 3. I go to church. Upon enlistment we had identity disks issued to us. These were small disks of red fiber worn around the neck by means of a string. Most of the Tommy's also used a little metal disk which they wore around the left wrist by means of a chain. They had previously figured it out that if their heads were blown off the disk on the left wrist would identify them. If they lost their left arm the disk around the neck would serve the purpose, but if their head and left arm were blown off no one would care who they were so it did not matter. On one side of the disk was inscribed your rank, name, number, and battalion while on the other was stamped your religion. C of E meaning Church of England, RC, Roman Catholic, W, Wesleyan, P, Presbyterian, but if you happened to be an atheist they left it blank and just handed you a pick and shovel. On my disk was stamped C of E. This is how I got it. The lieutenant who enlisted me asked my religion. I was not sure of the religion of the British Army so I answered, oh, any old thing, and he promptly put down C of E. Now just imagine my hard luck. Out of five religions I was unlucky enough to pick the only one where church parade was compulsory. The next morning was Sunday. I was sitting in the billet writing home to my sister telling her of my wonderful exploits while under fire. All recruits do this. The sergeant major put his head in the door of the billet and shouted, C of E, outside for church parade. I kept on writing. Turning to me in a loud voice he asked, MP, aren't you C of E? I answered, yep. In an angry tone he commanded, don't you yep me? Say yes, sergeant major. I did so. Somewhat mollified he ordered, outside for church parade. I looked up and answered, I'm not going to church this morning. He said, oh yes you are. I answered, oh no I'm not. But I went. We lined up outside with rifles and bayonets, one hundred twenty rounds of ammunition, wearing our tin hats, and the march to church began. After marching about five kilometers we turned off the road into an open field. At one end of this field the chaplain was standing in a limber. We formed a semicircle around him. Overhead there was a black speck circling round and round in the sky. This was a German fucker. The chaplain had a book in his left hand, left eye on the book, right eye on the airplane. We Tommies were lucky we had no books so had both eyes on the airplane. After church parade we were marched back to our billets and played football all afternoon. Chapter 4 Into the Trench The next morning the draft was inspected by our general and we were assigned to different companies. The boys in the brigade had nicknamed this general Old Pepper and he certainly earned the sobriquet. I was assigned to B company with another American named Stuart. For the next ten days we rested, repairing roads for the Frenchies, drilling, and digging bombing trenches. One morning we were informed that we were going up the line and our march began. It took us three days to reach reserve billets, each day's march bringing the sound of the guns nearer and nearer. At night way off in the distance we could see their flashes which lighted up the sky with a red glare. Against the horizon we could see numerous observation balloons or sausages as they are called. On the afternoon of the third day's march I witnessed my first airplane being shelled. A thrill ran through me and I gazed in awe. The airplane was making wide circles in the air while little puffs of white smoke were bursting all around it. These puffs appeared like tiny balls of cotton while after each burst could be heard a dull plop. The sergeant of my platoon informed us that it was a German airplane and I wondered how he could tell from such a distance because the plane seemed like a little black speck in the sky. I expressed my doubt as to whether it was English, French, or German. With a look of contempt he further informed us that the Allied anti-aircraft shells when exploding emitted white smoke while the German shells gave forth black smoke and as he expressed it. It must be an aleman because our pom-poms are shelling and I know our batteries are not off their belly-nepers and are certainly not strafing our own planes and another piece of advice don't chuck your weight about until you've been up the line and learnt something. I immediately quit chucking my weight about from that time on. Just before reaching reserve billets we were marching along, laughing, and singing one of Tommy's trench-diddies. I want to go home. I want to go home. I don't want to go to the trenches no more where sausages and whiz-bangs are galore. Take me over the sea where the aleman can't get at me. Oh, my, I don't want to die. I want to go home. When overhead came a swish through the air rapidly followed by three others. Then about two hundred yards to our left and a large field, four columns of black earth and smoke rose into the air and the ground trembled from the report, the explosion of four German five-nines or coal-boxes. A sharp whistle-blast immediately followed by two short ones rang out from the head of our column. This was to take up artillery formation. We divided into small squads and went into the fields on the right and left of the road and crouched on the ground. No other shells followed this salvo. It was our first baptism by shell-fire. From the waist up I was all enthusiasm, but from there down everything was missing. I thought I should die with fright. After a while we reformed into columns of fours and proceeded on our way. About five that night we reached the ruined village of, can't say, and I got my first sight of the awful destruction caused by German couture. Marching down the main street we came to the heart of the village and took up quarters and shell-proof cellars, shell-proof until hit by a shell. Shells were constantly whistling over the village and bursting in our rear, searching for our artillery. These cellars were cold, damp, and smelly, and overrun with large rats, big black fellows. Most of the Tommies slept with their overcoats over their faces. I did not. In the middle of the night I woke up in terror. The cold, clammy feet of a rat had passed over my face. I immediately smothered myself in my overcoat, but could not sleep for the rest of that night. Next evening we took over our sector of the line. In single file we wended our way through a zigzag communication trench, six inches deep with mud. This trench was called Whiskey Street. On our way up to the front line an occasional flare of bursting shrapnel would light up the sky, and we could hear the fragments slapping the ground above us on our right and left. Then a fritz would traverse back and forth with his typewriter, or machine gun. The bullets made a sharp cracking noise overhead. The boy in front of me, named Prettis, crumpled up without a word. A piece of shell had gone through his shrapnel-proof helmet. I felt sick and weak. In about thirty minutes we reached the front line. It was dark as pitch. Every now and then a German starshell would pierce the blackness out in front with its silvery light. I was trembling all over and felt very lonely and afraid. All orders were given in whispers. The company we relieved filed past us and disappeared into the blackness of the communication trench leading to the rear. As they passed us they whispered, Best of luck, mates! I sat on the fire-step of the trench with the rest of the men. In each traverse two of the older men had been put on guard with their heads sticking over the top and with their eyes trying to pierce the blackness in no man's land. In this trench there were only two dugouts, and these were used by Lewis and Vickers, machine gunners, so it was the fire-step for ours. Pretty soon it started to rain. We put on our max, but they were not much protection. The rain trickled down our backs, and it was not long before we were wet and cold. How I passed that night I will never know, but without any unusual occurrence Don arrived. The word stand down was passed along the line, and the sentries got down off the fire-step. Pretty soon the rum issue came along, and it was a godsend. It warmed our chilled bodies and put new life into us. Then from the communication tranches came dixies, or iron pots, filled with steaming tea, which had two wooden stakes through their handles, and were carried by two men. I filled my canteen and drank the hot tea without taking it from my lips. It was not long before I was asleep in the mud on the fire-step. My ambition had been attained. I was in a front-line trench on the western front, and oh, how I wished I were back in Jersey City. Not the refreshing kind that comes from clean sheets and soft pillows, but the sleep that comes from cold, wet, and sheer exhaustion. Suddenly the earth seemed to shake, and a thunder-clap burst in my ears. I opened my eyes. I was splashed all over with sticky mud, and men were picking themselves up from the bottom of the trench. The parapet on my left had toppled into the trench, completely blocking it, with a wall of tossed-up earth. The man on my left lay still. I rubbed the mud from my face, and an awful sight met my gaze. His head was smashed to a pulp, and his steel helmet was full of brains and blood. A German mini, trench mortar, had exploded in the next traverse. Men were digging into the soft mass of mud in a frenzy of haste. Stretcher-bearers came up the trench on the double. After a few minutes of digging, three still, bloody forms on stretchers were carried down the communication trench to the rear. Soon they would be resting, somewhere in France, with a little wooden cross over their heads. They had done their bit for king and country, and had died without firing a shot, but their services were appreciated nevertheless. Later on I found out their names. They belonged to our draft. I was dazed and motionless. Suddenly a shovel was pushed into my hands, and a rough but kindly voice said, Here, my lad, lend a hand clear in the trench, but keep your head down, and look out for snipers. One of the fritzes is a daisy, and he'll get you if you're not careful. Lying on my belly on the bottom of the trench, I filled sandbags with the sticky mud. They were dragged to my rear by the other men, and the work of rebuilding the parapet was on. The harder I worked, the better I felt. Although the weather was cold, I was soaked with sweat. Occasionally a bullet would crack overhead, and a machine gun would kick up the mud on the bashed-in parapet. At each crack I would duck and shield my face with my arm. One of the older men noticed this action of mine, and whispered, Don't duck at the crack of a bullet, yank! The danger has passed. You'll never hear the one that wings you. Always remember that, if you are going to get it, you'll get it, so never worry. This made a great impression on me at the time, and from then on I adopted his motto, If you're going to get it, you'll get it. It helped me wonderfully. I used it so often afterwards that some of my mates dubbed me, If you're going to get it, you'll get it. After an hour's hard work, all my nervousness left me, and I was laughing and joking with the rest. At one o'clock dinner came up in the form of a dixie of hot stew. I looked for my canteen. It had fallen off the fire-step and was half-buried in the mud. The man on my left noticed this and told the corporal, dishing out the rations, to put my share in his mess-tin. Then he whispered to me, Always take care of your mess-tin, mate. I had learned another maxim of the trenches. That stew tasted fine. I was as hungry as a bear. We had seconds, or another helping, because three of the men had gone west, killed by the explosion of the German trench-mortar, and we ate their share. But still I was hungry, so I filled in with bully-beef and biscuits. Then I drained my water-bottle. Later on I learned another maxim of the front line. Go sparingly with your water. The bully-beef made me thirsty, and by tea-time I was dying for a drink. But my pride would not allow me to ask my mates for water. I was fast learning the ethics of the trenches. That night I was put on guard with an older man. We stood on the fire-step with our heads over the top, peering out into no man's land. It was nervous work for me, but the other fellows seemed to take it as part of the night's routine. Then something shot past my face. My heart stopped beating, and I ducked my head below the parapet. A soft chuckle from my mate brought me to my senses, and I feebly asked, For God's sake, what was that? He answered, Only a rat taking a promenade along the sand-backs. I felt very sheepish. About every twenty minutes the sentry in the next traverse would fire a star-shell from his flare-pistol. The plop would give me a start of fright. I never got used to this noise during my service in the trenches. I would watch the ark, described by the star-shell, and then stare into no man's land, waiting for it to burst. In its lurid light the barbed wire and stakes would be silhouetted against its light like a lattice-window. Then darkness. Out in front of our wire I heard a noise and saw dark forms moving. My rifle was lying across the sand-bagged parapet. I reached for it, and was taking aim to fire when my mate grasped my arm and whispered, Don't fire. He challenged in a low voice. The reply came back instantly from the dark forms. Shut your blinkin' mouth, you bloomin' idiot! Do you want us to click it from the bushes? Later we learned that the word, no challenging or firing, wiring party out in front, had been given to the sentry on our right, but he had failed to pass it down the trench. An officer had overheard our challenge and the reply, and immediately put the offending sentry under arrest. The sentry clicked twenty-one days on the wheel, that is, he received twenty-one days field punishment number one, or crucifixion, as Tommy terms it. This consists of being spread eagled on the wheel of a limber two hours a day for twenty-one days, regardless of the weather. During this period your rations consist of bully beef, biscuits, and water. A few months later I met the sentry, and he confided to me that since being crucified, he has never failed to pass the word down the trench when so ordered. In view of the offense, the above punishment was very light, in that failing to pass the word down a trench may mean the loss of many lives, and the spoiling of some important enterprise in no man's land. CHAPTER VI. BACK OF THE LINE Our tour in the front-line trench lasted four days, and then we were relieved by the brigade. Going down the communication trench we were in a merry mood, although we were cold and wet, and every bone in our bodies ached. It makes a lot of difference whether you are going in or going out. At the end of the communication trench, limbers were waiting on the road for us. I thought we were going to ride back to rest-billets, but soon found out that the only time an infantryman rides is when he is wounded, and is bound for the base, or blighty. These limbers carried our reserve ammunition and rations. Our march to rest-billets was thoroughly enjoyed by me. It seemed as if I were on furlough, and was leaving behind everything that was disagreeable and horrible. Every recruit feels this way after being relieved from the trenches. We marched eight kilometers, and then halted in front of a French stamina-net. The captain gave the order to turn out on each side of the road and wait his return. Pretty soon he came back and told Big Company to occupy-billets 117, 118, and 119. Billet 117 was an old stable which had previously been occupied by cows. About four feet in front of the entrance was a huge manure pile, and the odor from it was anything but pleasant. Using my flashlight I stumbled through the door. Just before entering, I observed a white sign reading, Sitting fifty, lying twenty. But at the time its significance did not strike me. Next morning I asked the sergeant-major what it meant. He nonchalantly answered, That some of the work of the R.A.M.C., the Royal Army Medical Corps. It simply means that in case of an attack this billet will accommodate fifty wounded who are able to sit up and take notice, or twenty stretcher cases. It was not long after this that I was one of the twenty lying. I soon hit the hay and was fast asleep. Even my friends the cooties failed to disturb me. The next morning at about six o'clock I was awakened by the Lance Corporal of our section, informing me that I had been detailed as mess orderly and to report to the cook to give him a hand. I helped him make the fire, carry water from an old well, and fry the bacon. Lids of Dixies are used to cook the bacon in. After breakfast was cooked I carried a Dixie of hot tea and the lid full of bacon to our section, and told the Corporal that breakfast was ready. He looked at me in contempt and then shouted, breakfast up! Come and get it! I immediately got wise to the trench parlance and never again informed that breakfast was served. It didn't take long for the Tommy's to answer this call. Half dressed, they lined up with their canteens and I dished out the tea. Each Tommy carried in his hand a thick slice of bread which had been issued with the R.A.M.C. the night before. Then I had the pleasure of seeing them dig into the bacon with their dirty fingers. The allowance was one slice per man. The late ones received very small slices. As each Tommy got his share he immediately disappeared into the billet. Pretty soon about fifteen of them made a rush to the cookhouse, each carrying a huge slice of bread. These slices they dipped into the bacon grease which was stewing over the fire. The last man invariably lost out. I was the last man. After breakfast our section carried their equipment into a field adjoining the billet and got busy removing the trench mud therefrom, because at 8.45 a.m. they had to fall in for inspection and parade, and woe betied the man who was unshaven or had mud on his uniform. Cleanliness is next to guideliness in the British army, and old pepper must have been personally acquainted with St. Peter. Our drill consisted of close order formation which lasted until noon. During this time we had two ten-minute breaks for rest, and no sooner the word fall out for ten minutes was given than each Tommy got out a fag and lighted it. Bags are issued every Sunday morning, and you generally get between twenty and forty. The brand generally issued is the Woodbine. Sometimes we are lucky and get gold flakes, players, or red hussars. Occasionally an issue of life-rays comes along. Then the older Tommy's immediately get busy on the recruits, and trade these for woodbines or gold flakes. A recruit only has to be stuck once in this manner, and then he ceases to be a recruit. There is a reason. Tommy is a great cigarette smoker. He smokes under all conditions, except when unconscious or when he is reconnoitering in no man's land at night. Then, for obvious reasons, he does not care to have a lighted cigarette in his mouth. Stretcher-bearers carry fags for wounded Tommy's. When a stretcher-bearer arrives alongside of a Tommy who has been hit, the following conversation usually takes place. Stretcher-bearer, What a fag? Why are you hit? Tommy looks up and answers, Yes, in the leg. After dismissal from parade, we return to our billets, and I had to get busy immediately with the dinner issue. Dinner consisted of stew made from fresh beef, a couple of spuds, bully beef, macanachi rations, and water. Plenty of water. There is great competition among the men to spear with their forks the two lonely potatoes. After dinner, I tried to wash out the Dixie with cold water and a rag, and learned another maxim of the trenches. It can't be done. I slyly watched one of the older men from another section, and was horrified to see him throw into his Dixie four or five double-handfuls of mud. Then he poured in some water, and with his hands scoured the Dixie inside and out. I thought he was taking an awful risk. Supposing the cook should have seen him. After half an hour of unsuccessful efforts, I returned my Dixie to the cook shack, being careful to put on the cover, and returned to the billet. Pretty soon the cook poked his head in the door and shouted, Hey, yank, come out here and clean your Dixie. I protested that I had wasted a half-hour on it already, and had used up my only remaining shirt in the attempt. With a look of disdain he exclaimed, Blow me your shirt, why in hell didn't you use mud? Without a word in reply I got busy with the mud, and soon my Dixie was bright and shining. Most of the afternoon was spent by the men writing letters home. I used my spare time to chop wood for the cook, and go with a quarter-master to draw coal. I got back just in time to issue our third meal, which consisted of hot tea. I rinsed out my Dixie and returned it to the cookhouse, and went back to the billet with an exhilarated feeling that my day's labour was done. I had fallen to sleep on the straw when once again the cook appeared in the door of the billet with, Blimey, you yanks are lazy. Ewan Ailes are going to draw the water for the morning tea. Do you think I'm going to? Well, I'm not, and he left. I filled the Dixie with water from an old squeaking well, and once again lay down in the straw. CHAPTER VII RASHIONS Just before dozing off Mr. Lance Corporal butted in. In Tommy's eyes a Lance Corporal is one degree below a private. In the Corporal's eyes he is one degree above a general. He ordered me to go with him and help him draw the next day's rations, also told me to take my waterproof. Every evening from each platoon or machine gun section a Lance Corporal and private goes to the quartermaster sergeant at the company's stores and draws rations for the following day. The quarter, as the quartermaster sergeant is called, receives daily from the orderly room, the captain's office, a slip showing the number of men entitled to rations, so there is no chance of putting anything over on him. Many arguments take place between the quarter and the platoon none come, but the former always wins out. Tommy says the quarter got his job because he was a burglar in civil life. Then I spread the waterproof sheet on the ground, while the quartermaster's batman dumped the rations on it. The Corporal was smoking a fag. I carried the rations back to the billet. The Corporal was still smoking a fag. How I envied him. But when the issue commenced my envy died and I realized that the first requisite of a non-commissioned officer on active service is diplomacy. There were nineteen men in our section, and they soon formed a semi-circle around us after the Corporal had called out, Rations up! The quartermaster sergeant had given a slip to the Corporal on which was written a list of the rations. Sitting on the floor, using a wooden box as a table, the issue commenced. On the left of the Corporal the rations were piled. They consisted of the following. Six loaves of fresh bread, each loaf of a different size, perhaps one out of six being as flat as a pancake. The result of an Army service corpsman placing a box of bully beef on it during transportation. Three tins of jam, one apple, and the other two plum. Seventeen Bermuda onions, all different sizes. A piece of cheese and the shape of a wedge. Two one-pound tins of butter. A handful of raisins. A tin of biscuits, or as Tommy calls them, jawbreakers. A bottle of mustard pickles. The bully beef, spuds, condensed milk, fresh meat, bacon, and macanachie rations, a can filled with meat, vegetables, and greasy water, had been turned over to the company cook to make stew for next day's dinner. He also received the tea, sugar, salt, pepper, and flour. Scratching his head the Corporal studied the slip issued to him by the quarter. Then in a slow mystified voice he read out. Number one section, 19 men. Bread loaves six. He looked puzzled and soliloquized in a musing voice. Six loaves. 19 men. Let's see. That's three and a loaf for 15 men. Well, to make it even four of you'll have to muck in on one loaf. The four they got stuck made a howl, but to no avail. The bread was dished out. Pretty soon from a far corner of the billet three indignant Tommy's accosted the Corporal with, What do you call this? A loaf of bread? Looks more like a sniping plate. The Corporal answered. Well, don't blame me. I didn't bake it. Somebody's got to get it. So shut up until I dish out these blinkin' rations. Then the Corporal started on the jam. Jam? Three tins, apple one, plum two. 19 men, three tins. Six in a tin makes 12 men for two tins, seven in the remaining tin. He passed around the jam and there was another riot. Some didn't like apple, while others who received plum were partial to apple. After a while differences were adjusted and the issue went on. Bermuda onions, 17. The Corporal avoided a row by saying that he did not want an onion, and I said they make your breath smell, so I guessed I would do without one too. The Corporal looked his gratitude. Cheese, pounds two. The Corporal borrowed a jackknife. Corporals are always borrowing, and sliced the cheese, each slicing bringing forth a pert remark from the onlookers as to the Corporal's eyesight. Raisins, ounces eight. By this time the Corporal's nerves had gone west, and in despair, he said that the raisins were to be turned over to the cook for duff, plum pudding. This decision elicited a little grousing, but quiet was finally restored. Biscuits, tins one. With his borrowed jackknife, the Corporal opened the tin of biscuits and told everyone to help themselves. Nobody responded to this invitation. Tommy is fed up with biscuits. Butter, tins two. Nine in one, ten in the other. Another rumpus. Pickles, mustard, bottles, one. Nineteen names were put in a steel helmet, the last one out winning the pickles. On the next issue there were only eighteen names as the winner is eliminated until every man in the section has won a bottle. The raffle is closely watched, because Tommy is suspicious when it comes to gambling with his rations. When the issue is finished, the Corporal sits down and writes a letter home, asking them if they cannot get some MP, a member of Parliament, to have him transferred to the Royal Flying Corps where he won't have to issue rations. At the different French esteminettes in the village, and at the canteens, Tommy buys fresh eggs, milk, bread, and pastry. Occasionally when he is flush he invests in a tin of pears or apricots. His pay is only a shilling a day, twenty-four cents, or a cent an hour. Just imagine, a cent an hour for being under fire. Not much chance of getting rich out there. When he goes into the fire trench, the front line, Tommy's menu takes a tumble. He carries in his haversack what the Government calls emergency or iron rations. They're not supposed to be open until Tommy dives a starvation. They consist of one tin of bully beef, four biscuits, a little tin which contains tea, sugar, and oxo cubes, which are concentrated beef tablets. These are only to be used when the enemy establishes a curtain of shell fire on the communication trenches, thus preventing the carrying in of rations. Or when in an attack, a body of troops has been cut off from its base of supplies. The rations are brought up at night by the company transport. This is a section of the company in charge of the quartermaster sergeant, composed of men, mules, and limbers, which are two-wheeled wagons, which supplies Tommy's wants while in the front line. They are constantly under shell fire. The rations are unloaded at the entrance to the communication trenches and are carried in by men detailed for that purpose. The quartermaster sergeant never goes into the front line trench. He doesn't have to, and I have never heard of one volunteering to do so. The company sergeant major sorts the rations and sends them in. Tommy's trench rations consist of all the bully beef he can eat, biscuits, cheese, tinned butter, sometimes 17 men to a tin, jam or marmalade, and occasionally fresh bread, 10 to a loaf. When it is possible, he gets tea and stew. When things are quiet, and Fritz is behaving like a gentleman, which seldom happens, Tommy has the opportunity of making dessert. This is trench pudding. It is made from broken biscuits, condensed milk, jam, a little water added, slightly flavored with mud, put into a canteen and cooked over a little spirit stove known as Tommy's Cooker. A firm and blighty widely advertises these cookers as a necessity for the men in the trenches. Gullible people buy them, ship them to the Tommy's, who immediately upon receipt of same throw them over the parapet. Sometimes a Tommy falls for the ad, and uses the cooker in a dugout, to the disgust and discomfort of the other occupants. This mess is stirred up in a tin and allowed to simmer over the flames from the cooker until Tommy decides that it has reached a sufficient glue-like consistency. He takes his bayonet, and by means of the handle, carries the mess up in the front trench to cool. After it is cooled off, he tries to eat it. Generally one or two Tommy's in a section have cast iron stomachs, and the tin is soon emptied. Once I tasted trench pudding, but only once. In addition to the regular ration issue, Tommy uses another channel to enlarge his menu. In the English papers a lonely soldier column is run. This is for the soldiers at the front who are supposed to be without friends or relatives. They write to the papers and their names are published. Girls and women in England answer them, and send out parcels of foodstuffs, cigarettes, candy, etc. I have known a lonely soldier to receive as many as five parcels and eleven letters in one week. Chapter 8 The Little Wooden Cross After remaining in rest-billets for eight days we received the unwelcome tidings that the next morning we would go in to take over. At six in the morning our march started, and after a long march down the dusty road we again arrived at reserve-billets. I was number one in the leading set of fours. The man on my left was named Pete Walling, a cheery sort of fellow. He laughed and joked all the way on the march, buoyed up my drooping spirits. I could not figure out anything attractive in again occupying the front line, but Pete did not seem to mind. Said it was all in a lifetime. My left heel was blistered from the rubbing of my heavy marching-boot. Pete noticed that I was limping and offered to carry my rifle, but by this time I had learned the ethics of the march and the British army, and courteously refused his offer. We had gotten halfway through the communication trench, Pete in my immediate rear. He had his hand on my shoulder, as men in a communication trench have to keep in touch with each other. We had just climbed over a bashed-in part of the trench when in our rear a man tripped over a loose signal wire and let out an oath. As usual Pete rushed to his help. To reach the fallen man he had to cross this bashed-in part. A bullet cracked in the air and I ducked. Then a moan from the rear. My heart stood still. I went back and Pete was lying on the ground. By the aid of my flashlight I saw that he had his hand pressed to his right breast. The fingers were covered with blood. I flashed the light on his face, and in its glow a grayish blue color was stealing over his countenance. Pete looked up at me and said, Well, yank, they've done me in. I can feel myself going west. His voice was getting fainter and I had to kneel down to get the words. Then he gave me a message to write home to his mother and his sweetheart, and I, like a great big boob, cried like a baby. I was losing my first friend of the trenches. Word was passed to the rear for a stretcher. He died before it arrived. Two of us put the body on the stretcher and carried it to the nearest first-day post, where the doctor took an official record of Pete's name, number, rank, and regiment from his identity disc, this to be used in the casualty lists and notification to his family. We left Pete there, but it broke our hearts to do so. The doctor informed us that we could bury him the next morning. That afternoon, five of the boys of our section, myself included, went to the little-ruined village in the rear and from the deserted gardens of the French Chateaus gathered grass and flowers. From these we made a wreath. While the boys were making this wreath, I sat under a shot-scarred apple-tree and carved out the following verses on a little wooden shield which we nailed on Pete's cross. True to his God, true to Britain, doing his duty to the last, just one more name to be written on the role of honor of heroes past. Past to their God, enshrined in glory, entering life of eternal rest, one more chapter in England's story of her sons doing their best. Rest, you soldier, mate so true, never forgotten by us below. Know that we are thinking of you, ere to our rest we are bitten to go. Next morning the whole section went over to say goodbye to Pete and laid him away to rest. After each one had a look at the face of the dead, a corporal of the REMC sewed up the remains in a blanket. Then, placing two heavy ropes across the stretcher, to be used in lowering the body into the grave, we lifted Pete onto the stretcher and reverently covered him with a large union jack the flag he had died for. The chaplain led the way, then came the officers of the section, followed by two of the men carrying the wreath. Immediately after came poor Pete on the flag-drape stretcher carried by four soldiers. I was one of the four. Behind the stretcher, in fours, came the remainder of the section. To get to the cemetery we had to pass through the little shell-destroyed village where troops were hurrying to and fro. As the funeral procession passed, these troops came to the attention and smartly saluted the dead. Poor Pete was receiving the only salute a private is entitled to, somewhere in France. Now, when again a shell from the German lines would go whistling over the village to burst in our artillery lines in the rear. When we reached the cemetery, we halted in front of an open grave and laid the stretcher beside it. Forming a hollow square around the opening of the grave, the chaplain read the burial-service. German machine-gun bullets were cracking in the air above us, but Pete didn't mind, and neither did we. When the body was lowered into the grave, the flag having been removed, we clicked our heels together and came to the salute. I left before the grave was filled in. I could not bear to see the dirt thrown on the blanket covered face of my comrade. On the western front there are no coffins, and you are lucky to get a blanket to protect you from the wet and the worms. Several of the sections stayed and decorated the grave with white stones. That night, in the light of a lonely candle in the machine gunner's dugout of the front-line trench, I wrote two letters. One to Pete's mother, the other to his sweetheart. While doing this I cursed the Prussian war god with all my heart, and I think that St. Peter noted same. The machine gunners in the dugout were laughing and joking. To them, Pete was unknown. Pretty soon, in the warmth of their merriment, my blues disappeared. One soon forgets on the western front. End of chapter. CHAPTERS IX AND X OF OVER THE TOP This LibriVox recording is in the public domain and is read by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. OVER THE TOP By Arthur M.P. CHAPTER IX SUICIDE AND X I was in my first dugout and looked around curiously. Over the door of same was a little sign reading SUICIDE AND X. One of the boys told me that this particular front trench was called Suicide Ditch. Later on I learned that machine gunners and bombers are known as the Suicide Club. That dugout was muddy. The men slept in mud, washed in mud, ate mud, and dreamed mud. I had never before realized that so much discomfort and misery could be contained in those three little letters. M.U.D. The floor of the dugout was an inch deep in water. Outside it was raining cats and dogs, and thin rivulets were trickling down the steps. From the air shaft immediately above me came a drip, drip, drip. SUICIDE AND X was a hole eight feet wide, ten feet long, and six feet high. It was about twenty feet below the fire trench. At least there were twenty steps leading down to it. These steps were cut into the earth, but at that time were muddy and slippery. A man had to be very careful or else he would shoot the shoots. The air was foul, and you could cut the smoke from Tommy's fags with a knife. It was cold. It was cold. The walls and roof were supported with heavy square cut timbers, while the entrance was strengthened with sandbags. Nails had been driven into these timbers. On each nail hung a miscellaneous assortment of equipment. The lighting arrangements were superb, one candle in a reflector made from an ammunition tin. My teeth were chattering from the cold, and the drip from the air shaft did not help matters much. While I was sitting bemoaning my fate and wishing for the fireside at home, the fellow next to me, who was writing a letter, looked up and innocently asked, Say, yank, how do you spell conflagration? I looked at him in contempt and answered that I did not know. From the darkness in one of the corners came a thin piping voice singing one of the popular trench ditties entitled, Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile, smile, smile. Every now and then the singer would stop to cough, cough, cough. But it was a good illustration of Tommy's cheerfulness under such conditions. A machine-gun officer entered the dugout and gave me a hard look. I sneaked past him, sliding and slipping, and reached my section of the front-line trench, where I was greeted by the sergeant, who asked me, Where in hell have you been? I made no answer, but sat on the muddy fire-step, shivering with the cold and with the rain beating in my face. About half an hour later I teamed up with another fellow and went on guard, with my head sticking over the top. At ten o'clock I was relieved and resumed my sitting position on the fire-step. The rain suddenly stopped and we all breathed a sigh of relief. We prayed for the morning and the rum issue. Chapter 10 The Day's Work I was fast learning that there is a regular routine about the work of the trenches, although it is badly upset at times, by the Germans. The real work in the fire-trench commences at sundown. Tommy is like a burglar. He works at night. Just as it begins to get dark the word Stand-to is passed from Traverse to Traverse, and the men get busy. The first relief, consisting of two men to a Traverse, mount the fire-step, one man looking over the top, while the other sits at his feet, ready to carry messages or to inform the platoon officer of any report made by the sentry, as to his observations in no man's land. The sentry is not allowed to relax his watch for a second. If he has questioned from the trench or asked his orders, he replies without turning around or taking his eyes from the expanse of dirt in front of him. The remainder of the occupants of his Traverse either sit on the fire-step with bayonets fixed, ready for any emergency, or, if lucky, and a dugout happens to be in the near vicinity of the Traverse, and if the night is quiet, they are permitted to go to same and try and snatch a few winks of sleep. Little sleeping is done. Generally the men sit around, smoking fags, and sing, who can tell the biggest lie. Some of them, perhaps, with their feet in water, would write home sympathizing with the Governor, because he was laid up with a cold contracted by getting his feet wet on his way to work in Woolwich Arsenal. If a man should manage to doze off, likely as not he would wake with a start as the clammy, cold feet of a rat passed over his face, or the next relief stepped on his stomach while stumbling on their way to relieve the sentries in the trench. Just try to sleep with a belt full of ammunition around you, your rifle bolt biting into your ribs, and trenching tool handle sticking into the small of your back, with a tin hat for a pillow and feeling very damp and cold, with cooties boring for oil in your armpits, the air foul from the stench of grimy human bodies, and smoke from a juicy pipe being whiffed into your nostrils. Then you will not wonder why Tommy occasionally takes a turn in the trench for arrest. While in the front-line trench orders forbid Tommy from removing his boots, putties, clothing, or equipment. The cooties take advantage of this order and mobilize their forces, and Tommy swears vengeance on them and mutters to himself, just white until I hit rest billets and am able to get my own back. Just before daylight the men turn to and tumble out of the dugouts, man the fire step until it gets light, or the welcome order stand down is given. Sometimes before stand down is ordered, the command five rounds rapid is passed along the trench. This means that each man must rest his rifle on the top and fire as rapidly as possible, five shots aimed toward the German trenches, and then duck with the emphasis on the duck. There is a great rivalry between the opposing forces to get their rapid fire off first, because the early bird in this instance catches the worm, sort of gets the jump on the other fellow, catching him unawares. We had a sergeant in our battalion named Warren. He was on duty with his platoon in the fire trench one afternoon when orders came up from the rear that he had been granted seven days leave for Blighty, and would be relieved at five o'clock to proceed to England. He was tickled to death at these welcome tidings, and regaled his more or less envious mates beside him on the fire step with the good times in store for him. He figured it out that in two days' time he would arrive at Waterloo Station, London, and then seven days' bliss. At about five minutes to five he started to fidget with his rifle, and then suddenly springing up on the fire step with the muttered, I'll send over a couple of souvenirs to Fritz so that he'll miss me when I leave. He stuck his rifle over the top and fired two shots, when crack went a bullet, and he tumbled off the step, fell into the mud at the bottom of the trench, and lay still in the huddled heap with a bullet hole in his forehead. At about the time he expected to arrive at Waterloo Station he was laid to rest in a little cemetery behind the lines. He had gone to Blighty. In the trenches one can never tell. It is not safe to plan very far ahead. After stand down the men sit on the fire step, or repair to their respective dugouts, and wait for the rum issue to materialize. Immediately following the rum comes breakfast brought up from the rear. Sleeping is then in order unless some special work turns up. Around twelve-thirty dinner shows up. When this is eaten the men try to amuse themselves until tea appears at about four o'clock, then stand to when they carry on as before. While in rest-billets Tommy gets up about six in the morning, washes up, answers roll call, is inspected by his platoon officer, and has breakfast. At eight-forty-five he parades, or drills, with his company, or goes on fatigue according to the orders which have been read out by the orderly sergeant the night previous. Between eleven-thirty and noon he is dismissed, has his dinner, and is on his own for the remainder of the day, unless he is clicked for a digging or working party, and so it goes on from day to day, always looping the loop and looking forward to peace, and blighty. Sometimes, while engaged in a cootie hunt, you think. Strange to say, but it is a fact, while Tommy is searching his shirt, serious thoughts come to him. Many a time when performing this operation I have tried to figure out the outcome of the war and what will happen to me. My thoughts generally ran in this channel. Will I emerge safely from the next attack? If I do will I skin through the following one, and so on. While your mind is wandering into the future it is likely to be rudely brought to earth by a Tommy interrupting with, what's good for rheumatism? Then you have something else to think of. Will you come out of this war crippled and tied into knots with rheumatism, caused by the wet and mud of trenches and dugouts? You give it up as a bad job and gently saunter over to the nearest stamina net to drown your moody forebodings in a glass of sickening French beer, or to try your luck at the always present game of house. You can hear the sing-song voice of a Tommy droning out the numbers as he extracts the little squares of cardboard from the bag between his feet. CHAPTER XI. In my second trip to the trenches our officer was making his rounds of inspection, and we received the cheerful news that at four in the morning we were to go over the top and take the German front-line trench. My heart turned to lead. Then the officer carried on with his instructions. To the best of my memory I recall them as follows. At eleven a wiring party will go out in front and cut lanes through our barbed wire for the passage of troops in the morning. At two o'clock our artillery will open up with an intense bombardment which will last until four. Upon the lifting of the barrage the first of the three waves will go over. Then he left. Some of the Tommys, first getting permission from the sergeant, went into the machine gunners dug out and wrote letters home, saying that in the morning they were going over the top, and also that if the letters reached their destination it would mean that the writer had been killed. These letters were turned over to the captain with instructions to mail same in the event of the writers being killed. Some of the men made out their wills in their paybook under the caption, Will in Last Testament. Then the nerve-wracking wait commenced. Every now and then I would glance at the dial of my wristwatch and was surprised to see how fast the minutes passed by. About five minutes to two I got nervous waiting for our guns to open up. I could not take my eyes from my watch. I crouched against the parapet and strained my muscles in a death-like grip upon my rifle. As the hands on my watch showed two o'clock, a blinding red flare lighted up the sky in our rear. Then thunder intermixed with a sharp whistling sound in the air over our heads. The shells from our guns were speeding on their way towards the German lines. With one accord the men sprang up on the fire-step and looked over the top in the direction of the German trenches. A line of bursting shells lighted up no man's land. The din was terrific and the ground trembled. Then high above our heads we could hear a sighing moan. Our big boys behind the line had opened up and 9.2s and 15 inch shells commenced dropping into the German lines. The flash of the guns behind the lines, the scream of the shells through the air, and the flare of them bursting, was a spectacle that put Payne's greatest display into the shade. The constant pup-pup-pup German machine guns and an occasional rattle of rifle-firing gave me the impression of a huge audience applauding the work of the batteries. Our 18 pounders were destroying the German barbed wire while the heavier stuff was demolishing their trenches and bashing in dugouts or funkholes. Then Fritz got busy. Their shells went screaming overhead, aimed in the direction of the flares from our batteries. Trench mortars started dropping minis in our front line. We clicked several casualties. Then they suddenly ceased. Our artillery had taped or silenced them. During the bombardment you could almost read a newspaper in our trench. Sometimes in the flare of a shell burst a man's body would be silhouetted against the peritos of the trench and it appeared like a huge monster. You could hardly hear yourself think. When an order was to be passed down the trench you had to yell it, using your hands as a funnel into the ear of the man sitting next to you on the fire-step. In about twenty minutes a generous rum issue was doled out. After drinking the rum, which tasted like varnish and sent a shutter through your frame, you wondered why they made you wait until the lifting of the barrage before going over. At ten minutes to four word was passed down, ten minutes to go. Ten minutes to live. We were shivering all over. My legs felt as if they were asleep. Then word was passed down. First wave get on and near the scaling ladders. These were small wooden ladders which we had placed against the parapet to enable us to go over the top on the lifting of the barrage. Ladders of death we called them, and veritably they were. Before a charge Tommy is the politest of men. There is never any pushing or crowding to be first up these ladders. We crouched around the base of the ladders waiting for the word to go over. I was sick and faint and was puffing away at an unlighted fag. Then came the word, three minutes to go, upon the lifting of the barrage and on the blast of the whistles, over the top with the best of luck and give them hell. The famous phrase of the Western Front. The Jonah phrase of the Western Front. To Tommy it means if you are lucky enough to come back, you will be minus an arm or a leg. Tommy hates to be wished the best of luck, so when pieces declared if it ever is, and you meet a Tommy on the street, just wish him the best of luck and duck the brick that follows. I glanced again at my wristwatch. We all wore them, and you could hardly call us sissies for doing so. It was a minute to four. I could see the hand move to the twelve, then a dead silence. It hurt. Everyone looked up to see what had happened, but not for long. Sharp whistle blasts rang out along the trench, and with a cheer the men scrambled up the ladders. The bullets were cracking overhead, and occasionally a machine gun would rip and tear the top of the sandbag parapet. How I got up that ladder I will never know. The first ten feet out in front was agony. Then we passed through the lanes in our barbed wire. I knew I was running but could feel no motion below the waist. Patches on the ground seemed to float to the rear as if I were on a treadmill and scenery was rushing past me. The Germans had put a barrage of shrapnel across No Man's Land, and you could hear the pieces slap the ground about you. After I had passed our barbed wire and gotten into No Man's Land, a Tommy about fifteen feet to my right front turned around and, looking in my direction, put his hand to his mouth and yelled something which I could not make out on account of the noise from the bursting shells. Then he coughed, stumbled, pitched forward, and lay still. His body seemed to float to the rear of me. I could hear sharp cracks in the air about me. These were caused by passing rifle bullets. Frequently to my right and left little spurts of dirt would rise into the air, and a ricochet bullet would whine on its way. If a Tommy should see one of these little spurts in front of him, he would tell the nurse about it later. The crossing of No Man's Land remains a blank to me. Men on my right and left would stumble and fall. Some would try to get up, while others remained huddled and motionless. Then smashed up barbed wire came into view and seemed carried on, a tide to the rear. Suddenly in front of me loomed a bashed-in trench about four feet wide. Queer-looking forms like mud-turtles were scrambling up its wall. One of these forms seemed to slip and then rolled to the bottom of the trench. I leaped across this intervening space. The man to my left seemed to pause in mid-air, then pitched head down into the German trench. I laughed out loud in my delirium. Upon a lighting on the other side of the trench I came to with a sudden jolt. Right in front of me loomed a giant form with a rifle which looked about ten feet long, on the end of which seemed seven bayonets. These flashed in the air in front of me. Then through my mind flashed the admonition of our bayonet instructor back in Blighty. He had said, Whenever you get in a charge and run your bayonet up to the hilt into a German, the fritz will fall. Perhaps your rifle will be wrenched from your grasp. Do not waste time, if the bayonet is fouled in his equipment, by putting your foot on his stomach and tugging at the rifle to extricate the bayonet. Simply press the trigger and the bullet will free it. In my present situation this was fine logic, but for the life of me I could not remember how he had told me to get my bayonet into the German. To me this was the paramount issue. I closed my eyes and lunged forward. My rifle was torn from my hands. I must have gotten the German because he had disappeared. About twenty feet to my left front with a huge prussian nearly six feet four inches in height, a fine specimen of physical manhood. The bayonet from his rifle was missing, but he clutched the barrel in both hands was swinging the butt around his head. I could almost hear the swish of the butt passing through the air. Three little Tommy's were engaged with him. They looked like pygmies alongside of the Prussian. The Tommy on the left was gradually circling to the rear of his opponent. It was a funny sight to see them duck the swinging butt and try to jab him at the same time. The Tommy nearest me received the butt of the German's rifle and the smashing blow below the right temple. It smashed his head like an eggshell. He pitched forward on his side and a convulsive shutter ran through his body. Meanwhile the other Tommy had gained the rear of the Prussian. Suddenly about four inches of bayonet protruded from the throat of the Prussian soldier who staggered forward and fell. I will never forget the look of blank astonishment that came over his face. Then something hit me in the left shoulder and my left side went numb. It felt as if a hot poker were being driven through me. I felt no pain, just a sort of nervous shock. A bayonet had pierced me from the rear. I felt backwards on the ground, but was not unconscious, because I could see dim objects moving around me. Then a flash of light in front of my eyes and unconsciousness. Something hit me on the head. I had never found out what it was. I dreamed I was being tossed about in an open boat on a heaving sea and opened my eyes. The moon was shining. I was on a stretcher being carried down one of our communication trenches. At the advance first aid post my wounds were dressed, and then I was put into an ambulance and sent to one of the base hospitals. The wounds in my shoulder and head were not serious, and in six weeks I had rejoined my company for service in the front line. CHAPTER XII. BOMBING. The boys in this section welcomed me back, but there were many strange faces. Several of our men had gone west in that charge, and were lying, somewhere in France, with a little wooden cross at their heads. We were in rest-billets. The next day our captain asked for volunteers for Bombers' School. I gave my name and was accepted. I had joined the Suicide Club and my troubles commenced. Thirty-two men of the battalion, including myself, were sent to—I can't tell you where—where we went through a course in bombing. Here we were instructed in the uses, methods of throwing, and manufacture of various kinds of hand grenades from the old jam-tim, now obsolete, to the present mills-bomb, the standard of the British Army. It all depends where you are as to what you are called. In France they call you a bomber, and give you medals, while in neutral countries they call you an anarchist and give you life. From the very start the Germans were well-equipped with effective bombs and trained bomb-throwers, but the English Army was as little prepared in this important department of fighting as in many others. At bombing school an old sergeant of the Grenadier Guards, whom I had the good fortune to meet, told me of the discouragements this branch of the surface suffered before they could meet the Germans on an equal footing. Pacifists and small Army people in the U.S. please read with care. The first English expeditionary force had no bombs at all, but it clicked a lot of casualties from those thrown by the Bosch. One bright morning someone higher up had an idea, and issued an order detailing two men from each platoon to go to bombing school to learn the duties of a bomber and how to manufacture bombs. Non-commissioned officers were generally selected for this course. After about two weeks at school they returned to their units in rest-billets or in the fire-tranches, the case might be, and got busy teaching their platoons how to make jam tins. Previously an order had been issued for all ranks to save empty jam tins for the manufacture of bombs. A professor of bombing would sit on the fire-step in the front trench with the remainder of his section crowding around to see him work. On his left would be a pile of empty and rusty jam tins, while beside him on the fire-step would be a miscellaneous assortment of material used in the manufacture of the jam tins. Tommy would stoop down, get an empty jam tin, take a handful of clayy mud from the parapet, and line the inside of the tin with his substance. Then he would reach over, pick up his detonator and explosive, and insert them in the tin, the fuse protruding. On the fire-step would be a pile of fragments of shell, shrapnel balls, bits of iron, nails, et cetera, anything that was hard enough to send over to Fritz he would scoop up a handful of this junk and put it in the bomb. Sometimes one of the platoon would ask him what he did this for, and he would explain that when the bomb exploded these bits would fly about and kill or wound any German hit by same. The questioner would immediately pull a button off his tunic and hand it to the bomb-maker, with, Well, blame me, send this over as a souvenir. Or another Tommy would volunteer an old rusty and broken jackknife. Both would be accepted and inserted. Then the professor would take another handful of mud and thin the tin, after which he would punch a hole in the lid of the tin and put it over the top of the bomb, the fuse sticking out. Then perhaps he would tightly wrap wire around the outside of the tin and the bomb was ready to send over to Fritz with Tommy's compliments. A piece of wood about four inches long and two inches wide had been issued. This was to be strapped on the left forearm by means of two leather straps, and was like the side of a matchbox. It was called a striker. There was a tip like the head of a match on the fuse of the bomb. To ignite the fuse you had to rub it on the striker, just the same as striking a match. The fuse was timed to five seconds or longer. Some of the fuses issued in those days would burn down in a second or two, while others would sciss for a week before exploding. Back in Blighty the munition workers weren't quite up to snuff the way they are now. If the fuse took a notion to burn too quickly, they generally buried the bomb-maker next day. So making bombs could not be called a cushy or safe job. After making several bombs the professor instructs the platoon in throwing them. He takes a jam tin from the fire-step, trembling a little because it is nervous work, especially when new at it, lights the fuse on his striker. The fuse begins to sciss and sputter in a spiral of smoke, like that from a smoldering fag, rises from it. The platoon splits in two and ducks around the traverse nearest to them. They don't like the looks and sound of the burning fuse. When that fuse begins to smoke and sciss, you want to say goodbye to it as soon as possible, so Tommy with all his might chucks it over the top, and crouches against the parapet, waiting for the explosion. Lots of times in bombing the jam tin would be picked up by the Germans before it exploded and thrown back at Tommy with dire results. After a lot of men went west in this manner, an order was issued reading something like this. Two all ranks in the British army, after igniting the fuse and before throwing the jam tin bomb, count slowly, one, two, three. This in order to give the fuse time enough to burn down so that the bomb would explode before the Germans could throw it back. Tommy read the order. He reads them all, but after he ignited the fuse and it began to smoke, orders were forgotten in a way she went, in record time, and back she came to the further discomfort of the thrower. Then another order was issued to count, one hundred, two hundred, three hundred. But Tommy didn't care if the order read to count up to a thousand by quarters, he was going to get rid of that jam tin because from experience he had learned not to trust it. When the powers that be realized that they could not change Tommy, they decided to change the type of bomb and did so, substituting the hairbrush, the cricket ball, and later the mills bomb. The standard bomb used in the British army is the mills. It is about the shape and size of a large lemon. Although not actually a lemon, Fritz insists that it is. Perhaps he judges it by the habit caused by its explosion. The mills bomb is made of steel, the outside of which is corrugated into forty-eight small squares, which upon the explosion of the bomb scatter in a wide area, wounding or killing any Fritz who is unfortunate enough to be hit by one of the flying fragments. Although a very destructive and efficient bomb, the mills has the confidence of the thrower in that he knows it will not explode until released from his grip. It is a mechanical device with a lever fitted into a slot at the top, which extends half way around the circumference and is held in place at the bottom by a fixing pin. In this pin there is a small metal ring for the purpose of extracting the pin when ready to throw. You do not throw a bomb the way a baseball is thrown because when in a narrow trench your hand is liable to strike against the peredose, traverse or parapet, and then down goes the bomb and in a couple of seconds or so up goes Tommy. In throwing the bomb and lever are grasped in the right hand, the left foot is advanced, knee stiff, about once and a half its length to the front, while the right leg, knee bent, is carried slightly to the right. The left arm is extended at an angle of forty five degrees, pointing in the direction the bomb is to be thrown. This position is similar to that of shot-putting, only that the right arm is extended downward. Then you hurl the bomb from you with an overhead bowling motion, the same as in cricket. Throwing it fairly high in the air, this in order to give the fuse a chance to burn down so that when the bomb lands it immediately explodes and gives the Germans no time to scamper out of its range or to return it. As the bomb leaves your hand, the lever by means of a spring is projected into the air and falls harmlessly to the ground a few feet in front of the bomber. When the lever flies off it releases a strong spring which forces the firing pin into a percussion cap. This ignites the fuse which burns down and sets off the detonator charged with fulminative mercury which explodes the main charge of ammonia. The average British soldier is not an expert at throwing. It is a new game to him. Therefore the Canadians and Americans who have played baseball from the kindergarten up take naturally to bomb-throwing and excel in this act. A six-foot English bomber will stand in odd silence when he sees a little five-foot nothing Canadian outdistance his throw by several yards. I have read a few war stories of bombing where baseball pitchers curved their bombs when throwing them, but a pitcher who can do this would make Christy Matheson look like a piker and is losing valuable time playing in the European War Bush League when he would be able to set the big league on fire. We had had a cushy time while at this school. In fact to us it was a regular vacation and we were very sorry when one morning the adjutant ordered us to report at headquarters for transportation and rations to return to our units up the line. Arriving at our section the boys once again tendered us the glad mitt, but looked a scant at us out of the corners of their eyes. They could not conceive, as they expressed it, how a man could be such a blinking idiot to join the Suicide Club. I was beginning to feel sorry that I had become a member of said club and my life to me appeared doubly precious. Now that I was a sure enough bomber I was praying for peace and hoping that my services as such would not be required. Chapter 13 My First Official Bath Right behind our rest-billet was a large creek about ten feet deep and twenty feet across, and it was a habit of the company to avail themselves of an opportunity to take a swim and at the same time thoroughly wash themselves and their underwear when on their own. We were having a spell of hot weather and these baths to us were a luxury. The tommys would splash around in the water and then come out and sit in the sun and have what they termed a shirt-hunt. At first we tried to drown the cooties, but they also seemed to enjoy the bath. One Sunday morning the whole section was in the creek and we were having a gay time when the Sergeant Major appeared on the scene. He came to the edge of the creek and ordered, Come out of it! Get your equipment on! Drill order and fall in for bath-parade! Look lively, mohardies! You have only got fifteen minutes. A howl of indignation from the creek greeted this order, but out we came. Discipline is discipline. We lined up in front of our billet with rifles and bayonets. Why you need rifles and bayonets to take a bath gets me. A full quota of ammunition and our ten hats. Each man had a piece of soap and a towel. After an eight-kilometer march along a dusty road, with an occasional shell whistling overhead, we arrived at a little squat-frame building upon the bank of a creek. Nailed over the door of this building was a large sign which read, Divisional Baths. It a wooden shed in the rear we could hear a weasy old engine pumping water. We lined up in front of the baths, soaked with perspiration, and piled our rifles into stacks. A sergeant of the R.A.M.C. with the yellow band around his left arm on which was SP, for sanitary police, in black letters, took charge, ordering us to take off our equipment, unroll our patees, and unlace boots. Then, starting from the right of the line, he divided us into squads of fifteen. I happened to be in the first squad. We entered a small room where we were given five minutes to undress, then filed into the bathroom. In here there were fifteen tubs—barrels sawed in two—half full of water. Each tub contained a piece of laundry soap. The sergeant informed us that we had just twelve minutes in which to take our baths. Soaping ourselves all over, we took turns in rubbing each other's backs, then by means of a garden hosed, washed the soap off. The water was ice cold, but felt fine. Pretty soon a bell rang and the water was turned off. Some of the slower ones were covered with soap, but this made no difference to the sergeant who chased us into another room where we lined up in front of a little window resembling the box office in a theatre, and received clean underwear and towels. From here we went into the room where we had first undressed. Ten minutes was allowed in which to get into our clabber. My pair of drawers came up to my chin and the shirt barely reached my diaphragm, but they were clean, no strangers on them, and so I was satisfied. At the expiration of the time allotted we were turned out and finished our dressing on the grass. When all of the company had bathed it was a case of march-back debilits. That march was the most uncongenial one imagined, just cussing and blinding all the way. We were covered with white dust and felt greasy from sweat. The woolen underwear issued was itching like the mischief. After eating our dinner of stew, which had been kept for us, it was now four o'clock. We went into the creek and had another bath. If Holy Joe could have heard our remarks about the divisional baths and army red tape, he would have fainted at our wickedness. But Tommy is only human after all. I just mentioned Holy Joe or the Chaplain in an irreverent sort of way, but no offense was meant, as there were some very brave men among them. There are so many instances of heroic deeds performed under fire in rescuing the wounded that it would take several books to chronicle them, but I have to mention one instance performed by a Chaplain, Captain Hall by name, in the brigade on our left, because it particularly appealed to me. A Chaplain is not a fighting man. He is recognized as a noncombatant and carries no arms. In a charge or trench raid the soldier gets a feeling of confidence from contact with his rifle, revolver, or bomb he is carrying. He has something to protect himself with, something with which he can inflict harm on the enemy. In other words, he is able to get his own back. But the Chaplain is empty-handed, and is at the mercy of the enemy if he encounters them, so it is doubly brave for him to go over the top under fire and bring in wounded. Also a Chaplain is not required by the King's regulations to go over in a charge, but this one did, made three trips under the hottest kind of fire, each time returning with a wounded man on his back. On the third trip he received a bullet through his left arm, but never reported the matter to the Doctor until late that night. Just spent his time administering to the wants of the wounded, lying on stretchers and waiting to be carried to the rear by ambulances. The Chaplains and the British Army are a fine, manly set of men, and are greatly respected by Tommy. CHAPTER XIV. PICS AND SHOVELS I had not slept long before the sweet voice of the sergeant informed that number one section had clicked for another blinkin' digging-party. I smiled to myself with deep satisfaction. I had been promoted from a mere digger to a member of the Suicide Club and was exempt from all fatigues. Then came the awful shock. The sergeant looked over in my direction and said, Don't you bum-throwers think that you are wearing top-houts out here? According to orders you have been taken up on the strength of this section and will have to do your bit with a pick and shovel, same as the rest of us. I put up a howl on my way to get my shovel, but the only thing that resulted was a loss of good humor on my part. We fell in at eight o'clock outside of our billets, a sort of masquerade party. I was disguised as a common laborer, had a pick and shovel, and about one hundred empty sandbags. The rest, about two hundred in all, were equipped likewise, picks, shovels, sandbags, rifles, and ammunition. The parting moved out in column of fours, taking the road leading to the trenches. Several times we had to string out in the ditch to let long columns of limbers, artillery, and supplies get passed. The marching under these conditions was necessarily slow. Upon arrival at the entrance to the communication trench, I looked at my illuminated wristwatch. It was eleven o'clock. Before entering this trench, word was passed down the line. No talking or smoking, lead off in a single file, covering party first. This covering party consisted of thirty men, armed with rifles, bayonets, bombs, and two Lewis machine guns. They were to protect us and guard against a surprise attack while digging in no man's land. The communication trench was about half a mile long, a zig-zagging ditch, eight feet deep and three feet wide. Now and again German shrapnel would whistle overhead and burst in our vicinity. We would crouch against the earthen walls while the shell fragments slapped the ground above us. Once fritz turned loose with a machine gun, the bullets from which cracked through the air and kicked up the dirt on the top, scattering sand and pebbles, which, hitting our steel helmets, sounded like hailstones. Our rival in the fire-trench, an officer of the Royal Engineers, gave us our instructions and acted as guide. We worked to dig an advanced trench two hundred yards from the Germans. The trenches at this point were six hundred yards apart. Two winding lanes five feet wide had been cut through our barbed wire for the passage of the diggers. From these lanes white tape had been laid on the ground to the point where we were to commence work. This in order that we would not get lost in the darkness, the proposed trench was also laid out with tape. The covering party went out first. After a short wait two scouts came back with information that the working party was to follow and carry on with their work. In extended order two yards apart we noiselessly crept across no man's land. It was nervous work. Every minute we expected a machine gun to open fire on us. Stray bullets cracked around us or a ricochet sang overhead. Arriving at the taped diagram of the trench, rifles slung around our shoulders, we lost no time in getting to work. We dug as quietly as possible, but every now and then the noise of a pick or shovel striking a stone would send the cold shivers down our backs. Under our breaths we heartily cursed the offending Tommy. At intervals a star shell would go up from the German lines and we would remain motionless until the glare of its white light died out. When the trench had reached a depth of two feet we felt safer because it would afford us cover in case we were discovered and fired on. The digging had been in progress about two hours when suddenly hell seemed to break loose in the form of machine gun and rifle fire. We dropped down on our bellies in the shallow trench, bullets knocking up the ground and snapping in the air. Then the shrapnel batted in. The music was hot and Tommy danced. The covering party was having a rough time of it. They had no cover, just had to take their medicine. Word was passed down the line to beat it for our trenches. We needed no urging. Grabbing our tools and stooping low, we legged it across no man's land. The covering party got away to a poor start but beat us in. They must have had wings because we lowered the record. Panting and out of breath we tumbled into our front line trench. I tore my hands getting through our wire, but at the time didn't notice it. My journey was too urgent. When the roll was called we found we had gotten it in the nose for sixty-three casualties. Our artillery put a barrage on Fritz's front line and communication trenches and their machine gun and rifle fire suddenly ceased. Upon the cessation of this fire, stretcher-bearers went out to look for killed and wounded. Next day we learned that twenty-one of our men had been killed and thirty-seven wounded. Five men were missing. Lost in the darkness they must have wandered over into the German lines where they were either killed or captured. Speaking of stretcher-bearers and wounded, it is very hard for the average civilian to comprehend the enormous cost of taking care of wounded and the war in general. He or she gets so accustomed to seeing billions of dollars in print that the significance of the amount is passed over without thought. From an official statement published in one of the London papers it is stated that it cost between six and seven thousand pounds, or thirty to thirty-five thousand dollars, to kill or wound a soldier. This result was attained by taking the cost of the war to date and dividing it by the killed and wounded. It may seem heartless and inhuman, but it is a fact, nevertheless, that from a military standpoint it is better for a man to be killed than wounded. If a man is killed he is buried and the responsibility of the government ceases, accepting for the fact that his people receive a pension. But if a man is wounded it takes three men from the firing line, the wounded man and two men to carry him to the rear, to the advanced first aid post. Here he is attended by a doctor, perhaps assisted by two R.A.M.C. men. Then he is put into a motor ambulance, manned by a crew of two or three. At the field hospital, where he generally goes under an anesthetic, either to have his wounds cleaned or to be operated on, he requires the services of about three to five persons. From this point another ambulance ride impresses more men in his service, and then at the ambulance train another corps of doctors, R.A.M.C. men, Red Cross nurses, and the train's crew. From the train he enters the base hospital or casually clearing station, where a good-sized corps of doctors, nurses, etc., are kept busy. Another ambulance journey is next in order, this time to the hospital ship. He crosses the channel, arrives in Blighty, more ambulances, and perhaps a ride for five hours on an English Red Cross train with his crew of Red Cross workers, and at last he reaches the hospital. Generally he stays from two to six months or longer in this hospital. From here he is sent to a convalescent home for six weeks. If by wounds he is unfitted for further service, he is discharged, given a pension, or committed to a soldier's home for the rest of his life, and still the expense piles up. When you realize that all the ambulances, trains, and ships, not to mention the manpower used in transporting a wounded man, could be used for supplies, ammunition, and reinforcements for the troops at the front, it will not appear strange that from a strictly military standpoint a dead man is sometimes better than a live one if wounded. Not long after the first digging-party, our general decided, after a careful tour of inspection of the communication trenches, upon an ideal spot, as he termed it, for a machine-gun emplacement. Took his map, made a dot on it, and as he was want, wrote, Dig here, and the next night we dug. There were twenty in the party, myself included. Armed with picks, shovels, and empty sandbags, we arrived at the ideal spot, and started digging. The moon was very bright, but we did not care as we were well out of sight of the German lines. We had gotten about three feet down, when the fellow next to me, after a mighty stroke with his pick, let go of the handle, and pinched his nose with his thumb and forefinger, at the same time letting out the explosion. Got strafed me pink, and bloody well cast that F I ate! I quickly turned his direction with an inquiring look, at the same instant reaching for my gas-bag. I soon found out what was ailing him. One whiff was enough, and I lost no time in also pinching my nose. The stench was awful. The rest of the digging-party dropped their picks and shovels and beat it for the weather-side of that solitary pick. The officer came over and inquired why the work had suddenly ceased. Holding our noses, we simply pointed in the direction of the smell. He went over to the pick, immediately clapped his hand over his nose, made an about turn, and came back. Just then our captain came along and investigated, but after about a minute said we had better carry on with the digging, that he did not see why we should have stopped, as the odor was very faint, but if necessary he would allow us to use our gas-helmets while digging. He would stay and see the thing through, but he had to report back at brigade headquarters immediately. We wished that we were captains and also had a date at brigade headquarters. With our gas-helmets on, we again attacked that hole and uncovered the decomposed body of a German. The pick was sticking in his chest. One of the men fainted. I was that one. Upon this our lieutenant halted proceedings and sent word back to headquarters, and word came back that after we filled in the hole we could knock it off for the night. This was welcome tidings to us, because… Next day the general changed the dot on his map, and another emplacement was completed the following night. The odor from a dug-up, decomposed human body has an effect which is hard to describe. It first produces a nauseating feeling which, especially after eating, causes vomiting. This relieves you temporarily, but soon a weakening sensation follows, which leaves you limp as a dish-rag. Your spirits are at their lowest ebb, and you feel a sort of hopeless helplessness and a mad desire to escape it all, to get to the open fields and the perfume of the flowers in blighting. There was a sharp prickling sensation in the nostrils, which reminds one of breathing coal gas through a radiator in the floor, and you want to sneeze, but cannot. This was the effect on me, surmounted by a vague horror of the awfulness of the thing, and an ever-recurring reflection that, perhaps I, sooner or later, would be in such a state and be brought to light by the blow of a pick in the hands of some Tommy on a digging-party. Several times I have experienced this odor, but never could get used to it. The innervating sensation was always present. It made me hate war, and wonder why such things were countenance by civilization, and all the spice and glory of the conflict would disappear, leaving the grim reality. But after leaving the spot and filling your