BEHIND THE LINE
"Upon the Western Front there is nothing to report." So runs the official news from day to day; it is a period of comparative quiet in which neither army finds it expedient to make a move, but each lies watching and waiting for the next sign of activity on the part of the other. It is not inactivity, the perpetual crack of rifles and the occasional bursts of artillery fire that rise suddenly by day and night are the surest guarantees of that, but merely the temporary abandonment of offensive tactics on either side. Modern trench warfare has strengthened the defence at the expense of the offence to so great an extent that such periods must be the natural state of things. There is no such thing as a flank attack, for the flanks of the opposing forces rest upon positions that cannot be turned, in one case the sea, in the other a neutral country. Many years ago, long before such an extended double defensive was contemplated, an extremely clever parody upon the art of war as laid down in the text-books was produced, in which the author sets forth three possible means of collision, first when two armies meet, both of which are in motion, second when two armies meet, one of which is in motion and the other is stationary, and third when two armies meet both of which are stationary. The latter situation, ridiculous as it appears and as the author intended it to appear, is the best definition of the state of things which actually occurs daily along all the gigantic fronts. "Nothing doing," says the gunner; "we fired a few rounds yesterday at a place where somebody said the Bosches had a battery, but that's all." "Haven't seen a bullet or a shell for days," says the infantryman. "Believe there's nobody but the caretaker and his wife opposite." In the battery we have meals at regular hours, we discuss the war instead of our own infinitesimal contribution to it, the more enterprising amongst us hint at the glorious possibilities of having a hot bath. Life, in short, begins to slip into a groove of routine.
Yet we are in a state of constant readiness, and the appearance of inactivity is wholly misleading. Eyes are perpetually on the watch in the observation station, a telephonist sits with the head receiver of the instrument fixed on his head, the detachments on duty sit in the gun-pits or in the dug-outs close at hand, busy upon some work, improving the head cover, polishing the fittings of the gun, or else writing letters to their friends that tell strange tales of battle, murder and sudden death. In the control room by the telephone dug-out sits an officer, studying the map, recording the results of a previous day's fire, or entering particulars of targets and ranges in his notebook. Perhaps the wind is blowing towards the firing line, carrying away from the battery all sounds of war, so that nothing can be heard but the strains of an amateur band (of mouth-organs, concertinas and a triangle) from one of the gun-pits, and the monotonous call of the crier in that strange game of "House" that pervades the British Army—"nineteen, forty-one, number three, sixty-four," and a sudden excited voice "'ouse!"
But suddenly the buzzer in the telephone room wakes into life. Dash dot dot dash, dash dot dot, dash dash dot—X D G, it calls imperiously. That is our call, and the telephonist throws away the novel he was reading and seizes pencil and paper. "320th Siege! Yes, go on, yes—fire six rounds at once on Puits thirty-seven. R.D." The message reaches the officer in the control room, who dashes out of the door with a megaphone through which he roars one word, "Action!" Instantly the detachments vanish into the pits, from which a sound of urgent preparation rises, the band stops abruptly upon an excruciating chord, the players of "House" scatter to their respective stations. Then comes the regular sequence of orders, and in something less than a minute from the receipt of the message the first gun roars into pulsing life again.
Sudden calls such as these are only incidents that disturb the quiet of the daily life of the battery, which pursues the even tenor of its way as soon as the number of rounds ordered has been fired. And even when the word "Action!" sounds, it only affects the officers and men actually on duty. The remainder are free to follow their own vocations until it is their turn to be ready to answer the summons. There is usually plenty of work for officers off duty to do, in the battery itself, but still several opportunities occur for exploration of the neighbouring country, of which the most interesting form is reconnaissance of the ground from the front line trenches in one's own neighbourhood. I have had many most interesting excursions to places from whence a different view of the country could be obtained from that presented from our own observation stations, and a different angle of view often clears up many doubtful points. It is a most difficult matter to recognize every feature on the ground by the aid of a map from one point alone, but if angles can be taken to a doubtful object from two or more points, its position can be fixed and identified upon the map with comparative ease. And the interest of an expedition taken with this primary object in view lies in the unexpected discoveries that one often makes, of objects and incidents that would otherwise be unknown to one. In the southern sector the village of Loos was a favourite object for a walk. The enemy kept the place continuously under fire after his repulse from it, to such an extent that the establishment there of a permanent observation station was sternly discouraged by the higher artillery command. It is useless to risk the lives of telephonists and linesmen in a place that is under fire night and day, and where, even if one's observation station is spared, one's lines are certain to be repeatedly cut, unless the objects to be gained by so doing are of counterbalancing importance. We were lucky enough to possess other and safer observation posts, so that we only used the village in cases of necessity. And we were by no means sorry, for, to use the deathless expression of Monsieur le Commandant, the place was "not sanitary," not only from the effects of the enemy's fire, but from the fact that for many weeks after the operations of September 25 the streets were still encumbered with dead horses and other odoriferous objects. Even as late as the third week in October the dead lay thickly strewn outside the cover afforded by the houses, and on a still day the stench in the particular building that we used as a watch-tower was utterly insupportable unless one smoked without intermission. It used to be said that it was possible to find one's way about the place in the dark purely by the use of one's nose alone.
During another of these journeys of exploration, one of our officers was in the front line trenches, which had recently been slightly pushed forward, engaged in marking them in on his map. The trenches were newly dug and not yet finished, and the enemy, knowing this, kept up a slow but fairly steady rain of shrapnel upon them. As my friend was making his way along the trench, he saw a brigadier and his entourage advancing in the opposite direction towards him. Having an instinctive mistrust of "brass-hats" and of the inane questions that they are so fond of asking, he stopped where he was, hoping that they would pass by without noticing him. But the fates were against him. When not more than twenty yards separated him from the splendid company, a shell burst fairly in the trench not a couple of yards from the brigadier himself, damaging neither him nor his staff, but unfortunately killing one of the defenders. Almost at the same moment one of the lynx-eyed suite discovered my friend's presence and also the fact that he was an artillery officer. "Just the man we want! Order your battery to open fire at once on the gun that fired that shot." To the average staff officer politeness is a sign of weakness, nothing but a peremptory order is possible from one of such high mental attainments. My friend explained with some asperity that he was not in communication with his battery, being merely on a reconnaissance for the purpose of discovering information that the Staff had neglected to render, information that was of vital importance, namely the position of our own trenches. But that if he would be good enough to inform him of the exact position of the offending battery, he would walk back and open fire upon it. Then all the members of the entourage—the brigadier himself maintained an amused silence throughout—pointed in different directions, each swearing that they had seen the flash of the gun in the place he indicated, some of them displaying a happy ignorance by selecting places well within our own lines. My friend was to take a compass bearing of the direction, he was to stand where the shell fell and wait for the next flash (not a bad idea that), they themselves would get into touch with the artillery group through their own telephone system. Finally they drifted on, still, like the heathen, furiously raging together. My friend forgot all about them in the course of investigating more important matters, until he arrived that evening at the office of his group commander to report upon his observations. He was greeted with the words, "Hullo, what have you been up to?" "Nothing particularly heinous, I hope, sir." "What did you tell that parcel of lunatics to ring me up and request me to open fire on nothing for?" "I didn't, sir," and then the whole story came out, much to the amusement of the group commander. Nor did this close the incident by any means. Somebody having decided that the battery that had the presumption to fire upon a brigadier and his staff was probably situated in a certain wood, on the morrow of the affair at a given hour every battery within range was ordered to fire a certain number of rounds into the said wood. The result must have saved the enemy the trouble of cutting firewood for the rest of the winter.
When not engaged upon reconnaissance, there is always plenty of interest in the battery itself, of which a large proportion is provided by the aeroplanes of both sides. However carefully the battery itself may be concealed, this precaution is useless unless the personnel keep out of sight when hostile aeroplanes are about. Men do not stand about in groups for the fun of the thing, there must be some military reason for it, or, everything else failing, it is probably an indication of a billeting area. At all events, it is worth trying a few rounds at for luck, or so the German gunners seem to think. An aeroplane sentry armed with a pair of glasses and a whistle is consequently perpetually on duty, and the blast of his whistle is the signal for everybody to get under cover at once. It becomes very trying to get into the habit of leaving whatever one is doing and take shelter under the nearest tree several times in the hour, and if, for instance, one is digging gun-pits against time the annoyance is maddening. But neglect of this precaution is sure sooner or later to have fatal results. On one occasion the men of a French battery in a field close to us treated a reconnoitring Taube with the most profound contempt, they were building shelters and refused to stop work for so trivial a cause. We, more cautious, bolted for cover and stayed there while the hostile aeroplane, having evidently noticed something, circled round once or twice, and then, when directly over the French battery, dropped some tinsel substance that sparkled in the sun, as an indication to the artillery of the whereabouts of its quarry. And sure enough next morning we were treated to a really magnificent display of accurate shooting. A German battery opened fire without warning, leaving just sufficient time for the men to rush into their dug-outs before the second shell burst fairly in the centre of the battery. They fired very few rounds, but a lucky shell burst in a hay-stack behind which were hidden the battery ammunition wagons, setting it on fire. The result was very interesting. For an hour or more the air was thick with cartridge cases and fragments of shell, as the ammunition in the wagons slowly caught fire. There was no sudden explosion, and beyond the utter destruction of the wagons very little damage was done, but regarded as a pyrotechnic display the scene in that field was very hard to beat.
But the reconnoitring aeroplane is by no means allowed to have things all its own way. Anti-aircraft guns fill the space about it with bursting shrapnel, other aeroplanes rise to attack it, machine guns spit bullets at it. If no damage is done, the unfortunate observer is kept far too busy to worry about what is going on down below him. On one occasion we were conducting a series by the help of aerial observation. It was a beautifully clear day, and to our astonishment our first three rounds were signalled "Not observed." Then came a message, "Observation impossible, am coming home," and in about a minute we saw our aeroplane "coming home" at top speed, closely pursued by three hostile machines. Sometimes one is fortunate enough to witness an air duel, which is one of the most magnificent sights imaginable. The anti-aircraft guns are silent, the risk of hitting their friends is too great, and high up above the ground the machines wheel and turn and dive at angles that seem incredible to the watchers below. Very faintly comes the roar of the engines and the staccato rattle of machine guns and automatic pistols. At last one of the machines, finding itself overpowered, dives suddenly, and then, straightening its course, makes a long vol planÉ to the safety of its own lines, followed by its antagonists till the anti-aircraft fire becomes too hot for them. Or there is a sudden silence, a curious fluttering as of a winged bird, and, quite slowly as it seems, a torn mass of metal and canvas dives headlong to earth. Or perhaps one morning a dull drone attracts one's attention, and, looking up, one sees against the deep blue of the sky an aerial squadron, their wings almost pure white in the sun, a flight of sinister wild geese, carrying bombs to the destruction of some important railway centre. Flanders is much to be recommended as a suitable spot in which to undergo the cure of ennui.
The men off duty seem also to find plenty of occupation. For one thing there is always something to grumble at—either it rains, and the billets leak water through their broken-down roofs, or the mail does not arrive one day, or something of the kind happens—for the gunner is an inveterate "grouser" at trifles, although such incidents as being shelled only seem to amuse him. And then he can go to the nearest spot in which the inhabitants have still been allowed to remain, where he finds every cottage converted into an estaminet. There he may sit with a group of his friends drinking that strange beer that is about as intoxicating as tea and not quite so harmful, and he can grumble at that. Gunner Wolverhampton, the sheen upon whose nose indicates that he is probably something of a connoisseur in the matter of beer, says that it tastes like the water that mother washes the onions in, and I daresay it does. Here, sitting in these cottage parlours, you find him holding long conversations with their owners and perhaps a handful of French soldiers, in the curious language that is rapidly growing up. If there should be a girl in the place (her age or looks are quite immaterial) he cannot refrain from chaff. "You compree promnade?" he says. "Si, si," she replies. "Well, you come promnade with moi down the route, savvy?" She shakes her head. "You no bon," he says gravely. "Mais oui, moi j'suis bonne, mais vous mÉchant." "No bon, my dear, but portez two beers, twoppence, compree?" The way the two nations understand one another is amazing. "The old girl at the farm was telling me last night all about the time when the Bosches was here," said Gunner Wolverhampton to me one day. "How on earth did you manage to understand her?" I asked. "Oh, we got along famous," he replied, and very soon showed me that she had made him understand her remarks thoroughly. On one occasion, finding a party of French linesmen stranded for a length of wire, one of our telephonists gave them a piece, and ever afterwards the two batteries were on terms of the greatest intimacy. The men used to go and sit in one another's billets, frequently, after the manner of their kind, exchanging headgear as they did so, with the most curious effects, as when a burly gunner clad in a brown sweater and a French steel helmet, and carrying a long French rifle, strolled across the road. The startling resemblance he bore to a Cromwellian soldier made us all turn out to see him.
Gunner Wolverhampton, as the archetype of his fellows, deserves more than passing notice. He had served twelve years in the regiment, had taken his discharge, and was in civilian employment when the war broke out. As soon as recruiting regulations allowed, that is about the third week of the war, he re-enlisted. These re-enlisted men were allotted regimental numbers from one upwards in the order in which they offered themselves, and Gunner Wolverhampton is justly proud of his single figure number. In appearance he is about forty-five, with a grave face, a well-built figure, and a slow and weighty method of speech. His peculiarity lies in his nose, which is a rich crimson—it must have been a most expensive acquisition. When asked his civilian trade, he gives it as sign-painter, a statement that once surprised one of his comrades into remarking sotto voce, "Gawd love us, chum, I thought you was a whisky-taster!" An old soldier of the finest type, knowing all the ropes and imbued with that highest form of self-respect that only the traditions of the service can propagate, he is perfectly invaluable by the mere force of his example in these days when soldiers are turned out by the million in a few months. A certain proportion of the battery matÉriel and stores were entirely in his hands, and he has never throughout the campaign been found deficient by so much as a pick-handle, nor has his gun ever failed to be spotlessly clean and in perfect order. Without the inclination or necessary educational qualifications for promotion, he is useful and contented as a gunner, and in times of emergency the whole of his section, including the non-commissioned officers themselves, instinctively turn to him for guidance. He it is that when the detachments are worn out after a long period of digging or of working the gun, keeps them hard at it by his example and by caustic criticism of their relative feebleness; he it was that walked calmly down to where a neighbouring battery was being shelled and led a party out, as though he were taking some friends to get a drink, to where the shells were falling viciously round two or three wounded men, bringing them in with utter unconcern for his own danger. Ah, Gunner Wolverhampton, if this war makes of all who serve in it men such as you, then the cost of it in blood and treasure will be as nothing when set by the side of the freshly won strength of a nation rejuvenated!
Happy hours are those spent just behind the line between the strenuous days of strife, when one feels merely a spectator of the pageantry of war, when one can study men at their best, for the strain of war brings out the good qualities of human nature and atrophies the bad. Hours they are of leisure, when one may drive into a town of perhaps some considerable local importance, where, even under the strange forms that war has cast upon it, the old peace-time life of the community yet lives. Not all the jostling crowd of khaki, the long trains of supply columns that block the narrow mediÆval streets of BÉthune, have essentially altered the character of the place as the market-town of the neighbouring district; the old square tower, the graceful belfry, still look down upon a crowd of gamins, of hatless women and girls, of old men standing in the market-place. Only the young men are wanting, and their place is taken by this surging crowd of the young men of another nation. Commercially, all such towns must be reaping a golden harvest. See how every pastry-cook's window bears the legend "Tea Rooms," extending below it a tempting array of pÂtisserie that would shame the best of those dreadful "tea-shops" of our native land. And, when sufficiently allured, elbow your way in amongst the hungry rabble that speak a curious tongue they believe to be French—it does not matter, the proprietress and her daughter learnt English long ago, and have now almost acquired this same curious tongue—and try to get a seat. So it is with all the shops, and the Frenchman, with his instinct to provide what is required, has contrived that the most exacting of these English officers with their innumerable and most peculiar wants, shall rarely go away unsatisfied. In such towns as these will be found the representatives of those peculiar units that are raised (or do they raise themselves?) apparently for the sole purpose of encumbering the roads. But perhaps in the villages is seen the more amusing side of international commerce. In the towns everybody seems to know by instinct what the soldier wants—I have heard a gunner ask for fried fish and chips in the vernacular of Newcastle, and get it—but in the villages considerable parleying is sometimes necessary. There is a story of a man who rode to a farmhouse where eggs were to be obtained, and demanded "oofs." But madame was unresponsive. "Non compris, monsieur, peut-Être il veut du lait, de la beurre——?" Desperate, the man dismounted, and, picking up his horse's foot, tapped it significantly. "No, ma'am, not lay or burr, oofs, oofs, can't you see?"
