 Chapter 15 and 16 of OVER THE TOP. OVER THE TOP by Arthur M. P. CHAPTER XV LISTENING POST. It was six in the morning when we arrived at our rest-billets, and we were allowed to sleep until noon—that is, if we wanted to go without our breakfast. For sixteen days we remained in rest-billets, digging roads, drilling and other fatigues, and then back into the front-line trench. Nothing happened that night, but the next afternoon I found out that Obama is General Utility Man in a section. About five o'clock in the afternoon our lieutenant came down the trench and, stopping in front of a bunch of us on the fire-step, with a broad grin on his face, asked, He's going to volunteer for a listening-post tonight. I need two men. It is needless to say no one volunteered, because it is anything but a cushy job. I began to feel uncomfortable as I knew it was getting around for my turn. Sure enough, with another grin, he said, MP, you and Wheeler are due, so come down into my dugout for instructions at six o'clock. Just as he left and was going around to traverse, Fritz turned loose with a machine-gun, and the bullets ripped the sandbags right over his head. It gave me great pleasure to see him duck against the parapet. He was getting a taste of what we would get later out in front. Then of course it began to rain. I knew it was the forerunner of a miserable night for us. Every time I had to go out in front it just naturally rained. Old Jupiter Pluvius must have had it in for me. At six we reported four instructions. They were simple and easy. All we had to do was to crawl out into no man's land, lie on our bellies with our ears to the ground, and listen for the tap-tap of the German engineers or sappers who might be tunneling under no man's land to establish a minehead beneath our trench. Of course, in our orders we were told not to be captured by German patrols or reconnoitering parties. Lots of breath is wasted on the western front, giving silly cautions. As soon as it was dark, Wheeler and I crawled to our post, which was about half way between the lines. It was raining buckets full. The ground was a sea of sticky mud and clung to us like glue. We took turns in listening with our ears to the ground. I would listen for twenty minutes while Wheeler would be on the Kyiv for German patrols. We each wore a wrist-watch, and believe me, neither one of us did over twenty minutes. The rain soaked us to the skin, and our ears were full of mud. Every few minutes a bullet would crack overhead, or a machine gun would traverse back and forth. Then all firing suddenly ceased. I whispered to Wheeler, Keep your eyes, skin-mate. Most likely Fritz has patrol out. That's why the Bosch have stopped firing. We were each darned with a rifle and bayonet and three mils-bombs to be used for defense only. I had my ear to the ground. All of a sudden I heard faint dull thuds. In a very low but excited voice I whispered to Wheeler, I think they're mining. Listen. He put his ear to the ground, and in an unsteady voice spoke into my ear. Yank, that's a patrol, and it's heading our way. For God's sake, keep still! I was as still as a mouse, and was scared stiff. Hardly breathing, and with eyes trying to pierce the inky blackness, we waited. I would have given a thousand pounds to have been safely in my dugout. Then we plainly heard footsteps, and our hearts stood still. A dark form suddenly loomed up in front of me. It looked as big as the Woolworth Building. I could hear the blood rushing through my veins, and it sounded as loud as Niagara Falls. Forms seemed to emerge from the darkness. There were seven of them in all. I tried to wish them away. I never wished harder in my life. They muttered a few words in German and melted into the blackness. I didn't stop wishing, either. All of a sudden we heard a stumble, a muddy splash, and a muttered, Donner und Blitzen. One of the Bosch had stumbled into a shell-hole. Neither of us laughed. At that time it didn't strike us as funny. About twenty minutes after the Germans had disappeared, something from the rear grabbed me by the foot. I nearly fainted with fright. Then a welcome whisper and a cockney accent, Voice, I, mate, we've come to relieve you. Wheeler and I crawled back to our trench. We looked like wet hands and felt worse. After a swig of rum we were soon fast asleep on the fire-step in our wet clothes. The next morning I was as stiff as a poker, and every joint ached like a bad tooth. But I was still alive, so it did not matter. CHAPTER XVI. BATTERY D. 238. The day after this I received the glad tidings that I would occupy the Machine Gunner's dugout right near the Advanced Artillery Observation Post. This dugout was a roomy affair, dry as tinder, and real cots in it. These cots had been made by the REs who had previously occupied the dugout. I was the first to enter him promptly made a signboard with my name and number on it, and suspended it from the foot of the most comfortable cot therein. In the trenches it is always first come first served, and this is lived up to by all. Two RFA men, Royal Field Artillery, from the nearby Observation Post, were allowed the privilege of stopping in the dugout while off duty. One of these men, Bombardier Wilson by name, who belonged to Battery D. 238, seemed to take a liking to me and I returned to this feeling. In two days' time we were pretty chummy, and he told me how his battery in the early days of the war had put over a stunt on old pepper, and had gotten away with it. I will endeavor to give the story as far as memory will permit in his own words. I came out with a first expeditionary force, and like all the rest, thought we would have the enemy licked in jig time, and be able to eat Christmas dinner at home. Well, so far I have eaten two Christmas dinners in the trenches, and am liable to eat two more, the way things are pointing. That is, if Fritz don't drop a whizbang on me and send me to Blighty, sometimes I wish I would get hit, because it's no great picnic out here, and twenty-two months of it make you fed up. It's fairly cushy now compared to what it used to be, although I admit this trench is a trifle rough. Now, we send over five shells to their one. We are getting our own back, but in the early days it was different. Then you had to take everything without a reply. In fact, we would get twenty shells in return for every one we sent over. Fritz seemed to enjoy it, but we British didn't, we were the sufferers. Just one casualty after another. Sometimes whole platoons would disappear, especially when a Jack Johnson plunked into their middle. It got so bad that a fellow when riding home wouldn't ask for any cigarettes to be sent out, because he was afraid he wouldn't be there to receive them. After the drive to Paris was turned back, trench warfare started. Our general grabbed a map, drew a pencil line across it, and said, Dig here! Then he went back to his tea, and Tommy armed himself with a pick and shovel, and started digging. He's been digging ever since. Of course we dug those trenches at night, but it was hot work, what with the rifle and machine gun fire. The stretcher-bearers worked harder than the diggers. Those trenches, blooming ditches, I call them, were a nightmare. They were only about five feet deep, and you used to get the back ache from bending down. It wasn't exactly safe to stand upright, either, because as soon as your napper showed over the top, a bullet would bounce off it, or else come so close it would make your hair stand. We used to fill sandbags and stick them on top of the parapet to make it higher, but no use, they would be there about an hour, and then fritz would turn loose and blow them to bits. My neck used to be sore from ducking shells and bullets. Where my battery was stationed, a hasty trench had been dug, which the boys nicknamed Suicide Ditch, and believe me, yank, this was the original Suicide Ditch. All the others are imitations. When a fellow went into that trench, it was an even gamble that he would come out on a stretcher. At one time a Scotch battalion held it, and when they heard the betting was even money that they'd come out on stretchers, they grabbed all the bets in sight. Like a lot of ballet idiots, several of the battery men fell for their game and put up real money. The jocks suffered a lot of casualties, and the prospects looked bright for the battery men to collect some easy money. So when the battalion was relieved, the gamblers lined up. Several jocks got their money for emerging safely, but the ones who clicked it weren't there to pay. The artillery men had never thought it out that way. Those Scoties were bound to be shore-winners, no matter how the wind blew. So take a tip from me. Never bet with a Scotie, because you'll lose money. At one part of our trench where a communication trench joined the front line, a tommy had stuck up a wooden side-and-post with three hands or arms on it. One of the hands pointing to the German lines read, to Berlin. The one pointing down the communication trench read, to Blighty. While the other said, Suicide-ditch, change here for stretchers. Fathered down from the sky-post, the trench ran through an old orchard. On the edge of this orchard, our battery had constructed an advanced observation post. The trees screened it from the enemy airmen, and the roof was turfed. It wasn't cushy like ours, no timber or concrete reinforcements, just walls and roof of sandbags. From it, a splendid view of the German lines could be obtained. This post wasn't exactly safe. It was a hot corner, shells plunking all around, and the bullets cutting leaves off the trees. Many a time when relieving the signaler at the phone I had to crawl on my belly like a worm to keep from being hit. It was an observation post, sure enough. That's all the use it was. Just observe all day, but never a message back for our battery to open up. You see, at this point of the line there were strict orders not to fire a shell, unless specially ordered to do so from brigade headquarters. Blime me, if anyone disobeyed that command, our general, yes, it was old pepper, would have court-martialed the whole expeditionary force. Nobody went out of their way to disobey old pepper in those days, because he couldn't be called a parson. He was more like a pirate. If at any time the devil should feel lonely and sigh for a proper mate, old pepper would get the first call. Pacing the Germans wasn't half bad compared with an interview with that old firebrand. If a company or battalion should give way a few yards against a superior force of bush, old pepper would send for the commanding officer. In about half an hour the officer would come back with his face the color of a brick, and in a few hours what was left of his command would be holding their original position. I have seen an officer who wouldn't say damn for a thousand quid, spend five minutes with the old boy, and when he returned the flow of language from his lips would make a navvy blush for shame. What I'm going to tell you is how two of us put it over on the old scamp and got away with it. It was a risky thing, too, because old pepper wouldn't have been exactly mild with us if he had got next to the game. Me and my mate, a lad named Harry Cassel, a bombardier in D-238 battery, or Lance Corporal, as you call it in the infantry, used to relieve the telephonists. We would do two hours on and four off. I would be on duty in the advanced observation post, while he would be at the other end of the wire in the battery dugout signaling station. We were supposed to send through orders for the battery to fire when ordered to do so by the observation officer in the advanced post, but very few messages were sent. It was only in case of an actual attack that we could get a chance to earn our two and six a day. You see, old pepper had issued orders not to fire except when the orders came from him, and with old pepper orders is orders and made to obey. The Germans must have known about those orders, for even in the day their transports and troops used to expose themselves as if they were on parade. This sure got up our nose, sitting there day after day with fine targets in front of us, but unable to send over a shell. We heartily cussed old pepper, his orders, the government, the people at home, and everything in general. But the Bosch didn't mind cussing and got very careless. Blimey, they were bolly and salting, used to, when using a certain road, throw their caps into the air as a taunt at our helplessness. Castel had been a telegrapher in civil life and joined up when war was declared. As for me, I knew Morris, learned it at the Sigler School back in 1910. With an officer in the observation post, we could not carry on the kind of conversation that's usual between two mates. So we used the Morse code. To send, one of us would tap the transmitter with his fingernails, and the one on the other end would get it through the receiver. Many an hour was wild away in this manner, passing compliments back and forth. In the observation post, the officer used to sit for hours with a powerful pair of field glasses to his eyes. Through a cleverly concealed loophole, he would scan the ground behind the German trenches, looking for targets, and finding many. This officer, Captain A. by name, had a habit of talking out loud to himself. Sometimes he would vent his opinion, same as a common private does when he's wrought up. Once upon a time the captain had been on old Pepper's staff, so he could cuss him blind in the most approved style. Got to be a sort of habit with him. About six thousand yards from us, behind the German lines, was a road in plain view of our post. For the last three days Fritz had brought companies of troops down this road in broad daylight. They were never shelled. Whenever this happened, the captain would froth at the mouth, and let out a volume of old Pepper's religion which used to make me love him. Every battery had a range chart on which distinctive landmarks are noted, with a range for each. These landmarks are called Targets and are numbered. On our batteries chart that road was called Targets 17, range six thousand, three degrees, 30 minutes left. D238 battery consisted of four 4.5 Howitzers, and fired a 35 pound HE shell. As you know, HE means high explosive. I don't like bumming up my own battery, but we had a record in the division for direct hits, and our boys were just pining away for a chance to exhibit their skill in the eyes of Fritz. On the afternoon of the fourth day, of Fritz's contemptuous use of the road mentioned, the captain and I were at our posts as usual. Fritz was strafing us pretty rough, just like he's doing now. The shells were playing leapfrog all through that orchard. I was carrying on a conversation in our tap-code with Cassell at the other end. It ran something like this. Say, Cassell, how would you like to be in the saloon-bar of the king's arms, down Rye Lane, with a bottle of bass in front of you, and that blonde barmaid waiting to fill him up again? Cassell had a fancy for that particular blonde. The answer came back in the shape of a volley of cusses. I changed the subject. After a while our talk veered round to the way the Bosch had been exposing themselves on the road known on the chart as target 17. What we said about those Bosch would never have passed the Reichstadt, though I believe it would have gone through our censor easily enough. The bursting shells were making such a din that I packed up talking, and took to watching the captain. He was fidgeting around on an old sandbag with the glass to his eye. Occasionally he would let out a grunt, and make some remark I couldn't hear on account of the noise. But I guessed what it was, all right. Fritz was getting fresh again on that road. Cassell had been sending in the tap-code to me, but I was fed up and didn't bother with it. Then he sent OS, and I was all attention, for this was a call used between us which meant that something important was on. I was all ears in an instant. Then Cassell turned loose. You blankety-blank dud, I have been trying to raise you for 15 minutes. What's the matter? Are you asleep? Just as if anyone could have slept in that infernal racket. Never mind framing a nasty answer, just listen. Are you game for putting something over on the Bosch, an old pepper all in one? I answered that I was game enough when it came to putting it over the Bosch, but confessed that I had a weakening of the spine, even at the mention of old pepper's name. He came back with, It's so absurdly easy and simple, that there is no chance of the old heathen rumbling it. Anyway, if we're caught, I'll take the blame. Under those conditions I told him to spit out his scheme. It was so daring and simple that it took my breath away. This is what he proposed. If the Bosch should use that road again, to send by the tap system the target and range, I had previously told him about our captain talking out loud as if he were sending through orders. Well, if this happened I was to send the dope to Cassell and he would transmit it to the battery commander as officially coming through the observation post. Then the battery would open up. Afterwards, during the investigation, Cassell would swear he received it direct. They would have to believe him because it was impossible from his post in the battery dugout to know that the road was being used at that time by the Germans. And also, it was impossible for him to give the target, range, and degrees. You know a battery chart is not passed around among the men like a newspaper from Blighty. From him the investigation would go to the observation post and the observing officer could truthfully swear that I had not sent the message by phone and that no orders to fire had been issued by him. The investigators would then be up in the air. We would be safe, the Bosch would receive a good bashing, and we would get our own back on old pepper. It was too good to be true. I gleefully fell in with the scheme and told Cassell I was his meat. Then I waited with beating heart and watched the captain like a hawk. He was beginning to fidget again and was drumming on the sandbags with his feet. At last, turning to me, he said, Wilson, this army is a blankety-blank washout. What's the use of having artillery if it is not allowed to fire? The government at home ought to be hanged with some of their red tape. It's through them that we have no shells. I answered, yes, sir, and started sending this opinion over the wire to Cassell. But the captain interrupted me with, Keep those infernal fingers still. What's the matter, getting the nerves? When I'm talking to you, pay attention. My heart sank, supposing he had rumbled that tapping, then all would be up with our plan. I stopped drumming with my fingers and said, Beg your pardon, sir, just a habit with me. And a damned silly one, too, he answered, turning to his glasses again, and I knew I was safe. He had not tumbled to the meaning of that tapping. All at once, without turning round, he exclaimed, Well, of all the nerve I've ever run across, this takes the cake. Those—bosh—are using that road again. Blind my eyes, this time it is a whole brigade of them, transports and all. What a pretty target for our 4.5s. The beggars know we won't fire. A damned shame, I call it. Oh, just for a chance to turn D-238 loose on them. I was trembling with excitement. From repeated stolen glances at the captain's range-chart, that road with its range was burned into my mind. Over the wire I tapped, D-238 battery, target 17, range 6000, 3 degrees, 30 minutes left, salvo, fire. Cassell, oh, eed my message, and with the receiver pressed against my ear, I waited and listened. In a couple of minutes, very faintly over the wire came the voice of our battery commander, issuing the order. D-238 battery, salvo, fire. Then a roar through the receiver as the 4 guns belched forth, a screaming and whistling overhead, and the shells were on their way. The captain jumped us if he were shot, and let out a great big expressive, damn, and eagerly turned his glasses in the direction of the German road. I also strained my eyes, watching that target. Four black clouds of dust rose up right in the middle of the German column. Four direct hits, another record for D-238. The shells kept on whistling overhead, and I had counted 24 of them when the firing suddenly ceased. When the smoke and dust clouds lifted, the destruction on that road was awful. Overturned limbers and guns, wagons smashed up, troops fleeing in all directions. The road and roadside were spotted all over with little field-grade dots, the toll of our guns. The captain in his excitement had slipped off the sandbag and was on his knees in the mud, the glass still at his eye. He was muttering to himself and slapping his thigh with his disengaged hand. At every slap, a big round, juicy cuss word would escape from his lips, followed by good, fine, marvellous, pretty work, direct hits all. Then he turned to me and shouted, Wilson, what do you think of it? Did you ever see the like of it in your life? Damn fine work, I call it. Pretty soon a look of wonder stole over his face, and he exclaimed, But who in hell gave them the order to fire? Range and everything correct, too. I know I didn't. Wilson, did I give you any order for the battery to open up? Of course I didn't. Did I? I answered very emphatically. No, sir, you gave no command. Nothing went through this post. I am absolutely certain on that point, sir. Of course nothing went through. He replied. Then his face fell, and he muttered out loud. But by Jove wait till old Pepper gets wind of this. They'll be fur-flying. Just then Bombardier Cassell cut in on the wire. General's compliments to Captain A. He directs that officer and signaler report at the double to Brigade Headquarters as soon as relieved. Relief is now on the way. In an undertone to me, keep up brass front, Wilson, and for God's sake, stick. I answered with, Relay on me, mate, but I was trembling all over. I gave the General's message to the Captain and started packing up. The relief arrived, and as we left the post the Captain said, Now for the fireworks, and I know there'll be good in plenty. They were. When we arrived at the gun pits, the Battery Commander, the Sergeant Major, and Cassell were waiting for us. We fell in line, and the funeral march to Brigade Headquarters started. Arriving at Headquarters, the Battery Commander was the first to be interviewed. This was behind closed doors. From the roaring and explosions of old Pepper, it sounded as if raw meat were being thrown to the lions. Cassell later described it as sounding like a bombing raid. In about two minutes the officer reappeared. The sweat was pouring from his forehead and his face was the color of a beat. He was speechless. As he passed the Captain, he jerked his thumb in the direction of the lion's den and went out. Then the Captain went in, and the lions were once again fed. The Captain stayed about twenty minutes and came out. I couldn't see his face, but the droop in his shoulders was enough. He looked like a wet hen. The door of the General's room opened, and old Pepper stood in the doorway. With a roar he shouted, Which one of you is Cassell? Damn me, get your heels together when I speak! Come in here! Cassell started to say, Yes, sir. But old Pepper roared, Shut up! Cassell came out in five minutes. He said nothing, but as he passed me, he put his tongue into his cheek and winked. Then, turning to the closed door, he stuck his thumb to his nose and left. Then the Sergeant Major's turn came. He didn't come out our way. Judging by the roaring, old Pepper must have eaten him. When the door opened, and the General beckoned to me, my knees started to play home sweet home against each other. My interview was very short. Old Pepper glared at me when I entered, and then let loose. Of course you don't know anything about it. You're just like the rest. Art to have a nursing bottle round your neck and a nipple in your teeth. Soldiers, by God, you turn my stomach to look at you. When this war, when England sends out such samples as I have in my brigade, not lightly. Now, sir, tell me what you don't know about this affair. Speak up, out with it. Don't be gaping at me like a fish. Spit it out. I stammered. Sir, I know absolutely nothing. That's easy to see, he roared. That stupid face tells me that. Shut up! Get out! But I think you are a damned liar just the same. Back to your battery. I saluted and made my exit. That night the Captain sent for us. With fear and trembling, we went to his dugout. He was alone. After saluting, we stood at attention in front of him and waited. His say was short. Don't you two ever get it into your heads that Morse is a dead language? I've known it for years. The two of you had better get rid of that nervous habit of tapping transmitters. It's dangerous. That's all. We saluted and were just going out the door of the dugout when the Captain called us back and said, Smoke gold flakes? Yes? Well, there are two tins of them on my table. Go back to the battery and keep your tongues between your teeth. Understand? We understood. But five weeks afterwards our battery did nothing but extra fatigues. We were satisfied, and so were the men. It was worth it to put one over on old pepper to say nothing of the injury caused to Fritz's feelings. When Wilson had finished his story I looked up, and the dugout was jammed. An artillery captain and two officers had also entered and stayed for the finish. Wilson spat out an enormous quid of tobacco, looked up, saw the Captain, and got as red as a carnation. The Captain smiled and left. Wilson whispered to me, Blimey, yank, I see where I click for crucifixion. That Captain is the same one that chucked us the gold flakes in his dugout, and here I have been chucking me weight about in his hearing. Wilson never clicked his crucifixion. Quite a contrast to Wilson was another character in our brigade named Scott. We called him Old Scotty on account of his age. He was 57, although looking 40. Old Scotty had been born in the Northwest and had served with the Northwest Mounted Police. He was a typical cow-puncher and Indian fighter, and was a dead shot with the rifle, and took no pains to disguise this fact from us. He used to take care of his rifle as if it were a baby. In his spare moments you could always see him cleaning it or polishing the stock. Woe betide the man who, by mistake, happened to get hold of this rifle. He soon found out his error. Scott was as deaf as a mule, and it was amusing at parade to watch him in the manual of arms, slyly glancing out of the corner of his eye at the man next to him to see what the order was. How he passed the doctor was a mystery to us. He must have bluffed his way through, because he certainly was independent. Beside him the 4th of July looked like good Friday. He wore at the time a large sombrero, had a Mexican stock saddle over his shoulder, a lariat on his arm, and a forty-five hanging from his hip. Dumping this paraphernalia on the floor, he went up to the recruiting officer and shouted, I'm from America, West of the Rockies, and want to join your damned army. I've got no use for a German and can shoot some. At Scotland Yard they turned me down, said I was deaf, and so I am. I don't hanker to ship in with a damned mud crunching outfit, but the cavalry is full, so I guess this regiments better than none. So trot out your papers, and I'll sign them. He told them he was forty and slipped by. I was on recruiting service at the time he applied for enlistment. It was Old Scotty's great ambition to be a sniper or body snatcher, as Mr. Atkins calls it. The day that he was detailed as brigade sniper he celebrated his appointment by blowing the whole platoon to fax. Being a yank, Old Scotty took a liking to me and used to spin some great yarns about the planes, and the whole platoon would drink these in and ask for more. Ananias was a rookie compared with him. The ex-plainsman and discipline could not agree, but the officers all liked him, even if he was hard to manage. So when he was detailed as a sniper, a sigh of relief went up from the officer's mess. Old Scotty had the freedom of the brigade. He used to draw two or three days rations and disappear with his glass, rangefinder, and rifle, and we would see or hear no more of him until suddenly he would reappear with a couple of notches added to those already on the butt of his rifle. Every time he got a German it meant another notch. He was proud of those notches. But after a few months Father Rumitism got him and he was sent to Blighty. The air in the wake of his stretcher was blue with curses. Old Scotty surely could swear some of his outbursts actually burned you. No doubt at this riding he is somewhere in Blighty. Pussy footing it on a bridge or along the wall of some munition plant with the G.R. or Home Defense Corps. End of Chapter 17, 18, and 19 of Over the Top This LibriVox recording is in the public domain and has been recorded by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. Over the Top, by Arthur Ampey. Chapter 17 Out in Front After T. Lt. Stores of our section came into the dugout and informed me that I was for a reconnoitering patrol and would carry six mills-bombs. At eleven-thirty that night, twelve men, our Lieutenant and myself, went out in front on a patrol in no man's land. We cruised around in the dark for about two hours, just knocking about looking for trouble, on the lookout for Bosch working parties to see what they were doing. About two in the morning we were all carefully picking our way, about thirty yards in front of the German barbed wire, when we walked into a Bosch covering party nearly thirtieth strong. Then the music started, the fiddler rendered his bill, and we paid. Fighting in the dark with a bayonet is not very pleasant. The Germans took it on the run, but our officer was no novice at the game and didn't follow them. He gave the order, down on the ground, hug it close. Just in time, too, because a volley skimmed over our heads. Then in low tones we were told to separate and crawl back to our trenches, each man on his own. We could see the flashes of their rifles in the darkness, but the bullets were going over our heads. We lost three men killed and one wounded in the arm. If it hadn't been for our officer's quick thinking, the whole patrol would have probably been wiped out. After about twenty minutes' wait we went out again and discovered that the Germans had a wiring party working on their barbed wire. We returned to our trenches, unobserved with the information, and our machine guns immediately got busy. The next night four men were sent out to go over and examine the German barbed wire and see if they had cut lanes through it. If so, this presaged an early morning attack on our trenches. Of course I had to be one of the four selected for the job. It was just like sending a fellow to the undertakers to order his own coffin. At ten o'clock we started out, armed with three bombs, a bayonet, and revolver. After getting into no man's land we separated, crawling four or five feet at a time, ducking star shells, with strays cracking overhead, I reached their wire. I scouted along this inch by inch, scarcely breathing. I could hear them talking in their trench. My heart was pounding against my ribs. One false move or the least noise from me meant discovery and almost certain death. After covering my sector I quietly crawled back. I had gotten about halfway when I noticed that my revolver was missing. It was pitch dark. I turned about to see if I could find it. It couldn't be far away, because about three or four minutes previously I had felt the butt in the holster. I crawled around in circles, and at last I found it, then started on my way back to our trenches, as I thought. Pretty soon I reached barbed wire, and was just going to give the password when something told me not to. I put out my hand and touched one of the barbed wire stakes. It was iron. The British are of wood, while the German are iron. My heart stopped beating. By mistake I had crawled back to the German lines. I turned slowly about, and my tunic caught on the wire and made a loud ripping noise. A sharp challenge rang out. I sprang to my feet, ducking low, and ran madly back toward our lines. The Germans started firing. The bullets were biting all around me when, bang, I ran smash into our wire, and a sharp challenge, HOUT! WHO COMES THERE? rang out. I gassed out the password and groping my way through the lane in the wire, tearing my hands in uniform. I stumbled into our trench and was safe. But I was a nervous wreck for an hour, until a drink of rum brought me round. CHAPTER XVIII. STAGED UNDER FIRE Three days after the incident just related, our company was relieved from the front line and carried out. We stayed in reserve billets for about two weeks, when we received the welcome news that our division would go back of the line to rest billets. We would remain in these billets for at least two months, this in order to be restored to our full strength by drafts of recruits from Blighty. Everyone was happy and contented at these tidings. All you could hear around the billets was whistling and singing. The day after the receipt of the order, we hiked for five days, making an average of about twelve kilometers per day until we arrived at the small town of—can't say. It took us about three days to get settled and from then on our cushy time started. We would parade from 8.45 in the morning until 12 noon. Then, except for an occasional billet or brigade guard, we were on our own. For the first four or five afternoons, I spent my time in bringing up to date my neglected correspondence. Tommy loves to be amused, and, being a yank, they turned to me for something new in this line. I taught them how to pitch horseshoes, and this game made a great hit for about ten days. Then Tommy turned to America for a new diversion. I was up in the air, until a happy thought came to me, why not write a sketch and break Tommy in as an actor? One evening after lights out, when you were not supposed to talk, I imparted my scheme and whispers to the section. They eagerly accepted the idea of forming a stock company and could hardly wait until the morning for further details. After parade, the next afternoon I was almost mobbed. Everyone in the section wanted a part in the proposed sketch. When I informed them that it would take at least ten days of hard work to write the plot, they were bitterly disappointed. I immediately got busy, made a desk out of biscuit tins in the corner of the billet, and put up a sign, MP and Wallace Theatrical Company. About twenty of the section, upon reading this sign, immediately applied for the position of office boy. I accepted the twenty applicants and sent them on scouting parties throughout the deserted French village. These parties were to search all the attics for discarded civilian clothes and anything that we could use in the props of our proposed company. About five that night they returned, covered with grime and dust, but loaded down with a miscellaneous assortment of everything under the sun. They must have thought that I was going to start a department store, judging from the different things they brought back from their pillage. After eight days' constant writing, I completed a two-act farce comedy which I called The Diamond Palace Saloon. Upon the suggestion of one of the boys in the section, I sent a proof of the program to a printing house in London. Then I assigned the different parts and started rehearsing. David Bolesko would have thrown up his hands in despair at the material which I had to use. Just imagine trying to teach a tommy, with a strong cockney accent, to impersonate a bowery tough or a southern negro. Adjacent to our billet was an open field. We got busy at one end of it and constructed a stage. We secured the lumber for the stage by demolishing an old wooden shack in the rear of our billet. The first scene was supposed to represent a street on the bowery in New York, while the scene of the second act was the interior of the Diamond Palace Saloon, also on the bowery. In the play I took the part of Abe Switch, a farmer, who had come from Pumpkinville Center, Tennessee, to make his first visit to New York. In the first scene Abe Switch meets the proprietor of the Diamond Palace Saloon, a ramshackle affair which to the owner was a financial loss. The proprietor's name was Tom Twistum, his bartender being name Fillum Up. After meeting Abe, Tom and Fillum Up persuaded him to buy the place, praising it to the skies and telling wondrous tales of the money taken over the bar. While they were talking, an old Jew named Ike Cohenstein comes along, and Abe engages him for cashier. After engaging Ike, they meet an old southern negro called Sambo, and upon the suggestion of Ike he is engaged as porter. Then the three of them, arm in arm, leave to take possession of this wonderful palace which Abe had just paid $6,000 for. Curtain. In the second act, the curtain rises on the interior of the Diamond Palace Saloon, and the audience gets its first shock. The saloon looks like a pigpen, two tramps lying drunk on the floor, and the bartender with a dirty shirt with his sleeves rolled up, asleep with his head on the bar. Enter Abe, Sambo, and Ike, and the fun commences. One of the characters in the second act was named Broadway Kate, and I had an awful job to break in one of the Tommies to act and talk like a woman. Another character was Alkali Ike, an Arizona cowboy who just before the close of the play comes into the saloon and wrecks it with his revolver. We had eleven three-hour rehearsals before I thought it advisable to present the sketch to the public. The whole brigade was crazy to witness the first performance. This performance was scheduled for Friday night, and everyone was full of anticipation when, bang, orders came through that the brigade would move it to that afternoon. Cursing and blinding was the order of things upon the adversity of this order, but we moved. That night we reached the little village of, still can't say, and again went into rest billets. We were to be there two weeks. Our company immediately got busy and scoured the village for a suitable place in which to present our production. Then we received another shock. A rival company was already established in the village. They called themselves The Bow Bells and put on a sketch entitled Blighty What Hopes. They were the divisional concert party. We hoped they all would be soon in Blighty to give us a chance. This company charged an admission of a franc per head, and that night our company went en masse to see their performance. It really was good. I had a sinking sensation when I thought of running my sketch in opposition to it. In one of their scenes they had a soubrette named Flossie. The soldier that took this part was clever and made a fine appearing and cheek girl. We immediately fell in love with her until two days after, while we were on a march, we passed Flossie with her sleeves rolled up in the sweat pouring from her face, unloading shells from a motor lorry. As our section pastor I yelled out, Hello, Flossie! Blighty, what hopes? Her reply made our love die out instantly. Ah, go to hell! This brought quite a laugh from the marching column directed at me, and I instantly made up my mind that our sketch should immediately run in opposition to Blighty What Hopes. When we returned to our billet from the march, Curly Wallace, my theatrical partner, came running over to me and said he had found a swanky place in which to produce our show. After taking off my equipment, and followed by the rest of the section, I went over to the building he had picked out. It was a monstrous barn, with a platform at one end which would make an ideal stage. The section got right on the job, and before night, had that place rigged out in apple pie order. The next day was Sunday, and after church parade, we put all our time on a dress rehearsal, and it went fine. I made four or five large signs announcing that our company would open up that evening at the King George V Theatre, on the corner of Ammo Street and Sandbag Terrace. General admission was one half-frank. First ten rows in orchestra, one frank, and boxes, two franks. By this time our printed programs had returned from London, and I further announced that on the night of the first performance a program would be given free of charge to men holding tickets costing a frank or over. We had an orchestra of seven men and seven different instruments. This orchestra was excellent while they were not playing. The performance was scheduled to start at 6 p.m. At 5.15 there was a mob in front of our one entrance, and it looked like a big night. We had two boxes each, accommodating four people, and those we immediately sold out. Then a brilliant idea came to Ike Cohenstein. Why not use the rafters overhead, call them boxes, and charge two franks for a seat on them? The only difficulty was how were the men to reach those boxes, but to Ike this was a mere detail. He got long ropes and tied one end around each rafter, and then tied a lot of knots in the ropes. These ropes would take the place of stairways. We figured out that the rafters would seat about 40 men, and sold that number of tickets accordingly. When the ticket holders for the boxes got a glimpse of the rafters, and were informed that they had to use the ropes stairway, there was a howl of indignation. But we had their money and told them that if they did not like it, they could write to the management later, and their money would be refunded. But under these conditions they would not be allowed to witness the performance that night. After a little grousing they accepted the situation with the promise that if the show was rotten, they certainly would let us know about it during the performance. Everything went lovely, and it was a howling success. Until Alkalai Ike appeared on the scene with his revolver loaded with blank cartridges. Behind the bar on a shelf was a long line of bottles. Alkalai Ike was supposed to start on the left of this line, and break six of the bottles by firing at them with his revolver. Behind these bottles a piece of painted canvas was supposed to represent the back of the bar. At each shot from Alkalai's pistol, a man behind the scenes would hit one of the bottles with his entrenching tool handle and smash it, to give the impression that Alkalai was a good shot. Alkalai Ike started in and aimed at the right of the line of bottles, instead of the left, and the poor boo behind the scene started breaking the bottles on the left, and then the box holders turned loose. But outside of this little fiasco the performance was a huge success, and we decided to run it for a week. New troops were constantly coming through, and for six performances we had the SRO sign suspended outside. Chapter 19 On His Own Of course Tommy cannot always be producing plays under fire, but while in rest-billets he has numerous other ways of amusing himself. He is a great gambler, but never plays for large stakes. Generally in each company you will find a regular can-field. This man banks nearly all the games of chance, and is an undisputed authority on the rules of gambling. Whenever there is argument among the Tommies about some uncertain point, as to whether Houghton is entitled to Watkins' sixpence, the matter is taken to the recognized authority, and his decision is final. The two most popular games are Crown and Anchor and House. The paraphernalia used in Crown and Anchor consists of a piece of canvas, two feet by three feet. This is divided into six equal squares. In these squares are painted a club, diamond, heart, spade, crown, and an anchor, one device to a square. There are three dice used, each dice marked the same as the canvas. The banker sets up his gambling outfit in the corner of a billet, and starts belly-hooing until a crowd of Tommies gather round, then the game starts. The Tommies place bets on the squares, the crown or anchor being played the most. The banker then rolls his three dice, and collects or pays out as the case may be. If you play the crown, and one shows up on the dice, you get even money. If two show up, you receive two to one. And if three, three to one. If the crown does not appear and you have bet on it, you lose, and so on. The percentage for the banker is large if every square is played, but if the crowd is partial to, say, two squares, he has to trust to luck. The banker generally wins. The game of House is very popular also. It takes two men to run it. This game consists of numerous squares of cardboard containing three rows of numbers, five numbers to a row. The numbers run from one to ninety. Each card has a different combination. The French estaminets in the villages are open from eleven in the morning until one in the afternoon, in accordance with army orders. After dinner, the Tommies congregate at these places to drink French beer at a penny of glass and play House. As soon as the estaminet is sufficiently crowded, the proprietors of the House game get busy and, as they term it, form a school. This consists of going around and selling cards at a franc each. If they have ten in the school, the backers of the game deduct two francs for their trouble, and the winner gets eight francs. Then the game starts. Each buyer places his card before him on the table, first breaking up matches into fifteen pieces. One of the backers of the game has a small cloth bag in which are ninety cardboard squares, each with a number printed thereon, from one to ninety. He wraps on the table and cries out, I's down, my lucky lads! All noise ceases, and everyone is attention. The croupier places his hand in the bag and draws forth a numbered square, and immediately calls out the number. The man who owns the card with that particular number on it covers the square with the match. The one who covers the fifteen numbers on his card first shouts, House. The other backer immediately comes over to him and verifies the card by calling out the numbers thereon to the man with the bag. As each number is called, he picks it out of the ones picked from the bag and says, Right. If the count is right, he shouts, House. Correct. Pay the lucky gentleman and send him a card for the next school. The lucky gentleman generally buys one unless he has a Semitic trace in his veins. Then another collection is made, a school formed, and they carry on with the game. The caller out has many nicknames for the numbers such as Kelly's Eye for One, Legs 11 for 11, Clickety-click for 66, or Top of the House, meaning 90. The game is honest and quite enjoyable. Sometimes you have fourteen numbers on your card covered, and you are waiting for the fifteenth to be called. In an imploring voice you call out, Come on Watkins Chum, I'm sweating on Kelly's Eye. Watkins generally replies, Well, keep it out of a draft. You'll catch cold. Another game is pontoon, played with cards. It is the same as our Blackjack or 21. A card game called Bragg is also popular. Using a casino deck, the dealer deals each player three cards. It is similar to our poker, except for the fact that you only use three cards and cannot draw. The deck is never shuffled until a man shows three of a kind or a prile, as it is called. The value of the hands are high card, a pair, a run, a flush or three of a kind, or prile. The limit is generally a penny, and so it is hard to win a fortune. The next in popularity is a card game called NAP. It is well named. Every time I played it, I went to sleep. Wist and solo wist are played by the high-brows of the company. When the gamblers tire of all other games, they try banker and broker. I spent a week trying to teach some of the Tommys how to play poker, but because I won 35 francs, they declared that they didn't phone-see the game. Tommie plays few card games. The general run never heard of poker, euker, seven-up, or pinocchio. They have a game similar to pinocchio called Royal Bazique, but few know how to play it. Generally there are two decks of cards in a section, and in a short time they are so doggiered and greasy you can hardly tell the ace of spades from the ace of hearts. The owners of these decks sometimes condescend to lend them after much coaxing. So you see, Mr. Atkins has his fun mixed in with his hardships, and contrary to popular belief, the rank and file of the British army in the trenches is one big happy family. Now in Virginia, at school, I was fed on old MacGuffey's primary reader, which gave me an opinion of an Englishman about equal to a 1776 minute man's, backed up by a shin fainters. But I found Tommie to be the best of mates, and a gentleman through and through. He never thinks of knocking his officers. If one makes a costly mistake, and Tommie pays with his blood, there is no general condemnation of the officer. He is just pitied. It is exactly the same as it was with the Light Brigade at Balaclava, to say nothing of Gallipoli, Nouve Chappelle, and Luz. Personally I remember a little incident where twenty of us were sent on a trench raid, only two of us returning. But I will tell this story later on. I said it was a big happy family, and so it is. But as in all happy families there are servants, so in the British army there are also servants, officer servants, or OS, as they are termed. In the American army the common name for them is dog robbers. From a controversy in the English papers Winston Churchill made the statement, as far as I can remember, that the officer's servants and the British forces totaled nearly two hundred thousand. He claimed that this removed two hundred thousand exceptionally good and well trained fighters from the actual firing line, claiming that the officers, when selecting a man for servants duty, generally picked the man who had been out the longest and knew the ropes. But from my observation I find that a large percentage of the servants do go over the top, but behind the lines they very seldom engage in digging parties, fatigues, parades, or drills. This work is as necessary as actually engaging in an attack. Therefore I think that it would be safe to say that the all round work of the two hundred thousand is about equal to fifty thousand men who are on straight military duties. In numerous instances officers' servants hold the rank of Lance Corporals, and they assume the same duties and authority of a butler. The one stripe giving him precedence over the other servants. There are lots of amusing stories told of OS. One day one of our majors went into the servant's billet and commenced blinding at them, saying that his horse had no straw, and that he personally knew that straw had been issued for this purpose. He called the Lance Corporal to account. The Corporal answered, Blimey sir, the straw was issued, but there wasn't enough left over from the servants' beds. In fact they had to use some of the A to help out, sir. It is needless to say that the servants dispense with their soft beds that particular night. Nevertheless it is not the fault of the individual officer. It is just the survival of a quaint old English custom. You know an Englishman cannot be changed in a day. But the average English officer is a good sport. He will sit on a fire-step and listen respectfully to Private Jones's theory of the way the war should be conducted. This war is gradually crumbling the once unsurmountable wall of caste. You would be convinced of this if you could see King George go among his men on an inspecting tour under fire, or pause before a little wooden cross in some shell-tossed field with tears in his eyes as he reads the inscription, and a little later perhaps bend over a wounded man on a stretcher patting him on the head. More than once in the hospital I have seen a titled Red Cross nurse fetching and carrying for a wounded soldier, perhaps the one who in civil life delivered the coal at her backdoor. Today she does not shrink from lighting his fag or even washing his grimy body. Tommy admires Albert of Belgium because he is not a pusher of men. He leads them. With him it's not a case of take that trench. It is come on and we will take it. It is amusing to notice the different characteristics of the Irish, Scotch, and English soldiers. The Irish and Scotch are very impetuous, especially when it comes to bayonet fighting. While the Englishman, though a trifle slower, thoroughly does his bit. He is more methodical and has the grip of a bulldog on a captured position. He is slower to think. That is the reason why he never knows when he is licked. Twenty minutes before going over the top the English Tommy will sit on the fire step and thoroughly examine the mechanism of his rifle to see that it is in working order and will fire properly. After this examination he is satisfied and ready to meet the Bosch. But the Irishman or Scotchman sits on the fire step, his rifle with bayonet fixed between his knees, the butt of which perhaps is sinking into the mud. The bolt couldn't be open with a team of horses it is so rusty. But he spits on his sleeve and slowly polishes his bayonet. When this is done he also is ready to argue with Fritz. It is not necessary to mention the Colonials, the Canadians, Australians and New Zealanders. The whole world knows what they have done for England. The Australian and New Zealander is termed the ENZAC, taking the name from the first letters of their official designation, Australian and New Zealand Army Corps. Tommy divides the German Army into three classes according to their fighting abilities. They rank as follows, Prussians, Bavarians and Saxons. When up against a Prussian regiment it is a case of keep your napper below the parapet and duck. A bang bang all the time and a war is on. The Bavarians are little better, but the Saxons are fairly good sports and are willing occasionally to behave as gentlemen and take it easy. But you cannot trust any of them over law. At one point of the line the trenches were about thirty-two yards apart. This sounds horrible, but in fact it was easy because neither side could shell the enemy's front-line trench, for fear shells would drop into their own. This eliminated artillery fire. In these trenches went up against the Prussians and Bavarians Tommy had a hot time of it, but when the Saxons took over it was a picnic. They would yell across that they were Saxons and would not fire. Both sides would sit on the parapet and carry on a conversation. This generally consisted of Tommy telling them how much he loved the Kaiser, while the Saxons informed Tommy that King George was a particular friend of theirs and hoped that he was doing nicely. When the Saxons were to be relieved by Prussians or Bavarians they would yell this information across no man's land and Tommy would immediately tumble into his trench and keep his head down. If an English regiment was to be relieved by the wild Irish, Tommy would tell the Saxons and immediately a volley of daughter-owned Blitzens could be heard, and it was Fritz who started to get a crick in his back from stooping, and the people in Berlin would close their windows. Usually when an Irishman takes over a trench, just before stand-down in the morning, he sticks his rifle over the top, aimed in the direction of Berlin, and engages in what is known as the Mad Minute. This consists of firing fifteen shots in a minute. He is not aiming at anything in particular, just sends over each shot with a prayer, hoping that one of his strays will get some poor, unsuspecting fritz in the napper, hundreds of yards behind the lines. It generally does. That's the reason the Bosch hate the man from Aaron's Isle. The Saxons, though better than the Prussians and Bavarians, have a nasty trait of treachery in their makeup. At one point of the line where the trenches were very close, a stake was driven into the ground midway between the hostile lines. At night, when it was his turn, Tommy would crawl to this stake and attach some London papers to it. While at the foot he would place tins of bully beef, fags, sweets, and other delicacies that he had received from Blighty in the ever-looked-for parcel. Later on Fritz would come out and get these luxuries. The next night Tommy would go out to see what Fritz had put into his stocking. The donation gently consisted of a paper from Berlin, telling who was winning the war, some tin sausages, cigars, and occasionally a little beer. But a funny thing, Tommy never returned with the beer unless it was inside of him. His platoon got a whiff of his breath one night and the offending Tommy lost his job. One night a young English sergeant crawled to the stake and as he tried to detach the German paper, a bomb exploded and mangled him horribly. Fritz had set his trap and gained another victim, which was only one more black mark against him in the book of this war. From that time on diplomatic relations were severed. Returning to Tommy, I think his spirit is best shown in the questions he asks. It is never, who is going to win, but always, how long will it take? End of Chapter 20 and 21 of Over the Top This LibriVox recording is in the public domain and is read by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. Over the Top, by Arthur Ampe. Chapter 20. Chats with Fritz We were swimming in money from the receipts of our theatrical venture, and had forgotten all about the war, when an order came through that our brigade would again take over their sector of the line. The day that these orders were issued, our captain assembled the company and asked for volunteers to go to the machine gun school at St. Omer. I volunteered and was accepted. Sixteen men from our brigade left for the course in machine gunnery. This course lasted two weeks and we rejoined our unit and were assigned to the brigade machine gun company. It almost broke my heart to leave my company mates. The gun we used was the Vickers Light .303 Water Cooled. I was still a member of the Suicide Club, having jumped from the frying pan into the fire. I was assigned to Section 1, Gun Number 2, and the first time in took position in the front line trench. During the day our gun would be dismounted on the fire step ready for instant use. We shared a dugout with the Lewis Gunners. At Stand 2 we would mount our gun on the parapet and go on watch beside it until stand down in the morning. Then the gun would be dismounted and again placed in readiness on the fire step. We did eight days in the front line trench without anything unusual happening outside of the ordinary trench routine. On the night that we were to carry out a bombing raid against the German lines was pulled off. This raiding party consisted of sixty company men, sixteen bombers, and four Lewis machine guns with their crews. The raid took the Bosch by surprise and was a complete success, the party bringing back twenty-one prisoners. The Germans must have been awfully sore because they turned loose a barrage of shrapnel with a few minis and whiz bangs intermixed. The shells were dropping into our front line like hailstones. To get even we could have left the prisoners in the fire trench in charge of the men on guard and let them click fritzes strafing, but Tommy does not treat prisoners that way. Five of them were brought into my dugout and turned over to me so that they would be safe from the German fire. In the candlelight they looked very much shaken, nerves gone and chalky faces, with the exception of one, a great big fellow. He looked very much at ease. I liked him from the start. I got out the rum jar and gave each a nip and passed around some fags, the old reliable wood-binds. The other prisoners looked their gratitude, but the big fellow said in English, Thank you, sir, the rum is excellent, and I appreciate it, also your kindness. He told me his name was Carl Schmidt of the 66th Bavarian Light Infantry, that he had lived six years in New York, knew the city better than I did, had been to Coney Island and many of our ball games. He was a regular fan. I couldn't make him believe that Hans Wagner wasn't the best ball player in the world. From New York he had gone to London, where he worked as a waiter in the Hotel Russell. Just before the war he went home to Germany to see his parents. The war came and he was conscripted. He told me he was very sorry to hear that London was in ruins from the Zeppelin raids. I could not convince him otherwise, for hadn't he seen moving pictures in one of the German cities of St. Paul's Cathedral in ruins. I changed the subject because he was so stubborn in his belief. It was my intention to try and pump him for information as to the methods of the German snipers who had been causing us trouble in the last few days. I broached the subject and he shut up like a clam. After a few minutes he very innocently said, German snipers get paid rewards for killing the English. I eagerly asked, What are they? He answered, For killing or wounding an English private, the sniper gets one mark. For killing or wounding an English officer he gets five marks. But if he kills a red cap or English general, the sniper gets twenty-one days tied to the wheel of a limber as punishment for his carelessness. Then he paused waiting for me to bite, I suppose. I bit all right and asked him why the sniper was punished for killing an English general. With a smile he replied, Well, you see, if all the English generals were killed there would be no one left to make costly mistakes. I shut him up. He was getting too fresh for a prisoner. After a while he winked at me and I winked back. Then the escort came to take the prisoners to the rear. I shook hands and wished him the best of luck and a safe journey to Blighty. I liked that prisoner. He was a fine fellow, had an iron cross, too. I advised him to keep it out of sight or some tommy would be sending it home to his girl in Blighty as a souvenir. One dark and rainy night while on guard we were looking over the top from the fire-step of our front-line trench when we heard a noise immediately in front of our barbed wire. The sentry next to me challenged, Halt! who comes there? and brought his rifle to the aim. His challenge was answered in German. A captain in the next traverse climbed upon the sand-bagged parapet to investigate. A brave but foolhardy deed. Crack went a bullet and he tumbled back into the trench with a hole through his stomach and died a few minutes later. A lance-corpel in the next platoon was so enraged at the captain's death that he chucked a mills-bomb in the direction of the noise with a shouted warning to us, Duck your knappers, my lucky lads! A sharp dynamite report, a flare in front of us, and then silence. We immediately sent up two star-shells and in their light could see two dark forms lying on the ground close to our wire. A sergeant and four stretcher-bearers went out in front and soon returned, carrying two limp bodies. Down in the dugout, in the flickering light of three candles, we saw that they were two German officers, one a captain and the other an Unteroffizier, a rank one grade higher than a sergeant major but below the grade of a lieutenant. The captain's face had been almost completely torn away by the bomb's explosion. The Unteroffizier was alive, breathing with difficulty. In a few minutes he opened his eyes and blinked in the glare of the candles. The pair had evidently been drinking heavily, for the alcohol fumes were sickening and completely pervaded the dugout. I turned away and disgust, hating to see a man cross the great divide full of booze. One of our officers could speak German and he questioned the dying man. In a faint voice, interrupted by frequent hiccups, the Unteroffizier told his story. There had been a drinking bout among the officers in one of the German dugouts, the main beverage being Champagne. With a drunken leer he informed us that Champagne was plentiful on their side and that it did not cost them anything, either. About seven that night the conversation had turned to the contemptible English, and the captain had made a wager that he would hang his cap on the English barbed wire to show his contempt for the English sentries. The wager was accepted. At eight o'clock the captain and he had crept out into new man's land to carry out this wager. They had gotten about half way across when the drink took effect and the captain fell asleep. After about two hours of vain attempts the Unteroffizier had at last succeeded in waking the captain, reminded him of his bet, and warned him that he would be the laughing stock of the officer's mess if he did not accomplish his object. But the captain was trembling all over and insisted on returning to the German lines. In the darkness they lost their bearings and crawled towards the English trenches. They reached the barbed wire and were suddenly challenged by our sentry. Being too drunk to realize that the challenge was in English, the captain refused to crawl back. Finally the Unteroffizier convinced his superior that they were in front of the English wire. Realizing this too late, the captain drew his revolver, and with a muttered curse crept blindly toward our trench, his bullet no doubt killed our captain. Then the bomb came over and there he was, dying. And a good job too, we thought. The captain dead? Well, his men wouldn't weep at the news. Without giving us any further information the Unteroffizier died. We searched the bodies for identification-diss, but they had left everything behind before starting on their foolhardy errand. Next afternoon we buried them in our little cemetery, apart from the graves of the Tommys. If you ever go into that cemetery, you will see two little wooden crosses in the corner of the cemetery set away from the rest. They read Captain German Army Died 1916 Unknown R. I. P. And Unteroffizier German Army Died 1916 Unknown R. I. P. Chapter 21 About Turn The next evening we were relieved by another brigade, and once again returned to rest billets. Upon arriving at these billets we were given twenty-four hours in which to clean up. I had just finished getting the mud from my uniform when the orderly sergeant informed me that my name was in orders for leave, and that I was to report to the orderly room in the morning, for orders, transportation, and rations. I nearly had a fit, hustled about, packing up, filling my pack with souvenirs such as shellheads, dud bombs, nosecaps, shrapnel balls, and a Prussian guardsman helmet. In fact, before I turned in that night, I had everything ready to report at the orderly room at nine the next morning. I was the envy of the whole section, swanking around, telling of the good time I was going to have, the places I would visit, and the real, old English beer I intended to guzzle. Sort of rubbed it into them, because they all do it, and now that it was my turn, I took pains to get my own back. At nine I reported to the captain, receiving my travel order in pass. He asked me how much money I wanted to draw. I glibly answered, three hundred francs, sir. He just as glibly handed me one hundred. Reporting at Brigade Headquarters, with my pack weighing a ton, I waited with forty others for the adjutant to inspect us. After an hour's wait he came out, must have been sore because he wasn't going with us. The quartermaster sergeant issued us two days rations in a little white canvas ration bag which we tied to our belts. Then two motor lorries came along, and we piled in, laughing, joking, and in the best of spirits. We even loved the Germans we were feeling so happy. Our journey to Seven Days Bliss and Blighty had commenced. The ride in the lorry lasted about two hours. By this time we were covered with fine white dust from the road, but didn't mind even if we were nearly choking. At the railroad station we reported to an officer who had a white band around his arm, which read RTO, Royal Transportation Officer. To us this officer was Santa Claus. The sergeant in charge showed him our orders. He glanced through them and said, Make yourselves comfortable on the platform and don't leave. The train is liable to be long in five minutes, or five hours. It came in five hours, a string of eleven matchboxes on big high wheels, drawn by a dinky little engine with the con. These matchboxes were cattle-cars, on the sides of which was painted the old familiar side, Aum Forte Chavo VIII. The RTO stuck us all into one car. We didn't care. It was as good as a Pullman to us. Two days we spent on that train, bumping, stopping, jerking ahead, and sometimes sliding back. At three stations we stopped long enough to make some tea, but we were unable to wash, so when we arrived, where we were to embark for Blighty, we were as black as turcos and, with our unshaven faces, we looked like a lot of traps. Though tired out, we were happy. We had packed up, preparatory to detraining, when an RTO held up his hand for us to stop where we were, and came over. This is what he said. Boys, I'm sorry, but orders have just been received, cancelling all leave. If you had been three hours earlier you would have gotten away. Just stay in that train as it is going back. Rations will be issued to you for your return journey to your respective stations. Beastly rotten, I know. Then he left. A dead silence resulted. Then men started to curse, through their rifles on the floor of the car. Others said nothing seemed to be stupefied, while some had the tears running down their cheeks. It was a bitter disappointment to all. How we blinded at the engineer of that train, it was all his fault, so we reasoned. Why hadn't he speeded up a little or been on time, then we would have gotten off before the order arrived. Now it was no Blighty for us. That return journey was misery to us. I just can't describe it. When we got back to rest-billets we found that our brigade was in the trenches, another agreeable surprise, and that an attack was contemplated. Seventeen of the forty-one will never get another chance to go on leave. They were killed in the attack. Just think if that train had been on time, those seventeen would still be alive. I hate to tell you how I was kitted by the boys when I got back, but it was good and plenty. Our machine-gun company took over their part of the line at seven o'clock, the night after I returned for my near leave. At three-thirty the following morning three waves went over and captured the first and second German trenches. The machine-gunners went over with the fourth wave to consolidate the captured line, or dig in, as Tommy calls it. Crossing no man's land without clicking any casualties, we came to the German trench and mounted our guns on the Pareto's, of same. I never saw such a mess in my life. Bunches of twisted barbed wire lying about, shell-holes everywhere, trench all bashed in, parapets gone and dead bodies. Why, that ditch was full of them, theirs and ours. It was a regular morgue. Some were mangled horribly from our shell-fire, while others were wholly or partly buried in the mud, the result of shell explosions caving in the walls of the trench. One dead German was lying on his back, with a rifle sticking straight up in the air, the bayonet of which was buried to the hilt in his chest. Across his feet lay a dead English soldier with a bullet-hold in his forehead. This Tommy must have been killed just as he ran his bayonet through the German. Rifles and equipment were scattered about, and occasionally a steel helmet could be seen sticking out of the mud. At one point, just in the entrance to a communication trench, was a stretcher. On this stretcher a German was lying with a white bandage around his knee. Nearer to him lay one of the stretcher-bearers, the red cross on his arm covered with mud, and his helmet filled with blood and brains. Close by, sitting up against the wall of the trench, with head resting on his chest, was the other stretcher-bearer. He seemed to be alive, the posture was so natural and easy, but when I got closer I could see a large jagged hole in his temple. The three must have been killed by the same shell-burst. The dugouts were all smashed in and knocked about. Big square-cut timbers splintered into bits, walls caved in, and entrances choked. Tommy, after taking a trench, learns to his sorrow that the hardest part of the work is to hold it. In our case this proved to be so. The German artillery and machine guns had us taped, ranged. For fair it was worth your life to expose yourself an instant. Don't think for a minute that the Germans were the only sufferers. We were clicking casually so fast that you needed an adding machine to keep track of them. Did you ever see one of the steam shovels at work on the Panama Canal? Well, it would look like a hen scratching alongside of a Tommy digging in while under fire. You couldn't see daylight through the clouds of dirt from his shovel. After losing three out of six men of our crew, we managed to set up our machine gun. One of the legs of the tripod was resting on the chest of a half-buried body. When the gun was firing it gave the impression that the body was breathing. This was caused by the excessive vibration. Three or four feet down the trench, about three feet from the ground, a foot was protruding from the earth. We knew it was a German by the black leather boot. One of our crew used that foot to hang extra bandoliers of ammunition on. This man always was a handy fellow, made use of little points that the ordinary person would overlook. The Germans made three counter-attacks, which we repulsed, but not without heavy loss on our side. They also suffered severely from our shell and machine gun fire. The ground was spotted with their dead and dying. The next day things were somewhat quieter, but not quite enough to bury the dead. We lived, ate, and slept in that trench with the unburied dead for six days. It was awful to watch their faces become swollen and discoloured. Towards the last the stench was fierce. What got on my nerves the most was that foot sticking out of the dirt. It seemed to me, at night, in the moonlight, to be trying to twist around. Several times this impression was so strong that I went to it and grasped it in both hands to see if I could feel a movement. I told this to the man who had used it for a hat-rack just before I lay down for a little nap, as things were quiet and I needed to rest pretty badly. When I woke up the foot was gone. He had cut it off with our chainsaw out of the spare parts-box, and had plastered the stump over with mud. During the next two or three days before we were relieved I missed that foot dreadfully, seemed as if I had suddenly lost a chum. I think the worst thing of all was to watch the rats at night, and sometimes in the day run over and play about among the dead. Near our gun, right across the parapet, could be seen the body of a German Lieutenant, the head and arms of which were hanging into our trench. The man who had cut off the foot used to sit and carry on a one-sided conversation with this officer, used to argue and point out why Germany was in the wrong. During all of this monologue I never heard him say anything out of the way, anything that would have hurt the officer's feelings had he been alive. He was square all right, wouldn't even take advantage of a dead man in an argument. To civilians this must seem dreadful, but out here one gets so used to awful sights that it makes no impression. In passing a butcher's shop you were not shocked by seeing a dead turkey hanging from a hook. Well, in France a dead body is looked upon from the same angle. But nevertheless when our six days were up we were tickled to death to be relieved. Our machine-gun company lost seventeen killed and thirty-one wounded in that little local affair of straightening the line, while the other companies clicked at worse than we did. After the attack we went into reserve billets for six days, and on the seventh, once again, we were in rest billets. Soon after my arrival in France, in fact from my enlistment, I had found that in the British Army discipline is very strict. One has to be very careful in order to stay on the narrow path of government virtue. There are about seven million ways of breaking the king's regulations. To keep one you have to break another. The worst punishment is death by a firing squad or up against a wall, as Tommy calls it. This is for desertion, cowardice, mutiny, giving information to the enemy, destroying or willfully wasting ammunition, looting, rape, robbing the dead, forcing a safeguard, striking a superior, etc. Then comes the punishment of sixty-four days in the front-line trench without relief. During this time you have to engage in all raids, working parties in no man's land, and every hazardous undertaking that comes along. If you live through the sixty-four days you are indeed lucky. This punishment is awarded when there is a doubt as to the willful guilt of a man who is committed in offense, punishable by death. Then comes the famous field punishment number one. Tommy is nicknamed Crucifixion. It means that a man is spread eagle on a limber wheel two hours a day for twenty-one days. During this time he only gets water, bully-beef, and biscuits for his chow. You get crucified for repeated minor offenses. Next in order is field punishment number two. This is confinement in the clink, without blankets, getting water, bully-beef, and biscuits for rations, and doing all the dirty work that can be found. This may be for twenty-four hours or twenty days according to the gravity of the offense. Then comes pack-drill or defaulters parade. This consists of drilling, mostly at the double, for two hours with full equipment. Tommy hates this because it is hard work. Sometimes he fills his pack with straw to lighten it, and sometimes he gets caught. If he gets caught he grouses at everything in general for twenty-one days from the vantage point of a limber wheel. Next comes CB, meaning confined to barracks. This consists of staying in billets or barracks for twenty-four hours to seven days. You also get an occasional defaulters parade and dirty jobs around the quarters. The Sergeant Major keeps what is known as the crime sheet. When a man commits an offense, he is crimed. That is, his name, number, and offense is entered on the crime sheet. Next day at 9 a.m. he goes to the orderly room before the Captain, who either punishes him with CB or sends him before the OC or officer commanding the battalion. The Captain of the Company can only award CB. Tommy many a time has thanked the King for making that provision in his regulations. To gain the title of a smart soldier, Tommy has to keep clear of the crime sheet, and you have to be darn smart to do it. I have been honored a few times, mostly for Yankee impudence. During our stay of two weeks in rest billets, our Captain put us through a course of machine gun drills, trying out new stunts and theories. After parades were over, our guns crews got together and also tried out some theories of their own, in reference to handling guns. These courses had nothing to do with the advancement of the war, consisted mostly of causing tricky jams in the gun, and then the rest of the crew would endeavor to locate as quickly as possible the cause of the stoppage. This amused them for a few days, and then things came to a standstill. One of the boys on my gun claimed that he could play a tune while the gun was actually firing, and demonstrated this fact one day on the target range. We were very enthusiastic and decided to become musicians. After constant practice I have become quite expert in the tune entitled, All Conductors Have Big Feet. When I had mastered this tune, our two weeks rest came to an end, and once again we went up the line and took over the sector in front of a wood. At this point the German trenches ran around the base of a hill, on the top of which was a dense wood. This wood was infested with machine guns, which used to traverse our lines at will, and sweep the streets of a little village where we were billeted while in reserve. There was one gun in particular which used to get our goats. It had the exact range of our elephant dugout entrance, and every evening about the time rations were being brought up, its bullets would knock up the dust on the road. More than one Tommy went west or to Blighty by running into them. This gun got our nerves on edge, and Fritz seemed to know it, because he never gave us an hour's rest. Our reputation as machine gunners was at stake. We tried various rooses to locate and put this gun out of action, but each one proved to be a failure, and Fritz became a worse nuisance than ever. He was getting fresher and more careless every day, took all kinds of liberties with us, thought he was invincible. Then one of our crew got a brilliant idea, and we were all enthusiastic to put it to the test. Here was his scheme. When firing my gun I was to play my tune, and Fritz, no doubt, would fall for it, try to imitate me as an added insult. This gunner and two others would try, by the sound, to locate Fritz and his gun. After having got the location they would mount two machine guns and trees in a little clump of woods to the left of our cemetery, and while Fritz was in the middle of his lesson would open up in trust to luck. By our calculations it would take at least a week to pull off the stunt. If Fritz refused to swallow our bait it would be impossible to locate his special gun, and that's the one we were after, because they all sound alike, a slow Our prestige was hanging by a thread. In the battalion we had to endure all kinds of insults and fresh remarks as to our ability in silencing Fritz, even to the battalion that German gun was a sore spot. Next day Fritz opened up as usual. I let him fire away for a while and then butted in with my bup, bup, bup, bup, bup, bup, bup. I kept this up quite a while, using two belts of ammunition. Fritz had stopped firing to listen. Then he started in, sure enough, he had fallen for our game, his gun was trying to imitate mine, but at first he made a horrible mess of that tune. Again I butted in with a few bars and stopped. Then he tried to copy what I had played. He was a good sport all right, because his bullets were going away over our heads, must have been firing into the air. I commenced to feel friendly toward him. This duet went on for five days. Fritz was a good pupil and learned rapidly, in fact got better than his teacher. I commenced to feel jealous. When he had completely mastered the tune, he started sweeping the road again and we clicked it worse than ever. But he signed his death warrant by doing so, because my friendship turned to hate. Every time he fired he played that tune and we danced. The boys in the battalion gave us the ha-ha. They weren't in on our little frame-up. The originator of the roosts and the other two gunners had Fritz's location taped to the minute. They'd mounted their two guns and also gave me the range. The next afternoon was set for the grand finale. Our three guns, with different elevations, had their fire so arranged that opening up together their bullets would suddenly drop on Fritz like a hailstorm. About three the next day, Fritz started pupping that tune. I blew a sharp blast on a whistle. It was the signal agreed upon. We turned loose and Fritz's gun suddenly stopped in the middle of a bar. We had cooked his goose and our roosts had worked. After firing two belts each to make sure of our job, we hurriedly dismounted our guns and took cover in the dugout. We knew what to expect soon. We didn't have to wait long. Three salvos of whiz-banks came over from Fritz's artillery, a further confirmation that we had sent that musical machine gunner on his westward bound journey. That gun never bothered us again. We were the heroes of the battalion. Our captain congratulated us, said it was a neat piece of work, and consequently we were all puffed up over the stunt. There are several ways Tommy uses to disguise the location of his machine gun and get his range. Some of the most commonly used stunts are his follows. At night, when he mounts his gun over the top of his trench and wants to get the range of Fritz's trench, he adopts the method of what he terms, getting the sparks. This consists of firing bursts from his gun until the bullets hit the German barbed wire. He can tell when they are hitting the wire because a bullet when it hits a wire throws out a blue electric spark. Machine gun fire is very damaging to wire and causes many a wiring party to go out at night when it is quiet to repair the damage. To disguise the flare of his gun at night when firing Tommy uses what is called a flare protector. This is a stove-pipe arrangement which fits over the barrel casing of the gun and screens the spark from the right and left, but not from the front. Also Tommy, always resourceful, adopts this scheme. About three feet or less in front of the gun, he drives two stakes into the ground about five feet apart. Across these stakes he stretches a curtain made out of empty sandbags, ripped open. He soaks this curtain in water and fires through it. The water prevents it catching fire and effectively screens the flare of the firing gun from the enemy. Gun does a valuable asset in locating a machine gun, but Tommy surmounts this obstacle by placing two machine guns about 100 to 150 yards apart. The gun on the right to cover with its fire the sector of the left gun, and the gun on the left to cover that of the right gun. This makes their fire cross. They are fired simultaneously. By this method it sounds like one gun firing and gives the Germans the impression that the gun is firing from a point midway between the guns, which are actually firing, and they accordingly shell that particular spot. The machine gunners chuckle and say, Fritz is a brainy boy, not Afi ain't. But the men in our lines at the spot being shelled curse Fritz for his ignorance, and pass a few pert remarks down the line in reference to the machine gunners being windy and afraid to take their medicine. CHAPTER XXIII. GAS ATTACKS AND SPIES Three days after we had silenced Fritz the Germans sent over gas. It did not catch us unawares because the wind had been made to order, that is it was blowing from the German trenches toward ours at the rate of about five miles per hour. Warnings had been passed down the trench to keep a sharp lookout for gas. We had a new man at the periscope on this afternoon in question. I was sitting on the fire-step cleaning my rifle when he called out to me. There's a sort of greenish-yellow cloud rolling along the ground out in front. It's coming. But I waited for no more, grabbing my bayonet which was detached from the rifle. I gave the alarm by banging an empty shell case which was hanging near the periscope. At the same instant Gong started ringing down the trench, the signal for Tommy to don his respirator or smoke-helmet, as we call it. Gas travels quickly, so you must not lose any time. You generally have about eighteen or twenty seconds in which to adjust your gas helmet. A gas helmet is made of cloth treated with chemicals. There are two windows or glass eyes in it, through which you can see. Inside there is a rubber-covered tube which goes in the mouth. You breathe through your nose, the gas, passing through the cloth helmet, is neutralized by the action of the chemicals. The foul air is exhaled through the tube in the mouth, this tube being so constructed that it prevents the inhaling of the outside air or gas. One helmet is good for five hours of the strongest gas. Each Tommy carries two of them slung around his shoulder in a waterproof canvas bag. He must wear this bag at all times, even when sleeping. To change a defective helmet, you take out the new one, hold your breath, pull the old one off, placing the new one over your head, tucking in the loose ends under the collar of your tunic. For a minute, pandemonium rained in our trench. Tommy's adjusting their helmets, bombers running here and there, and men turning out of the dugouts with fixed bayonets to mend the fire-step. Reinforcements were pouring out of the communication trenches. Our gun's crew were busy mounting the machine gun on the parapet and bringing up extra ammunition from the dugout. German gas is heavier than air and soon fills the trenches and dugouts, where it has been known to lurk for two or three days until the air is purified by means of large chemical sprayers. We had to work quickly, as Fritz gently follows the gas with an infantry attack. A company man on our right was too slow getting on his helmet. He sank to the ground clutching at his throat, and after a few spasmatic seconds twisting, went west. He died. It was horrible to see him die, but we were powerless to help him. In the corner of a traverse, a little muddy cur-dog, one of the company's pets was lying dead, with his two paws over his nose. It's the animals that suffer the most, the horses, mules, cattle, dogs, cats, and rats. They having no helmets to save them. Tommy does not sympathize with rats in a gas attack. At times gas has been known to travel with dire results, fifteen miles behind the lines. A gas or smoke helmet, as it is called, at the best is a vile smelling thing, and it is not long before one gets a violent headache from wearing it. Our eighteen pounders were bursting in no man's land, in an effort by the artillery to disperse the gas clouds. The fire-step was lined with crouching men, bayonets fixed, and bombs near at hand to repel the expected attack. Our artillery had put a barrage of curtain fire on the German lines to try and break up their attack and keep back reinforcements. I trained my machine gun on their trench, and its bullets were raking the parapet. Then over they came, bayonets glistening. In their respirators, which have a large snout in front, they looked like some horrible nightmare. All along our trench, rifles and machine guns spoke, our shrapnel was bursting over their heads. They went down in heaps, but new ones took the place of the fallen. Nothing could stop that mad rush. The Germans reached our barbed wire, which had previously been demolished by their shells. Then it was bomb against bomb, and the devil for all. Suddenly my head seemed to burst from a loud crack in my ear. Then my head began to swim, throat got dry, and a heavy pressure on the lungs warned me that my helmet was leaking. Turning my gun over to number two, I changed helmets. The trench started to whine like a snake, and sandbags appeared to be floating in the air. The noise was horrible. I sank into the fire step. Needles seemed to be pricking my flesh. Then blackness. I was awakened by one of my mates removing my smoke helmet. How delicious that cool fresh air fell in my lungs. A strong wind had arisen and dispersed the gas. They told me I had been out for three hours. They thought I was dead. The attack had been repulsed after a hard fight. Twice the Germans had gained a foothold in our trench, but had been driven out by counter-attacks. The trench was filled with their dead and ours. Through a periscope I counted eighteen dead Germans in our wire. They were ghastly sight in their horrible-looking respirators. I examined my first smoke helmet. A bullet had gone through it on the left side, just grazing my ear. The gas had penetrated through the hole mated in the cloth. Out of our crew of six we lost two killed and two wounded. That night we buried all of the dead, accepting those in no man's land. In death there is not much distinction friend and foe are treated alike. After the wind had dispersed the gas the R.A.M.C. got busy with their chemical sprayers, spraying out the dugouts and low parts of the trenches to dissipate any fumes of the German gas which may have been lurking in the same. Two days after the gas attack I was sent to division headquarters in answer to an order requesting that captains of units should detail a man whom they thought capable of passing an examination for the Divisional Intelligence Department. Before leaving for this assignment I went along the front-line trench saying good-bye to my mates and lording it over them, telling them that I had clicked a cushy job behind the lines and how sorry I felt that they had to stay in the front line and argue out the war with Fritz. They were envious but still good-natured, and as I left the trench to go to the rear they shouted after me, Good luck, yank-go, boy, don't forget to send back a few fags to your old mates. I promised to do this and left. I reported at headquarters with sixteen others and passed the required examination. Out of the sixteen applicants four were selected. I was highly elated because I was, as I thought, in for a cushy job back at the base. The next morning the four reported to division headquarters for instructions. Two of the men were sent to large towns in the rear of the lines with an easy job. When it came our turn the officer told us we were good men and had passed a very creditable examination. My tin hat began to get too small for me and I noted that the other man, Atwell by name, was sticking his chest out more than usual. The officer continued, I think I can use you two men to great advantage in the front line. Here are your orders and instructions, also the pass which gives you full authority as special MP detailed on intelligence work. Report at the front line according to your instructions. It is risky work and I wish you both the best of luck. My heart dropped to zero and Atwell's face was a study. We saluted and left. That wishing us the best of luck sounded very ominous in our ears. If he had said, I wish you both a swift and painless death, it would have been more to the point. When we had read our instructions we knew we were in for it good and plenty. What Atwell said is not fit for publication, but I strongly seconded his opinion of the war, army, and divisional headquarters in general. After a bit our spirits rose. We were full-fledged spy catchers, because our instructions and orders said so. We immediately reported to the nearest French estaminette and had several glasses of muddy water, which they called beer. After drinking our beer we left the estaminette and hailed an empty ambulance. After showing the driver our passes we got in. The driver was going to the part of the line where we had to report. The ambulance was affored and lived up to its reputation. How the wounded ever survived a ride in it was inexplicable to me. It was worse than riding on a gun carriage over a rocky road. The driver of the ambulance was a corporal of the R.A.M.C., and he had the wind up. That is, he had an aversion to being under fire. I was riding on the seat with him while Atwell was sitting in the ambulance, with his legs hanging out of the back. As we passed through a shell-destroyed village, a mounted military policeman stopped us and informed the driver to be very careful when we got out on the open road, as it was very dangerous, because the Germans lately had acquired the habit of shelling it. The corporal asked the trooper if there was any other way around, and was informed that there was not. Upon this he got very nervous and wanted to turn back. But we insisted that he proceed, and explained to him that he would get into serious trouble with his commanding officer if he returned without orders. We wanted to ride, not walk. From his conversation we learned that he had recently come from England with a draft that had never been under fire, hence his nervousness. We convinced him that there was not much danger and he appeared greatly relieved. When we at last turned into the open road we were not so confident. On each side there had been a line of trees, but now all that was left of them were torn and battered stumps. The fields on each side of the road were dotted with recent shell-holes, and we passed several in the road itself. We had gone about half a mile when a shell came whistling through the air and burst in a field about three hundred yards to our right. Another soon followed this one and burst on the edge of the road about four hundred yards in front of us. I told the driver to throw in his speed clutch, as we must be inside of the Germans. I knew the signs, that battery was ranging for us, and the quicker we got out of its zone of fire, the better. The driver was trembling like leaf, and every minute I expected him to pile us up in the ditch. I preferred the German fire. In the back Atwell was holding on to the straps for dear life and was singing at the top of his voice, We beach at the Marne, We beach at the Ain, We gave you El at Nerv's Chappelle, And here we are again. Just then we hit a small shell-hole and nearly capsized. Upon a loud yell from the rear I looked behind, and there was Atwell sitting in the middle of the road shaking his fist at us. His equipment, which he had taken off upon getting into the ambulance, was strung out on the ground, and his rifle was in the ditch. I shouted to the driver to stop, and in his nervousness he put on the brakes. We nearly pitched out head-first. But the applying of those brakes saved our lives. The next instant there was a blinding flash and a deafening report. All that I remember is that I was flying through the air and wondering if I would land in a soft spot. Then the lights went out. When I came to, Atwell was pouring water on my head out of his bottle. On the other side of the road the corporal was sitting, rubbing a lump on his forehead with his left hand, while his right arm was bound up in a blood-soaked bandage. He was moaning very loudly. I had an awful headache, and the skin on the left side of my face was full of gravel, and the blood was trickling from my nose. But that ambulance was turned over in the ditch and was perforated with holes from fragments of the shell. One of the front wheels was slowly revolving, so I could not have been out for a long period. If Mr. Ford could have seen that car, his, peace at any price, conviction, would have been materially strengthened, and he would have immediately fitted out another peace-ship. The shells were still screaming overhead, but the battery had raised its fire, and they were bursting in a little wood about half a mile from us. Atwell spoke up. I wished that officer had wished us the best of luck. Then he commenced swearing. I couldn't help laughing though my head was nigh to bursting. Slowly rising to my feet I felt myself all over to make sure that there were no broken bones. But outside of a few bruises and scratches I was all right. The corporal was still moaning, but more from shock than pain. A shell splinter had gone through the flesh of his right forearm. Atwell and I, from our first-aid pouches, put a tourniquet on his arm to stop the bleeding, and then gathered up our equipment. We realized that we were in a dangerous spot. At any minute a shell might drop on the road and finish us off. The village we had left was not very far, so we told the corporal he had better go back to it and get his arm dressed, and then report the fact of the destruction of the ambulance to the military police. He was well able to walk, so we set off in the direction of the village, while Atwell and I continued our way on foot. Without further mishap we arrived at our destination and reported to brigade headquarters for rations and billets. That night we slept in the battalion's Sergeant Major's dugout. The next morning I went to a first-aid post and had the gravel picked out of my face. The instructions we received from division headquarters read that we were out to catch spies, patrol trenches, search German dead, reconnoiter in no-man's land, and take part in trench raids and prevent the robbing of the dead. I had a pass which would allow me to go anywhere at any time in the sector of the line held by our division. It also gave me authority to stop and search ambulances, motor lorries, wagons, and even officers and soldiers whenever my suspicions deemed it necessary. Atwell and I were allowed to work together or singly, and what's left to our judgment. We decided to team up. Atwell was a good companion and very entertaining. He had an utter contempt for danger but was not foolhardy. At swearing he was a wonder. A cavalry regiment would have been proud of him. Though born in England he had spent several years in New York, he was about six feet one and as strong as an ox. I am five feet five in height, so we looked like bud-fishers Mutt and Jeff went together. We took up our quarters in a large dugout of the Royal Engineers and mapped out our future actions. This dugout was on the edge of a large cemetery, and several times at night in returning to it we got many a fall stumbling over the graves of English, French, and Germans. Atwell on these occasions never indulged in swearing, though at any other time at the least stumble he would turn the air blue. A certain section of our trenches was held by the Royal Irish Rifles. For several days a very strong rumor went the rounds that a German spy was in our midst. This spy was supposed to be dressed in the uniform of a British staff officer. Several stories had been told about an officer wearing a red band around his cap who patrolled the front line and communication trenches, asking suspicious questions as to location of batteries, machine gun emplacements, and trench mortars. If a shell dropped in a battery or on a machine gun, or even near a dugout, the spy was blamed. The rumor gained such strength that an order was issued for all troops to immediately place under arrest any one answering to the description of the spy. Atwell and I were on the quivive. We constantly patrolled the trenches at night and even in the day, but the spy always eluded us. One day, while in the communication trench, we were horrified to see our Brigadier General, Old Pepper, being brought down it by a big private of the Royal Irish Rifles. The general was walking in front, and the private with fixed bayonet was following him in the rear. We eluded as the general passed us. The Irishman had a broad grin on his face, and we could scarcely believe our eyes. The general was under arrest. After passing a few feet beyond us, the general turned and said in a wrathful voice to Atwell, Tell this damned fool who I am! He's arrested me as a spy! Atwell was speechless. The sentry butted in with, None of that gussin' outta you! Back to headquarters, you go's, Mr. Fritz! Open that face of yours again, and I'll dint in your napper with the butimmy rifle! The general's face was a sight to behold. He was fairly boiling over with rage, but he shut up. Atwell tried to get in front of the sentry to explain to him that it really was the general he had under arrest, but the sentry threatened to run his bayonet through him and would have done it, too. So Atwell stepped aside and remained silent. I was nearly bursting with suppressed laughter. One word, and I would have exploded. It is not exactly diplomatic to laugh at your general in such a predicament. The sentry and his prisoner arrived at brigade headquarters with disastrous results to the sentry. The joke was that the general had personally issued the order for the spies' arrest. It was a habit of the general to walk through the trenches on rounds of inspection unattended by any of his staff. The Irishman, being new in the regiment, had never seen the general before, so when he came across him alone in a communication trench he promptly put him under arrest. Brigadier generals wear a red band around their caps. Next day we passed the Irishman tied to the wheel of a limber, the beginning of his sentence of twenty-one days, field punishment number one. Never before have I seen such a woe-begone expression on a man's face. For several days, that will and I made ourselves scarce around brigade headquarters.