 Section 7 of the Daredevil of the Army, Experiences as a Buzzer and Dispatch Rider, by Austen Patrick Kokorin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 4, in which the wireless comes into its own on the British Front, Part 1 It was during the Battle of Luz, that some gentlemen, entitled to think, only important people have that privilege in the army, decided it was high time that the British forces took advantage of Mr. Marconi's invention. True, wireless had not been unknown in the world military. Indeed, its introduction there practically coincided with its debut in civil life. But so far, the appointed controllers of the signal service destinies had looked on the interloper with disfavour. They preferred the time-honoured method of the regular telephone, which had weathered so many a test, but which, alas, collapsed so often in a crisis. Our friend Fritz, on the contrary, had shown no such tender prejudice. Always the leader in military fashions, he had been using the wireless telephone from the very start in his communications, and always, presumably, with excellent results. Therefore it was decreed to offer him the delicate compliment, then which there is none more delicate or sincere, of imitating him in this particular line. So at Luz we started, also with excellent results, whence hangs the rest of our tale. And by the experiment the aforesaid gentleman, or his friends, decided to elaborate and extend the new system, thereby initiating a minor revolution in the methods of the Royal Engineer signal service. Immediately, there went forth a call for qualified men for the work. First officers, private wireless companies, telegraph officers, were combed for operators already familiar with the intricacies of the Morse code, or the rudiments of the more necessary radio work. The small schools which had formally turned out the insignificant body of army operators were enlarged beyond all expectation. A new curriculum was chosen, and a new standard set, calling for very definite and very high qualifications on the part of the graduates. The new army operator had to be able to send and receive the Morse code at the rate of twenty-five words a minute, English, or twenty words code, and foreign languages. As a matter of fact, fifteen was about as rapid as he could use, though he might need twenty in times of particular stress. No chances, however, were taken in the matter of speed. Then he had to be able to assemble and dismantle a standard Marconi set. He had to be able to hoist and strike steel aerial poles. He had to have a working knowledge of a trench set and a thorough knowledge of army procedure. This course took him anywhere from two to three months to cover, according to his native ability and the extent of his previous knowledge. That knowledge, indeed, was usually small, for the average Englishman had seldom indulged in these semi-scientific studies. His American cousin, with his natural aptitude for these obtruse subjects, is far ahead of him here. Indeed, judging by a short but close connection with radio sections of the American army, which I have had since my advent in the United States, I should be inclined to predict that in this branch of the service the American boy will beat all comers. Still, allowing for this general innate disinclination, few Britishers would not prefer a bayonet to a wireless box, our schools did rapid and efficient work. Soon qualified men were pouring over to France. Meantime, behind the firing line, we were preparing officers to receive them. All signal officers who could be spared from brigade and division headquarters, and who, of course, were already familiar with telegraphy and circuits, were sent behind the line for a three weeks course, which would give them sufficient knowledge of the work to enable them to command the radio section, until regular radio officers were ready to take their places. And every officer on the line, who showed any knowledge of wireless, was brought back to act as instructor in the new schools. During my short stay at the depot in England, I had confessed in an incautious moment to having done some wireless work in school. Now I was to reap the consequences of my indiscretion. In the army, as in the law courts, everything you say can be used against you. Besides, I was still a cook's-tourist, with no fixed abiding place, so presently I found myself departing from my small command with a ticket for general headquarters way back beyond the line. St. Homer was the nearest station, but my billet was at Roque-tois in a chateau, which hails the school as well as the scholars. Here, our work was conducted with that apparent absence of effort, which seems to characterize all activities in the environment of the high command. In the morning we went on excursions, always carrying our little wireless sets, with which we experimented in the pleasantest spots to be found in the surrounding country. Or, we had rather informal discussions on elementary electrical subjects which were never prolonged beyond three-thirty in the afternoon. After that hour our time was our own, to be disposed of according to our inclinations. Were it not for the omnipresence of certain red-tabbed gentlemen in whose presence discrete behavior was advisable, this period might have marked a high-water mark in the way of amusements. St. Homer was a pleasant place, and quite close when one possessed a motorcycle, but those red-tabbed gentlemen and the generals they surrounded were very numerous on its crooked old streets, too numerous from the point of view of a mere subaltern. Still, one can't expect unalloyed delights. At least the guns were far distant. They no longer disturbed our sleep, and the beds boasted clean linen, and there was hot water for our baths. And we ate our meals off a dining-table, and never extracted them from a can. Indeed, on the whole, we had reason to be grateful to the gentlemen above mentioned, who not only possessed, but used his privilege of individual thought. It was not long before the wireless system, developing with that miraculous rapidity which characterizes all developments in a modern fighting army, had established itself as an important, not to say indispensable, part of every section of the British forces in France. In the trenches, with the guns, on the aeroplanes, at headquarters, in short, everywhere, the radio had its definite place and different form, according to the exigencies of the position assigned to it. During the Great Retreat, its role with the infantry was practically monopolized by a few motor-lorry sets which, though small, had played a significant part. To the casual observer, these are no more than ordinary trucks, the bodies of which are limited by the small space of 12 feet by six. As a matter of fact, they are extraordinarily compact and ingenious contrivances, an entrance to which is affected from the rear. Looking in from here, one sees at the far end a bench about three feet high by four feet deep, above and below which are placed complicated instruments, recognisable only to the initiated. Along the sides of the truck run lockers about 18 inches high by 18 deep, in which are neatly stowed various poles of various lengths to be taken out as occasion requires. With the truck is stored another set of these poles, for this can be used either as a mobile or fixed station, and different requirements demand different apparatus. One might imagine that all this paraphernalia would take up all the small available space. Not so, however, there were still two operators to fit in, one for receiving and transmitting the messages, the other for logging, filing and distributing. This latter function was discharged usually by orderlies, four or five of whom, as a rule, followed outside on bicycles. Whenever a message had to be delivered to a commanding officer within the truck sector, one of these men rode off with it, a very easy job compared with that of the men inside the truck. Quiet, you know, is considered essential for an operator's work as a rule, but quiet was the last thing these operators could hope to have. To being with, there was the incessant noise from the automobile engine, then there was the continual bumping over the uneven French roads, lastly there was the roar of the guns in the distance, and not the dim distance either, very often. There was an operator once whose truck was hit by a shell, a flying splinter from the wagon caught him in the foot, but he stuck to his job, though in terrible pain. How could he leave it with no relief nearby? I don't know how long it was before that relief finally came, but there was another man whose relief failed him for some thirty-nine hours. From seven o'clock one morning until ten the next night, he sat in his wagon in his horribly cramped position, never taking the phones from his ears. A superman, if you will. There were many of them in those days, the early days, the dark days, when one man did the work of many, when we were fighting an army of fully equipped millions with only thousands to hold them off. Days that are gone, thank heaven, for good. But to come back to our motor lorry-waller sets, with the finish of the moving fighting they went temporarily out of use. Trench wireless apparatus became the great need now. The old telephone was good, but so long as communications depended on cable that a chance shell might at any moment cut, so long were the communications undependable and therefore dangerous. A portable wireless for front-line use that a single man could carry that would not be attempting target for machine-gun fire, that would not be easily disabled even by the bursting of a shell, that was the instrument which the experimenters aimed at. And it was evolved by slow degrees. In its final form, which it did not assume till some months later, it consisted of a box 18 inches by 9 weighing just 15 pounds and having a range easily of 5 miles. I remember when the first experiments were made with this set, some distance back of the line. They took the form of contests between the wireless and the old telephone. A detachment of each would start off from a trench, as if during an actual engagement, to a position some 500 yards off. Then each would do his utmost to establish communications in the shortest possible time. The men, being on their metal, did their best, but from the first the wireless man won, usually by an average of some 30 seconds, no small consideration in actual warfare, when perhaps it is a question of holding conquered ground against strong resistance. The instrument being thus perfected and the operators trained, the wireless telephone took its place on the line. Now when the Tommy advances to an attack, there is always a radio man somewhere in the rear. Where formerly a detachment had to reel out hundreds and hundreds of yards of cable to establish telephonic communication between the new positions and the old. Now an operator picks up his box and his aerial and advances simultaneously with the attackers. Arrived he crouches in a nearby crater, throws out his aerials along the ground and establishes communications forthwith. The infantry is gaining, he follows right along. The infantry is retreating, he beats it back behind them. So has the wireless simplified matters along the line. With the air service it is naturally of infinitely more importance. Here however it was always in use, being essential to the success of the work. The aviator has been called the eyes of the army, but if those eyes lacked a mouth through which to tell what they have seen they would often be just as useful if blindfold. Suppose a spotter has gone up to locate an enemy battery that has been creating havoc along our line. Suppose he locates it, a difficult business in these days of effective camouflage. Naturally it is out of sight both for air guns and their forward observation officers. It is the spotter's business then to give our artillery the range and direct their fire. This he does by means of his wireless separators. Having given them the approximate distance he signals down, go! They fire! It is a cloudy day and they use high explosive which giving out a yellowish path is undistinguishable to the airman's eye. Back he signals shrapnel. This gives out a white cloud of smoke. They fire again. He sees it, but the shot goes over the target and a couple of hundred yards to the right. By means of a code he tells them the approximate distance by which they have missed. They fire again, somewhat nearer, but not yet right. He signals again. They shift their range according to his instructions. So it continues until finally he flashes the letter Z. In artillery parlance they have hit and this is only one detail of the work the air wireless does. It is invaluable for the aviator's operations, but we have not yet reached the end of the radio's activities. Back at Army headquarters, where enemy shells do not often fall, the aerial razors are high and honoured head. Here is situated a large Marconi station, the chief duties of which are the intercepting of enemy communications and the taking of aircraft reports. With this two are connected smaller sets at Brigade and so on up to the trenches where they ultimately get in touch with our tiny portable boxes. Thus does wireless as well as cable telephone link up the whole line. There was a captious gentleman once who complained that much activity was wasted by this chain of ever greater sets of wireless apparatus. Why not, he asked, replace them all by one large set close to the line which could link them all up at once with general headquarters in the rear. Much time, he argued, could thus be saved. His suggestion was adopted. I remember the occasion quite distinctly. The station was erected. It consisted of a motor lorry set, one and a half kilowatts, a 120 foot steel mast, an umbrella aerial, with a complement of three operators. For two hours it reared its undiminished head, then overcame one of those unsanctified 5.9 shells, and presently we were witnessing the ungodly sight of the lorry set, the steel mast, the umbrella aerial, and the three operators being shot skyward to various points of the compass. Presumably they have descended since, but I saw no evidences of their fall. They were scattered too far and wide to leave any traces. Thus was the captious gentleman answered out of the mouth of the enemy guns. So we resumed our tiresome chain of ever larger wireless sets and saved ourselves much expense and many lives. The fickle masters of my destiny suddenly deciding that I had rested sufficiently long at Roquatois, I was soon taking a hasty and none too reluctant farewell of that village and its many red-tabbed visitors. My orders were to proceed south to a brigade situated somewhere near Albert. I set out under a glorious sky on a very good road, and my instructions, allowing some elasticity of interpretation in the matter of time, I made no haste to reach the scene of unpleasant action. The theatre of war had no attractions for me now. The set pieces had gone stale, and such surprises, as it staged at times, were not of a nature calculated to allure. At St. Paul, an old stamping-ground, I delayed till the last minute. But soon the seventy-odd miles that separated me from my station had sped by under the smooth wheels of my all-too-swift car. So here I am again, super-numerary signal-officer still attached to a unit that I may not claim as my own. Oh! the joys of the tourist, Alacook! I am to assess the brigade signal-officer with the telephonic communications. But as these consist mainly in super-intending the wiring of places that are very seldom shelled and more seldom hit, or the receiving of messages concerning the company's foot and underwear, I am liable to have much leisure on my hands. My masters, however, have foreseen such a contingency, and duly forestalled any designs that his Satanic Majesty might have had on my idle hands. Our radio system, being still far from perfect, I am to devote my odd moments to experimentation with the same. Those odd moments are more easily counted as ours. The Bosch is behaving with extraordinary restraint, and we are most carefully doing nothing to provoke his sleeping wrath. To want accustomed to a war atmosphere, blue with smoke, and shrill with screams, there is something uncanny in the calm monotony that characterizes activities down here. There is the same routine in the trenches so far as the Tommies are concerned. Four days in billets, four along the line, rising at stand two in the dim grey dawn, filling sandbags, cleaning rifles, taking a turn at listening post. An occasional excursion across no man's land when the night is dark and the enemy quietly at rest stirs the blood and makes a break in the monotony. But even these sallies rarely result in a real scrap. The object is rather to avoid such a clash, and the hope merely to take some unwary prisoner from whom we may elicit information regarding his superior's plans. For the rest there is the waiting, endless, hopeless. For what? Heaven only knows. Poker proves a preventative for many a fit of the blues. Cursing is the safety valve if the fit gets sparsened on one. There is some desultory betting on the direction of the shells between gamblers whom the chance of being hit does not even excite. Bet you the next one gets that old stump, challenges Jones. His chum, as a kindness, takes him on. Bet you it's the heap of stones. But so long has one to wait for it to hit anywhere that the bet is all but forgotten when it falls. Some men of more domestic or more greedy natures turn their attention to the inner man. In my strolls through the trenches I come on some of these venturesome people trying to vary the monotony of bully beef by devices learned, presumably from nature herself. A little strategy and foresight exerted when in billets provides the wherewithal for the experiments. When one knows how to handle madame, the redoubtable, the parsimonious, one may gather such luxuries as potatoes or eggs with which to swell the regular larder. For instance, a sack of the former may be extracted as the price for cutting up her stock of precious wood, or mending her windows removed suddenly by a shell, or finding tarpaulin to cover the air holes in her roof. And with potatoes one may concoct that delectable dish known on the line as cottage pie. A layer of bully chopped fine overlaid by a layer of potatoes mashed to a pulp, the whole baked in a mess tin over a fire bucket. That is a recipe to be relished by any regular. It was the smell of it that lured an unlucky private one day from his traverse into a neighbouring one where it was cooking. It was dinner hour, twelve a.m. in the trenches. His meal was the bully in biscuits cold, so he decided, evidently, to cage if he could. Cottage pie, have ye? He said casually, strolling up to the six fortunate tommys who were sitting round their fire bucket, devouring it. My eye! But some blokes is luggy! Where did ye get the spuds? Back in the billets, old dare! A long pause through which the visitor waited patiently. Ever bit! It came at last with reluctance. People should provide their own luxuries, or do without. The tiredness of the invitation, however, in no wise discourage the intruder. Ah, don't mind if I do! he decided, sitting down. A long silence, broken only by such sounds as are not prescribed in the books of etiquette to accompany a man's meals. Then suddenly the silences were broken. The Bosch chooses unfortunate times to get busy. There was a prolonged hiss quite close to the ear, a bang followed by a cloud of smoke, and up spattered the earth over our seven silent friends, covering them with stray bits of mud. A pipsqueak had hit the trench. In a second it was all over. Recovering they looked round, and at the end of the traverse they saw the visitor lying sidewise, a mess tin still clutched in his hands. Got is, commented one man, who had gone to turn him over. Why the hell didn't he stay where he belonged? Even with a surplus on our hands we waste no time on sentimentality. Callousness does not necessarily decrease with the size of the casualty list. Ours is a very small one indeed. For days not a single case will come into the casualty clearing station. A happy change from those times when we had sixty thousand in less than a week. Sometimes it is the Bosch laxity, and sometimes a lucky chance that saves the life on our side. One day, suffering, I suppose, from a sudden attack of the old hate, the gentlemen sent two hundred and eighty shells flying into the little village of Bienville Air, which is a few kilos away from our quarters. And not a single soul did he send to heaven. But another evening he hurled a big bertha, just one solitary piece of explosive, right into the middle of the square. He timed it, and aimed it well, for we were holding a band concert at the moment, and all the happy, harmless villagers were desporting themselves in the open. Thirty dead, and more wounded, was the toll that shell took. Such are the unpleasant surprises on the line. But on the whole we have no reason to complain, for which we have to thank our friends, the Saxons. They, we are assured, on good authority, are our opponents on this particular part of the line, an amiable race, judging from their attitude towards us. We ascribe those sudden fits of temper to the arrival of visiting Prussian officers, grim gentlemen, with a fondness for fireworks. Meantime we are discovering the virtues and vices of our new radio system of communications. We had begun by using a perpendicular aerial, which stuck its head rather too prominently over the parapet, thereby incurring all the hardships and hazards that had made life insecure for our old cable. Occasionally it stood for days, but this was due to the Bosch indifference. When they woke up, its short span was measured in minutes. A most undependable contrivance, but we had taken no risks with it as yet, and we had leisure to look for a substitute. This was presently evolved in the form of ground aerials that, lying along the earth, were practically indistinguishable, and therefore as safe a system as could be found. A very excellent thing, indeed, we found Mr. Marconi's invention when adapted to our peculiar requirements. Its chief charm, of course, lay in its extreme simplicity, a quality which, unfortunately, acted as a boomerang at times. Put it in the hands of an experienced gentleman operating behind our lines, with the object not of helping but of hindering us, and its charm took on a different aspect. There were many of these gentlemen in the old days in France. Most ingenious and elusive people they proved to be. Disturbing stories of their versatility used to float towards us at times, born on those strange news currents that spring up along the line. Positive genius characterizes some of their activities. The palm in this particular goes, I think, to the individual whose tale I am now going to tell. There was a subaltern on our side, a youngster just out who was suffering from a bad attack of souvenir mania. The malady being rather general, he was forever in danger of having a curio pinched from his collection. Consequently, when he became possessed of a Bosch rifle and bayonet, he made haste to put it in safe hiding. For this purpose, he chose the chimney of his billet bedroom, whence hangs the thread of this tail. Putting his hand up the chimney to find a resting place for the butt of his rifle, he was surprised to find it touching a pole of bamboo. He pulled, the pole came, then stuck, and no pulling could bring it any farther. Being curious by nature as well as by training, he determined to investigate, which led him to the roof. It was a typical roof of a French provincial house, flat with a chimney protruding at each end and a slight elevation of the wall above the gutter. The first thing to catch his eye when he reached it was a set of wires lying close to the surface. One ran from chimney to chimney. It was an open wire. The other, which was insulated, adjoined this at right angles at the centre and ran toward the side of the house. The first wire, he found on closer inspection, stretched not only up to, but into the chimney, running up its side in a neatly made groove. He gave it a tug, and up came a bamboo pole. It took very few seconds for him to reach the street. He was young and extremely excited. He was in a hurry to find somebody in authority to whom he might report, and, by good luck, came on a staff officer walking through the town. I wonder if you could give me a moment, sir? He began breathlessly saluting. To come up to my roof. There's dirty work, I think, sir, being done there. Oh! said the red-tabbed one, not particularly excited. He had heard such breathless tales before. And what might it be? An aerial, sir, so far as I can judge. Good lad! Come along, let's have a look. They went off together, and were presently on the roof. You're right, sonny! said the officer, after a few seconds' inspection. That's what it is. I wonder where's the rest? Now you follow that wire. He pointed to the one that was insulated. That's the feeding wire for this aerial, I should say. The boys set to work. He found that the wire entered a drain at the back of the house, reappeared at the bottom, then vanished through the wall. So far it was easy, but no rummaging seemed to unearth the rest. Where the dickens was the instrument. Finally he decided that there was nothing for it but to dig through. This process performed. He found himself in a cellar, and also at the end of his search. For here, buried deep under a pile of dirt and straw, was a very neat, very complete German wireless apparatus. It was even equipped with a zinc box round the spark gap to prevent any crackling of the transmissions being heard. Hmm! said the staff officer. And who the devil works this? Run and fetch me, monsieur. What'd you call him? The owner of your billet, my boy. After twenty minutes' search the boy returned. Can't find him, sir, and no one seems to know where he has gone. They're so stupid. Don't seem to understand me. So far as I know, no one has found him since. He was a short, stocky gentleman with a bullet head and shrewd eyes. Contrary to all custom, it was now remembered he had offered no objections to excuses when they requisitioned his house, the best in the town, and therefore the obvious billet for the officers. On the contrary, he had always exerted himself to make his guests cosy and comfortable. Though unobtrusive, he had been exceedingly attentive, which, perhaps, ought to have aroused suspicion. How he ever managed to hoist the aerial remains a mystery to this day. Probably he climbed out of his attic at dusk when the officers were at the mess dining. But that is only guesswork. The rest is fact. Chapter 4 And now we are nearing our second Christmas, a season that may be merry or very miserable. Holidays, bringing their reminder of a lapse in old associations, are apt to be depressing on the line. Last year we celebrated with a 24-hour truce. This year there is to be no such official recognition of the meaning of the great festival. Trooses are inclined to be trying on the morale, particularly when accompanied by fraternization between the opposing forces. On the other hand we must do something to mark the day, and the onus of the occasion lies, of course, on the officers. It has already become accustomed for them to assume the duty of enlivening and otherwise cheering the men. Life here being in the roar, divested of all semblance of luxury, the efforts of the officers are particularly directed to the procuring of creature comforts. For weeks before the campaign is on, it takes the form of correspondence. Relatives and friends, once forgotten, recur pleasantly to mind, particularly those possessed of generous souls. Casual little postscripts convey delicate little hints. Details are forwarded on request, and after that the deluge. Cand, tinned, bottled, boxed, all the forms and varieties of food and drink that can be safely entrusted to the sea, compouring over to the brigade. My billet is picked out as storehouse, for the simple reason that I live there by myself, and seem to have more room than the rest. I say, seem, advisedly. As a matter of fact, it is very small, and besides me and my Batman, it houses the old owner and his wife. However, we are willing to bark our shins against the boxes, and risk breaking our necks by tripping over hampers down the stairs. What's a leg, more or less, in such a cause? Fritz, however, is not disposed to be so friendly, which leads me to perhaps the saddest of all the sad incidents I witnessed during my time at the front. The old couple with whom I lived, they were both over seventy, had already suffered more than their due share in the war, but with a persistence peculiar to the French peasant, they refused to move farther behind the line. They prefer to stay with their old home, damaged as it was, and their stock which had been reduced to one cow and a pig. Before the outbreak, they had been happy, and looked forward to an old age, provided for by three sturdy sons. These had gone, and had died, but the old couple did not complain. They just looked stricken. They were sad, but very quiet, and they tended very faithfully to all my wants. One morning I went off to a neighbouring town, where I stayed until late afternoon. When I returned, it was to find the old lady sitting in the ruins of her home, groaning and rocking herself to and fro. Some neighbours were with her, but she paid no attention to their sympathy. Seeing me, however, she sprang to her feet, and before I could stop her, she had thrown herself on the ground at my feet. For God's sake, go and kill them! Kill the cursed Boschers! Her voice rose to a shrill scream, and she wound her arms around my ankles. Look at what they've done to me! Oh, won't you go and kill them! She was quite beside herself with grief. We did our best to calm her, and by and by she quieted down. Then she told me what had happened. She had gone out to do her marketing, leaving the old man in charge. When she came back, it was to find him killed, her stock blown to atoms, and her house apparently split in two. A couple of shells had pitched close to it, so here she was at seventy, without kin, cattle, or money. Her home, however, proved not to be absolutely beyond repair, judged by the standards that hold along the front. Tarpaulin and ground sheets manipulated by the Tommys made it weatherproof, and we continued to live in it. Our store of food, fortunately enough, was not much damaged. But this was not the only accident that threatened our Christmas preparations. Another, not quite so serious, eventuated a little later. According to custom, also, the officers had raked together some few pounds to be spent on the spot. Our brigade, being averse to unnecessary labour, the disposing of the money was put in the hands of the sergeant, who in turn left the decision to the men. Their taste ran to pork, so a pig was procured, one of those long-legged, lean, but sleek and satisfying animals that are so much favoured in France. For weeks before Christmas, this precious brute came in for more attention than he had ever received in his life. It is surprising that he did not die of overfeeding. Probably his activity saved him, for he was extremely active, as we had reason to regret later. Then two days before the holiday rose all the important question. Who was going to kill old Arrestov? You see, we had even christened him, so much did we care for him. As a rule there are few trades unrepresented in a platoon, but ours did not boast of a pig-sticker. It was a terrible moment when the men made this discovery. Yet none seemed willing to undertake the necessary task. Killing Boschers was one thing, but killing pigs was quite another. Everyone seemed to shrink from the encounter, and then, heaven can be kind, someone suggested finding a friend, a conult man now connected with the Army Service Corps, who had once practised the unpleasant trade in the west of Ireland. But would he come? They put it up to him. He agreed, on one condition, that he be allowed to share the excellent Christmas dinner. No one had thought of arranging festivities for the non-combatants of the Army Service Corps. Needless to say, the bargain was struck on the spot and arrangements made for the ceremony of execution. Perhaps you have seen pigs killed, and know all the terrible details. I hadn't. Neither had the other officers. So we all gathered round, while the sturdy man from Mayo tied three of the animals' legs, drew the rope through a ring which, fixed in the wall close to the ground, was intended to keep him steady. Then, stretched on his back, with the other leg kicking freely, this so that he might pump out his own precious lifeblood, he was ready for the thrust of the knife. Perhaps our presence had made the hangman's hand unsteady, or perhaps he wasn't really a pig-sticker, and had only pretended to be one for the sake of the meal. Anyway, he had just inserted the deadly weapon in the animal's throat, when up flew the three tied legs. Neatly, so neatly that even a boxer could not do it better, he sent a punch home on the executioner's jaw. Down went the Mayo man, sprawling on the earth, and off ran the victim, his blood streaming behind him. Straight through the village street he sped, pursued by the whole brigade, privates, non-coms, subultans and kernels, and then, crowning coup on his part, he headed straight for the enemy's line. Were we to resign him to fritz, or would we risk our heads for the sake of the dinner? Fortunately we were saved such an alternative. That indecisive knife-thrust was doing its deadly work. The track of red which we were following told that. Presently, after covering some eight or nine hundred yards, he fell limp from loss of blood, and so the men had pork as the pièce de résistance. But the Connort man came in for some sarcasm all the same. But, though Christmas preparations might amuse us in our leisure, they were not allowed to divert us from our labour. Experiments were still going forward, but mine were now being conducted under the earth. To procure the necessary isolation and tranquility, a sort of subterranean workshop had been dug. It consisted of a gallery ten feet long by six high, situated about eighteen feet beneath the surface. You entered this through a sap, that is, a tunnel, four feet in diameter, through which you crawled on hands and knees. This sap ran at right angles to the bottom of a communication trench, connecting two support trenches, probably the loneliest position that could be procured along the line. Even at the busiest times these communication trenches are quiet places, disturbed only by a passing foot. No place, however, could be too quiet for us. It was for this reason that I decided to work on Christmas Eve. Then every man not absolutely essential to the manning of the front line would be released for the purpose of amusing himself. Then, too, the Bosch, so surprisingly innocuous, even in his most dangerous moments, might be counted on to devote himself to his carols. So I notified my assistants, a corporal named Blackmore, and a private named Weston, to meet me at midnight on December the 24th at the mouth of our solitary sap. It was a damp cold night, but nobody was minding the weather. By nine the festivities were in full swing. The mess halls were merry with the clink of glasses. From the huts resounded the roar of lusty throats. I peeped in at one company concert, and found the stage occupied by perhaps the most disreputable figure I have ever beheld at the front. His boots were muddy, his putties drooped disconsolently, and his tunic looked as if it had been dragged through a bramble-bush. But the music that he rung from the company piano would make even Kitchener himself overlook greater faults than these. Before I left, his place was taken by a perky little cockney, who rendered, just a little love, a little kiss, in a voice calculated to draw tears from a turnip. He had just prepared himself, as shown by the sentimental break in his voice, to give adequate expression to the words, I love you! When from the back of the hall, sung to the air of the song, came a rivaled roar, Go blow me! I departed, followed by the shouts of laughter, from which even the officers in attendance could not refrain. I never learned how the cockney took the interruption. Then, having imbibed a tunic suitable to the state of the weather, I went off to join my men. It was exactly midnight as we bent to enter our sap. Blackmore and I went in first. Not a soul in sight, he said, as we descended. Thank God there won't be anyone to disturb us! And he was right. We were to recall his remark later. We too had just connected up our instruments, when Weston, coming in from the mouth of the tunnel, reported the Boschers as becoming unusually busy. Barely were the words out of his mouth, when the ground quivered all round us. There came a shower of mud and dirt from the top of the gallery. We heard an explosion, a loud rumble followed immediately by a deep thud, and a back-draft of air that blew out our solitary candle. What the devil! began Blackmore. We lit up again, went along the gallery into the sap to see what had happened, and found our passage blocked by a solid wall of earth. We looked at one another stupidly. There was dead silence for a few moments. It was Weston who finally spoke first. Let's dig to stuff away, he said, before we begin work. I noticed there was a quiver in his voice. Without comment, however, we all set to dig. I looked at my watch. The time was twelve seventeen. Our only tools were two jackknives and my revolver. Dig, dig, dig. We went at it nervously, earnestly, absolutely in silence. After a while I looked at my watch again, expecting to see that an hour had passed. It was exactly twelve twenty-two. Half involuntarily I stopped work, and the others follow my example. We all sit down on the earth. So far we have avoided even meeting each other's eyes. Now we look at one another cautiously, probingly, trying not to betray our own knowledge of the position we are placed in. Quite obviously there are thirty-five feet of solid earth to be shoveled away before we can get out into that support trench. Quite probably that, too, is blocked by crumbled clay. The shell may have blown the parapets down on both sides. There is not the slightest chance that a man will pass anywhere near us tonight. Possibly none will pass even tomorrow. Let's shout, says Weston. A perfectly futile suggestion, but we welcome it. It means something to do. Simultaneously and individually we scream at the tops of our voices. But all the answer we get is the echo. The louder our shouts, the greater the reverberation in our ears. But we keep it up until our throats are dry and hoarse. I'll try my revolver, I say, to break the silence. I fire one shot and the sound reflected from the walls of the gallery almost splits the drums of our ears. But even that seems better than a flat acknowledgment of failure. One after another I shoot all six rounds. Our ears are aching and our heads buzzing from the noise. When I have finished, we sit a while in silence, as if expecting some answer. But none comes, of course. That was a foregone conclusion. Well, there is nothing for it but to dig. Once again we go at it. Tiny handfuls of earth falling at our feet reward our efforts. Strenuous efforts that cause the perspiration to pour from our faces. So concentrated is my attention of the particular task in hand, that I lose consciousness entirely of my comrades, until suddenly my attention is attracted by a strange noise from behind. I turn. There is Weston, squatting on the ground, singing in a silly soft voice to himself. What the devil is he up to? I asked Blackmore testily. Looney, comes the brief reply. Looney, I repeat the word stupidly after him. Yes, potty, you know. Gone off his nut. He makes the announcement calmly, to be taken as a matter of course. Lord, what a pretty picker we're in. Suppose I should come to that. It makes me shiver. I look at Blackmore, white-faced, steady-eyed, silent. He meets my eye, smiles, shrugs his shoulders. I smile back. Fine chap, it would take a lot to drive him insane. Once again we set about our work. Dig, dig, dig. What a rotten job it is. The bending makes my back ache, and all the blood rushed to my head. Perhaps it occurs to me later. This is accountable for the new noise I seem to hear suddenly all round me. I could swear someone is tapping close by. I tell myself it is quite impossible that the Boschers could be mining here. We are too far behind our front line. But still my ears keep echoing to that incessant, insistent thud of a pick, boring steadily through soft earth. I look around the tunnel. Could that possibly be the gleam of a Bosch helmet way back in the gallery? Automatically my hand reaches for the revolver on my hip. Empty. What an ass I've been. Also, what an ass I'm being. If someone was mining near us with intent to blow up our sap, surely Blackmore could hear them as well as I. And there he is, digging away for dear life. Dig, dig, dig. To the accompaniment of Western singing. I wish his insanity would take another turn. That inane noise is beginning to get on my nerves. I open my mouth to shelter him and become suddenly conscious that it is dry. And there is a queer, thick feeling in my tongue. Why, of course, it was to be expected. Our fresh air is giving out. However, there is no chance now to think of it, for Western has decided to take all our attention. Whether my sudden movement toward him had attracted him, I can't say. Anyway, he rises to his feet, and, shouting wildly, begins heaving at us handfuls of the loose earth. Eer, stow that! orders Blackmore. But the madman does not notice him. Presently, however, he desists of his own accord, and begins instead a mad gallop up and down the gallery, all the time emitting wild whoops. He stops a moment to step deliberately on our delicate instruments, which crumble with a soft crash beneath his heel. We watch him helplessly for a while, and then I decide to use authority. Stop that racket at once, I order, and let us get on with our work. His answer is a rush at me. Damn you! he screams. It's all your bloody fault. He brought us here. You're burying us alive. Well, the murder is out at last. Buried alive. A pretty prospect. But there is no time to dwell on it now. With the violence of lunacy he starts to attack me. We clinch for a second, then there is nothing else for it. I hit him on the head with the butt of my revolver, and he drops unconscious to the ground. Barely has he fallen when the candle goes out, leaving Blackmore and me to our efforts in the dark. We stand there baffled and helpless, wondering what on earth to do next. For God's sake sing or something, I tell him irritably. He begins to hum some old musical song everyone knows, but he can't keep the quaver out of his voice. The result is a sort of comical cackle. Lord, you're worse than the silence. He stops at once, nothing offended. I feel a fool, also ashamed. If I am to lose heart, at least I needn't take it out on him, the staunchest and sanest pal a man could find. We go at it again. Dig, dig, dig. We keep it up for what seems ours, until my back seems broken and my brain on fire. Quite suddenly I grow sick of the whole proceeding. What's the use of pretending any longer? We can't possibly get out by our own efforts. We can't hope to get out by anyone else's. We might just as well give in first as last, save ourselves the aching tedium of this futile digging. Let's ease off, I suggest to Blackmore, unwilling to confess that I'm giving in. Right-o! comes his cheery answer. Lord, how that man can show me up! We sit down. It must have been six in the morning. We have been at it already six hours. Weston, who has recovered consciousness, is sobbing like an ill-used child. I sense, rather than see, that Blackmore's head has gone down on his hands. I wonder vaguely whether he is really lost to hope, as I am, and is merely maintaining his blessed British reserve. At least thank heaven for his stoicism. It's infectious, an excellent antidote for Weston's hysteria. In silence, save for the sobbing. We sit there, motionless, while my eyes peer painfully through the gloom of this grave. If we could only get some light, the tiniest gleam to relieve the blackness. I realize now why the preachers paint hell as exterior darkness. Slowly my gaze travels along the walls of the gallery. As it nears the mouth of the sap, I can scarcely repress my southern start. For there I see a rift, tiny as the top of a teacup, dim and gray as the early streaks of a winter dawn. I look fixedly at it a moment. It doesn't move. It is really light. I turn my head. It is still there. I might have known. Just a mirage, the trick of a tired imagination. I say nothing to Blackmore, whose head is still bowed. Why worry him? He would just think that I was seeing things. Still there it is, the size of a star. If it would only stay fixed, instead of traveling as my eye travels round the gallery, it must be imagination. No light could pierce the walls. It must be fifteen minutes later that Blackmore, raising his head, gasps, grasps my arm and shouts at me hoarsely, No light! Look! Look!" Where? I ask skeptically. Let him fix its location. For Christ's sake, are you blind? It is his first sign of strain. There it is, at the mouth of the sap. Oh yes! I answer stupidly. Of course. So it is. Then at last the explanation dawns on me. My eye, accustomed to the gloom, had preserved the image of this light on the retina. Everywhere I looked I saw the tiny star, which was no more than a reflection still held by my optical nerve. So might your eye, reader, suddenly struck by the glare of an electric arc, keep its dazzling brilliance even after you had deflected your head? Only you, of course, would know what you were seeing. I was inclined to doubt the evidence of my own senses. Presently we rise and grope along the gallery to investigate this new gleam of hope. Evidently when the earth crumbled in under the impact of the shell, it had failed to fill the sap completely. Just a tiny crack remained open, made perceptible by the light of day. Well, we won't choke to death anyway, says Blackmore, very casually. No. Only for this crack we might be already dead. Once again we set to work, but there is new energy in our efforts. We keep it up for hours, never tiring, but ever turning to the little light on which we depend for our life. We try to explain to Weston, but he only whimpers like a whipped child. Poor chap. Why couldn't he have held out? I can see my watch again now. As it points to 10 a.m. the first shadow passes across the crack. They've come! shouts Blackmore. We rush to the hole, and holler and holler, but evidently the damp earth retains the sound. Nothing answers us yet, but the echo. More shadows. They pass and repass repeatedly. We get impatient. How can any men be so blind? Good God! Can't they see we're buried? Blackmore is irritable now. We shout again, but with no better results. Shout and dig. Dig and shout. This is our regular routine. With every moment our nerves are getting rourer. And then, it is eleven, a sound reaches our ears. Someone digging. Lord, they've opened their eyes at last. Our own work takes on now a furious quality of energy. We dig as we never dug before. Even Western, sensing hope, has ceased to sob at last and has crept cautiously closer to the sap. Conversation between us has stopped absolutely. Lest by any chance we should miss a welcome sound. Twelve o'clock and we're still here. Suppose we were mistaken after all. Suppose they are not digging toward us. Suppose they are merely clearing the trench, quite forgetting that our sap was somewhere near. But they must miss us. They must. Blackmore is nervous now. I told the fellows I was coming here last night. We shout again. No answer but the echo. Well, they're still digging and we are at least sure of that. Twelve thirty. We fancy we hear a voice close by. We stop to listen but only the sound of the entrenching tool reaches us. Twelve forty. It's coming closer. Yes, they're coming to us all right. That thud is too near for the trench. We tell Western but he only looks stupid and shakes his head. One o'clock a shaft of light shoots into the gallery. A hand comes through, then a head, then a man's whole body. I see someone bearing a lantern. I hear a voice asking a question. I try to answer but my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. I throw out an arm to catch something. It is taken. The next thing I know I am lying in the Casualty Clearing Station with a doctor bending over my head. Better now? Yes, thanks. He tells me the story. No one had missed us all evening. I hadn't said I was going to work. No one had missed us in the morning until the Chief Royal Engineer coming to breakfast noticed my vacant place. Where is he? He asks, being a friend of mine. Working in his belly sap, I suppose, said someone. I must drop round and tell him to hurry over before all the good things are gone. It was a Christmas breakfast and unusually good spread. It was about ten when, in pursuance of his thoughtful project, he dropped round to the trench and found his way blocked by a mound of earth. Quite obviously a Bosch shell had pitched neatly. Immediately he set the men to work with a will. Were we alive? That was the burning question which added zest to their very earnest efforts. Yet, even with their regular entrenching tools, it took them over three hours to reach us. What a chance we had had with our jackknives and revolver! I inquire for Blackmore. Oh, he's all right. Not a nerve seemingly in the man's whole body. Weston? Well, it seems he had been buried once before. The Doctor shakes his head over the probable effects of the second shock. No wonder he had gone potty right away. They send me back to my billet where I am put to bed. Nearby is a brother officer shaving. I ask him for his mirror to gratify a sudden whim. He gives it to me and I can scarcely believe what I see. Can this man be I? This man with the haggard features and the hair turn so white on both sides of his head? Well, why not? Don't I feel sufficiently old and withered? I lie back, limp and lifeless, like an old man. For two days I stay there. Then my inertia leaves me. My brain begins to cry out for new food for thought. They send me back of the line to give me a chance to recuperate, but my nerves won't leave me alone. They wake me in the night in the grip of horrid nightmares. They shake me as if withegue at the sound of sudden noise. By a desperate effort I concentrate on such work as I have to do. It relieves me somewhat and I pluck up heart again. But nature has still a heavy toll to take for the violence done her that Christmas night. End of Section 8 Section 9 of the Dead Devil of the Army Experiences as a Buzzer and Dispatch Rider by Austin Patrick Cacoran This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 5 In which the author repairs the airline and retires for repairs himself. Part 1 Dumar being chosen as the most suitable health resort for the restoration of my shaken nervous system I was dispatched there presently with a commission that called for the least possible effort on my part. Here, 16 miles back of the line I was out of range and out of hearing of the guns and my billet, the cura's home gave an added touch of peace to what was already a most peaceful setting. It was a poor home for Catholic clergymen are not rich in French worldly goods but the housekeeper acting on instructions from her very hospitable master did more than her best to make me happy. Incidentally, she was Irish. How she got there I never learned for I lacked the courage to inquire though I confessed to some curiosity on the subject. But the tea and toast she brought Lacey, my billet mate and myself in the mornings had all the flavour of home. I never tasted the rest of her cooking for, of course, we ate at the mess. Lacey, a Canadian lieutenant in charge of the airline section was my immediate superior for the time being a very lenient superior he proved my duties consisted in driving round each morning in a car placed entirely at my disposal and seeing what the men were doing. In the afternoons I played football and in the evening I prepared to sleep the most difficult part of my work back here. I tried all the tricks enumerated by Mr Wordsworth and his famous sonnet on the subject of insomnia but none of them worked for me any more than for him. So for hours I would lie awake staring straight into the dark trying to stave off a repetition of that terrible night. Try as I would my brain refused to rest. With diabolical reality I was produced one by one all the horrors I was trying to forget. Even when aided by an extra stiff glass of whiskey I fell into fairly sound sleep it was still busy and presently it woke me. It woke me with the sound of western singing ringing innately in my ears or the sight of Blackmore's eyes wanderingly into mine. At times I would find myself digging for dear life at some hard substance that refused to be moved away by my strenuous efforts or I would wake gasping for air and calling out that I was choking and then realizing that it was only my imagination at its old tricks I would try to be still from head to foot in a perfect Turkish bath of perspiration. Imagination can be tragically active even in retrospect. It was a very limp assistant that confronted Lacey some mornings but fresh air can be a wonderful panacea. By degrees I slept better then they changed us to the court, five miles away but still back of the line. Here in the wonderful forest that make the neighborhood famous I found some hunting that also helped to chase the shadows. But the work itself, small as it was proved best of all. It was my first introduction to the mysteries of television. Let me introduce you in turn. The airline or overhead wiring is used to connect up telephone and telegraph instruments in positions too protected from the advent of the Boschers to require any sudden or swift changes. Like the cable section the airline consists of two detachments each of which consists in turn of one non-commissioned officer and ten other men, one man of the ten being always mounted, usually on a bicycle. Each detachment is subdivided into two main parts one, the front party is responsible for the laying out of the line the making of holes for the poles the preparing of the poles and the fixing of the insulators the other, the rear party lays out the wire, strains and fixes it to the insulators and erects the poles themselves. The officer in charge of the section is usually a second lieutenant. His duty officially is to map out the course to be taken but as he nearly always has two detachments working in different directions at the same time it is quite impossible for him to act according to the letter of the law consequently this job often goes to the non-comm who is a sergeant. Suppose the line is to be rigged between two villages by a distance of approximately five miles then number one the sergeant rides on ahead followed at some distance by the detachment he picks out the most suitable course to take. When possible he avoids the main road cutting across country he marks the chosen path by a trail of red flags sticking at intervals out of the earth this done for a space of a mile or two he returns to super intend the work of the front party which has meantime begun. He being responsible not only for the designing but the carrying out of the line he has to see for example that every pole is placed on the highest ground available that it is not on the road on a footpath or even opposite a gap in a hedge where passing traffic would be liable to knock it down he has to see in short that the men don't follow the line of least resistance meantime the front party consisting of numbers two three and four have set out accompanied by a motor lorry two of which go to each detachment on this are piled the necessary stores for the building of the line poles for cross country work are 14 feet high and about two inches in diameter poles for crossing roads are usually 18 feet so is to allow for the transit underneath of traffic numbers two and three of the front party carry each a sledgehammer weighing about 14 pounds also they have a jumper between them with this they jump the holes for the poles at intervals of 80 yards should a convenient tree come in their path they fix the insulators on that so is to save as much of their stock as possible number four who stays with the wagon fits the holes with insulators and passes them to the party in the rear number five who is usually a corporal super intends the working of this rear party number six pulls a barrow on which is fitted a drum of wire tested in his task by number seven he wearing a leather glove lets the wire run off the drum through his hand the object being to detect any possible flaws in the cable these two really form an intermediary party by themselves coming in the rear of the front and still removed from the second numbers eight and nine where belts to which are attached clips their duty consists in alternative taking the strain they fix the clip to the wire then facing towards the rear they bear back until the wire is as taught as possible number ten comes next he picks up the pole fixes the wire the meaning of numbers eight and nine has drawn tight and slips it into the hold which has been jumped by numbers two and three and so it goes at the rate of a mile and a half or perhaps two miles an hour each man preparing the way for or supplementing the work of the other as they approach the end of the red flag trail starts the sergeant again on his pioneer work of picking up the course meantime however the men are not left alone for there is still number eleven he who boasts a bicycle continually riding up and down the whole line his job is to keep the crew hard at their work and see that everything even to the smallest detail is properly done finally there is the officer in this case occasionally myself eternally turning up at the most unexpected moments flying from one section to another in his swift little car no there is no lack of superintendence in this job and no lack of economy in its conduct no object lying in the cross-country course of the detachment that is high enough to replace a pole is ever spared whether it be a permanent telegraph pole already erected in the country or a tall tree or a house top one and all they come in handy and woe betide the man who fails to press them into service as supports for his precious wire oh we are terribly economical on the battle fronts of France this you know is a war of materials and the only one we must waste is human life my stay at vineyard court did not last more than a month so I was soon boosting back to my old place on the line but it was a very stiff man who reported one evening at a signal office along the Somme the chances being that my football games were over I determined to indulge in a regular orgy at the end in the morning I played soccer with the men a fine bunch of athletes they were in the afternoon I took part in a game of rugga between signal and staff officers versus the rest it was one of those rare spectacles well worth immortalizing with a movie camera though one shrinks from the possible effects it might produce on the mind of the British public a civilian entering the ranks has forcibly impressed on him at various times the dignity of the high command the deference due to exalted station and the disastrous consequences that follow any familiarity with his superior officers consider then the feelings of the raw recruit confronted by the spectacle of a general arrayed in amputated pyjamas ducking and diving bucking and being bucked around a second-rate football field lined most liberally by chairing Tommy's togs of course are very scarce along the front and uniforms neither comfortable nor convenient so when Brigadier General T decided to join us in his night attire no one expressed the least embarrassment or surprise as he was twenty years the senior of the eldest of us we thought with the contempt of youth that his presence would not add to our chances but we were wrong for neither his language nor his limbs had lost their vigor there came a stage in the game when we, the signal and staff were pressing on the rest's line the Brigadier was playing scrum half-back the burly sixteen forwards were fighting for supremacy in the scrum the old man lobbed the ball in but instead of waiting for his forwards to heal it out he suddenly vanished in the mass of legs then as suddenly out he popped on the other side and was over the line for a try we were winning with three minutes to go and were beginning to feel ourselves safe when a huge gunner got away down the wing on he came like a steam engine shining with sweat but fresh as a daisy drenched in dew no one could stop him we were all about in finally there was only me for him to pass I was playing full-back I had about decided that if I could manage to bring him down I could at least drive him into touch but he must have guessed my intentions from my face with a sudden swerve he turned away from the touch line to the open field it proved to be his undoing there came a cheer from the sidelines and a wild shout Go it, Peajos! Oh, the demoralizing effect of football it was a private addressing a brigadier general and there came our little dynamite half-back he was well under six feet streaking up the field like a comet now he was on the big gunner who had lost ground in his attempt to swerve then with a yell worthy of an Indian and a string of parlour words that wouldn't have disgraced a longshoreman he hurled himself on his huge foe there followed a couple of fine somersaults both bumped the earth then as if made of rubber up bounced our brigadier and booted the ball down the field into touch for safety while the gunner lay stiff and windless there was once a famous Dublin sport writer who declared that to get an angle on a game he always sat not in the press seat but on the steps of the Mater hospital where he could count the casualties from both sides as they come in his method might have been applied nicely to our game swollen lips, swelled foreheads, bruised limbs, broken bones we had them all I got only a bloody nose which insisted, however, on repeating its afternoon performance at intervals as I drove back that evening to my old billet though a very tired man I sat up long to hear the latest there were many gaps in the old ranks some in hospital, some gone west there were also some promotions and decorations in connection with the latter I must tell a story over which I confess we laughed loud and long incidentally it may supply psychologists with a new definition of daring I'm afraid they have never found one to cover this case S was a friend of ours solemn and stately a belt as animated as a statue when not compelled to use his muscles a very careful man, however with a strict sense of his duties but absolutely lacking in enthusiasm or inspiration it happened that after a very uneventful term in France he was sent home on leave of absence he was not gone two days when Venus accomplished what her friend Mars had utterly failed to perform S came to life with a sudden start animated by a hopeless and helpless passion she must have been a charmer to make this stone man melt but alas she was also a gay deceiver having raised him for a short period to the highest heavens of joy she plunged him into the hell of despair when he returned to the front after this disastrous encounter he had been transformed from a statue into an untamed tiger cold before he was fiery now where he had once been careful he became reckless was there a chance of getting shot he rushed fearlessly in he exposed himself in and out of season risks were the breath of his life for all he courted was death there could be no doubt of it he wanted to get killed but did he not at all war never takes the willing instead so unheard of was the fortitude and enterprise he displayed so it seemed to the uninitiated superiors that his feats reached the ears of the general forthwith he was recommended for a DSO or Distinguished Service Order he got it strangely enough it restored his senses not that he became a regular statue again but he took the usual precautions for preserving his life I would be willing to bet he has lost it since the gaps I found in the regimental ranks were not the only ones awaiting me on the line the village too was poorer by one inhabitant a very harmless and helpful creature she had always seemed ready at any time to take on a man's laundry and turn it out for him almost while he waited no one had ever thought of connecting her with the mysterious accidents that had sent ammunition dumps and camouflage batteries so often up in smoke no one thought of it, that is until it was proved beyond dispute unusual aim on the part of the enemy guns always indicates more than average intelligence there are certain things, of course which cannot be concealed from the eyes of the aviators but dumps or dugouts are not reckoned among the number no man can see things under the earth consequently when Fritz makes an amazingly accurate hit everyone is on the lookout for suspicious characters but though the town was very small none was discovered until an enterprising young airman got on the key-vive looking for trouble from a loft he allowed his eye one day to rest on some bedsheets displayed conspicuously on a lawn white shows up well against the dark background of the earth that is why the landing stages are painted that colour and that is why everyone laughed at this chap who was not much more than a novice when he came down with his story about the old lady's laundry she was quite old as such people often are it is most convenient to be able to plead senile deafness or appear doddering when one is asked either pertinent or impertinent questions but though his suspicions provoked sarcasm he nevertheless received instructions not to let the said laundry out of his eye he didn't and one day he reported those sheets to have assumed the shape of the letter V the next day they resembled an R every day they were there the weather of course permitting an investigation followed and the boy was proved right those sheets were being used as semaphores to point out to enemy airmen positions worthy the attention of their guns that is why the old lady had vanished from view and we all had to look elsewhere a last minute laundress End of section 9