TALES
FROM A DUGOUT
TALES
FROM A DUGOUT
BY
ARTHUR GUY EMPEY
Author of "Over the Top," etc.
NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
1918
Copyright, 1918, by
The Century Co.
Published, October, 1918
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK
TO THE
"Army of the People Who Stay at Home":
the overaged, the women, the physically unfit
and the children. These are the ones to be
pitied, the ones who suffer most, because
their hearts are on the battlefields
of France, although their bodies
must stay at home.
FOREWORD
Picture a dugout in one of the front line trenches of France, damp and evil smelling, hardly deep enough to protect the inmates from a three-inch shell-burst. This hole in the ground will comfortably house four soldiers. Put seven of them with full equipment and a machine gun in it, and what results? I dare say in civilian life there would be only one outcome—TROUBLE. Well, in the army on the Western Front, this situation spells GOOD FELLOWSHIP.
If it were only possible for a giant dictograph to be invented, the transmitter being placed in any dugout of the American Army in France, while at the receiver, across the Atlantic, the American Public "listened in," many a heartache would disappear, worry for the "boys at the front" would more or less vanish in mist. If the mothers, fathers, wives, sweethearts, sisters and friends, could only hear these conversations, their hearts would be filled with joy and pride for the fighting men of America. Of course, at times, few and far between, they would be slightly shocked, as most eavesdroppers are, but on the whole, they would listen to wonderful sentiment, clean and wholesome Americanism.
It has been my misfortune not to have occupied an American dugout as yet, but I have crowded into one with the Britisher, with good old Tommy Atkins. We are of the same family, the same blood runs through our veins, so Tommy's ideas and conversations are identical with those of our brave American boys. Therefore, I hope that in a way these Tales from a Dugout will help fill the void of the absent dictograph.
It is only a matter of time before our boys and our Allies, God bless them all, will victoriously return to "Blighty," and be received in the arms of their waiting dear ones.
PREAMBLE
There were seven of them composing the crew of Gun No. 2, of the ——th Brigade Machine Gun Company. Their gun was the Vickers, light, .303, watercooled.
They were nicknamed as follows:
Curly, a Scotchman. Dubbed Curly on account of a cute little Delia Fox curl. He gave more attention to this curl than to his rifle. Many girls wrote to him, and he wrote to many girls.
Happy, a Londoner. He earned his title from his happy disposition. He helped Curly with his correspondence.
Hungry. His nickname needs no explanation. He was. Once Mr. Hoover dined with him, hence his food conservation idea. Hungry hailed from London.
Ikey. He was. Came from the East Side, London. Brave as a lion, and to our discomfort, musically inclined.
Dick. Irish, from Dublin. Always ready. Greatly admired the Kaiser because he started such a glorious scrap.
Sailor Bill. A Welshman. He had had a "cruise" in the Navy, and wanted everybody to know it. They did. He was detailed with the gun's crew to carry "ammo" (ammunition).
Yank. Got his handle because he was American. He hailed from the "Big Town" behind the Statue of Liberty, and was proud of it, too. Committed a "technical error" and got mixed up in the Great Fight.
They were soldiers of the King, and their further personal history does not matter. It will suffice to say that they were fighting in the British Army for Justice, Democracy and Liberty.
Scene of action: "Somewhere in France."
Time: A few months after the sinking of the Lusitania.
After "stand down" had been passed along the fire trench, they would repair to their two-by-four dugout, and it was their custom to while away the time by taking turns at story-telling. Some of these were personal experiences, while others were told to them by their mates, the majority of whom, by this time, have either "gone West," or reached that heaven of the British soldier—"Blighty."
"THROUGH THE BIG GUNS' THUNDER"
Over the top and give them hell,
Up the ladders and through the wire.
Out in front, go across with a yell,
With bullets cracking from rapid fire.
Then the death song of a ricochet,
A curse or moan as your pal goes under,
You cannot stop, you must not stay—
It's on—on—thro' the big guns' thunder.
It hurts to see him torn apart,
For you've shared his grub on "sentry go,"
And listened to tales of his sweetheart,
In dugouts by the candles' glow.
But war is war, the trench must be taken,
Whether your life's blood pays the cost.
If the wounded die in holes, forsaken,
It's part of the game; they played, and—lost.
If you get hit and the blood runs out,
Don't cry and whimper from the ground,
But FACE that trench, don't turn about,
Cheer, tho' it's from the Great Beyond!
When you reach their trench, then use the steel,
Sink it deep into Fritz's hide,
Send it home, so that he will feel,
How the women and children of Belgium died.
A.G.E.
"Somewhere in France"
June 30, 1916
My dear mother and sister.
Have volunteered to go over to the German lines tonight to capture prisoners. If you receive this letter you will know I went down with a grin. I am leaving it for our captain to mail in case of my death. With lots of love.
Guy.
Facsimile of letter written by the Author, when he went over the top for the first time.
CONTENTS
It was a cold and rainy afternoon. The gun's crew were huddled together in their dugout in the front line trench, about three hundred yards from the German lines.
If you should ask a Tommy Atkins "What is a dugout?" he would look at you in astonishment, and pitying you for your apparent lack of education, would answer, "What's a dugout? Why a dugout is a blinkin'—well, a dugout's a dugout."
This particular dugout was a hole in the ground. It was used to shelter the men in the trenches from shell fire. They also slept in it, or tried to. From their point of view, its main use was to drain the trenches of muddy water, and give them rheumatism. It also made a good hotel for rats. These guests looked upon them as intruders, and complained that they overcrowded the place. Occasionally the crew gave in to the rats, and took a turn in the trench to rest themselves.
The dugout was about eight feet deep, or, at least there were eight wooden steps leading down to it. The ceiling and walls were braced by heavy, square-cut timbers. Over the timbers, in the ceiling, sheets of corrugated iron were spread to keep the wet earth from falling. The entrance was heavily sandbagged and very narrow, there being only room for one person to leave or enter at a time. The ceiling was five feet high, and the floor space was eight feet by six. Through the ceiling a six-inch square air-shaft was cut. They used to take turns sleeping under this in wet weather.
The timbers bracing the walls were driven full of nails to hang equipment on. After ammunition, belt-filling machine, rations, equipment, rifles, machine-gun, etc., had been stowed away, there was not much space for seven men to live in, not forgetting the rats.
It was very dark in the dugout, and as they were only issued a candle and a half every twenty-four hours, they had to economize on light. Woe betide the last man out who left the candle burning!
In this hotel of theirs, they used to sit around the lonely candle, and, through a thick haze of tobacco smoke, recounted different experiences at various points of the line where they had been, or spin yarns about home. At other times they'd sit for an hour or more without saying a word, listening to a German over in the enemy's front trench playing a cornet. My, how that Boche could play! Just to make them hate the war, he'd play "Sewanee River," "Home, Sweet Home," or "Over the Waves." During his recital, the trenches were strangely quiet. Never a shot from either side.
Sometimes, when he had finished, Ikey would go into the trench and play on his harmonica. As soon as the crew saw that harmonica come out, it was a case of "Duck down low," for the Germans would be sure, when the first strains reached them, to send over "Five rounds rapid." That harmonica was hated by both sides. More than once Sailor Bill chucked one over the top, but Ikey would sit down and write a letter, and in about ten days' time would receive through the post a little oblong package, and then the crew knew that they were in for some more "Five rounds rapid." They didn't blame the Germans.
Still, that harmonica had its uses. Often they would get downhearted and fed up with the war, and "grouse" at everything in general. Then Ikey would reach in his pocket, and out would come that instrument of torture. The rest then realized there were worse things than war, and cheered up accordingly.
On this particular rainy afternoon the gun's crew were in a talkative mood. Perhaps it was due to the fact that Curly had made his "Tommy's cooker" do what it was supposed to do—make water boil in an hour and a half. A "Tommy's cooker" is a spirit stove, which is very widely advertised as a suitable gift to the men in the trenches. Many are sent out, and many are thrown away.
Anyway, the "cooker" lived up to its reputation for once, though a little behind its advertised schedule in making water boil. Curly passed around the result of his efforts in the form of an ammunition tin half full of fairly good tea. Each took a good swig, lighted a Woodbine cigarette,—they had "come up" with the rations the night before—and settled back against the damp earthen walls of the dugout to listen.
It was Dick's turn for a story. He cleared his throat two or three times and said—nothing. A chorus of "Come on, let's have it," from the rest of the crew did not help matters. In desperation Dick said, "I guess you fellows'll have to excuse me this time, I can't seem to remember a thing."
"Yank" helped him out with, "Say, Dick, tell us about Jim, the platoon mascot you used to have."
"Sailor Bill or Hungry could tell it better. Even Ikey knows it," replied Dick.
But after much coaxing from Happy, Curly and Yank, Dick started in.
JIM—SOLDIER OF THE KING
"Our company had just arrived at rest billets, after a hard eighteen kilo march from the front line sector.
"The stable we had to sleep in was an old, ramshackle affair, absolutely over-run with rats. Great, big, black fellows, who used to chew up our leather equipment, eat our rations, and run over our bodies at night. German gas had no effect on these rodents; in fact, they seemed to thrive on it.
"The floor space would comfortably accommodate about twenty men lying down, but when thirty-three, including equipment, were crowded into it, it was nearly unbearable.
"The roof and walls were full of shell-holes. When it rained, a constant drip, drip, drip was in order. We were so crowded that if a fellow was unlucky enough (and nearly all of us in this instance were unlucky) to sleep under a hole, he had to grin and bear it. It was like sleeping beneath a shower bath.
"At one end of the billet, with a ladder leading up to it, was a sort of grain bin, with a door in it. This place was the headquarters of our guests, the rats. Many a stormy cabinet meeting was held there by them. Many a boot was thrown at it during the night to let them know that Tommy Atkins objected to the matter under discussion. Sometimes one of these missiles would ricochet and land on the upturned countenance of a snoring Tommy, and for about half an hour even the rats would pause in admiration of his flow of language.
"On the night in question we flopped down in our wet clothes and were soon asleep. As was usual, our gun's crew were together.
"The last time we had rested in this particular village, it was inhabited by civilians. Now it was deserted. An order had been issued two days previous to our return that all civilians should move farther behind the line.
"I had been asleep about two hours when I was awakened by Sailor Bill shaking me by the shoulder. He was trembling like a leaf, and whispered to me:
"'Wake up, Dick, this ship's 'aunted. There's some one aloft who's been moanin' for the last hour. Sounds like the wind in the riggin'. I ain't scared of 'umans or Germans, but when it comes to messin' in with spirits it's time for me to go below. Lend your ear an' cast your deadlights on that grain locker, and listen.'
"I listened sleepily for a minute or so, but could hear nothing. Coming to the conclusion that Sailor Bill was dreaming things, I was again soon asleep.
"Perhaps fifteen minutes had elapsed when I was rudely awakened.
"'Dick, for God's sake, come aboard and listen!'
"I listened, and sure enough, right out of that grain bin overhead came a moaning and whimpering, and then a scratching against the door. My hair stood on end. Blended with the drip, drip of the rain, and the occasional scurrying of a rat overhead, that noise had a supernatural sound. I was really frightened; perhaps my nerves were a trifle unstrung from our recent tour in the trenches.
"I awakened Ikey, while Sailor Bill roused Hungry. Hungry's first words were, 'What's the matter, breakfast ready?'
"In as few words as possible, we told them what had happened. I lighted a candle and their faces appeared as white as chalk. Just then the whimpering started again, and we were frozen with terror. The tension was relieved by Ikey's voice:
"'H'I admit h'I'm afraid of ghosts, but that sounds like a dog to me. Who's goin' up the ladder to investigate?'
"No one volunteered.
"I had an old deck of cards in my pocket. Taking them out, I suggested cutting, the low man to go up the ladder. They agreed. I was the last to cut. I got the ace of clubs. Sailor Bill was stuck with the five of diamonds. Upon this, he insisted that it should be the best two out of three cuts, but we overruled him, and he was unanimously elected for the job.
"With a 'So long, mates, I'm goin' aloft,' he started toward the ladder, with the candle in his hand, stumbling over the sleeping forms of many. Sundry grunts, moans, and curses followed in his wake.
"As soon as he started to ascend the ladder, a 'tap-tap-tap' could be heard from the grain bin. We waited in fear and trembling the result of his mission. Hungry was encouraging him with, 'Cheero, mate, the worst is yet to come.'
"After many pauses, Sailor Bill reached the top of the ladder and opened the door. We listened with bated breath. Then he shouted:
"'Blast my deadlights, if it hain't a poor dog! Come h'longside, myte, you're h'on a lee shore, and in a sorry plight.'
"Oh, what a relief those words were to us.
"With the candle in one hand and a dark object under his arm, Sailor Bill returned and deposited in our midst the sorriest-looking specimen of a cur dog you ever set eyes on. It was so weak it couldn't stand. But that look in its eyes—just gratitude, plain gratitude. Its stump of a tail was pounding against my mess tin, and sounded just like a message in the Morse code. Ikey swore that it was sending S.O.S.
"We were like a lot of school children, every one wanting to help, and making suggestions at the same time. Hungry suggested giving it something to eat, while Ikey wanted to play on his infernal Jew's harp, claiming it was a musical dog. Hungry's suggestion met our approval, and there was a general scramble for haversacks. All we could muster was some hard bread and a big piece of cheese.
"His nibs wouldn't eat bread, and also refused the cheese, but not before sniffing at it for a couple of minutes. I was going to throw the cheese away, but Hungry said he would take it. I gave it to him. I suppose he ate it.
"We were in an awful stew. It was evident that the dog was starving and in a very weak condition. Its coat was lacerated all over, probably from the bites of rats. That stump of a tail kept sending S.O.S. against my mess tin. Every tap went straight to our hearts. We would get something to eat for that mutt if we were shot for it.
"Sailor Bill volunteered to burglarize the quartermaster's stores for a tin of unsweetened condensed milk, and left on his perilous venture. He was gone about twenty minutes. During his absence, with the help of a bandage and a capsule of iodine, we cleansed the wounds made by the rats. I have bandaged many a wounded Tommy, but never received the amount of thanks that that dog gave with its eyes.
"Then the billet door opened and Sailor Bill appeared. He looked like the wreck of the Hesperus, uniform torn, covered with dirt and flour, and with a beautiful black eye, but he was smiling and in his hand he carried the precious tin of milk.
"We asked no questions, but opened the tin. Just as we were going to pour it out, Hungry butted in and said it should be mixed with water; he ought to know, because his sister back in Blighty had a baby, and she always mixed water with its milk. We could not dispute this authority, so water was demanded. We would not use the water in our water bottles, because Hungry said it was not fresh enough for our new mate. Hungry volunteered to get some from the well—that is, if we would promise not to feed his royal highness until he returned. We promised, because he had proved that he was an authority on the feeding of babies. By this time the rest of the section were awake and were crowding around us, asking numerous questions, and admiring our newly found friend. Sailor Bill, during Hungry's absence, took the opportunity to tell of his adventures while in quest of the milk. His story was something like this:
"'H'I 'ad a fair wind, an' the passage was good until h'I cyme alongside the quartermaster's shack. Then the sea got rough. When h'I got aboard, h'I could 'ear the wind blowin' through the riggin' of the supercargo (Quartermaster-Sergeant snoring) so h'I was safe. H'I set my course due north to the ration 'old, an' got my grapplin' irons on a cask o' milk, an' cyme about h'on a port tack for my homeward bound passage. But somethin' was h'amiss with my wheel. H'I ran nose h'on into 'im, caught 'im on the r'il, h'amidships. Then it was repel boarders, an' it started to blow big guns. 'Is first shot put h'out my starboard light, an' I keeled over. H'I was in the trough o' the sea, but soon righted, an' then h'it was h'a stern chyse" (chase) "with me in the lead. Gettin' h'into the h'open sea, h'I myde h'a starboard tack an' hove in this cove with the milk safely in tow.'
"Most of us didn't know what he was talking about, but surmised that he had gotten into a mix-up with the Quartermaster-Sergeant. This surmise proved correct.
"Just as Sailor Bill finished his narration, a loud splash was heard, and Hungry's voice came to us It sounded very far off: 'Help, I'm in the well! Hurry up, I can't swim!' Then a few unintelligible words intermixed with blub! blub! and no more.
"We ran to the well, and way down we could hear an awful splashing. Sailor Bill yelled down, 'Look h'out below; stand from h'under: bucket comin'!' With that he loosed the windlass. In a few seconds a sputtering voice from the depths yelled to us, 'Haul away!'
"It was hard work, hauling him up. We had raised him about ten feet from the water, when the handle of the windlass got loose from our grip, and down went the bucket and Hungry. A loud splash came to us, and, grabbing the handle again, we worked like navvies. A volley of curses came from that well which would have shocked Old Nick himself.
"When we got Hungry safely out, he was a sight worth seeing. He didn't even notice us. Never said a word, just filled his water bottle from the water in the bucket, and went back to the billet. We followed. The mutt was still sending 'S.O.S.' with his tail on my mess tin.
"Hungry, though dripping wet, silently fixed up the milk for the dog. In appetite, the canine was a close second to him. After lapping up all he could hold, our mascot closed his eyes and his tail ceased wagging. Sailor Bill took a dry flannel shirt from his pack, wrapped the dog in it, and informed us:
"'Me an' my myte are goin' below, so the rest of you lubbers batten down 'atches an' turn in.'
"We all wanted the honor of sleeping with the dog, but did not dispute Sailor Bill's right to the privilege. By this time the bunch were pretty sleepy and tired, and turned in without much coaxing, as it was pretty near daybreak.
"Next day we figured out that perhaps one of the French kiddies had put the dog in the grain bin, and, in the excitement of packing up and leaving, had forgotten he was there.
"Sailor Bill was given the right to christen our new mate. He called him Jim. In a couple of days Jim came around all right, and got very frisky. Every man in the section loved that dog.
"Sailor Bill was put on the crime sheet for his mix-up with the Quartermaster-Sergeant, and got seven days field punishment No. 1. During Sailor Bill's two-hour periods tied to a wheel, Jim sat at his feet, and no matter how much we coaxed him with choice morsels of food, he would not leave until Sailor Bill was untied. When Bill was loosed, Jim would have nothing to do with him—just walked away in contempt. Jim respected the king's regulations—had no use for defaulters.
"At a special meeting held by the section, Jim had the oath of allegiance read to him. He barked his consent, so we solemnly swore him in as a soldier of the Imperial Army, fighting for king and country. Jim made a better soldier than any one of us, and died for his king and country. Died without a whimper of complaint.
"From the village we made several trips to the trenches; each time Jim accompanied us. The first time under fire he put the stump of his tail between his legs, but stuck to his post. When 'carrying in,' if we neglected to give Jim something to carry, he would make such a noise barking that we soon fixed him up.
"Each day Jim would pick out a different man of the section to follow. He would stick to this man, eating and sleeping with him, until the next day, and then it would be someone's else turn. When a man had Jim with him, it seemed as if his life was charmed. No matter what he went through, he would come out safely. We looked upon Jim as a good-luck sign, and, believe me, he was.
"Whenever it came Ikey's turn for Jim's company, he was overjoyed, because Jim would sit in dignified silence, listening to the jew's-harp. Ikey claimed that Jim had a soul for music, which was more than he would say for the rest of us.
"Once, at daybreak, we had to go over the top in an attack. A man in the section named Dalton was selected by Jim as his mate in this affair. The gun's crew were to stay in the trench for the second wave. Dalton was very merry and hadn't the least fear of misgiving as to his safety, because Jim would be with him through it all.
"In the attack, Dalton, closely followed by Jim, had gotten about seventy yards into No Man's Land, when Jim was hit in the stomach by a bullet. Poor old Jim toppled over and lay still. Dalton turned around, and, just as he did so, we saw him throw up his hands and fall face forward.
"Ikey, who was No. 3, on our gun, seeing Jim fall, scrambled over the parapet, and, through that rain of shells and bullets, raced to where Jim was, picked him up, and, tucking him under his arm, returned to our trench in safety. If he had gone to rescue a wounded man in this way, he would have no doubt been awarded the Victoria Cross. But he only brought in poor bleeding, dying Jim."
"At this point, Ikey got very red in the face and left the dugout. Dick, with a wink at us, went on with the story.
"Ikey laid him on the firestep alongside of our gun, but we could not attend to him, because we had important work to do. So he died like a soldier, without a look of reproach for our apparently heartless treatment. Just watched our every movement until his lights burned out. After the attack, what was left of our section gathered around Jim's blood-stained body. There wasn't a dry eye in the crowd.
"Next day we wrapped him in a small Union Jack belonging to Sailor Bill, and laid him to rest, a soldier of the king.
"We put a little wooden cross over his grave which read:
PRIVATE JIM
MACHINE-GUN SECTION NO. 1,
KILLED IN ACTION
June 10, 1915.
A DOG WITH A MAN'S HEART.
When Dick had finished, there was silence in the dugout. Then Sailor Bill spoke up: "It's funny, h'everytime h'I 'ear that story h'I learn somethin' new h'about myself."
Dick winked at the rest.
As Told by Ikey
THE PACIFIST
"What do I think of a blinkin' pacifist?" asked Ikey from a corner of the dugout.
"Well, what with this bloomin' war on, an' blokes goin' West by the thousands, a pacifist or conscientious objector, in my w'y o' thinkin', is one o' two things, 'e's either a blinkin' coward or a bloody pro-German. But it's funny the w'y some o' them blighters, with their swankin' West h'End h'ideas back in Blighty, changes their minds when they gets out 'ere in the mud, an' gets their first glimpse o' a wooden cross. It sort o' sets 'em a-thinkin', I reckon. It's either up against a wall in front o' a firin' squad for desertin' under fire, or else they win a blinkin' V.C. for some brave stunt. But generally they gets a 'Rise if Possible'" (R.I.P., Rest in Peace) "sign over their nappers.
"A strange thing it is, but true, those blokes never go through the trenches in an ordinary w'y like we fellows do, it's a case o' extremes. No 'in between stuff' for them.
"Next time you're on a burial party, at the syme time 'opin' that it's not me you're l'yin' aw'y, tyke a look at the third cross from the left in the fourth row as you enter that cemetery back o' that old caved in R.E." (Royal Engineers) "dugout. You know the one by the road. Well, under that cross, rests a bloke, who back in Blighty professed to be a pacifist, or a conscientious objector,—to me there's no difference in the titles.
"When the war started, 'e wouldn't blinkin' well volunteer, not likely; that bloke was for stayin' at 'ome. If they wanted 'im to go out there an' fight, well, they 'ad to bloody well come an' fetch 'im. They fetched 'im all right, conscripted 'im. Then 'e ups an' refuses to fight. Said it was against 'is principles, so they stuck 'im in the N.C.C." (Non-combatant Corps) "an' sent 'im out 'ere, 'anded 'im a pick an' shovel, an' put 'im to repairin' roads an' diggin' gryves. It didn't tyke long before 'e were properly fed up with 'is job, so 'e threw down the pick an' shovel, an' grabbed a rifle an' b'yonet. Oh, yes, 'e clicked it all right, went West, too. In fact, 'e was buried in one o' the gryves 'e 'elped to dig. H'I suppose some o' those college officers called it the 'irony o' fyte,' or some other blinkin' 'igh soundin' phryse" (phrase), "but we knows, don't we, that it were only common ordinary luck, 'cause it's l'id down that if you're goin' to get it, you'll get it, no matter if you're a gentleman's son or a bloomin' chimney-sweep.
"This blighter h'I'm a-talkin' about, never mind 'is nyme, you'll read it on the cross, was in my platoon when h'I was in 'C' Company, an' 'e used to give me the proper pip with 'is arguments against fightin' an' the likes o' that.
"The first time I saw 'im was in St. Armand. Our 'batt'" (battalion) "was in rest billets a-w'itin' a new draft before goin' up the line again. You see, we 'ad clicked it pretty rough at Fromelles, an' a platoon looked like a blinkin' corporal's squad when it lined up for paryde" (parade). "Our ranks were pretty thin, what with the blokes who 'ad gone West, an' the ones sent to Blighty. H'I was pl'yin' ''ouse' in that h'estaminet right across from that bashed-in church on the corner, when 'is Labor Battalion cyme through an' took over billets just opposite from the h'estaminet. My tyble was near the window, an' h'I watched them pass. A sorrier bunch o' specimens o' men I never saw. It fair turned my blinkin' stomach to look at 'em, what with their pysty" (pasty) "fyces, stooped-over shoulders an' stragglin' g'it" (gait). "After lookin' at 'em, h'I registered a prayer o' thanks we 'ad a N'vy. Right then an' there h'I admired the Germans for their system o' universal tr'inin'. H'if h'England 'ad o' 'ad a little more o' it, there never would 'ave been a war, an' right now we would be back in Blighty with our wives an' nippers, instead o' sittin' 'ere in these bloody ditches a-w'itin' for a shell to come over with our nyme an' number on it.
"After the Labor Battalion took over billets, several of 'em cyme into the h'estaminet, an' sat at a tyble near me. Now, remember, h'I don't s'y that Labor Battalions are composed of conscientious objectors, not likely, but this one 'appened to be o' that breed. They started to discuss the war an' voice their opinions about the 'top 'ats'" (Members of Parliament) "at 'ome. This bloke h'I'm a-talkin' about was the loudest o' the bunch. 'E seemed to 'ave a grouch on everything in general. H'I listened to 'im for a few minutes chuckin' 'is w'ight about until it bloody well got on my nerves. Chuckin' up my gyme o' ''ouse'—an' h'I 'ad p'id" (paid) "'alf a franc for my board—I leaned over to 'im an' said:
"'You must be one o' those bloomin' conscientious objectors we reads about in the pypers" (papers), "one o' those blighters who don't believe in fightin' themselves, but is willin' to sit back in Blighty an' let us blokes out 'ere do your bloody fightin' for you, while you gets a blinkin' good screw" (salary) "sittin' on a 'igh stool in some office.'
"'E turned to me an' answered: 'It's the likes o' you who volunteered for this war what keeps it a-goin'. If you all 'ad refused to go at first, there wouldn't be h'any war.'
"H'I couldn't see it 'is w'y at all, an' went right back at 'im with: 'Yes, an' if it wasn't for us volunteerin', the bloody German flag would now be flyin' over Buckin'am Palace an' King George would be in the Tower o' London.'
"'E thought a minute or two an' h'answered: 'Well, what of it, one flag's as good h'as another, an' h'as for the bloomin' King, what did 'e ever do for you, but myke you p'y taxes, so h'as 'e could bloomin' well sit around doin' nothin'.'
"This was too much for me, that blinkin' jellyfish a-slingin' mud at our King, so h'I lost my temper, an' tykin' my glass of Vin Rouge in my 'and, h'I leaned h'over close to 'im, an' said right h'under 'is nose:
"'When you mention the King's nyme, it's customary to stand an' drink 'is 'ealth. Per'aps 'e never did anything special for me, but h'I 'ave never done h'anything special for 'im, an' h'even at that h'I've done a damned sight more than you 'ave for 'im, so tyke this wine, an' drink 'is 'ealth, or h'I'll dent that napper o' yours so you won't be able to wear that tin 'at o' yours.'
"'E got kind o' pyle (pale) an' answered, 'Drink the King's 'ealth, not likely. H'it's through 'im an' 'is bloody top 'ats in Parliament that h'I'm h'out 'ere. Why in the blinkin' 'ell don't 'e do 'is h'own fightin' an' let us poor blokes alone?'
"H'I saw red, an' was just goin' to 'it 'im, when h'a big h'Irishman out o' the Royal h'Irish Rifles next to me grabs the glass o' wine from my 'and, an' lookin' the blighter in the fyce, yells:
"'Well, h'if the King h'ain't done nothin' for you h'English, 'e's done less for us h'Irish, but h'I volunteered to come h'out 'ere for 'im, an' 'ere h'I h'am, an' glad o' it, too, an' 'opes some d'y to get into Berlin with the King's forces. You won't drink 'is 'ealth, well, damn you, you can bathe 'is 'ealth.'
"With that, 'e threw the wine in the blighter's fyce, an' smashed 'im in the nose with 'is fist. The fellow went h'over like a log with the h'Irishman still agoin' for 'im. H'if we 'adn't pulled 'im h'off, h'I think 'e would 'ave killed that conscientious h'objector. The military police cyme h'in to see what h'all the row was h'about. H'I 'ad clicked three d'ys C.B." (confined to barracks) "an' 'ad no business in the h'estaminet, an' didn't want to get h'arrested, so h'in the confusion, h'I myde tracks for my billet.
"The next time h'I met the bloke was when we buried h'old Smith h'out o' the 10th Platoon h'in the cemetery h'at La Bassée. 'E was one o' the gryve diggers. H'all durin' the burial service, 'e stood lookin' h'at the Union Jack with a queer look h'on 'is fyce. When h'old Smith was lowered into the ground, an' the dirt was thrown h'on 'im, the conscientious h'objector cyme h'over to me an' pointin' h'at h'old Smith's gryve said:
"'H'I 'ear 'e was forty-'ight years h'old, an' left a wife an' three nippers back h'in Blighty. 'E were too h'old for the draft, weren't 'e? Then 'e must 'ave volunteered.'
"H'I answered, 'O' course 'e volunteered, an' there 'e lies, deader than 'ell, but h'I'll wager a quid 'is wife an' kids will be proud o' 'im—an' that's more than your kids will be about you.'
"'E sneaked h'off without answering. Three d'ys lyter" (later) "h'I nearly dropped dead when h'our lance corporal cyme h'into h'our billet with a bloody nose an' a beautifully trimmed lamp. When h'I awsked 'im 'ow 'e got knocked h'about, 'e told me that a fellow h'out o' the Non-combatant Corps, nymed Watkins (well, h'I've spilled 'is nyme), 'ad mussed 'im up just because 'e 'ad called 'im a white-livered coward.
"Watkins clicked twenty-one d'ys No. 1 on the wheel, an' when 'is sentence was finished, they transferred 'im to a fightin' unit an'—bang! h'into h'our platoon 'e comes.
"Many a talk h'I 'ad with 'im about that pacifist stuff, 'e 'adn't chynged a bit h'in 'is h'ideas—but 'e kept 'is mouth shut h'about the King an' the top 'ats at 'ome.
"Then we went into the trenches, an' h'I knew 'is finish was near. A firin' squad or 'rest in peace' was to be 'is lot; they h'all get one or the other sooner or later.
"After two d'ys h'in, Fritz got rough an' h'opened h'up with a pretty stiff bombardment.
"Watkins was h'in the fourth squad h'in a dugout in the support trench when a 'Minnie' registered a direct 'it on the roof an' caved 'er h'in. H'everyone but Watkins was killed. 'Ow 'e h'escaped was a marvel, the rest o' the squad bein' smashed h'up somethin' h'awful. We collected the pieces, an' buried them the next d'y. Watkins 'elped dig the gryves.
"For two d'ys Watkins scarcely spoke a word, just went round with a faraw'y look h'on his pyle fyce.
"H'on the third night after the burial, volunteers were called for a bombin' r'id, an' h'I could scarcely believe my ears when h'I 'eard that Watkins 'ad volunteered. It was the truth all right—'e went along.
"We crawled h'out h'into No Man's Land (yes, h'I volunteered, couldn't let Watkins show me h'up) under cover o' our barrage, an' w'ited. Watkins was next to me. Suddenly a star shell went h'up an' we crouched down h'in h'its light. H'I was l'yin' so that h'I could see Watkins—blime me, 'e 'ad no rifle or b'yonet.
"H'I whispered over to 'im. 'Where's your rifle?' 'E answered, 'H'I threw h'it aw'y.' Before h'I 'ad time to reply, the signal to rush the German trench was given, an' h'I lost sight of 'im.
"H'it were rough goin' h'in the German trench, an' we 'ad quite a little o' 'and-to-'and fightin'. Star-shells were goin' h'up all around us. One o' our blokes in front o' me was just goin' around the corner o' a traverse, when a big German got 'im through the throat with 'is b'yonet an' 'e went down. Somethin' sprang past me like a wild cat an' closed with the Fritz. They both went down together. Just then another German cyme at me from the h'entrance of a dugout an' h'I were busy. H'I managed to get 'im. Then our lieutenant an' two men cyme round the traverse, an' gyve the order to get back to h'our trenches. The lieutenant stumbled over the three bodies h'in front o' us. One o' them groaned. H'it were Watkins h'all right. H'unarmed 'e 'ad sprang at the German an' with 'is bare 'ands 'ad choked 'im to death, but 'e 'ad a nasty jagged b'yonet wound h'in 'is right side. We managed to get 'im back to h'our trenches, but 'e died h'on the firestep. Before cashin' h'in, 'e looked up h'at the lieutenant, an' with a grin h'on 'is fyce, said:
"'Tell the bloomin' King an' the top 'ats at 'ome that h'I died for h'England, an' h'I 'opes that my nippers, like h'old Smith's, will be proud o' their father. God syve the King!' An' 'e died.
"We buried 'im next morning.
"No, my opinion o' conscientious h'objectors an' pacifists 'as not chynged. They are h'either cowards or pro-Germans.
"You see, Watkins weren't h'either. 'E were a soldier o' the King, an' a damned good one, too."
PRIVATE GINGER
The gun's crew had been relieved from rest billets, and had again returned to their dugout. The weather was very pleasant for ducks, but not being ducks the crew stuck in the dugout. The air was heavy with smoke from their fags. Fritz, across the way, would send over an occasional whizz-bang, just to let the Tommies know that they still believed in German kultur. But this did not bother our crew because in the dugout they were safe from whizz-bangs, and they did not give a darn what Fritz was thinking about kultur; but they did agree with the Kaiser about that place in the sun business.
Dick turned to Yank, and asked:
"Remember Burton of A Company? Think he was in the Third Platoon; the fellow that was recommended for the V.C. and refused it. Got the recommendation for rescuing his platoon commander under fire."
Yank answered in the affirmative, and Dick "carried on" with:
"I never could see into that affair, because they seemed to be the worst of enemies. The officer was always picking on him, used to have him 'on the crime sheet' for the least offense. Got him several days of extra pack drill, and once he clicked twenty-one days' crucifixion" (Field Punishment No. 1, tied to a limber wheel two hours per day for twenty-one days). "No matter what dirty fatigue or working party came along, Burton's name was sure to head the list.
"This Burton appeared to be a surly sort of a chap. Kept to himself a whole lot, always brooding. Didn't have many friends in the Company, either. There seemed to be something on his mind. Most of the Company men said his sweetheart back in Blighty had thrown him down for some other bloke."
Happy butted in: "That's the way with this world, always hammering at a fellow. Well, I know this Burton, and there's not a better mate in the world, so let that sink into your nappers."
"Don't get sore, Happy," said Dick. "If you don't mind, let's have the story. I meant no offense. Just naturally curious, that's all. You can't deny that the whole affair has been quite a mystery to the Brigade. Spit it out and get it off your chest."
"Let's have it, Happy," they all chimed in chorus.
Happy, somewhat mollified, lighted a Woodbine, took two or three deep puffs, and started:
"Well, it was this way, but don't ask any questions until I am through.
"You know Burton isn't what you'd call a prize beauty when it comes to looks. He's about five six in height, stocky, a trifle bow-legged, and pug-nosed. To top this, he has a crop of red hair and his clock" (face) "is the boarding-house for every freckle in the United Kingdom. But strong,—say, that fellow could make Samson look like a consumptive when he got started.
"In Blighty, before the war, Burton and this Lieutenant—his name is Huston—went to the same college.
"Huston was nearly six feet high and slender. Sort of a dandy, fair-haired, lots of dough, which he never got by working,—his papa wished it on him when he went West" (died). "He was good-looking and had a way with the girls, which made them think he was the one and only. Didn't care much for athletics. Girls, dances, and card parties were more in his line.
"They were in the same class. Burton was working his way through, and consequently, Huston looked down on him as a bally bounder. Among the athletes, Burton was popular. Huston wasn't.
"Burton was engaged, or thought he was, to a pretty fine girl by the name of Betty. She thought Burton, or 'Ginger,' as she called him, was the finest thing out. One day Ginger took her to see a football game at the college; he was playing on the team, so she had to sit it out alone. During this 'sitting out,' she met Huston, and the trouble started. He was dead gone on her and she liked him, so he made hay while the sun was shining.
"She didn't exactly turn Ginger down, but he was no boob, and saw how things were, so he eased out of the running, although it almost broke his heart. He certainly loved that girl.
"This state of affairs widened the gap between Huston and Burton. They hated each other pretty fiercely, but Burton never went out of his way to show it, while Huston took every opportunity to vent his spleen. Ginger saw Betty very seldom, and when he did, she was generally accompanied by Huston.
"Then the war came. Ginger immediately enlisted as a private. He could have had a commission, but did not want to take a chance of having to mix with Huston.
"A few weeks after Ginger's enlistment, Huston joined too—was losing prestige in Betty's eyes by staying in mufti. He went into the O.T.C." (Officers' Training Corps). "In seven months he received his commission, and was sent to France. Ginger had been out three months.
"By one of the many strange coincidences that happen in this world, Huston was sent to the battalion and company that Ginger was in, and was put in command of Ginger's platoon. Then things happened.
"Ginger could hardly believe his eyes when he first saw Huston, and knew he was to be his platoon commander. He felt he was in for it good and plenty.
"That night Huston sent for Ginger and had a talk with him. Tried to make him believe that he harbored no animosity, and then detailed him as mail orderly, the first act of a campaign of petty cruelty. By being mail orderly, Ginger would have to handle Betty's letters to Huston, and Huston's letters to her. Ginger saw through it immediately, and his hate burned stronger. From that night on, it was one indignity after another, just a merciless persecution, but Ginger never complained; just stored up each new act and swore vengeance.
"It came to such a pass that Ginger could bear it no longer. He decided to kill Huston, and only waited for a favorable opportunity to present itself. I think it was only his love for Betty which had held him back so long; he couldn't bear the thought of her grieving for her dead lover. You see, Ginger thought Betty was madly in love with Huston.
"One night, in the front line trench, orders were received that after an hour's intense bombardment of the enemy's lines, the company would go over the top at six the next morning. Huston was to go over with the first wave, while Ginger was in the second. Here was his chance.
"All that night he crouched on the firestep, musing and brooding, nursing his revenge. He prayed to Betty to forgive him for what he was going to do.
"After the bombardment the next morning, over went the first wave, a line of bayonets and madly cheering men. Ginger only saw one in that crowd; his eyes never left Huston. His finger twitched and caressed the trigger of his rifle—his long looked-for opportunity had come.
"The first wave had gone about sixty yards, when Ginger let out a curse. Huston had been hit and was down, and he saw his revenge slipping through his fingers. But no, Huston was not dead. He was trying to rise to his feet! He was up—hopping on one leg—with the blood pouring from the other. Then he fell again, but was soon sitting up, bandaging his wounded leg, using a tourniquet from his first-aid packet.
"A surge of unholy joy ran through Ginger. Lifting his safety latch on his rifle, unheeding the rain of bullets which were ripping and tearing the sandbagged parapet about him, he took deliberate aim at Huston. Then he saw a vision of Betty, dressed in black, with tear-stained eyes. With a muttered curse Ginger threw the rifle from him, climbed over the parapet and raced across No Man's Land. No act of his should bring tears in Betty's brown eyes. He would save her worthless lover, and then get killed himself—it didn't matter.
"Reaching Huston, he hissed at him:
"'Damn you, I was going to kill you, but I won't. I'll carry you back to Betty. But always remember, it was the man you robbed who saved your worthless life, you despicable skunk.'
"Huston murmured: 'Forgive me, Burton, but for God's sake, get me out of this. I'll be killed—for God's sake, man, hurry, hurry!'
"'That's it, is it? Whine, damn you, whine! It's music to my ears. Lieutenant Huston begging a 'bally bounder' for his life, and the bounder giving it to him. I would to God that Betty could see and hear you now!'
"With that Ginger stooped, and by main strength lifted Huston onto his back and staggered toward our lines. The bullets and pieces of shrapnel were cracking and swishing all around. He had gone about fifty yards when a piece of shell hit his left arm just below the shoulder. Down he went, Huston with him, but was soon up, his left arm dangling and swinging at his side. Turning to Huston, who was lying on his back, he said:
"'I am hard hit—it's your life or mine. We're only ten yards from our trench. Try to make it on your own. You ought to be able to crawl in.'
"But Huston answered:
"'Burton, don't leave me here, I am bleeding to death. For the love of God, get me in! You can have Betty, money, anything I have, it is all yours,—just save my life. Answer me, man, answer—'
"'You want my answer, do you? Well, take it, and damn you!'
"With that, Ginger slapped the officer in the face. Then, grabbing him by the collar with his right arm, the blood soaking his tunic from the shell wound in his left, Ginger slowly dragged Huston to the trench, and fainted.
"A mighty cheer went up from our lines. Stretcher-bearers took them both to an advanced first-aid post, and their journey to Blighty and Betty was started.
"On the trip over, Ginger never regained consciousness. They landed in a hospital in England and were put in beds next to each other. You see, at that time, officers and men went to the same hospital.
"Ginger was taken up into the 'pictures' (operating theatre), where his arm was amputated at the shoulder. Huston's wound was slight,—bullet through the calf of leg.
"While Ginger was coming out of ether he told all he knew. A Red Cross nurse with tear-dimmed eyes was holding his hand. Occasionally she would look across at Huston in the next bed; he would slowly nod his head at each questioning glance of hers, while the red blood of shame mounted to his temples.
"Then Ginger came to. He saw a beautiful vision. Thought he was dreaming. Sitting by his bed, dressed in a Red Cross nurse's uniform, was Betty, Huston's Betty, holding his hand! Betty, with tears in her eyes, but this time tears of joy. The sweat came out on his forehead. It couldn't be true! He gasped out the one word—
"'Betty!'
"Stooping over, the vision kissed him on the lips, and murmured:
"'My Ginger, you have come back to Betty.'
"Then he slept. Next morning the Colonel of the hospital came to Ginger's bedside and congratulated him, telling him that he had been recommended for the V.C. Ginger refused the V.C. from the Government; said he had not earned it; would not give the reasons, but persisted in his refusal. You know they can't force you to take a V.C.
"Five months later Ginger and Betty were married. She cuts his meat for him now; says that all his faults were contained in his left arm. He lost that. So you see, Ginger was somewhat of a man, after all, wasn't he, mates?"
They agreed that he was. Ikey asked Happy how he came to know these details. He answered:
"Well, you see, it's this way. Betty happens to be my sister. Gimme a fag, someone. I am about talked out."
Sailor Bill mumbled out loud:
"I never thought there could be such a rotter as Huston in the English Army."
Happy, hearing this, came back with:
"Just a minute, Sailor. Huston wasn't a rotter at heart. It was a good lesson for him. When he recovered from his wound, he came out here again. Made quite a record for himself, won the Military Cross and a D.S.O. He was killed at Wipers—not so long ago, either.
"You know, the little wooden cross settles all debts in this world. Dying for one's country in a righteous cause, according to my view, entitles one to a reserved seat in Heaven."
THE LONE TREE SENTINEL
It was Dick's turn again. As was characteristic of him, he fidgeted nervously, looked around shamefacedly, and made one or two false starts. Then, gaining courage, he took a deep breath from the Woodbine he was smoking, and turning to Yank, said:
"'Yank, I'm going to tell you of a queer happening that took place before you joined this Section of the Suicide Club, and believe me, you will have to form your own conclusions—it has been a sore point of discussion among us ever since, and—"
"I know, it's about Jerry's brother an' the 'aunted Lone Tree," interrupted Ikey. "Now I want to tell you, Yank, it was no spirit at all, it was only 'eart—"
"You close your clock," said Dick, breaking into the middle of Ikey's speech; it's my turn at 'gassing,' and you know the law of this dugout: One story at a time and no interruptions from the rest. You have your opinion about Jerry, and I have mine. We both had a fair chance to form these opinions, and Yank's going to get the same square deal, without your influencing him by any of your propaganda remarks to swing him on your side. That's final, so shut up until I'm through."
"Oh, all right then. If that's the w'y you look at it, go a'ead," answered Ikey, "but, believe me, you had better tell the story h'exackly the w'y it 'appened, or I'll h'interrupt, dugout law or no dugout law."
"Shut up, Ikey," 'Curly' interposed. "Go ahead, Dick, we all might have something to say, unless you keep to the 'straight and narrow,' because we all have opinions about haunts and spirits."
Dick commenced.
"One afternoon a few months back, our gun's crew was sitting on the firestep, just in front of Gommecourt Wood.
"Happy was busily engaged in rigging up a flash screen to hide the flare of our gun, which we were to mount on the parapet that night.
"Sailor Bill—he hadn't at that time joined the Suicide Club—was sewing a piece of khaki cloth over his tin hat, because the night previous while on sentry go, standing in the moonlight, with his head over the top, the rays from the moon had reflected from his steel helmet, and a couple of German bullets had knocked up the dirt within a few feet of his head.
"Hungry was wrestling with a tin of bully beef, while Curly was hunting for cooties, or answering letters, I forget which.
"Ikey, with our mascot, Private Jim, was sitting on the firestep, his back leaning against a traverse, picking mud out of his harmonica with a sliver of wood. Private Jim was happy and contented, not knowing the fate in store for him. Two days later he was killed by a German bullet and we buried him behind the lines like any other bloke would be buried, wooden cross and all.
"After working a few minutes at the harmonica, Ikey paused, put it to his lips, and blew into it; a squeaky, rattly noise resulted,—you know the usual kind. Then, with a deep sigh, he resumed the picking process.
"I had just finished a letter home, and was sighing for the time to come when I would take the Kaiser, a prisoner, back to good old Dublin.
"Although it was warm and sunny, still the floor of the trench was about three inches deep in soft, sticky mud,—worse than it is now.
"On my right I heard a low muttering and a splashing in the mud, and around the traverse, into our firebay, carrying a box of ammo" (ammunition), "came the weirdest looking soldier I had ever seen. He was tall and gaunt, his long back seemed to bend in three places at once under the weight of the box of ammo on his shoulder. His tunic fitted him like a loose sling on a rifle, kind of flappy, his trousers were tight-fitting, except at the knees, where they were lumpy like a pocket full of rocks. From the top of his boots to his knees there was just space. I'll be damned if I can describe it, but those feet, just like a doll's! How he could balance such a swaying piece of skin and bones on them was a marvel. His neck was just stretching, thin and stretching, sort of curious-like. His head looked like—blime me, what did it look like—it looked like—where did I see that—by the King's hat—I've got it—say, Yank, remember that American coat of arms you showed us yesterday—well, his head was identical with the head of that eagle on it—thought I had seen it before when you showed it to me—but couldn't exactly place it."
"By the blinkin' 'ell, Dick's right," ejaculated Hungry—"I noticed the resemblance, too."
"As he passed in front of me he turned his gaze in my direction and a cold shiver ran up and down my spine as I looked into his eyes. Looked like two holes burned in a blanket. They were uncanny; a sort of vacant stare, as if the owner of them was looking into the Great Beyond; but his face was just a dirty pasty white as if he had been brought up on a diet of soap. As he staggered through the firebay, his back bending in and out under the weight of the ammo and passed from view around the next traverse, it seemed to me as if the Grim Reaper had stalked through and had marked us for a 'Rest in Peace' sign.
"Shuddering a little, I instinctively turned my eyes in the direction of the rest of the crew. They were also staring at the traverse, around which the gloomy looking soldier had disappeared.
"My heart sank to zero and I had a sinking sensation in the region of my stomach, and on the parados in front of me, like a cinematograph on a screen, flashed a cemetery, dotted all over with little wooden crosses. I felt queer and uneasy.
"Curly, in a low, half frightened voice, exclaimed:
"'Blime me, that was 'Aunted Jerry's brother, the one who clicked it by the old lone tree. If you blokes want to get the creeps, you ought to 'ear 'im talk. Some o' the fellows claim that it's unlucky to get 'im started. They sye that one o' 'is 'earers is sure to click it within a few days' time, but if you fellows want to tyke the chance, I'll go over to 'is section, which is occupyin' the second fireb'y on our left, and see if I can get 'im to tell us about 'is brother. But, now mind, this fellow is a little balmy in 'is napper, so don't myke fun of 'im.'
"I confessed that I was glad to be rid of him, but my curiosity overcame my fears, and I asked Curly to go ahead. The rest of the crew weakly assented, so Curly went after Jerry's brother. In about twenty minutes he returned with him. Jerry's brother came over and sat on the firestep next to me, his face blending in with the weather-bleached sand-bags on the parapet. He sat silent for a few minutes, and then, in a thin, piping, high-pitched voice, which I will try to imitate, Cockney, and all,—spoke:—
"'So you want to 'ear about Jerry, do you? Better not, better not, 'cause h'it is in writin' among th' spirits that h'every time I talk o' one o' them, someone who listens, or perhaps me, will 'ave to be joinin' of 'em before long. You calls it a bein' dead, but it h'ain't true, there h'ain't no long dead, nothin' dies, just wanders an' wanders. Their bodies is what's dead, only shells what's been shed an' left behind.'
"I was frightened stiff, because I admit I believe in ghosts, even if Ikey doesn't, and I didn't want to run the risk of clicking it later on by listening to the story. Even Jim felt my way; he had his tail between his legs and was trembling all over and moaning his protest in dog language. But of course, Ikey insisted that the story be told, so mournfully shaking his head, Jerry's brother carried on:
"'You shouldn't o' defied the spirits, but it is written that I 'ave to talk when awsked. I'm the Recruitin' Sergeant for the absent voices, detyled h'in Jerry's plyce.
"'You want to 'ear about Jerry? Fools—they called 'im 'Aunted Jerry, but 'e weren't 'aunted, 'e could just see—'e could see into the future—could sort o' tell what was a-goin' to 'appen. 'E talked to the dead bodies, the deserted 'omes o' the spirits, an' they, 'overin' in the h'air, 'eard 'im, an' talked back, an' told 'im what was a-goin' to 'appen.
"'E alw'ys 'ad spirits h'around 'im,—ghosts, you call 'em, but there h'ain't no such thing as ghosts,—they're souls a'wanderin' h'around—a'lookin' for recruits for the h'army o' the dead, as you ignorantly calls 'em. They're about us now—'
"I slowly eased down the firestep away from him.
"'Jerry used to talk to the departed. 'E would sit in a cemetery h'at night, in rest billets, an' receive messages from them what cawn't speak no more. Not the ones as what 'ad just been buried, it tykes time, it tykes time, but the ones what were just bones, the trained spirits.
"'Up the line, Jerry 'ad 'is mission. At night 'e would crawl out in front, an' listen to the voices, when the wind was dead and couldn't carry 'em. The Lone Tree was 'is 'eadquarters. Bodies were a-plenty at h'its roots, reconnoitering patrols, h'English an' German, meet out there.'
"Then he paused. A faint wind was blowing. Jerry's brother listened intently, sighed, and with an unearthly fire burning in his eyes, said—
"'The Lone Tree is a-callin', it's a-callin' me. Jerry is tryin' to myke me h'understand. I'm listenin', Jerry, I'm a-listenin'.'
"With that he stood up on the firestep, head and shoulders over the top. Blinking broad daylight it was, too. We were all afraid to pull him down. Looking out towards the Lone Tree, he started murmuring,—
"'Louder, Jerry, louder. I cawn't understand, the voices are mixed. Jerry, it's your brother a-callin'; what is it, lad, what is it?'
"Every second we expected to see his brains spatter the parapet from a German sniper's bullet. Suddenly, Crack! Crack! Crack! three bullets struck the parapet and went singing over the trench. We all ducked, but apparently Jerry's brother never moved.
"With a deep sigh he sank onto the firestep, saying, 'I can 'ear the voices, but as yet cawn't understand 'em, but I will—I will—it tykes trainin'.'
"I believe he did not know that he had been fired at. Anyway it never fazed him. My blood curdled at the thought of how near he had come to joining those spirits of his.
"Ikey placed his hand on Jerry's brother's knee and said:
"'Righto, mate, we know you can see far beyond us, but tell us about 'Aunted Jerry an' the poem 'e wrote the d'y before 'e clicked it at the Lone Tree.'
"Jerry's brother nodded in a comprehending way, and unbuttoning the pocket of his tunic, drew out a creased and muddy piece of paper, which he reverently and fondly opened out upon his knee, and then in an unnatural, sing-song voice, which sent cold shivers up and down my spine, recited the following, reading from the paper."
At this point Dick started searching the pockets of his tunic, pulling out, piece by piece, a collection of stuff that would have made a junk-man sit up and take notice. A look of disappointment came over Dick's face; he paused, thought hard for about a minute, and then with an exclamation of satisfaction, went over to his pack and extricated therefrom an old leather wallet, opened it and carefully removed a piece of paper, muddy, creased and torn. With a sigh of relief he exclaimed, "Blime me, I thought I had lost that poem. One of Jerry's brother's mates gave it to me after,—but that would be telling the story backwards."
Squinting very hard at the paper in his hand, Dick read aloud:
"Between the lines, in 'No Man's Land,'
With foliage gone, an' trunk what's torn,
A lonely sentry tykes 'is stand,
Silently watchin' from morn to morn.
When sun is gone, an' moon is bright,
An' spreads its rays o' ghost-like beams;
H'against the sky, that tree o' blight,
A ghastly 'angman's gibbet seems.
When night is black, the wind's faint sigh
Through its shell-torn branches moans
A call to men, 'To die, to die!'
They answers with groans and groans.
But obey the call, for 'more an' more,'
An' Death sits by an' grins an' grins,
Watchin' the fast growin' score,
'Arvest of 'is sentry's whims.
There they lie 'uddled, friend an' foe,
Ghastly 'eaps, h'English, French an' 'Un,
An' still those piles forever grow,
The sorry toll is never done.
No wooden cross to mark their fall,
No tombstone theirs, no carven rocks,
Just the Lone Tree with its grim call,
Which forever mocks an' mocks."
"When Jerry's brother had finished, a dead silence ensued. I nervously lighted a fag, and out of the corner of my eye noticed that Sailor Bill was uneasily squirming on the firestep.
"Letting out a sigh, which seemed to whistle between his teeth, our 'guest' carried on:
"'Jerry weren't much at cheerful writin', were 'e? But 'e 'ad a callin'. H'even back 'ome in Blighty, 'e weren't much for lights nor fun. 'E took after our mother. The neighbors called 'er 'aunted, too, but she weren't. She could see things like Jerry. Used to talk to the governor, set 'is plyce at table an' 'e dead these fifteen years."
"Then he went on telling us about the Lone Tree as if we had never seen it, and there it blinking well was about a hundred yards from us out in front. Many a time at night on patrol work have I stumbled over a dead body at its base. I tell you, Yank, it was creepy work listening to him.
"'This 'ere Lone Tree Sentinel, Jerry writes about in 'is poetry, is an h'old tree in No Man's Land a 'underd yards or more from the firestep. It is pretty well knocked about by bullets an' shell fragments. It mykes a good 'eadquarters for spirits an' voices, stickin' sort o' lonely-like up h'against the sky at night. It are the guide-post o' the dead, h'even though patrols uses it to show 'em the w'y back to their trenches. But those what follows its pointin' arm 'as started on their w'y to the absent voices.'
"We all shivered because every one of us had used that guide-post more than once while out in front.
"'Out there in the blackness h'it's easy to lose your w'y h'unless you 'ave spirits a-guidin' you, like me an' Jerry 'as. At h'its roots were many dead, just a rottin' out there, a tykin' o' their trainin' fer the spirits. When the wind was a-blowin' our w'y, to the ignorant it were sort o' h'unpleasant, but Jerry an' me knew, h'it were their message, they was answering the roll o' the spirits.
"'At that time No Man's Land were no plyce for mortals what with the bullets an' shells a-singin' o' their death song d'y an' night, but Jerry didn't mind, 'e 'ad 'is mission an' 'ad to answer the call o' the voices.
"'Every time our Captain called for volunteers fer a raidin' party or reconnoitering patrol, 'Aunted Jerry, as you call 'im, 'ad to volunteer 'cause 'e was a recruitin' fer the dead, same as me. After a while 'e was never awsked if 'e wanted to go, 'is nyme was just plyced on the list as a-goin'. When 'e returned from h'out in front 'e used to go to 'is dugout an' if any o' the party 'ad gone West 'e put their nymes in a book an' used to sit an' talk to them nymes. 'E were a teachin' 'em their first lesson o' the voices. 'E alw'ys kep' h'account o' the number o' dead at the tree. 'E could see in the dark, could Jerry, syme as me.
"'Sometimes in the d'ytime 'e would rig up a periscope on 'is own, and sit on the firestep for hours a-lookin' out in No Man's Land at the Lone Tree, and the bodies around it. This sort o' got on our Captain's nerves, an' 'e gave Jerry orders not to use a periscope. After this order Jerry used to sit h'off by 'imself on the firestep a-musin' an' a-musin'. The other blokes laughed at 'im, but I knew what he were a-doin'—'e were a-talkin' to the spirit o' the Lone Tree.
"'Then 'e got sort o' reckless, an' because it were against orders for 'im to use a periscope, 'e used to, in the bloomin' d'ytime, stick 'is 'ead over the top an' gaze at the Lone Tree. Bullets from German snipers would kick up the dirt an' tear the sand-bags all around 'im, but none of 'em ever 'it 'im. No bullet ever myde could kill Jerry, 'e were protected.
"'The rest o' the blokes in the trench would pull 'im down off the firestep. They thought they were a-savin' 'is life, but Jerry weren't afraid from bullets. 'E knew, same as me, that they couldn't 'arm 'im. Then our Captain—'e 'ad brains, 'e 'ad—said that Jerry was balmy, an' gave orders to the Sergeant-M'jor to tyke 'im back to the Doctors to send 'im to Blighty. Jerry was told about this the night before the mornin' 'e was to leave. 'E was greatly upset, 'e was, an' all that d'y did nothin' but talk to the spirits—the air were full of 'em—I could 'ear o' their voices. About ten o'clock Jerry was missed. The next morning 'e was still a missin'. For two d'ys nothin' was 'eard o' Jerry. Then the Royal Irish Rifles took over a sector o' trench on our right. A lot o' our blokes told 'em about Jerry bein' missin'. A few o' 'em got around me, an' I described Jerry to 'em, but I weren't afraid for Jerry—I knew where 'e was—'e were with his spirits.
"'That night an Irish patrol went out, an' when they returned they brought a body with 'em; said they'd found it at the foot o' the Lone Tree. It were Jerry, all right, but 'e weren't 'it nowhere. Two bloomin' doctors examined 'im, lookin' for wounds, but couldn't find none, because there weren't none. 'E was dead, all right, an' that bloomin' Captain—'e 'ad brains, 'e 'ad—was responsible for 'is death. 'E 'ad tried to tyke Jerry aw'y from 'is spirits, so Jerry crawled out to the Lone Tree to answer its call. 'E answered it, and now 'e's with the spirits 'e loves, an' sometime I'll join 'im an' 'em. 'E's with 'em, all right, I know—I know."
"Just then Jim started to whimper. If the truth were known, we all felt like whimpering.
"Without another word, Jerry's brother got up, and muttering to himself, passed out of sight around the traverse. As he disappeared from view, Sailor Bill exclaimed:
"'Blawst my deadlights, but if a bloke like that ever shipped in the Navy, in a fortnight's time 'e would bloomin' well be an Admiral, because 'e would be the only one left in the blinkin' Navy. Gives me the proper creeps. 'Ow in 'ell 'is company stands for 'im, I don't know. 'Ow about it, Curly—why 'asn't 'e been sent to Blighty as balmy?'
"'I'll tell you, Bill,' answered Curly; 'this bloke only gets these fits occasionally. He's a damned good soldier—always on the job, and next to Corporal French, and his brother, Haunted Jerry, he's the best scout for work in No Man's Land that ever put a foot in these blinkin' ditches. It's only lately that he's been having these spells so often, and yesterday the Sergeant-Major told me that he was under observation, and that it would only be a short time before he was shipped back.'
"Jim was still whimpering. This got on Ikey's nerves and he gave Jim a sharp cuff on the side of the head. This was the first time a hand had been raised against Jim since he had joined us months back. He gave Ikey a piteous look, and, sticking his stump of a tail between his legs, disappeared from the firebay.