Bernard Adams

“No officer wounded since we came out in October,” said Edwards: “we’re really awfully lucky, you know.”

“For heaven’s sake, touch wood,” I cried.

We laughed, for the whole of our establishment was wood. We were sitting on a wooden seat, leaning our hands against wooden uprights, eating off a wooden table, and resting our feet on a wooden floor. Sometimes, too, we found splinters of wood in the soup—but it was more often straw. For this dining-room in Trafalgar Square was known sometimes as the “Summer-house” and sometimes as the “Straw Palace.” It was really the maddest so-called “dug-out” in the British lines, I should think; I might further add, “in any trench in Europe.” For the French, although they presumably built it in the summer days of 1915 when the Bois FranÇais trenches were a sort of summer-rest for tired-out soldiers, would never have tolerated the “Summer-house” since the advent of the canister-age. As for the Boche, he would have merely stared if anyone had suggested him using it as a Company Headquarters. “But,” he would have said, “it is not shell-proof.”

Exactly. It would not have stood even a whizz-bang. A rifle-grenade would almost certainly have come right through it. As for a canister or H.E., it would have gone through like a stone piercing wet paper. But it had been Company Headquarters for so long—it was so light and, being next door to the servants’ dug-out, so convenient—that we always lived in it still; though we slept in a dug-out a little way down Old Kent Road, which was certainly whizz-bang—if not canister—proof.

At any rate, here were Edwards and myself, drinking rather watery ox-tail soup out of very dinted tin-plates—the spoons were scraping noisily on the metal; overhead, a rat appeared out of the straw thatch, looked at me, blinked, turned about, and disappeared again, sending a little spill of earth on to the table.

“Hang these rats,” I exclaimed, for the tenth time that day.

Outside, it was brilliant moonlight: whenever the door opened, I saw it. It was very quiet. Then I heard voices, the sound of a lot of men, moving in the shuffling sort of way that men do move at night in a communication trench.

The door flew open, and Captain Robertson looked in.

“Hullo, Robertson; you’re early!”

It was not much past half-past seven.

“You’ve got those sand-bags up by 78 Street?” he said, sitting down.

“Yes, 250 there, and 250 right up in the Loop. The rest I shall use on the Fort. Oh! by the way, you know we are strafing at 12.5? We just had a message up from Dale. I shall knock off at 11.45 to-night!”

“I’ll see how we get on. I want to finish that traverse. Righto. I’m just drawing tools and going up now.”

“See you up there in a few minutes.”

And the muttering stream of “A” Company filed past the dug-out, going up to the front line. The door swung open suddenly, and each man looked in as he went by.

“Shut the door,” I shouted. Our plates themselves somehow suddenly looked epicurean.

Soon after eight I was up in the front line. It was the brightest night we had had, and ideal for sand-bag work. The men were already at it. There was a certain amount of inevitable talking going on, before everyone got really started. We were working on the Fort, completing two box dug-outs that we had half put in the night before; also, we were thickening the parapet, between the Fort and the Loop, and building a new fire-step.

“Can’t see any b—— sand-bags here,” came from one man.

“We’ll have to pick this, sir,” from another.

“Where’s Mullens gone off to?” sharply from a sergeant.

Good sand-bag work.

But for the most part the moonlight made everything straightforward, and there was only the spitting sound of picks, the heavy, smothered noise of men lifting sand-bags, or the “slap, slap” of others patting them into a wall with the back of a shovel, that broke the stillness. On the left “A” Company were working full steam ahead, heightening the parapet and building a big traverse at the entrance to the Matterhorn sap. “Robertson’s traverse” we always called it afterwards. He got his men working in a long chain, passing filled sand-bags along from a big miners’ sand-bag dump, the accumulation of months of patient R.E. tunnelling. These huge dumps rose up in gigantic piles where-ever there was a shaft-head; and they were a windfall to us if they were anywhere near where we were working. On this occasion quite a thousand must have been passed along and built into that traverse, and the parapet there, by the Matterhorn. It was fascinating work, passing these dry, small sacks as big as medium-sized babies, only as knobby and angular under their outer cover as a baby is soft and rounded. Meanwhile the builders laid them, like bricks, alternate “headers” and “stretchers.”

And so the work went on under the moon.

“Davies,” I cried, in that low questioning tone that might well be called “trench voice.” It is not a whisper; yet it is not a full, confident sound. If a man speaks loudly in the front trench, you tell him to remember the Boche is a hundred yards away; if he whispers in a hoarse voice that sounds a little nervy, you tell him that the Boche’s ears are not a hundred yards long. The result is a restrained and serious-toned medium.

“Sirr,” answered a voice close beside me, in a pitch rather louder than the usual trench-voice. Davies always spoke clear and loud. He was my orderly.

“Oh! there you are.” Like a dog he had got tired of standing, and while I stood watching the fascinating progress of the erection of a box dug-out under Sergeant Hayman’s direction, he was sitting on the fire-step immediately behind me. Had he been a collie, his tongue would have been out, and he would have yawned occasionally; or his nose might even have been between his paws. Now he jumped up, giving a hitch to his rifle that was slung over his left shoulder.

“I’m going round the sentries,” I said.

Davies said nothing, but followed about two paces behind, stopping when I stopped, and gazing at me silently when I got up on the fire-step to look over.

The low-ground in the quarry was very wet, and the trench there two feet deep in water, so it was temporarily abandoned, and the little trench out of 76 Street by No. 1 Sniping Post was my way to No. 5 Platoon. It was a very narrow bit of trench, and on a dark night one kept knocking one’s thighs and elbows against hard corners of chalk-filled sand-bags. To-night it was easy in the white moonlight. It was really not a trench at all, but a path behind a sand-bag dump. Behind was the open field. There was no parados.

All correct on the two posts in No. 5. It seemed almost unnecessary to have two posts on such a bright night. The outline of the German parapet looked clear enough. Surely the sentries must be almost visible to-night? Right opposite was the dark earth of a sap-head. Our wire looked very near and thin.

“Everything all right?”

“Yes, sir!”

I saw the bombs lying ready in the crease between two sand-bags that formed the parapet top. The pins were bent straight, ready for quick drawing. The bomber was all right; and there was not much wrong with his pal’s bayonet, that glistened in the moonlight.

As usual, I went beyond our right post, until I was met by a peering, suspicious head from the left-hand sentry of “C” Company.

“Who’s that?” in a hoarse low voice, as the figure bent down off the fire-step.

“All right. Officer. ‘B’ Company.”

Then I passed back along the trench to the top of 76 Street; and so on, visiting all the sentries up to 80 A trench, and disturbing all the working-parties.

“Way, please,” I would say to the hindquarters of an energetic wielder of the pick.

“Hi! make way there!” Davies would say in a higher and louder voice when necessary. Then the figure would straighten itself, and flatten itself against the trench, while I squeezed past between perspiring man and slimy sand-bag. This “passing” was an eternal business. It was unavoidable. No one ever said anything, or apologised. No one ever grumbled. It was like passing strap-hangers in the crowded carriage of a Tube. Only it went on day and night.

Craters by moonlight are really beautiful; the white chalk-dust gives them the appearance of snow-mountains. And they look much larger than they really are. On this occasion, as I looked into them from the various bombing-posts, it needed little imagination to suppose I was up in the snows of the Welsh hills. There was such a death-like stillness over it all, too. The view from the Matterhorn was across the widest and deepest of all the craters, and I stood a long time peering across that yawning chasm at the dark, irregular rim of German sand-bags. I gazed fascinated. What was it all about? The sentry beside me came from a village near Dolgelly: was a farmer’s boy. He, too, was gazing across, hardly liking to shuffle his feet lest he broke the silence.

“Good God!” I felt inclined to exclaim. “Has there ever been anything more idiotic than this? What in the name of goodness are you and I doing here?”

So I thought, and so I believe he was thinking.

“Everything all right?” was all I said, as I jumped back into the trench.

“Yes, sir,” was all the answer.

About ten o’clock I went back to Trafalgar Square. There I heard that Thompson of “C” Company had been wounded. From what I could gather he had been able to walk down to the dressing-station, so I concluded he was only slightly hit. But it came as rather a shock, and I wondered whether he would go to “Blighty.”

At eleven I started off for the front trench again, vi Rue Albert and 78 Street. There was a bit of a “strafe” on. It started with canisters; it had now reached the stage of whizz-bangs as well. I thought little of it, when “woo—woo—woo—woo,” and the Boche turned on his howitzers. They screamed over to Maple Redoubt.

A pause. Then again, and they screamed down just in front of us, evidently after the corner of 78 Street. I did not hesitate, but pushed on. The trench was completely blocked. Rue Albert was revetted with wood and brushwood, and it was all over the place. Davies and I climbed over with great difficulty, the whole place reeking with powder.

“Look out, sir!” came from Davies, and we crouched down. There was a colossal din while shells seemed all round us.

“All right, Davies?” And we pushed on. At last here was 78 Street, and we turned up to find another complete block in the trench. We again scrambled over, and met “A” Company wiring-party, returning for more wire.

“The trench is blocked,” said I, “but you can get over all right.”

We passed in the darkness.

Again “Look out!” from Davies, and we cowered. Again the shells screamed down on us, and burst just behind.

“Good God!” I exclaimed, “those wirers!”

Davies ran back.

There was another block in the trench, but no sign of any men. They were well away by now! But the shell had fallen between us and them before they reached the block in 78 Street!

Out of breath we arrived at the top of 78 Street, to find “A” Company just getting going again after a hot quarter of an hour. Luckily they had had no casualties. All was quiet now, and the moon looked down upon the workers as before. A quarter past eleven.

I worked my way along to the Fort and found there a sentry rather excited because, he said, he had seen exactly the spot from which they had fired rifle-grenades in the strafing just now. I got him to point out the place. It was half-left, and as I looked, sure enough I saw a flash, and a rifle-grenade whined through the air, and fell with a snarl behind our trench.

“Davies,” I said, “get Lance-Corporal Allan to come here with the Lewis gun.”

Davies was gone like a flash.

The Lewis guns had only recently become company weapons, and were still somewhat of a novelty. The Lewis gunners were rather envied, and also rather “downed” by the sergeant-major for being specialists. But this they could not help; and they were, as a matter of fact, the best men in my company.

Allan arrived, with one of the team carrying two spare drums of ammunition. We pointed out the spot, and he laid his gun on the parapet, with the butt against his shoulder, and his finger on the trigger, and waited.

“Flash!”

“There he is, sir!” from the sentry.

“Drrrrrr-r-r-r” purred the Lewis gun, then stopped. Then again, ending with another jerk. There was a silence. We waited five minutes.

“I’ll just empty the magazine, sir.”

“Dr-r-r-r-r.”

Lance-Corporal Allan took off the drum, and handed it to the other Lewis gunner. Then he handed down the gun, and we talked a few minutes. He was very proud of his gun. After a time I sent him back, and made my way along to “A” Company.

There I found Robertson. We talked. A tremendous lot of work had been done, and the big traverse was practically finished.

“I’m knocking off now,” said I. It was a quarter to twelve, and I went along with the “Cease work” message.

“All right,” said Robertson, “I’m just going to have another look at my wirers. I’ll look in as I go down.”

By the time I had reached the top of 76 Street, the trench was full of the clank of the thermos dixies, and the men were drinking hot soup. The pioneers had just brought it up. I stopped and had a taste. It was good stuff. As I turned off down the trench, I heard the Germans start shelling again on our left, but they stopped almost directly. I thought nothing of it at the time.

It was just midnight when I reached Trafalgar Square and bumped into Davidson coming round the corner.

“I was looking for you,” said he. “You’ve heard about Tommy?”

“Yes,” I answered. “But he’s not badly hit, is he?”

“Oh, you haven’t heard. He died at eleven o’clock.”

Died! My God! this was something new. Briefly, tersely, Davidson told me the details. He had been hit in the mouth while working on the parapet, and had died down at the dressing station. I looked hard at Davidson, as we stood together in the moonlight by the big island traverse at Trafalgar Square. Somehow I felt my body tense; my teeth were pressed together; my eyes did not want to blink. Here was something new. I had seen death often: it was nothing new. But it was the first time it had taken one of us. I wondered what Davidson felt; he knew Thompson much better than I. Yet I knew him well enough—only a day or so ago he had come to our billet in the butcher’s shop, and we had talked of him afterwards—and now—dead——

All this flashed through my brain in a second. Meanwhile Davidson was saying,

“Well, I’m just going off for this strafe,” when I heard men running down a trench.

“Quick! Stretcher-bearers. The Captain’s hit,” came from someone in a low voice. The stretcher-bearers’ dug-out was just by where we were standing, and immediately I heard a stir inside, and a head looked out from the waterproof sheet that acted as curtain in front of it.

“Is it a stretcher-case?” a voice asked.

“Yes,” was the reply, and without more ado two stretcher-bearers turned out and ran up 76 Street after the orderly. At that moment there was a thud, and a blazing trail climbed up the sky from the left.

“D——,” I muttered. “We must postpone this strafe. Davidson, we’ll fix up later, see? Only no firing now.” As Davidson disappeared to his gun-position, I ran to the telephone.

“Trench-mortar officer,” I said. “Quick!”

But there is no “quick” about a signaller. He is always there, and methodically, without haste or flurry, he takes down and sends messages. There is no “quickness”; yet there is no delay. If the world outside pulses and rocks under a storm of shells, in the signallers’ dug-out is always a deep-sea calm. So impatiently I watched the operator beat his little tattoo on the buzzer; looked at his face, as the candle-light shone on it, with its ears hidden beneath the receiver-drums, and its head swathed by the band that holds them over the ears. In the corner, the second signaller sat up and peered out of his blanket, and then lay down again.

“Zx? Is there an officer there? Hold on a minute, please. The officer’s at the gun, sir; will you speak to the corporal?”

“Yes.” I already had the receiver to my ear.

“Is that the trench-mortar corporal? Well, go and tell Mr. Macfarlane, will you, to stop firing at once, and not to start again till he hears from Mr. Adams. Right. Right. Thanks.” This last to the signaller as I left the dug-out.

“Thud!” and another football blazed through the sky.

Macfarlane was the officer in charge of the trench-mortar guns of our sector. I knew him well. Davidson was in charge of the Stokes gun, which is a quick-firing trench-mortar gun. Macfarlane’s shells were known as “footballs,” but as they had a handle attached they looked more like hammers as they slowly curved through the air.

We had arranged to “strafe” a certain position in the German support line at five minutes after midnight. But I wanted to stop it before retaliation started. The doctor had gone up the front line, and Robertson would be brought down any minute.

Outside I met Brock. He said little, but it was good to have him there. A long while it seemed, waiting. I started up 76 Street. No sooner had I started than I heard footsteps coming down, and to make room I went back. I was preparing to say some cheery word to Robertson, but when I saw him he was lying quite still and unconscious. I stopped the little doctor.

“Is he bad, Doc?”

“Well, old man, I can hardly say. He’s got a fighting chance,” and he went on. Slowly I heard the stretcher-bearers’ footsteps growing fainter and fainter, and there was silence. Thank God! those footballs had stopped now!

Did I guess that Robertson too was mortally wounded? I cannot say—only my teeth were set, and I felt very wideawake. In a minute both Davidson and Macfarlane came up, Davidson down 76 Street, and Macfarlane from Rue Albert. I told Macfarlane all about it, and as I did so my blood was up. I swore hard at the devils that had done this; and we agreed on a “strafe” at a quarter to one.

I stood alone at Trafalgar Square. There was a great calm sky, and the moon looked down at me. Then with a “thud” the first football went up. Then the Stokes answered.

“Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!” Up they sailed into the air all together, and exploded with a deafening din.

“Thud—thud!”

“Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!”

Then the Boche woke up. Two canisters rose, streamed, and fell, dropping slightly to my right.

But still our trench-mortars went on. Two more canisters tried for Davidson’s gun.

I was elated. “This for Thompson and Robertson,” I said, as our footballs went on methodically.

Then the whizz-bangs began on Trafalgar Square.

I went to the telephone.

“Artillery,” I said briefly. “Retaliate C 1 Sector.”

And then our guns began.

“Scream, scream, scream” they went over.

“Swish—swish” answered the Boche whizz-bangs.

“Phew,” said Sergeant Tallis, the bombing-sergeant, as he looked out of his dug-out.

“More retaliation,” I said to the signaller, and stepped out again.

A grim exaltation filled me. We were getting our own back. I did not care a straw for their canisters or whizz-bangs. It pleased me to hear Sergeant Tallis say “Phew.” My blood was up, and I did not feel like saying “Phew.”

“The officer wants to know if that is enough,” said the telephone orderly, who had come out to find me.

“No,” I answered; “I want more.”

The Boche was sending “heavies” over on to Maple Redoubt. I would go on until he stopped. My will should be master. Again our shells screamed over. There was no reply.

Gradually quiet came back.

Then I heard footsteps, and there was Davidson. His face was glowing too.

“How was that?” he asked.

How was that? He had fired magnificently, though the Boche had sent stuff all round him. How was that?

“Magnificent! We’ve shut them up.”

“I’ve got six shells left. Shall I blaze them off?”

“Oh, no!” said I; “I think we’ve avenged Tommy.”

His face hardened.

“Good night, Bill!”

But I did not feel like sleep. I still stood at the corner, waiting for I knew not what.

“Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!” went the Stokes gun. There was a pause, and “bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!” came the sound of them bursting. There was a longer pause.

“Bang!” I watched the spark floating through the sky.

“Bang!” came the sound back from the German trench.

I waited. There was no answer. And for the first time that night I fancied the moon smiled.

[Copy]
Daily Summary. C 1. (Left Company)
6 p.m. 18.3.16—3.30 p.m. 19.3.16

(a) Operations.

11.0 p.m. Enemy fired six rifle-grenades from F10/5. The approximate position of the battery was visible from the Fort, and Lewis gun fire was brought to bear on it, which immediately silenced it.

11.30 p.m. Enemy fired several trench-mortar shells and H.E. shells on junction of 78 Street and Rue Albert (F10/6), a few falling in our front line trench by the Matterhorn. No damage was done to our trenches.

12.45 p.m. Our T.M. Battery fired 12 footballs, and our Stokes gun 32 shells at enemy’s front line trench in F10/5. The enemy sent a few canisters over, but then resorted to H.E.’s. Our artillery retaliated. Our Stokes gun continued to fire until enemy was silent, no reply being sent to our last 6 shells.

7.45 a.m. Enemy fired several rifle-grenades and bombs. Our R.G.’s retaliated with 24 R.G.’s.

(b) Progress of Work.

J. B. P. Adams, Lt.,
O.C. “B” Coy.