 24 The Firing Squad A few days later I had orders to report back to divisional headquarters about thirty kilometers behind the line. I reported to the APM, the assistant provost, Marshall. He told me to report to Billet No. 78 for quarters and rations. It was about eight o'clock at night and I was tired and soon fell asleep in the straw of the billet. It was a miserable night outside, cold and a drizzly rain was falling. About two in the morning I was awakened by someone shaking me by the shoulder. Opening my eyes I saw a regimental sergeant major bending over me. He had a lighted lantern in his right hand. I started to ask him what was the matter when he put his finger to his lips for silence and whispered, Get on your equipment, and without any noise, come with me. This greatly mystified me, but I obeyed his order. Outside of the billet I asked him what was up, but he shut me up with Don't ask any questions, it's against orders. I don't know myself. It was raining like the mischief. We splashed along a muddy road for about fifteen minutes, finally stopping at the entrance of what must have been an old barn. In the darkness I could hear pigs grunting as if they had just been disturbed. In front of the door stood an officer in a Macintosh. The RSM went up to him, whispered something, and then left. This officer called to me, asked my name, number, and regiment, at the same time in the light of a lantern he was holding, making a notation in the little book. When he had finished writing he whispered, Go into that billet and wait orders, and no talking. Understand? I stumbled into the barn and sat on the floor in the darkness. I could see no one, but could hear men breathing and moving. They seemed nervous and restless. I know I was. During my wait three other men entered. Then the officer poked his head in the door and ordered, Fall in, outside the billet, in single rank. We fell in, standing at ease. Then he commanded, Squad, shun, number. There were twelve of us. Right turn, left wheel, quick march! And away we went. The rain was trickling down my back and I was shivering from the cold. With the officer leading we must have marched over an hour, plowing through the mud and occasionally stumbling into a shell-hole in the road, when suddenly the officer made a left wheel and we found ourselves in a sort of enclosed courtyard. The dawn was breaking and the rain had ceased. In front of us were four stacks of rifles, three to a stack. The officer brought us to attention and gave the order to unpile arms. We each took a rifle. Having us stand at ease, in a nervous and shaky voice, he informed, Men, you are here on a very solemn duty. You have been selected as a firing squad for the execution of a soldier who, having been found guilty of a grievous crime against king and country, has been regularly and duly tried and sentenced to be shot at three-twenty-eight a.m. this date. This sentence has been approved by the reviewing authority and ordered carried out. It is our duty to carry on with the sentence of the court. There are twelve rifles, one of which contains a blank cartridge, the other eleven containing ball cartridges. Every man is expected to do his duty and fire to kill. Take your orders from me. Squad, shoot! We came to attention. Then he left. My heart was a bled and my knees shook. After standing at attention for what seemed a week, though in reality it could not have been over five minutes, we heard a low whispering in our rear and footsteps on the stone-flagging of the courtyard. Our officer reappeared and in a low but firm voice ordered, About turn! We turned about. In the gray light of dawn, a few yards in front of me, I could make out a brick wall. Against this wall was a dark form with a white square pinned on its breast. We were supposed to aim at this square. To the right of the form I noticed a white spot on the wall. This would be my target. Ready? Aim! Fire! The dark form sank into a huddled heap. My bullet sped on its way and hit the whitish spot on the wall. I could see the splinters fly. Someone else had received the rifle containing the blank cartridge. But my mind was at ease. There was no blood of a tommy on my hands. About turn! Pile arms! Stand clear! The stacks were reformed. Quick march, right wheel! And we left the scene of execution behind us. It was now daylight. After marching about five minutes we were dismissed with the following instructions from the officer in command. Return alone to your respective companies and remember, no talking about this affair or else it will go hard with the guilty ones. We needed no urging to get away. I did not recognize any of the men on the firing squad. Even the officer was a stranger to me. The victim's relations and friends implied he will never know that he was executed. They will be under the impression that he died doing his bit for King and Country. In the public casualty lists his name will appear under the caption accidentally killed or died. The day after the execution I received orders to report back to the line and to keep a still tongue in my head. Executions are a part of the day's work, but the part we hated most of all I think certainly the saddest. The British War Department is thought by many people to be composed of rigid regulations all wound around with red tape. But it has a heart, and one of the evidences of this is the considerate way in which an execution is concealed and reported to the relative of the unfortunate man. They never know the truth. He is listed in the bulletins as among the accidentally killed. In the last ten years I have several times read stories and magazines of cowards changing in a charge to heroes. I used to laugh at it. It seemed easy for story writers, but I said men aren't made that way. But over in France I learned once that the streak of yellow can turn all white. I picked up the story, bit by bit, from the captain of the company, the sentries who guarded the poor fellow, as well as from my own observations. At first I did not realize the whole of his story, but after a week of investigation it stood out as clear in my mind as the mountains of my native west in the spring sunshine. It impressed me so much that I wrote it all down in rest-billets on odd scraps of paper. The incidents are, as I say, every bit true. The feelings of the man are true. I know from all I underwent in the fighting over in France. We will call him Albert Lloyd. That wasn't his name, but it will do. Albert Lloyd was what the world terms a coward. In London they called him a slacker. His country had been at war nearly eighteen months, and still he was not in khaki. He had no good reason for not enlisting, being alone in the world, having been educated in an orphan asylum, and there being no one depended upon him for support. He had no good position to lose, and there was no sweetheart to tell him with her lips to go, while her eyes pleaded for him to stay. Every time he saw a recruiting sergeant he'd slink around the corner out of sight, with the terrible fear gnawing at his heart. When passing the big recruiting posters, and on his way to business and back he passed many, he would pull down his cap and look the other way, to get away from that awful finger pointing at him, under the caption, Your king and country need you. Or the boring eyes of Kitchener, which burned into his very soul, causing him to shudder. Then the zeppelin raids. During them he used to crouch in a corner of his boarding-house cellar, whimpering like a whipped puppy, and calling upon the Lord to protect him. Even his landlady despised him, although she had to admit that he was good pay. He very seldom read the papers, but one momentous morning, the landlady put the morning paper at his place before he came down to breakfast. Seeing his seat he read the flaring headline, Conscription Bill Passed. And nearly fainted. Excusing himself he stumbled upstairs to his bedroom, with the horror of it gnawing into his vitals. Having saved up a few pounds he decided not to leave the house and to sham sickness, so he stayed in his room and had the landlady serve his meals there. Every time there was a knock at the door he trembled all over, meaning it was a policeman who had come to take him away to the army. One morning his fears were realized. Sure enough there stood a policeman with a fatal paper. Taking it in his trembling hand he read that he, Albert Lloyd, was ordered to report himself to the nearest recruiting station for physical examination. He reported immediately because he was afraid to disobey. The doctor looked with approval upon Lloyd's six feet of physical perfection and thought what a fine guardsman he would make, but examined his heart twice before he passed him as physically fit. It was beating so fast. From the recruiting depot Lloyd was taken, with many others, in charge of a sergeant, to the training depot at Aldershot, where he was given an outfit of khaki and drew his other equipment. He made a fine-looking soldier, except for the slight shrinking in his shoulders and the hunted look in his eyes. At the training depot it does not take long to find out a man's character, and Lloyd was promptly dubbed Windy. In the English army, Windy means cowardly. The smallest recruit in the barracks looked on him with contempt and was not slow to show it in many ways. Lloyd was a good soldier, learned quickly, obeyed every order promptly, never groused at the hardest fatigues. He was afraid to. He lived in deadly fear of the officers and non-coms over him. They also despised him. One morning about three months after his enlistment Lloyd's company was paraded and the names picked for the next draft of France were read. When his name was called he did not step out smartly, two paces to the front, and answer cheerfully, Here, sir! as the others did. He just fainted in ranks and was carried to barracks amid the sneers of the rest. That night was an agony of misery to him. He could not sleep. Just cried and whimpered in his bunk, because on the moral the draft was to sail for France, where he would see death on all sides and perhaps be killed himself. On the steamer, crossing the channel, he would have jumped overboard to escape, but was afraid of drowning. Arriving in France, he and the rest were huddled into cattle-cars. On the side of each appeared in white letters, Chevaux 8, Aum, 40. After hours of bumping over the uneven French road-beds, they arrived at the training base of Rouen. At this place they were put through a week's rigid training in trench warfare. On the morning of the eighth day they paraded at ten o'clock and were inspected and passed by General H. Then were marched to the quarter-masters to draw their gas helmets and trench equipment. At four in the afternoon they were again hustled into cattle-cars. This time the journey lasted two days. They disembarked at the town de Préval, and could hear a distant dull booming. With knees shaking, Lloyd asked the sergeant what the noise was, and nearly dropped, when the sergeant replied in a somewhat bored tone, Oh, them's the guns up the line. We'll be up there in a couple of days or so. Don't worry, Milady. You'll see more of them than you'll want before you get home to Blidy again. That is, if you're lucky enough to get back. Now lend a hand there, unloading them cars, and quit that everlast and shaken. I believe you're scared. The last with a contemptuous sneer. They marched ten kilometers, full-pack, to a little dilapidated village, and the sound of the guns grew louder, constantly louder. The village was full of soldiers who turned out to inspect the new draft, the men who were shortly to be their mates in the trenches, for they were going up the line on the moral to take over their certain sector of trenches. The draft was paraded in front of battalion headquarters, and the men were assigned to companies. Lloyd was the only man assigned to D. Company. Perhaps the officer in charge of the draft had something to do with it, for he called Lloyd aside and said, Lloyd, you are going to a new company. No one knows you. Your bed will be as you make it, so for God's sake, brace up and be a man. I think you have the stuff in you, my boy. So good-bye, and the best of luck to you. The next day the battalion took over their part of the trenches. It happened to be a very quiet day. The artillery behind the lines was still, except for an occasional shell sent over to let the Germans know the gunners were not asleep. In the darkness, in single file, the company slowly winded their way down the communication trench to the front line. No one noticed Lloyd's wide and drawn face. After they had relieved the company in the trenches, Lloyd, with two of the old company men, was put on guard in one of the traverses. Not a shot was fired from the German lines, and no one paid any attention to him crouched on the firing step. On the first time in, a new recruit is not required to stand with his head over the top. He only sits it out, while the older men keep watch. At about ten o'clock all of a sudden he thought hell had broken loose and crouched and shivered up against the parapet. Shells started bursting, as he imagined, right in their trench, when in fact they were landing about a hundred yards in rear of them in the second lines. One of the older men on guard, turning to his mate, said, "'There goes Fritz with those damned trench-mortars again! Once about time our artillery taped them, and set over a few. Well, I'll be damned. Where's that blighter of a draft man gone to? There's his rifle leaning against the parapet. He must have legged it. Just keep your eye peeled, Dick, while I report it to the sergeant. I wonder if the fool knows he can be shot for such tricks as leave in his post." Lloyd had gone. When the trench-mortars opened up, a maddening terror seized him, and he wanted to run, to get away from that horrible den anywhere to safety. So quietly sneaking around the traverse he came to the entrance of a communication trench, and ran madly and blindly down it, running into traverses, stumbling into muddy holes, and falling full length over trench grids. Groping blindly, with his arm stretched out in front of him, he at last came out of the trench into the village, or what used to be a village, before the German artillery raised it. Mixed with his fear he had a peculiar sort of cunning, which whispered to him to avoid all sentries, because if they saw him he would be sent back to that awful destruction in the front line, and perhaps be killed or maimed. The thought made him shudder, the cold sweat coming out in beads on his face. On his left in the darkness he could make out the shadowy forms of trees, crawling on his hands and knees, stopping and crouching with fear at each shell-burst he finally reached an old orchard, and cowered at the base of a shot-scarred apple-tree. He remained there all night, listening to the sound of the guns, and ever praying, praying that his useless life would be spared. As dawn began to break he could discern little dark objects protruding from the ground all about him. Curiosity mastered his fear, and he crawled to one of the rocks, and there, in the uncertain light, he read on a little wooden cross, Private H. S. Wheaton, No. 1670, 1st London Regiment, R. F., Killed in Action, April 25, 1916, R. I. P., Rest in Peace. When it dawned on him that he had been hiding all night in a cemetery, his reasons seemed to leave him, and a mad desire to be free from it all made him rush madly away, falling over little wooden crosses, smashing some and trampling others under his feet. In his flight he came to an old French dugout, half caved in, and partially filled with slimy and filthy water. Like a fox being chased by the hounds he ducked into this hole, and threw himself on a pile of old empty sandbags, wet and mildewed. Then unconsciousness. On the next day he came to, far distant voices sounded in his ears. Opening his eyes, in the entrance of the dugout, he saw a corporal and two men with fixed bayonets. The corporal was addressing him, Get up, you white-liver blighter, curse you in the day you ever joined D. Company, spoiling their fine record. It'll be you up against the wall in a good job, too. Get a hold of him, men, and if he makes a break, give him the bayonet, and send it home, the cowardly sneak. Come on, you, move. We've been looking for you long enough. Lloyd, trembling and weakened by his long fast, tottered out, assisted by a soldier on each side of him. They took him before the captain, but could get nothing out of him, but— For God's sake, sir, don't have me shot! Don't have me shot! The captain, utterly disgusted with him, sent him under escort to division headquarters for trial by court-martial, charged with desertion under fire. They shoot deserters in France. During his trial, Lloyd sat as one dazed, and could put nothing forward in his defense, only an occasional— Don't have me shot! His sentence was passed. To be shot at 3.38 o'clock in the morning of May 18, 1916. This meant that he had only one more day to live. He did not realize the awfulness of his sentence. His brain seemed paralyzed. He knew nothing of his trip under guard in a motor-lory to the sand-bagged guard room in the village, where he was dumped on the floor and left, while a sentry with a fixed bayonet paced up and down in front of the entrance. Bully-beef, water, and biscuits were left beside him for his supper. The sentry, seeing that he ate nothing, came inside and shook him by the shoulder, saying in a kind voice, Chirot, laddie, better eat something. You'll feel better. Don't give up hope. You'll be pardoned before morning. I know the way they run these things. They're only trying to scare you, that's all. Come now. There's a good lad. Eat something. It'll make the world look different to you. The good-hearted sentry knew he was lying about the pardon. He knew nothing short of a miracle could save the poor lad. Lloyd listened eagerly to his sentry's words and believed them. A look of hope came into his eyes, and he ravenously ate the meal beside him. In about an hour's time the chaplain came to see him, but Lloyd would have none of him. He wanted no parson. He was to be pardoned. The artillery behind the line suddenly opened up with everything they had. An intense bombardment of the enemy's lines had commenced. The roar of the guns was deafening. Lloyd's fears came back with a rush, and he cowered on the earth and floor with his hands over his face. The sentry, seeing his position, came in and tried to cheer him by talking to him. Never mind him, guts boy. They won't hurt you. They are ours. We are giving the bow shut dose of their own medicine. Our boys are going over the top at dawn of the morning to take their trenches. People give him a taste of cold steel with their sausages and beer. You just sit tight now, until they relieve you. I'll have to go now, lad, as it's nearly time for my relief, and I don't want them to see me talking with you. So long, laddie. Cheerio. With this the sentry resumed the pacing of his post. In about ten minutes' time he was relieved, and a decompany man took his place. Looking into the guardhouse the sentry noticed the cowering attitude of Lloyd, and with a sneer said to him, Instead of whimpering in that corner you ought to be saying your prayers. It's balikun scripts like you what's spoiling our record. We've been out here nigh unto eighteen months, and you're the first man to desert his post. The whole battalion is laughing and poking fun at decompany. Bad luck to you, but you won't get another chance to disgrace us. They'll put your lights out in the morning. After listening to this tirade Lloyd, in a faltering voice, asked, They're not going to shoot me, are they? Why the other sentry said they'd pardon me. For God's sake, don't tell me I'm to be shot! And his voice died away in a sob. Of course they're going to shoot you. The other sentry was just a kitten you. Just like Old Smith. Always a-trying to cheer someone. You ain't got no more chance of being pardoned than I have of getting to be colonel of my bat. When the fact that all hope was gone finally entered Lloyd's brain, a calm seemed to settle over him, and rising to his knees, with his arms stretched out to heaven, he prayed, and all of his soul entered into the prayer. Oh, good, immerseful God! Give me strength to die like a man. Deliver me from this coward's death. Give me a chance to die like my mates in the fighting line. To die fighting for my country. I asked this of thee. A peace hitherto unknown came to him, and he crouched and cowered no more, but calmly waited the dawn ready to go to his death. The shells were bursting all around the guard room, but he hardly noticed them. While waiting there, the voice of the sentry, singing in a low tone, came to him. He was singing the chorus of the popular trench-ditty, I want to go home, I want to go home. I don't want to go to the trenches no more, where the whiz bangs and sausages roar galore. Take me o'er the sea, where the Olliman can't get at me. Oh, my, I don't want to die. I want to go home. Lloyd listened to the words with a strange interest, and wondered what kind of a home he would go to across the Great Divide. It would be the only home he had ever known. Suddenly there came a great rushing through the air, a blinding flash, a deafening report, and the sandbag walls of the guard room toppled over, and then blackness. When Lloyd recovered consciousness he was lying on his right side, facing what used to be the entrance of the guard room. Now it was only a jumble of rent-and-torn sandbags. His head seemed bursting. He slowly rose on his elbow, and there in the east the dawn was breaking. But what was that mangled shape lying over there among the sandbags? Slowly dragging himself to it, he saw the body of the sentry. One look was enough to know that he was dead. The soldier's head was missing. The sentry had had his wish gratified. He had gone home. He was safe at last from the whiz bangs and the Olliman. Like a flash it came to Lloyd that he was free. Free to go over the top with his company. Free to die like a true Briton, fighting for his king and country. A great gladness and warmth came over him. Carefully stepping over the body of the sentry, he started on a mad race down the ruined street of the village, amid the bursting shells, minding them not, dodging through or around hurrying platoons on their way to also go over the top. According to a communication trench he could not get through. It was blocked with laughing, cheering, and cursing soldiers. Climbing out of the trench he ran wildly along the top, never heeding the rain of machine gun bullets and shells, not even hearing the shouts of the officers, telling him to get back into the trench. He was going to join his company, who were in the front line. He was going to fight with them. He, the despised coward, had come into his own. While he was racing along, jumping over trenches crowded with soldiers, a ringing cheer broke out all along the front line, and his heart sank. He knew he was too late. His company had gone over, but still he ran madly. He would catch them. He would die with them. Meanwhile his company had gone over. They with the other companies had taken the first and second German trenches, and had pushed steadily on to the third line. D. Company, led by their captain, the one who had sent Lloyd to division headquarters for trial, charged with desertion, had pushed steadily forward until they found themselves far in advance of the rest of the attacking force. Bombing out, trench after trench, and using their bayonets, they came to a German communication trench, which ended in a blind sap. And then the captain, and what was left of his men, knew they were in a trap. They would not retire. D. Company never retired, and they were D. Company. Right in front of them they could see hundreds of Germans preparing to rush them with bomb and bayonet. They would have some chance if ammunition and bombs could reach them from the rear. Their supply was exhausted, and the men realized it would be a case of dying as bravely as possible, or making a run for it. But D. Company would not run. It was against their traditions and principles. The Germans would have to advance across an open space of three to four hundred yards before they could get within bombing distance of the trench, and then it would be all their own way. Turning to his company, the captain said, Men, it's a case of going west for us. We are out of ammunition and bombs, and the Bosch have us in a trap. They will bomb us out. Our bayonets are useless here. We will have to go over and meet them, and it's a case of thirty to one. So send every thrust home and die like the men of D. Company should. When I give the word, follow me, and up and at them. Give them hell. God, if we only had a machine gun, we could wipe them out. Here they come. Get ready, men. Just as he finished speaking, the welcome pup-pup-pup a machine gun in their rear rang out, and the front line of the onrushing Germans seemed to meld away. They wavered, but once again came rushing onward. Down went their second line. The machine gun was taking an awful toll of lives. Then again they tried to advance, but the machine gun mowed them down. Dropping their rifles and bombs, they broke and fled in a wild rush back to their trench amid the cheers of D. Company. They were forming again for another attempt when in the rear of D. Company came a mighty cheer. The ammunition had arrived, and with it a battalion of scotch to reinforce them. They were saved. The unknown machine gunner had come to the rescue in the nick of time. With the reinforcements it was an easy task to take the third German line. After the attack was over, the captain and three of his non-commissioned officers wended their way back to the position where the machine gun had done its deadly work. He wanted to thank the gunner in the name of D. Company for his magnificent deed. They arrived at the gun, and an awful sight met their eyes. Lloyd had reached the front-line trench after his company had left it. A strange company was nimbly crawling up the trench ladders. They were reinforcements going over. They were scuddies, and they made a magnificent sight in their brightly colored kilts and bare knees. Jumping over the trench, Lloyd raced across no man's land, unheating the rain of bullets, leaping over dark forms on the ground, some of which lay still, while others called out to him as he speeded past. He came to the German front line, but it was deserted, except for heaps of dead and wounded. A grim tribute to the work of his company, good old D. Company. Leaping trenches and gasping for breath, Lloyd could see right ahead of him his company in a dead-ended sap of a communication trench, and across the open, away in front of them, a mass of Germans preparing for a charge. Why didn't D. Company fire on them? Why were they so strangely silent? What were they waiting for? Then he knew. Their ammunition was exhausted. But what was that on his right? A machine gun. Why didn't it open fire and save them? He would make that gun's crew do their duty. Rushing over to the gun he saw why it had not opened fire. Scattered around its base lay six still forms. They had brought their gun to consolidate the captured position, but a German machine gun had decreed they would never fire again. Lloyd rushed to the gun, and grasping the traversing handles trained it on the Germans. He pressed the thumbpiece, but only a sharp click was the result. The gun was unloaded. Then he realized his helplessness. He did not know how to load the gun. Oh, why hadn't he attended the machine gun course in England? He'd been offered the chance, but with a blush of shame he remembered that he had been afraid. The nickname of the machine gunners had frightened him. They were called the Suicide Club. Now, because of this fear, his company would be destroyed, the men of D. Company would have to die, because he, Albert Lloyd, had been afraid of a name. In his shame he cried like a baby. Anyway, he could die with them, and rising to his feet he stumbled over the body of one of the gunners who emitted a faint moan. A gleam of hope flashed through him. Perhaps this man could tell him how to load the gun. Looking over the body he gently shook it, and the soldier opened his eyes. Seeing Lloyd he closed them again, and in a faint voice said, Get away, you bliter! Leave me alone! I don't want any coward around me. The words cut Lloyd like a knife, but he was desperate. Taking the revolver out of the holster of the dying man, he pressed the cold muzzle to the soldier's head and replied, Yes, it is Lloyd, the coward of Company D. So help me, God, if you don't tell me how to load that gun I'll put a bullet through your brain. A sunny smile came over the countenance of the dying man, and he said in a faint whisper, Good old boy, I knew you wouldn't disgrace our Company. Lloyd interposed, For God's sake, if you want to save that Company you are so proud of, tell me how to load that damned gun! As if reciting a lesson in school the soldier replied in a weak sing-song voice, Insert tag end of belt and feed block, with left hand pull belt left front, Pull crank handle back on roller, let go, and repeat motion. Gun is now loaded. To fire, raise automatic safety latch, and press thumb-piece. Gun is now firing. If gun stops, ascertain position of crank handle. But Lloyd waited for no more. With wild joy at his heart he took a belt from one of the ammunition boxes lying beside the gun, and followed the dying man's instructions. Then he pressed the thumb-piece, and a burst of fire rewarded his efforts. The gun was working. Training it on the Germans he shouted for joy as their front rank went down. Traversing the gun back and forth along the mass of Germans he saw them break and run back to the cover of their trench, leaving their dead and wounded behind. He had saved his company. He, Lloyd, the coward, had done his bit. Releasing the thumb-piece he looked at the watch on his wrist. He was still alive, and the hands pointed to 338, the time set for his death by the court. Ping! A bullet sang through the air, and Lloyd fell forward across the gun. A thin trickle of blood ran down his face from a little black round hole in his forehead. The sentence of the court had been duly carried out. The captain slowly raised the limp form drooping over the gun, and wiping the blood from the white face recognized it as Lloyd, the coward of D. Company. Reverently covering the face with his handkerchief he turned to his non-coms, and in a voice husky with emotion addressed them. Boys! It's Lloyd the Deserter! He has redeemed himself, died the death of a hero, died that his mates might leave. That afternoon a solemn procession went at its way toward the cemetery, and the front of stretcher was carried by two sergeants. Across the stretcher the Union Jack was carefully spread. Behind the stretcher came a captain and forty-three men, all that were left of D. Company. Looking at the cemetery they halted in front of an open grave. All about them wooden crosses were broken and trampled into the ground. A grizzled old sergeant, noting this destruction, muttered under his breath, Curse! The cowardly blighter who wrecked these crosses! If I could only get these two hands around his neck, his trip west would be a short one. The corpse on the stretcher seemed to move, or it might have been the wind blowing the folds of the Union Jack. CHAPTER XXV and XXVI This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, and is recorded by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. Over the top, by Arthur Ampe, CHAPTER XXV, preparing for the Big Push. Dejoining at well after the execution I had a hard time trying to keep my secret from him. I think I must have lost at least ten pounds worrying over the affair. Beginning at seven in the evening it was our duty to patrol all communication and front-line trenches, making note of unusual occurrences, and arresting anyone who should, to us, appear to be acting in a suspicious manner. We slept during the day. Behind the lines there was great activity, supplies and ammunition pouring in, and long columns of troops constantly passing. We were preparing for the Big Offensive, the Forerunner of the Battle of the Somme, or Big Push. The never-ending stream of men, supplies, ammunition, and guns pouring into the British lines made a mighty spectacle, one that cannot be described. It has to be witnessed with your own eyes to appreciate its fastness. At our part of the line the influx of supplies never ended. It looked like a huge snake slowly crawling forward, never a hitch or break, a wonderful tribute to the system and efficiency of Great Britain's contemptible little army of five millions of men. Huge fifteen-inch guns snaked along, foot by foot, by powerful steam-tractors. Then a long line of 4.5 batteries, each gun drawn by six horses, then a couple of 9.2 howitzers pulled by immense caterpillar engines. When one of these caterpillars would pass me with its mighty monster in tow, a flush of pride would mount to my face, as I could plainly read on the nameplate, Maid in USA, and I would remember that if I wore a nameplate it would also read, Maid in USA. Then I would stop to think how thin and straggly that mighty stream would be if all the Maid in USA parts of it were withdrawn. Then would come hundreds of limbers and G.S. wagons drawn by sleek, well-fed mules, ridden by sleek, well-fed men ever smiling. So grimy with sweat and covered with a fine white dust of the marvelously well-made French roads. What a discouraging report the German airmen must have taken back to their division commanders, and this stream is slowly but surely getting bigger and bigger every day, and the pace is always the same. No slower, no faster, but ever onward, ever forward. Three weeks before the big push of July 1st, as the Battle of the Somme has been called, started, exact duplicates of the German trenches were dug about 30 kilometers behind our lines. The layout of the trenches were taken from airplane photographs submitted by the Royal Flying Corps. The trenches were correct to the foot. They showed dugouts, saps, barbed wire defenses, and danger spots. Battalions that were to go over in the first ways were sent back for three days to study these trenches, engage in practice attacks, and have night maneuvers. Each man was required to make a map of the trenches and familiarize himself with the names and location of the parts his battalion was to attack. In the American Army, non-commissioned officers are put through a course of map-making, or road-sketching, and during my six-year service in the United States Cavalry, I had plenty of practice in this work. Therefore mapping these trenches was a comparatively easy task for me. Each man had to submit his map to the company commander to be passed upon, and I was lucky enough to have mine selected as being sufficiently authentic to use in the attack. No photographs or maps are allowed to leave France, but in this case it appealed to me as a valuable souvenir of the Great War, and I managed to smuggle it through. At this time it carries no military importance, as the British lines, I am happy to say, have since been advanced beyond this point, so it has been reproduced in this book without breaking any regulation or cautions of the British Army. The whole attack was rehearsed and rehearsed until we heartily cursed the one who had conceived the idea. The trenches were named according to a system which made it very simple for Tommy to find, even in the dark, any point in the German lines. These imitation trenches, or trench models, were well guarded from observation by numerous Allied planes which constantly circled above them. No German airplane could approach within observing distance. A restricted area was maintained, and no civilian was allowed within three miles, so we felt sure that we had a great surprise in store for Fritz. When we took over the front line we received an awful shock. The Germans displayed signboards over the top of their trench, showing the names that we had called their trenches. The signs read Fair, Fact, Fate, and Fancy, and so on, according to the code names on our map. Then to rub it in they hoisted some more signs which read, When are you coming over? Or Come on, we are ready, stupid English. It is still a mystery to me how they obtained this knowledge. There had been no raids or prisoners taken, so it must have been the work of spies in our own lines. Three or four days before the big push we tried to shatter Fritz's nerves by faint attacks, and partially succeeded as the official reports of July 1st show. Although we were constantly bombarding their lines day and night, still we fooled the Germans several times. This was accomplished by throwing an intense barrage into his lines. Then using smoke shells we would put a curtain of white smoke across no man's land, completely obstructing his view of our trenches, and would raise our curtain of fire as if in an actual attack. All down our trenches the men would shout and cheer, and Fritz would turn loose with machine gun, rifle, and shrapnel fire, thinking we were coming over. After three or four of these dummy attacks his nerves must have been near the breaking point. On June 24, 1916, at 9.40 in the morning, our guns opened up, and hell was let loose. The din was terrific, a constant boom, boom, boom in your ear. At night the sky was a red glare. Our bombardment had lasted about two hours when Fritz started replying. Although we were sending over ten shells to his one, our casualties were heavy. There was a constant stream of stretchers coming out of the communication trenches, and burial parties were a common sight. In the dugouts the noise of the guns almost hurt. You had the same sensation as when riding on the subway you entered the tube under the river going to Brooklyn, a sort of pressure on the eardrums, and the ground constantly trembling. The roads behind the trenches were very dangerous because both shrapnel was constantly bursting over them. We avoided these dangerous spots by crossing through open fields. The destruction in the German lines was awful, and I really felt sorry for them because I realized how they must be clicking it. From our front line trench, every now and again we could hear sharp whistle blasts in the German trenches. These blasts were the signals for stretcher-bearers and meant the wounding or killing of some German in the service of his fatherland. Atwell and I had a tough time of it, patrolling the different trenches at night, but after a while got used to it. My old outfit, the machine-gun company, was stationed in huge elephant dugouts about four hundred yards behind the front line trench. They were in reserve. Occasionally I would stop in their dugout and have a confab with my former mates. Although we tried to be jolly, still, there was a lurking feeling of impending disaster. Each man was wondering if, after the slogan, over the top with the best of luck, had been sounded, would he still be alive or would he be lying somewhere in France? In an old dilapidated house, the walls of which were scarred with machine-gun bullets. Number three section of the machine-gun company had its quarters. The company's cooks prepared the meals in this billet. On the fifth evening of the bombardment a German eight-inch shell registered a direct hit on the billet and wiped out ten men who were asleep in the supposedly braum-proof cellar. They were buried the next day, and I attended the funeral. CHAPTER XXVI. All quiet on the western front. At Brigade Headquarters I happened to overhear a conversation between our GOC, General Officer Commanding, and the Divisional Commander. From this conversation I learned that we were to bombard the German lines for eight days, and on the first of July the big push was to commence. A few days orders were issued to that effect, and it was common property all along the line. On the afternoon of the eighth day of our strafing, Atwell and I were sitting in the front-line trench, smoking fags and making out our reports of the previous night's tour of the trenches, which we had to turn into headquarters the following day, when an order was passed down the trench that Old Pepper requested twenty volunteers to go over on a trench raid that night to try and get a few German prisoners for information purposes. I immediately volunteered for this job, and shook hands with Atwell and went to the rear to give my name to the officers in charge of the raiding-party. I was accepted worse luck. At nine-forty that night we reported to the Brigade Headquarters dug-out to receive instructions from Old Pepper. After reaching this dug-out we lined up in a semi-circle around him, and he addressed us as follows. All I want you boys to do is to go over to the German lines to-night, surprise them, secure a couple of prisoners, and return immediately. Our artillery has bombarded that section of the line for two days, and personally I believe that that part of the German trench is unoccupied, so just get a couple of prisoners and return as quickly as possible. The sergeant on my right, in an undertone, whispered to me, Say, yank, how are we going to get a couple of prisoners if the old fool thinks, personally, that that part of the trench is unoccupied? Sounds kind of fishy, don't'sen't it, mate? I had a funny sinking sensation in my stomach, and my tin hat felt as if it weighed about a ton, and my enthusiasm was melding away. Old Pepper must have heard the sergeant speak, because he turned in his direction and in a thundering voice asked, What did you say? The sergeant with a scared look on his face and his knees trembling, smartly saluted and answered, Nothing, sir! Old Pepper said, Well, don't say it so loudly the next time! Then Old Pepper continued. In this section of the German trenches there are two or three machine guns, which are artillery, in the last two or three days, has been unable to tape. These guns command the sector where two of our communication trenches join the front line, and as the brigade is to go over the top to-morrow morning I want to capture two or three men from these guns' crews, and from them I may be able to obtain valuable information as to the exact location of the guns, and our artillery will, therefore, be able to demolish them before the attack, and thus prevent our losing a lot of men, while using these communication trenches to bring up reinforcements. These were the instructions he gave us. Take off your identification discs, strip your uniforms of all numerals, insignia, etc. Leave your papers with your captains, because I don't want the Bosch to know what regiments are against them, as this would be valuable information to them in our attack to-morrow, and I don't want any of you to be taken alive. What I want is to prisoners, and if I get them I have a way which will make them divulge all necessary information as to their guns. You have your choice of two weapons. You may carry your persuaders or your knuckle knives, and each man will arm himself with four mills-bombs, these to be used only in case of emergency. A persuader is Tommy's nickname for a club carried by the bombers. It is about two feet long, thin at one end, and very thick at the other. The thick end is studded with sharp steel spikes, while through the center of the club there is a nine-inch lead bar to give it weight imbalance. When you get a prisoner, all you have to do is just stick this club up in front of him, and believe me, the prisoner's patriotism for Deutschland Oeberallus fades away, and he very willingly obeys the orders of his captor. If however the prisoner gets high-toned and refuses to follow you, simply persuade him by first removing his tin hat, and then—well, the use of the lead weight in the persuader is demonstrated, and Tommy looks for another prisoner. The knuckle knife is a dagger affair, the blade of which is about eight inches long with a heavy steel guard over the grip. This guard is studded with steel projections. At night in a trench, which is only about three to four feet wide, it makes a very handy weapon. One punch in the face gently shatters a man's jaw, and you can get him with the knife as he goes down. Then we had what we called our come-alongs. These are strands of barbed wire about three feet long, made into a noose at one end. At the other end the barbs are cut off, and Tommy slips his wrist through the loop to get a good grip on the wire. If the prisoner wants to argue the point, why just place the large loop around his neck, and no matter if Tommy wishes to return to his trenches at the walk, trot, or gallop, Fritz is perfectly agreeable to maintain Tommy's rate of speed. We were ordered to black our faces and hands, for this reason. At night the English and Germans use what they call star shells, a sort of rocket affair. These are fired from a large pistol about twenty inches long, which is held over the sandbag parapet of the trench, and discharged into the air. These star shells attain a height of about sixty feet, and a range of from fifty to seventy-five yards. When they hit the ground they explode, throwing out a strong calcium light which lights up the ground in a circle of a radius of between ten to fifteen yards. They also have a parachute star shell, which, after reaching a height of about sixty feet, explodes. A parachute unfolds and slowly floats to the ground, lighting up a large circle in no man's land. The official name of the star shell is a very light. Very lights are used to prevent night's surprise attacks on the trenches. If a star shell falls in front of you, or between you and the German lines, you are safe from detection, as the enemy cannot see you through the bright curtain of light. But if it falls behind you, and, as Tommy says, you get into the star shell zone, then the fun begins. You have to lie flat on your stomach and remain absolutely motionless until the light of the shell dies out. This takes anywhere from forty to seventy seconds. If you haven't time to fall to the ground you must remain absolutely still in whatever position you were in when the light exploded. It is advisable not to breathe, as Fritz has an eye like an eagle when he thinks you are knocking at his door. When a star shell is burning in Tommy's rear he can hold his breath for a week. You blacken your face and hands so that the light from the star shells will not reflect on your pale face. In a trench raid there is quite sufficient reason for your face to be pale. If you don't believe me, try it just once. Then another reason for blacking your face and hands is that, after you have entered the German trench at night, white face means Germans, black face, English. Coming around a traverse you see a white face in front of you. With a prayer and wishing Fritz the best of luck you introduce him to your persuader or knuckle knife. A little later we arrived at the communication trench named Whiskey Street, which led to the fire trench at the point we were to go over at the top and out in front. In our rear were four stretcher-bearers and a corporal of the REMC, carrying a pouch containing medicines and first aid appliances. Kind of a grim reminder to us that our expedition was not going to be exactly a picnic. The order of things was reversed. In civilian life the doctors gently come first with the undertakers tagging in the rear, and then the insurance man. But in our case the undertakers were leading, with the doctors trailing behind, minus the insurance adjuster. The presence of the REMC men did not seem to disturb the raiders because many a joke made in an undertone was passed along the winding column, as to who would be first to take a ride on one of the stretchers. This was gently followed by a wish that, if you were to be the one, the wound would be a cushy, blighty one. The stretcher-bearers, no doubt, were hoping that, if they did have to carry any one to the rear, he would be small and light. Perhaps they looked at me when wishing because I could feel an uncomfortable, boring sensation between my shoulder-blades. They got their wish all right. Growing up this trench, about every sixty yards or so, we would pass a lonely sentry, who in a whisper would wish us, the Bustaluck mites! We would blind at him under our breaths, that Jonah phrased to us sounded very ominous. Without any casualties the minstrel troop arrived in Suicide Ditch, the front-line trench. Previously a wiring party of the Royal Engineers had cut a lane through our barbed wire to enable us to get out into no man's land. Going through this lane, our party of twenty took up an extended order formation about one yard apart. We had a tack code arranged for our movements while in no man's land, because for various reasons it is not safe to carry on a heated conversation a few yards in front of Fritz's lines. The officer was on the right of the line while I was on the extreme left. Two taps from the right would be passed down the line until I received them, then I would send back one tap. The officer, in receiving this one tap, would know that his order had gone down the whole line, had been understood, and that the party was ready to obey the two-tap signal. Two taps meant that we were to crawl forward slowly, and believe me, very slowly, for five yards, and then halt to await further instructions. Three taps meant, when you arrived within striking distance of the German trench, rush it and inflict as many casualties as possible, secure a couple of prisoners, and then back to your own lines with the speed-clutch open. Four taps meant, I have gotten you into a position from which it is impossible for me to extricate you, so you are on your own. After getting Tommy into a mess on the western front, he is generally told that he is on his own. This means, save your skin in any way possible. Tommy loves to be on his own behind the lines, but not during a trench raid. The starshells from the German lines were falling in front of us, therefore we were safe. After about twenty minutes we entered the starshell zone. A starshell from the German lines fell about five yards in the rear and to the right of me. We hugged the ground and held our breath until it burned out. The smoke from the starshell traveled along the ground and crossed over the middle of our line. Some Tommy sneezed. The smoke had gotten up his nose. We crouched on the ground, cursing the offender under our breath, and waited the volley that gently ensues when the Germans have heard a noise in no man's land. Nothing happened. We received two taps and crawled forward slowly for five yards. No doubt the officer believed what Old Pepper had said. Personally, I believe that that part of the German trench is unoccupied. By being careful and remaining motionless when the starshells fell behind us, we reached the German barbed wire without mishap. Then the fun began. I was scared stiff as it is ticklish work cutting your way through wire when about thirty feet in front of you there is a line of bushes looking out into no man's land with their rifles laying across the parapet, straining every sense to see or hear what is going on in no man's land. Because at night Fritz never knows when a bomb with his name and number on it will come hurtling through the air, aimed in the direction of Berlin. The man on the right, one man in the centre, and myself on the extreme left, were equipped with wire cutters. These are insulated with soft rubber, not because the German wires are charged with electricity, but to prevent the cutters rubbing against the barbed wire stakes, which are of iron, and making a noise which may warn the inmates of the trench that someone is getting fresh in their front yard. There is only one way to cut a barbed wire without noise and, through costly experience, Tommy has become an expert in doing this. You must grasp the wire about two inches from the stake in your right hand and cut between the stake and your hand. If you cut a wire improperly, a loud twang will ring out on the night air like the snapping of a banjo string. Perhaps this noise can be heard for only fifty or seventy-five yards, but in Tommy's mind it makes a loud noise in Berlin. We had cut a lane about half way through the wire when, down the centre of our line, twang, when an improperly cut wire. We crouched down, cursing under our breath, trembling all over, our knees lacerated from the strands of the cut barbed wire on the ground, waiting for a challenge and the inevitable volley of rifle fire. Nothing happened. I suppose the fellow who cut the barbed wire improperly was the one who had sneezed about half an hour previously. But we wished him would never make his new year a happy one. The officer, in my opinion, at the noise of the wire, should have given the forward tap signal, which meant, on your own, get back to your trenches as quickly as possible. But again he must have relied on the spiel that old Pepper had given us in the dugout. Personally, I believe that that part of the German trench is unoccupied. Anyway, we got careless, but not so careless that we sang patriotic songs or made any unnecessary noise. During the intervals the falling star-shells we carried on with our wire cutting, until at last we succeeded in getting through the German barbed wire. At this point we were only ten feet from the German trenches. If we were discovered we were like rats in a trap. Our way was cut off unless we ran along the wire to the narrow lane we had cut through. With our hearts and our mouths we waited for the three tap signal to rush the German trench. Three taps had gotten about halfway down the line, when suddenly about ten to twenty German star-shells were fired all along the trench and landed in the barbed wire in rear of us, turning night into day and silhouetting us against the wall of light made by the flares. In the glaring light we were confronted by the following unpleasant scene. All along the German trench, at about three-foot intervals, stood a big Prussian guardsman with his rifle at the aim, and then we found out why we had not been challenged when the man sneezed and the barbed wire had been improperly cut. About three feet in front of the trench they had constructed a single fence of barbed wire, and we knew our chances were one thousand to one of returning alive. We could not rush their trench on account of this second defense. Then in front of me the challenge—HALT!—given an English rang out, and one of the finest things I have ever heard on the western front took place. From the middle of our line some Tommy answered the challenge with—AUGH! GO TO HELL! It must have been the man who had sneezed or who had improperly cut the barbed wire. He wanted to show Fritz that he could die game. Then came the volley. Machine guns were turned loose and several bombs were thrown in our rear. The Bosch in front of me was looking down his site. This fellow might have, under ordinary circumstances, been handsome, but when I viewed him from the front of his rifle he had the goblins of childhood imagination relegated to the shade. Then came a flash in front of me, the flare of his rifle, and my head seemed to burst. A bullet had hit me on the left side of my face about half an inch from my eye, smashing the cheekbones. I put my hand to my face and fell forward, biting the ground and kicking my feet. I thought I was dying. But do you know, my past life did not unfold before me the way it does in novels. The blood was streaming down my tunic and the pain was awful. When I came to, I said to myself, "'Temple, boy, you belong in Jersey City, and you better get back there as quickly as possible.' The bullets were cracking overhead. I crawled a few feet back to the German barbed wire, and in a stooping position, guiding myself by the wire, I went down the line looking for the lane we had cut through. Before reaching this lane I came to a limp form which seemed like a bag of oats hanging over the wire. In the dim light I could see that its hands were blackened, and I knew it was the body of one of my mates. I put my hand on his head, the top of which had been blown off by a bomb. My fingers sank into the hole. I pulled my hand back full of blood and brains, then I went crazy with fear and horror and rushed along the wire until I came to our lane. I just turned down this lane when something inside of me seemed to say, "'Look around.' I did so. A bullet caught me on the left shoulder. It did not hurt much. Just felt as if someone had punched me in the back, and then my left side went numb. My arm was dangling like a rag. I fell forward in a sitting position. But all fear had left me, and I was consumed with rage and cursed the German trenches. With my right hand I fell to my tunic for my first aid or shell dressing. In feeling over my tunic my hand came in contact with one of the bombs which I carried. Gripping it I pulled the pin out with my teeth and blindly threw it towards the German trench. I must have been out of my head because I was only ten feet from the trench and took a chance of being mangled. If the bomb had failed to go into the trench I would have been blown to bits by the explosion of my own bomb. By the flare of the explosion of the bomb, which luckily landed in their trench, I saw one big bush throw up his arms and fall backwards while his rifle flew into the air. Another one wilted and fell forward across the sandbags. Then blackness. Realizing what a foolhardy and risky thing I had done I was again seized with a horrible fear. I dragged myself to my feet and ran madly down the lane through the barbed wire, stumbling over cut wires, tearing my uniform, and lacerating my hands and legs. Just as I was about to reach no man's land again, that same voice seemed to say, Turn around. I did so when, crack! Another bullet caught me. This time in the left shoulder about one half inch away from the other wound. Then it was taps for me. The lights went out. When I came to I was crouching in a hole in no man's land. This shell hole was about three feet deep, so that it brought my head a few inches below the level of the ground. How I reached this hole I will never know. German typewriters were traversing back and forth in no man's land, the bullets biting the edge of my shell hole and throwing dirt all over me. Overhead shrapnel was bursting. I could hear the fragments slap the ground. Then I went out once more. When I came to everything was silence and darkness in no man's land. I was soaked with blood, and a big flap from the wound in my cheek was hanging over my mouth. The blood running from this flap choked me. Out of the corner of my mouth I would try and blow it back, but it would not move. I reached for my shell dressing and tried, with one hand, to bendage my face to prevent the flow. I had an awful horror of bleeding to death and was getting very faint. You would have laughed if you had seen my ludicrous attempts at bandaging with one hand. The pains in my wounded shoulder were awful and I was getting sick at the stomach. I gave up the bandaging stunt as a bad job and then fainted. When I came to, hell was let loose. An intense bombardment was on, and on the whole my position was decidedly unpleasant. Then suddenly our barrage ceased. The silence almost hurt, but not for long, because Fritz turned loose with shrapnel, machine guns, and rifle fire. Then all along our line came a cheer, and our boys came over the top in a charge. The first wave was composed of jocks. They were a magnificent sight, kilts flapping in the wind, bare knees showing, and their bayonets glistening. In the first wave that passed my shell-hole, one of the jocks, an immense fellow, about six feet two inches in height, jumped right over me. On the right and left of me, several soldiers and colored kilts were huddled on the ground. Then over came the second wave, also jocks. One young Scotty, when he came abreast of my shell-hole, leaped into the air, his rifle shooting out of his hands, landing about six feet in front of him, bayonet first, and stuck in the ground, the butt trembling. This impressed me greatly. Right now I can see the butt of that gun trembling. The Scotty made a complete turn in the air, hit the ground, rolling over twice, each time clawing at the earth, and then remained still, about four feet from me, in a sort of sitting position. I called to him, "'Are you hurt badly, jock?' But no answer. He was dead. A dark red smudge was coming through his tunic right under his heart. Blood ran down his bare knees, making a horrible sight. On his right side he carried his water-bottle. I was crazy for a drink and tried to reach this, but for the life of me could not negotiate that four feet. Then I became unconscious. When I woke up, I was in an advanced first aid post. I asked the doctor if we had taken the trench. We took the trench and the wood beyond all right. He said, "'I knew fellows did your bit, but my lad, that was thirty-six hours ago. You were lying in no man's land in that belly hole for a day and a half. It's a wonder you are alive.' He also told me that out of the twenty that were in the raiding-party, seventeen were killed. The officer died of wounds and crawling back to our trench, and I was severely wounded, but one fellow returned without a scratch, without any prisoners. No doubt this chap was the one who had sneezed and improperly cut the barbed wire. In the official communique, our trench raid was described as follows. All quiet on the western front, accepting in the neighborhood of Gumcourt Wood, where one of our raiding-parties penetrated into the German lines. It is needless to say that we had no use for our persuaders or come-alongs, as we brought back no prisoners, and until I die old pepper's words, personally I don't believe that that pod of the German trench is occupied. It will always come to me when I hear some fellow trying to get away with a fishy statement. I will judge it accordingly. Chapter 27 The final chapter, entitled Blady. From this first-aid post, after inoculating me with anti-Tentanus serum to prevent lockjaw, I was put into an ambulance and sent to temporary hospital behind the lines. To reach this hospital we had to go along a road about five miles in length. This road was under shell fire, for now and then a flare would light up the sky, a tremendous explosion, and then the roads seemed to tremble. We did not mind, though no doubt some of us wished that a shell would hit us and end our misery. Personally I was not particular. It was nothing but bump, jolt, rattle, and bang. Several times the driver would turn around and give us a, Cheerio, mates, we'll soon be there! Fine fellows, those ambulance drivers. A lot of them go west, too. We gradually drew out of the fire zone and pulled up in front of an immense dugout. Stretcher-bearers carried me down a number of steps and placed me on a white table in a brightly-lighted room. A sergeant of the Royal Army Medical Corps removed my bandages and cut off my tunic. Then the doctor, with his sleeves rolled up, took charge. He winked at me, and I winked back, and then he asked, How do you feel, smashed up a bit? I answered, I am all right, but I give a quid for a drink of bass. He nodded to the sergeant, who disappeared, and I'll be darned if he didn't return with a glass of ale. I could only open my mouth about a quarter of an inch, but I got away with every drop of that ale. It tasted just like blighty, and that is heaven to Tommy. The doctor said something to an orderly. The only word I could catch was chloroform. Then they put some kind of an arrangement over my nose and mouth, and it was me for dreamland. When I opened my eyes I was lying on a stretcher in a low wooden building. Everywhere I looked I saw rows of Tommy's on stretchers, some dead to the world, and the rest with fags in their mouths. The main topic of their conversation was blighty. Nearly all had a grin on their faces, except those who didn't have enough face left to grin with. I grinned with my right eye. The other was bandaged. Stretcher-bearers came in and began to carry the Tommy's outside. You could hear the chug of the engines and the waiting ambulances. I was put into a ford with three others, and away we went for an eighteen-mile ride. Deep out of a ford when you are wounded, insist on walking. It'll pay you. I was on a bottom stretcher. The lad right across from me was smashed up something horrible. Right above me was a man from the Royal Irish Rifles, while across from him was a Scotchman. We had gone about three miles when I heard the death rattle in the throat of the man opposite. He had gone to rest across the Great Divide. I think at the time I envied him. The man of the Royal Irish Rifles had had his left foot blown off. The jolting of the ambulance over the rough road had loosened up the bandages on his foot, and had started it bleeding again. His blood ran down the side of the stretcher and started dripping. I was lying on my back, too weak to move, and the dripping of this blood got in my unbandaged right eye. I closed my eye and pretty soon could not open the lid. The blood had congealed and closed it, as if it were glued down. An English girl dressed in khaki was driving the ambulance, while beside her on the seat was a corporal of the REMC. They kept up a running conversation about Blighty, which almost wrecked my nerves. Pretty soon from the stretcher above me, the Irishman became aware of the fact that the bandage from his foot had become loose. It must have pained him horribly, because he yelled in a loud voice. If you don't stop this bloody death-wagging and fix this damn bandage on my foot, I will get out and walk. The girl on the seat turned around, and in a sympathetic voice asked, Poor fellow, have you been very badly wounded? The Irishman at this question let out a howl of indignation and answered, Am I very badly wounded? What bloody cheek! No! I'm not wounded. I've only been kicked by a canary bird. The ambulance immediately stopped, and the corporal came to the rear and fixed him up, and also washed out my right eye. I was too weak to thank him, but it was a great relief. Then I must have become unconscious, because when I regained my senses, the ambulance was at a standstill, and my stretcher was being removed from it. It was night, lanterns were flashing here and there, and I could see stretcher-bearers hurrying to and fro. Then I was carried into a hospital train. The inside of this train looked like heaven to me, just pure white, and we met our first Red Cross nurses. We thought they were angels, and they were. Nice little soft bunks and clean white sheets. A Red Cross nurse sat beside me during the whole ride, which lasted three hours. She was holding my wrist. I thought I had made a hit, and tried to tell her how I got wounded. But she would put her finger to her lips and say, Yes, I know. You mustn't talk now. Try to go to sleep. It'll do you good. Doctor's orders. Later on I learned that she was taking my pulse every few minutes, as I was very weak from the loss of blood, and they expected me to snuff it, but I didn't. From the train we went into ambulances for a short ride to the hospital ship, Panama. Another palace and more angels. I don't remember the trip across the channel. I opened my eyes. I was being carried on a stretcher through lanes of people, some cheering, some waving flags, and others crying. The flags were Union Jacks. I was in Southampton. Blighty at last. My stretcher was strewn with flowers, cigarettes, and chocolates. Tears started to run down my cheek for my good eye. I, like a booby, was crying. Can you beat it? Then into another hospital train, a five-hour ride to painting, another ambulance ride, and then I was carried into Muncie Ward, of the American Women's War Hospital, and put into a real bed. This real bed was too much for my unstrung nerves, and I fainted. When I came to, a pretty Red Cross nurse was bending over me, bathing my forehead with cold water. Then she left, and the ward orderly, placed a screen around my bed, and gave me a much-needed bath in clean pajamas. Then the screen was removed, and a bowl of steaming soup was given me. It tasted delicious. Before finishing my soup, the nurse came back to ask me my name and number. She put this information down in a little book, and then asked, Where do you come from? I answered, from the big town behind the Statue of Liberty. Upon hearing this, she started jumping up and down, clapping her hands, and calling out to three nurses across the ward, Come here, girls! At last we've got a real-life Yankee with us! They came over and besieged me with questions, until the doctor arrived. Upon learning that I was an American, he almost crushed my hand in his grip of welcome. They also were Americans, and were glad to see me. The doctor very tenderly removed my bandages and told me, after viewing my wounds, that he would have to take me to the operating theatre immediately. Personally, I didn't care what was done with me. In a few minutes, four orderlies who looked like undertakers dressed in white, brought a stretcher to my bed, and placing me on it carried me out of the ward, across the courtyard to the operating room, or pictures, as Tommy calls it. I don't remember having the anesthetic applied. When I came to, I was again lying in a bed in Muncie Ward. One of the nurses had draped a large American flag over the head of the bed, and clasped in my hand was a smaller flag, and it made me feel good all over to again see the stars and stripes. At that time I wondered when the boys in the trenches would see the emblem of the land of the free and the home of the brave, beside them, doing its bit in this great war of civilization. My wounds were very painful, and several times at night I would dream that myriads of khaki cloth figures would pass my bed, and each would stop, bend over me, and whisper, The best of luck, mate. Soaked with perspiration, I would awake with a cry, and the night nurse would come over and hold my hand. This awakening got to be a habit with me, until that particular nurse was transferred to another ward. In three weeks' time, owing to the careful treatment received, I was able to sit up and get my bearings. Our ward contained seventy-five patients, ninety percent of which were surgical cases. At the head of each bed hung a temperature chart and diagnosis sheet. Across the sheet would be written GSW, or SW, the former meaning gunshot wound, and the latter, shell wound. The SW predominated, especially among the royal field artillery and royal engineers. About forty different regiments were represented, and many arguments ensued as to the respective fighting ability of each regiment. The rivalry was wonderful. A jock arguing with an Irishman, then a strong cockney accent would butt in in favor of a London regiment. Before long a Welshman, followed by a member of a Yorkshire regiment, and perhaps a Canadian, intrude themselves, and the argument waxes loud and furious. The patients in the bed start howling for them to settle their dispute outside, and the ward is in an uproar. The head sister comes along, and with a wave of the hand, completely routs the doubty warriors, and again silence reigns supreme. Wednesday and Sunday of each week were visiting days, and were looked forward to by the men, because they meant parcels containing fruit, sweets, or fags. When a patient had a regular visitor, he was gently kept well supplied with these delicacies. Great jealousy is shown among the men as to their visitors, and many word wars ensue after the visitors leave. When a man is sent to a convalescent home, he generally turns over his steady visitor to the man in the next bed. Most visitors have autograph albums, and bore Tommy to death by asking him to write the particulars of his wounding insane. Old Tommy's tried to duck this unpleasant job by telling the visitor that he cannot write. But this never phases the owner of the album. He or she, generally she, offers to write it for him, and Tommy is stung into telling his experiences. The questions asked Tommy by visitors would make a clever jokebook to a military man. Some kindly-looking old lady will stop at your bed, and in a sympathetic voice address you. You poor boy, wounded by those terrible Germans, you must be suffering frightful pain. A bullet, did you say? Well, tell me, I have always wanted to know. Did it hurt worse going in or coming out? Tommy generally replies that he did not stop to figure it out when he was hit. One very nice-looking, over-enthusiastic young thing stopped at my bed and asked, What wounded you in the face? In a polite but bored tone I answered, A rifle bullet. With a look of disdain she passed to the next bed, first ejaculating, Oh, only a bullet? I thought it was a shell. Why she should think a shell wound was more of a distinction beats me. I don't see a whole lot of difference myself. The American Women's War Hospital was a heaven for wounded men. They were allowed every privilege possible conducive with the rules and military discipline. The only fault was that the men's passes were restricted. To get a pass required an act of Parliament. Tommy tried many tricks to get out, but the commandant, an old bore-war officer, was wise to them all, and it took a new and clever roost to make him a fixed signature to the coveted slip of paper. As soon as it would get dark many a patient climbed over the wall and went on his own, regardless of many signs staring him in the face, out of bounds for patience. Generally the nurses were looking the other way when one of these night raids started. I hope this information will get none of them into trouble, but I cannot resist the temptation to let the commandant know that occasionally we put it over on him. One afternoon I received a note through our underground channel from my female visitor, asking me to attend a party at her house that night. I answered that she could expect me and to meet me at a certain place on the road well known by all patients and some visitors as over the wall. I told her I would be on hand at 7.30. About 7.15 I sneaked my overcoat and cap out of the ward and hid it in the bushes. Then I told the nurse, a particular friend of mine, that I was going for a walk in the Rose Garden. She winked and I knew that everything was all right on her end. Going out of the ward I slipped into the bushes and made for the wall. It was dark as pitch and I was groping through the underbrush when suddenly I stepped into space and felt myself rushing downward, a horrible bump and blackness. When I came to, my wounded shoulder was hurting horribly. I was lying against a circular wall of bricks, dripping with moisture, and far away I could hear the trickling of water. I had in the darkness fallen into an old, disused well. But why wasn't I wet? According to all rules I should have been drowned. Perhaps I was and didn't know it. As the shock of my sudden stop gradually wore off, it came to me that I was lying on a ledge and that the least movement on my part would precipitate me to the bottom of the well. I struck a match. In its faint glare I saw that I was lying in a circular hole about twelve feet deep. The well had been filled in. The dripping I had heard came from a water pipe over on my right. With my wounded shoulder it was impossible to shinny up the pipe. I could not yell for help because the rescuer would want to know how the accident happened, and I would be hailed before the common dawn on charges. I just had to grin and bear it with the forlorn hope that one of the returning night-raders would pass, and I could give him our usual signal of sssss, which would bring him to the rescue. Every half-hour I could hear the clock and the village strike, each stroke bringing forth a muffled volley of curses on the man who had dug the well. After two hours I heard two men talking in low voices. I recognized Corporal Cook, an ardent night-rater. He heard my sssssss, and came to the edge of the hole. I explained my predicament and amid a lot of impertinent remarks, which at the time I did not resent, I was soon fished out. Taking off our boots we sneaked into the ward. I was sitting on my bed in the dark, just starting to undress. When the man next to me, Ginger Phillips, whispered, "'Opa, yank, here comes the matron!' I immediately got under the covers and feigned to sleep. The matron stood talking in low tones to the night-nurse, and I fell asleep. When I awoke in the morning the night-sister and American was bending over me. An awful sight met my eyes. The coverlet on the bed and the sheets were a mass of mud and green slime. She was a good sport, all right, and hustled to get clean clothes and sheets, so that no one would get wise. But on her own she gave me a good tongue-lashing, but did not report me. One of the Canadians in the ward described her as being, "'A jake of a good fellow!' Next visiting day I had an awful time, explaining to my visitor why I had not met her at the appointed time in place. And for a week every time I passed a patient he would call, "'Well, well, here's the yank. Hope you're feeling well, old top!' The surgeon in our ward was an American, a Harvard unit man named Frost. We nicknamed him Jack Frost. He was loved by all. If a tommy was to be cut up he had no objection to undergoing the operation if Jack Frost was to wield the knife. Their confidence in him was pathetic. He was the best sport I have ever met. One Saturday morning the commandant and some high-up officers were inspecting the ward when one of the patients who had been wounded in the head by a bit of shrapnel fell on the floor in a fit. They brought him round and then looked for the ward orderly to carry the patient back to his bed at the other end of the ward. The orderly was nowhere to be found. Like our policemen they never are when needed. The officers were at a loss how to get Palmer into his bed. Dr. Frost was fidgeting around in a nervous manner when suddenly with a muffled dam and a few other qualifying adjectives he stooped down and took the man in his arms like a baby. He was no feather, either, and staggered down the ward with him, put him in bed, and undressed him. A low murmur of approval came from the patients. Dr. Frost got very red and as soon as he had finished undressing Palmer hurriedly left the ward. The wound in my face had almost healed and I was a horrible looking sight. The left cheek twisted into a knot, the eye pulled down, and my mouth pointing in a north by northwest direction. I was very downhearted and could imagine myself during the rest of my life being shunned by all on account of the repulsive scar. Dr. Frost arranged for me to go to the Cambridge Military Hospital at Aldershot for a special operation to try and make the scar presentable. I arrived at the hospital and got an awful shock. The food was poor and the discipline abnormally strict. No patient was allowed to sit on his bed and smoking was permitted only at certain designated hours. The face specialist did nothing for me except to look at the wound. I made application for a transfer back to Paynton, offering to pay my transportation. This offer was accepted, and after two weeks' absence, once again I arrived at Muncie Ward, all hope gone. The next day after my return Dr. Frost stopped at my bed and said, Well, MP, if you want me to try and see what I can do with that scar, I'll do it, but you are taking an awful chance. I answered, Well, Doctor, Steve Brody took a chance, he hails from New York, and so do I. Two days after the undertaker squad carried me to the operating room or pictures, as we called them because of the funny films we see under Ether, and the operation was performed. It was a wonderful piece of surgery and a marvelous success. From now on that doctor can have my shirt. More than once some poor soldier has been brought into the ward in a dying condition, resulting from loss of blood and exhaustion caused by his long journey from the trenches. After an examination the doctor announces that the only thing that will save him is a transfusion of blood. Where is the blood to come from? He does not have to wait long for an answer. Several Tommys immediately volunteer their blood for their mate. Three or four are accepted, a blood test is made, and next day the transfusion takes place and there is another pale face in the ward. Whenever bone is needed for some special operation, there are always men willing to give some, a leg if necessary to save some mangled mate from being crippled for life. More than one man will go through life with another man's blood running through his veins, or a piece of his rib or his shin bone in his own anatomy. Sometimes he never even knows the name of his benefactor. The spirit of sacrifice is wonderful. For all the suffering caused, this war is a blessing to England. It has made new men of her sons, has welded all classes into one glorious whole. And I can't help saying that the doctors, sisters, and nurses in the English hospitals are angels on earth. I love them all and can never repay the care and kindness shown to me. For the rest of my life the Red Cross will be to me the symbol of faith, hope, and charity. After four months in the hospital, I went before an examining board and was discharged from the service of his Britannic majesty as physically unfit for further war service. After my discharge I engaged passage on the American liner, New York, and after a stormy trip across the Atlantic one moment to stay in the haze of early dawn I saw the Statue of Liberty looming over the Port Rail, and I wondered if ever again I would go over the top with the best of luck and give them hell. And even then, though it may seem strange, I was really sorry not to be back in the trenches with my mates. War is not a pink tea, but in a worthwhile cause like ours, mud, rats, cooties, shells, wounds, or death itself, are far outweighed by the deep sense of satisfaction felt by the man who does his bit. There is one thing which my experience taught me that might help the boy who may have to go. It is this. Anticipation is far worse than realization. In civil life a man stands in awe of the man above him, wonders how he could ever fill his job. When the time comes he rises to the occasion, is up and at it, and is surprised to find how much more easily than he anticipated he fills his responsibilities. It is really so out there. He has nerve for the hardships, the interest of the work grips him, he finds relief in the fun and comradeship of the trenches, and wins that best sort of happiness that comes with duty done.