R. Hugh Knyvett - Over There with the Australians

R >> R. Hugh Knyvett >> Over There with the Australians

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Our brigadier was very popular because of his personal bravery. One
morning I was showing him the remains of some Germans I had blown up,
and in his eagerness he stuck his head and shoulders, red tabs and all,
over the trenches, when--ping!--a sniper's bullet struck the bag within
an inch of his head and covered him with dirt. "Pompey" roared with
laughter and was in good humor for the rest of the day. On one
occasion in Egypt this same General issued orders that no men were to
wear caps. He said he didn't care where we got hats from, but that we
were all old enough soldiers to obtain one somehow. He would punish
any soldier who appeared on parade next day without a hat, and the only
one whose head was minus a hat next morning was the brigadier himself!
He laughed and said that the man who pinched his hat had better not get
caught, that's all!

My chief business as intelligence officer was to keep an eye on Fritz
and find out what he was up to. I had a squad of trained observers who
were posted in certain vantage-points called O. Pips (O.
P.--Observation Post). These O. Pips were mostly on top of tall trees
or the top of some old ruined farmhouse. From these "pozzies"
(positions) a good deal of the country behind the enemy lines could be
seen, and the observers, who were given frequent reliefs so that they
would not become stale, had their eyes glued to it through a telescope.
Every single thing that happened was written down, including the
velocity and direction of the wind; the information from all these and
other sources being summarized by myself into a daily report for G. H.
Q.

There was one O. Pip on top of a crazy ruin that was used for many
months without the Germans suspecting. It really hardly looked as if
it would support the weight of a sparrow. I used to wonder oftentimes
how I was going to get up there, and then by force of habit would find
myself lying alongside the observer sheltering behind two or three
bricks. From this pozzie one of my boys saw a German Staff car pass
Crucifix Corner. This was a stretch of a hundred yards of road which
we could plainly see where a crucifix was standing, though the church
that once covered it had been entirely destroyed. The car was judged
to contain some officers of very high rank, both from the style of the
car and the colors of the uniforms. When I got this information I
prepared to make that road unhealthy in case they should return. I
called up our sniping battery, and got them to range a shell to be sure
they would not miss. At five o'clock in the afternoon my waiting was
rewarded, and just by the pressing of a button eight shells landed on
that car, and sent its occupants "down to the fatherland." We received
news about that time that one of the Kaiser's sons was killed, and
though it was denied later, in my dreams I often fancy that he might
have been in that car.

There was a landmark behind the German lines in this sector known as
"the hole in the wall." It was marked on all our maps used by the
artillery for ranging, and was the object on which we set our zero
lines to get bearings of other objects. One day "the hole in the wall"
disappeared, and there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth. Did the
Germans destroy it or was it the rats that undermined its foundations?
I fancy it was like the celebrated "One Horse Shay"--every brick in the
wall that surrounded the hole had been wearing away for years, and at
the stroke of Fate all crumbled into dust. We were able to do without
our old friend, as Fritz very kindly built up in the churchyard at
Fromelles a large red earthwork that could be seen for miles, and which
our big guns sought unsuccessfully to destroy but made the entrance to
it very unhealthy.

We had some crack sharpshooters or snipers in trees and also on top of
ruins, but took care never to have them near our observation posts lest
they should draw fire. I had one man who was a King's prize-winner,
and he must have accounted for well over a hundred of the enemy, some
of whom may have thought themselves quite secure when they exposed but
a portion of their body eight hundred or a thousand yards from our
trenches. Through the wasting of skilled men in unsuitable work which
is prevalent in all our armies, this man was sent forward in a bayonet
charge and killed. In his own job he was worth a battalion but in a
charge of no more value than any other man. The snipers and observers
make effective use of camouflage, and have uniforms and rifle-covers to
blend with their background--spotted for work among trees with foliage,
_a la_ Mr. Leopard--striped when in long grass or crops like Stripes of
the jungle. We have suits resembling the bark of a tree, and some
earth-colored for ploughed ground, also one made from sand-bags for the
top of the parapet.

I could fill a volume with the happenings during our many months in
these trenches.

We had great sport through the use of a dummy trench. This was a ditch
which we dug about seventy-five yards behind our front line running
parallel to it. We would light fires in this about meal-times, and now
and again during the day send a file of men along it who would
occasionally expose their bayonets to view above the top. This ditch
would appear to the German aeroplanes exactly like a trench, and as
they used their second line for a supervision and living trench they
probably thought we did the same. Our boys laughed to see most of the
German shells exploding on the dummy trench.

There were one or two occasions in which Fritz broke the unwritten law
that there should be an armistice during meal-times. We soon cured him
of this, however, as we systematically for a week put out his cook's
fires with rifle-grenades. Thereafter both sides were able to have
their meals in peace though we took care to change our hour from one to
two instead of twelve to one.

Fritz's system now and again got on our nerves. It was deadly
monotonous, always knowing when his severest shelling would start and I
have known the boys run races with the shells, driven to take foolish
risks by sheer ennui. We always expected some shells on "V. C. House"
at 4 P. M., and were rarely disappointed. The men off duty would
assemble in front of the old house and at the sound of the first shell
race for the shelter of a dugout about a hundred yards away. Generally
they would all tumble in together and in their excitement could not
decide who won the race, and so would have it all over again. The
officers were ordered to stop these "races with death" for there were
some killed, but they would break out now and again when the last man
who was killed had been forgotten.

The bombing officer had a good deal of sport with his rifle-grenades,
and as I was hand in glove with him I enjoyed some of his fun. A
favorite place for the firing of our rifle-grenades was at Devon
Avenue, for most of Fritz's retaliation came to the Tommies whose flank
joined ours at this point. One day their major came along to us in a
great rage, and wanted to know why we were always stirring up
trouble--couldn't we let well enough alone? He complained in the end
to our brigadier, but the answer he got was: "What are you there for?
What's your business?" After this, whenever we had our strafe on this
flank, they would squeeze up to their centre leaving fifty yards
unmanned between us. These men were brave enough, and in a raid the
same major held the trench with great bravery under a severe
bombardment and attack by a strong force.

We also had an armored train that we were very proud of. At least,
that is what we called it, but it was only a little truck with six
rifles fastened on it for firing grenades. We ran this along rails
down the trench, and would fire a salvo from one place and then move to
another by the time Fritz had waked up and was replying with
"pine-apples and flying-fish," as his rifle-grenades were dubbed.

One day I was ordered to locate the enemy's "minenwerfer" positions, as
his "minnies" were getting on our nerves. These huge shells, although
they very seldom caused casualties, for they are very inaccurate, would
nevertheless make the ground tremble for miles as they buried
themselves sometimes fifty feet deep in the soft ground before they
exploded. When these were about our boys would watch for them as they
could plainly be seen in the air. We would watch their ascent,
sometimes partly through a cloud, and, as the shell wabbled a good
deal, we could not be exactly sure where it was going to land until it
was on the downward curve, then we would scatter like sheep, and as it
would generally be two or three seconds before it went off, we had time
to reach a safe distance. The real trouble was that no one could sleep
when they were coming over, as each of them had all the force of an
earthquake. I have picked up pieces of the shell two feet long by a
foot wide, jagged like a piece of galvanized iron that had been cut off
with an axe.

Well, I had to locate the position of these mine-throwers, and the
easiest way to do it was to make them fire and have observers at
different points to get bearings on the exact position from which the
shells were thrown. They were easy to see, as they were accompanied
for the first fifty yards with showers of sparks like sky-rockets. But
Fritz can be very obstinate on occasions, and all our teasing with
rifle-grenades failed to make him retaliate with anything larger than
"pineapples" (light trench-mortars). In desperation, I sent to the
brigade bombing officer for some smoke and gas-bombs. Even these
failed to rouse his anger sufficiently when--Eureka!--we discovered
some "lachrymose" or "tear" bombs. These did the trick and over came a
"rum-jar" as the "minnie" shells are generally called. I had eight
batteries on the wire, and we gave that "minnie" position a pretty warm
time. By the same methods I located nine of these German
trench-mortars on that front. Later on we captured one of them and I
was surprised to see what a primitive affair it was. It consisted of a
huge pipe made of wooden staves bound round and round with wire. The
charge is in a can like an oil-drum and dropped in the pipe, and then
the shell dropped in on top of it. A fuse is attached, burning several
seconds so as to allow the crew to get well out of the way, as their
risk is as great as those they fire it at. When I had seen the gun, I
was not surprised that rarely did they know within a hundred yards of
where the shell was going to land, only expecting to get it somewhere
behind our lines.

While I am talking of trench-mortars, I must tell you about the "blind
pig." This was a huge shell with which we frequently got on Fritz's
nerves. When it was first used there was some doubt about its accuracy
and the infantry were cleared out of the trenches in its immediate
front before it was fired. The first shot landed on our support
trenches, the next in No Man's Land, and the third on Fritz's front
line. Each time it seemed as if a double-powered Vesuvius were in
eruption, and when the artillery got to know its pranks there was no
need for us to get out from under. The aeroplanes reported that when
the "blind pigs" went over, some Fritzes could be seen running half an
hour afterward. Fritz does not like anything new; for example, they
appealed to the world against our brutality in using "tanks."
Christmas Day, 1916, one of our aviators, with total disregard of the
rules of war, dropped a football on which was painted "A Merry Xmas"
into a French town infested by Germans. As it struck the street and
bounced up higher than the roofs they could be seen scuttling like
rats, and maybe, to-day, _that_ airman is haunted by the ghosts of
those who died of heart-failure as a result of his fiendishness.

This airman is a well-known character among the troops in Flanders,
known to all as "the mad major." His evening recreation consists in
flying but a few hundred feet above the enemy's trenches, and raking
them with his machine-gun to show his absolute contempt for their
marksmanship. I have seen them in impotent fury fire at him every
missile they had, including "pine-apples" and "minnies"; but he bears a
charmed life, for, though he returned and repeated his performance four
times for our benefit, he did not receive a scratch. I went over the
German lines with him for instruction in aerial observation. He said
to me: "Do you see that battery down there?" I replied "No!" His next
remark was, "I'll take you down," and he shot down about five hundred
feet nearer. We were getting pasted by "archies" much more than was
pleasant, so when he next shut off his engine, to speak to me, I did
not wait for his question but assured him that I could see the German
battery quite plainly. I hope the recording angel will take into
account the extenuating circumstances of that lie.

We had a "spring gun" or "catapult" that came very near preventing this
book ever being written. On one occasion we placed a bomb in the cup,
but instead of taking the spring and lever out, which was the correct
way, we tried a new experiment of holding the lever down with two nails
which would release the spring as soon as it was let off.
Unfortunately, the bomb rolled off at our feet, and we had four seconds
to get to a safe distance. Some of us got bad bruises on our foreheads
as we dived for an open dugout as though we ourselves had been thrown
from a catapult. On another occasion we used Mills grenades with a
grooved base plug. To our alarm, the first one exploded with a
beautiful shrapnel effect just above our heads. I am sure a piece
passed through my hair but I could not wear a gold braid for a wound
because, not even with a candle, could the doctor find a mark.

Our tunnellers were always mining and we would see them by day and
night disappearing into mysterious holes in the ground, and it was only
when Messines Ridge disappeared in fine dust that we understood that
their groping in underground passages was not in vain. They would
sometimes tell us exciting tales of fights in the dark with picks
against enemy miners; and now and again we would be roused by
explosions when one side blew in on the other and formed a new crater
in No Man's Land. With their instruments our miners discovered that
the head of one of the enemy galleries was under the headquarters
dugout of the English regiment on our right. I went along to inform
them. With excitement in my voice I said to the officer in charge: "Do
you know that there is a mine under here?" "Bai Jove, how jolly
interesting! Come and have a drink." I said: "Not in here, thank
you." "Why? It won't go off to-day," he said. "Anyway, we are being
relieved to-morrow, so it won't worry us, but we'll be sure and leave
word for the other blighters."

There was a dugout in our own sector in which were heard mysterious
tappings, but though we had an experienced miner sleep in it he
reported that the sounds were not those of mining operations. Maybe it
was the rats, but we gave that dugout a wide berth, as some one
suggested that it was haunted, and even in the trenches, better the
devil you know than the devil you don't know!

We managed to have a good deal of comfort in these trenches, all things
considered. We even rigged up hot baths in our second line. The men
were able every second day to have a hot bath, get clean underclothing,
and have a red-hot iron passed over their uniforms, which was the only
effective method I have known of keeping us reasonably free from
body-vermin. These baths turned us out like new men, as the Australian
craves his daily shower. I doubt if there are any troops in the world
who take such pains for cleanliness. Wherever we camp we rig up our
shower-baths as a first essential, and in some of the French villages
the natives would gather round these Hessian enclosed booths staring at
the bare legs showing beneath and jabbering excitedly about the madness
of these people who were so dirty that they needed a bath every day.

Although this sector of trench was during eight months known as "a
quiet front," as no actual offensive took place, yet there was never a
day or night free from peril, and all the time our strength in numbers
was being sapped--men left us "going west" or said good-bye as they
went to hospital, and sometimes would disappear in No Man's Land--gone,
none knew where. We received reinforcements that did not keep pace
with our losses and during all the time were never once up to half
strength. Always we were on the watch to worst our enemy, and he was
by no means napping. Gas was often used and sentries were posted with
gas alarm-signals not only in the trenches but in the streets of the
villages behind the lines. If by night or day the whitish vapor was
seen ascending from the trenches opposite, then such a hullabaloo of
noises would pass along the trenches and through the streets of the
towns as to make the spirits of the bravest quail, and woe betide even
the little child who at that signal did not instantly cover his face
with the hideous gas-mask. These noises were made chiefly with klaxon
horns, though an empty shell-case struck by iron was found to give out
a ringing sound that could plainly be heard above even the screech and
crump of the shells.

Our gas-masks are quite efficient protection, and I have been a whole
day under gas without injury, by keeping the cloth in my mask damp all
the time. Men sometimes lose their lives through lack of confidence in
their masks. The chemical causes an irritation of the mucous membrane,
and they fancy they are being gassed, and in desperation tear them off.
It is the duty of an officer to decide when the danger has passed and
test the air. I remember on one occasion I warned some men who were
opening their coats that the danger had not passed, but when I returned
I found they had removed their masks and three of them were very
severely gassed. We are always on the lookout for gas, and when the
wind is dangerous a "gas-alert" signal is given, when every man wears
his mask in a ready position so that it can be donned without a
second's delay.

I was really sorry to leave those trenches. So many months was I there
that they were something like a home to me, and who knew what was
awaiting one in another and an unknown section? I knew every
shell-hole in No Man's Land, and constant observation of the enemy
methods enabled me to anticipate his moves. I felt that nowhere else
would I be so successful. I even parted with a rat that I had tamed in
my dugout with a feeling of regret, though on all his kin I waged a
bitter war, spending many hours when I ought to have been sleeping in
shooting them with my automatic as they came into the light of the
dugout doorway. It was there, too, that I experimented with the enemy
grenades, and I remember once nearly scaring an Australian nigger
white. He was the only colored man in our brigade, and was just
passing in front of the dugout as I threw a detonator on to the hard
metal of an old road a few yards away. Evidently he was surprised at
being bombed when he thought he was among friends! He, however,
received nothing worse than the fright.

CHAPTER XXI

THE VILLAGE OF SLEEP

There was little element of surprise about the "Somme" offensive.
Although there must have been some uncertainty in the mind of the
German Staff as to just where the blow would be struck, for our papers
were filled with rumors of a drive in the north, and troops and big
guns were moved north every day and withdrawn at night, yet the
intensity of the artillery bombardment around Albert, which day by day
waxed ever greater, proclaimed in a shout that here was the point on
which our punch would strike.

The selection of this place for an offensive was an indication that it
was not the policy of the Allies to attempt to drive the German army
out of France, but that their evident intention was to defeat the enemy
practically in the present trenches. The German line in France and
Belgium is shaped like the letter L, and the Somme battle was waged at
the angle of the letter just where the line was farthest from Germany.
Of course it would be madness to attempt to finish the war on German
soil, if to do it we should have to devastate one-eighth of France and
its fairest and richest province.

These smashes are rapidly destroying the morale of the enemy, as well
as killing many of them, and will lead to the collapse of the army
pretty much where they are now. If they attempt an offensive on the
western front, where our armament is now so strong, it will hasten the
end. The British artillery had at the end of 1917 a reserve of fifty
million of shells, and pity help the German army if they bump into
them. The British offensive of 1916 was hastened somewhat by the need
of relieving the pressure on Verdun, and though the first blow was not
as powerful as it would have been if delayed a few months, it
accomplished much more than was expected.

Up the British line there crept news of big doings down south. There
was a new sound in the air--a distant continued thunder that was
different from any previous sound--the big drums of the devil's
orchestra were booming an accompaniment that was the motif of hell's
cantata. Up the line ran the rumor of a battle intenser than any yet
fought--more guns being massed in a few miles than the world had ever
seen before. Into every heart crept the dread of what might await us
down there, and to every mind came the question: "When are we going?"

Close behind rumor came marching orders, and as we left our old
trenches south of Armentieres we said good-bye to scenes that had
become homelike, and turned our faces south to make that "rendezvous
with death" in the dread unknown to which duty called us.

But there were weeks of peaceful scenes that seemed to us like a
forgotten melody of love and home and peace, and the train that bore us
out of the war zone seemed to carry us into another world, but though
the feast to our eyes was pleasant and like "far-off forgotten things
and pleasures long ago," we were not borne thither on downy couches.
Never were there seats more uncomfortable than the floors of those
French trucks, and we occupied them for days. When now and again the
train stopped and we could unbend ourselves for a short stroll, it was
like the interval in a dull play. We had taken our cookers with us on
the train, but the French railway authorities would not allow us to
have a fire burning while the train was moving, so we would have to
draw onto a siding that our meals might be cooked. Now and again at
these stops there would be canteens run by English and American women,
and the home-cooking and delicacies they smilingly gave us were a
reminder of the barracking of the womenfolk that makes courage and
endurance of men possible. These are the untiring heroines that uphold
our hands till victory shall come, and so the women fight on. There
were French women, too, who brought us fruit and gingerbread, and with
eyes and strange tongue unburdened hearts full of gratitude and prayer.

How glad we were to gaze on the earth, smiling through fields of waving
corn and laughing with peaceful homes, with the church-spires still
pointing heavenward, after so many months of associating with the scars
of blackened fields and the running sores festering on earth's bosom,
once so fair, where churches had swooned and in lost hope laid their
finger in the dust.

But all journeys end in time, and one night instead of eating we loaded
ourselves like the donkeys in Egypt and tramped off to the village of
our sojourning. The billeting officer and guide were several days
ahead of us and they met us at the train and told us it was only three
miles to the village, but after we had tramped five we lost all faith
in their knowledge of distance. It was "tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys
are marching," for three miles more, and when we had given up all hope
of eating or resting again we saw, at the bottom of a hill, silhouetted
against the violet sky the spire of a church, but we did not breathe
our hopes lest it might vanish like a dream. Soon we came to a house,
and instinctively the column halted, but it was "On, on, ye brave!" yet
a little longer, then suddenly a company was snatched up by the
darkness. Lucky dogs! They had found some corner in which to curl up
and sleep, which was all we longed for, as we were now too tired to
even care about eating. Chunk after chunk was broken off the column
and almost all were swallowed by stables and barns, or houses that were
not much superior, when there loomed ahead some iron gates, and like
the promise of a legacy came the news that this was the headquarters
billet; and never did the sight of four walls offer to weary man such a
fortune of rest and shelter.

In the morning we discovered we were in the village of
Ailly-sous-Ailly, the sleepiest place on earth. It nestled at the
bottom of a cup and was hidden by trees; no passer in the skies would
glimpse roof or street. No vehicle entered it from outside and the war
was only hearsay. I think the hum of its labor can only be heard by
the bees, and its drowsy evening prayers are barely audible to the
angels. Its atmosphere crept over our spirits like ether and we did
little else but sleep for the week that we were there. Parades would
be ordered, but after a short time of drilling in the only field of the
village, we would realize the sacrilege of our exertion, and the parade
would be dismissed. Thereafter the only preparation for the day ahead
that was persisted in consisted of lectures, when the droning voice of
the officer would frequently be accompanied by snores from his men. My
duties were to give instruction in scouting, but I seemed to be
sounding a motor-horn in slumberland when I counselled my boys to
"always keep their eyes skinned" as the genie of the village was
weighting their eyelids with lead. I spoke in the language of
different worlds when I said: "A scout's body should never be seen to
move" (and the village hummed its applause), "but his eyes should be
never still--" (and there was almost a hiss that came through the
trees).

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