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Page 10
CAPTURE OF A GERMAN TRENCH.
[Illustration: CAPTURED GERMAN TRENCH.]
Without their coveted observation post the German gunners got the range
of the town beyond the village so completely that one day they poured a
continuous stream of shells over our heads from 4.30 in the morning
till mid-day. It was, I remember, at day-break next morning that under
cover of our own artillery, we made an advance and took the trench here
depicted just as it was left by the turned-out. So hurried was their
exit when faced by British bayonets that they left behind them in the
trench quite a number of articles most useful to us--such as saws,
sniper's rifles mounted on tripod stands, haversacks, and a quantity of
other equipment, also a very fine selection of cigars, which came as
quite a godsend to us. Personally, I clicked on a pair of German jack
boots, which, as the weather was wet and the ground soft and muddy, as
usual, came in very handy. I also came across a forage cap and a pocket
knife, and picked up a photograph--that of a typical Fraulein, probably
the sweetheart of Heinrich, Fritz or Karl.
A NIGHT RELIEF.
Duty in the trenches and rest and sleep in our billets in their rear
alternated with something like regularity, but it was a regularity
always liable to interruptions, such as were necessitated by not
infrequent exigencies.
For instance, we had just got back to the latter one night, at exactly
10.30, after seven consecutive days in the trenches of our most advanced
position, and were thinking that now we should get a few hours' quiet
repose--subject, of course, to the disturbance of shelling--when a
sudden order was given to fall in. We turned out, were numbered, "right
turned," and marched off, singing and whistling merrily. After
proceeding in this fashion for half a mile, word was passed down to form
Indian file, seven paces apart. We moved thus for about a quarter of a
mile, and then word was again passed down--"no smoking, whistling, or
talking." The night was pitch dark, foggy, and a drizzle was beating in
our faces.
We were now within range of the enemy's rifle fire and heard spent
bullets as they pinged and spluttered into the mud. We crossed a railway
line, and marched or crawled the best way we could along the ditch
parallel with it--truth to tell, cursing and swearing. We passed an old
signal station, now just a pile of bricks, with one side wall still
erect and one glass window intact. We had come to know well that wall
and that window and the strewn bricks around, for we had passed the spot
so often in our little excursions from trench to billet and billet to
trench. A little further along the whistle of the bullets grew louder
and more continuous--their sound something like the sound of soft
notes whistled by a boy. Machine guns--"motor bikes" in our
nomenclature--rattled our left and right, our position being that of
the far apex of a triangle, exposed to inflated fire all the way up.
Arriving within a few yards of the opening of the trench we were to
occupy in relief of the North Staffords, the first section of whom were
moving along the ditch, a star shell burst above as the searchlight was
turned on, and every man stood stock still till all was dark again.
Between men of the incoming and outgoing battalions such casual
greetings were exchanged as: "Wot's it like up here, matie?"; "'Ow are
yer goin', son?"; "Yer want to keep your 'ead well down in this
part--it's a bit 'ot"; "So long, sonnie." Sprawling, ducking and diving,
we got in, and "safe" behind the sandbags. Just as my chum and I had
entered the dug-out, and were preparing to make ourselves comfortable,
as our turn for sentry-go would not be for two hours, the sergeant
shoved his head in and shouted that we were wanted for a ration party.
RATION PARTIES.
A ration party consists of fourteen men--fewer sometimes, but fourteen
if possible, as the proper full complement. The small carts in use are
generally of rude and primitive construction. As everybody knows by now,
rations comprise bully beef Spratt's biscuits--very large and rather
hard--loaves of bread packed in sacks, bacon, jam, marmalade,
Maconochies in tins, and, when possible, kegs of water. Let not the rum
be forgotten. No soldier is more grateful for anything than for his
tablespoonful of rum at half-past six in the evening and half-past four
in the morning. His "tot" has saved many a man from a chill, and kept
him going during long and dreary hours of wet and press. As to bread, by
the bye, it is highly probable that one small loaf, about half the size
of an ordinary loaf, will be divided between seven men. With the good
things already enumerated, a plentiful supply of charcoal and coke is
usually to be expected. The horse transports with these provisions never
get nearer than, at the closest, say half-a-mile of the front trench
itself, when the men in charge dump their loads down and get away back
to their stores and billets as quickly as possible. There is a lot to
risk, for as a rule the enemy have the road well set, and the shelling
is often very severe.
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