Produced by Giovanni Fini and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) FRONT LINES âââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââ â BY THE SAME AUTHOR â âââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââ¤ â BETWEEN THE LINES, Net, $1.50 â â ACTION FRONT, Net, $1.50 â â DOING THEIR BIT, Net, $1.25 â â GRAPES OF WRATH, Net, $1.50 â âââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââ¤ â E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY â â NEW YORK â âââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââ FRONT LINES BY BOYD CABLE AUTHOR OF âBETWEEN THE LINES,â âACTION FRONT,â âGRAPES OF WRATHâ [Illustration: LOGO] NEW YORK E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 681 FIFTH AVENUE COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY _All Rights Reserved_ Printed in the United States of America THESE LINES, WRITTEN AT AND TELLING ABOUT THE FRONT, ARE DEDICATEDâWITH THE FERVENT WISH THAT THOSE THERE MAY SOON SEE THE LAST OF ITâTO THE FRONT, BY THE AUTHOR FOREWORD THESE tales have been written over a period running from the later stages of the Somme to the present time. For the book I have two ambitionsâthe first, that to my Service readers it may bring a few hours of interest and entertainment, may prove some sort of a picture and a record of what they themselves have been through; the second, that it may strike and impress and stir those people at home who even now clearly require awakening to all that war means. I know that a great many war workers have been, and still are, bearing cheerfully and willingly the long strain of war work, and I very gladly and thankfully offer my testimony to what I have seen of this good spirit. But it would be idle to deny, since the proofs have been too plain, that many war workers are not doing their best and utmost, are not playing the game as they might do and ought to do, and it is to these in particular I hope this book may speak. Surely by now every worker might appreciate the fact that whatever good cause they may have for âwar wearinessâ they are at least infinitely better off than any man in the firing line; surely they can understand how bitter men here feel when they hear and read of all these manifestations of labour âdiscontentâ and âunrest.â We know well how dependent we are on the efforts of the workers at home, and there are times when we are forced to the belief that some workers also know it and trade on it for their own benefit, are either woefully ignorant still of what the failure of their fullest effort means to us, or, worse, are indifferent to the sufferings and endurings of their men on active service, are unpatriotic, narrow, selfish enough to put the screw on the nation for their own advantage. I beg each war worker to remember that every slackening of their efforts, every reduction of output, every day wasted, every stoppage of work, inevitably encourages the enemy, prolongs the war, keeps men chained to the misery of the trenches, piles up the casualties, continues the loss of life. A strike, or the threat of a strike, may win for the workers their 12Â½ per cent. increase of pay, the ârecognitionâ of some of their officials, their improved comfort; but every such âvictoryâ is only gained at the expense of the men in the trenches, is paid for in flesh and blood in the firing line. When men here are suffering as they must suffer, are enduring as they do endure with good heart and courage, it comes as a profound shock and a cruel discouragement to them to read in the papers, or go home and discover, that any people there are apparently indifferent to their fate, are ready to sacrifice them ruthlessly for any trivial personal benefit, refuse to share the pinch of war, must have compensating advantages to level up âthe increased cost of living,â will even bring a vital war industry to a standstillâit has been doneâas a âprotestâ against the difficulty of obtaining butter or margarine and tea. It may be that one grows one-sided in ideas after more than three yearsâ soldiering, but can you blame us if we feel contempt for pitiful grumblers and complainers who have a good roof overhead, a warm room and fire, a dry bed, and no real lack of food, if we feel anger against men who have all these things and yet go on strike, knowing that we must pay the penalty? And let me flatly deny the claim which some strikers and agitators still make that in these upheavals and checks on war industry they are âfighting for the rights of their mates in the trenches.â Their âmates in the trenchesâ will be ready and able to, and certainly will, fight for their own rights when the war is won and they can do so without endangering or delaying the winning. Meantime can any man be fool enough honestly to believe that âmates in the trenchesâ want anything more urgently than to win the war and get out of it? If there are any such fools let them try to imagine the feelings of the âmateâ cowering and shivering over a scanty handful of wet wood or black-smoky dust âcoal rationâ who hears that coal miners at home threaten a strike; of the man crouched in a battered trench that is being blasted to bits by German steel shells from steel guns, who learns that our steel-makers are âoutâ and if their demands were not satisfied would continue to strike indefinitely and hold up the making of the guns and shells which alone can protect us; of the man who is being bombed from the air night after night in his billets and reads that 50,000 aircraft workers are on strike, and that the Front will be poorer as a result by hundreds of the aircraft which might bomb the enemy âdromes out of action and stop their raiding; the dismay of the man about to go on a long deferred and eagerly waited leave when he is told that all leaves may have to be stopped because a threatened strike of âfoot-plateâ workers may strand him at his debarkation port. Will it soothe or satisfy a man in any of these cases to be told the strikes are really fights for his rights, especially when you remember he knows that as a result of the strike he may be too dead to have any rights to be fought for? The best I can wish for this book is that it may do even one little bit to make plain with what cheerfulnessâcheerfulness and even at times almost incredible humourâthe Front is sticking it out, with what complete confidence in final victory this yearâs fight is being begun; and may make yet more plain the need for every man and woman at home to give their last ounce of energy to help win the war speedily and conclusively. BOYD CABLE. ON THE WESTERN FRONT, _January 7th, 1918._ CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. TRENCH-MADE ART 1 II. THE SUICIDE CLUB 21 III. IN THE WOOD 44 IV. THE DIVING TANK 62 V. IN THE MIST 74 VI. SEEING RED 99 VII. AN AIR BARRAGE 117 VIII. NIGHTMARE 137 IX. THE GILDED STAFF 156 X. A RAID 172 XI. A ROARING TRADE 183 XII. HOME 205 XIII. BRING UP THE GUNS 227 XIV. OUR BATTERYâS PRISONER 246 XV. OUR TURN 262 XVI. ACCORDING TO PLAN 277 XVII. DOWN IN HUNLAND 297 XVIII. THE FINAL OBJECTIVE 318 XIX. ARTILLERY PREPARATION 327 XX. STRETCHER-BEARERS 336 XXI. THE CONQUERORS 345 FRONT LINES I TRENCH-MADE ART BY the very nature of their job the R.A.M.C. men in the Field Ambulances have at intervals a good deal of spare time on their hands. The personnel has to be kept at a strength which will allow of the smooth and rapid handling of the pouring stream of casualties which floods back from the firing line when a big action is on; and when a period of inactivity comes in front the stream drops to a trickle that doesnât give the field ambulances âenough work to keep themselves warm.â It was in one of these slack periods that Corporal Richard, of the Oughth London Field Ambulance, resumed the pleasurable occupation of his civilian days, to his own great satisfaction and the enormous interest of his comrades. Richard in pre-war days had been a sculptor, and the chance discovery near the ambulance camp of a stream where a very fair substitute for modelling clay could be had led him to experiments and a series of portrait modellings. He had no lack of models. Every other man in his squad was most willing to be âtook,â and would sit with most praiseworthy patience for as long as required, and for a time Richard revelled in the luxury of unlimited (and free-of-cost) models and in turning out portraits and caricatures in clay. He worked with such speed, apparent ease, and complete success that before long he had half the men endeavouring to imitate his artistic activities. Then Richard attempted more serious work, and in the course of time turned out a little figure study over which the more educated and artistic of his friends waxed most enthusiastic, and which he himself, considering it carefully and critically, admitted to be ânot bad.â On the other hand, it is true that many members of the company regarded the masterpiece with apathy, and in some cases almost with disapproval. âSeems a pity,â said one critic, âthat the corpâril should âave wasted all this time over the one job. Spent every minute of âis spare time, âe âas, fiddlinâ anâ touchinâ up at it; could âave done a dozen oâ them picturs oâ us chaps in the time. Anâ, now it is done, âtainât quarter sich a good joke as that one oâ the sergeant-major wiâ the bottle nose. Fair scream, that was.â But in due time the corporal went home on leave, and took his study along with him. Later it gained a place in an exhibition of âTrench-made Artâ in London, many newspaper paragraphs, and finally a photo in a picture paper and a note stating who the work was by and the conditions under which it was performed. A good score of the picture papers arrived at the Oughth London from friends at home to men in the unit. That did it. There was an immediate boom in Art in the Oughth London, and sculpture became the popular spare-time hobby of the unit. This was all, as I have said, at a period when spare time was plentiful. The unit was billeted in a village well behind the firing-line in a peacefully sylvan locality. It was early summer, so that the light lasted long in the evenings, and gave plenty of opportunity to the sculptors to pursue their Art after the dayâs duties were done. As a consequence the output of sculpture would have done creditâin quantity if not, perhaps, in qualityâto a popular atelier in full swing. The more enterprising attempted to follow the corporalâs path in portrait and caricature, and it must be confessed were a good deal more successful in the latter branch. The portraits usually required an explanatory inscription, and although the caricatures required the same in most cases, they only had to be ugly enough, to show a long enough nose, or a big enough mouth, and to be labelled with the name of some fair butt or sufficiently unpopular noncom. to secure a most satisfying and flattering meed of praise. Less ambitious spirits contented themselves with simpler and more easily recognisable subjects. The cross or crucifix which, as a rule, marks the cross or forked roads in this part of France had from the first caught the attention and interest of the Londoners, and now, in the new flush of Art, provided immediate inspiration. Almost every man in the new school of sculpture graduated through a course of plain crosses to more fancy ones, and higher up the scale to crucifixes. But in point of popularity even the cross sank to second place when Private Jimmy Copple, with an originality that amounted almost to genius, turned out a miniature model coffin. The coffin, as a work of art, had points that made it an unrivalled favourite. It was so obviously and unmistakably a coffin that it required no single word of explanation or description; it was simple enough in form to be within the scope of the veriest beginner; it lent itself to embellishment and the finer shades of reproduction in nails and tassels and name-plate; and permitted, without evidence of undue âswankâ on the part of the artist, of his signature being appended in the natural and fitting place on the name-plate. There was a boom in model coffins of all sizes, and a constantly flickering or raging discussion on details of tassels, cords, handles, and other funereal ornaments. Private Copple again displayed his originality of thought by blacking a specially fine specimen of his handiwork with boot polish, with nails and name-plate (duly inscribed with his own name and regimental number) picked out in the white clay. He was so pleased with this that he posted it home, and, on receiving warm words of praise from his mother in Mile End, and the information that the coffin was installed for ever as a household ornament and an object of interest and admiration to all neighbours, a steady export trade in clay coffins was established from the Oughth London to friends and relatives at home. The Art School was still flourishing when the unit was moved up from its peaceful and prolonged rest to take a turn up behind the firing-line. The removal from their clay supply might have closed down the artistic activities, but, fortunately, the Oughth had hardly settled in to their new quarters when it was found that the whole ground was one vast bed of chalk, chalk which was easily obtainable in any shaped and sized lumps and which proved most delightfully easy to manipulate with a jack or pen-knife. The new modelling material, in fact, gave a fillip of novelty to the art, and the coffins and crosses proved, when completed, to have a most desirable quality of solidity and of lasting and retaining their shape and form far better than the similar objects in clay. Better still, the chalk could be carried about on the person as no clay could, and worked at anywhere in odd moments. Bulging side-pockets became a marked feature of inspection parades, until one day when the C.O. went round, and noticing a craggy projection under the pocket of Private Copple, demanded to know what the private was loading himself with, and told him abruptly to show the contents of his pocket. On Copple producing with difficulty a lump of partially carved chalk, the C.O. stared at it and then at the sheepish face of the private in blank amazement. âWhatâs this?â he demanded. âWhat is it?â âItâitâs a elephant, sir,â said Copple. âAn elephant,â said the C.O. dazedly. âAn _elephant_?â âYessirâleastways, it will be a elephant when itâs finished,â said Copple bashfully. âElephantâwill beâââ spluttered the C.O., turning to the officer who accompanied him. âIs the man mad?â âI think, sir,â said the junior, âhe is trying to carve an elephant out of a lump of chalk.â âThatâs it, sir,â said Copple, and with a dignified touch of resentment at the âtrying,â âI _am_ carving out a elephant.â The C.O. turned over the block of chalk with four rudimentary legs beginning to sprout from it, and then handed it back. âTake it away,â he said. âFall out, and take the thing away. And when you come on parade next time leaveâahâyour elephants in your billet.â Copple fell out, and the inspection proceeded. But now the eye of the C.O. went straight to each manâs pocket, and further lumps of chalk of various sizes were produced one by one. âAnother elephant?â said the C.O. to the first one. âNo, sir,â said the sculptor. âItâs a coffin.â âA coâcoffin,â said the C.O. faintly, and, turning to the officer, âA coffin is what he said, eh?â The officer, who knew a good deal of the existing craze, had difficulty in keeping a straight face. âYes, sir,â he said chokily, âa coffin.â The C.O. looked hard at the coffin and at its creator, and handed it back. âAnd you,â he said to the next man, tapping with his cane a nobbly pocket. âMineâs a coffin, too, sir,â and out came another coffin. The C.O. stepped back a pace, and let his eye rove down the line. The next man shivered as the eye fell on him, as well he might, because he carried in his pocket a work designed to represent the head of the C.O.âa head of which, by the way, salient features lent themselves readily to caricature. None of these features had been overlooked by the artist, and the identity of the portrait had been further established by the eye-glass which it wore, and by the exaggerated badges of rank on the shoulder. Up to the inspection and the horrible prospect that the caricature would be confronted by its original, the artist had been delighted with the praise bestowed by the critics on the âlikeness.â Now, with the eye of the C.O. roaming over his shrinking person and protruding pocket, he cursed despairingly his own skill. âI think,â said the C.O. slowly, âthe parade had better dismiss, and when they have unburdened themselves of theirâahâelephants andâahâcoffinsâahâfall in again for inspection.â The portrait sculptor nearly precipitated calamity by his eager move to dismiss without waiting for the word of command. And after this incident sculpings were left out of pockets at parade times, and the caricaturist forswore any attempts on subjects higher than an N.C.O. The elephant which Private Copple had produced was another upward step in his art. He had tried animal after animal with faint success. The features of even such well-known animals as cats and cows had a baffling way of fading to such nebulous outlines in his memory as to be utterly unrecognisable when transferred to stone or chalk. A horse, although models in plenty were around, proved to be a more intricate subject than might be imagined, and there were trying difficulties about the proper dimensions and proportions of head, neck, and body. But an elephant had a beautiful simplicity of outline, a solidity of figure that was excellently adapted for modelling, and a recognisability that was proof against the carping doubts and scorn of critics and rival artists. After all, an animal with four legs, a trunk, and a tail is, and must be, an elephant. But there was one great difficulty about the elephantâhis tail was a most extraordinarily difficult thing to produce whole and complete in brittle chalk, and there was a distressing casualty list of almost-finished elephants from this weakness. At first Private Copple made the tail the last finishing touch to his work, but when elephant after elephant had to be scrapped because the tail broke off in the final carving, he reversed the process, began his work on the tail and trunkâanother irritatingly breakable part of an elephantâs anatomyâand if these were completed successfully, went on to legs, head, etc. If the trunk or tail broke, he threw away the block and started on a fresh one. He finally improved on this and further reduced the wastage and percentage of loss by beginning his elephant with duplicate ends, with a trunk, that is, at head and stern. If one trunk broke off he turned the remaining portion satisfactorily enough into a tail; if neither broke and the body and legs were completed without accident, he simply whittled one of the trunks down into a tail and rounded off the head at that end into a haunch. But now such humour as may be in this story must give way for the moment to the tragedy of red warâas humour so often has to do at the front. Copple was just in the middle of a specially promising elephant when orders came to move. He packed the elephant carefully in a handkerchief and his pocket and took it with him back to the training area where for a time the Oughth London went through a careful instruction and rehearsing in the part they were to play in the next move of the âShowâ then running. He continued to work on his elephant in such spare time as he had, and was so very pleased with it that he clung to it when they went on the march again, although pocket space was precious and ill to spare, and the elephant took up one complete side pocket to itself. Arrived at their appointed place in the show, Copple continued to carry his elephant, but had little time to work on it because he was busy every moment of the day and many hours of the night on his hard and risky duties. The casualties came back to the Aid Post in a steady stream that swelled at times to an almost overwhelming rush, and every man of the Field Ambulance was kept going at his hardest. The Aid Post was established in a partly wrecked German gun emplacement built of concrete, and because all the ground about them was too ploughed up and cratered with shell-fire to allow a motor ambulance to approach it, the wounded had to be helped or carried back to the nearest point to which the hard-working engineers had carried the new road, and there were placed on the motors. Private Copple was busy one morning helping to carry back some of the casualties. A hot âstrafeâ was on, the way back led through lines and clumped batches of batteries all in hot action, the roar of gun-fire rose long and unbroken and deafeningly, and every now and then through the roar of their reports and the diminishing wails of their departing shells there came the rising shriek and rush of a German shell, the crump and crash of its burst, the whistle and hum of flying splinters. Private Copple and the rest of the R.A.M.C. men didnât like it any more than the casualties, who appeared to dread much more, now that they were wounded, the chance of being hit again, chiefly because it would be such ârotten luckâ to get killed now that they had done their share, got their âBlighty,â and with decent luck were soon to be out of it all, and safely and comfortably back in hospital and home. But, although many times the wounded asked to be laid down in a shell-hole, or allowed to take cover for a moment at the warning shriek of an approaching shell, the ambulance men only gave way to them when, from the noise, they judged the shell was going to fall very perilously close. If they had stopped for every shell the work would have taken too long, and the Aid Post was too cram-full, and too many fresh cases were pouring in, to allow of any delay on the mere account of danger. So there were during the day a good many casualties amongst the ambulance men, and so at the end Private Copple was caught. He had hesitated a moment too long in dropping himself into the cover of the shell crater where he had just lowered the âwalking woundedâ he was supporting back. The shell whirled down in a crescendo of howling, roaring noise, and, just as Copple flung himself down, burst with an earth-shaking crash a score or so of yards away. Copple felt a tremendous blow on his side. They had ripped most of the clothes off him and were busy with first field dressings on his wounds when he recovered enough to take any interest in what was going on. The dressers were in a hurry because more shells were falling near; there was one vacant place in a motor ambulance, and its driver was in haste to be off and out of it. âYouâre all right,â said one of the men, in answer to Coppleâs faint inquiry. âAll light wounds. Lord knows what you were carrying a lump of stone about in your pocket for, but it saved you this trip. Splinter hit it, and smashed it, and most of the wounds are from bits of the stoneâluckily for you, because if it hadnât been there a chunk of Boche iron would just about have gone through you.â âStone?â said Copple faintly. âStrewth! That was my blessed elephant in my bloominâ pocket.â âElephant?â said the orderly. âIn your pocket? Anâ did it have pink stripes anâ a purple tail? Well, never mind about elephants now. You can explain âem to the Blighty M.O.[1] Here, up you get.â And he helped Copple to the ambulance. Later on, the humour of the situation struck Private Copple. He worked up a prime witticism which he afterwards played off on the Sister who was dressing his wounds in a London hospital. âDâyou know,â he said, chuckling, âIâm the only man in this war thatâs been wounded by a elephant?â The Sister stayed her bandaging, and looked at him curiously. âWounded by a elephant,â repeated Copple cheerfully. âFunny to think itâs mebbe a bit of âis trunk made the âole in my thigh, anâ I got âis âead and âis âind leg in my ribs.â âYou mustnât talk nonsense, you know,â said the Sister hesitatingly. Certainly, Copple had shown no signs of shell-shock or unbalanced mind before, butââ âWe used to carve things out oâ chalk stone in my lot,â went on Copple, and explained how the shell splinter had been stopped by the elephant in his pocket. The Sister was immensely interested and a good deal amused, and laughedârather immoderately and in the wrong place, as Copple thought when he described his coffin masterpiece with the name-plate bearing his own name, and the dodge of starting on the elephant with a trunk at each end. âWell, Iâve heard a lot of queer things about the front, Copple,â she said, busying herself on the last bandage. âBut I didnât know they went in for sculpture. âArs longa, vitÃ¦ brevis.â Thatâs a saying in Latin, and it means exactly, âArt is long, life is short.â Youâd understand it better if I put it another way. It means that it takes a long, long time to make a perfect elephantâââ âIt does,â said Copple. âBut if you begins âim like I told you, with a trunk each endâââ âThere, thatâll do,â said the Sister, pinning the last bandage. âNow lie down and Iâll make you comfortable. A long time to make a perfect elephant; and life is very shortâââ âThatâs true,â said Copple. âEspecially up Wipers way.â âSo, if making elephants gives some people the greatest possible pleasure in life, why not let them make elephants? Iâm an artist of sorts myself, or was trying to be before the war, so I speak feelingly for a brother elephant-maker, Copple.â âArtist, was you?â said Copple, with great interest. âThat must be a jolly sorter job.â âIt is, Coppleâor was,â said the Sister, finishing the tucking-up. âMuch jollier than a starched-smooth uniform and lifeâand lots in it.â And she sighed and made a little grimace at the stained bandages she picked up. âBut if you and thousands of other men give up your particular arts and go out to have your short lives cut shorter, the least I can do is to give up mine to try to make them longer.â Copple didnât quite follow all this. âI wish Iâd a bit oâ chalk stone, Sister,â he said; âIâd teach you how to do a elephant with the two trunks.â âAnd how if a trunk breaks off oneâs elephantâor life, one can always try to trim it down to quite a useful tail,â said the Sister, smiling at him as she turned to go. âYouâve already taught me something of that, Coppleâyou and the rest there in the trenchesâbetter than you know.â II THE SUICIDE CLUB THE Royal Jocks (Oughth Battalion) had suffered heavily in the fighting on the Somme, and after they had been withdrawn from action to another and quieter part of the line, all ranks heard with satisfaction that they were to be made up to full strength by a big draft from Home. There were the usual wonderings and misgivings as to what sort of a crowd the draft would be, and whether they would be at all within the limits of possibility of licking into something resembling the shape that Royal Jocks ought to be. âExpect weâll âave a tidy job to teach âem wotâs wot,â said Private âShirtyâ Low, âbut we must just pass along all the fatigues they can âandle, and teach âem the best we can.â âLetâs hope,â said his companion, âthat they get an advance oâ pay to bring with âem. Weâll be goinâ back to billets soon, and weâll be able to introduce âem proper to the estaminets.â âYou boysâll have to treat âem easy to begin with,â said a corporal. âDonât go breakinâ their hearts for a start. Theyâll be pretty sick anâ home-sick for a bit, and you donât want to act rough before they begin to feel their feet.â This was felt to be reasonable, and there was a very unanimous opinion that the best way of treating the new arrivals was on the lines of the suggestion about introducing them carefully and fully to the ways of the country, with particular attention to the customs of the estaminets. âAnd never forget,â said the Corporal in conclusion, âthat, good or bad, theyâre Royal Jocks after all; and it will be up to you fellows to see that they donât get put on by any other crush, and to give âem a help out if they tumble into any little trouble.â The sentiments of the battalion being fairly well summed up by this typical conversation, it will be understood with what mixed feelings it was discovered on the actual arrival of the draft that they, the draft, were not in the slightest degree disposed to be treated as new hands, declined utterly to be in any way fathered, declined still more emphatically to handle more than their fair share of fatigues, and most emphatically of all to depend upon the good offices of the old soldiers for their introduction to the ways of the estaminets. The draft, which was far too strong in numbers to be simply absorbed and submerged in the usual way of drafts, showed an inclination to hang together for the first few days, and, as the Battalion soon began somewhat dazedly to realise, actually to look down upon the old soldiers and to treat them with a tinge of condescension. The open avowal of this feeling came one night in the largest and most popular estaminet in the village to which the Battalion had been withdrawn âon rest.â âShirtyâ and some cronies were sitting at a stone-topped table with glasses and a jug of watery beer in front of them. The room was fairly full and there were about as many of the draft present as there were of the old lot, and practically all the draft were gathered in little groups by themselves and were drinking together. Close to Shirtyâs table was another with half a dozen of the draft seated about it, and Shirty and his friends noticed with some envy the liberal amount of beer they allowed themselves. One of them spoke to the girl who was moving about amongst the tables with a tray full of jugs. âHere, miss, anither jug oâ beer, please,â and held out the empty jug. Shirty saw his opportunity, and with an ingratiating smile leaned across and spoke to the girl. âDon-nay them encore der bee-are,â he said, and then, turning to the other men, âShe donât understand much English, yâsee. But jusâ ask me to pass âer the word if you wants anything.â A big-framed lad thanked him civilly, but Shirty fancied he saw a flicker of a smile pass round the group. He turned back and spoke to the girl again as she halted at their table and picked up the empty jug. âEncore si voo play,â he said. âEh les messieurs la baâââ jerking a thumb back at the other table, but quite unostentatiously, so that the other group might not see, âla ba, voo compree, payay voo toot la bee-are.â He winked slyly at his fellows and waited developments complacently, while all smoked their cigarettes gravely and nonchalantly. The girl brought the two jugs of beer presently and put one on each table. âCombien?â said one of the draft who had not spoken beforeâa perky little man with a sharp black moustache. He hesitated a moment when the girl told him how much, and then spoke rapidly in fluent French. Shirty at his table listened uneasily to the conversation that followed, and made a show of great indifference in filling up the glasses. The little man turned to him. âThereâs some mistake here, mâ lad,â he said. âThe girl says you ordered your beer and said weâd pay for it.â Shirty endeavoured to retrieve the lost position. âWell, thatâs good of you,â he said pleasantly. âAnâ we donât mind if we do âave a drink wiâ you.â The big man turned round. âDrink wiâs when yeâre asked,â he said calmly. âBut thatâs noâ yet,â and he turned back to his own table. âTell her theyâll pay their ain, Wattie.â Wattie told her, and Shirtyâs table with some difficulty raised enough to cover the cost of the beer. Shirty felt that he had to impress these new men with a true sense of their position. âMy mistake,â he said to his companions, but loudly enough for all to hear. âBut I might âave twigged these raw rookies wouldnât âave knowed it was a regâlar custom in the Army for them to stand a drink to the old hands to pay their footing. Anâ most likely they havenât the price oâ a drink on them, anyway.â âLauchie,â said the big man at the other table, âhave ye change oâ a ten-franc note? No. Wattie, maybe yeâll ask the lassie to change it, anâ tell her to bring anither beer. This is awfuâ swipes oâ stuff tâ be drinkinâ. Itâs nae wonder the men thatâs been oot here a whilie has droppit awaâ to such shauchlinâ, knock-kneed, weak-like imitations of putty men.â This was too much. Shirty pushed back his chair and rose abruptly. âIf youâre speakinâ about the men oâ this battalion,â he began fiercely, when a corporal broke in, âThatâll do. No rough-housinâ here. We donât want the estaminets put out oâ bounds.â He turned to the other table. âAnd you keep a civil tongue between your teeth,â he said, âor youâll have to be taught better manners, young fella me lad.â âAy,â said the big man easily, âIâll be glad enough tâ be learned from them that can learn me. Anâ aifter the cafÃ© closes will be a good enough time for a first lesson, if thereâs anybody minded forât,â and he glanced at Shirty. âTak him ootside anâ gie him a deb on the snoot, Rabbie,â said another of the draft, nodding openly at the enraged Shirty. âAy, ay, Wullie,â said Rabbie gently. âBut weâll just bide till the Corporalâs no about. Weâll no be gettinâ his stripes into trouble.â All this was bad enough, but worse was to follow. It was just before closing-time that a Gunner came in and discovered a friend amongst the many sitting at Rabbieâs table. He accepted the pressing invitation to a drink, and had several in quick succession in an endeavour to make an abundant capacity compensate for the inadequate time. âAnâ how are you gettinâ on?â he asked as they all stood to go. âShaken down wiâ your new chums all right?â And the whole room, new hands and old alike, heard Rabbieâs slow, clear answer: âWeâre thinkinâ theyâre an awfuâ saft kneel-anâ-pray kind oâ push. But noo weâve jined them weâll sune learn them to be a battalyun. I wish weâd a few more oâ the real stuff from the depot wiâs, but Lauchie hereâs the lad tae learn them, and weâll maybe mak a battalyun oâ them yet.â The âlearningâ began that night after the estaminets closed, and there was a liberal allowance of black eyes and swollen features on parade next morning. It transpired that boxing had been rather a feature back at the depot, and the new men fully held their own in the âlearningâ episodes. But out of the encounters grew a mutual respect, and before long the old and the new had mixed, and were a battalion instead of âthe battalion and the draft.â Only âShirtyâ of the whole lot retained any animus against the new, and perhaps even with him it is hardly fair to say it was against the one-time draft, because actually it was against one or two members of it. He had never quite forgiven nor forgotten the taking-down he had had from Rabbie Macgregor and Lauchie McLauchlan, and continued openly or veiledly hostile to them. Thrice he had fought Rabbie, losing once to himâthat was the first time after the estaminet episodeâfighting once to an undecided finish (which was when the picket broke in and arrested both), and once with the gloves on at a Battalion Sports, when he had been declared the winner on pointsâa decision which Rabbie secretly refused to accept, and his friend Lauchie agreed would have been reversed if the fight had been allowed to go to a finish. Shirty was in the bombing section, or âSuicide Club,â as it was called, and both Rabbie and Lauchie joined the same section, and painfully but very thoroughly acquired the art of hurling Millsâ grenades at seen or unseen targets from above ground or out of deep and narrow and movement-cramping trenches. And after a winter and spring of strenuous training, the battalion came at last to move up and take a part in the new offensive of 1917. This attack had several features about it that pleased and surprised even the veterans of the Somme. For one thing, the artillery fire on our side had a weight and a precision far beyond anything they had experienced, and the attack over the open of No Manâs Land was successfully made with a low cost in casualties which simply amazed them all. Rabbie openly scoffed at the nickname of âSuicide Clubâ for the Bombing Section. They had lost a couple of men wounded in the first attack, and had spent a merry morning frightening Boche prisoners out of their dug-outs, or in obstinate cases flinging Millsâ grenades down the stairways. They had waited to help stand off the counter-attack the first night, but never needed to raise their heads or fling a bomb over the edge of the broken parapet, because the counter-attack was wiped out by artillery and rifle fire long before it came within bombing distance. âYou anâ yer Suicide Club!â said Rabbie contemptuously to Shirty after this attack had been beaten off. âItâs no even what the insurance folks would caâ a hazardous occupation.â âWait a bit,â said Shirty. âWe all knows youâre a bloominâ Scots-wha-hae hero, but you âavenât bin in it proper yet. Wait till you âave, anâ then talk.â The Bombing Section went into it âproperâ next day, when the battalion made a little forward move that cost them more casualties to take a trench and a hundred yards of ground than the mile advance of the previous day. And when they had got the battered trench, the bombers were sent to clear a communication trench leading out of it and held by the Germans. This trench was more or less broken down, with fallen sides or tumbled heaps of earth and gaping shell craters every here and there along its length. The Germans contested it stoutly, and the bombers had to keep below the level of the ground and strictly to the trench, because above-ground was being swept by a hurricane of rifle and machine-gun fire from both sides. Length by length of the zig-zag trench they pushed their way, their grenades curving up and ahead of them, the German âpotato-masherâ grenades whirling over and down in on them, exploding with a prodigious noise and smoke but comparatively little damage, and yet cutting down the attackers one by one Rabbie, Lauchie, and Shirty were all in the trench together, and were still on their feet when they came to the point where the communication trench ran into another, a support trench presumably, running across it. At this point they were supposed to hold on and consolidate. All had gone well according to programme with Rabbie and his companions, and they turned into the support trench, cleared a couple of bays to either side of the communication way, pulled down sandbags, and piled earth to make a âblockâ on either side, and settled down to hold their position and to await orders. They were not left in peaceful possession for long. A vigorous attack was delivered, first at one barricade and then on the other, and both were beaten off with some difficulty and a number of casualties. The bombers had been reinforced several times to make up their reduced numbers, but no further reinforcements had come to them for some time, and now there were only half a dozen of them and one officer left. The officer sent back a lightly wounded man to say they held their point, but wanted support. The message, as they found afterwards, never got through, because the messenger was killed on the way by a shell splinter. Another heavy and determined attack of bombers came soon after. For five minutes the Germans showered over their grenades, and the short section of trench held by the little party of Royal Jocks was shaken to pieces by the force of the explosions, the sandbag âblocksâ almost destroyed, several more men hit, and the officer killed. The Jocks returned the shower of bombs with plentiful Millsâ grenades, but they were forced back, and almost the last thing the officer did before he was killed was to retire the remnants of the party to the communication trench entrance, build a fresh block, and prepare to hold on there. There were only four men left, and all were more or less lightly wounded with splinters from the German grenades. Just before another attack came they were reinforced by two bayonet men, and one bomber with buckets of Millsâ. âWeâre all thatâs left oâ C Companyâs bombers,â said one of them. âWe were sent up to reinforce, but theyâre shellinâ the trench back there, anâ the others was knocked out.â Another savage attack followed, and was beaten off with difficulty and the loss of another couple of men. Since there was no officer and no N.C.O. there, Shirty, as the oldest soldier, took charge. âThis isnât good enough,â he shouted as another shower of grenades began to pitch over and burst with rending explosions in and about the trench. âWhy donât they reinforce. Iâm goinâ to retire if they donât send supports soon.â Now, as a matter of fact, the officer bringing up the last supports had received orders to retire the party if they were hard pressed, because the attacks up the other communication trenches had failed to clear a way, and this one party was in danger of being overwhelmed. But since the little party knew nothing of these orders they were reluctant to retire, and unfortunately there was little prospect of the supports they expected coming. Their grenades were running short, too, and that decided the point for them. Shirty Low and Rabbie were crouched close up against their barricade, and Lauchie took what cover he could get behind the heaped debris of the broken-down trench wall close at Rabbieâs side. He was squatted in a little niche of the wall and high enough up to allow him to lift his head and peep over the parapet. He ducked his head as several grenades spun over, lifted it, and peered out again. âHere they come,â he shouted. âLat them haeât. Rabbie, pass me up some oâ they bombs.â âWull I hell,â retorted Rabbie, rapidly pulling the pins out, and tossing his grenades over. âGet yer bombs yerselâ.â âOne of you two must go back and get some Millsâ,â shouted Shirty. âWeâll âave to duck back, but weâll need supplies to stand âem off with. Go on now, one oâ you. Look nippy. Weâve âardly any left.â âGo on, Lauchie,â said Rabbie. âIâve half a dizen left, anâ youâve nane.â âI will no,â said Lauchie indignantly. âGang yerselâ. Iâm the senior oâ us twa, anâ Iâm tellinâ ye.â âYou ma senior,â shouted Rab indignantly. âYer no ma senior. I was sojerinâ lang afore ever ye jined up.â âHavers, man, Yeâve hardly been off the square five meenutes.â Shirty broke in angrily. âWill you shut yer heads, and get back, one oâ you? Weâll be done in if they rush us again.â âSee here, Rabbie,â said Lauchie, âIâll prove yer no ma senior, and then mebbe yeâll dae what yer telled. Hereâs ma paybook, wiâ date oâ enlistment. Letâs see yours.â And he was actually proceeding to fumble for his paybook, and Rabbie eagerly doing the same, when Shirty again intervened, cursing savagely, and ordering Rabbie back. âIâm his senior, Shirty, anâ he should go,â said Rabbie. âLat him show you his book.â âBook be blistered,â yelled Shirty. âGo for them Millsâ or Iâll have you crimed for refusinâ an order.â Rabbie slid down from his place. âI suppose yer in chairge here, Shirty,â he said. âBut mind thisâIâll bring the Millsâ, but as sureâs death Iâll hammer the heid aff ye when I get ye back yonder again. Mind that now,â and he scrambled off back along the trench. He carried a couple of empty buckets with him, and as he went he heard the renewed crash of explosions behind him, and hastened his pace, knowing the desperate straits the two would be in without bombs to beat off the attack. The trench was badly wrecked, and there were many dead of both sides in it, so that for all his haste he found the going desperately slow. The guns were firing heavily on both sides, but presently above the roar of their fire and the wailing rush of the passing shells Rabbie heard a long booming drone from overhead, glanced up and saw the plunging shape of an aeroplane swooping down and over his head towards the point he had left the others. It was past in a flash and out of sight beyond the trench wall that shut him in. But next instant Rabbie heard the sharp rattle of her machine-gun, a pause, and then another long rattle. Rabbie grunted his satisfaction, and resumed his toilsome clambering over the debris. âThatâll gie the Fritzez something tae think about,â he murmured, and then pounced joyfully on a full bucket of Millsâ grenades lying beside a dead bomber. Many more grenades were scattered round, and Rabbie hastily filled one of his own buckets and grabbed up a sandbag he found partially filled with German grenades. He turned to hurry back, hearing as he did so another crackle of overhead machine-gun fire. Next moment the plane swept overhead with a rush, and was gone back towards the lines before Rabbie could well look up. Half-way back to where he had left the others he heard the crash of detonating bombs, and next moment came on Lauchie crouching at a corner of the trench, the blood streaming down his face, his last grenade in his hand, and his fingers on the pin ready to pull it. Rabbie plumped a bucket down beside him, and without words the two began plucking out the pins and hurling the grenades round the corner. âWhereâs the ithers?â shouted Rabbie when the shattering roar of their exploding grenades had died down. âDead,â said Lauchie tersely. âExcept Shirty, anâ heâs sair wounded. I left him hidinâ in a bit broken dug-out half-a-dizen turns oâ the trench back.â âCome on,â said Rabbie, rising abruptly. âWeâll awaâ back anâ get him.â âHe said I was tâ retire slow, anâ haud them back as wellâs I could,â said Lauchie. âIâm awaâ back for him,â said Rabbie. âYe needna come unless ye like.â He flung a couple of grenades round the corner; Lauchie followed suit, and the instant they heard the boom of the explosions both pushed round and up the next stretch through the eddying
{'title': 'Front Lines by Boyd Cable', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}