Books: Over The Top

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15

Produced by Daniel Callahan

"OVER THE TOP"

BY

AN AMERICAN SOLDIER WHO WENT

ARTHUR GUY EMPEY

MACHINE GUNNER, SERVING IN FRANCE

TOGETHER WITH

TOMMY'S DICTIONARY OF THE TRENCHES

16 ILLUSTRATIONS AND DIAGRAMS

Twenty-sixth Impression

{Photo: The Author just before Leaving for Home.}

TO

MY MOTHER AND MY SISTER

I have had many good comrades as I have journeyed around the world,
before the mast and in the trenches, but loyal and true as they were,
none have ever done, or could ever do, as much as you have done for
me. So as a little token of my gratitude for your love and sacrifice I
dedicate this book to you.

FOREWORD

During sixteen years of "roughing it," knocking around the world, I
have nibbed against the high and low and have had ample opportunity of
studying, at close range, many different peoples, their ideals,
political and otherwise, their hopes and principles. Through this
elbow rubbing, and not from reading, I have become convinced of the
nobility, truth, and justice of the Allies' cause, and know their
fight to be our fight, because it espouses the principles of the
United States of America, democracy, justice, and liberty.

To the average American who has not lived and fought with him, the
Englishman appears to be distant, reserved, a slow thinker, and
lacking in humor, but from my association with the man who inhabits
the British Isles. I find that this opinion is unjust. To me, Tommy
Atkins has proved himself to be the best of mates, a pal, and bubbling
over with a fine sense of humor, a man with a just cause who is
willing to sacrifice everything but honor in the advancement of the
same.

It is my fondest hope that Uncle Sam and John Bull, arms locked, as
mates, good and true, each knowing and appreciating the worth of the
other, will wend their way through the years to come, happy and
contented in each other's company. So if this poor attempt of mine
will, in any way, help to bring Tommy Atkins closer to the doorstep of
Uncle Sam, my ambition will have been realized.

Perhaps to some of my readers it will appear that I have written of a
great and just cause in a somewhat flippant manner, but I assure them
such was not my intention. I have tried to tell my experiences in the
language of Tommy sitting on the fire step of a front-line trench on
the Western Front--just as he would tell his mate next him what was
happening at a different part of the line.

A. G. E.

NEW YORK City, May, 1917.

CHAPTER I

FROM MUFTI TO KHAKI

It was in an office in Jersey City. I was sitting at my desk talking
to a Lieutenant of the Jersey National Guard. On the wall was a big
war map decorated with variously colored little flags showing the
position of the opposing armies on the Western Front in France. In
front of me on the desk lay a New York paper with big flaring
headlines:

LUSITANIA SUNK! AMERICAN LIVES LOST!

The windows were open and a feeling of spring pervaded the air.
Through the open windows came the strains of a hurdy-gurdy playing in
the street--I DIDN'T RAISE MY BOY TO BE A SOLDIER.

"Lusitania Sunk! American Lives Lost!"--I DIDN'T RAISE MY BOY TO BE
A SOLDIER. To us these did not seem to jibe.

The Lieutenant in silence opened one of the lower drawers of his desk
and took from it an American flag which he solemnly draped over the
war map on the wall. Then, turning to me with a grim face, said:

"How about it, Sergeant? You had better get out the muster roll of the
Mounted Scouts, as I think they will be needed in the course of a few
days."

We busied ourselves till late in the evening writing out emergency
telegrams for the men to report when the call should come from
Washington. Then we went home.

I crossed over to New York, and as I went up Fulton Street to take the
Subway to Brooklyn, the lights in the tall buildings of New York
seemed to be burning brighter than usual, as if they, too, had read
"Lusitania Sunk! American Lives Lost!" They seemed to be glowing with
anger and righteous indignation, and their rays wigwagged the message,
"REPAY!"

Months passed, the telegrams lying handy, but covered with dust. Then,
one momentous morning the Lieutenant with a sigh of disgust removed
the flag from the war map and returned to his desk. I immediately
followed this action by throwing the telegrams into the wastebasket.
Then we looked at each other in silence. He was squirming in his chair
and I felt depressed and uneasy.

The telephone rang and I answered it. It was a business call for me
requesting my services for an out-of-town assignment. Business was not
very good, so this was very welcome. After listening to the
proposition, I seemed to be swayed by a peculiarly strong force within
me, and answered, "I am sorry that I cannot accept your offer, but I
am leaving for England next week," and hung up the receiver. The
Lieutenant swung around in his chair, and stared at me in blank
astonishment. A sinking sensation came over me, but I defiantly
answered his look with, "Well, it's so. I'm going." And I went.

The trip across was uneventful. I landed at Tilbury, England, then got
into a string of matchbox cars and proceeded to London, arriving there
about 10 P.M. I took a room in a hotel near St. Pancras Station for
"five and six--fire extra." The room was minus the fire, but the
"extra" seemed to keep me warm. That night there was a Zeppelin raid,
but I didn't see much of it, because the slit in the curtains was too
small and I had no desire to make it larger. Next morning the
telephone bell rang, and someone asked, "Are you there?" I was,
hardly. Anyway, I learned that the Zeps had returned to their
Fatherland, so I went out into the street expecting to see scenes of
awful devastation and a cowering populace, but everything was normal.
People were calmly proceeding to their work. Crossing the street, I
accosted a Bobbie with:

"Can you direct me to the place of damage?"

He asked me, "What damage?"

In surprise, I answered, "Why, the damage caused by the Zeps."

With a wink, he replied:

"There was no damage, we missed them again."

After several fruitless inquiries of the passersby, I decided to go on
my own in search of ruined buildings and scenes of destruction. I
boarded a bus which carried me through Tottenham Court Road.
Recruiting posters were everywhere. The one that impressed me most was
a life-size picture of Lord Kitchener with his anger pointing directly
at me, under the caption of "Your King and Country Need You." No
matter which way I turned, the accusing finger followed me. I was an
American, in mufti, and had a little American flag in the lapel of my
coat. I had no king, and my country had seen fit not to need me, but
still that pointing finger made me feel small and ill at ease. I got
off the bus to try to dissipate this feeling by mixing with the throng
of the sidewalks.

Presently I came to a recruiting office. Inside, sitting at a desk was
a lonely Tommy Atkins. I decided to interview him in regard to joining
the British Army. I opened the door. He looked up and greeted me with
"I s'y, myte, want to tyke on?"

I looked at him and answered, "Well, whatever that is, I'll take a
chance at it."

Without the aid of an interpreter, I found out that Tommy wanted to
know if I cared to join the British Army. He asked me: "Did you ever
hear of the Royal Fusiliers?" Well, in London you know. Yanks are
supposed to know everything, so I was not going to appear ignorant and
answered, "Sure."

After listening for one half-hour to Tommy's tale of their exploits on
the firing line, I decided to join. Tommy took me to the recruiting
headquarters where I met a typical English Captain. He asked my
nationality. I immediately pulled out my American passport and showed
it to him. It was signed by Lansing,--Bryan had lost his job a
little while previously. After looking at the passport, he informed me
that he was sorry but could not enlist me, as it would be a breach of
neutrality. I insisted that I was not neutral, because to me it seemed
that a real American could not be neutral when big things were in
progress, but the Captain would not enlist me.

With disgust in my heart I went out in the street. I had gone about a
block when a recruiting Sergeant who had followed me out of the office
tapped me on the shoulder with his swagger stick and said: "Say, I can
get you in the Army. We have a 'Leftenant' down at the other office
who can do anything. He has just come out of the O. T. C. (Officers'
Training Corps) and does not know what neutrality is." I decided to
take a chance, and accepted his invitation for an introduction to the
Lieutenant. I entered the office and went up to him, opened up my
passport, and said:

"Before going further I wish to state that I am an American, not too
proud to fight, and want to join your army."

He looked at me in a nonchalant manner, and answered, "That's all
right, we take anything over here."

I looked at him kind of hard and replied, "So I notice," but it went
over his head.

He got out an enlistment blank, and placing his finger on a blank line
said, "Sign here."

I answered, "Not on your tintype."

"I beg your pardon?"

Then I explained to him that I would not sign it without first reading
it. I read it over and signed for duration of war. Some of the
recruits were lucky. They signed for seven years only.

Then he asked me my birthplace. I answered, "Ogden, Utah."

He said, "Oh yes, just outside of New York?"

With a smile, I replied, "Well, it's up the State a little."

Then I was taken before the doctor and passed as physically fit, and
was issued a uniform. When I reported back to the Lieutenant, he
suggested that, being an American, I go on recruiting service and try
to shame some of the slackers into joining the Army.

"All you have to do," he said, "is to go out on the street, and when
you see a young fellow in mufti who looks physically fit, just stop
him and give him this kind of a talk: 'Aren't you ashamed of yourself,
a Britisher, physically fit, and in mufti when your King and Country
need you? Don't you know that your country is at war and that the
place for every young Briton is on the firing line? Here I am, an
American, in khaki, who came four thousand miles to fight for your
King and Country, and you, as yet, have not enlisted. Why don't you
join? Now is the time.'

"This argument ought to get many recruits, Empey, so go out and see
what you can do."

He then gave me a small rosette of red, white, and blue ribbon, with
three little streamers hanging down. This was the recruiting insignia
and was to be worn on the left side of the cap.

Armed with a swagger stick and my patriotic rosette I went out into
Tottenham Court Road in quest of cannon fodder.

Two or three poorly dressed civilians passed me, and although they
appeared physically fit, I said to myself, "They don't want to Join
the army; perhaps they have someone dependent on them for support," so
I did not accost them.

Coming down the street I saw a young dandy, top hat and all, with a
fashionably dressed girl walking beside him. I muttered, "You are my
meat," and when he came abreast of me I stepped directly in his path
and stopped him with my Swagger stick, saying:

"You would look fine in khaki, why not change that top hat for a steel
helmet? Aren't you ashamed of yourself, a husky young chap like you in
mufti when men are needed in the trenches? Here I am, an American,
came four thousand miles from Ogden, Utah, just outside of New York,
to fight for your King and Country. Don't be a slacker, buck up and
get into uniform; come over to the recruiting office and I'll have you
enlisted."

He yawned and answered, "I don't care if you came forty thousand
miles, no one asked you to," and he walked on. The girl gave me a
sneering look; I was speechless.

I recruited for three weeks and nearly got one recruit.

This perhaps was not the greatest stunt in the world, but it got back
at the officer who had told me, "Yes, we take anything over here." I
had been spending a good lot of my recruiting time in the saloon bar
of the "Wheat Sheaf" pub (there was a very attractive blonde barmaid,
who helped kill time--I was not as serious in those days as I was a
little later when I reached the front)--well, it was the sixth day
and my recruiting report was blank. I was getting low in the pocket--
barmaids haven't much use for anyone who cannot buy drinks--so I
looked around for recruiting material. You know a man on recruiting
service gets a "bob" or shilling for every recruit he entices into
joining the army, the recruit is supposed to get this, but he would
not be a recruit if he were wise to this fact, would he?

Down at the end of the bar was a young fellow in mufti who was very
patriotic--he had about four "Old Six" ales aboard. He asked me if
he could join, showed me his left hand, two fingers were missing, but
I said that did not matter as "we take anything over here." The left
hand is the rifle hand as the piece is carried at the slope on the
left shoulder. Nearly everything in England is "by the left," even
general traffic keeps to the port side.

I took the applicant over to headquarters where he was hurriedly
examined. Recruiting surgeons were busy in those days and did not have
much time for thorough physical examinations. My recruit was passed as
"fit" by the doctor and turned over to a Corporal to make note of his
scars. I was mystified. Suddenly the Corporal burst out with, "Blime
me, two of his fingers are gone"; turning to me he said, "You
certainly have your nerve with you, not 'alf you ain't, to bring this
beggar in."

The doctor came over and exploded, "What do you mean by bringing in a
man in this condition?"

Looking out of the corner of my eye I noticed that the officer who had
recruited me had Joined the group, and I could not help answering,
"Well, sir, I was told that you took anything over here."

I think they called it "Yankee impudence," anyhow it ended my
recruiting.

CHAPTER II

BLIGHTY TO REST BILLETS

The next morning, the Captain sent for me and informed me: "Empey, as
a recruiting Sergeant you are a washout," and sent me to a training
depot.

After arriving at this place, I was hustled to the quartermaster
stores and received an awful shock. The Quartermaster Sergeant spread
a waterproof sheet on the ground, and commenced throwing a
miscellaneous assortment of straps, buckles, and other paraphernalia
into it. I thought he would never stop, but when the pile reached to
my knees he paused long enough to say, "Next, No. 5217, 'Arris, 'B'
Company." I gazed in bewilderment at the pile of junk in front of me,
and then my eyes wandered around looking for the wagon which was to
carry it to the barracks. I was rudely brought to earth by the
"Quarter" exclaiming, "'Ere, you, 'op it, tyke it aw'y; blind my eyes,
'e's looking for 'is batman to 'elp 'im carry it."

Struggling under the load, with frequent pauses for rest, I reached
our barracks (large car barns), and my platoon leader came to the
rescue. It was a marvel to me how quickly he assembled the equipment.
After he had completed the task, he showed me how to adjust it on my
person. Pretty soon I stood before him a proper Tommy Atkins in heavy
marching order, feeling like an overloaded camel.

On my feet were heavy-soled boots, studded with hobnails, the toes and
heels of which were reinforced by steel half-moons. My legs were
encased in woolen puttees, olive drab in color, with my trousers
overlapping them at the top. Then a woolen khaki tunic, under which
was a bluish-gray woolen shirt, minus a collar, beneath this shirt a
woolen belly-band about six inches wide, held in place by tie strings
of white tape. On my head was a heavy woolen trench cap, with huge ear
flaps buttoned over the top. Then the equipment: A canvas belt, with
ammunition pockets, and two wide canvas straps like suspenders, called
"D" straps, fastened to the belt in front, passing over each shoulder,
crossing in the middle of my back, and attached by buckles to the rear
of the belt. On the right side of the belt hung a water bottle,
covered with felt; on the left side was my bayonet and scabbard, and
entrenching tool handle, this handle strapped to the bayonet scabbard.
In the rear was my entrenching tool, carried in a canvas case. This
tool was a combination pick and spade. A canvas haversack was strapped
to the left side of the belt, while on my back was the pack, also of
canvas, held in place by two canvas straps over the shoulders;
suspended on the bottom of the pack was my mess tin or canteen in a
neat little canvas case. My waterproof sheet, looking like a jelly
roll, was strapped on top of the pack, with a wooden stick for
cleaning the breach of the rifle projecting from each end. On a
lanyard around my waist hung a huge jackknife with a can-opener
attachment. The pack contained my overcoat, an extra pair of socks,
change of underwear, hold-all (containing knife, fork, spoon, comb,
toothbrush, lather brush, shaving soap, and a razor made of tin, with
"Made in England" stamped on the blade; when trying to shave with this
it made you wish that you were at war with Patagonia, so that you
could have a "hollow ground" stamped "Made in Germany"); then your
housewife, button-cleaning outfit, consisting of a brass button stick,
two stiff brushes, and a box of "Soldiers' Friend" paste; then a shoe
brush and a box of dubbin, a writing pad, indelible pencil, envelopes,
and pay book, and personal belongings, such as a small mirror, a
decent razor, and a sheaf of unanswered letters, and fags. In your
haversack you carry your iron rations, meaning a tin of bully beef,
four biscuits, and a can containing tea, sugar, and Oxo cubes; a
couple of pipes and a package of shag, a tin of rifle oil, and a
pull-through. Tommy generally carries the oil with his rations; it
gives the cheese a sort of sardine taste.

Add to this a first-aid pouch and a long ungainly rifle patterned
after the Daniel Boone period, and you have an idea of a British
soldier in Blighty.

Before leaving for France, this rifle is taken from him and he is
issued with a Lee-Enfield short-trench rifle and a ration bag.

In France he receives two gas helmets, a sheep-skin coat, rubber
mackintosh, steel helmet, two blankets, tear-shell goggles, a
balaclava helmet, gloves, and a tin of anti-frostbite grease which is
excellent for greasing the boots. Add to this the weight of his
rations, and can you blame Tommy for growling at a twenty kilo route
march?

Having served as Sergeant-Major in the United States Cavalry, I tried
to tell the English drill sergeants their business but it did not
work. They immediately put me as batman in their mess. Many a greasy
dish of stew was accidentally spilled over them.

I would sooner fight than be a waiter, so when the order came through
from headquarters calling for a draft of 250 reinforcements for
France, I volunteered.

Then we went before the M. O. (Medical Officer) for another physical
examination. This was very brief. He asked our names and numbers and
said, "Fit," and we went out to fight.

We were put into troop trains and sent to Southampton, where we
detrained, and had our trench rifles issued to us. Then in columns of
twos we went up the gangplank of a little steamer lying alongside the
dock.

At the head of the gangplank there was an old Sergeant who directed
that we line ourselves along both rails of the ship. Then he ordered
us to take life belts from the racks overhead and put them on. I have
crossed the ocean several times and knew I was not seasick, but when I
budded on that life belt, I had a sensation of sickness.

After we got out into the stream all I could think of was that there
were a million German submarines with a torpedo on each, across the
warhead of which was inscribed my name and address.

After five hours we came alongside a pier and disembarked. I had
attained another one of my ambitions. I was "somewhere in France." We
slept in the open that night on the side of a road. About six the next
morning we were ordered to entrain. I looked around for the passenger
coaches, but all I could see on the siding were cattle cars. We
climbed into these. On the side of each car was a sign reading "Hommes
40, Cheveux 8." When we got inside of the cars, we thought that
perhaps the sign painter had reversed the order of things. After
forty-eight hours in these trucks we detrained at Rouen. At this place
we went through an intensive training for ten days.

This training consisted of the rudiments of trench warfare. Trenches
had been dug, with barbed-wire entanglements, bombing saps, dug-outs,
observation posts, and machine-gun emplacements. We were given a
smattering of trench cooking, sanitation, bomb throwing,
reconnoitering, listening posts, constructing and repairing barbed
wire, "carrying in" parties, methods used in attack and defense,
wiring parties, mass formation, and the procedure for poison-gas
attacks.

On the tenth day we again met our friends "Hommes 40, Chevaux 8."
Thirty-six hours more of misery, and we arrived at the town of F--.

After unloading our rations and equipment, we lined up on the road in
columns of fours waiting for the order to march.

A dull rumbling could be heard. The sun was shining. I turned to the
man on my left and asked, '"What's the noise, Bill?" He did not know,
but his face was of a pea-green color. Jim on my right also did not
know, but suggested that I "awsk" the Sergeant.

Coming towards us was an old grizzled Sergeant, properly fed up with
the war, so I "awsked" him.

"Think it's going to rain, Sergeant?"

He looked at me in contempt, and grunted, "'Ow's it a'goin' ter rain
with the bloomin' sun a 'shinin'?" I looked guilty.

"Them's the guns up the line, me lad, and you'll get enough of 'em
before you gets back to Blighty."

My knees seemed to wilt, and I squeaked out a weak "Oh!"

Then we started our march up to the line in ten kilo treks. After the
first day's march we arrived at our rest billets. In France they call
them rest billets, because while in them, Tommy works seven days a
week and on the eighth day of the week he is given twenty-four hours
"on his own."

Our billet was a spacious affair, a large barn on the left side of the
road, which had one hundred entrances, ninety-nine for shells, rats,
wind, and rain, and the hundredth one for Tommy. I was tired out, and
using my shrapnel-proof helmet, (shrapnel proof until a piece of
shrapnel hits it), or tin hat, for a pillow, lay down in the straw,
and was soon fast asleep. I must have slept about two hours, when I
awoke with a prickling sensation all over me. As I thought, the straw
had worked through my uniform. I woke up the fellow lying on my left,
who had been up the line before, and asked him.

"Does the straw bother you, mate? It's worked through my uniform and I
can't sleep."

In a sleepy voice, he answered, "That ain't straw, them's cooties."

From that time on my friends the "cooties" were constantly with me.

"Cooties," or body lice, are the bane of Tommy's existence.

The aristocracy of the trenches very seldom call them "cooties," they
speak of them as fleas.

To an American, flea means a small insect armed with a bayonet, who is
wont to jab it into you and then hop, skip, and jump to the next place
to be attacked. There is an advantage in having fleas on you instead
of "cooties" in that in one of his extended jumps said flea is liable
to land on the fellow next to you; he has the typical energy and push
of the American, while the "cootie" has the bull-dog tenacity of the
Englishman, he holds on and consolidates or digs in until his meal is
finished.

There is no way to get rid of them permanently. No matter how often
you bathe, and that is not very often, or how many times you change
your underwear, your friends, the "cooties" are always in evidence.
The billets are infested with them, especially so, if there is straw
on the floor.

I have taken a bath and put on brand-new underwear; in fact, a
complete change of uniform, and then turned in for the night. The next
morning my shirt would be full of them. It is a common sight to see
eight or ten soldiers sitting under a tree with their shirts over
their knees engaging in a "shirt hunt."

At night about half an hour before "lights out," you can see the
Tommies grouped around a candle, trying, in its dim light, to rid
their underwear of the vermin. A popular and very quick method is to
take your shirt and drawers, and run the seams back and forward in the
flame from the candle and burn them out. This practice is dangerous,
because you are liable to burn holes in the garments if you are not
careful.

Recruits generally sent to Blighty for a brand of insect powder
advertised as "Good for body lice." The advertisement is quite right;
the powder is good for "cooties," they simply thrive on it.

The older men of our battalion were wiser and made scratchers out of
wood. These were rubbed smooth with a bit of stone or sand to prevent
splinters. They were about eighteen inches long, and Tommy guarantees
that a scratcher of this length will reach any part of the body which
may be attacked. Some of the fellows were lazy and only made their
scratchers twelve inches, but many a night when on guard, looking over
the top from the fire step of the front-line trench, they would have
given a thousand "quid" for the other six inches.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15