Big Adam’s Hare Soup
How the Scotch Snipers Fortified Themselves Against a German Attack at Dawn
What may be described as a domestic scene in a dugout was presented with a flavor of humor by a correspondent in the mid-year of 1917. It was at a strategic point just behind the British first line trench. Though the men were ignorant of the reasons for a recent move, the fact was that officers were preparing to meet a German attack. The occupants of the dugout were snipers of Scotch nativity and not over fond of “blatherin’.” Unlike the usual failings and infirmities of the dugout, flooded or swampy, this was dry and comfortable. There were shelves on which their rifles were stacked, along with telescope sights and other instruments important to snipers, who are invariably the crack shots of the riflemen. There were pegs—bayonets thrust in between the sandbags—for the equipment of the men. Conveniences and advantages not a few; and room for comfortable grouping.
We are introduced to the scene as preparations for a substantial meal are under way. Though the battalion had been hurried up from a village behind the lines where it had enjoyed a month’s rest, the rations had arrived, and moreover the careful purveyors of the sniper squad had brought along two plump hares shot the day before, and these were being devotionally fitted to the service of the inner man on the principal brazier. Another brazier was assigned to the less honorable office of heating water for tea. A few tallow dips feebly lighted the place and gave curious, half-substantial aspects to the men under the wavering canopy of smoke from pipes and cigarettes.
A huge Scot is hanging solicitously over the cooking hares, wholly absorbed in the delightful occupation. He gives no heed to the men surrounding him in critical inspection of his performance, eagerly expectant of the result. These critical watchers are exceedingly careful, however, to make no comment to reflect upon the culinary skill of the man sedulously stirring the savory contents of the “dixie” over the brazier. The group reminded the correspondent of the gnomes Rip Van Winkle found in the Catskill mountains; solemn they were, grave with a sense of their responsibility. The Scots are not over given to gaiety, however sensitive to humor of their own conceiving.
Gravest of all the assembly are those seated nearest the brazier, where the hare soup is stewing, and it is not difficult to infer that they are the veterans, the supersnipers, of the section. Their age, the manner in which the younger snipers defer to them and give them place, the cool confidence of their every look and movement, all mark them out as leaders among men.
A notable group it was. Says the correspondent:
“Each a man of distinct personality, yet collectively the deadliest unit on the whole battle-line; each of a name known outside the division and of a skill which has brought the section success in the trenches and credit on the test rifle-ranges behind the lines. Yet no trace of arrogance shows itself in their demeanor, and the careless observer might possibly have only caught a hint of the great reserve strength embodied in each of them. And all sit gravely and watch big Adam, who wields the spoon, stir the soup.”
Suddenly there is a diversion from the other end of the dugout. Here two or three younger men have been sitting, and their conversation, gradually rising in key, has been slowly breaking in as a disturbing factor to the solemnity of their elders round the brazier. The noise now reaches a climax and an indignant voice exclaims:
“Ye’re just a blether, Jimmy Duffus; just a big, bletherin’ eediot.”
“But I tell ye, Wullie, I heard the officer sayin’ so,” says Jimmy aggrievedly.
“Well, even tho ye did,” rejoins Willie, “what richt hae ye to be turnin’ ower what the officer says in public?”
“He didna tell me to keep it quate, Wullie Black.”
“He didna tell ye onything at a’. It was jist thae big lugs o’ yours happened by at the time. And noo, like the big mooth ye are, ye goun clyping it a’ ower the place.”
Jimmy rose threateningly, and Willie was not a whit behind him. Both were prepared for an immediate settlement. Another second and they would have come to blows, but the sergeant intervened.
“Come ower here, baith o’ ye,” he said sternly, and the two slunk up to him.
“It was Duffus here, sairgeant, was sayin’ that the officer was sayin’ that the Germans wud attack——”
“Be quate, Black,” broke in the sergeant. “Ye’re but a poor, ignorant boy, Wullie,” he continued, speaking with great deliberation, “only good to hold the horse by the head. Go and clean that rifle or I’ll tak it from ye a’thegither.”
Completely subdued by so dire a threat, Willie went off to this task with alacrity. Not only did he love his rifle, but he feared his sergeant’s eloquence. “And as for you, Duffus,” said the latter, turning to the other culprit, “if you do not keep your mooth shut aboot what your betters say, ye’ll be oot o’ the section the morn’s mornin’. Jist mind in future that onything the officer wants the section to know, I’ll tell ye.”
Jimmy subsided discreetly, abashed but not extinguished, and still bursting to blab. The sergeant adjusted himself to some bags of charcoal and dozed off. When the muffled sounds of impending snores assured Jimmy that the sergeant was asleep, he leaned eagerly forward and in a momentous whisper heard by the others discharged his high-tensioned information:
“The officer said the Germans will attack at dawn!”
Big Adam leaned forward and roused the sergeant. The younger man looked up inquiringly, expecting some authoritative statement on the subject. But as the sergeant lifted his head attentively, Big Adam, taking appreciative sips from the spoon, said only:
“This is grand hare soup! Will ye tak’ a sup, Andra?”