All In It K(1) Carries On
by
John Hay Beith (AKA: Ian Hay)

Part 1 out of 4

Produced by Produced from images provided by the Million Book Project
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

ALL IN IT

"K (1)" Carries On

BY

IAN HAY

1917

TO ALL SECOND LIEUTENANTS

AND IN PARTICULAR TO THE MEMORY OF

ONE SECOND LIEUTENANT

ALL IN IT

"K (1)" Carries On

By Jan Hay

ALL IN IT: K 1 CARRIES ON.

PIP: A ROMANCE OF YOUTH

GETTING TOGETHER

THE FIRST HUNDRED THOUSAND.

SCALLY: THE STORY OF A PERFECT GENTLEMAN. With Frontispiece.

A KNIGHT ON WHEELS.

HAPPY-GO-LUCKY. Illustrated by Charles E. Brock.

A SAFETY MATCH. With frontispiece.

A MAN'S MAN. With frontispiece.

THE RIGHT STUFF. With frontispiece.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

_The First Hundred Thousand_ closed with the Battle of Loos. The
present narrative follows certain friends of ours from the scene of
that costly but valuable experience, through a winter campaign in the
neighbourhood of Ypres and Ploegsteert, to profitable participation in
the Battle of the Somme.

Much has happened since then. The initiative has passed once and for
all into our hands; so has the command of the air. Russia has been
reborn, and, like most healthy infants, is passing through an
uproarious period of teething trouble; but now America has stepped
in, and promises to do more than redress the balance. All along the
Western Front we have begun to move forward, without haste or flurry,
but in such wise that during the past twelve months no position, once
fairly captured and consolidated, has ever been regained by the enemy.
To-day you can stand upon certain recently won eminences--Wytchaete
Ridge, Messines Ridge, Vimy Ridge, and Monchy--looking down into the
enemy's lines, and looking forward to the territory which yet remains
to be restored to France.

You can also look back--not merely from these ridges, but from certain
moral ridges as well--over the ground which has been successfully
traversed, and you can marvel for the hundredth time, not that the
thing was well or badly done, but that it was ever done at all.

But while this narrative was being written, none of these things had
happened. We were still struggling uphill, with inadequate resources.
So, since the incidents of the story were set down, in the main, as
they occurred and when they occurred, the reader will find very little
perspective, a great deal of the mood of the moment, and none at all
of that profound wisdom which comes after the event. For the latter he
must look home--to the lower walks of journalism and the back benches
of the House of Commons.

It is not proposed to carry this story to a third volume. The First
Hundred Thousand, as such, are no more. Like the "Old Contemptibles,"
they are now merged in a greater and more victorious army--in an armed
nation, in fact. And, as Sergeant Mucklewame once observed to
me, "There's no that mony of us left now, onyways." So with all
reverence--remembering how, when they were needed most, these men did
not pause to reason why or count the cost, but came at once--we bid
them good-bye.

CONTENTS

I. WINTER QUARTERS
II. SHELL OUT!
III. WINTER SPORTS: VARIOUS
IV. THE PUSH THAT FAILED
V. UNBENDING THE BOW
VI. YE MERRIE BUZZERS
VII. PASTURES NEW
VIII. "THE NON-COMBATANT"
IX. TUNING UP
X. FULL CHORUS
XI. THE LAST SOLO
XII. RECESSIONAL
XIII. "TWO OLD SOLDIERS, BROKEN IN THE WARS"

ALL IN IT

"K (1)" Carries On

I

WINTER QUARTERS

I

We are getting into our stride again. Two months ago we trudged
into Bethune, gaunt, dirty, soaked to the skin, and reduced to a
comparative handful. None of us had had his clothes off for a week.
Our ankle-puttees had long dropped to pieces, and our hose-tops,
having worked under the soles of our boots, had been cut away and
discarded. The result was a bare and mud-splashed expanse of leg from
boot to kilt, except in the case of the enterprising few who had
devised artistic spat-puttees out of an old sandbag. Our headgear
consisted in a few cases of the regulation Balmoral bonnet, usually
minus "toorie" and badge; in a few more, of the battered remains of a
gas helmet; and in the great majority, of a woollen cap-comforter. We
were bearded like that incomparable fighter, the _poilu_, and we were
separated by an abyss of years, so our stomachs told us, from our last
square meal.

But we were wonderfully placid about it all. Our regimental pipers,
who had come out to play us in, were making what the Psalmist calls
"a joyful noise" in front; and behind us lay the recollection of a
battle, still raging, in which we had struck the first blow, and borne
our full share for three days and nights. Moreover, our particular
blow had bitten deeper into the enemy's line than any other blow in
the neighbourhood. And, most blessed thought of all, everything was
over, and we were going back to rest. For the moment, the memory of
the sights we had seen, and the tax we had levied upon our bodies and
souls, together with the picture of the countless sturdy lads whom
we had left lying beneath the sinister shade of Fosse Eight, were
beneficently obscured by the prospect of food, sleep, and comparative
cleanliness.

After restoring ourselves to our personal comforts, we should
doubtless go somewhere to refit. Drafts were already waiting at the
Base to fill up the great gaps in our ranks. Our companies having been
brought up to strength, a spate of promotions would follow. We had no
Colonel, and only our Company Commander. Subalterns--what was left
of them--would come by their own. N.C.O.'s, again, would have to be
created by the dozen. While all this was going on, and the old names
were being weeded out of the muster-roll to make way for the new, the
Quartermaster would be drawing fresh equipment--packs, mess-tins,
water-bottles, and the hundred oddments which always go astray in
times of stress. There would be a good deal of dialogue of this
sort:--

"Private M'Sumph, I see you are down for a new pack. Where is your old
one?"

"Blawn off ma back, sirr!"

"Where are your puttees?"

"Blawn off ma feet, sirr!"

"Where is your iron ration?"

"Blawn oot o' ma pooch, sirr!"

"Where is your head?"

"Blawn--I beg your pardon, sirr!"--followed by generous reissues all
round.

After a month or so our beloved regiment, once more at full strength,
with traditions and morale annealed by the fires of experience, would
take its rightful place in the forefront of "K (1)."

Such was the immediate future, as it presented itself to the wearied
but optimistic brain of Lieutenant Bobby Little. He communicated his
theories to Captain Wagstaffe.

"I wonder!" replied that experienced officer.

II

The chief penalty of doing a job of work well is that you are promptly
put on to another. This is supposed to be a compliment.

The authorities allowed us exactly two days' rest, and then packed us
off by train, with the new draft, to a particularly hot sector of the
trench-line in Belgium--there to carry on with the operation known in
nautical circles as "executing repairs while under steam."

Well, we have been in Belgium for two months now, and, as already
stated, are getting into our stride again.

There are new faces everywhere, and some of the old faces are not
quite the same. They are finer-drawn; one is conscious of less
chubbiness all round. War is a great maturing agent. There is,
moreover, an air of seasoned authority abroad. Many who were second
lieutenants or lance corporals three months ago are now commanding
companies and platoons. Bobby Little is in command of "A" Company: if
he can cling to this precarious eminence for thirty days--that is,
if no one is sent out to supersede him--he becomes an "automatic"
captain, aged twenty! Major Kemp commands the battalion; Wagstaffe is
his senior major. Ayling has departed from our midst, and rumour
says that he is leading a sort of Pooh Bah existence at Brigade
Headquarters.

There are sad gaps among our old friends of the rank and file. Ogg
and Hogg, M'Slattery and M'Ostrich, have gone to the happy
hunting-grounds. Private Dunshie, the General Specialist (who, you
may remember, found his true vocation, after many days, as battalion
chiropodist), is reported "missing." But his comrades are positive
that no harm has befallen him. Long experience has convinced them that
in the art of landing on his feet their departed friend has no equal.

"I doot he'll be a prisoner," suggests the faithful Mucklewame to the
Transport Sergeant.

"Aye," assents the Transport Sergeant bitterly; "he'll be a prisoner.
No doot he'll try to pass himself off as an officer, for to get better
quarters!"

(The Transport Sergeant, in whose memory certain enormities of Dunshie
had rankled ever since that versatile individual had abandoned the
veterinary profession, owing to the most excusable intervention of
a pack-mule's off hind leg, was not far out in his surmise, as
subsequent history may some day reveal. But the telling of that story
is still a long way off.)

Company Sergeant-Major Pumpherston is now Sergeant-Major of the
Battalion. Mucklewame is a corporal in his old company. Private Tosh
was "offered a stripe," too, but declined, because the invitation
did not include Private Cosh, who, owing to a regrettable lapse not
unconnected with the rum ration, had been omitted from the Honours'
List. Consequently these two grim veterans remain undecorated, but
they are objects of great veneration among the recently joined for all
that.

So you see us once more in harness, falling into the collar with
energy, if not fervour. We no longer regard War with the least
enthusiasm: we have seen It, face to face. Our sole purpose now is to
screw our sturdy followers up to the requisite pitch of efficiency,
and keep them remorselessly at that standard until the dawn of
triumphant and abiding peace.

We have one thing upon our side--youth.

"Most of our regular senior officers are gone, sir," remarked Colonel
Kemp one day to the Brigadier--"dead, or wounded, or promoted to other
commands; and I have something like twenty new subalterns. When you
subtract a centenarian like myself, the average age of our Battalion
Mess, including Company Commanders, works out at something under
twenty-three. But I am not exchanging any of them, thanks!"

III

Trench-life in Belgium is an entirely different proposition from
trench-life in France. The undulating country in which we now find
ourselves offers an infinite choice of unpleasant surroundings.

Down south, Vermelles way, the trenches stretch in a comparatively
straight line for miles, facing one another squarely, and giving
little opportunity for tactical enterprise. The infantry blaze and
sputter at one another in front; the guns roar behind; and that is all
there is to be said about it. But here, the line follows the curve of
each little hill. At one place you are in a salient, in a trench which
runs round the face of a bulging "knowe"--a tempting target for shells
of every kind. A few hundred yards farther north, or south, the ground
is much lower, and the trench-line runs back into a re-entrant,
seeking for a position which shall not be commanded from higher ground
in front.

The line is pierced at intervals by railway-cuttings, which have to be
barricaded, and canals, which require special defences. Almost every
spot in either line is overlooked by some adjacent ridge, or enfiladed
from some adjacent trench. It is disconcerting for a methodical young
officer, after cautiously scrutinising the trench upon his front
through a periscope, to find that the entire performance has been
visible (and his entire person exposed) to the view of a Boche trench
situated on a hill-slope upon his immediate left.

And our trench-line, with its infinity of salients and re-entrants,
is itself only part of the great salient of "Wipers." You may imagine
with what methodical solemnity the Boche "crumps" the interior of that
constricted area. Looking round at night, when the star-shells float
up over the skyline, one could almost imagine one's self inside a
complete circle, instead of a horseshoe.

The machine-gunners of both sides are extremely busy. In the plains of
France the pursuit of their nefarious trade was practically limited to
front-line work. When they did venture to indulge in what they called
"overhead" fire, their friends in the forefront used to summon them
after the performance, and reproachfully point out sundry ominous
rents and abrasions in the back of the front-line parapet. But here
they can withdraw behind a convenient ridge, and _strafe_ Boches a
mile and a half away, without causing any complaints. Needless to say,
Brother Boche is not backward in returning the compliment. He has one
gun in particular which never tires in its efforts to rouse us from
_ennui_. It must be a long way off, for we can only just hear the
report. Moreover, its contribution to our liveliness, when it does
arrive, falls at an extremely steep angle--so steep, indeed, that it
only just clears the embankment under which we live, and falls upon
the very doorsteps of the dug-outs with which that sanctuary is
honeycombed.

This invigorating shower is turned on regularly for ten minutes, at
three, six, nine, and twelve o'clock daily. Its area of activity
includes our tiny but, alas! steadily growing cemetery. One evening a
regiment which had recently "taken over" selected 6 P.M. as a suitable
hour for a funeral. The result was a grimly humorous spectacle--the
mourners, including the Commanding Officer and officiating clergy,
taking hasty cover in a truly novel trench; while the central figure
of the obsequies, sublimely indifferent to the Hun and all his
frightfulness, lay on the grass outside, calm and impassive amid the
whispering hail of bullets.

As for the trenches themselves--well, as the immortal costermonger
observed, "there ain't no word in the blooming language" for them.

In the first place, there is no settled trench-line at all. The
Salient has been a battlefield for twelve months past. No one has ever
had the time, or opportunity, to construct anything in the shape of
permanent defences. A shallow trench, trimmed with an untidy parapet
of sandbags, and there is your stronghold! For rest and meditation,
a hole in the ground, half-full of water and roofed with a sheet
of galvanised iron; or possibly a glorified rabbit-burrow in a
canal-bank. These things, as a modern poet has observed, are all right
in the summer-time. But winter here is a disintegrating season. It
rains heavily for, say, three days. Two days of sharp frost succeed,
and the rain-soaked earth is reduced to the necessary degree of
friability. Another day's rain, and trenches and dug-outs come sliding
down like melted butter. Even if you revet the trenches, it is not
easy to drain them. The only difference is that if your line is
situated on the forward slope of a hill the support trench drains into
the firing-trench; if they are on the reverse slope, the firing-trench
drains into the support trench. Our indefatigable friends Box and Cox,
of the Royal Engineers, assisted by sturdy Pioneer Battalions, labour
like heroes; but the utmost they can achieve, in a low-lying country
like this, is to divert as much water as possible into some other
Brigade's area. Which they do, right cunningly.

In addition to the Boche, we wage continuous warfare with the
elements, and the various departments of Olympus render us
characteristic assistance. The Round Game Department has issued a set
of rules for the correct method of massaging and greasing the feet.
(Major Wagstaff e refers to this as, "Sole-slapping; or What to do in
the Children's Hour; complete in Twelve Fortnightly Parts.") The Fairy
Godmother Department presents us with what the Quartermaster describes
as "Boots, gum, thigh"; and there has also been an issue of so-called
fur jackets, in which the Practical Joke Department has plainly taken
a hand. Most of these garments appear to have been contributed by
animals unknown to zoology, or more probably by a syndicate thereof.
Corporal Mucklewame's costume gives him the appearance of a St.
Bernard dog with Astrakhan fore legs. Sergeant Carfrae is attired
in what looks like the skin of Nana, the dog-nurse in "Peter Pan."
Private Nigg, an undersized youth of bashful disposition, creeps
forlornly about his duties disguised as an imitation leopard. As he
passes by, facetious persons pull what is left of his tail. Private
Tosh, on being confronted with his winter _trousseau_, observed
bitterly--

"I jined the Airmy for tae be a sojer; but I doot they must have pit
me doon as a mountain goat!"

Still, though our variegated pelts cause us to resemble an
unsuccessful compromise between Esau and an Eskimo, they keep our
bodies warm. We wish we could say the same for our feet. On good days
we stand ankle-deep; on bad, we are occasionally over the knees.
Thrice blessed then are our Boots, Gum, Thigh, though even these
cannot altogether ward off frost-bite and chilblains.

Over the way, Brother Boche is having a bad time of it: his trenches
are in a worse state than ours. Last night a plaintive voice cried
out--

"Are you dere, Jock? Haf you whiskey? We haf plenty water!"

Not bad for a Boche, the platoon decided.

There is no doubt that whatever the German General Staff may think
about the war and the future, the German Infantry soldier is "fed-up."
His satiety takes the form of a craving for social intercourse with
the foe. In the small hours, when the vigilance of the German N.C.O.'s
is relaxed, and the officers are probably in their dug-outs, he makes
rather pathetic overtures. We are frequently invited to come out
and shake hands. "Dis war will be ober the nineteen of nex' month!"
(Evidently the Kaiser has had another revelation.) The other morning a
German soldier, with a wisp of something white in his hand, actually
clambered out of the firing-trench and advanced towards our lines. The
distance was barely seventy yards. No shot was fired, but you may be
sure that safety-catches were hastily released. Suddenly, in the tense
silence, the ambassador's nerve failed him. He bolted back, followed
by a few desultory bullets. The reason for his sudden panic was never
rightly ascertained, but the weight of public opinion inclined to the
view that Mucklewame, who had momentarily exposed himself above the
parapet, was responsible.

"I doot he thocht ye were a lion escapit from the Scottish Zoo!"
explained a brother corporal, referring to his indignant colleague's
new winter coat.

Here is another incident, with a different ending. At one point our
line approaches to within fifteen yards of the Boche trenches. One wet
and dismal dawn, as the battalion stood to arms in the neighbourhood
of this delectable spot, there came a sudden shout from the enemy, and
an outburst of rapid rifle fire. Almost simultaneously two breathless
and unkempt figures tumbled over our parapet into the firing-trench.
The fusillade died away.

To the extreme discomfort and shame of a respectable citizen of
Bannockburn, one Private Buncle, the more hairy of the two visitors,
upon recovering his feet, promptly flung his arms around his neck and
kissed him on both cheeks. The outrage was repeated, by his companion,
upon Private Nigg. At the same time both visitors broke into a joyous
chant of "Russky! Russky!" They were escaped Russian prisoners.

When taken to Headquarters they explained that they had been brought
up to perform fatigue work near the German trenches, and had seized
upon a quiet moment to slip into some convenient undergrowth. Later,
under cover of night, they had made their way in the direction of the
firing-line, arriving just in time to make a dash before daylight
discovered them. You may imagine their triumphal departure from our
trenches--loaded with cigarettes, chocolate, bully beef, and other
imperishable souvenirs.

We have had other visitors. One bright day a Boche aeroplane made
a reconnaissance of our lines. It was a beautiful thing, white and
birdlike. But as its occupants were probably taking photographs of our
most secret fastnesses, artistic appreciation was dimmed by righteous
wrath--wrath which turned to profound gratification when a philistine
British plane appeared in the blue and engaged the glittering stranger
in battle. There was some very pretty aerial manoeuvring, right over
our heads, as the combatants swooped and circled for position. We
could hear their machine-guns pattering away; and the volume of sound
was increased by the distant contributions of "Coughing Clara"--our
latest anti-aircraft gun, which appears to suffer from chronic
irritation of the mucous membrane.

Suddenly the German aeroplane gave a lurch; then righted herself; then
began to circle down, making desperate efforts to cross the neutral
line. But the British airman headed her off. Next moment she lurched
again, and then took a "nosedive" straight into the British trenches.
She fell on open ground, a few hundred yards behind our second line.
The place had been a wilderness a moment before; but the crowd which
instantaneously sprang up round the wreck could not have been less
than two hundred strong. (One observes the same uncanny phenomenon in
London, when a cab-horse falls down in a deserted street.) However,
it melted away at the rebuke of the first officer who hurried to the
spot, the process of dissolution being accelerated by several bursts
of German shrapnel.

Both pilot and observer were dead. They had made a gallant fight, and
were buried the same evening, with all honour, in the little cemetery,
alongside many who had once been their foes, but were now peacefully
neutral.

IV

The housing question in Belgium confronts us with several novel
problems. It is not so easy to billet troops here, especially in the
Salient, as in France. Some of us live in huts, others in tents,
others in dug-outs. Others, more fortunate, are loaded on to a fleet
of motor-buses and whisked off to more civilised dwellings many miles
away. These buses once plied for hire upon the streets of London. Each
bus is in charge of the identical pair of cross-talk comedians who
controlled its destinies in more peaceful days. Strangely attired in
khaki and sheepskin, they salute officers with cheerful _bonhomie_,
and bellow to one another throughout the journey the simple and
primitive jests of their previous incarnation, to the huge delight of
their fares.

The destination-boards and advertisements are no more, for the buses
are painted a neutral green all over; but the conductor is always
ready and willing to tell you what his previous route was.

"That Daimler behind you, sir," he informs you, "is one of the Number
Nineteens. Set you down at the top of Sloane Street many a time, I'll
be bound. Ernie"--this to the driver, along the side of the bus--"you
oughter have slowed down when thet copper waved his little flag: he
wasn't pleased with yer, ole son!" (The "copper" is a military mounted
policeman, controlling the traffic of a little town which lies on our
way to the trenches.) "This is a Number Eight, sir. No, that dent in
the staircase wasn't done by no shell. The ole girl got that through
a skid up against a lamp-post, one wet Saturday night in the Vauxhall
Bridge Road. Dangerous place, London!"

We rattle through a brave little town, which is "carrying on" in the
face of paralysed trade and periodical shelling. Soldiers abound. All
are muddy, but some are muddier than others. The latter are going up
to the trenches, the former are coming back. Upon the walls, here and
there, we notice a gay poster advertising an entertainment organised
by certain Divisional troops, which is to be given nightly throughout
the week. At the foot of the bill is printed in large capitals, A
HOOGE SUCCESS! We should like to send a copy of that plucky document
to Brother Boche. He would not understand it, but it would annoy him
greatly.

Now we leave the town behind, and quicken up along the open road--an
interminable ribbon of _pave_, absolutely straight, and bordered upon
either side by what was once macadam, but is now a quagmire a foot
deep. Occasionally there is a warning cry of "Wire!" and the outside
fares hurriedly bow from the waist, in order to avoid having their
throats cut by a telephone wire--"Gunners for a dollar!" surmises
a strangled voice--tightly stretched across the road between two
poplars. Occasionally, too, that indefatigable humorist, Ernie,
directs his course beneath some low-spreading branches, through which
the upper part of the bus crashes remorselessly, while the passengers,
lying sardine-wise upon the roof uplift their voices in profane and
bloodthirsty chorus.

"Nothing like a bit o' fun on the way to the trenches, boys! It may be
the last you'll get!" is the only apology which Ernie offers.

* * * * *

Presently our vehicle bumps across a nubbly bridge, and enters what
was once a fair city. It is a walled city, like Chester, and is
separated from the surrounding country by a moat as wide as the upper
Thames. In days gone by those ramparts and that moat could have held
an army at bay--and probably did, more than once. They have done so
yet again; but at what a cost!

We glide through the ancient gateway and along the ghostly streets,
and survey the crowning achievement of the cultured Boche. The great
buildings--the Cathedral, the Cloth Hall--are jagged ruins. The fronts
of the houses have long disappeared, leaving the interiors exposed to
view, like a doll's house. Here is a street full of shops. That heap
of splintered wardrobes and legless tables was once a furniture
warehouse. That snug little corner house, with the tottering zinc
counter and the twisted beer engine, is an obvious estaminet. You
may observe the sign, "Aux Deux Amis," in dingy lettering over the
doorway. Here is an oil-and-colour shop: you can still see the red
ochre and white lead splashed about among the ruins.

In almost every house the ceilings of the upper floors have fallen in.
Chairs, tables, and bedsteads hang precariously into the room below.
Here and there a picture still adheres to the wall. From one of the
bedposts flutters a tattered and diminutive garment of blue and white
check--some little girl's frock. Where is that little girl now, we
wonder; and has she got another frock?

One is struck above all things with the minute detail of the damage.
You would say that a party of lunatics had been let loose on the city
with coal-hammers: there is hardly a square yard of any surface which
is not pierced, or splintered, or dented. The whole fabric of the
place lies prostrate, under a shroud of broken bricks and broken
plaster. The Hun has said in his majesty: "If you will not yield me
this, the last city in the last corner of Belgium, I can at least see
to it that not one stone thereof remains upon another.--So yah!"

Such is the appearance presented by the venerable and historic city of
Ypres, after fifteen months of personal contact with the apostles of
the new civilisation. Only the methodical and painstaking Boche could
have reduced a town of such a size to such a state. Imagine Chester in
a similar condition, and you may realise the number of shells which
have fallen, and are still falling, into the stricken city.

But--the main point to observe is this. We are inside, and the
Boche is outside! Fenced by a mighty crescent of prosaic trenches,
themselves manned by paladins of an almost incredible stolidity, Ypres
still points her broken fingers to the sky--shattered, silent, but
inviolate still; and all owing to the obstinacy of a dull and unready
nation which merely keeps faith and stands by its friends. Such an
attitude of mind is incomprehensible to the Boche, and we are well
content that it should be so.

II

SHELL OUT!

I

This, according to our latest subaltern from home, is the title of a
_revue_ which is running in Town; but that is a mere coincidence. The
entertainment to which I am now referring took place in Flanders, and
the leading parts were assigned to distinguished members of "K (1)."

The scene was the Chateau de Grandbois, or some other kind of Bois;
possibly Vert. Not that we called it that: we invariably referred to
it afterwards as Hush Hall, for reasons which will be set forth in due
course.

One morning, while sojourning in what Olympus humorously calls a
rest-camp,--a collection of antiquated wigwams half submerged in a
mud-flat,--we received the intelligence that we were to extricate
ourselves forthwith, and take over a fresh sector of trenches. The news
was doubly unwelcome, because, in the first place, it is always
unpleasant to face the prospect of trenches of any kind; and secondly,
to take over strange trenches in the dead of a winter night is an
experience which borders upon nightmare--the
hot-lobster-and-toasted-cheese variety.

The opening stages of this enterprise are almost ritualistic in their
formality. First of all, the Brigade Staff which is coming in visits
the Headquarters of the Brigade which is going out--usually a chateau
or farm somewhere in rear of the trenches--and makes the preliminary
arrangements. After that the Commanding Officers and Company
Commanders of the incoming battalions visit their own particular
section of the line. They are shown over the premises by the outgoing
tenants, who make little or no attempt to conceal their satisfaction
at the expiration of their lease. The Colonels and the Captains then
return to camp, with depressing tales of crumbling parapets, noisome
dug-outs, and positions open to enfilade.

On the day of the relief various advance parties go up, keeping under
the lee of hedges and embankments, and marching in single file.
(At least, that is what they are supposed to do. If not ruthlessly
shepherded, they will advance in fours along the skyline.) Having
arrived, they take over such positions as can be relieved by daylight
in comparative safety. They also take over trench-stores, and exchange
trench-gossip. The latter is a fearsome and uncanny thing. It usually
begins life at the "refilling point," where the A.S.C. motor-lorries
dump down next day's rations, and the regimental transport picks them
up.

An A.S.C. Sergeant mentions casually to a regimental Quartermaster
that he has heard it said at the Supply Depot that heavy firing has
been going on in the Channel. The Quartermaster, on returning to the
Transport Lines, observes to his Quartermaster-Sergeant that the
German Fleet has come out at last. The Quartermaster-Sergeant, when he
meets the ration parties behind the lines that night, announces to a
platoon Sergeant that we have won a great naval victory. The platoon
Sergeant, who is suffering from trench feet and is a constant reader
of a certain pessimistic halfpenny journal, replies gloomily: "We'll
have had heavy losses oorselves, too, I doot!" This observation is
overheard by various members of the ration party. By midnight several
hundred yards of the firing-line know for a fact that there has been a
naval disaster of the first magnitude off the coast of a place which
every one calls Gally Polly, and that the whole of our Division are
to be transferred forthwith to the Near East to stem the tide of
calamity.

Still, we must have _something_ to chat about.

* * * * *

Meanwhile Brigade Majors and Adjutants, holding a stumpy pencil in one
hand and a burning brow in the other, are composing Operation Orders
which shall effect the relief, without--

(1) Leaving some detail--the bombers, or the snipers, or the
sock-driers, or the pea-soup experts--unrelieved altogether.

(2) Causing relievers and relieved to meet violently together in some
constricted fairway.

(3) Trespassing into some other Brigade Area. (This is far more
foolhardy than to wander into the German lines.)

(4) Getting shelled.

Pitfall Number One is avoided by keeping a permanent and handy list
of "all the people who do funny things on their own" (as the vulgar
throng call the "specialists"), and checking it carefully before
issuing Orders.

Number Two is dealt with by issuing a strict time-table, which might
possibly be adhered to by a well-drilled flock of archangels, in broad
daylight, upon good roads, and under peace conditions.

Number Three is provided for by copious and complicated map
references.

Number Four is left to Providence--and is usually the best-conducted
feature of the excursion.

Under cover of night the Battalion sets out, in comparatively
small parties. They form a strange procession. The men wear their
trench-costume--thigh-boots (which do not go well with a kilt),
variegated coats of skins, and woollen nightcaps. Stuffed under their
belts and through their packs they carry newspapers, broken staves
for firewood, parcels from home, and sandbags loaded with mysterious
comforts. A dilapidated parrot and a few goats are all that is
required to complete the picture of Robinson Crusoe changing camp.

Progress is not easy. It is a pitch-black night. By day, this road
(and all the countryside) is a wilderness: nothing more innocent ever
presented itself to the eye of an inquisitive aeroplane. But after
nightfall it is packed with troops and transport, and not a light is
shown. If you can imagine what the Mansion House crossing would be
like if called upon to sustain its midday traffic at midnight--the
Mansion House crossing entirely unilluminated, paved with twelve
inches of liquid mud, intersected by narrow strips of _pave_, and
liberally pitted with "crump-holes"--you may derive some faint idea of
the state of things at a busy road-junction lying behind the trenches.

Until reaching what is facetiously termed "the shell area"--as if any
spot in this benighted district were not a shell area--the troops plod
along in fours at the right of the road. If they can achieve two miles
an hour, they do well. At any moment they may be called upon to halt,
and crowd into the roadside, while a transport-train passes carrying
rations, and coke, and what is called "R.E. material"--this may be
anything from a bag of nails to steel girders nine feet long--up to
the firing-line. When this procession, consisting of a dozen limbered
waggons, drawn by four mules and headed by a profane person on
horseback--the Transport Officer--has rumbled past, the Company, which
has been standing respectfully in the ditch, enjoying a refreshing
shower-bath of mud and hoping that none of the steel girders are
projecting from the limber more than a yard or two, sets out once more
upon its way--only to take hasty cover again as sounds of fresh
and more animated traffic are heard approaching from the opposite
direction. There is no mistaking the nature of this cavalcade: the
long vista of glowing cigarette-ends tells an unmistakable tale.
These are artillery waggons, returning empty from replenishing the
batteries; scattering homely jests like hail, and proceeding, wherever
possible, at a hand-gallop. He is a cheery soul, the R.A. driver, but
his interpretation of the rules of the road requires drastic revision.

Sometimes an axle breaks, or a waggon side-slips off the _pave_ into
the morass reserved for infantry, and overturns. The result is a
block, which promptly extends forward and back for a couple of miles.
A peculiarly British chorus of inquiry and remonstrance--a blend of
biting sarcasm and blasphemous humour--surges up and down the
line; until plunging mules are unyoked, and the offending vehicle
man-handled out of sight into the inky blackness by the roadside; or,
in extreme cases, is annihilated with axes. Everything has to make
way for a ration train. To crown all, it is more than likely that the
calmness and smooth working of the proceedings will be assisted by a
burst of shrapnel overhead. It is a most amazing scrimmage altogether.
One of those members of His Majesty's Opposition who are doing so much
at present to save our country from destruction, by kindly pointing
out the mistakes of the British Government and the British Army,
would refer to the whole scene as a pandemonium of mismanagement and
ineptitude. And yet, though the scene is enacted night after night
without a break, there is hardly a case on record of the transport
being surprised upon these roads by the coming of daylight, and none
whatever of the rations and ammunition failing to get through.

It is difficult to imagine that Brother Boche, who on the other
side of that ring of star-shells is conducting a precisely similar
undertaking, is able, with all his perfect organisation and cast-iron
methods, to achieve a result in any way superior to that which Thomas
Atkins reaches by rule of thumb and sheer force of character.

* * * * *

At length the draggled Company worms its way through the press to the
fringe of the shell-area, beyond which no transport may pass. The
distance of this point from the trenches varies considerably, and
depends largely upon the caprice of the Boche. On this occasion,
however, we still have a mile or two to go--across country now, in
single file, at the heels of a guide from the battalion which we are
relieving.

Guides may be divided into two classes--

(1) Guides who do not know the way, and say so at the outset.

(2) Guides who do not know the way, but leave it to you to discover
the fact.

There are no other kinds of guides.

The pace is down to a mile an hour now, except in the case of men in
the tail of the line, who are running rapidly. It is a curious but
quite inexplicable fact that if you set a hundred men to march in
single file in the dark, though the leading man may be crawling like a
tortoise, the last man is compelled to proceed at a profane double if
he is to avoid being left behind and lost.

Still, everybody gets there somehow, and in due course the various
Company Commanders are enabled to telephone to their respective
Battalion Headquarters the information that the Relief is completed.
For this relief, much thanks!

After that the outgoing Battalion files slowly out, and the newcomers
are left gloomily contemplating their new abiding-place, and
observing--

"I wonder if there is _any_ Division in the whole blessed
Expeditionary Force, besides ours, which ever does a single damn thing
to keep its trenches in repair!"

II

All of which brings us back to Hush Hall, where the Headquarters of
the outgoing Brigade are handing over to their successors.

Hush Hall, or the Chateau de Quelquechose, is a modern country house,
and once stood up white and gleaming in all its brave finery of
stucco, conservatories, and ornamental lake, amid a pleasant wood not
far from a main road. It is such a house as you might find round about
Guildford or Hindhead. There are many in this fair countryside, but
few are inhabited now, and none by their rightful owners. They are all
marked on the map, and the Boche gunners are assiduous map-readers.
Hush Hall has got off comparatively lightly. It is still habitable,
and well furnished. The roof is demolished upon the side most exposed
to the enemy, and many of the trees in the surrounding wood are broken
and splintered by shrapnel. Still, provided the weather remains
passable, one can live there. Upon the danger-side the windows are
closed and shuttered. Weeds grow apace in the garden. No smoke emerges
from the chimneys. (If it does, the Mess Corporal hears about it from
the Staff Captain.) A few strands of barbed wire obstruct the passage
of those careless or adventurous persons who may desire to explore
the forbidden side of the house. The front door is bolted and barred:
visitors, after approaching stealthily along the lee of a hedge,
like travellers of dubious _bona fides_ on a Sunday afternoon, enter
unobtrusively by the back door, which is situated on the blind side of
the chateau. Their path thereto is beset by imploring notices like the
following:--

THE SLIGHTEST MOVEMENT DRAWS SHELL
FIRE. KEEP CLOSE TO THE HEDGE

A later hand has added the following moving postscript:--

WE LIVE HERE. YOU DON'T!

It was the Staff Captain who was responsible for the rechristening of
the establishment.

"What sort of place is this new palace we are going to doss in?"
inquired the Machine-Gun Officer, when the Staff Captain returned from
his preliminary visit.

The Staff Captain, who was a man of a few words, replied--

"It's the sort of shanty where everybody goes about in felt slippers,
saying 'Hush!'"

* * * * *

Brigade Headquarters--this means the Brigadier, the Brigade Major, the
Staff Captain, the Machine-Gun Officer, the Signal Officer, mayhap
a Padre and a Liaison Officer, accompanied by a mixed multitude of
clerks, telegraphists, and scullions--arrived safely at their new
quarters under cover of night, and were hospitably received by the
outgoing tenants, who had finished their evening meal and were girded
up for departure. In fact, the Machine-Gun Officer, Liaison Officer,
and Padre had already gone, leaving their seniors to hold the fort
till the last. The Signal Officer was down in the cellar, handing over
ohms, amperes, short-circuits, and other mysterious trench-stores to
his "opposite number."

Upon these occasions there is usually a good deal of time to fill in
between the arrival of the new brooms and the departure of the old.
This period of waiting may be likened to that somewhat anxious
interval with which frequenters of race-courses are familiar, between
the finish of the race and the announcement of the "All Right!"
The outgoing Headquarters are waiting for the magic words--"Relief
Complete!" Until that message comes over the buzzer, the period of
tension endures. The main point of difference is that the gentleman
who has staked his fortune on the legs of a horse has only to wait
a few minutes for the confirmation of his hopes; while a Brigadier,
whose bedtime (or even breakfast-time) is at the mercy of an errant
platoon, may have to sit up all night.

"Sit down and make yourselves comfortable," said A Brigade to X
Brigade.

X Brigade complied, and having been furnished with refreshment, led
off with the inevitable question--

"Does one--er--get shelled much here?"

There was a reassuring coo from A Brigade.

"Oh, no. This is a very healthy spot. One has to be careful, of
course. No movement, or fires, or anything of that kind. A sentry or
two, to warn people against approaching over the open by day, and
you'll be as cooshie as anything!" ("Cooshie" is the latest word here.
That and "crump.")

"I ought to warn you of one thing," said the Brigadier. "Owing to
the surrounding woods, sound is most deceptive here. You will hear
shell-bursts which appear quite close, when in reality they are quite
a distance away. That, for instance!"--as a shell exploded apparently
just outside the window. "That little fellow is a couple of hundred
yards away, in the corner of the wood. The Boche has been groping
about there for a battery for the last two days."

"Is the battery there?" inquired a voice.

"No; it is farther east. But there is a Gunner's Mess about two
hundred yards from here, in that house which you passed on the way
up."

"Oh!" observed X Brigade.

Gunners are peculiar people. When professionally engaged, no men could
be more retiring. They screen their operations from the public gaze
with the utmost severity, shrouding batteries in screens of foliage
and other rustic disguises. If a layman strays anywhere near one of
these arboreal retreats, a gunner thrusts out a visage enflamed with
righteous wrath, and curses him for giving the position away. But in
his hours of relaxation the gunner is a different being. He billets
himself in a house with plenty of windows: he illuminates all these by
night, and hangs washing therefrom by day. When inclined for exercise,
he goes for a promenade across an open space labelled--"Not to be used
by troops by daylight." Therefore, despite his technical excellence
and superb courage, he is an uncomfortable neighbour for
establishments like Hush Hall.

In this respect he offers a curious contrast to the Sapper. Off duty,
the Sapper is the most unobtrusive of men--a cave-man, in fact. He
burrows deep into the earth, or the side of a hill, and having secured
the roof of this cavern against direct hits by ingenious contrivances
of his own manufacture, constructs a suite of furniture of a solid and
enduring pattern, and lives the life of a comfortable recluse. But
when engaged in the pursuit of his calling, the Sapper is the least
retiring of men. The immemorial tradition of the great Corps to which
he belongs has ordained that no fire, however fierce, must be allowed
to interfere with a Sapper in the execution of his duty. This rule is
usually interpreted by the Sapper to mean that you must not perform
your allotted task under cover when it is possible to do so under
fire. To this is added, as a rider, that in the absence of an adequate
supply of fire, you must draw fire. So the Sapper walks cheerfully
about on the tops of parapets, hugging large and conspicuous pieces of
timber, or clashing together sheets of corrugated iron, as happy as a
king.

"You will find this house quite snug," continued the Brigadier. "The
eastern suite is to be avoided, because there is no roof there; and if
it rains outside for a day, it rains in the best bedroom for a week.
There is a big kitchen in the basement, with a capital range. That's
all, I think. The chief thing to avoid is movement of any kind. The
leaves are coming off the trees now--"

At this moment an orderly entered the room with a pink telegraph
message.

"Relief complete, sir!" announced the Brigade Major, reading it.

"Good work!" replied both Brigadiers, looking at their watches
simultaneously, "considering the state of the country." The Brigadier
of "A" rose to his feet.

"Now we can pass along quietly," he said. "Good luck to you. By the
way, take care of Edgar, won't you? Any little attention which you can
show him will be greatly appreciated."

"Who is Edgar?"

"Oh, I thought the Staff Captain would have told you. Edgar is the
swan--the last of his race, I'm afraid, so far as this place is
concerned. He lives on the lake, and usually comes ashore to draw his
rations about lunch-time. He is inclined to be stand-offish on one
side, as he has only one eye; but he is most affable on the other.
Well, now to find our horses!"

As the three officers departed down the backdoor steps, a hesitating
voice followed them--"H'm! Is there any place where one can go--a
cellar, or any old spot of that kind--just in case we are--"

"Bless you, you'll be all right!" was the cheery reply. (The outgoing
Brigade is always excessively cheery.) "But there are dug-outs over
there--in the garden. They haven't been occupied for some months,
so you may find them a bit ratty. You won't require them, though.
Good-night!"

III

_Whizz! Boom! Bang! Crash! Wump_!

"It's just as well," mused the Brigade Major, turning in his sleep
about three o'clock the following morning, "that they warned us about
the deceptive sound of the shelling here. One would almost imagine
that it was quite close.... That last one was heavy stuff: it shook
the whole place!... This is a topping mattress: it would be rotten
having to take to the woods again after getting into really cooshie
quarters at last.... There they go again!" as a renewed tempest of
shells rent the silence of night. "That old battery must be getting it
in the neck!... Hallo, I could have sworn something hit the roof that
time! A loose slate, I expect! Anyhow ..."

The Brigade Major, who had had a very long day, turned over and went
to sleep again.

IV

The next morning, a Sunday, broke bright and clear. Contrary to his
usual habit, the Brigade Major took a stroll in the garden before
breakfast. The first object which caught his eye, as he came down
the back-door steps, was the figure of the Staff Captain, brooding
pensively over a large crater, close to the hedge. The Brigade Major
joined him.

"I wonder if that was there yesterday!" he observed, referring to the
crater.

"Couldn't have been," growled the Staff Captain. "We walked to the
house along this very hedge. No craters then!"

"True!" agreed the Brigade Major amiably. He turned and surveyed the
garden. "That lawn looks a bit of a golf course. What lovely bunkers!"

"They appear to be quite new, too," remarked the Staff Captain
thoughtfully. "Come to breakfast!"

On their way back they found the Brigadier, the Machine-Gun Officer,
and the Padre, gazing silently upward.

"I wonder when that corner of the house got knocked off," the M.G.O.
was observing.

"Fairly recently, I should say," replied the Brigadier.

"Those marks beside your bedroom window, sir,--they look pretty
fresh!" interpolated the Padre, a sincere but somewhat tactless
Christian.

Brigade Headquarters regarded one another with dubious smiles.

"I _wonder_," began a tentative voice, "if those fellows last night
were indulging in a leg-pull--what is called in this country a
_lire-jambe_--when they assured us--"

WHOO-OO-OO-OO-UMP!

A shell came shrieking over the tree-tops, and fell with a tremendous
splash into the geometrical centre of the lake, fifty yards away.

* * * * *

For the next two hours, shrapnel, "whizz-bangs," "Silent Susies,"
and other explosive wildfowl raged round the walls of Hush Hall. The
inhabitants thereof, some twenty persons in all, were gathered in
various apartments on the lee side.

"It is still possible," remarked the Brigadier, lighting his pipe,
"that they are not aiming at us. However, it is just as inconvenient
to be buried by accident as by design. As soon as the first direct
hit is registered upon this imposing fabric, we will retire to the
dug-outs. Send word to the kitchen that every one is to be ready to
clear out of the house when necessary."

Next moment there came a resounding crash, easily audible above the
tornado raging in the garden, followed by the sound of splintering
glass. Hush Hall rocked. The Mess waiter appeared.

"A shell has just came in through the dining-room window, sirr," he
informed the Mess President, "and broke three of they new cups!"

"How tiresome!" said the Brigadier. "Dug-outs, everybody!"

V

There were no casualties, which was rather miraculous. Late in the
afternoon Brigade Headquarters ventured upon another stroll in the
garden. The tumult had ceased, and the setting Sabbath sun glowed
peacefully upon the battered countenance of Hush Hall. The damage
was not very extensive, for the house was stoutly built. Still,
two bedrooms, recently occupied, were a wreck of broken glass and
splintered plaster, while the gravel outside was littered with lead
sheeting and twisted chimney-cans. The shell which had aroused the
indignation of the Mess waiter by entering the dining-room window, had
in reality hit the ground directly beneath it. Six feet higher, and
the Brigadier's order to clear the house would have been entirely
superfluous.

The Brigade Major and the Staff Captain surveyed the unruffled surface
of the lake--a haunt of ancient peace in the rays of the setting sun.
Upon the bosom thereof floated a single, majestic, one-eyed swan,
performing intricate toilet exercises. It was Edgar.

"He must have a darned good dug-out somewhere!" observed the Brigade
Major enviously.

III

WINTER SPORTS: VARIOUS

I

Hush Hall having become an even less desirable place of residence than
had hitherto been thought possible, Headquarters very sensibly sent
for their invaluable friends, Box and Cox, of the Royal Engineers,
and requested that they would proceed to make the place proof against
shells and weather, forthwith, if not sooner.

Those phlegmatic experts made a thorough investigation of the
resources of the establishment, and departed mysteriously, after the
fashion of the common plumber of civilisation, into space. Three days
later they returned, accompanied by a horde of acolytes, who,
with characteristic contempt for the pathetic appeals upon the
notice-boards, proceeded to dump down lumber, sandbags, and corrugated
iron roofing in the most exposed portions of the garden.

This done, some set out to shore up the ceilings of the basement with
mighty battens of wood, and to convert that region into a nest of
cunningly devised bedrooms. Others reinforced the flooring above with
a layer of earth and brick rubble three feet deep. On the top of all
this they relaid not only the original floor, but eke the carpet.

"The only difference from before, sir," explained Box to the admiring
Staff Captain, "is that people will have to walk up three steps to get
into the dining-room now, instead of going in on the level."

"I wonder what the Marquise de Chilquichose will think of it all when
she returns to her ancestral home," mused the Staff Captain.

"If anything," maintained the invincible Box, "we have improved it for
her. For example, she can now light the chandelier without standing on
a chair--without getting up from table, in fact! However, to resume.
The fireplace, you will observe, has not been touched. I have left a
sort of well in the floor all round it, lined with some stuff I found
in Mademoiselle's room. At least," added Box coyly, "I think it must
have been Mademoiselle's room! You can sit in the well every evening
after supper. The walls of this room"--prodding the same--"are lined
with sandbags, covered with tapestry. Pretty artistic--what?"

"Extremely," agreed the Staff Captain. "You will excuse my raising the
point, I know, but can the apartment now be regarded as shell-proof?"

"Against everything but a direct hit. I wouldn't advise you to sleep
on this floor much, but you could have your meals here all right.
Then, if the Boche starts putting over heavy stuff, you can pop down
into the basement and have your dessert in bed. You'll be absolutely
safe there. In fact, the more the house tumbles down the safer you
will be. It will only make your protection shell thicker. So if you
hear heavy thuds overhead, don't be alarmed!"

"I won't," promised the Staff Captain. "I shall lie in bed, drinking
a nice hot cup of tea, and wondering whether the last crash was the
kitchen chimney, or only the drawing-room piano coming down another
storey. Now show me my room."

"We have had to put you in the larder," explained Box apologetically,
as he steered his guest through a forest of struts with an electric
torch. "At least, I think it's the larder: it has a sort of meaty
smell. The General is in the dairy--a lovely little suite, with white
tiles. The Brigade Major has the scullery: it has a sink, so is
practically as good as a flat in Park Place. I have run up cubicles
for the others in the kitchen. Here is your little cot. It is only six
feet by four, but you can dress in the garden."

"It's a _sweet_ little nest, dear!" replied the Staff Captain, quite
hypnotised by this time. "I'll just get my maid to put me into
something loose, and then I'll run along to your room, and we'll have
a nice cosy gossip together before dinner!"

* * * * *

In due course we removed our effects from the tottering and rat-ridden
dug-outs in which we had taken sanctuary during the shelling, and
prepared to settle down for the winter in our new quarters.

"We might be _very_ much worse off!" we observed the first evening,
listening to the comfortably muffled sounds of shells overhead.

And we were right. Three days later we received an intimation from the
Practical Joke Department that we were to evacuate our present sector
of trenches (including Hush Hall) forthwith, and occupy another part
of the line.

In all Sports, Winter and Summer, the supremacy of the Practical Joke
Department is unchallenged.

II

Meanwhile, up in the trenches, the combatants are beguiling the time
in their several ways.

Let us take the reserve line first--the lair of Battalion Headquarters
and its appurtenances. Much of our time here, as elsewhere, is
occupied in unostentatious retirement to our dug-outs, to avoid the
effects of a bombardment. But a good amount--an increasing amount--of
it is devoted to the contemplation of our own shells bursting over the
Boche trenches. Gone are the days during which we used to sit close
and "stick it out," consoling ourselves with the vague hope that
by the end of the week our gunners might possibly have garnered
sufficient ammunition to justify a few brief hours' retaliation. The
boot is on the other leg now. For every Boche battery that opens on
us, two or three of ours thunder back a reply--and that without any
delays other than those incidental to the use of that maddening
instrument, the field-telephone. During the past six months neither
side has been able to boast much in the way of ground actually gained;
but the moral ascendancy--the initiative--the offensive--call it what
you will--has changed hands; and no one knows it better than the
Boche. We are the attacking party now.

The trenches in this country are not arranged with such geometric
precision as in France. For instance, the reserve line is not always
connected with the firing-lines by a communication-trench.
Those persons whose duty it is to pay daily visits to the
fire-trenches--Battalion Commanders, Gunner and Sapper officers,
an occasional Staff Officer, and an occasional most devoted
Padre--perform the journey as best they may. Sometimes they skirt a
wood or hedge, sometimes they keep under the lee of an embankment,
sometimes they proceed across the open, with the stealthy caution
of persons playing musical chairs, ready to sit down in the nearest
shell-crater the moment the music--in the form of a visitation of
"whizz-bangs"--strikes up.

It is difficult to say which kind of weather is least favourable to
this enterprise. On sunny days one's movements are visible to Boche
observers upon distant summits; while on foggy days the Boche gunners,
being able to see nothing at all, amuse themselves by generous and
unexpected contributions of shrapnel in all directions. Stormy weather
is particularly unpleasant, for the noise of the wind in the trees
makes it difficult to hear the shell approaching. Days of heavy rain
are the most desirable on the whole, for then the gunners are too
busy bailing out their gun-pits to worry their heads over adventurous
pedestrians. One learns, also, to mark down and avoid particular
danger-spots. For instance, the southeast corner of that wood, where
a reserve company are dug in, is visited by "Silent Susans" for about
five minutes each noontide: it is therefore advisable to select some
other hour for one's daily visit. (Silent Susan, by the way, is not a
desirable member of the sex. Owing to her intensely high velocity she
arrives overhead without a sound, and then bursts with a perfectly
stunning detonation and a shower of small shrapnel bullets.) There
is a fixed rifle-battery, too, which fires all day long, a shot at a
time, down the main street of the ruined and deserted village named
Vrjoozlehem, through which one must pass on the way to the front-line
trenches. Therefore in negotiating this delectable spot, one shapes
a laborious course through a series of back yards and garden-plots,
littered with broken furniture and brick rubble, allowing the
rifle-bullets the undisputed use of the street. The mention of
Vrjoozlehem--that is not its real name, but a simplified form of
it--brings to our notice the wholesale and whole-hearted fashion in
which the British Army has taken Belgian institutions under its wing.
Nomenclature, for instance. In France we make no attempt to interfere
with this: we content ourselves with devising a pronounceable
variation of the existing name. For example, if a road is called La
Rue de Bois, we simply call it "Roodiboys," and leave it at that.
On the same principle, Etaples is modified to "Eatables," and
Sailly-la-Bourse to "Sally Booze." But in Belgium more drastic
procedure is required. A Scotsman is accustomed to pronouncing
difficult names, but even he is unable to contend with words composed
almost entirely of the letters _j, z_, and _v_. So our resourceful
Ordnance Department has issued maps--admirable maps--upon which the
outstanding features of the landscape are marked in plain figures.
But instead of printing the original place-names, they put "Moated
Grange," or "Clapham Junction," or "Dead Dog Farm," which simplifies
matters beyond all possibility of error. (The system was once
responsible, though, for an unjust if unintentional aspersion upon
the character of a worthy man. The C.O. of a certain battalion had
occasion to complain to those above him of the remissness of one of
his chaplains. "He's a lazy beggar, sir," he said. "Over and over
again I have told him to come up and show himself in the front-line
trenches, but he never seems to be able to get past Leicester
Square!")

The naming of the trenches themselves has been left largely to local
enterprise. An observant person can tell, by a study of the numerous
name-boards, which of his countrymen have been occupying the line
during the past six months. "Grainger Street" and "Jesmond Dene" give
direct evidence of "Canny N'castle." "Sherwood Avenue" and "Notts
Forest" have a Midland flavour. Lastly, no great mental effort is
required to decide who labelled two communication trenches "The
Gorbals" and "Coocaddens" respectively!

Some names have obviously been bestowed by officers, as "Sackville
Street," "The Albany," and "Burlington Arcade" denote. "Pinch-Gut"
and "Crab-Crawl" speak for themselves. So does "Vermin Villa." Other
localities, again, have obviously been labelled by persons endowed
with a nice gift of irony. "Sanctuary Wood" is the last place on earth
where any one would dream of taking sanctuary; while "Lovers' Walk,"
which bounds it, is the scene of almost daily expositions of the
choicest brand of Boche "hate."

And so on. But one day, when the War is over, and this mighty
trench-line is thrown open to the disciples of the excellent Mr.
Cook--as undoubtedly it will be--care should be taken that these
street-names are preserved and perpetuated. It would be impossible to
select a more characteristic and fitting memorial to the brave hearts
who constructed them--too many of whom are sleeping their last sleep
within a few yards of their own cheerful handiwork.

III

After this digression we at length reach the firing-line. It is quite
unlike anything of its kind that we have hitherto encountered. It
is situated in what was once a thick wood. Two fairly well-defined
trenches run through the undergrowth, from which the sentries of
either side have been keeping relentless watch upon one another, night
and day, for many months. The wood itself is a mere forest of poles:
hardly a branch, and not a twig, has been spared by the shrapnel. In
the no-man's-land between the trenches the poles have been reduced to
mere stumps a few inches high.

It is behind the firing-trench that the most unconventional scene
presents itself. Strictly speaking, there ought to be--and generally
is--a support-line some seventy yards in rear of the first. This
should be occupied by all troops not required in the firing-trench.
But the trench is empty--which is not altogether surprising,
considering that it is half-full of water. Its rightful occupants are
scattered through the wood behind--in dug-outs, in redoubts, or _en
plein air_--cooking, washing, or repairing their residences. The whole
scene suggests a gipsy encampment rather than a fortified post. A
hundred yards away, through the trees, you can plainly discern the
Boche firing-trench, and the Boche in that trench can discern you: yet
never a shot comes. It is true that bullets are humming through the
air and glancing off trees, but these are mostly due to the enterprise
of distant machine-guns and rifle-batteries, firing from some position
well adapted for enfilade. Frontal fire there is little or none. In
the front-line trenches, at least, Brother Boche has had enough of it.
His motto now is, "Live and let live!" In fact, he frequently makes
plaintive statements to that effect in the silence of night.

You might think, then, that life in Willow Grove would be a tranquil
affair. But if you look up among the few remaining branches of that
tall tree in the centre of the wood, you may notice shreds of some
material flapping in the breeze. Those are sandbags--or were. Last
night, within the space of one hour, seventy-three shells fell into
this wood, and the first of them registered a direct hit upon the
dug-out of which those sandbags formed part. There were eight men
in that dug-out. The telephone-wires were broken in the first few
minutes, and there was some delay before word could be transmitted
back to Headquarters. Then our big guns far in rear spoke out, until
the enemy's batteries (probably in response to an urgent appeal from
their own front line) ceased firing. Thereupon "A" Company, who at
Bobby Little's behest had taken immediate cover in the water-logged
support-trench, returned stolidly to their dug-outs in Willow Grove.
Death, when he makes the mistake of raiding your premises every day,
loses most of his terrors and becomes a bit of a bore.

This morning the Company presents its normal appearance: its numbers
have been reduced by eight--_c'est tout_! It may be some one else's
turn to-morrow, but after all, that is what we are here for. Anyhow,
we are keeping the Boches out of "Wipers," and a bit over. So we
stretch our legs in the wood, and keep the flooded trench for the next
emergency.

Let us approach a group of four which is squatting sociably round a
small and inadequate fire of twigs, upon which four mess-tins are
simmering. The quartette consists of Privates Cosh and Tosh, together
with Privates Buncle and Nigg, preparing their midday meal.

"Tak' off your damp chup, Jimmy," suggested Tosh to Buncle, who was
officiating as stoker. "Ye mind what the Captain said aboot smoke?"

"It wasna the Captain: it was the Officer," rejoined Buncle
cantankerously.

(It may here be explained, at the risk of another digression, that no
length of association or degree of intimacy will render the average
British soldier familiar with the names of his officers. The Colonel
is "The C.O."; the Second in Command is "The Major"; your Company
Commander is "The Captain," and your Platoon Commander "The Officer."
As for all others of commissioned rank in the regiment, some
twenty-four in all, they are as nought. With the exception of the
Quartermaster, in whose shoes each member of the rank and file hopes
one day to stand, they simply do not exist.)

"Onyway," pursued the careful Tosh, "he said that if any smoke was
shown, all fires was tae be pitten oot. So mind and see no' to get a
cauld dinner for us all, Jimmy!"

"Cauld or het," retorted the gentleman addressed, "it's little dinner
I'll be gettin' this day! And ye ken fine why!" he added darkly.

Private Tosh removed a cigarette from his lower lip and sighed
patiently.

"For the last time," he announced, with the air of a righteous man
suffering long, "I did not lay ma hand on your dirrty wee bit ham!"

"Maybe," countered the bereaved Buncle swiftly, "you did not lay your
hand upon it; but you had it tae your breakfast for all that, Davie!"

"I never pit ma hand on it!" repeated Tosh doggedly.

"No? Then I doot you gave it a bit kick with your foot," replied the
inflexible Buncle.

"Or got some other body tae luft it for him!" suggested Private Nigg,
looking hard at Tosh's habitual accomplice, Cosh.

"I had it pitten in an auld envelope from hame, addressed with my
name," continued the mourner. "It couldna hae got oot o' that by
accident!"

"Weel," interposed Cosh, with forced geniality, "it's no a thing tae
argie-bargie aboot. Whatever body lufted it, it's awa' by this time.
It's a fine day, boys!"

This flagrant attempt to raise the conversation to a less
controversial plane met with no encouragement. Private Buncle,
refusing to be appeased, replied sarcastically--

"Aye, is it? And it was a fine nicht last nicht, especially when the
shellin' was gaun on! Especially in number seeven dug-oot!"

There was a short silence. Number seven dug-out was no more, and five
of its late occupants were now lying under their waterproof sheets,
not a hundred yards away, waiting for a Padre. Presently, however,
the pacific Cosh, who in his hours of leisure was addicted to mild
philosophical rumination, gave a fresh turn to the conversation.

"Mphm!" he observed thoughtfully. "They say that in a war every man
has a bullet waiting for him some place or other, with his name on
it! Sooner or later, he gets it. Aye! Mphm!" He sucked his teeth
reflectively, and glanced towards the Field Ambulance. "Sooner or
later!"

"What for would he pit his name on it, Wully?" inquired Nigg, who was
not very quick at grasping allusions.

"He wouldna pit on the name himself," explained the philosopher.
"What I mean is, there's a bullet for each one of us somewhere over
there"--he jerked his head eastward--"in a Gairman pooch."

"What way could a Gairman pit my name on a bullet?" demanded Nigg
triumphantly. "He doesna ken it!"

"Man," exclaimed Cosh, shedding some of his philosophic calm, "can ye
no unnerstand that what I telled ye was jist a mainner of speakin'?
When I said that a man's name was on a bullet, I didna mean that it
was _written_ there."

"Then what the hell _did_ ye mean?" inquired the mystified
disciple--not altogether unreasonably.

Private Tosh made a misguided but well-meaning attempt to straighten
out the conversation.

"He means, Sandy," he explained in a soothing voice, "that the name
was just stampit on the bullet. Like--like--like an identity disc!" he
added brilliantly.

The philosopher clutched his temples with both hands.

"I dinna mean onything o' the kind," he roared. "What I intend tae
imply is _this_, Sandy Nigg. Some place over there there is a bullet
in a Gairman's pooch, and one day that bullet will find its way intil
your insides as sure as if your name was written on it! _That's_ what
I meant. Jist a mainner of speakin'. Dae ye unnerstand me the noo?"

But it was the injured Buncle who replied--like a lightning-flash.

"Never you fear, Sandy, boy!" he proclaimed to his perturbed ally.
"That bullet has no' gotten your length yet. Maybe it never wull.
There's mony a thing in this worrld with one man's name on it that
finds its way intil the inside of some other man." He fixed Tosh with
a relentless eye. "A bit ham, for instance!"

It was a knock-out blow.

"For ony sake," muttered the now demoralised Tosh, "drop the subject,
and I'll gie ye a bit ham o' ma ain! There's just time tae cook it--"

"What kin' o' a fire is this?"

A cold shadow fell upon the group as a substantial presence inserted
itself between the debaters and the wintry sunshine. Corporal
Mucklewame was speaking, in his new and awful official voice, pointing
an accusing finger at the fire, which, neglected in the ardour of
discussion, was smoking furiously.

"Did you wish the hale wood tae be shelled?" continued Mucklewame
sarcastically. "Put oot the fire at once, or I'll need tae bring ye
all before the Officer. It is a cauld dinner ye'll get, and ye'll
deserve it!"

IV

In the fire-trench--or perhaps it would be more correct to call it the
water-trench--life may be short, and is seldom merry; but it is not
often dull. For one thing, we are never idle.

A Boche trench-mortar knocks down several yards of your parapet.
Straightway your machine-gunners are called up, to cover the gap
until darkness falls and the gaping wound can be stanched with fresh
sandbags. A mine has been exploded upon your front, leaving a crater
into which predatory Boches will certainly creep at night. You summon
a _posse_ of bombers to occupy the cavity and discourage any
such enterprise. The heavens open, and there is a sudden deluge.
Immediately it is a case of all hands to the trench-pump! A better
plan, if you have the advantage of ground, is to cut a culvert under
the parapet and pass the inundation on to a more deserving quarter. In
any case you need never lack healthful exercise.

While upon the subject of mines, we may note that this branch of
military industry has expanded of late to most unpleasant dimensions.
The Boche began it, of course--he always initiates these undesirable
pastimes,--and now we have followed his lead and caught him up.

To the ordinary mortal, to become a blind groper amid the dark places
of the earth, in search of a foe whom it is almost certain death to
encounter there, seems perhaps the most idiotic of all the idiotic
careers open to those who are idiotic enough to engage in modern
warfare. However, many of us are as much at home below ground as above
it. In most peaceful times we were accustomed to spend eight hours a
day there, lying up against the "face" in a tunnel perhaps four feet
high, and wielding a pick in an attitude which would have convulsed
any ordinary man with cramp. But there are few ordinary men in
"K(1)" There is never any difficulty in obtaining volunteers for the
Tunnelling Company.

So far as the amateur can penetrate its mysteries, mining, viewed
under our present heading--namely, Winter Sports--offers the following
advantages to its participants:--

(1) In winter it is much warmer below the earth than upon its surface,
and Thomas Atkins is the most confirmed "frowster" in the world.

(2) Critics seldom descend into mines.

(3) There is extra pay.

The disadvantages are so obvious that they need not be enumerated
here.

In these trenches we have been engaged upon a very pretty game of
subterranean chess for some weeks past, and we are very much on our
mettle. We have some small leeway to make up. When we took over these
trenches, a German mine, which had been maturing (apparently unheeded)
during the tenancy of our predecessors, was exploded two days after
our arrival, inflicting heavy casualties upon "D" Company. Curiously
enough, the damage to the trench was comparatively slight; but
the tremendous shock of the explosion killed more than one man by
concussion, and brought down the roofs of several dug-outs upon
their sleeping occupants. Altogether it was a sad business, and the
Battalion swore to be avenged.

So they called upon Lieutenant Duff-Bertram--usually called Bertie the
Badger, in reference to his rodent disposition--to make the first move
in the return match. So Bertie and his troglodyte assistants sank
a shaft in a retired spot of their own selecting, and proceeded to
burrow forward towards the Boche lines.

After certain days Bertie presented himself, covered in clay, before
Colonel Kemp, and made a report.

Colonel Kemp considered.

"You say you can hear the enemy working?" he said.

"Yes, sir."

"Near?"

"Pretty near, sir."

"How near?"

"A few yards."

"What do you propose to do?"

Bertie the Badger--in private life he was a consulting mining engineer
with a beautiful office in Victoria Street and a nice taste in
spats--scratched an earthy nose with a muddy forefinger.

"I think they are making a defensive gallery, sir," he announced.

"Let us have your statement in the simplest possible language,
please," said Colonel Kemp. "Some of my younger officers," he added
rather ingeniously, "are not very expert in these matters."

Bertie the Badger thereupon expounded the situation with solemn
relish. By a defensive gallery, it appeared that he meant a lateral
tunnel running parallel with the trench-line, in such a manner as to
intercept any tunnel pushed out by the British miners.

"And what do you suggest doing to this Piccadilly Tube of theirs?"
inquired the Colonel.

"I could dig forward and break into it, sir," suggested Bertie.

"That seems a move in the right direction," said the Colonel. "But
won't the Boche try to prevent you?"

"Yes, sir."

"How?"

"He will wait until the head of my tunnel gets near enough, and then
blow it in."

"That would be very tiresome of him. What other alternatives are open
to you?"

"I could get as near as possible, sir," replied Bertie calmly, "and
then blowup _his_ gallery."

"That sounds better. Well, exercise your own discretion, and don't get
blown up unless you particularly want to. And above all, be quite sure
that while you are amusing yourself with the Piccadilly Tube, the
wily Boche isn't burrowing past _you_, and under my parapet, by the
Bakerloo! Good luck! Report any fresh development at once."

So Bertie the Badger returned once more to his native element and
proceeded to exercise his discretion. This took the form of continuing
his aggressive tunnel in the direction of the Boche defensive gallery.
Next morning, encouraged by the absolute silence of the enemy's
miners, he made a farther and final push, which actually landed him in
the "Piccadilly Tube" itself.

"This is a rum go, Howie!" he observed in a low voice to his
corporal. "A long, beautiful gallery, five by four, lined with wood,
electrically lighted, with every modern convenience--and not a Boche
in it!"

"Varra bad discipline, sir!" replied Corporal Howie severely.

"Are you sure it isn't a trap?"

"It may be, sirr; but I doot the oversman is awa' to his dinner, and
the men are back in the shaft, doing naething." Corporal Howie had
been an "oversman" himself, and knew something of subterranean labour
problems.

"Well, if you are right, the Boche must be getting demoralised. It is
not like him to present us with openings like this. However, the first
thing to do is to distribute a few souvenirs along the gallery. Pass
the word back for the stuff. Meanwhile I shall endeavour to test your
theory about the oversman's dinner-hour. I am going to creep along and
have a look at the Boche entrance to the Tube. It's down there, at the
south end, I think. I can see a break in the wood lining. If you hear
any shooting, you will know that the dinner-hour is over!"

At the end of half an hour the Piccadilly Tube was lined with
sufficient explosive material--securely rammed and tamped--to ensure
the permanent closing of the line. Still no Boche had been seen or
heard.

"Now, Howie," said Bertie the Badger, fingering the fuse, "what about
it?"

"About what, sirr?" inquired Howie, who was not quite _au fait_ with
current catch-phrases.

"Are we going to touch off all this stuff now, and clear out, or are
we going to wait and see?"

"I would like fine--" began the Corporal wistfully.

"So would I," said Bertie. "Tell the men to get back and out; and you
and I will hold on until the guests return from the banquet."

"Varra good, sirr."

For another half-hour the pair waited--Bertie the Badger like a dog in
its kennel, with his head protruding into the hostile gallery, while
his faithful henchman crouched close behind him. Deathly stillness
reigned, relieved only by an occasional thud, as a shell or
trench-mortar bomb exploded upon the ground above their heads.

"I'm going to have another look round the corner," said Bertie at
last. "Hold on to the fuse."

He handed the end of the fuse to his subordinate, and having wormed
his way out of the tunnel, proceeded cautiously on all-fours along the
gallery. On his way he passed the electric light. He twisted off the
bulb and crawled on in the dark.

Feeling his way by the east wall of the gallery, he came presently to
the break in the woodwork. Very slowly, lying flat on his stomach now,
he wriggled forward until his head came opposite the opening. A low
passage ran away to his left, obviously leading back to the Boche
trenches. Three yards from the entrance the passage bent sharply to
the right, thus interrupting the line of sight.

"There's a light burning just round that bend," said Bertie the Badger
to himself. "I wonder if it would be rash to go on and have a look at
it!"

He was still straining at this gnat, when suddenly his elbow
encountered a shovel which was leaning against the wall of the
gallery. It tumbled down with a clatter almost stunning. Next moment
a hand came round the bend of the tunnel and fired a revolver almost
into the explorer's face.

Another shot rang out directly after.

The devoted Howie, hastening to the rescue, collided sharply with a
solid body crawling towards him in the darkness.

"Curse you, Howie!" said the voice of Bertie the Badger, with
refreshing earnestness. "Get back out of this! Where's your fuse?"

The pair scrambled back into their own tunnel, and the end of the fuse
was soon recovered. Almost simultaneously three more revolver-shots
rang out.

"I thought I had fixed that Boche," murmured Bertie in a disappointed
voice. "I heard him grunt when my bullet hit him. Perhaps this is
another one--or several. Keep back in the tunnel, Howie, confound you,
and don't breathe up my sleeve! They are firing straight along the
gallery now. I will return the compliment. Ouch!"

"What's the matter, sirr?" inquired the anxious voice of Howie, as his
officer, who had tried to fire round the corner with his left hand,
gave a sudden exclamation and rolled over upon his side.

"I must have been hit the first time," he explained. "Collar-bone, I
think. I didn't know, till I rested my weight on my left elbow....
Howie, I am going to exercise my discretion again. Somebody in this
gallery is going to be blown up presently, and if you and I don't get
a move on, p.d.q., it will be us! Give me the fuse-lighter, and wait
for me at the foot of the shaft. Quick!"

Very reluctantly the Corporal obeyed. However, he was in due course
joined at the foot of the shaft by Bertie the Badger, groaning
profanely; and the pair made their way to the upper regions with all
possible speed. After a short interval, a sudden rumbling, followed by
a heavy explosion, announced that the fuse had done its work, and
that the Piccadilly Tube, the fruit of many toilsome weeks of Boche
calculation and labour, had been permanently closed to traffic of all
descriptions.

Bertie the Badger received a Military Cross, and his abettor the
D.C.M.

V

But the newest and most fashionable form of winter sport this season
is The Flying Matinee.

This entertainment takes place during the small hours of the morning,
and is strictly limited to a duration of ten minutes--quite long
enough for most matinees, too. The actors are furnished by a unit of
"K(1)" and the role of audience is assigned to the inhabitants of the
Boche trenches immediately opposite. These matinees have proved an
enormous success, but require most careful rehearsal.

It is two A.M., and comparative peace reigns up and down the line. The
rain of star-shells, always prodigal in the early evening, has died
down to a mere drizzle. Working and fatigue parties, which have been
busy since darkness set in at five o'clock,--rebuilding parapets,
repairing wire, carrying up rations, and patrolling debatable
areas,--have ceased their labours, and are sleeping heavily until the
coming of the wintry dawn shall rouse them, grimy and shivering, to
another day's unpleasantness.

Private Hans Dumpkopf, on sentry duty in the Boche firing-trench,
gazes mechanically over the parapet; but the night is so dark and the
wind so high that it is difficult to see and quite impossible to hear
anything. He shelters himself beside a traverse, and waits patiently
for his relief. It begins to rain, and Hans, after cautiously
reconnoitring the other side of the traverse, to guard against
prowling sergeants, sidles a few yards to his right beneath the
friendly cover of an improvised roof of corrugated iron sheeting, laid
across the trench from parapet to parados. It is quite dry here, and
comparatively warm. Hans closes his eyes for a moment, and heaves a
gentle sigh.

Next moment there comes a rush of feet in the darkness, followed by a
metallic clang, as of hobnailed boots on metal. Hans, lying prostrate
and half-stunned beneath the galvanised iron sheeting, which,
dislodged from its former position by the impact of a heavy body
descending from above, now forms part of the flooring of the trench,
is suddenly aware that this same trench is full of men--rough,
uncultured men, clad in short petticoats and the skins of wild
animals, and armed with knobkerries. The Flying Matinee has begun, and
Hans Dumpkopf has got in by the early door.

Each of the performers--there are fifty of them all told--has his part
to play, and plays it with commendable aplomb. One, having disarmed
an unresisting prisoner, assists him over the parapet and escorts him
affectionately to his new home. Another clubs a recalcitrant foeman
over the head with a knobkerry, and having thus reduced him to a more
amenable frame of mind, hoists him over the parapet and drags him
after his "kamarad."

Other parties are told off to deal with the dug-outs. As a rule, the
occupants of these are too dazed to make any resistance,--to be quite
frank, the individual Boche in these days seems rather to welcome
captivity than otherwise,--and presently more of the "bag" are on
their way to the British lines.

But by this time the performance is drawing to a close. The alarm
has been communicated to the adjacent sections of the trench, and
preparations for the ejection of the intruders are being hurried
forward. That is to say, German bombers are collecting upon either
flank, with the intention of bombing "inwards" until the impudent foe
has been destroyed or evicted. As we are not here to precipitate a
general action, but merely to round up a few prisoners and do as much
damage as possible in ten minutes, we hasten to the finale. As in most
finales, one's actions now become less restrained--but, from a brutal
point of view, more effective. A couple of hand-grenades are thrown
into any dug-out which has not yet surrendered. (The Canadians,
who make quite a speciality of flying matinees, are accustomed, we
understand, as an artistic variant to this practice, to fasten an
electric torch along the barrel of a rifle, and so illuminate their
lurking targets while they shoot.) A sharp order passes along the
line; every one scrambles out of the trench; and the troupe makes
its way back, before the enemy in the adjacent trenches have really
wakened up, to the place from which it came. The matinee, so far as
the actors are concerned, is over.

Not so the audience. The avenging host is just getting busy. The
bombing-parties are now marshalled and proceed with awful solemnity
and Teutonic thoroughness to clear the violated trench. The procedure
of a bombing-party is stereotyped. They begin by lobbing hand-grenades
over the first traverse into the first bay. After the ensuing
explosion, they trot round the traverse in single file and occupy
the bay. This manoeuvre is then repeated until the entire trench is
cleared. The whole operation requires good discipline, considerable
courage, and carefully timed co-operation with the other
bombing-party. In all these attributes the Boche excels. But one thing
is essential to the complete success of his efforts, and that is the
presence of the enemy. When, after methodically desolating each bay in
turn (and incidentally killing their own wounded in the process), the
two parties meet midway--practically on top of the unfortunate
Hans Dumpkopf, who is still giving an imitation of a tortoise in a
corrugated shell--it is discovered that the beautifully executed
counter-attack has achieved nothing but the recapture of an entirely
empty trench. The birds have flown, taking their prey with them. Hans
is the sole survivor, and after hearing what his officer has to say to
him upon the subject, bitterly regrets the fact.

Meanwhile, in the British trenches a few yards away, the box-office
returns are being made up. These take the form, firstly, of some
twenty-five prisoners, including one indignant officer--he had been
pulled from his dug-out half asleep and frog-marched across the
British lines by two private soldiers well qualified to appreciate the
richness of his language--together with various souvenirs in the way
of arms and accoutrements; and secondly, of the knowledge that
at least as many more of the enemy had been left permanently
incapacitated for further warfare in the dug-outs. A grim and grisly
drama when you come to criticise it in cold blood, but not without a
certain humour of its own--and most educative for Brother Boche!

But he is a slow pupil. He regards the profession of arms and the
pursuit of war with such intense and solemn reverence that he _cannot_
conceive how any one calling himself a soldier can be so criminally
frivolous as to write a farce round the subject--much less present the
farce at a Flying Matinee. That possibly explains why the following
stately paragraph appeared a few days later in the periodical
communique which keeps the German nation in touch with its Army's
latest exploits:--

_During the night of Jan. 4th-5th attempts were made by strong
detachments of the enemy to penetrate our line near Sloozleschump,
S.E. of Ypres. The attack failed utterly_.

"And they don't even realise that it was only a leg-pull!" commented
the Company Commander who had stage-managed the affair. "These people
simply don't deserve to have entertainments arranged for them at all.
Well, we must pull the limb again, that's all!"

And it was so.

IV

THE PUSH THAT FAILED

I

"I wonder if they really mean business this time," surmised that
youthful Company Commander, Temporary Captain Bobby Little, to Major
Wagstaffe.

"It sounds like it," said Wagstaffe, as another salvo of "whizz-bangs"
broke like inflammatory surf upon the front-line trenches.
"Intermittent _strafes_ we are used to, but this all-day performance
seems to indicate that the Boche is really getting down to it for
once. The whole proceeding reminds me of nothing so much as our own
'artillery preparation' before the big push at Loos."

"Then you think the Boches are going to make a push of their own?"

"I do; and I hope it will be a good fat one. When it comes, I fancy
we shall be able to put up something rather pretty in the way of a
defence. The Salient is stiff with guns--I don't think the Boche
quite realises _how_ stiff! And we owe the swine something!" he added
through his teeth.

There was a pause in the conversation. You cannot hold the Salient for
three months without paying for the distinction; and the regiment had
paid its full share. Not so much in numbers, perhaps, as in quality.
Stray bullets, whistling up and down the trenches, coming even
obliquely from the rear, had exacted most grievous toll. Shells
and trench-mortar bombs, taking us in flank, had extinguished many
valuable lives. At this time nothing but the best seemed to satisfy
the Fates. One day it would be a trusted colour-sergeant, on another a
couple of particularly promising young corporals. Only last week the
Adjutant--athlete, scholar, born soldier, and very lovable schoolboy,
all most perfectly blended--had fallen mortally wounded, on his
morning round of the fire-trenches, by a bullet which came from
nowhere. He was the subject of Wagstaffe's reference.

"Is it not possible," suggested Mr. Waddell, who habitually considered
all questions from every possible point of view, "that this
bombardment has been specially initiated by the German authorities, in
order to impress upon their own troops a warning that there must be no
Christmas truce this year?"

"If that is the Kaiser's Christmas greeting to his loving followers,"
observed Wagstaffe drily, "I think he might safely have left it to us
to deliver it!"

"They say," interposed Bobby Little, "that the Kaiser is here
himself."

"How do you know?"

"It was rumoured in 'Comic Cuts.'" ("Comic Cuts" is the stately
Summary of War Intelligence issued daily from Olympus.)

"If that is true," said Wagstaffe, "they probably will attack. All
this fuss and bobbery suggest something of the kind. They remind me of
the commotion which used to precede Arthur Roberts's entrance in the
old days of Gaiety burlesque. Before your time, I fancy, Bobby?"

"Yes," said Bobby modestly. "I first found touch with the Gaiety over
'Our Miss Gibbs.' And I was quite a kid even then," he added, with
characteristic honesty. "But what about Arthur Roberts?"

"Some forty or fifty years ago," explained Wagstaffe, "when I was
in the habit of frequenting places of amusement, Arthur Roberts was
leading man at the establishment to which I have referred. He usually
came on about half-past eight, just as the show was beginning to lose
its first wind. His entrance was a most tremendous affair. First of
all the entire chorus blew in from the wings--about sixty of them
in ten seconds--saying "Hurrah, hurrah, girls!" or something rather
subtle of that kind; after which minor characters rushed on from
opposite sides and told one another that Arthur Roberts was coming.
Then the band played, and everybody began to tell the audience about
it in song. When everything was in full blast, the great man would
appear--stepping out of a bathing-machine, or falling out of a
hansom-cab, or sliding down a chute on a toboggan. He was assisted
to his feet by the chorus, and then proceeded to ginger the show up.
Well, that's how this present entertainment impresses me. All this
noise and obstreperousness are leading up to one thing--Kaiser Bill's
entrance. Preliminary bombardment--that's the chorus getting to work!
Minor characters--the trench-mortars--spread the glad news! Band _and_
chorus--that's the grand attack working up to boiling-point! Finally,
preceded by clouds of gas, the Arch-Comedian in person, supported
by spectacled coryphees in brass hats! How's that for a Christmas
pantomime?"

"Rotten!" said Bobby, as a shell sang over the parapet and burst in
the wood behind.

II

Kaiser or no Kaiser, Major Wagstaffe's extravagant analogy held good.
As Christmas drew nearer, the band played louder and faster; the
chorus swelled higher and shriller; and it became finally apparent
that something (or somebody) of portentous importance was directing
the storm.

Between six and seven next morning, the Battalion, which had stood
to arms all night, lifted up its heavy head and sniffed the misty
dawn-wind--an east wind--dubiously. Next moment gongs were clanging
up and down the trench, and men were tearing open the satchels which
contained their anti-gas helmets.

Major Wagstaffe, who had been sent up from Battalion Headquarters to
take general charge of affairs in the firing-trench, buttoned the
bottom edge of his helmet well inside his collar and clambered up on
the firing-step to take stock of the position. He crouched low, for a
terrific bombardment was in progress, and shells were almost grazing
the parapet.

Presently he was joined by a slim young officer similarly disguised.

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All In It K(1) Carries OnbyJohn Hay Beith (AKA: Ian Hay)

Part 1 out of 4

All In It K(1) Carries On
by
John Hay Beith (AKA: Ian Hay)