any smoke was shown, all fires was tae be pitten oot. So mind and see no’ to get a cauld dinner for us all, Jimmy!”
“Cauld or het,” retorted the gentleman addressed, “it’s little dinner I’ll be gettin’ this day! And ye ken fine why!” he added darkly.
Private Tosh removed a cigarette from his lower lip and sighed patiently.
“For the last time,” he announced, with the air of a righteous man suffering long, “I did not lay ma hand on your dirrty wee bit ham!”
“Maybe,” countered the bereaved Buncle swiftly, “you did not lay your hand upon it; but you had it tae your breakfast for all that, Davie!”
“I never pit ma hand on it!” repeated Tosh doggedly.
“No? Then I doot you gave it a bit kick with your foot,” replied the inflexible Buncle.
“Or got some other body tae luft it for him!” suggested Private Nigg, looking hard at Tosh’s habitual accomplice, Cosh.
“I had it pitten in an auld envelope from hame, addressed with my name,” continued the mourner. “It couldna hae got oot o’ that by accident!”
“Weel,” interposed Cosh, with forced geniality, “it’s no a thing tae argie-bargie aboot. Whatever body lufted it, it’s awa’ by this time. It’s a fine day, boys!”
This flagrant attempt to raise the conversation to a less controversial plane met with no encouragement. Private Buncle, refusing to be appeased, replied sarcastically—
“Aye, is it? And it was a fine nicht last nicht, especially when the shellin’ was gaun on! Especially in number seeven dug-oot!”
There was a short silence. Number seven dug-out was no more, and five of its late occupants were now lying under their waterproof sheets, not a hundred yards away, waiting for a Padre. Presently, however, the pacific Cosh, who in his hours of leisure was addicted to mild philosophical rumination, gave a fresh turn to the conversation.
“Mphm!” he observed thoughtfully. “They say that in a war every man has a bullet waiting for him some place or other, with his name on it! Sooner or later, he gets it. Aye! Mphm!” He sucked his teeth reflectively, and glanced towards the Field Ambulance. “Sooner or later!”
“What for would he pit his name on it, Wully?” inquired Nigg, who was not very quick at grasping allusions.
“He wouldna pit on the name himself,” explained the philosopher. “What I mean is, there’s a bullet for each one of us somewhere over there”—he jerked his head eastward—“in a Gairman pooch.”
“What way could a Gairman pit my name on a bullet?” demanded Nigg triumphantly. “He doesna ken it!”
“Man,” exclaimed Cosh, shedding some of his philosophic calm, “can ye no unnerstand that what I telled ye was jist a mainner of speakin’? When I said that a man’s name was on a bullet, I didna mean that it was written there.”
“Then what the hell did ye mean?” inquired the mystified disciple—not altogether unreasonably.
Private Tosh made a misguided but well-meaning attempt to straighten out the conversation.
“He means, Sandy,” he explained in a soothing voice, “that the name was just stampit on the bullet. Like—like—like an identity disc!” he added brilliantly.
The philosopher clutched his temples with both hands.
“I dinna mean onything o’ the kind,” he roared. “What I intend tae imply is this, Sandy Nigg. Some place over there there is a bullet in a Gairman’s pooch, and one day that bullet will find its way intil your insides as sure as if your name was written on it! That’s what I meant. Jist a mainner of speakin’. Dae ye unnerstand me the noo?”
But it was the injured Buncle who replied—like a lightning-flash.
“Never you fear, Sandy, boy!” he proclaimed to his perturbed ally. “That bullet has no’ gotten your length yet. Maybe it never wull. There’s mony a thing in this worrld with one man’s name on it that finds its way intil the inside of some other man.” He fixed Tosh with a relentless eye. “A bit ham, for instance!”
It was a knock-out blow.
“For ony sake,” muttered the now demoralised Tosh, “drop the subject, and I’ll gie ye a bit ham o’ ma ain! There’s just time tae cook it—”
“What kin’ o’ a fire is this?”
A cold shadow fell upon the group as a substantial presence inserted itself between the debaters and the wintry sunshine. Corporal Mucklewame was speaking, in his new and awful official voice, pointing an accusing finger at the fire, which, neglected in the ardour of discussion, was smoking furiously.
“Did you wish the hale wood tae be shelled?” continued Mucklewame sarcastically. “Put oot the fire at once, or I’ll need tae bring ye all before the Officer. It is a cauld dinner ye’ll get, and ye’ll deserve it!”
IV
In the fire-trench—or perhaps it would be more correct to call it the water-trench—life may be short, and is seldom merry; but it is not often dull. For one thing, we are never idle.
A Boche trench-mortar knocks down several yards of your parapet. Straightway your machine-gunners are called up, to cover the gap until darkness falls and the gaping wound can be stanched with fresh sandbags. A mine has been exploded upon your front, leaving a crater into which predatory Boches will certainly creep at night. You summon a posse of bombers to occupy the cavity and discourage any such enterprise. The heavens open, and there is a sudden deluge. Immediately it is a case of all hands to the trench-pump! A better plan, if you have the advantage of ground, is to cut a culvert under the parapet and pass the inundation on to a more deserving quarter. In any case you need never lack healthful exercise.
While upon the subject of mines, we may note that this branch of military industry has expanded of late to most unpleasant dimensions. The Boche began it, of course—he always initiates these undesirable pastimes,—and now we have followed his lead and caught him up.
To the ordinary mortal, to become a blind groper amid the dark places of the earth, in search of a foe whom it is almost certain death to encounter there, seems perhaps the most idiotic of all the idiotic careers open to those who are idiotic enough to engage in modern warfare. However, many of us are as much at home below ground as above it. In most peaceful times we were accustomed to spend eight hours a day there, lying up against the “face” in a tunnel perhaps four feet high, and wielding a pick in an attitude which would have convulsed any ordinary man with cramp. But there are few ordinary men in “K1” There is never any difficulty in obtaining volunteers for the Tunnelling Company.
So far as the amateur can penetrate its mysteries, mining, viewed under our present heading—namely, Winter Sports—offers the following advantages to its participants:—
(2) Critics seldom descend into mines.
(3) There is extra pay.
The disadvantages are so obvious that they need not be enumerated here.
In these trenches we have been engaged upon a very pretty game of subterranean chess for some weeks past, and we are very much on our mettle. We have some small leeway to make up. When we took over these trenches, a German mine, which had been maturing (apparently unheeded) during the tenancy of our predecessors, was exploded two days after our arrival, inflicting heavy casualties upon “D” Company. Curiously enough, the damage to the trench was comparatively slight; but the tremendous shock of the explosion killed more than one man by concussion, and brought down the roofs of several dug-outs upon their sleeping occupants. Altogether it was a sad business, and the Battalion swore to be avenged.
So they called upon Lieutenant Duff-Bertram—usually called Bertie the Badger, in reference to his rodent disposition—to make the first move in the return match. So Bertie and his troglodyte assistants sank a shaft in a retired spot of their own selecting, and proceeded to burrow forward towards the Boche lines.
After certain days Bertie presented himself, covered in clay, before Colonel Kemp, and made a report.
Colonel Kemp considered.
“You say you can hear the enemy working?” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Near?”
“Pretty near, sir.”
“How near?”
“A few yards.”
“What do you propose to do?”
Bertie the Badger—in private life he was a consulting mining engineer with a beautiful office in Victoria Street and a nice taste in spats—scratched an earthy nose with a muddy forefinger.
“I think they are making a defensive gallery, sir,” he announced.
“Let us have your statement in the simplest possible language, please,” said Colonel Kemp. “Some of my younger officers,” he added rather ingeniously, “are not very expert in these matters.”
Bertie the Badger thereupon expounded the situation with solemn relish. By a defensive gallery, it appeared that he meant a lateral tunnel running parallel with the trench-line, in such a manner as to intercept any tunnel pushed out by the British miners.
“And what do you suggest doing to this Piccadilly Tube of theirs?” inquired the Colonel.
“I could dig forward and break into it, sir,” suggested Bertie.
“That seems a move in the right direction,” said the Colonel. “But won’t the Boche try to prevent you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How?”
“He will wait until the head of my tunnel gets near enough, and then blow it in.”
“That would be very tiresome of him. What other alternatives are open to you?”
“I could get as near as possible, sir,” replied Bertie calmly, “and then blow up his gallery.”
“That sounds better. Well, exercise your own discretion, and don’t get blown up unless you particularly want to. And above all, be quite sure that while you are amusing yourself with the Piccadilly Tube, the wily Boche isn’t burrowing past you, and under my parapet, by the Bakerloo! Good luck! Report any fresh development at once.”
So Bertie the Badger returned once more to his native element and proceeded to exercise his discretion. This took the form of continuing his aggressive tunnel in the direction of the Boche defensive gallery. Next morning, encouraged by the absolute silence of the enemy’s miners, he made a farther and final push, which actually landed him in the “Piccadilly Tube” itself.
“This is a rum go, Howie!” he observed in a low voice to his corporal. “A long, beautiful gallery, five by four, lined with wood, electrically lighted, with every modern convenience—and not a Boche in it!”
“Varra bad discipline, sir!” replied Corporal Howie severely.
“Are you sure it isn’t a trap?”
“It may be, sirr; but I doot the oversman is awa’ to his dinner, and the men are back in the shaft, doing naething.” Corporal Howie had been an “oversman” himself, and knew something of subterranean labour problems.
“Well, if you are right, the Boche must be getting demoralised. It is not like him to present us with openings like this. However, the first thing to do is to distribute a few souvenirs along the gallery. Pass the word back for the stuff. Meanwhile I shall endeavour to test your theory about the oversman’s dinner-hour. I am going to creep along and have a look at the Boche entrance to the Tube. It’s down there, at the south end, I think. I can see a break in the wood lining. If you hear any shooting, you will know that the dinner-hour is over!”
At the end of half an hour the Piccadilly Tube was lined with sufficient explosive material—securely rammed and tamped—to ensure the permanent closing of the line. Still no Boche had been seen or heard.
“Now, Howie,” said Bertie the Badger, fingering the fuse, “what about it?”
“About what, sirr?” inquired Howie, who was not quite au fait with current catch-phrases.
“Are we going to touch off all this stuff now, and clear out, or are we going to wait and see?”
“I would like fine—” began the Corporal wistfully.
“So would I,” said Bertie. “Tell the men to get back and out; and you and I will hold on until the guests return from the banquet.”
“Varra good, sirr.”
For another half-hour the pair waited—Bertie the Badger like a dog in its kennel, with his head protruding into the hostile gallery, while his faithful henchman crouched close behind him. Deathly stillness reigned, relieved only by an occasional thud, as a shell or trench-mortar bomb exploded upon the ground above their heads.
“I’m going to have another look round the corner,” said Bertie at last. “Hold on to the fuse.”
He handed the end of the fuse to his subordinate, and having wormed his way out of the tunnel, proceeded cautiously on all-fours along the gallery. On his way he passed the electric light. He twisted off the bulb and crawled on in the dark.
Feeling his way by the east wall of the gallery, he came presently to the break in the woodwork. Very slowly, lying flat on his stomach now, he wriggled forward until his head came opposite the opening. A low passage ran away to his left, obviously leading back to the Boche trenches. Three yards from the entrance the passage bent sharply to the right, thus interrupting the line of sight.
“There’s a light burning just round that bend,” said Bertie the Badger to himself. “I wonder if it would be rash to go on and have a look at it!”
He was still straining at this gnat, when suddenly his elbow encountered a shovel which was leaning against the wall of the gallery. It tumbled down with a clatter almost stunning. Next moment a hand came round the bend of the tunnel and fired a revolver almost into the explorer’s face.
Another shot rang out directly after.
The devoted Howie, hastening to the rescue, collided sharply with a solid body crawling towards him in the darkness.
“Curse you, Howie!” said the voice of Bertie the Badger, with refreshing earnestness. “Get back out of this! Where’s your fuse?”
The pair scrambled back into their own tunnel, and the end of the fuse was soon recovered. Almost simultaneously three more revolver-shots rang out.
“I thought I had fixed that Boche,” murmured Bertie in a disappointed voice. “I heard him grunt when my bullet hit him. Perhaps this is another one—or several. Keep back in the tunnel, Howie, confound you, and don’t breathe up my sleeve! They are firing straight along the gallery now. I will return the compliment. Ouch!”
“What’s the matter, sirr?” inquired the anxious voice of Howie, as his officer, who had tried to fire round the corner with his left hand, gave a sudden exclamation and rolled over upon his side.
“I must have been hit the first time,” he explained. “Collar-bone, I think. I didn’t know, till I rested my weight on my left elbow…. Howie, I am going to exercise my discretion again. Somebody in this gallery is going to be blown up presently, and if you and I don’t get a move on, p.d.q., it will be us! Give me the fuse-lighter, and wait for me at the foot of the shaft. Quick!”
Very reluctantly the Corporal obeyed. However, he was in due course joined at the foot of the shaft by Bertie the Badger, groaning profanely; and the pair made their way to the upper regions with all possible speed. After a short interval, a sudden rumbling, followed by a heavy explosion, announced that the fuse had done its work, and that the Piccadilly Tube, the fruit of many toilsome weeks of Boche calculation and labour, had been permanently closed to traffic of all descriptions.
Bertie the Badger received a Military Cross, and his abettor the D.C.M.
V
But the newest and most fashionable form of winter sport this season is The Flying Matinée.
This entertainment takes place during the small hours of the morning, and is strictly limited to a duration of ten minutes—quite long enough for most matinées, too. The actors are furnished by a unit of “K(1)” and the rôle of audience is assigned to the inhabitants of the Boche trenches immediately opposite. These matinées have proved an enormous success, but require most careful rehearsal.
It is two A.M., and comparative peace reigns up and down the line. The rain of star-shells, always prodigal in the early evening, has died down to a mere drizzle. Working and fatigue parties, which have been busy since darkness set in at five o’clock,—rebuilding parapets, repairing wire, carrying up rations, and patrolling debatable areas,—have ceased their labours, and are sleeping heavily until the coming of the wintry dawn shall rouse them, grimy and shivering, to another day’s unpleasantness.
Private Hans Dumpkopf, on sentry duty in the Boche firing-trench, gazes mechanically over the parapet; but the night is so dark and the wind so high that it is difficult to see and quite impossible to hear anything. He shelters himself beside a traverse, and waits patiently for his relief. It begins to rain, and Hans, after cautiously reconnoitring the other side of the traverse, to guard against prowling sergeants, sidles a few yards to his right beneath the friendly cover of an improvised roof of corrugated iron sheeting, laid across the trench from parapet to parados. It is quite dry here, and comparatively warm. Hans closes his eyes for a moment, and heaves a gentle sigh.
Next moment there comes a rush of feet in the darkness, followed by a metallic clang, as of hobnailed boots on metal. Hans, lying prostrate and half-stunned beneath the galvanised iron sheeting, which, dislodged from its former position by the impact of a heavy body descending from above, now forms part of the flooring of the trench, is suddenly aware that this same trench is full of men—rough, uncultured men, clad in short petticoats and the skins of wild animals, and armed with knobkerries. The Flying Matinée has begun, and Hans Dumpkopf has got in by the early door.
Each of the performers—there are fifty of them all told—has his part to play, and plays it with commendable aplomb. One, having disarmed an unresisting prisoner, assists him over the parapet and escorts him affectionately to his new home. Another clubs a recalcitrant foeman over the head with a knobkerry, and having thus reduced him to a more amenable frame of mind, hoists him over the parapet and drags him after his “kamarad.”
Other parties are told off to deal with the dug-outs. As a rule, the occupants of these are too dazed to make any resistance,—to be quite frank, the individual Boche in these days seems rather to welcome captivity than otherwise,—and presently more of the “bag” are on their way to the British lines.
But by this time the performance is drawing to a close. The alarm has been communicated to the adjacent sections of the trench, and preparations for the ejection of the intruders are being hurried forward. That is to say, German bombers are collecting upon either flank, with the intention of bombing “inwards” until the impudent foe has been destroyed or evicted. As we are not here to precipitate a general action, but merely to round up a few prisoners and do as much damage as possible in ten minutes, we hasten to the finale. As in most finales, one’s actions now become less restrained—but, from a brutal point of view, more effective. A couple of hand-grenades are thrown into any dug-out which has not yet surrendered. (The Canadians, who make quite a speciality of flying matinées, are accustomed, we understand, as an artistic variant to this practice, to fasten an electric torch along the barrel of a rifle, and so illuminate their lurking targets while they shoot.) A sharp order passes along the line; every one scrambles out of the trench; and the troupe makes its way back, before the enemy in the adjacent trenches have really wakened up, to the place from which it came. The matinée, so far as the actors are concerned, is over.
Not so the audience. The avenging host is just getting busy. The bombing-parties are now marshalled and proceed with awful solemnity and Teutonic thoroughness to clear the violated trench. The procedure of a bombing-party is stereotyped. They begin by lobbing hand-grenades over the first traverse into the first bay. After the ensuing explosion, they trot round the traverse in single file and occupy the bay. This manoeuvre is then repeated until the entire trench is cleared. The whole operation requires good discipline, considerable courage, and carefully timed co-operation with the other bombing-party. In all these attributes the Boche excels. But one thing is essential to the complete success of his efforts, and that is the presence of the enemy. When, after methodically desolating each bay in turn (and incidentally killing their own wounded in the process), the two parties meet midway—practically on top of the unfortunate Hans Dumpkopf, who is still giving an imitation of a tortoise in a corrugated shell—it is discovered that the beautifully executed counter-attack has achieved nothing but the recapture of an entirely empty trench. The birds have flown, taking their prey with them. Hans is the sole survivor, and after hearing what his officer has to say to him upon the subject, bitterly regrets the fact.
Meanwhile, in the British trenches a few yards away, the box-office returns are being made up. These take the form, firstly, of some twenty-five prisoners, including one indignant officer—he had been pulled from his dug-out half asleep and frog-marched across the British lines by two private soldiers well qualified to appreciate the richness of his language—together with various souvenirs in the way of arms and accoutrements; and secondly, of the knowledge that at least as many more of the enemy had been left permanently incapacitated for further warfare in the dug-outs. A grim and grisly drama when you come to criticise it in cold blood, but not without a certain humour of its own—and most educative for Brother Boche!
But he is a slow pupil. He regards the profession of arms and the pursuit of war with such intense and solemn reverence that he cannot conceive how any one calling himself a soldier can be so criminally frivolous as to write a farce round the subject—much less present the farce at a Flying Matinée. That possibly explains why the following stately paragraph appeared a few days later in the periodical communiqué which keeps the German nation in touch with its Army’s latest exploits:—
During the night of Jan. 4th-5th attempts were made by strong detachments of the enemy to penetrate our line near Sloozleschump, S.E. of Ypres. The attack failed utterly.
“And they don’t even realise that it was only a leg-pull!” commented the Company Commander who had stage-managed the affair. “These people simply don’t deserve to have entertainments arranged for them at all. Well, we must pull the limb again, that’s all!”
And it was so.
Notes
1 In winter it is much warmer below the earth than upon its surface, and Thomas Atkins is the most confirmed “frowster” in the world.