"Where on earth are you going to now?" I asked with a gasp.
"I'm going to try and get that machine gun."
I heard and saw nothing of him until daylight, when he brushed past me.
"Did you get the gun, Bill?"
"I didn't get the gun," he said with a grim smile, but—pointing to his bayonet blade—"there's the gunner." Sure enough it was stained a deep red.
Poor Bill! he was always taking chances of that kind and he always got away with them.
During this time we fed sumptuously as we were bagging hares every day, while potatoes, leeks, onions, etc., were still in good condition in parts of the field.
On our last night in this billet I came almost to earning the D.C.M. (distinguished conduct medal). I was on sentry the two hours after midnight. One has to be very wide awake so near the line, and every little thing that looks in any way suspicious must be investigated. The night was quiet in our own lines, but away to the left a tremendous cannonade and rifle firing was going on. An occasional German souvenir would whine above my head. Things that look very simple and plain at two o'clock in the afternoon, when the sun is shining, have a very different appearance at two o'clock in the morning, on the front line. At the end of my beat was a huge yew bush, giving the place a somber, weird effect. As I was turning my back on the bush during one of my rounds, every single hair of my closely cropped skull rose on end, while my scalp literally crawled, as a rustling noise came from the bush. My first instinct was to start for the south of France, as quickly as my legs could take me, but reason and duty came to my rescue. Still terrified, a blind fury took possession of me at the thing that scared me. Holding my rifle and bayonet at the "ready," I ran into the bush at the top of my speed and lunged with all my might into its depth, being brought up suddenly and sharply by a forked branch under my chin.
The result of my charge was a melancholy meow, and I cursed softly, but with infinite relief at the cause of my panic. Thinking the cat might be a good companion, I made overtures by softly calling to her, and nothing loath she came, and when dawn broke a small figure in khaki might have been seen strolling slowly up and down the road, with a huge black cat alternately dodging between his legs and rubbing her sleek hide against his muddy puttees.
Our next move was to the town of the best town we had yet "honored" with our presence. We reached here in the dead of night and awoke the sleeping inhabitants by lustily informing them that, "Here We Are Again." Another classic of the Canadian Division went echoing over the place, a well-known American hymn—"Hail, Hail, the Gang's All Here." Twenty-four hours had not passed before the long-suffering citizens were only too well aware that the gang was all there.
It was while we were stopping at the city of E—— on one of our rest billets that I first began my training as a company runner. These runners were formed after Neuve Chapelle. In that engagement disastrous results followed the cutting of all telephone communication, and it was suggested that men be trained to run with messages when other means could not be used. Being small, though not slight, and active, I was chosen for this duty and my training began. In such condition were we that in two weeks' time I could carry forty pounds comfortably at a jog trot for a distance of five miles.
Of the utmost importance was the carrying and delivering of messages correctly. An amusing instance of the difficulty of doing this occurred while being trained. We were running at relays and we would do our work exactly as it would be done in the heat of battle, and the first man was given the message, "To O.C. Seventh Battalion: Am held up by barbed wire entanglements; send reinforcements to my right." When the message was delivered by the seventh and last man of the relay, the officer receiving it got the following astounding information, "Am surrounded by wild Italians; lend me three- and fourpence till tonight."
A period of intense training followed, chiefly instruction in trench making, including attacking and defending, and for us runners a grueling spell of practice in carrying messages and endurance work.
At this place we would dash along the canal bank in our early morning's training, exchanging greetings in execrable French with the owners of the barges that floated lazily down the stream. Next, we would meet a bunch of Sikhs, who would gravely extend greetings in their dignified manner. Farther along a group of Hindoo cavalrymen, riding their horses with superb grace, would smile at us, informing us in what English they knew that they would sooner ride than run, with which we agreed. Huge Pathans, dwarfing us by their tremendous height, would gaze in grave wonder at these foolish Feringhees.
After our run we would strip and, shouting with health and laughter, hurl ourselves into the icy waters of the canal, much to the wonder of the ladies of the barges, who gazed unabashed at our naked beauty.
With these splendid open-air exercises we were continually undergoing, it is little wonder that the resources of the commissariat were at times sadly taxed to meet the voracious demands of our appetites.
After breakfast the runners would fall in, in front of the battalion, for the purpose of carrying messages backwards and forwards—all done with the idea of still further improving the discipline necessary for that most important work, which must be done without any errors as there is no room for excuses of any kind.
MOVING A GUN INTO POSITION.MOVING A GUN INTO POSITION.
Work of this kind has to be done by man power, no other being available so near the front. The men are British Tommies, and the gun is a heavy fieldpiece.
To many people the work of a runner is an unknown quantity but its tremendous importance is told by Neuve Chapelle. On March 10, 1915, the advance there and the fearful casualties to the British forces warned everyone of the nature of the German defenses. It was our first advance since November, 1914, but the ground gained wasn't worth the price paid. One of the causes of the premature holding up of the attacking troops was the failure of reinforcements to be hurled in at the proper time; this, in turn, was due to the fact that all telephonic communication had been cut off, and that although men were sent on foot with messages, it was found, if they arrived at their destination at all, that they bungled the message unless it were a written one. Since that time the staff has been thoroughly awake to the dire need of having properly trained runners who can endure the utmost strain for such duties.
Other regiments of the British Army were billeted here, and the endless stream of traffic was a sight to see. Infantry would swing through the streets—short thickset Tommies, tall and dignified Sikhs, gigantic Pathans, short, stocky Gurkhas, lithe Canucks, all making a wondrously interesting procession. Transports, limbers and ambulances rattled and roared unceasingly over the cobbles.
Many interesting scraps took place between various champions of regimental traditions. Here a burly Highlander and an English cavalryman exchanged fisticuffs for a minute, until a guard turned out and seized the unruly ones.
One enterprising Frenchman hung out a sign bearing the magic legend, "Bass in bottle—Guinness' Stout," and in half an hour theestaminetwas jammed with husky humanity. In less than no time the nectar was exhausted, but not the soldierly thirst, and the disappointed ones became so unruly that the services of the guard were again required. My good angel was with me that day, for I managed to possess myself of two full bottles of Guinness' and, keeping up the reputation of the battalion, it didn't cost me anything.
Being very much interested in the habits of the Indian troops I would often be found studying them at a respectful distance; their rigid laws of caste obliged me to keep somewhat apart from them. One day an unexpected opportunity of gratifying my curiosity came my way. Off duty for the afternoon I went for a stroll in the country and on turning a corner of the road I saw a big, tall Sikh gravely studying a tree by the roadside. He looked up as I approached, "Ram, ram, Sahib," said he. "Ram, ram, yourself," says I. It was all the English he knew and all the Indian I knew.
Seeing my jackknife at my side he managed to impress on me that he wanted to know if we used the jackknife for stabbing. By signs I replied that if necessary we would. Now, around the turban of every Sikh I had noticed a ring of steel, about six inches in diameter, and my curiosity in regard to it had never been satisfied; here, I thought, was the chance to find out. Still standing at a respectful distance, I pointed to his turban, turning my hand round in imitation of a ring, and I indicated I wanted to know its use. Showing his splendid teeth for a second in a smile of understanding, he took the ring with a curious motion from his turban, and spinning it around his hand for the fraction of a second, he hurled it at the tree. My eyes bulged with astonishment, for the ring sank for half its diameter into the hard bole of the tree. I went to examine it, but dared not touch it for fear of offending some tradition connected with the ring. I found that the ring was really a circular knife, the outside edge being very keen and sharp, then thickening away to the inside. It will be seen that the whirling motion, preparatory to throwing, imparts a spin to this peculiar weapon. A man's arm, leg or head will part company with the trunk if struck.
My Sikh friend smiled gravely, recovered his turban ring, bowed with grace, and with a "Salaam Sahib" turned with great dignity on his heel and stalked majestically away.
I also was mightily interested in the short, stocky Gurkhas, those wonderful troops from Nepal. These men, although small, are wonders of strength and endurance. Mountaineers and soldiers from childhood, their greatest joy is hand to hand combat. Perhaps a description of their favorite weapon, the terrible kukri, would be of interest. It is from fifteen to eighteen inches long, with a keen edge, tapering from a thickness at the back of about a quarter of an inch, to a razor-like edge. The handle or haft is of wood, bound tightly with copper wire, the distance between each band of wire being enough for a man's finger to snugly enclose itself around the handle. These little smiling men are equally adept at throwing or using the knife at close quarters.
It is useless for a man to try to escape by running, since before he has gone more than ten yards he is minus a head.
It was curious to watch them killing goats for their meat supply. The goat would be browsing comfortably, when something would flash through the air, and to the onlooker's amazement, a headless goat would stagger a few yards and then fall. Later on, these troops were removed to warmer fronts, for the bleak winters of northern France and Flanders proved disastrous to the Indian constitution.
To show the resourcefulness of the Canadian soldier, the following incident is an illustration: Big Bill Skerry, one of the boys named Walworth, and Big Bill Bradley were left on the other side of the canal from their billets. At eight o'clock in the evening the bridge was drawn up making it impossible to cross. The three worthies approached the bridge end at about 10 P.M. Alas for human weakness, they had contrived to soften the heart of a French lady and she had given them a liberal portion of cognac. They were by no means intoxicated, but sufficiently stimulated to make the night echo with their songs of gladness. Arriving at the bridge they were challenged by a sentry. The following conversation took place: From the sentry: "Halt, who are you?" "Go to hell," was the retort. "Well, I don't know about that," says the sentry, "but you're going in the clink, and you'll get hell from the Old Man." The reply was a splash as Skerry took a header into the icy waters of the canal. Like a flash Walworth and Bradley followed suit and the trio, fully dressed as they were, swam the canal. They almost ran from the frying pan into the fire, for they could not resist the temptation to jeer the sentry from the other side of the canal. They had apparently forgotten that another guard was stationed at the other bridge end. However, they melted into the night, stepping over our bodies as they entered the factory where we were sleeping, to receive a heartfelt cursing from those who were subjected to a shower from their dripping clothes.
Every day punctually at 6 P.M. the massed Kiltie Band would parade in front of the old Hotel De Ville or town hall. It was a curious sight. The stalwart Highlanders gazing neither to right nor left, swaggering up and down on the old cobbled square, Tommies, Canucks, Frenchmen, Gurkhas, Sikhs, Pathans and French Colonial troops would gather round and a babel of tongues would soar skywards. Just at the minute of six all would be hushed and a silence uncanny would hang over the place. The "Retreat" would sound, and the Highlanders would start their tatoo.
I have mentioned, I believe, the irritating parasites who so lovingly crowd in the seams of a man's shirt. Even these pests, which are an involuntary growth born of the natural heat of the body and accumulated moisture, become more or less endurable, and the inevitable fatalism of the soldier shows even in the matter of body lice.
Libby, Morgan, Fitzpatrick and Bill Skerry were holding a heated argument as to the relationship of the Canadian louse to its Flanders' prototype, and the discussion, which was held in the midst of a hunting expedition, took the turn that each was ready to back with money the assertion that the particular brand of louse with which he was associated day and night was superior in color, size, and ferocity to any that the others possessed.
"How about this gent?" says Morgan, exhibiting a particularly husky specimen that he had captured in the seam of his shirt. Morgan, as I have said, was dark in complexion almost to swarthiness.
"That dark streak down its back," chimes in Libby, "comes from boring through your damned black skin."
"Aw, hell," replied Morgan, "if their color is made by what they eat, then yours must be the color of a checker-board."
This was an allusion to Libby's partially gray hair.
"No, they ain't," said the imperturbable Libby, bringing out a specimen fully the equal of Morgan's, and actually lighter in color.
Morgan gazed thoughtfully down on his capture and, pushing his cap back on his head and speaking slowly, addressed it:
"You blankety-blank, I believe that it was you that browsed on the middle of my spine the last time I did sentry at headquarters in Marching Order. I hate like hell to do it, for you have grown dear to me, and your color I know would delight the eye of a blinkin' artist, yet I can't allow you to divert me from my duty so as to endanger the efficiency of the forces of His Majesty, King George, of Great Britain and Ireland and the Dominions beyond the seas, and you must pay the penalty."
Snap! and it went the way of all flesh and the chase was resumed.
A WINTERLY MORNING. ~ WRITING TO THE OLD FOLKS AT HOME.A WINTERLY MORNING.WRITING TO THE OLD FOLKS AT HOME.
Although we had trained as infantry, most of us wore the riding pants or Bedford cords of a cavalry battalion. Being now a runner I appealed, as did the other runners, for something not so tight around the knees. We were given infantry slacks which allowed freer motion of the limbs. Our orders were to burn vermin-infested clothing, and although I was sure I had rid myself of mine, I decided, when I changed my clothes in the billet, to burn my riding pants.
Just as I was about to throw them into the fire a diminutive French gamin asked me to give him the pants. "All right, son," says I, handing him the garment. The boy was wise in his generation. Turning them inside out he examined the seams, and, something arousing his suspicion, he hurled them into the fire as if something had bitten him. "No, no, Monsieur," says he, "tres beaucoup itchy coo" shrugging his shoulders and scratching himself as he turned his back on the pants. The shrug, the scratch and the gesture was inimitable and done as only French expressiveness can render it.
One of the finest regiments of French's "Contemptible Little Army" was the "Notts and Derbys" (Nottingham and Derbyshire). They covered themselves with glory in the Great Retreat. Several titles have been conferred upon them by popular affection, such as "The Sherwood Foresters," "The Robin Hoods," etc. Coming as they do from the ancient haunts of Robin Hood and his merry band, their regimental crests and badges represent the Archers of Sherwood.
One day, while on the march, we met the Robin Hoods, and as the two regiments passed each other a storm of good-natured chaff flew back and forth, and one of the Robin Hoods, noting by our shoulder badges that we were a cavalry battalion, yelled in his broad Midland accent, '"Ello, you blokes, wot ha' ye done wi' yer bloody 'osses?" Back came the answer like a flash, "We packed 'em away with your blankety-blank bows and arrows years ago."
After a stay of a week at E—— we again got orders to move, eventually arriving in the little town of Steenvoorde. We sported here for a few days at cricket, football, and baseball.
I acquired in this burg a repugnance for restaurant coffee that I have not yet been able to overcome. The sergeants of my platoon were in the habit of consulting together directly after duty at the house of a good old dame who was renowned for her excellentcafe au lait, and the non-coms. seldom missed an opportunity of partaking.
On one occasion when they were there, seeing me pass the window, they hailed me to come in and join them. As I was broke at the time, I hastened to accept the invitation.
"Want a good cup of coffee, son," said Campbell.
"Thanks, I will."
Campbell pointed to the cup and I drained it down.
"Have another, Shorty," said Britton.
"Don't mind," says I.
"Hop to it, son," and another went the same route.
They could hold themselves no longer and roared with laughter. I was at a loss to understand their mirth, and happening to glance at the old lady, a light broke in upon me. The poor lady had one very bad eye from which tears, copious tears, dripped with sickening regularity, and as she busied herself around the coffee cups, the tears would drop now and again into the cups.
In spite of my disgust, I couldn't help joining in the laugh, although I had an almost ungovernable desire to vomit. The secret of it all was that they themselves had been up against the same dose and they wanted someone else to share with them the burden of the coffee and tears.
Sometimes on the march, should I happen to be grouchy about anything, Campbell, with his winning smile, would say, "Never mind, son, it won't be long before we'll be back having a good cup of coffee." And then the memory of that treat would dispel my grouch.
One of our boys, McBean, had an instinctive horror of rats; it was a marked fear that he could not overcome. Returning from parade one day, Mc was lying on the straw in the barn, reading a letter, with the thatched roof of the barn directly at the back of his head. His cap was lying beside him and suddenly, a huge rat scuttled past his head. He sprang to his feet with a deafening shout of terror. The rat took refuge in the thatch of the roof. Fixing his bayonet to his rifle, while one of the boys sounded "Charge," Mc lunged ferociously into the thatch. We never imagined he would get the creature, but to our astonishment, at about the third lunge, he drew back the bayonet, with the rat kicking its last kick on the bayonet's point.
Soon after this Mc had a splendid opportunity of demonstrating his ability to stick his needle (as the bayonet was termed) into the bodies of our German foes and he ably exemplified his skill.
An inspection of the officers and non-commissioned officers by General Smith-Dorrien and a general inspection of the whole division by the general officer ended our stay at Steenvoorde, and one morning we were packed aboard London omnibuses, with the advertisements still upon them asserting the superiority of Pears' Soap to any other soap on the market, and rode for some distance, finally being dumped at a small hamlet where the Royal Welsh Fusileers were resting. These good fellows showed us the greatest hospitality, sharing their rations and making us big draughts of the inevitable, but none the less welcome tea.
Our battalion football team played the Welshmen, winning by the odd goal in three.
With mutual expressions of good will, we parted from the Royal Welsh, resuming our journey on foot.
One of our diversions from the horrors of war here was unique, to say the least. We bought up every fighting rooster in the neighborhood from the natives and made arrangements to have an exhibition of cockfighting worthy a Roman celebration. We backed B Company's bird to the limit of our resources as our bird was selected by a lad who was an expert on the game and a past-master on all its points. So we felt perfect confidence in his judgment, and our faith was not disappointed.
A proper cockpit was made in an orchard and the reserved seats were in apple trees and brought two francs apiece per man. Every reserved seat in every tree was occupied; there wasn't room for half the patrons. I lost mine before the performance was over through the collapse of the blooming tree and every man on that tree lost the seat that he had bought and paid for, but, owing to my convenient size, I was able to get a good view of the balance of the show seated on Big Bill Skerry's shoulders.
To the huge delight of us all, B Company's bird emerged a dilapidated but triumphant winner from all its contests, coming out with final honors. In addition to the rooster fight there were several differences of opinion between connoisseurs as to the points involved in the game of cockfighting, which finally resulted in heated fisticuffs and black eyes, and altogether we easily had our two francs' worth.
At last we entered the historic town of Ypres. Our first impression was the flash of bursting shells over a distant corner of the town. At this time Ypres, although showing traces of recent bombardment, was in the main intact and we were very much interested in the fine buildings there. The famous Cloth Hall was in good condition, as was the splendid church; however, some fine stone buildings lay in ruins.
An amusing incident might here be told of the "lack of humor" of the Britisher: Two battalions were passing each other in the dead of night, two companies of one battalion carrying with them wooden crosses to be placed at the heads of the graves of some of the lads who had fallen the day before and who were to be buried at the back of the line. The British Regiment could not see the Colonials, and vice versa; but an enterprising Cockney determined to identify the regiment. Stealing away from his ranks, he sidled across, like a good soldier, stooping to get a better skyline, and just at that moment a series of bursting flares from up the line lit up the square for a second, but it was long enough for the keen-sighted Tommy to see who the other battalion was and what they were carrying. In a half-whispered, half-hushed shout he turned to his comrades ejaculating, "Well, strike me pink, mates, if those blokes ain't carrying their own bloomin' tombstones."
As we were passing through the square it was almost dark and we were startled to hear a yell from the other side, "We should worry!" It was the Princess Pats. The usual order for comparative silence was given, and we knew we were close to business again.
WHAT IS LEFT OF YPRES CATHEDRAL.WHAT IS LEFT OF YPRES CATHEDRAL.
Ypres Cathedral was considered one of the most beautiful in Europe. It is now a mass of debris with here and there a spire standing.
Searchlights were playing everywhere, artillery roared, and bursts of rapid fire told us we had arrived at the place where "the Allemands are very truculent," as General Smith-Dorrien put it. It was now the turn of the other companies for fatigue work and they were placed in the village about half a mile from the front ditch. Our platoon took up dugouts under the hedge. So cunningly were these made that a person walking on the other side of the road would hardly see them, even in the daytime. They had been occupied by French troops and, however valiant our Allies are, they are far from being as clean as the British soldiers, and the first thing we did was to go to work to make these dugouts a little less offensive to our nostrils. These holes of ours were only two feet six inches high, just enough room to turn, and when we wished to sleep, the first man was obliged to crawl in and the rest follow on. It reminds me of the family who lived in one room and slept in one bed so closely packed in that when one wanted to turn there was no way of turning unless all the others did.
We made ourselves comfortable as far as circumstances would permit and composed ourselves to sleep.
Morning came and we had a look round. Fritz was exchanging compliments with a battery of French seventy-fives and several shells whistled most uncomfortably through the poplar trees on each side of the road. I, for one, considered the dugouts the best place to observe shell fire. The rest of the boys shared my opinion and we lay till the gunners had retired todejeuner(breakfast).
Then we emerged like human rats and breakfasted on hot bacon, bread and coffee. After washing myself thoroughly in a shell crater, I felt at peace with all the world, even the Germans, and having nothing much to do, Morgan and I took a stroll to see the country. In front of us, on the other side of the road was a row of French graves, and while we were here we kept them in first-class condition. A field of "volunteer" wheat waved in the breeze and a shell of a house surrounded by apple and pear trees in full bloom, stood at the corner. It must have been a lovely place before this conflict of hell swept over it.
It may perhaps seem strange that we should exercise so much care within the precincts of our own lines, but there were two reasons for it: The first one was that the ramifications of the German spy system extended to our own ranks and there was always a possibility that a man in khaki, whom you would take for a fellow soldier and pass with a nod, would put a bullet through your head the moment your back was turned. That element of German espionage, strange and incredible as it may sound, is something with which the military authorities have constantly to contend.
The other reason for exercising extreme care is that many poor people, half demented by the horrors they have witnessed and the indignities and wrongs they have been subjected to, secrete themselves in all kinds of places, and they do not wait to see who approaches, but will shoot or stab at sight. I saw a man from the Worcesters shot dead by a poor demented woman in this condition in Ypres.
Away to our left was the village of L—— absolutely deserted. Being curious, we grabbed our rifles and searched the village. It was a big place, but was shelled out of all shape. We ran upon occasional decomposing bodies of Germans, English, women, dogs and fowl. It gave one the most eerie feeling to see this place. In fancy we could feel the silence that brooded over it. Utter desolation everywhere. The sound of a bit of falling plaster, or the slightest rustle, would send us flying to the nearest cover to wait with rifles ready, like Mr. Micawber, "For something to turn up."
Here Morgan was surprised into letting his affection for me show through. Every fancied danger, and he would instinctively place himself in front of me, and when we flew for cover he unconsciously took up the most exposed position. My chum's solicitude for my well-being has always seemed, to me at least, unexplainable, yet such was the fact.
We returned from the village, making a detour of a few hundred yards in front of the road. The land around was shelled everywhere, each few yards showing a hole, some big enough to engulf a house. It spoke volumes for the fighting that had taken place in this now historic spot. It was here that the Guards, Lincolns and other famous regiments smashed up the Prussian Guards in the first battle of Ypres. In places there were heads, hands and feet sticking out of the ground. In one old trench laid fully sixty dead Boches half exhumed. Broken rifles, ammunition, equipment, broken machine guns of every kind lay about. It was here that the Canadians were to make their grand debut into the history of the war.
The day was beautiful, the larks singing away as if nothing was wrong with the world, and Morgan, feeling the influence of the day upon him, apparently forgot the war and raised his voice in song—a new phase of his character—and hymns and songs by the dozen poured from his throat.
That night rumors began to circulate that Fritz intended mischief, and the roaring of a trench mortar and burst of rapid fire was the signal for pandemonium to begin. From end to end of the line it was taken up, and we began to think something was really happening. A sergeant came along shouting my name. Finding me he rushed me to the officers; a staff officer was talking and they were deeply absorbed. I immediately learned that the rumors were not unfounded.
I was dispatched to headquarters with a written message. Captain Hopkins gave me my instructions. "I have chosen you because you keep the pace up longer than the rest." This compliment deeply pleased me. "Go to headquarters as quickly as your legs will carry you, report immediately you get there and place yourself under the orders of Sergeant C——."
The words were barely out of his mouth when I was out of the cellar, and down that gloomy road I scudded, a queer mixture of terror and elation—terror because of what might happen to me, and elation in the satisfaction of doing my duty. Hard as I traveled I was breathing with perfect ease when I arrived at headquarters and reported. I was told to lie down as it might be hours before I would again have a chance to rest. It was impossible to sleep as file after file of bombers and reinforcements piled into the different buildings. I found out that the Germans were expected to attack the French that night on the left of the salient, some hundred yards or so from our position.
The signal, if the Huns attacked the French, was to be three red flares flying up in rapid succession. Our Intelligence Department was not asleep; the attack was expected at three o'clock and promptly on the minute it began. The French held easily and we were not needed.
Next morning I was sent back to my platoon and nothing very exciting happened except the sharp shelling by Fritz of our position until about ten o'clock, when a thing new to our experience came over. The noise was appalling. It was the commencement of the awful bombardment of Ypres.
That night we relieved the Tenth Battalion and took over the front line. Right from the beginning casualties piled up; the shell fire was terrific. In the lulls of the bombardment we dug frantically to consolidate our flimsy defenses. Barbed wire we had none; we simply threw out in front any obstructions we could find.
One amusing incident occurred here; I laugh at it now, although I did not at the time. The little dark man, Libby, was the hero. Libby translated means "Coolness and indifference to danger." A volume could be written of the events in which this man figured that for sheer daring almost surpassed belief. Libby and I were working on a traverse, which, as every one knows, is a cross-section of trench, and we were exerting every effort to fill bags of dirt and pile them up on this cross-section.
Buried underneath our trench were dead men planted as thickly as they could be laid. Digging down I turned up a boot containing a foot. "Stick it in," said Libby.
"Do you think I'm going to touch that thing with my hand?"
"What's the odds," said he, "but if you don't want to, shove it on the shovel with your foot."
I did so and he placed it in the sack, I holding the sack open, and the grisly thing touched my hand in passing. I shuddered, almost fainted, but never a sign of perturbation from Libby. Again he dug, this time bringing up the other foot, with the leg bone still sticking.
"Shove her in," he said.
Sweating with horror, yet fearing his scorn, I again rolled the ghastly thing on the shovel and it was then transferred to the sack. Placing the sack on the corner of the traverse, the little man coolly slapped it out with his spade as if he were handling common dirt. He then called to me for another sack, but I was lying on the parados, sick with horror and vomiting my insides out. So for the time being he had to continue his ghoulish work alone.
Morning came, finding us still at work and almost dead with fatigue. The bombardment continued without intermission all through that day and afternoon, and our casualties were growing with deadly regularity. At nightfall it died down in our vicinity, but never ceased at our back.
The object of this will be easily seen. They kept hammering the roads and the whole country at the rear of the front line, in order to keep reserves and supplies from getting to us, and they did the job so thoroughly that no two transports could get within miles.
Good old Bill Skerry and a man named Bradley, braved this bombardment on purpose to be with their own battalion when the attack, which we all knew was bound to come, took place.
THERE ARE LEISURE HOURS EVEN IN THE FRONT TRENCH. ~ CLEANING-UP TIME.THERE ARE LEISURE HOURS EVEN IN THE FRONT TRENCH.CLEANING-UP TIME.
They told us how the Germans had been using a horrible gas, that the French Algerian troops had evacuated their trenches, that the battalions in reserve at Ypres had been called out and had gallantly come up through that curtain of shell fire, taking up the French trenches and were holding on like limpets, although their losses were terrible.
The glorious charge of the Tenth and Sixteenth had taken place and is now eternal history for Canada. Just think of it, that thin line of men with no artillery to cover them, holding back the mass of the enemy ten times their number.
It now became an anxiety to us to know how they were faring, for if they were obliged to give way we would be entirely cut off. However, it was no use wasting time in idle questioning, so to work we went, frantically making our trenches as strong as possible.
Fritz again got busy with his weeping pill and our eyes were something to remember. The smart was terrible, while the awful odor got in our throats, making them raw and every breath a pain.
Still we worked steadily on, throwing over everything that might prove an obstacle in front of the trenches. Listening patrols were sent out and came back with the news that the Germans were unmistakably massing for an assault.
For myself, so nervous was I that I would have welcomed an attack to end the suspense. However, we were left in peace till daybreak, which came with a drizzling rain. This made conditions in the trench very bad indeed. But all we could do was to sit tight and wait.
When it was almost light the bombardment started again. It was one roaring, shrieking blast of destruction. Never can I describe the din, the awful rumble of the heavy-weight champions; the magnified thunderclap of their heavy shrapnel; the moaning of the Black Marias; the hiss and scream of their medium-size shells, and the hated whiz bangs, bursting over every section of the trench. And, remember, not a British gun to reply. Hell's gaping craters were open everywhere; now and again a shriek or an oath told that some lad had been stricken down; our parapets were crumbling like matchwood; but all we could do was to wait.
To the sorrow of every one of us, the gallant soul of Bill Skerry took its flight to his Maker about ten o'clock that morning. A small shell ricochetting from a stunted willow tree simply tore him to pieces, along with a little chap named Wellbelove, which was his family name, and a name he most aptly deserved.
Bill! one of our best beloved mates. We never had time to bury him, but, thank God, he didn't fall alive into the hands of those human devils. A curious effect of the shell burst was to lengthen out his body. When alive and well he was a man of six feet two, and when we examined him after his death, he easily measured seven feet. The sorrow of his little chum, Fitzpatrick, was overwhelming; nothing could comfort him for days.
It was here that I first felt real fear. Terror of course we all have, but that soul-gripping inaction took all manhood away from me as I crouched in the bottom of the trench, trying with might and main to appear unconcerned. I have never experienced quite the same sensation of fear in the front line at any time as I did that night; I felt deadly danger on every hand and my face and head were wet with cold sweat.
In curious contrast to my constitutional dread of the danger abounding on every hand was a man who happened to have possessed himself of a fairly dried dugout. With that torrent of shell hurtling everywhere, he calmly read chapter after chapter of a magazine, apparently as deeply interested as if he were sitting in his own room at home. How I envied him his nerves—or, rather, the absolute lack of them.
About fifty yards to the rear of us was a huge pile of bricks, fully a hundred yards long by thirty feet high. The ground we were occupying had originally been a brick yard and these bricks had been put out to dry, but the war coming on they had been left and had gradually settled down into a solid mass.
Someone was rash enough to show himself for a second near the brick pile, and it was his last second. It had become a joke that they would snipe at you with a fifteen-pound shell at Ypres, and the Boches evidently imagined there were men near the brick pile, for they took one shot as a sighter and then turned their heaviest field guns on it. The huge pile looked strong enough to last for a week, yet by night it was a crumbling powder.
This added a very disagreeable fury to the bombardment. The huge shells would burst with a crumbling crash, a great sheet of flame would flicker for an instant, then from out the pall of acrid smoke, flying bricks would hurtle for yards. Dozens of them flew back into our trench and I still bear the marks on my back and hands where flying pieces of brick caught me.
Several men were killed by these curious missiles, while all of us were bleeding from cuts and scratches caused by the wounds.
On went the bombardment and nothing seemed to exist but a riot of noise, flying shrapnel, flashes, and the steady drizzle of the rain. Twice during the day we stood to retire, but each time the major sent word that, "We are holding on and we can hold them 'till the cows come home."
Luckily, owing to the heroism of our signalers, the line to headquarters remained intact. These fine boys repaired the line time and again under shell and machine gun fire of the fiercest nature. One fellow earned the V.C. a dozen times during the day; he exposed himself recklessly, working with all his might in the very heart of the German barrage. He is still living, but was badly hurt later on at Festubert.
Toward evening we managed to get the wounded out and were I to tell the entire story of the self-sacrifice of the boys, it alone would fill a larger volume than this. They were obliged to carry the wounded along an old communication trench about six feet deep, with mud two feet deep at the bottom, then emerge into the shell-swept open for a distance of two or three hundred yards. Curiously enough, very few of the wounded were again hit traveling this road, and "Long" Mitchell, a boy from Michigan, and another boy, Manville, from Prince Albert, walked time and again down that highway of hell with their wounded comrades. Apparently they did not know the sheer heroism of their tasks, and probably don't know to this day.
Sergeant Campbell, one of the finest soldiers I ever met in my life, called me and asked me to run to the dressing station and tell them there that none of our boys, who had gone down with the wounded, were to attempt to return to the trenches till after dark. Away I started, never expecting to get to my destination, but doing something dispelled my "yellow streak" and I arrived there intact.
What a sight met my eyes! Row after row of brawny Canadian Highlanders lay raving and gasping with the effects of the horrible gas, and those nearing their end were almost as black as coal. It was too awful—and my nerves went snap!
However, a lull came at night, except for the steady fighting on our left, where the Seventh and Eighth were making history, and I managed to get back all right, and repairing trenches was again the order of the moment.
A fine, handsome Scotch lad, Jim Muirhead, one of my best chums, was working with me repairing a section of trench. At this place we hadn't any sandbags, but simply had to pile up the loose earth in front of us. Deep down in the ground we had made two sloping holes, propping up the top by odd timbers we found lying about. We did this to save ourselves from a big shell Fritz would occasionally lob over in our immediate vicinity. Now Jim is about six feet high and his hole was a big one, mine a small one. We could hear this shell coming and if we moved quickly, we gained the shelter of our holes before it burst. Once, we heard the faint pop in the distance and then a gradually increasing shriek; it was coming—to my excited fancy—straight for our heads. In my panic to escape the crack of doom I hurled myself into Jim's hole, beating him by about the fiftieth of a second.
"Get to hell into your own hole."
"Go to the devil."
Our colloquy was barely ended when the shell burst, but this time it was too far off to do any damage. I was thoroughly ashamed of my selfishness, which was due to the first instinct of nature, but good old Jim saw nothing in it but a good joke on himself.
All night long to left and right the scrap went on, just one steady crackle of rifle and machine gun fire, while from every angle they shelled the Seventh Battalion. Their trenches were simply one huge shamble, but they held. Morning came, and still the bombardment raged.
At about three in the afternoon we saw a figure approaching our trenches and by his style we knew it to be our dear old major. On he came in spite of the fire.
By this time Fritz was spraying our parapet top with machine guns and we knew he was at last going to try us. Still, on came the old soldier. He was well over sixty, but a hero's heart belonged to him. Orders had come through from headquarters for the Fifth to retire and all the staff at headquarters had been either killed or wounded with the exception of the major and Captain Hillion, our adjutant, a soldier from his feet up. These two decided, after vainly trying the field telephone, to give us our orders by word of mouth and they set out on foot.
Captain Hillion was hit before he had gone fifty yards and the old major was left to make it alone. He managed to get within fifty yards of us and then received two bullets in his body. And then the wonder of it—the sheer, dogged spirit of that old warrior! Above everything we heard his yell of pain, yet instead of giving up, he gathered himself together and with a staggering run reached the trench and collapsed. Not till he had delivered his message did he give way and swoon.
Things now were stirring with a vengeance. We knew by the cessation of the shell fire over our trenches that they were coming. I looked through a loophole and my heart seemed to choke in my throat. If it had not been more dangerous to run than to stay where I was, I would have been running yet. To my magnified imagination I never believed the earth held so many people. They came swarming over their parapet in huge waves, the flash of their bayonets making my spine crawl. Singing, cheering, cursing and shouting, they came on, but we never fired a shot.
"Not till they are near our barbed wire," was the order.
"Oh, if I could only fire!" I groaned mentally.
On they came with trumpets continually playing their charge. At last the order came. "Fire!" and when I saw them falling in heaps, every drop of blood in my body surged with a desire to kill and I blazed away into the mass of shrieking humanity as fast as my fingers could click the shells in and out of my rifle. I could not miss them if I tried, so thick were they.
We checked them momentarily, but suddenly bullets began to come at us from our rear and we knew they had broken through somewhere and were behind us. The mob in front having quit for awhile, we waited for the next move. The bullets from behind kept us wondering where they had made a gap in our lines.
"Get ready to retire," came the order, so we slipped off all but our ammunition and water; few of us had any of the precious liquid left.
Little Hilliard, who was next to me, said, "Well, Bub, we'll have a cigarette anyway before we cash in." "All right," I replied and we rolled a cigarette apiece, thinking we were having our last smoke. We did not know for sure, but guessed that we were surrounded. Our lack of knowledge of our own situation may seem curious, but a modern battle field is on such a vast scale that only in your immediate neighborhood do you know what is happening. In these (for me) dull piping times of peace, when I look back and scan my memory over the individual behavior of my chums, the nerve they displayed surpasses my power of description. As we were lying there smoking what I thought was to be our last fag, I was utterly amazed at the next words of Hilliard:
"Say, Bub, that must be Picric acid that makes our eyes smart so; those shells I bet haven't come more than fourteen hundred yards. Did you see the burst of that last one?" he asked, pointing to the place where a "coal box" had landed. Imade no reply; I was too frightened to bother my head about what the shells contained. But Hilliard persisted in getting my opinion about the matter and made me think he was far more interested in that detail than in the fact that it was the most probable thing on earth that he would be dead within a few minutes. However, this situation did not seem to worry him at all; he kept on smoking till the end. I am glad to be able to say, that so far as I know, he came through with only the loss of an arm.
The break on both sides of the Fifth's trenches shows how perilously close they came to being cut off by the enveloping Huns. See page 174
The break on both sides of the Fifth's trenches shows how perilously close they came to being cut off by the enveloping Huns.See page 174
As the ground sloped away toward Ypres we could see for some distance down that way and our hearts bounded as two thin lines of men came toward us in skirmishing order.
"Can it be reinforcements?" asked Milliard.
"It can be nothing else," said I, and then we witnessed a sight that made us want to cheer with all our might. The coolness of those men was wonderful; steady as a rock they came. They were British regulars, and now you will know why all of us who have been at the front have such an admiration for the British soldier. They trotted steadily in two long lines for about a hundred yards, then down for a brief rest, then up and on again, all done by the arm signals. Officers dropped on every hand, but others instantly took up their duties and like a finely regulated machine on they came—all done under a murderous fire, but never a flinch. It was a marvel of coolness and iron discipline.
After witnessing that advance of the Northumberland Fusileers and the Cheshires I have ceased to marvel at the Great Retirement of Mons; those wonderful feats of fighting seem to me now to be the entirely natural thing for the British soldier to do.
Suddenly on our left a bedlam of German cheers cleared all doubts of their being through, and the order came for us to retire. Back we went to save ourselves from being flanked. So close a call was it that the last man was only fifty yards from Fritz. Our old major asked our boys to leave him, and of course they refused; but it was by the skin of their teeth they got him out.
Thank God the old major is still living and back again with his boys. He refused a comfortable staff billet in England on his recovery. "My place is with the boys," he said, and he is with them today. God bless him!
By some marvel we fell back safely till we met the Northumberlands, but how we did it is more than I can tell. One thing I shall always remember. As we filed out of the trench Sergeant Campbell stood in full view of the oncoming Germans till the last sound man was out, quietly seeing to it that we did not get unsteady. After we were all out, with the exception of some of the wounded—alas, some of them had to be left, and I leave the reader to guess their fate—we joined up with the Northumberlands, and as we came past these Tommies they let out a terrific cheer for us. More to us than all the eulogies of generals or newspapers was that cheer from our brother soldiers. And when one remembers that it was given while a hail of bullets was being poured upon them, and they were dropping down, killed and wounded, some idea may be had of the unconquerable spirit of those men and the sporting blood that courses through their veins. And if you have never known it before, you now know why they are able to "play the game" as the Germans never can.
That cheer was an acknowledgment to the men from Canada for the work we had done.
When we joined on with the Fighting Fifth, as the Northumberland boys are so aptly named, I was sent with a message to the O.C. of the Cheshires, but could not get back to my own battalion, so I stayed with the Northumberlands. How can I describe the scene! The riot of noise, the never-ceasing hell-hiss, the scream and roar of shells, everywhere blazing buildings and everywhere writhing or ominously still figures.
Star shells were beginning to flare up as it was almost twilight, the weird green lights glinting on the bayonets of the oncoming Germans. Firmly the Northumberlands waited, quietly and confidently, and then I learned what disciplined courage really is. With wild shouting and trumpeting and a kind of prolonged "Ah-h-h" the mass of Boche infantry came steadily on. I began to fidget; I preferred the noise Fritz was making to the awful quiet of our own men.
Silently, yet with celerity, little short of marvelous, ammunition boxes were ripped open and bandoliers distributed in a quarter of the time it takes to write it. A burly corporal, noticing my itching to fire, chuckling, said, "Take thy toime, lad." The corporal gave me almost confidence, so cool was he. I felt better and waited for the word. At last, when they were within fifty yards, the order came to "Let go." It was then I understood what rapid fire meant. The way the troops worked their Lee-Enfields made me doubly curse that Ross toy.
The Ross rifle at this stage of the game verified the prophecy of the corporal of the East Lanks. The reader will remember the conversation in the dugout at Armentieres. To my dismay, when I began to fire with rapidity, the cursed bayonet shook itself clear of the rifle. I had fired about six rounds when the bolt refused to work. The rifle was hopelessly jammed, and I tried to hammer the bolt open by placing the butt on the floor of the trench and stamping on the knob of the bolt with my heel. It was hopeless, however, and I hurled "the thing" in the direction of the advancing Germans, with a scream of fury that pierced even that infernal din.
The flimsy magazine-spring of these rifles often fails to work, and, generally, at the most critical moment. As a sniper's rifle, the Ross is everything to be desired; but when fifteen rounds per minute have to be ripped off to make up for a lack of machine guns, the Ross is a miserable failure.
The front of the Germans just crumpled. It was horrible. From yelling it changed to one prolonged wail. Firing like lightning, but with awful effect, the two machine guns pumping into their midst, the boys held them back. So close a shave was it, that a few of them penetrated right on to our parapet. They were bayoneted on the instant. They were fine big men, mostly Prussians and Bavarians, but terrible was the price they paid for their advance.
I thought of our poor fellows writhing in agony from the gas poisoning, and any feelings of pity were easily suppressed. In fact, at the time I fairly exulted in seeing them mown down. Three times that night they launched attacks and at their third attempt succeeded in again forcing us to retire by sheer weight.
Contrary to so many, I consider the Boche a brave man. Their advance at this time proved it. They were literally mowed down at times when attacking; but, still, they came on, scarcely faltering. As an individualist, Fritz is, to a degree, inferior to the poilu or Tommy. The perfection of the Prussian war machine has this flaw—its iron discipline has killed the initiative of its private soldiers. Without their officers they seem to wilt and, in many cases, promptly surrender. At this time, however, Fritzie was flushed with the thrill of pushing us back, and, therefore, full of fight. Any prisoners we took were always ready to inform us that Germany was invincible, and that their release would soon follow.
Do not, dear reader, call the Boche coward because he surrenders. For you, it is easy to say you would fight to the death rather than be taken prisoner, but consider a man who has endured a week's bombardment—crash! crash! crr-r-r-r-mp! Roaring, blasting, one hideous din, for days; everything being smashed to smithereens; the smoke, the fumes, the stench, and last, but not least, dead and mangled comrades lying around.
Now, think how much fight there would be left in you.
Shell fire will destroy the morale of any soldier, for when a man is fair enough to look facts in the face, he will acknowledge that courage is common to any nation. No nation has a monopoly of it, and the German has his share.
In these days, perhaps, he gives in rather easily; but he is getting hell from the Allied artillery—at least on the Western Front. And, who knows, perhaps doubts of their ultimate triumph have begun to assail them. I have seen them fight well with the bayonet, and a clump on my head from a Hun no bigger than myself I well remember. I hate to admit it, but he licked me honestly and fairly; and only his sportsmanship saved me. He simply knocked me silly—and passed on. I hate and loathe their barbarity—I hate them for bringing this hell upon the world, but I am English, and as such, must give the other fellow his due.
In my experience with their infamous deeds in Belgium and France, I always remember two occasions when the Huns belied their name. One of them came within range of my own experience. During our retirement one of our men was hit in the leg, and of course fell down. It was impossible to take him with us, for we had to get back quickly in order to make conjunction with the other troops who had fallen back. Much as we hated the idea, we had to leave him. That, unfortunately, is the fate of many of the wounded when retiring. He was taken prisoner and, naturally, we thought he had either been bayoneted, or was on his way to Germany. Judge of our surprise, when in billets, the man walked into our farmyard. We crowded around, simply crazy to hear how he had hoodwinked the Germans and escaped. We marveled when he told his story.
He had been taken by a mob of Saxon troops. He expected either death or capture. These men, however, dressed his wound; inoculated him against the possibility of lockjaw; placed him in a cellar with clean straw to lie on, and when his slight wound permitted him to walk, they allowed him to make his escape to his own lines.
Once, since I have returned, I was told a story by one of the Princess Patricia Regiment. At a certain place in Belgium a dozen or so of the Pats were lying behind some cover. The day was a quiet one, and the Pats had that heavenly concoction called "char" in mind. "Char" is tea to those unacquainted with English. They had the wherewithal for the making of the tea with the exception of the water. Of course there was enough lying around to float a boat, but anyone who has smelt that "aqua vitae" would not dream of using it for tea. When a seasoned soldier will not use it, it is pretty bad.
A little distance from where they were lying was a pump from which good water could be obtained, but covering the pump and the approach to the pump was a sniper. However, a hot drink is worth risking something for and a man started out to try and bring back some water. Crack! down he went. The man was badly hit but not killed, and his chum determined to try and get him in. He went out, expecting to be hit every second, but nothing happened and he carried his stricken chum in. Now Fritzie has a habit of firing on anything that moves, and the Pats wondered. At last, another man, feeling sure that the sniper had either retired for the day, or had gone to lunch, set forth to fetch the water. Again that ominous crack, and again a prone figure. Again a chum sallies out to at least try and save his stricken comrade, if he is not shot dead. He returns with his chum unhurt. This happened a third time, and then it dawned on the Pats that a soldier who was a gentleman and a sportsman was sniping in the German lines.
So long as the British soldier was on his feet, and an active enemy, the sniper was only too pleased to knock him over, but as soon as the foe was a stricken, wounded man, he was entitled to everyone's consideration, and for his part he was done with him.
I, for one, hope that that German is back in Germany with a nice cushy wound, and getting the best that the Fatherland can give him.
Hard as we tried, their reinforcements kept piling in, and finally they effected an entrance at one end of our trench, so to keep in touch with our left, we fell back slowly to an old evil-smelling trench, knee deep with the foulest water I have ever seen. If we had had but two batteries of artillery we could have held them, even with their gas. However, to hope to keep them back with infantry alone, against their gas and murderous artillery fire, was something for the Canadians to figure out. As it was, they only succeeded in forcing us back for about a mile.
The whole Canadian Division had been surrounded, but with the timely arrival of the Tommies had fought its way out again. In the early stages of the battle, so close had it been that one battery of artillery had reversed their guns and fired point-blank, at about three hundred yards, into the mob of Germans. The gunners were all killed or taken prisoners, but the price they made Fritz pay was dear indeed. After this our artillery was obliged to retire for some short distance back, but there the line held.
After we had rested somewhat in the spot to which we had retired, the corporal, of whom I spoke before, asked for someone to go with him to try and find out what Fritz was up to. I felt I would be all right with him, and I almost preferred instant death to the odor of that foul water-hole, so I went along with him.
To my horror the first thing he did when we got fairly out was to strike a match and light his pipe. Like lightning I jumped from his side.
"My God! Corporal, what are you doing?"
"What's the excitement?" he asked, puffing calmly.
"You'll get sniped as sure as fate."
Then it was he showed the typical fatalism of the soldier.
"Son, if I'm going to get hit, I'll get it; but if it's not my turn, I wouldn't get it if I lit a bloomin' bonfire."
"If you take unnecessary chances you'll get it."
"Don't be afraid, lad, I'm not throwing my life away. You are as safe with me as you would be up in the trench."
We soon ran on to their listening patrol, but my corporal had not been in three campaigns for nothing. He took me, to my excited imagination, almost to their very feet. They were talking like mad and we had evidently been seen a few minutes before, for they rushed to the spot we had occupied just before they got there. We circled about for a few hours and finally decided that Fritz had dug in for the night.
Toward daylight, an order came for all Canadians who had stayed behind to go down to the rear, as the Canadians had been relieved. How tired we all were; I did not care if I lived or died. We ran on isolated bunches of Germans, with some of whom we exchanged a few shots.
At last we emerged on the road, and, to my dying day, I shall never forget the sights that met our eyes. Everywhere were shell craters, both on the road and on each side of us. In every shrine, where the Belgians placed their crucifixes, men in agony from the gas had crawled and died there; dead bodies, dead horses, wrecked ambulance cars, gun limbers, ammunition limbers, and in one place were six of the very finest horses I have ever seen, with their drivers, dead. Villages, where the people had been living when we went up, were now utterly desolate; everything a smoldering mass of ruins, such had been the fury of that shell fire. And it was still going on, shells screaming over us or bursting close by.
At one place the Boches had pushed so far forward that they were only a short distance from the road and they opened up on us, but only succeeded in wounding a few. Finally we came down to an open space and found the brigade busily cooking breakfast. "Hurrah," thought I, "grub and a sleep." Hastily I began to look around for something to eat, but alas, the order came to be ready to advance again. I was utterly weary, but it couldn't be helped.
Finding my own crowd, who had been fortunate enough to get in a few hours' sleep and were correspondingly cheerful, I fell in, and in skirmishing order we began the advance.
Suddenly at our backs came an ear-splitting report, and of all the music I ever heard that was the sweetest. It was our own heavy artillery replying to the Germans. We skirmished on in long lines until the order came to "Dig in." I was so hungry and tired that I absolutely did not care whether I got hit or not. Happening to notice my condition, Sergeant Campbell came up to me:
"What the hell is wrong with you?" said he.
"Well, if you want to know, Sergeant, I'm hungry, thirsty, and tired out. You people have had an hour or so's rest; I've had none. I'm dead beat and if I get it, so much the better."
I spoke the absolute truth, because that was the one time in my life I honestly wanted to die.
"You get busy and dig in; we need you; not that you're worth much anyway, but you're the only trained runner we've got around."
"Not till I get something to eat," I answered, deliberately defying him. Again that wonderful understanding spirit of dear old Ken showed forth. Instead of telling me the punishment that would follow my insubordination, he said, "All right, son, I'll see what I can do."
I lay exhausted on the ground and in a few minutes, to my great happiness, the sergeant returned, bringing a dirty old bone, but covered with meat. It was aged, and the flies played upon it, but to my mind and memory no meat ever tasted so sweet. I sunk my teeth in it and the very first bite gave me a new inspiration to live.
Again we advanced, but I clung to my bone, and as soon as we halted to dig in again, I buried my face up to the ears in the meat. As soon as I was full I carefully slipped the bone in my belt in order to be prepared for the next hunger-pinch. I then felt a very earnest desire to live, and when the next halt came and the shells were coming over in a never-ending stream, I had an intense desire to explore the bowels of the earth. On feeling for my entrenching tool, to my dismay, I found it gone. Grabbing my bayonet from the scabbard I went to work, and the way I burrowed with my hands on that bayonet was a caution. I would not have taken a back seat to a prairie badger.