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All In It K(1) Carries On by John Hay Beith (AKA: Ian Hay)

J >> John Hay Beith (AKA: Ian Hay) >> All In It K(1) Carries On




"How tiresome!" said the Brigadier. "Dug-outs, everybody!"


V

There were no casualties, which was rather miraculous. Late in the
afternoon Brigade Headquarters ventured upon another stroll in the
garden. The tumult had ceased, and the setting Sabbath sun glowed
peacefully upon the battered countenance of Hush Hall. The damage
was not very extensive, for the house was stoutly built. Still,
two bedrooms, recently occupied, were a wreck of broken glass and
splintered plaster, while the gravel outside was littered with lead
sheeting and twisted chimney-cans. The shell which had aroused the
indignation of the Mess waiter by entering the dining-room window, had
in reality hit the ground directly beneath it. Six feet higher, and
the Brigadier's order to clear the house would have been entirely
superfluous.

The Brigade Major and the Staff Captain surveyed the unruffled surface
of the lake--a haunt of ancient peace in the rays of the setting sun.
Upon the bosom thereof floated a single, majestic, one-eyed swan,
performing intricate toilet exercises. It was Edgar.

"He must have a darned good dug-out somewhere!" observed the Brigade
Major enviously.




III

WINTER SPORTS: VARIOUS


I

Hush Hall having become an even less desirable place of residence than
had hitherto been thought possible, Headquarters very sensibly sent
for their invaluable friends, Box and Cox, of the Royal Engineers,
and requested that they would proceed to make the place proof against
shells and weather, forthwith, if not sooner.

Those phlegmatic experts made a thorough investigation of the
resources of the establishment, and departed mysteriously, after the
fashion of the common plumber of civilisation, into space. Three days
later they returned, accompanied by a horde of acolytes, who,
with characteristic contempt for the pathetic appeals upon the
notice-boards, proceeded to dump down lumber, sandbags, and corrugated
iron roofing in the most exposed portions of the garden.

This done, some set out to shore up the ceilings of the basement with
mighty battens of wood, and to convert that region into a nest of
cunningly devised bedrooms. Others reinforced the flooring above with
a layer of earth and brick rubble three feet deep. On the top of all
this they relaid not only the original floor, but eke the carpet.

"The only difference from before, sir," explained Box to the admiring
Staff Captain, "is that people will have to walk up three steps to get
into the dining-room now, instead of going in on the level."

"I wonder what the Marquise de Chilquichose will think of it all when
she returns to her ancestral home," mused the Staff Captain.

"If anything," maintained the invincible Box, "we have improved it for
her. For example, she can now light the chandelier without standing on
a chair--without getting up from table, in fact! However, to resume.
The fireplace, you will observe, has not been touched. I have left a
sort of well in the floor all round it, lined with some stuff I found
in Mademoiselle's room. At least," added Box coyly, "I think it must
have been Mademoiselle's room! You can sit in the well every evening
after supper. The walls of this room"--prodding the same--"are lined
with sandbags, covered with tapestry. Pretty artistic--what?"

"Extremely," agreed the Staff Captain. "You will excuse my raising the
point, I know, but can the apartment now be regarded as shell-proof?"

"Against everything but a direct hit. I wouldn't advise you to sleep
on this floor much, but you could have your meals here all right.
Then, if the Boche starts putting over heavy stuff, you can pop down
into the basement and have your dessert in bed. You'll be absolutely
safe there. In fact, the more the house tumbles down the safer you
will be. It will only make your protection shell thicker. So if you
hear heavy thuds overhead, don't be alarmed!"

"I won't," promised the Staff Captain. "I shall lie in bed, drinking
a nice hot cup of tea, and wondering whether the last crash was the
kitchen chimney, or only the drawing-room piano coming down another
storey. Now show me my room."

"We have had to put you in the larder," explained Box apologetically,
as he steered his guest through a forest of struts with an electric
torch. "At least, I think it's the larder: it has a sort of meaty
smell. The General is in the dairy--a lovely little suite, with white
tiles. The Brigade Major has the scullery: it has a sink, so is
practically as good as a flat in Park Place. I have run up cubicles
for the others in the kitchen. Here is your little cot. It is only six
feet by four, but you can dress in the garden."

"It's a _sweet_ little nest, dear!" replied the Staff Captain, quite
hypnotised by this time. "I'll just get my maid to put me into
something loose, and then I'll run along to your room, and we'll have
a nice cosy gossip together before dinner!"

* * * * *

In due course we removed our effects from the tottering and rat-ridden
dug-outs in which we had taken sanctuary during the shelling, and
prepared to settle down for the winter in our new quarters.

"We might be _very_ much worse off!" we observed the first evening,
listening to the comfortably muffled sounds of shells overhead.

And we were right. Three days later we received an intimation from the
Practical Joke Department that we were to evacuate our present sector
of trenches (including Hush Hall) forthwith, and occupy another part
of the line.

In all Sports, Winter and Summer, the supremacy of the Practical Joke
Department is unchallenged.


II

Meanwhile, up in the trenches, the combatants are beguiling the time
in their several ways.

Let us take the reserve line first--the lair of Battalion Headquarters
and its appurtenances. Much of our time here, as elsewhere, is
occupied in unostentatious retirement to our dug-outs, to avoid the
effects of a bombardment. But a good amount--an increasing amount--of
it is devoted to the contemplation of our own shells bursting over the
Boche trenches. Gone are the days during which we used to sit close
and "stick it out," consoling ourselves with the vague hope that
by the end of the week our gunners might possibly have garnered
sufficient ammunition to justify a few brief hours' retaliation. The
boot is on the other leg now. For every Boche battery that opens on
us, two or three of ours thunder back a reply--and that without any
delays other than those incidental to the use of that maddening
instrument, the field-telephone. During the past six months neither
side has been able to boast much in the way of ground actually gained;
but the moral ascendancy--the initiative--the offensive--call it what
you will--has changed hands; and no one knows it better than the
Boche. We are the attacking party now.

The trenches in this country are not arranged with such geometric
precision as in France. For instance, the reserve line is not always
connected with the firing-lines by a communication-trench.
Those persons whose duty it is to pay daily visits to the
fire-trenches--Battalion Commanders, Gunner and Sapper officers,
an occasional Staff Officer, and an occasional most devoted
Padre--perform the journey as best they may. Sometimes they skirt a
wood or hedge, sometimes they keep under the lee of an embankment,
sometimes they proceed across the open, with the stealthy caution
of persons playing musical chairs, ready to sit down in the nearest
shell-crater the moment the music--in the form of a visitation of
"whizz-bangs"--strikes up.

It is difficult to say which kind of weather is least favourable to
this enterprise. On sunny days one's movements are visible to Boche
observers upon distant summits; while on foggy days the Boche gunners,
being able to see nothing at all, amuse themselves by generous and
unexpected contributions of shrapnel in all directions. Stormy weather
is particularly unpleasant, for the noise of the wind in the trees
makes it difficult to hear the shell approaching. Days of heavy rain
are the most desirable on the whole, for then the gunners are too
busy bailing out their gun-pits to worry their heads over adventurous
pedestrians. One learns, also, to mark down and avoid particular
danger-spots. For instance, the southeast corner of that wood, where
a reserve company are dug in, is visited by "Silent Susans" for about
five minutes each noontide: it is therefore advisable to select some
other hour for one's daily visit. (Silent Susan, by the way, is not a
desirable member of the sex. Owing to her intensely high velocity she
arrives overhead without a sound, and then bursts with a perfectly
stunning detonation and a shower of small shrapnel bullets.) There
is a fixed rifle-battery, too, which fires all day long, a shot at a
time, down the main street of the ruined and deserted village named
Vrjoozlehem, through which one must pass on the way to the front-line
trenches. Therefore in negotiating this delectable spot, one shapes
a laborious course through a series of back yards and garden-plots,
littered with broken furniture and brick rubble, allowing the
rifle-bullets the undisputed use of the street. The mention of
Vrjoozlehem--that is not its real name, but a simplified form of
it--brings to our notice the wholesale and whole-hearted fashion in
which the British Army has taken Belgian institutions under its wing.
Nomenclature, for instance. In France we make no attempt to interfere
with this: we content ourselves with devising a pronounceable
variation of the existing name. For example, if a road is called La
Rue de Bois, we simply call it "Roodiboys," and leave it at that.
On the same principle, Etaples is modified to "Eatables," and
Sailly-la-Bourse to "Sally Booze." But in Belgium more drastic
procedure is required. A Scotsman is accustomed to pronouncing
difficult names, but even he is unable to contend with words composed
almost entirely of the letters _j, z_, and _v_. So our resourceful
Ordnance Department has issued maps--admirable maps--upon which the
outstanding features of the landscape are marked in plain figures.
But instead of printing the original place-names, they put "Moated
Grange," or "Clapham Junction," or "Dead Dog Farm," which simplifies
matters beyond all possibility of error. (The system was once
responsible, though, for an unjust if unintentional aspersion upon
the character of a worthy man. The C.O. of a certain battalion had
occasion to complain to those above him of the remissness of one of
his chaplains. "He's a lazy beggar, sir," he said. "Over and over
again I have told him to come up and show himself in the front-line
trenches, but he never seems to be able to get past Leicester
Square!")

The naming of the trenches themselves has been left largely to local
enterprise. An observant person can tell, by a study of the numerous
name-boards, which of his countrymen have been occupying the line
during the past six months. "Grainger Street" and "Jesmond Dene" give
direct evidence of "Canny N'castle." "Sherwood Avenue" and "Notts
Forest" have a Midland flavour. Lastly, no great mental effort is
required to decide who labelled two communication trenches "The
Gorbals" and "Coocaddens" respectively!

Some names have obviously been bestowed by officers, as "Sackville
Street," "The Albany," and "Burlington Arcade" denote. "Pinch-Gut"
and "Crab-Crawl" speak for themselves. So does "Vermin Villa." Other
localities, again, have obviously been labelled by persons endowed
with a nice gift of irony. "Sanctuary Wood" is the last place on earth
where any one would dream of taking sanctuary; while "Lovers' Walk,"
which bounds it, is the scene of almost daily expositions of the
choicest brand of Boche "hate."

And so on. But one day, when the War is over, and this mighty
trench-line is thrown open to the disciples of the excellent Mr.
Cook--as undoubtedly it will be--care should be taken that these
street-names are preserved and perpetuated. It would be impossible to
select a more characteristic and fitting memorial to the brave hearts
who constructed them--too many of whom are sleeping their last sleep
within a few yards of their own cheerful handiwork.


III

After this digression we at length reach the firing-line. It is quite
unlike anything of its kind that we have hitherto encountered. It
is situated in what was once a thick wood. Two fairly well-defined
trenches run through the undergrowth, from which the sentries of
either side have been keeping relentless watch upon one another, night
and day, for many months. The wood itself is a mere forest of poles:
hardly a branch, and not a twig, has been spared by the shrapnel. In
the no-man's-land between the trenches the poles have been reduced to
mere stumps a few inches high.

It is behind the firing-trench that the most unconventional scene
presents itself. Strictly speaking, there ought to be--and generally
is--a support-line some seventy yards in rear of the first. This
should be occupied by all troops not required in the firing-trench.
But the trench is empty--which is not altogether surprising,
considering that it is half-full of water. Its rightful occupants are
scattered through the wood behind--in dug-outs, in redoubts, or _en
plein air_--cooking, washing, or repairing their residences. The whole
scene suggests a gipsy encampment rather than a fortified post. A
hundred yards away, through the trees, you can plainly discern the
Boche firing-trench, and the Boche in that trench can discern you: yet
never a shot comes. It is true that bullets are humming through the
air and glancing off trees, but these are mostly due to the enterprise
of distant machine-guns and rifle-batteries, firing from some position
well adapted for enfilade. Frontal fire there is little or none. In
the front-line trenches, at least, Brother Boche has had enough of it.
His motto now is, "Live and let live!" In fact, he frequently makes
plaintive statements to that effect in the silence of night.

You might think, then, that life in Willow Grove would be a tranquil
affair. But if you look up among the few remaining branches of that
tall tree in the centre of the wood, you may notice shreds of some
material flapping in the breeze. Those are sandbags--or were. Last
night, within the space of one hour, seventy-three shells fell into
this wood, and the first of them registered a direct hit upon the
dug-out of which those sandbags formed part. There were eight men
in that dug-out. The telephone-wires were broken in the first few
minutes, and there was some delay before word could be transmitted
back to Headquarters. Then our big guns far in rear spoke out, until
the enemy's batteries (probably in response to an urgent appeal from
their own front line) ceased firing. Thereupon "A" Company, who at
Bobby Little's behest had taken immediate cover in the water-logged
support-trench, returned stolidly to their dug-outs in Willow Grove.
Death, when he makes the mistake of raiding your premises every day,
loses most of his terrors and becomes a bit of a bore.

This morning the Company presents its normal appearance: its numbers
have been reduced by eight--_c'est tout_! It may be some one else's
turn to-morrow, but after all, that is what we are here for. Anyhow,
we are keeping the Boches out of "Wipers," and a bit over. So we
stretch our legs in the wood, and keep the flooded trench for the next
emergency.

Let us approach a group of four which is squatting sociably round a
small and inadequate fire of twigs, upon which four mess-tins are
simmering. The quartette consists of Privates Cosh and Tosh, together
with Privates Buncle and Nigg, preparing their midday meal.

"Tak' off your damp chup, Jimmy," suggested Tosh to Buncle, who was
officiating as stoker. "Ye mind what the Captain said aboot smoke?"

"It wasna the Captain: it was the Officer," rejoined Buncle
cantankerously.

(It may here be explained, at the risk of another digression, that no
length of association or degree of intimacy will render the average
British soldier familiar with the names of his officers. The Colonel
is "The C.O."; the Second in Command is "The Major"; your Company
Commander is "The Captain," and your Platoon Commander "The Officer."
As for all others of commissioned rank in the regiment, some
twenty-four in all, they are as nought. With the exception of the
Quartermaster, in whose shoes each member of the rank and file hopes
one day to stand, they simply do not exist.)

"Onyway," pursued the careful Tosh, "he said that if any smoke was
shown, all fires was tae be pitten oot. So mind and see no' to get a
cauld dinner for us all, Jimmy!"

"Cauld or het," retorted the gentleman addressed, "it's little dinner
I'll be gettin' this day! And ye ken fine why!" he added darkly.

Private Tosh removed a cigarette from his lower lip and sighed
patiently.

"For the last time," he announced, with the air of a righteous man
suffering long, "I did not lay ma hand on your dirrty wee bit ham!"

"Maybe," countered the bereaved Buncle swiftly, "you did not lay your
hand upon it; but you had it tae your breakfast for all that, Davie!"

"I never pit ma hand on it!" repeated Tosh doggedly.

"No? Then I doot you gave it a bit kick with your foot," replied the
inflexible Buncle.

"Or got some other body tae luft it for him!" suggested Private Nigg,
looking hard at Tosh's habitual accomplice, Cosh.

"I had it pitten in an auld envelope from hame, addressed with my
name," continued the mourner. "It couldna hae got oot o' that by
accident!"

"Weel," interposed Cosh, with forced geniality, "it's no a thing tae
argie-bargie aboot. Whatever body lufted it, it's awa' by this time.
It's a fine day, boys!"

This flagrant attempt to raise the conversation to a less
controversial plane met with no encouragement. Private Buncle,
refusing to be appeased, replied sarcastically--

"Aye, is it? And it was a fine nicht last nicht, especially when the
shellin' was gaun on! Especially in number seeven dug-oot!"

There was a short silence. Number seven dug-out was no more, and five
of its late occupants were now lying under their waterproof sheets,
not a hundred yards away, waiting for a Padre. Presently, however,
the pacific Cosh, who in his hours of leisure was addicted to mild
philosophical rumination, gave a fresh turn to the conversation.

"Mphm!" he observed thoughtfully. "They say that in a war every man
has a bullet waiting for him some place or other, with his name on
it! Sooner or later, he gets it. Aye! Mphm!" He sucked his teeth
reflectively, and glanced towards the Field Ambulance. "Sooner or
later!"

"What for would he pit his name on it, Wully?" inquired Nigg, who was
not very quick at grasping allusions.

"He wouldna pit on the name himself," explained the philosopher.
"What I mean is, there's a bullet for each one of us somewhere over
there"--he jerked his head eastward--"in a Gairman pooch."

"What way could a Gairman pit my name on a bullet?" demanded Nigg
triumphantly. "He doesna ken it!"

"Man," exclaimed Cosh, shedding some of his philosophic calm, "can ye
no unnerstand that what I telled ye was jist a mainner of speakin'?
When I said that a man's name was on a bullet, I didna mean that it
was _written_ there."

"Then what the hell _did_ ye mean?" inquired the mystified
disciple--not altogether unreasonably.

Private Tosh made a misguided but well-meaning attempt to straighten
out the conversation.

"He means, Sandy," he explained in a soothing voice, "that the name
was just stampit on the bullet. Like--like--like an identity disc!" he
added brilliantly.

The philosopher clutched his temples with both hands.

"I dinna mean onything o' the kind," he roared. "What I intend tae
imply is _this_, Sandy Nigg. Some place over there there is a bullet
in a Gairman's pooch, and one day that bullet will find its way intil
your insides as sure as if your name was written on it! _That's_ what
I meant. Jist a mainner of speakin'. Dae ye unnerstand me the noo?"

But it was the injured Buncle who replied--like a lightning-flash.

"Never you fear, Sandy, boy!" he proclaimed to his perturbed ally.
"That bullet has no' gotten your length yet. Maybe it never wull.
There's mony a thing in this worrld with one man's name on it that
finds its way intil the inside of some other man." He fixed Tosh with
a relentless eye. "A bit ham, for instance!"

It was a knock-out blow.

"For ony sake," muttered the now demoralised Tosh, "drop the subject,
and I'll gie ye a bit ham o' ma ain! There's just time tae cook it--"

"What kin' o' a fire is this?"

A cold shadow fell upon the group as a substantial presence inserted
itself between the debaters and the wintry sunshine. Corporal
Mucklewame was speaking, in his new and awful official voice, pointing
an accusing finger at the fire, which, neglected in the ardour of
discussion, was smoking furiously.

"Did you wish the hale wood tae be shelled?" continued Mucklewame
sarcastically. "Put oot the fire at once, or I'll need tae bring ye
all before the Officer. It is a cauld dinner ye'll get, and ye'll
deserve it!"


IV

In the fire-trench--or perhaps it would be more correct to call it the
water-trench--life may be short, and is seldom merry; but it is not
often dull. For one thing, we are never idle.

A Boche trench-mortar knocks down several yards of your parapet.
Straightway your machine-gunners are called up, to cover the gap
until darkness falls and the gaping wound can be stanched with fresh
sandbags. A mine has been exploded upon your front, leaving a crater
into which predatory Boches will certainly creep at night. You summon
a _posse_ of bombers to occupy the cavity and discourage any
such enterprise. The heavens open, and there is a sudden deluge.
Immediately it is a case of all hands to the trench-pump! A better
plan, if you have the advantage of ground, is to cut a culvert under
the parapet and pass the inundation on to a more deserving quarter. In
any case you need never lack healthful exercise.

While upon the subject of mines, we may note that this branch of
military industry has expanded of late to most unpleasant dimensions.
The Boche began it, of course--he always initiates these undesirable
pastimes,--and now we have followed his lead and caught him up.

To the ordinary mortal, to become a blind groper amid the dark places
of the earth, in search of a foe whom it is almost certain death to
encounter there, seems perhaps the most idiotic of all the idiotic
careers open to those who are idiotic enough to engage in modern
warfare. However, many of us are as much at home below ground as above
it. In most peaceful times we were accustomed to spend eight hours a
day there, lying up against the "face" in a tunnel perhaps four feet
high, and wielding a pick in an attitude which would have convulsed
any ordinary man with cramp. But there are few ordinary men in
"K(1)" There is never any difficulty in obtaining volunteers for the
Tunnelling Company.

So far as the amateur can penetrate its mysteries, mining, viewed
under our present heading--namely, Winter Sports--offers the following
advantages to its participants:--

(1) In winter it is much warmer below the earth than upon its surface,
and Thomas Atkins is the most confirmed "frowster" in the world.

(2) Critics seldom descend into mines.

(3) There is extra pay.

The disadvantages are so obvious that they need not be enumerated
here.

In these trenches we have been engaged upon a very pretty game of
subterranean chess for some weeks past, and we are very much on our
mettle. We have some small leeway to make up. When we took over these
trenches, a German mine, which had been maturing (apparently unheeded)
during the tenancy of our predecessors, was exploded two days after
our arrival, inflicting heavy casualties upon "D" Company. Curiously
enough, the damage to the trench was comparatively slight; but
the tremendous shock of the explosion killed more than one man by
concussion, and brought down the roofs of several dug-outs upon
their sleeping occupants. Altogether it was a sad business, and the
Battalion swore to be avenged.

So they called upon Lieutenant Duff-Bertram--usually called Bertie the
Badger, in reference to his rodent disposition--to make the first move
in the return match. So Bertie and his troglodyte assistants sank
a shaft in a retired spot of their own selecting, and proceeded to
burrow forward towards the Boche lines.

After certain days Bertie presented himself, covered in clay, before
Colonel Kemp, and made a report.

Colonel Kemp considered.

"You say you can hear the enemy working?" he said.

"Yes, sir."

"Near?"

"Pretty near, sir."

"How near?"

"A few yards."

"What do you propose to do?"

Bertie the Badger--in private life he was a consulting mining engineer
with a beautiful office in Victoria Street and a nice taste in
spats--scratched an earthy nose with a muddy forefinger.

"I think they are making a defensive gallery, sir," he announced.

"Let us have your statement in the simplest possible language,
please," said Colonel Kemp. "Some of my younger officers," he added
rather ingeniously, "are not very expert in these matters."