Books: Over The Top

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Then the bomb came over and there he was, dying,--and a good job
too, we thought. The Captain dead? Well, his men wouldn't weep at the
news.

Without giving us any further information the Unteroffizier died.

We searched the bodies for identification disks but they had left
everything behind before starting on their foolhardy errand.

Next afternoon we buried them in our little cemetery apart from the
graves of the Tommies. If you ever go into that cemetery you will see
two little wooden crosses in the corner of the cemetery set away from
the rest.

They read:

Captain German Army Died--1916 Unknown R. I. P.

Unteroffizier German Army Died--1916 Unknown R.I.P.

CHAPTER XXI

ABOUT TURN

The next evening we were relieved by the -th Brigade, and once again
returned to rest billets. Upon arriving at these billets we were given
twenty-four hours in which to clean up. I had just finished getting
the mud from my uniform when the Orderly Sergeant informed me that my
name was in orders for leave, and that I was to report to the Orderly
Room in the morning for orders, transportation, and rations.

I nearly had a fit, hustled about, packing up, filling my pack with
souvenirs such as shell heads, dud bombs, nose caps, shrapnel balls,
and a Prussian Guardsman's helmet. In fact, before I turned in that
night, I had everything ready to report at the Orderly Room at nine
the next morning.

I was the envy of the whole section, swanking around, telling of the
good time I was going to have, the places I would visit, and the real,
old English beer I intended to guzzle. Sort of rubbed it into them,
because they all do it, and now that it was my turn, I took pains to
get my own back.

At nine I reported to the Captain, receiving my travel order and pass.
He asked me how much money I wanted to draw. I glibly answered, "Three
hundred francs, sir", he just as glibly handed me one hundred.

Reporting at Brigade Headquarters, with my pack weighing a ton, I
waited, with forty others for the Adjutant to inspect us. After an
hour's wait, he came out; must have been sore because he wasn't going
with us.

The Quartermaster-Sergeant issued us two days' rations, in a little
white canvas ration bag, which we tied to our belts.

Then two motor lorries came along and we piled in, laughing, joking,
and in the best of spirits. We even loved the Germans, we were feeling
so happy. Our journey to seven days' bliss in Blighty had commenced.

The ride in the lorry lasted about two hours; by this time we were
covered with fine, white dust from the road, but didn't mind, even if
we were nearly choking.

{Photo: Field Post Card Issued Once a Week to the Tommies.}

At the railroad station at P--we reported to an officer, who had a
white band around his arm, which read "R.T.O." (Royal Transportation
Officer). To us this officer was Santa Claus.

The Sergeant in charge showed him our orders; he glanced through them
and said, "Make yourselves comfortable on the platform and don't
leave, the train is liable to be along in five minutes--or five
hours."

It came in five hours, a string of eleven match boxes on big, high
wheels, drawn by a dinky little engine with the "con." These match
boxes were cattle cars, on the sides of which was painted the old
familiar sign, "Hommes 40, Chevaux 8."

The R.T.O. stuck us all into one car. We didn't care, it was as good
as a Pullman to us.

Two days we spent on that train, bumping, stopping, jerking ahead, and
sometimes sliding back. At three stations we stopped long enough to
make some tea, but were unable to wash, so when we arrived at B--,
where we were to embark for Blighty, we were as black as Turcos and,
with our unshaven faces, we looked like a lot of tramps. Though tired
out, we were happy.

We had packed up, preparatory to detraining, when a R.T.O. held up his
hand for us to stop where we were and came over. This is what he said:

"Boys, I'm sorry, but orders have just been received cancelling all
leave. If you had been three hours earlier you would have gotten away.
Just stay in that train, as it is going back. Rations will be issued
to you for your return journey to your respective stations. Beastly
rotten, I know." Then he left.

A dead silence resulted. Then men started to curse, threw their rifles
on the floor of the car, others said nothing, seemed to be stupefied,
while some had the tears running down their cheeks. It was a bitter
disappointment to all.

How we blinded at the engineer of that train, it was all his fault (so
we reasoned), why hadn't he speeded up a little or been on time, then
we would have gotten off before the order arrived? Now it was no
Blighty for us.

That return journey was misery to us; I just can't describe it.

When we got back to rest billets, we found that our Brigade was in the
trenches (another agreeable surprise), and that an attack was
contemplated.

Seventeen of the forty-one will never get another chance to go on
leave; they were killed in the attack. Just think if that train had
been on time, those seventeen would still be alive.

I hate to tell you how I was kidded by the boys when I got back, but
it was good and plenty.

Our Machine Gun Company took over their part of the line at seven
o'clock, the night after I returned from my near leave.

At 3.30 the following morning three waves went over and captured the
first and second German trenches. The machine gunners went over with
the fourth wave to consolidate the captured line or "dig in" as Tommy
calls it.

Crossing No Man's Land without clicking any casualties, we came to the
German trench and mounted our guns on the parados of same.

I never saw such a mess in my life-bunches of twisted barbed wire
lying about, shell holes everywhere, trench all bashed in, parapets
gone, and dead bodies, why that ditch was full of them, theirs and
ours. It was a regular morgue. Some were mangled horribly from our
shell fire, while others were wholly or partly buried in the mud, the
result of shell explosions caving in the walls of the trench. One dead
German was lying on his back, with a rifle sticking straight up in the
air, the bayonet of which was buried to the hilt in his chest. Across
his feet lay a dead English soldier with a bullet hole in his
forehead. This Tommy must have been killed just as he ran his bayonet
through the German.

Rifles and equipment were scattered about, and occasionally a steel
helmet could be seen sticking out of the mud.

At one point, just in the entrance to a communication trench, was a
stretcher. On this stretcher a German was lying with a white bandage
around his knee, near to him lay one of the stretcher-bearers, the red
cross on his arm covered with mud and his helmet filled with blood and
brains. Close by, sitting up against the wall of the trench, with head
resting on his chest, was the other stretcher-bearer. He seemed to be
alive, the posture was so natural and easy, but when I got closer, I
could see a large, jagged hole in, his temple. The three must have
been killed by the same shell-burst. The dugouts were all smashed in
and knocked about, big square-cut timbers splintered into bits, walls
caved in, and entrances choked.

Tommy, after taking a trench, learns to his sorrow, that the hardest
part of the work is to hold it.

In our case this proved to be so.

The German artillery and machine guns had us taped (ranged) for fair;
it was worth your life to expose yourself an instant.

Don't think for a minute that the Germans were the only sufferers, we
were clicking casualties so fast that you needed an adding machine to
keep track of them.

Did you ever see one of the steam shovels at work on the Panama Canal,
well, it would look like a hen scratching alongside of a Tommy
"digging in" while under fire, you couldn't see daylight through the
clouds of dirt from his shovel.

After losing three out of six men of our crew, we managed to set up
our machine gun. One of the legs of the tripod was resting on the
chest of a half-buried body. When the gun was firing, it gave the
impression that the body was breathing, this was caused by the
excessive vibration.

Three or four feet down the trench, about three feet from the ground,
a foot was protruding from the earth; we knew it was a German by the
black leather boot. One of our crew used that foot to hang extra
bandoliers of ammunition on. This man always was a handy fellow; made
use of little points that the ordinary person would overlook.

The Germans made three counter attacks, which we repulsed, but not
without heavy loss on our side. They also suffered severely from our
shell- and machine-gun fire. The ground was spotted with their dead
and dying.

The next day things were somewhat quieter, but not quiet enough to
bury the dead.

We lived, ate, and slept in that trench with the unburied dead for six
days. It was awful to watch their faces become swollen and discolored.
Towards the last the stench was fierce.

What got on my nerves the most was that foot sticking out of the dirt.
It seemed to me, at night, in the moonlight, to be trying to twist
around. Several times this impression was so strong that I went to it
and grasped it in both hands, to see if I could feel a movement.

I told this to the man who had used it for a hat-rack just before I
lay down for a little nap, as things were quiet and I needed a rest
pretty badly. When I woke up the foot was gone. He had cut it off with
our chain saw out of the spare parts' box, and bad plastered the stump
over with mud.

During the next two or three days, before we were relieved, I missed
that foot dreadfully, seemed as if I had suddenly lost a chum.

I think the worst thing of all was to watch the rats, at night, and
sometimes in the day, run over and play about among the dead.

Near our gun, right across the parapet, could be seen the body of a
German lieutenant, the head and arms of which were hanging into our
trench. The man who had cut off the foot used to sit and carry on a
one-sided conversation with this officer, used to argue and point out
why Germany was in the wrong. During all of this monologue, I never
heard him say anything out of the way, anything that would have hurt
the officer's feelings had he been alive. He was square all right,
wouldn't even take advantage of a dead man in an argument.

To civilians this must seem dreadful, but out here, one gets so used
to awful sights, that it makes no impression. In passing a butcher
shop, you are not shocked by seeing a dead turkey hanging from a hook.
Well, in France, a dead body is looked upon from the same angle.

But, nevertheless, when our six days were up, we were tickled to death
to be relieved.

Our Machine Gun Company lost seventeen killed and thirty-one wounded
in that little local affair of "straightening the line," while the
other companies clicked it worse than we did.

After the attack we went into reserve billets for six days, and on the
seventh once again we were in rest billets.

CHAPTER XXII

PUNISHMENTS AND MACHINE-GUN STUNTS

Soon after my arrival in France, in fact from my enlistment, I had
found that in the British Army discipline is very strict. One has to
be very careful in order to stay on the narrow path of government
virtue.

There are about seven million ways of breaking the King's Regulations;
to keep one you have to break another.

The worst punishment is death by a firing squad or "up against the
wall" as Tommy calls it.

This is for desertion, cowardice, mutiny, giving information to the
enemy, destroying or willfully wasting ammunition, looting, rape,
robbing the dead, forcing a safeguard, striking a superior, etc.

Then comes the punishment of sixty-four days in the front-line trench
without relief. During this time you have to engage in all raids,
working parties in No Man's Land, and every hazardous undertaking that
comes along. If you live through the sixty-four days you are indeed
lucky.

This punishment is awarded where there is a doubt as to the willful
guilt of a man who has committed an offence punishable by death.

Then comes the famous Field Punishment No. I. Tommy has nicknamed it
"crucifixion." It means that a man is spread eagled on a limber wheel,
two hours a day for twenty-one days. During this time he only gets
water, bully beef, and biscuits for his chow. You get "crucified" for
repeated minor offences.

Next in order is Field Punishment No. 2.

This is confinement in the "Clink," without blankets, getting water,
bully beef, and biscuits for rations and doing all the dirty work that
can be found. This may be for twenty-four hours or twenty days,
according to the gravity of the offence.

Then comes "Pack Drill" or Defaulters' Parade. This consists of
drilling, mostly at the double, for two hours with full equipment.
Tommy hates this, because it is hard work. Sometimes he fills his pack
with straw to lighten it, and sometimes he gets caught. If he gets
caught, he grouses at everything in general for twenty-one days, from
the vantage point of a limber wheel.

Next comes "C. B." meaning "Confined to Barracks." This consists of
staying in billets or barracks for twenty-four hours to seven days.
You also get an occasional Defaulters' Parade and dirty jobs around
the quarters.

The Sergeant-Major keeps what is known as the Crime Sheet. When a man
commits an offence, he is "Crimed," that is, his name, number, and
offence is entered on the Crime Sheet. Next day at 9 A.M. he goes to
the "Orderly Room" before the Captain, who either punishes him with
"C.B." or sends him before the O. C. (Officer Commanding Battalion).
The Captain of the Company can only award "C. B."

Tommy many a time has thanked the King for making that provision in
his regulations.

To gain the title of a "smart soldier," Tommy has to keep clear of the
Crime Sheet, and you have to be darned smart to do it.

I have been on it a few times, mostly for "Yankee impudence."

During our stay of two weeks in rest billets our Captain put us
through a course of machine-gun drills, trying out new stunts and
theories.

After parades were over, our guns' crews got together and also tried
out some theories of their own in reference to handling guns. These
courses had nothing to do with the advancement of the war, consisted
mostly of causing tricky jams in the gun, and then the rest of the
crew would endeavor to locate as quickly as possible the cause of the
stoppage. This amused them for a few days and then things came to a
standstill.

One of the boys on my gun claimed that he could play a tune while the
gun was actually firing, and demonstrated this fact one day on the
target range. We were very enthusiastic and decided to become
musicians.

After constant practice I became quite expert in the tune entitled ALL
CONDUCTORS HAVE BIG FEET.

When I had mastered this tune, our two weeks' rest came to an end, and
once again we went up the line and took over the sector in front of
G---Wood.

At this point the German trenches ran around the base of a hill, on
the top of which was a dense wood. This wood was infested with machine
guns, which used to traverse our lines at will, and sweep the streets
of a little village, where we were billeted while in reserve.

There was one gun in particular which used to get our goats, it had
the exact range of our "elephant" dugout entrance, and every evening,
about the time rations were being brought up, its bullets would knock
up the dust on the road; more than one Tommy went West or to Blighty
by running into them.

This gun got our nerves on edge, and Fritz seemed to know it, because
he never gave us an hour's rest. Our reputation as machine gunners was
at stake; we tried various ruses to locate and put this gun out of
action, but each one proved to be a failure, and Fritz became a worse
nuisance than ever. He was getting fresher and more careless every
day, took all kinds of liberties, with us,--thought he was
invincible.

Then one of our crew got a brilliant idea and we were all enthusiastic
to put it to the test.

Here was his scheme:

When firing my gun, I was to play my tune, and Fritz, no doubt, would
fall for it, try to imitate me as an added insult. This gunner and two
others would try, by the sound, to locate Fritz and his gun. After
having got the location, they would mount two machine guns in trees,
in a little dump of woods, to the left of our cemetery, and while
Fritz was in the middle of his lesson, would open up and trust to
luck. By our calculations, it would take at least a week to pull off
the stunt.

If Fritz refused to swallow our bait, it would be impossible to locate
his special gun, and that's the one we were after, because they all
sound alike, a slow pup-pup-pup.

Our prestige was hanging by a thread. In the battalion we had to
endure all kinds of insults and fresh remarks as to our ability in
silencing Fritz. Even to the battalion that German gun was a sore
spot.

Next day, Fritz opened up as usual. I let him fire away for a while
and then butted in with my "pup-pup-pup-pup-pup-pup." I kept this up
quite a while, used two belts of ammunition. Fritz had stopped firing
to listen. Then he started in; sure enough, he had fallen for our
game, his gun was trying to imitate mine, but, at first he made a
horrible mess of that tune. Again I butted in with a few bars and
stopped. Then he tried to copy what I had played. He was a good sport
all right, because his bullets were going away over our heads, must
have been firing into the air. I commenced to feel friendly toward
him.

This duet went on for five days. Fritz was a good pupil and learned
rapidly, in fact, got better than his teacher. I commenced to feel
jealous. When he had completely mastered the tune, he started sweeping
the road again and we clicked it worse than ever. But he signed his
death warrant by doing so, because my friendship turned to hate. Every
time he fired he played that tune and we danced.

The boys in the battalion gave us the "Ha! Ha!" They weren't in on our
little frame-up.

The originator of the ruse and the other two gunners had Fritz's
location taped to the minute; they mounted their two guns, and also
gave me the range. The next afternoon was set for the grand finale.

Our three guns, with different elevations, had their fire so arranged,
that, opening up together, their bullets would suddenly drop on Fritz
like a hailstorm.

About three the next day, Fritz started "pup--pupping" that tune. I
blew a sharp blast on a whistle, it was the signal agreed upon; we
turned loose and Fritz's gun suddenly stopped in the middle of a bar.
We had cooked his goose, and our ruse had worked. After firing two
belts each, to make sure of our job, we hurriedly dismounted our guns
and took cover in the dugout. We knew what to expect soon. We didn't
have to wait long, three salvos of "whizz-bangs" came over from
Fritz's artillery, a further confirmation that we had sent that
musical machine-gunner on his westward bound journey.

That gun never bothered us again. We were the heroes of the battalion,
our Captain congratulated us, said it was a neat piece of work, and,
consequently, we were all puffed up over the stunt.

There are several ways Tommy uses to disguise the location of his
machine gun and get his range. Some of the most commonly used stunts
are as follows:

At night, when he mounts his gun over the top of his trench and wants
to get the range of Fritz's trench he adopts the method of what he
terms "getting the sparks." This consists of firing bursts from his
gun until the bullets hit the German barbed wire. He can tell when
they are cutting the wire, because a bullet when it hits a wire throws
out a blue electric spark. Machine-gun fire is very damaging to wire
and causes many a wiring party to go out at night when it is quiet to
repair the damage.

To disguise the flare of his gun at night when firing. Tommy uses what
is called a flare protector.

This is a stove-pipe arrangement which fits over the barrel casing of
the gun and screens the sparks from the right and left, but not from
the front. So Tommy, always resourceful, adopts this scheme. About
three feet or less in front of the gun he drives two stakes into the
ground, about five feet apart. Across these stakes he stretches a
curtain made out of empty sandbags ripped open. He soaks this curtain
in water and fires through it. The water prevents it catching fire and
effectively screens the flare of the firing gun from the enemy.

Sound is a valuable asset in locating a machine gun, but Tommy
surmounts this obstacle by placing two machine guns about one hundred
to one hundred fifty yards apart. The gun on the right to cover with
its fire the sector of the left gun and the gun on the left to cover
that of the right gun. This makes their fire cross; they are fired
simultaneously.

{Illustration: Diagram}

By this method it sounds like one gun firing and gives the Germans the
impression that the gun is firing from a point midway between the guns
which are actually firing, and they accordingly shell that particular
spot. The machine gunners chuckle and say, "Fritz is a brainy boy, not
'alf he ain't."

But the men in our lines at the spot being shelled curse Fritz for his
ignorance and pass a few pert remarks down the line in reference to
the machine gunners being "windy" and afraid to take their medicine.

CHAPTER XXIII

GAS ATTACKS AND SPIES

Three days after we had silenced Fritz, the Germans sent over gas. It
did not catch us unawares, because the wind had been made to order,
that is, it was blowing from the German trenches towards ours at the
rate of about five miles per hour.

Warnings had been passed down the trench to keep a sharp lookout for
gas.

We had a new man at the periscope, on this afternoon in question; I
was sitting on the fire step, cleaning my rifle, when he called out to
me:

"There's a sort of greenish, yellow cloud rolling along the ground out
in front, it's coming--"

But I waited for no more, grabbing my bayonet, which was detached from
the rifle, I gave the alarm by banging an empty shell case, which was
hanging near the periscope. At the same instant, gongs started ringing
down the trench, the signal for Tommy to don his respirator, or smoke
helmet, as we call it.

Gas travels quickly, so you must not lose any time; you generally have
about eighteen or twenty seconds in which to adjust your gas helmet.

A gas helmet is made of cloth, treated with chemicals. There are two
windows, or glass eyes, in it, through which you can see. Inside there
is a rubber-covered tube, which goes in the mouth, You breathe through
your nose; the gas, passing through the cloth helmet, is neutralized
by the action of the chemicals. The foul air is exhaled through the
tube in the mouth, this tube being so constructed that it prevents the
inhaling of the outside air or gas. One helmet is good for five hours
of the strongest gas. Each Tommy carries two of them slung around his
shoulder in a waterproof canvas bag. He must wear this bag at all
times, even while sleeping. To change a defective helmet, you take out
the new one, hold your breath, pull the old one off, placing the new
one over your head, tucking in the loose ends under the collar of your
tunic.

For a minute, pandemonium reigned in our trench,--Tommies adjusting
their helmets, bombers running here and there, and men turning out of
the dugouts with fixed bayonets, to man the fire step.

Reinforcements were pouring out of the communication trenches.

Our gun's crew were busy mounting the machine gun on the parapet and
bringing up extra ammunition from the dugout.

German gas is heavier than air and soon fills the trenches and
dugouts, where it has been known to lurk for two or three days, until
the air is purified by means of large chemical sprayers.

We had to work quickly, as Fritz generally follows the gas with an
infantry attack.

A company man on our right was too slow in getting on his helmet; he
sank to the ground, clutching at his throat, and after a few spasmodic
twisting, went West (died). It was horrible to see him die, but we
were powerless to help him. In the corner of a traverse, a little,
muddy cur dog, one of the company's pets, was lying dead, with his two
paws over his nose.

It's the animals that suffer the most, the horses, mules, cattle,
dogs, cats, and rats, they having no helmets to save them. Tommy does
not sympathize with rats in a gas attack.

At times, gas has been known to travel, with dire results, fifteen
miles behind the lines.

A gas, or smoke helmet, as it is called, at the best is a
vile-smelling thing, and it is not long before one gets a violent
headache from wearing it.

Our eighteen-pounders were bursting in No Man's Land, in an effort, by
the artillery, to disperse the gas clouds.

The fire step was lined with crouching men, bayonets fixed, and bombs
near at hand to repel the expected attack.

Our artillery had put a barrage of curtain fire on the German lines,
to try and break up their attack and keep back reinforcements.

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