And We Go On (11 page)

It was Tommy, or course, who had come to see me.

For a moment there was a challenging tensity in the air, but Tommy was not answered, and soon the matter passed. It was not the first time we had heard that outbreak. Many of the “oldtimers” resented us, for in all the company competitions our men were easily outstanding. The sharp-tongued sergeant had become outspoken on the matter, until one day at Divion he loosed his spite when only men of our draft were with him. Hughey promptly caught him up like a schoolboy and shook him till his teeth rattled. “You're not enough man to hit,” he said, “but I'll slap your
pretty little face for you,” and he did. The sergeant was white with fury at first, but calmed when he heard all present tell him very plainly what he might expect if things went further. He reported Hughey, however, but gained small satisfaction. The men were the only witnesses and they stuck to the story that the sergeant had attacked Hughey.

Curiously, the “originals,” and they were very few, seemed to dislike us because we did not seem to care for hard liquor or the red lights of Bruay. Most of the lads played poker when in rest billets. Very few of them ever got drunk, or bothered with French women. Quite a few of us had books in our packs and read when we had an opportunity. The old “hard” men could not understand us.

That night the Germans bombarded our trenches but no one was hurt. “Rum jars” put our candles out and brought down showers of chalky earth, but the roof held. In the morning Harry and I went out, as soon as it was light, to a sniping post on the crater line. A steel plate was placed on a high point, and camouflaged on the enemy side with wire and rubbish. We swung back the small plate that covered our observing slit and watched for a victim.

It was interesting to lie there and scan the German lines through a glass that brought everything to you with startling clearness. I could see their coloured sandbags, spades lying on the parados, tiny curls of smoke from a dugout, and several times a big pot helmet bobbed along the trench, just high enough for us to get occasional glimpses. Keen to spot a Hun, I lay there until I was more cramped and chilled than I realized, and then went back to the dugout. What a change! We simply went, whenever we felt like it, and got a drink of hot tea and had something to eat. In the afternoon we went again and I studied a tangle of wire and stakes away over on the left, and had as my reward a momentary view of a gray figure flitting to cover.

Sedgewick and Smoky, I gathered, were scouts, and did their work at nights. I heard them reporting their prowl of the previous night, and thrilled as I listened. Scouting appealed to me more than anything else, and I talked a little with Cave about it after they were in their bunks. He eyed me sharply, as if doubtful of my ability, and explained that it was a grim game, requiring special qualities of character and training, nerve power, and instinct of hearing, and the sense of direction in darkness. Often a man was required to play a lone hand in a tight situation, and
always he must be prepared for the unexpected. I simply replied that I was sure I could do as well as the others.

Harry and I went out a second day, and never had a shot. He was a cool-going fellow, and never seemed hurried or impatient. He told me that he had shot over eighteen Germans and expected to get many more. Then, on the third morning, I got my fill of such sport. We were in our usual position when I saw a German in full pack rise almost waist-high in a place in their trench. I was so amazed that it took me a moment to discover that during the night our guns had blown in the parapet. The German apparently was a new man to that sector, or else had grown careless of danger. He did not hurry and I tingled all over as I scored my first hit. It was not a great shot, the distance was not one hundred yards, and I had cross-hair sights, but at last I had really killed a Hun.

Harry was tickled. He rubbed his hands and noted down the facts in his book but had not finished when a second German, also in pack, rose in the same place. I shot him as soon as he appeared, as I was excited and taut on the trigger. Hardly had he fallen than a third man stepped on the piled earth, and stared all around. I shot him very carefully, aiming directly at his left breast, and through my telescopic sights could see his buttons. As he pitched down beside the others, two more Germans appeared, but they had thrown off their packs and big helmets and they flung themselves down by the broken parapet and peered toward me. One had an immense head, round, enormous, and he glared like a bull. His mate was very dark and his hair was close-cropped. They remained with their chins resting on the bags, as if watching me, and Harry gripped my shoulder, “Shoot, man,” he rasped in my ear, “you won't get a chance like this again.”

A queer sensation had made me draw back. I handed him the rifle. “Go ahead yourself, if you want,” I said, “I've had enough of this bloody game.”

He seized the Ross and took quick aim and I saw the dark flush that spurted over the face of the bigheaded man. He sank from view, his fingers clawing and tearing at the bags as he went. His companion ducked slowly, just escaping Harry's second shot. Then over on the left by the wire tangle, a German got up and walked overland and he carried a big dixie. It was a cook, and it clearly proved that a new battalion was in the line. Harry shot him with great satisfaction, and then potted a third man, an officer, who stepped up on the blown-in part and waved to a working
party. When he fell he first stepped back, then ahead. No other Germans came in sight, though we could see their shovels as they cleared their trench. Harry shot at a helmet top several times, and twice a spade waved a miss. Then he led the way back to the dugout and told me that unless I explained myself to Cave he would have to report me.

The sergeant looked at me oddly as I told him I had had my fill of such butcher work, and he said he would see about it when I went out. He said that probably it was too big a kill for my first time, and that if I had just gotten one man in a day I would never have minded. Then he informed me that there was to be a raid the next day, April 1st, between Durrand and Duffield and that I would be with snipers who were to get on top and shoot any Germans who fled overland.

The raid was in the morning and a box barrage was laid down. We climbed out of the trench as soon as the raiding party went over. I had been hot and tired the day before and had not slept much that night. I could not eat and as I got out of the trench I was almost dizzy. The Stokes battery put over their part of the barrage and several of their shells fell short, dropping very near us. An officer shouted to me to watch out, but I did not care what happened. I could not understand my condition and knew I must be sick. Two Germans were captured, one a little short man, and they came hustling back our way. The rest of the enemy had gone into their dugouts as the barrage opened and our men threw bombs and Stokes down the stairways and killed them in their hiding places. The short German got excited as he ran. He had his hands up and was slipping and falling all the time. Getting out of one hole he changed direction and ran to our right. A new man was on post there and when he saw the German appear he shot him.

The other man got over all right and the raiders withdrew without a casualty. I was last man down from our position and an officer, the one who shouted at me, came and smelled my breath. “That man acted as if he were drunk,” he said.

I did not say anything to him, but sat on the firestep resting before I could follow the other snipers to the dugout. Several sentries were grouped near me and they were much excited over the raid, and the fact that the Germans had appeared so easily subdued. Martin got up at one post and said he would pot the first squarehead to show himself.

Crack! Martin slumped back, dead. A sniper had got him in the temple.

I watched them put a blanket over him and carry him away and then saw our medical officer going along the trench. As he passed me he stopped and stared, then felt under my ears. “Why don't you report when you're sick?” he bellowed. “Do you want to spread that stuff all around?”

I was dazed. “You've got the mumps, man,” he roared. “Come along.”

He took my rifle and laid it on the firestep, yanked off my equipment and slung it there, then took me by the arm and started me out to the Quarry Line. When I reached his post I was all in. The medical sergeant got me a hot drink and was very kind. He put me on a trolley that ran back to Mount St. Eloi and away I went. An ambulance took me to some clearing station and there, as soon as my tag was read, I was hustled to an outbuilding. It had been a stable or pen and had a strong door and foot-square windows. As I reeled into it the orderly snapped the door into place and fastened it securely. I was locked in.

For the moment I hardly knew where I was and then I found that I had company. A man with several day's growth of beard on his face, and red-shot eyes, was on his hands and knees, going around and around in circles on the stone floor. He ignored me entirely and kept muttering to himself. In a split second I forgot my weakness. I got to the door, which had an open grating and yelled to a soldier who was by a cook wagon. He came over and I was cunning enough to tell him that I was very hungry. I showed him a five-franc note and told him he could have it for a mess-tin full of mulligan. When he brought it he released the door and extended his offering. I kicked as hard as I could, sending the hot food into his face, blinding him. He yelled and pawed at his eyes and I ran from the place without looking back. In the front an ambulance was just starting away. I piled into it and discovered it only had one man on board, and he seemed unconscious.

We swayed and rocked along the road and a snowstorm began. When the ambulance stopped I climbed out and walked to a tent where an orderly confronted me. He read my ticket and asked me who had sent me there. I made no definite answer and he said that Canadians were for some other hospital, but he led me to a marquee that served as a mumps ward. A dozen men were there, some of them huddled around a brazier. I was shown my “bed,” a stretcher resting on two high benches. Under it was at least an inch of water and drifting snow that had come in the tent door.

The blankets were made up so that one could only get into bed near the pillow and thrust feet first down into it. As the benches were easily tipped over this required careful work, and I was glad to get in safely. One of the men told me that an orderly would come for my khaki and put it through the “mill.” That meant a steaming plant, and that my tunic and trues would come back to me in a wrinkled mass that could never be straightened. So I folded them and thrust them under my blankets, next to the stretcher.

Shortly afterwards the orderly came, and I told him another man had taken my uniform. He went away and I went to sleep. I woke next morning, and snow had blown in on my bed and melted so that one shoulder was damp. Not a doctor or nurse had come near, and none did till nearly noon. Then the medical officer came and asked a few questions, said something to the nurse with him, and passed on. After he had gone the other patients told me that he would not likely be back for two days, and that I was in the most slip-shod hospital in France, an Imperial outfit at St. Pol.

Three of the men got up and dressed and brought us something to eat. These three had been well for over two weeks and had simply stayed in the marquee, slipping out whenever the doctor was making his rounds. No one bothered them and they had a good time. An orderly, an Englishman they called “Spike,” came and told me that I had better move into the next ward. He was a fine young fellow, had been two years at college, and was very bitter against all those in authority at the hospital.

I moved to a bigger tent and stayed there six days. The doctor never looked at me again; was only in the tent once in that time. The nurses came seldom, except one, a Canadian girl, from Ontario, who, when she found I was Canadian, used to come and talk with me. She was on night duty and would come with her flashlight, making the rounds. She told me that things were worse than I could realize and that her only hope was to get away from the place. I had had the worst of my sickness in the dugout and no complications set in. Easter morning we were surprised to see an officer and orderlies come into the ward and start laying oranges and cigarettes on the tables. The officer gave us strict orders not to touch them. “There is to be an inspection first,” he said. “After it is all over we will come and tell you and you can help yourselves.”

None of us had had enough to eat in the place, the food was very scarce, and no smokes could be obtained, so that we lay and feasted our eyes on the good things. Presently a retinue of red tape and bombasity passed through the ward, glancing at the exhibit. No sooner had they gone than in came the officer and orderlies again, with their same baskets, and before more than two or three of us had gotten our cigarettes and oranges they had seized our supposed treat and taken it, never giving a word of explanation. Spike came in and told us that they had pulled the same stunt in nearly every ward, and that the doctors and head nurses would have a big blow-out in their own quarters.

That evening I moved to a third tent. They were making ready for the casualties of the 9th, and were putting more patients in one ward. There were eight of us in a much smaller tent and I found myself next a man from the 7th battalion. He was a middle-aged fellow and well-educated, and we talked for hours at a time. The sniping business preyed on my mind so that some nights I could not sleep yet I could not mention it to him. I was much better, and as darkness came on we thought of the boys in the trenches up in the crater lines, waiting for the morrow.

I thought of Freddy, and wondered what he was doing; I felt that if he did not get sent back on some job or get wounded he would lose his reason, for he rarely spoke to any one. Big Herman tried to humour him, but the rest left him alone. I thought of Charley, and his premonitions, of little Mickey and his boyish face, of Earle and MacMillan and McDonald. How lucky I had been to get clear of the attack, and yet I wished with all my heart and soul that I was there. In spite of all the bitterness I had brought to France with me I had got to like the battalion, to be proud that I belonged to it, and I liked our sergeant, Smaillie, the sergeant-major and our company commander. They were all “white” men.