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Page 11
It is the duty of a ration party to bring up the loads from where they
have been left. On regaining the opening to the trench, they take the
rations to the quartermaster-sergeant's hut or dug-out. The sergeants of
each platoon come to this hut or dug-out, and to them the things are
delivered in quantities proportionate with the number of men in the
section each represents. The sergeants then send along two men to carry
the whacks to the respective traverses in the trench. This goes on night
after night. So on the occasion I am recalling we were very late--and
the distance we had to go was as much as a mile and three-quarters.
This ration carrying, the final stage of ration transport, is an even
more dangerous and risky job than the preceding stage, and, as usual,
snipers got busy on us, hitting three men, though none was killed. The
rattle of bullets from machine guns on the ricketty sides of the old
cart added to the programme of the night's entertainment, and there were
frequent intervals, not for refreshments, but for getting flat and
waiting.
GATHERING IN OUR FIREWOOD.
Chopping up firewood was regarded not so much as work as it was regarded
as one of our recreations in the trenches--of which I shall have a
little to say presently. But it often happened that there was no
recreation, but only the excitement of danger in the night-time job of
bringing in the firewood for day-time chopping. It would happen that a
man had spotted in some shelled house or fallen farm-building a beam,
plank, door, or something else wooden and burnable, that he couldn't
carry without assistance, or that he couldn't stop to bring away at the
time. It must be fetched, for fire we must have. It might be only a few
score yards away measured by distance, but an hour measured by
time--"thou art so near and yet so far" sort of thing. Fetchers might
get hit at any moment, and had to creep and wriggle very cautiously over
open ground all the way. By some strange twist of mental association,
whenever I was a fetcher in these circumstances I found myself mentally
quoting Longfellow's line in "Hiawatha"--"He is gathering in his
firewood"!
[Illustration: THE WOODCUTTER'S HUT.]
Our champion at the game was a Private Hyatt--quite a youngster, but
of fine physique and fearless daring. His dug-out was called "The
Woodcutter's Hut." He made a regular hobby of wood-getting. He was an
expert, a specialist. On certain occasions he even went out after wood
in the daylight, slithering along on all fours towards his objective,
and would be fired at until recalled by one of his own officers. On one
occasion when he had crawled out and into a building to collect wood, as
he crawled back through the doorway we saw little clouds of dust rising
from the brick-work surrounding him, which showed that the enemy's
snipers had spotted him, and we shouted to him from the trench to "keep
down." He took refuge behind the wall of the doorway, and lay there
three-quarters of an hour, and then returned, bringing with him the much
prized plank of which he had gone in search, and which, when chopped up,
supplied our section with sufficient firewood for a whole day and night.
In the sketch it will be observed he is reading a letter. This he had
received just after the above incident, and sat down on his valise quite
unaware that I was sketching him. Later on I gave him a copy of the
sketch, and he enclosed it in his affectionate reply to his folk at
home.
"STAND TO."
The most anxious time a soldier can know is the time, be it long or
short, that follows the command to stand to. Many a time we had to stand
to the whole night--the entire battalion, from evening twilight till the
full dawn of day--as an attack was expected. Everyone was at his firing
position, with bayonet fixed and his rifle loaded--and in tip-top
working condition, the daily rifle inspection having taken place at
dusk. Sometimes our artillery would presently open fire for the enemy's
first line, perhaps for five or six minutes--it might be more, it might
be less. Then a wait of six or seven minutes, when the enemy returned
the fire, and we all got well down. It was as well to keep as hard up
against the parapet as possible, and to keep out of all dug-outs, for
into them the forward impetus of bursting shrapnel was likely to throw a
lot of splinters. Again silence, comrades and pals passing a few remarks
in anticipation of what everybody knew was coming. The officers with us
were one with us, and at their words, "Well, come on, lads," there was
never a laggard in getting "over the tops" (in our own phraseology). As
soon as we put our hands on the sandbags to clamber over the top of the
parapet a hailstorm of bullets pelted us. It is impossible--at all
events for me--to describe a charge. Speaking for myself, always my
brain seemed to snap. It was simply a rush in a mad line--or as much of
a line as could be kept--towards the enemy's barbed wire entanglements,
which our guns had blown to smithereens in preparation for the assault.
We scrambled on to their parapet, each getting at the first man he
could touch. When we had taken their position (we didn't always) we
might have to wait some time till our artillery had shelled the second
line, but there was a lot of work to be done at once. The parapet had to
be reversed.
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