The Red Horizon :: CHAPTER IX The Dug-out Banquet

CHAPTER IX The Dug-out Banquet

You ask me if the trench is safe?
As safe as home, I say;
Dug-outs are safest things on land,
And 'buses running to the Strand
Are not as safe as they.

You ask me if the trench is deep?
Quite deep enough for me,
And men can walk where fools would creep,
And men can eat and write and sleep
And hale and happy be.

The dug-out is the trench villa, the soldiers' home, and is considered to be proof against shrapnel bullets and rifle fire. Personally, I do not think much of our dug-outs, they are jerry-built things, loose in construction, and fashioned in haste. We have kept on improving them, remedying old defects, when we should have taken the whole thing to pieces and started afresh. The French excel us in fashioning dug-outs; they dig out, we build. They begin to burrow from the trench downwards, and the roof of their shelter is on a line with the floor of the trench; thus they have a cover over them seven or eight feet in thickness; a mass of earth which the heaviest shell can hardly pierce through. We have been told that the German trenches are even more secure, and are roofed with bricks, which cause a concussion shell to burst immediately it strikes, thus making the projectile lose most of its burrowing power. One of our heaviest shells struck an enemy's dug-out fashioned on this pattern, with the result that two of the residents were merely scratched. The place was packed at the time.

As I write I am sitting in a dug-out built in the open by the French. It is a log construction, built of pit-props from a neighbouring coal-mine. Short blocks of wood laid criss-cross form walls four feet in thickness; the roof is quite as thick, and the logs are much longer. Yesterday morning, while we were still asleep, a four-inch shell landed on the top, displaced several logs, but did us no harm. The same shell (pipsqueaks we call them) striking the roof of one of our trench dug-outs would blow us all to atoms.

The dug-out is not peculiar to the trench. For miles back from the firing-line the country is a world of dug-outs; they are everywhere, by the roadsides, the canals, and farmhouses, in the fields, the streets, and the gardens. Cellars serve for the same purpose. A fortnight ago my section was billeted in a house in a mining town, and the enemy began to shell the place about midnight. Bootless, half-naked, and half-asleep, we hurried into the cellar. The place was a regular Black Hole of Calcutta. It was very small, damp, and smelt of queer things, and there were six soldiers, the man of the house, his wife, and seven children, one a sucking babe two months old, cooped up in the place.

I did not like the place—in fact, I seldom like any dug-out, it reminds me of the grave, the covering earth, and worms, and always there is a feeling of suffocation. But I have enjoyed my stay in one or two. There was a delightful little one, made for a single soldier, in which I stayed. At night when off sentry, and when I did not feel like sleeping, I read. Over my head I cut a niche in the mud, placed my candle there, pulled down over the door my curtain, a real good curtain, taken from some neighbouring chateau, spent a few moments watching the play of light and shadows on the roof, and listening to the sound of guns outside, then lit a cigarette and read. Old Montaigne in a dug-out is a true friend and a fine companion. Across the ages we held conversation as we have often done. Time and again I have read his books; there was a time when for a whole year I read a chapter nightly: in a Glasgow doss-house, in a king's castle, in my Irish home, and now in Montaigne's own country, in a little earthy dug-out, I made the acquaintance of the man again. The dawn broke to the clatter of bayonets on the fire position when I put the book aside and buckled my equipment for the stand-to hour.

The French trench dug-outs are not leaky, ours generally are, and the slightest shower sometimes finds its way inside. I have often awakened during the night to find myself soaked through on a floor covered with slush. When the weather is hot we sleep outside. In some cases the dug-out is handsomely furnished with real beds, tables, chairs, mirrors, and candlesticks of burnished brass. Often there are stoves built into the clayey wall and used for cooking purposes. In "The Savoy" dug-out, which was furnished after this fashion, Section 3 once sat down to a memorable dinner which took a whole day long to prepare; and eatables and wine were procured at great risk to life. Incidentally, Bill, who went out of the trenches and walked four kilometres to procure a bottle of vin rouge was rewarded by seven days' second field punishment for his pains.

Mervin originated the idea in the early morning as he was dressing a finger which he had cut when opening a tin of bully beef. He held up the bleeding digit and gazed at it with serious eyes.

"All for this tin of muck!" he exclaimed. "Suppose we have a good square meal. I think we could get up one if we set to work."

Stoner's brown eyes sparkled eagerly.

"I know where there are potatoes and carrots and onions," he said. "Out in a field behind Dead Cow Villa; I'm off; coming Pat?"

"Certainly, what are the others doing, Bill?"

"We must have fizz," said my friend, and money was forthwith collected for wine. Bill hurried away, his bandolier round his shoulder and his rifle at the slope; and Mervin undertook to set the place in order and arrange the dug-out for the banquet. Goliath dragged his massive weight over the parados and busied himself pulling flowers. Kore cleaned the mess-tins, and Pryor, artistic even in matters of food, set about preparing a menu-card.

When we returned from a search which was very successful, Stoner divested himself of tunic and hat, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and got on with the cooking. I took his turn at sentry-go, and Z——, sleeping on the banquette, roused his stout body, became interested for a moment, and fell asleep again. Bill returned with a bottle of wine and seven eggs.

"Where did you get them?" I asked.

"'Twas the 'en as 'ad laid one," he replied. "And it began to brag so much about it that I couldn't stand it, so I took the egg, and it looked so lonely all by itself in my 'and that I took the others to keep it company."

At six o'clock we sat down to dine.

Our brightly burnished mess-tin lids were laid on the table, a neatly folded khaki handkerchief in front of each for serviette. Clean towels served for tablecloths, flowers—tiger-lilies, snapdragons, pinks, poppies, roses, and cornflowers rioted in colour over the rim of a looted vase. In solitary state a bottle of wine stood beside the flowers, and a box of cigars, the gift of a girl friend, with the lid open disclosed the dusky beauties within. The menu, Pryor's masterpiece, stood on a wire stand, the work of Mervin.

Goliath seated at the table, was smiles all over, in fact, he was one massive good humoured smile, geniality personified.

"Anything fresh from the seat of war?" he asked, as he waited for the soup.

"According to the latest reports," Pryor answered, "we've gained an inch in the Dardanelles and captured three trenches in Flanders. We were forced to evacuate two of these afterwards."

"We miscalculated the enemy's strength, of course," said Mervin.

"That's it," Pryor cut in. "But the trenches we lost were of no strategic importance."

"They never are," said Kore. "I suppose that's why we lose thousands to take 'em, and the enemy lose as many to regain them."

"Soup, gentlemen," Stoner interrupted, bringing a steaming tureen to the table. "Help yourselves."

"Mulligatawny?" said Pryor sipping the stuff which he had emptied into his mess-tin, "I don't like this."

Dug-out menu

"Wot," muttered Bill, "wot's wrong with it?"

"As soup its above reproach, but the name," said Pryor. "It's beastly."

"Wot's wrong with it?"

"Everything," said the artistic youth, "and besides I was fed as a child on mulligatawny, fed on it until I grew up and revolted. To meet it again here in a dug-out. Oh! ye gods!"

"I'll take it," I said, for I had already finished mine.

"Will you?" exclaimed Pryor, employing his spoon with Gargantuan zeal. "It's not quite etiquette."

As he spoke a bullet whistled through the door and struck a tin of condensed milk which hung by a string from the rafter. The bullet went right through and the milk oozed out and fell on the table.

"Waiter," said Goliath in a sharp voice, fixing one eye on the cook, and another on the falling milk.

"Sir," answered Stoner, raising his head from his mess-tin.

"What beastly stuff is this trickling down? You shouldn't allow this you know."

"I'm sorry," said Stoner, "you'd better lick it up."

"'Ad 'e," cried Bill. "Wot will we do for tea?" The Cockney held a spare mess-tin under the milk and caught it as it fell. This was considered very unseemly behaviour for a gentleman, and we suggested that he should go and feed in the servants' kitchen.

A stew, made of beef, carrots, and potatoes came next, and this in turn was followed by an omelette. Then followed a small portion of beef to each man, we called this chicken in our glorious game of make-believe. Kore asserted that he had caught the chicken singing The Watch on the Rhine on the top of a neighbouring chateau and took it as lawful booty of war.

"Chicken, my big toe!" muttered Bill, using his clasp-knife for a tooth-pick. "It's as tough as a rifle sling. Yer must have got hold of the bloomin' weathercock."

The confiture was Stoner's greatest feat. The sweet was made from biscuits ground to powder, boiled and then mixed with jam. Never was anything like it. We lingered over the dish loud in our praise of the energetic Stoner. "By God, I'll give you a job as head-cook in my establishment at your own salary," said Pryor. "Strike me ginger, pink, and crimson if ever I ate anything like it," exclaimed Bill. "We must 'ave a bit of this at every meal from now till the end of the war."

Coffee, wine, and cigars came in due course, then Section 3 clamoured for an address.

"Ool give it?" asked Bill.

"Pat," said Mervin.

"Come on Pat," chorused Section 3.

I never made a speech in my life, but I felt that this was the moment to do something. I got to my feet.

"Boys," I said, "it is a pleasure to rise and address you, although you haven't shaved for days, and your faces remind me every time I look at them of our rather sooty mess-tins."

(Bill: "Wot of yer own phiz.")

"Be quiet, Bill," I said, and continued. "Of course, none of you are to blame for the adhesive qualities of mud, it must stick somewhere, and doubtless it preferred your faces; but you should have shaved; the two hairs on Pryor's upper lip are becoming very prominent."

"Under a microscope," said Mervin.

"Hold your tongue," I shouted, and Mervin made a mock apology. "To-night's dinner was a grand success," I said, "all did their work admirably."

"All but you," muttered Bill, "yer spent 'arf the time writin' when yer should have been peelin' taters or pullin' onions."

"I resent the imputation of the gentleman at the rear," I said, "if I wasn't peeling potatoes and grinding biscuits I was engaged in chronicling the doings of Section 3. I can't make you fat and famous at the same time, much though I'd like to do both. You are an estimable body of men; Goliath, the big elephant—

(Goliath: "Just a baby elephant, Pat.")

"Mervin, who has travelled far and who loves bully stew; Pryor who dislikes girls with thick ankles, Kore who makes wash-out puns, Bill who has an insatiable desire for fresh eggs, and Stoner—I see a blush on his cheeks and a sparkle in his brown eyes already—I repeat the name Stoner with reverence. I look on the mess-tins which held the confiture and almost weep—because it's all eaten. There's only one thing to be done. Gentlemen, are your glasses charged?"

"There's nothin' now but water," said Bill.

"Water shame," remarked the punster.

"Hold your tongues," I said, "fill them with water, fill them with anything. Ready? To the Section cook, Stoner, long life and ability to cook our sweets evermore."

We drank. Just as we had finished, our company stretcher-bearers came by the door, a pre-occupied look on their faces and dark clots of blood on their trousers and tunics.

"What has happened?" I asked.

"The cooks have copped it," one of the bearers answered. "They were cooking grub in a shed at the rear near Dead Cow Villa, and a pip-squeak came plunk into the place. The head cook copped it in the legs, both were broken, and Erney, you know Erney?"

"Yes?" we chorused.

"Dead," said the stretcher-bearer. "Poor fellow he was struck unconscious. We carried him to the dressing station, and he came to at the door. 'Mother!' he said, trying to sit up on the stretcher. That was his last word. He fell back and died."

There was a long silence. The glory of the flowers seemed to have faded away and the lighted cigars went out on the table. Dead! Poor fellow. He was such a clean, hearty boy, very obliging and kind. How often had he given me hot water, contrary to regulations, to pour on my tea.

"To think of it," said Stoner. "It might have been any of us! We must put these flowers on his grave."

That night we took the little vase with its poppies, cornflowers, pinks, and roses, and placed them on the black, cold earth which covered Erney, the clean-limbed, good-hearted boy. May he rest in peace.

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