It's bloomin' well still the same,Ever and always the same,Right in the thick of it,Not feelin' sick of it,Naw! but it's always the same, the same.I like the 'ole bisness, not 'alf,Son of the Empire, not 'alf!Le guerre never finny,It's whizzbang and Minnie,And always the usual strafe, strafe, strafe.For ever and ever the same,Bloomin' well always the same;If the guns for a changeWould just lengthen their range,But naw! they just strafe us the same.(From Trench Doggerel.)
It's bloomin' well still the same,Ever and always the same,Right in the thick of it,Not feelin' sick of it,Naw! but it's always the same, the same.
I like the 'ole bisness, not 'alf,Son of the Empire, not 'alf!Le guerre never finny,It's whizzbang and Minnie,And always the usual strafe, strafe, strafe.
For ever and ever the same,Bloomin' well always the same;If the guns for a changeWould just lengthen their range,But naw! they just strafe us the same.
(From Trench Doggerel.)
The winter was over, the birds were singing again on the barbed wire entanglements, the green grasses peeped out between the cobbles of the deserted village streets, and the flowers showed in the open spaces between the lines. The trenches were becoming dry; the parapets no longer crumbled down; it was possible to climb over the parados at nightwithout flinging half the structure into the muddy alleys, where the soldiers kept eternal watch on the lines across the way. Sheepskin jackets were handed in; top boots were worn no more; a man could sleep at ease in a dug-out now, for the roofs, no longer weighted by the rain, had ceased falling in on the hapless sleepers. The tottering walls gathered strength; tottering spirits were braced up; men saw the sun and were pleased. The winter was over.
For one who has not experienced them, it is difficult to realise the hardships of the front line between the months of October and April. The trenches are deep ditches filled with mud and water that reach the waist. Now and again the heavy top-boots are useless protection against wet, the water rises over the tops of the boots and runs down the legs of the men. The boots stick in the mud, and often the men have to climb out of them; clamber from cells into a quagmire. In the days following the first trench winter when the earth got dry soldiers who had died in their top-boots were dug from the floors of the trenches. Weary with their efforts to get free from the deadly embrace of the muddy quagmire, they fell asleep and succumbed to exposure,died in their graves. And in spring they were dug out and buried anew.
The dug-out is as treacherous as the trench. The shaky construction, the lodge of fear, is always built in a hurry. Weak props hold a crazy roof in place; sandbags filled with earth serve the purpose of tiles. In dry weather a dug-out serves its purpose well, but in the rainy weather the sandbags becoming saturated finally weigh the rafters and props down to earth. Time and again the weary sleepers never wake, their shelter becomes their grave.
The trenches in the summer nights have a charm peculiarly their own when the starshells riot in the heavens and the air is full of the languorous scent of sleeping flowers. If the guns of war are silent, there is a genial atmosphere pervading the whole place, and men go about their work in a light-hearted manner.
One can smell tea brewing in the sheltered bay where a brazier glows cosily in the lee of the traverse. A game of cards is in progress in a dug-out, and a youth may be seen writing a letter by the light of a timid candle stuck on the wall. At that moment one does not feel far removed from home. But what a contrast in the cheerless winter. All the cosy comfort is a thingof the past. Men plough through muck and mire, dragging their feet and legs through water and mud, or sleep in the open, shivering with cold. The fingers are chilled to the bone, all feeling has gone away from the feet; for all one knows, the feet may have gone. No fires are lit, there is no wood, nothing that will burn.
The long night marches have lost all their romance. Clothes are seldom dry, they cling to the body like the rags of a drowned man, scourging and scaling the flesh. The cold rain stings the flesh, the snow freezes the fingers. Marching is difficult, the roads are thick with mud, and all roads lead to the firing line, the line of red agony, of desolation. The soldier is a mute, impotent figure, a blind pawn in the game of war. The billets are cold and cheerless. The broken roof, which allowed the winds of night to play round the sleepers in the hot summer weather, now lets in the cold and wet. Sleep is hardly a rest, it is a moment of forgetfulness similar to the solace which a sick man finds in a drug.
Spring was well on its way now; the boys in the trenches were happy again. Bubb and Flanagan were up to any sort of mischief or deed of daring. The persistent sniper who kept potting at their bay annoyed them however. Bubb,back from hospital and full of vitality, vowed that it was up to him to put the sniper out of action.
"I'm goin' up on this 'ere caboosh at the rear," said Bubb pointing to the slag-heap behind the British front line. "I'll maybe get a sight on the Boche."
"I'm with you in the game," said Flanagan.
Both men went out in the early dawn and took their places close to the crest of the mammoth slag-heap. Noon found them still there lying prone on the surface of the coal-mines' off-scour, their heads close to the rim of the heap, their eyes fixed on the enemy's trench which wound slyly as a snake through the levels some seven hundred yards away. A spit down from the two boys lay the English line. Out in front of it dozens of bundles in khaki lay limp and lifeless, waiting for the summer to cover them up with her flowers.
"There's a 'undred or more, out there," said Bubb. "Gawd, it's a funny bisness, killin' and killin'. One would think we enjoys it by the fuss the pypers in England makes o' it. Anyway, it's a blurry rotten way of fightin'," he continued as he changed his position by the fraction of an inch without removing his eye from the tipof the rifle foresight. "Gawd," he whispered, "I 'ave 'im now. I saw somefin' move just like a bird. I'll give 'im a round."
"Don't," muttered Flanagan, under his breath. "It's no good firing if you're not sure of your man. One shot will give us away, and that's the twentieth time you've seen him; each time in a different spot. He's not like a bird; he can't be in two places at one time.... What the hell! Don't move!"
"A cramp in my guts!" groaned Bubb, wriggling a little. "Gawd, it isn't 'arf giving me gyp! Ooh—whooh!"
The youth kicked out with both legs, raised his head an inch or two, then brought it down again to the level of the earth. Flanagan swore under his breath and cursed Bubb with vehemence.
"I can't 'elp it," said Bubb. "I must move. I'd rather 'ave a bullet in the 'ead than a cramp in my belly. Wooh! It'll twist me up like a 'edge 'og!"
"Matey," whispered Flanagan, turning half left and fixing his eyes on Spudhole.
"Wot!"
"You know that if you're seen moving you'll get a bullet across here——"
"I don't care a damn," said Bubb.
"But I do," muttered Flanagan. "Next time I come out sniping I'm going to take a man with me; one that won't give a position away when he has got a sore tummy——"
"I'm not going to move no more," said Bubb. "I'm going to be as quiet as a sandbag. Ooh-wooh!"
"How's your cramp now?" asked Flanagan, when Bubb had kept quiet for a good ten minutes. "Gone, is it?"
"It's 'opped it," said Spudhole with a laugh. "Blimey!"
Both men cowered to earth giggling nervously as the bomb burst, scattering a cloud of dust over them. A second shell burst, and a third.
"They must have spotted us," said Flanagan, frowning at the fields.
"If they have it's all up."
But the shelling ceased as suddenly as it had begun, and the youngsters breathed freely again.
"Cleaning out their guns, I suppose," said Flanagan. "Lucky they didn't clean us out of existence.... I'm tired of waiting here."
"I'm tired an' 'ungry an' 'ot," said Bubb. "Butwe can't get out of this damned place till night ... they won't 'arf 'ave the laugh on us when we go back."
"Not half," said Flanagan absently.
"And I bet Captain Thorley a bob I'd lay the sniper by the 'eels," said Bubb. "But it's no go."
"Well, where can the fellow be?" asked Flanagan, removing a speck of dust from the backsight of his rifle with a cautious hand. "No man can fire at us from the German trench. It's behind a rise, and even if one of the Boches looks over the parapet he can't see our trench. But still the fact remains that no sooner does one of our boys look over than a bullet zipps past his ear. Where does the bullet come from? The snipermustbe between the lines. He must, but where?"
Spudhole shrugged his shoulders helplessly and muttered: "We was fools comin' out 'ere. But 'e 'as done for four of our fellers an' 'e must die. If 'e doesn't...."
He shook a cautious little head and became silent. The sun sank down the sky, and its sight slid along the barrels of the rifles from hand-guard to muzzle whenever the weapons were moved. Flanagan crunched a biscuit with zealousteeth; Bubb traced furrows in the ground with his trigger finger, but all the time kept his eyes fixed on the front.
"Our boys are makin' tea now," he said. "It's about four o'clock, I suppose ... that damned sun's in no 'urry neither. There!" he ejaculated suddenly. "One of our boys 'as put 'is 'ead over the trench! Wait."
Both men heard it, a smothered shriek like the sound of a drowning puppy.
"'E 'as got it in the 'ead," said Bubb in a fierce voice. "The bloody fool! Flan!"
"What is it, Bubb?"
"I saw smoke," said Bubb, speaking calmly. "Just look over. See a little holler near the German lines? Yes? Well, there's a dead man there wiv 'is knees curled up. Got im? That's the place. I saw a puff of smoke and somefing moved. Look, Flan, see somefing shining?"
"I see it," said Flanagan.
"The sun's catchin' the sniper's 'ipe."
Both the youngsters drew their weapons taut to their shoulders and adjusted their sights.
"Four-fifty?" inquired Bubb, adjusting his sight to four hundred and fifty yards.
"A little lower, a little lower," said Flanagan."Make it four and you'll not be far out.... It'll be hard to judge ... if we hit the dead man. He'll not raise a dust. You aim first, Bubb."
Bubb's left cheek twitched, and his eye took in the objective. He pulled the trigger. A spurt of dust flew into air a little to the rear of the dead man.
"Aim low, and we'll get him next time," said Flanagan.
Both rifles spoke together. A figure detached itself from the limp lump which lay in the hollow near the enemy's lines, rose to a standing position, and beat the air with agitated arms.
Thus for a moment, then the Thing collapsed in an abject heap on the ground.
"That's all," said Bubb. "The boys in the trench are firin' now. They'll finish 'im off if 'e's not done in already."
The rifles cracked spitefully in the trench which rimmed the base of the slag-heap, the sun sank lower and the shadows lengthened. The two youngsters broke biscuits, gnawed vigorously and waited for the darkness to fall.
CHAPTER XIIITHE TRENCHES
All the night the frogs go chuckle; all the day the birds are singing,In the pond beside the meadow; by the roadway poplar-lined;In the field between the trenches are a million blossoms springing'Twixt the grass of silver bayonets where the lines of battle wind;Where man has manned the trenches for the maiming of his kind.(From "Soldier Songs.")
All the night the frogs go chuckle; all the day the birds are singing,In the pond beside the meadow; by the roadway poplar-lined;In the field between the trenches are a million blossoms springing'Twixt the grass of silver bayonets where the lines of battle wind;Where man has manned the trenches for the maiming of his kind.
(From "Soldier Songs.")
The trench is a world within itself, having customs, joys and griefs peculiar to its limitations. The inmates can only claim for the most part a short existence; they have degrees of opulence and poverty, but the former is far removed from those who are legally heirs to it, and all the dwellers in the trench commune share their poverty in common. The word "ours" is on all lips; save for a few relics of outside civilisation there is nothing which a man claims as "mine." Food and drink and clothing are "ours," as also are the parcels fromhome, though the men to whom they are addressed have generally the privilege of opening them. Money has lost all its value: for the time being food is not sold here, and all men have to work at the same job, and they work well, for the safety of their bodies depends upon the labour of their hands. Again, in the carping times of peace a soldier may depend upon the sweat of others for his daily needs; here in the trenches he is a Socialist in the highest sense of the much-abused word.
The life of the Commune is seldom monotonous, its uncertainty makes it interesting, its novelty never wanes. The trench has its history, every dug-out a legend, and the shell-riven alleys of war are steeped in tradition. The narratives of the trench are handed on from regiment to regiment, a word or two on the firestep while the battalion just going out changes places with the relieving battalion, and the legend of an adjacent dug-out is made plain.
Such scraps of conversation as these may be heard. "That dug-out on the left got a 'ole in the roof the other night. A time-expired man who was going off to Blighty the next day went in there and lay down to kip. A whizz-bang 'it the roof, and the poor bloke went west."
"The Germans occupied these trenches at one time; the Guards charged them, and not a man escaped. You'll see their dug-outs all along here."
"A sniper used to play 'ell with this bay a month ago. 'E used to send the bullets into the trench. It took the men some time to discover 'im. Then they got 'im. 'E was up on the top of a chimney-stack in the village behind the German trench. 'E could see right down the trench. Our artillery brought the chimney down and the sniper with it."
So the stories are told and retold, and passed from one set of soldiers to the next who occupy the trenches.
No doubt stories become distorted and enlarged in the course of time, but always there is a grain of truth in the most exaggerated trench story; and every tale gives an added interest and a subtle touch of romance to the locality. The mean, primitive trench, the home of the Brown Brethren, is not without certain features of grandeur, and an atmosphere of mystery pervades the whole place, due, no doubt, to its close association with death.
It was yet dark in the trenches of the Cologne sector, a much be-shelled locality on VimyRidge, but a faint subdued flush showed on the Eastern sky far away behind the enemy's line. Stars were twinkling coldly clear overhead and a keen wind rustled along the floor of the trench. Vague mutterings and rumblings could be heard in the dug-outs; the men already warned to stand to arms on the banquette were snatching a few moments' extra repose; hugging with miserly desire at an additional minute's rest. Sergeant Snogger came running along the trench shouting. "Stand to! Stand to!" he called. There was no particular hurry for the sector was then a comparatively quiet one. But the sergeant merely ran because a brisk race was a most effective means of driving away the sleepy feeling which was fostered by the narcotic odours of the dug-out.
The men turned out yawning and swearing, then broke into a brisk run round a near traverse and back again to their posts by the dew-besprinkled bayonets. One man looked across the parapet, fixed an indifferent eye on the Ridge, then burst into a rag-time chorus which a mate took up with vigour.
The Zouave Wood, the shell-scarred spinney where the trees were flung broadcast by high concussion shells, lay on the left, wrapped inshadow and hiding many mysteries. In it was many a little grave where the kindly earth covered friend and foe alike. It was a place of many secrets, of strange and vague whispering. There, in the dawn, the spirits of the dead men seemed to hold converse. But by day the earth could not hide them, the weapons of the quick dug them again from the graves and flung them out on the riven spaces of the restless earth.
The air was cold and keen. The men covered their chins with the collars of their khaki coats, lit their cigarettes and leant against the parapet. They dozed for a moment and then woke guiltily with a start. Nobody had noticed them, they dozed again.... The east flushed crimson, the German trench to the left showed dark against the glow and stood out distinctly. A sniper's bullet ripped a sandbag and a shower of fine white dust dropped into the trench. No one paid any heed.... The birds were out hopping from prop to prop of the barbed wire entanglements. A lark soared into air pouring out an ecstatic song.... The dead men on the levels could now be seen lying close to the earth in limp and ghastly attitudes, the birds singing above them.... The sun was up; a million dewdrops sparkled in a glorious jewelled disarrayon the wires.... The field had taken on a greener hue and in many places the daisies peeped timidly up from the soft grasses.... A white mist circled round the spinney and the gashes in the trees became more distinct. Looking southwards down on to the level lands one could see the Double Crassier tailing out on one side to the village of Loos and on the other side to the mining hamlet of Maroc.... Away down on the left, twelve kilometres away, lay Lens with its many chimneys, and a number of the chimneys smoking. The enemy were probably working the mines. The terra-cotta houses stood out very distinct and seemed nearer to us than they really were. The air was very clear and a perfect flood of brilliant sunshine lit the town, the enemy's trench and the dead men lying out on the field.
The order to stand down had long since been given and the men were now busy preparing their breakfasts. Braziers were alight in the dug-outs and the red glow of flaming coke stood out in vivid contrast to the dark interiors. Little wreaths of pale smoke curled up over the trench and the air was full of the odour of frying bacon. Spudhole was frying his bread in the grease and to judge by the expression on his face he was veryinterested in his work. Nothing else seemed to trouble him. The sniper's bullet hit the sandbag again and a spurt of chalk was whisked into the frying-pan. The youth looked up, obviously annoyed, and swore whole-heartedly; then he bent to his work again.
Breakfast ready, Bubb, Bowdy and Flanagan sat on the fire-step and ate.
"I've an appetite like the war Casualty List," said Flanagan. "It's always crying for 'More! More!' and is never satisfied. It's almost as bad as Bubb when he came back from hospital."
"I'd ravver be 'ere than in the 'orsp," said Bubb. "This breakfast is not to be larfed at."
The fare was indeed excellent and every man did it justice. Each had a mess-tin of tea, a thick slice of buttered bread and a rasher of bacon. Tongues were loosened and the talk became general for there were so many things to talk about. The week-old papers which came by last night's post were read and comments passed on the contents. A full page advertisement in a leading daily came in for a fair share of sarcasm. This advertisement told of the virtues of a wonderful beauty cream just discovered. It gave a most delightfully delicate pink flush to the skin and took away the effects of twenty or thirtyyears' wear from a woman's face. It was the talk of London. All the society women were using it. Lady So-and-So said so-and-so about it; the celebrated actress A—— vowed that it was the one thing which England had waited for since the early part of the last century, etc.
"For my own part I wish they invented some-thin' to take away the crawlers off my clothes," Spudhole remarked as he finished his tea. "I'm goin' to 'ave a coot."
He got to his feet, took off his tunic and donned his equipment over his shirt. Bowdy went into the dug-out to have a few hours' sleep; Flanagan sat down on the fire-step and lit a cigarette.
"It's getting quite hot, Spudhole," he said.
"'Ot as 'ell," Spudhole replied.
At that moment a shell burst amidst the poppy flowers on the open in front of the sector and Spudhole, who was making his way towards the dug-out door clapped his hand to his neck and exclaimed: "I've copped one this time; it's givin' me gyp!"
Flanagan shouted "Stretcher bearers!" Then he turned to help his mate but even as he did so he felt a sudden penetrating pain pierce his own chin, and the wasp which was responsible for thesting flew off to a safe distance and poised itself in the air over the dug-out. Fitzgerald, knowing that it was contemplating another attack, prepared to retreat.
"It's wasps, Spudhole!" he yelled. "We'll clear off round the corner."
But before they moved Bowdy Benners rushed out of the dug-out, festooned with angry wasps.
"Good God!" he yelled, striking out with both hands. "I'm stung to death. My pillow was a nest of the swine! Git out, you vermin!... Got that one! Did I? He's stung my finger.... Oh! blast!..."
The three retreated at the double round the traverse and into the next bay. The occupants were just sitting down to breakfast, a good breakfast, for the post had come and parcels were bulky.
"Wot the blazes is this?" one of them exclaimed as the crush of men rounded the corner waving their arms about their heads. "These 'ere blokes are working their tickets, I suppose!"
He finished his remark with a yell, for an enterprising wasp had flown the rout and stung the speaker on the nose. Then the insect made the round of the breakfast party. A few fled instantly and escaped, others took to their heels atthe first sting, but the man who waited to pick up the sultana cake and the tin of sardines had all the colours of a Board School map on his face for weeks afterwards.
A narrow, crooked trench infested by furious wasps is not a healthy locality. The insects outmanœuvred the soldiers at every turn. The men turned the third buttress feeling that they had escaped their persecutors only to find that the insects had crossed the top of the traverse and were in waiting round the corner. As a man runs a trench is a weary pathway, as a wasp flies it presents no difficulties.
The place was in an uproar. The wasps had attacked on both sides, some drove the men left, others flew after them on the right. In every bay their numbers seemed to have increased; at the traverse turning the soldiers eluded them for a moment only to encounter them in the next bay. A number of men sought safety in the dugouts; the wasps followed and drove them out into the perilous trench again. When the first officer was met he stood for a moment with one foot in the trench, one on the firestep, and stared in astonishment. His wonderment was short-lived. A wasp announced itself when it alighted on hisear, and immediately the subaltern became one with the rout.
Spudhole was now wounded in several places. The morning had been fine, and like the rest of his mates, he was in shirt-sleeves fighting order.
"I've copped a sting again," he yelled. "That's umpty eleven times. I always said that I didn't 'old with a war like this un. Bombs and bullets, whizz-bangs and pip-squeaks and now these 'ere God-forsaken wopses.... That's anuver one, a blurry Boche. 'E sniped me from the rim of me cap.... God! Platoons of 'em.... Oh! damn! That un took me at the rear where I should 'ave a patch on me trousers...."
Again a bay was entered where another merry party was sitting down to breakfast; a gargantuan spread of fried bacon, toast and trench tea. A platoon officer was sharing in the meal. He was a stout good-natured man with a bald head, baby-pink and shiny. The advance party of wasps could not miss the head; the pests came to a halt on it, and being nasty, they stung when they alighted. The officer yelled several words which the men had never noticed in his vocabulary before. Groping frantically for his hat, which, as often happens in a crisis, was nowhere to be found, he overturned the brazier, the toast-rack,and several canteens of tea, scalding the feet of a number of men who were seated on the firestep.... The soldiers were up in an instant and raced off along the trench. Rifles, equipment and ammunition were flung down on the floor and trampled into the clay and rubble.
At this point, Spudhole was seized with a happy thought. A newspaper had fallen on the fire and was bursting into flame. Spudhole, seizing the lighted paper, held it close to his face and kept the wasps away for a moment.
"But wot is the good of it," he grumbled as the flames died down. "I'm getting stung be'ind and burned in front. I'm off!" and, throwing the paper down, he fled.
Struggling, shoving and waving their arms about, the men hustled along the narrow alley. Two soldiers scrambled up over the top out into the open, but, being seen by the enemy, a brisk rifle fire was opened on them and they fled back into their wasp-infested shelter again.
At this point Sergeant Snogger was heard. Seeing two men rushing out into the open field waving their arms over their heads, he stared at them open-mouthed and rubbed his eyes with both hands. A hidden sniper had been potting at the parapet for days!... The action wasnot in keeping with trench discipline; in fact if the men did not return immediately they'd "be damned unlucky!"
"Back! Ye fools, come back!" he yelled. "Wot the blazes—was that!"
The wasp swept past his face like a spent bullet, swung back again and stung him on the forehead. A second caught him on the neck, a third on the arm. He turned and ran.
For Flanagan, he was unlucky enough to have his puttees off when the stampede started, and in a few moments a wasp had got up the leg of his trousers. It stung him half-a-dozen times before he squashed it to pulp....
What happened when the Irish rushed into a Highland regiment on the right must be left to the reader's imagination. Never before had the Gael been so conscious of the nakedness of his knees. He gave vent to his wrath in vehement words and it was found difficult to ascertain whether his anger was directed against the wasps or the men who were responsible for their coming.
Was it at the hundredth traverse or the thousandth that the effectives of the besetting force lost an appreciable amount of intensity? That was a matter for conjecture, but this alone isknown. A jar of marmalade which got overthrown in a bay enticed the insects, and many stopped to feast on the disbanded treasure. But a few followed with unabated ardour; these were counter-attacked and destroyed, and afterwards the soldiers bombed the "Bay of the Broken Jar" with a certain amount of success.
The Irish strode back defiant and alert, ready for anything. But the wasps gave no further trouble; here and there one or two were seen poised in air over a line of sandbags, but these fled at the approach of the men.
The dug-out in which they had originally entrenched was left in complete seclusion for the rest of the day, and at night Bowdy and his two mates approached the place in slow, methodical order. They found the wasps' nest in a corner of the wall and poured two mess-tins of boiling water on it. A third mess-tin remained but it was not needed.
"We'll 'ave a drop of char now," said Bubb. "The evenin's gettin' cold now and we want somefing 'ot."
"Righto!" said Bowdy. "I'll light a fire in here now that the wasps are gone."
He lit a fire, boiled the water and made the tea. Outside a sniper was potting at the roofof the dug-out. He had been sniping all day, from where, none could determine.
"Wonder what he's doing it for," Bowdy asked as he sat down and reached for the mess-tin which was bubbling merrily on the brazier. "He'll never pot one of us."
Even as he touched the mess-tin a bullet ricochetted off the parapet outside, hissed into the dug-out and pierced the bottom of the mess-tin. The tea poured out and extinguished the fire.
"Well, that's past a joke," Bowdy muttered. "Blow me blind if I'm not going out to-night to let daylight through that boundering Boche."
CHAPTER XIVTHE SNIPER
I'll teach you, you bounder, to snipe,For I'm nosing around,With my face to the ground,And a round in the breach of my hipe.You'd best keep a blurry look-out,For there's no end of trouble about—With a round in the breach,I am going to teachYou, you impudent sniper, to snipe.(From "The Deadly Breach.")
I'll teach you, you bounder, to snipe,For I'm nosing around,With my face to the ground,And a round in the breach of my hipe.You'd best keep a blurry look-out,For there's no end of trouble about—With a round in the breach,I am going to teachYou, you impudent sniper, to snipe.
(From "The Deadly Breach.")
Having blackened his face with a burnt cork, Bowdy Benners fixed his sword on his rifle and clambered over the parapet into No Man's Land. The hour was midnight; the darkness had settled on the firing line and the starshells were rioting in the skies. Although the day had been hot and bright the sky was now covered with clouds, not a star was visible and objects quite near at hand could scarcely be distinguished. The air was warm and still and not a blade of grass was moving. The only sound which Bowdy Benners could hear was the dull rustle of his own clothes as he crawled acrossthe level ground on all fours making his way towards the German lines.
Bowdy was out on a great project, an adventure after his own heart. For many days the German had been potting at Cologne sector, but none had been able to locate the position of the sniper. One thing, however, was evident: he was stationed somewhere in No Man's Land. The German trenches were hidden behind a hillock and the English trenches were immune from observation from that quarter.
Bowdy crawled carefully forward, his eyes alert and his ears strained for any untoward sound. Now and again a flash would light up the levels in front and he could hear a bullet sing past his ears towards the sector which he had just left. But the flash was deceptive and lights were very misleading in the darkness. The sniper took care to fire only when a starshell held the sky above him. In this way, the flash of the rifle, merging as it did into the flare of the starshell, could hardly lay claim to a separate existence.
"I'm not going to find him," muttered Bowdy Benners under his breath. "It's like looking for a needle in.... Blimey! That was a near go."
A bullet swept past Bowdy's head with such a vicious hiss that he put up his hand to feel if it had touched him. But he was unharmed.
"Blow me blind!" he muttered, and crawled forward hurriedly. "Blow me stone blind if that wasn't a near go. The bounder can't see me," he thought. "I haven't blackened my face for nothing."
He continued crawling stealthily on his stomach, dragging his rifle after him. Every movement was made softly, but to Benners the sound of his trousers rubbing on the grass seemed to carry out as far as the German trenches. Now and again, as he lay still and stared at the level in front, he thought he could discern something moving. Then he would remain absolutely motionless for a few minutes, listening and watching. But all was quiet; nothing to be heard save the wind rustling and a stray mouse running through a little clump of bracken ahead.
The sniper had become very quiet now; his rifle had not spoken for several minutes.
"He'll be having a kip," Bowdy thought, and got to his feet.
The long crawl had made his knees sore and his feet felt numb. Standing upright, he placed his rifle between his knees and stretched his arms.The light of the last starshell had died away, the circle of horizon had grown smaller and in the near distance objects stood out weirdly silhouetted with a blurred, though definite outline. It was then that several starshells went up together and the open was lit with the brilliance of day. In the glaring light Benners saw the sniper. He was standing barely a dozen yards away, his hand resting on his rifle. Benners could see that he had his sword fixed and the steel shone brightly.
"I'll make him a prisoner," Benners said in a loud voice, and made at the man as a hawk swoops on a lark.
The sniper heard Benners approach, turned his eyes and sprang up to a position of defence.
"Has he a round in the breech?" Benners asked himself. "Shall I fire at him or not?"
Even as he approached, Bowdy saw the German raise his rifle to his shoulder and a sharp report rang out. Bowdy blinked at the flash, but the bullet went wide.
"I'll settle you," he said in a loud voice, and, rushing up, he thrust his bayonet forward. The sniper parried it and for a moment there was a brisk duel, then Bowdy saw an opening for a left point, a favourite of his, which had never failed. Now, however, it did not work. The sniperstepped to the right; by a deft move brought his own bayonet point downwards to the ground and Bowdy tripped across it in the rush forward and went to earth.
"Blow me blind!" muttered Bowdy as he fell, and made a wild effort to secure his own rifle which had slipped out of his hands. But in this he was unsuccessful; the darkness had fallen and the weapon had disappeared. No doubt it was lying quite near, but there was little time at Bowdy's command to scrutinise the field around him.
One hope, however, remained. As Bowdy fell his legs had managed to close around the German's rifle and the barrel of the weapon was held in a vice-like grip. Bowdy was the strongest man in the regiment; he was a grand man on the march, and on the mat a wrestler second to none. On march or mat he had no equal. He held the rifle taut for a moment, and in war the moment is often of supreme importance. As the German endeavoured to pull the bayonet clear, Bowdy let go his hold, got to his feet and gripped the man by the shoulders. For a second both wrestled fiercely and as they panted and strained the weapon dropped to the ground. Neither bent to lift it. A starshell rose into the heavens and theEnglishman had a clear view of the sniper. He could see that he was deep-chested, unshapely, bearded....
He glared at Benners with malignant eyes, and his lips twisted into a snarl that almost reached his heavy brows. "You haf no chance with me," he grunted. "I am wrestler on English music halls." Then, with a yell, he struck out with both fists for Benners' head, and Bowdy, wise with the wisdom born of a thousand aching contests, ducked and dodged, just in time to evade the blow to the head and the kick which the sniper aimed for his stomach. Followed a mad tussle of flying fists and swiftly moving bodies. Then came an instant's lull, and the fighters clutched one another in a tense embrace; Benners' hand resting on the sniper's face, the sniper's fist on Benners' stomach.
Breaking from the clinch, Benners stepped backwards only to return again with a heavy left-handed blow which took his opponent full on the jowl; the German never winced.
"A damned professional wrestler!" muttered Benners and instinctively he knew that he had met a man who would take any amount of beating.
Benners crouched, his left foot a trifle advanced;his head drawn down well between his shoulders and shielded by one of his hands. The other hand covered his stomach. The sniper paused irresolute for a moment, then, with tiger-like fury, he swung into his man, striking out rapidly with both fists. Guarding his body carefully, Benners waited, ready for an opening, and when he saw his way he drove heavily with both hands for the sniper's mouth. The two blows went home; the German stepped back several paces, his mouth dripping with blood. Both had now forgotten about their bayonets.... Rage took possession of the sniper, a terrible, murderous rage, and he was upon Benners, striking out with his knees, fists and boots. Benners crouched, holding his body compactly together and covered his face and stomach with his hands. For two minutes he struggled to endure. His enemy was well-nigh resistless, and all the rage and cunning of the tiger were loose in the man. Benners went to the ground and was twice kicked as he curled over in an endeavour to rise, but seizing a chance he gripped his opponent's ankle, and brought him heavily to the ground.
They fastened on to one another as they lay and still in embrace they got to their feet. As they stood Bowdy got his hand free and hit thesniper across the mouth. As if by mutual consent they broke apart and the sniper devoted the fraction of a second to wipe his mouth. Then he rushed in again and Benners backed round to save himself from a furious onslaught of stinging blows. The German, vital and overwhelming, seemed to be in his element. All the essence of passion, hate and elemental madness found expression in this onslaught. Thrice a twelve yard circle of ground was covered, Bowdy fighting gamely but ever giving backwards. His body and face were now covered with blood; and his hands went up, not in battle, but almost in mute protest against a crushing fatalism. The terrible charges of the sniper, the lightning thrusts of the man's fists were wearing Bowdy down. Suddenly the German, over-confident, struck out for his opponent's head, leaving his stomach unguarded, and Bowdy saw his chance and took it. A heavy swing of his left fist landed on the space between the ribs that fork outwards from the breastbone, and the sniper curled up and dropped like a wet rag to the ground. Bowdy fell beside him and the two men lay together, quiet as sleeping children.
Bowdy turned over on his back and breathed deeply for a space, then stumbled to his feet.
"I wish I had my bayonet," he muttered, rubbing his hand over his brow. "It's a fight between two of us, a fight to death.... By God! he can fight, too. But no wonder; he's a wrestler. And I feel done up."
Bowdy felt very weary. His head was spinning and he had great difficulty in standing upright. He had one consolation, however. The sniper was in as bad a state as he was. He looked down with vague eyes at the man and saw that he was recovering from his blow and the fighting devil was still strong within him. Groping his way to his feet, the sniper assumed an attitude of defence.
"Come on!" said Bowdy in an energetic tone. "I have no time to waste and I cannot strike ye when ye're sickly like that. Man! Ye should be ashamed of yerself. Fighter indeed!"
"English pig-dog" grunted the sniper and sweltering into a tornado of incoherent threats which the Englishman could not understand, he swept Bowdy round in a ring and landed lightning blows several times in quick succession. All the man's enormous vitality seemed to have been rekindled, a million beasts of prey were loose in his body. Benners, struggling fiercely in an endeavour to live through the tempest of hisenemy's wrath, groped for a clinch and swept into its embrace. Here he was safe for a moment and hoped that the German would consume his strength. In this anticipated waste of the opponent's strength lay Benners' hope of success. Leaning his chin on the German's shoulder he had a moment to look round.
Unreality and ghostliness lay over No Man's Land and an uncanny atmosphere settled on the levels. Away down by Loos a bombardment had commenced and the red flashes of the guns lit up the restless salient. Near at hand could be seen a barbed wire entanglement, probably the enemy's.
Benners saw the flashes of the shells and asked himself what the time was. He felt that he had been fighting for hours and it appeared to him that he could never get the business to an end. The sniper seemed stronger than ever now; the man was surging with life and mad with hatred. He was a fiend, incarnate, terrible. Bowdy wondered vaguely as he snuggled his head over the sniper's shoulders if the man was tired, if he felt that the contest had lasted long enough.
As in answer to the unspoken thought, the German ducked and caught his man by the ankles and tried to raise him to his shoulders.Vaguely it drifted into Benners' mind that the German intended to throw him head foremost into the wires and he shuddered slightly and bent to resist the efforts which his opponent made to grip him.
For fully ten minutes both men swayed unsteadily as Benners disputed every inch of the ground on the way towards the entanglement. The sniper was irresistible, and step by step he urged his man nearer and nearer to the horrible barbs. Bowdy now knew what the man's intentions were and he summoned up all his strength. The blood from a gashed eyebrow was blinding him, but instinctively he did his utmost to press forward in an opposite way to that by which the sniper was taking him. Clutching and straining, he resisted gamely until suddenly he felt himself lifted clean from the ground and resting on the German's shoulders. There was a hurried rush towards the wires, the sniper holding on with all his strength and Bowdy struggling to break free. One of his hands stretched over the German's shoulders and Bowdy closed his fist and began to thump the man on the back. With a yell of rage, the sniper bent down, then straightened his back quickly and flung Bowdy from him. But he had miscalculated his throw and Bowdy, landingon his feet, had escaped from the danger that threatened him. But only for a moment. His man was upon him again and the Englishman was flung with a crash into the barbed contraption of war. Bowdy was up in a flash; his clothes torn and his body aching, and he was upon the sniper striking out fiercely for his stomach, landing four lightning blows. His opponent went down, falling like a log, and lay still.
Benners, maimed, sore and bleeding, fixed an imperturbable stare on a rising starshell and the stare slowly resolved itself into a weary smile. For fully two minutes he stood thus, silent, with one eye (the other had been bunged up) fixed on the scene in front, the barbed wire entanglements, and the enemy's trench which showed clearly, barely eighty yards away.
"God, it was a fight!" he muttered. "A damned hard fight. I suppose I must have a look around for my bayonet now. And a professional wrestler too."
At that moment half a dozen dark forms took shape on Bowdy's right. An enemy patrol probably! Bowdy lay down quietly, rubbed his eyes and listened. Nothing could be seen now and nothing could be heard save the deep breathing of the sniper. "I hope he doesn't come to andkick up a row," said Bowdy in a whisper. "I can't fight a dozen with my fists; one was enough."
Something rustled on the ground near him and a head appeared rising over the dark grass. Then a second head came into view and a third. The men were crawling towards Bowdy and were now very near.
Then a voice spoke in a low whisper.
"Blimey!" it said; "there's nuffink 'ere. I think there's the German wires."
"That you, Spudhole?" Benners whispered.
"Oo's that?" came the answer. "You, Bowdy?"
"That's right," said Benners, getting to his feet. "Don't make a noise. Where are you coming to?"
"We're looking for your body," said Spudhole, standing upright. "Gawd! We thought ye wor dead. Wot 'ave ye been doin'?"
"I've been fighting," said Bowdy. "Had a bit of a row with this man lying here."
"'E looks as if 'e's been in the wars," said Snogger, who was leading the search party. "By Gawd, ye 'ave been knockin' 'im about.... I suppose we'll 'ave to carry 'im back."
"Do whatever you like with him," said Bowdy."I'll not be able to help. It'll be as much as I can do to carry myself in."
The party got back to the trench an hour later. The sniper was searched and in his pockets was found in addition to other things, his own photograph taken when he had appeared on the English music halls as a professional wrestler.
He was carried down to the dressing-station on a stretcher; Bowdy Benners walked down, and both men were treated by the same M.O.
A month later Bowdy got a clasp to his D.C.M.
CHAPTER XVTATERS AND VASELINE