A Most Ungodly Assignment in No-Man’s-Land

Following the SOS incident related in my last article, I was for some time in disgrace, a fact which entailed unpleasant consequences. Among them was the fact that, whenever a particularly unhealthy fatigue was in the offing, I invariably found myself in charge of the party.

One of these still sticks in my mind. Our F.O.O. (Forward Observation Officer to you) had selected a certain exceptionally deep shell-hole in No-Man’s-Land for an advanced post, in order to do some fancy shooting on a nest of Bosche snipers.

An excellent idea, you might think, until you realised that someone was going to have to dig an underground sap a matter of some thirty yards in advance of our front line; that the approach was along a most unhealthy trench system, leading from Orchard Road via Death or Glory Trench to Spoil Bank; and that the somebody was going to be you among other unfortunates.

Furthermore, Spoil Bank was a deserted and badly-battered trench on a slope overlooked by enemy spotters and was constantly being ‘plastered by “minnies”. (This was an endearing diminutive we had for the German Minenwerfer, a sort of super trench-mortar bomb about the size of a tombstone, which came wobbling menacingly through the air to detonate on impact like a miniature vo1cano.) In addition, the slope was constantly swept by machine-gun fire.

GLOOMY FOREBODINGS

Altogether, a most ungodly assignment and it was with gloomy forebodings that we contacted the R.E. sapper who was to supervise our labours.

He was waiting for us in a support trench in Cuinchy[1] Cemetery, an eerie spot where fancy vaults had been converted into dug-outs and where some sardonic infantry man had stuck a couple of human skulls on the parade post for luck. We took it as a grim commentary on our ultimate fate.

Passing along the shell-pitted bank of La Bassée canal, where a couple of men from the East Lancs. Regiment were “fishing” with Mills bombs, the shock of the explosion being sufficient to stun every fish in its vicinity, we made our way along the duck-boards until we reached the ruins of the brewery, which had part of its chimney still standing.

Here we entered the Givenchy trench system proper and soon made our way to Orchard Road, where we had to stand by until it became dark.

CHILLY ATMOSPHERE

We were not popular with the infantry, who always regard artillerymen in the trenches as birds of evil omen.

Indeed, the very sight of a bandolier was greeted with a scowl, as an indication that Brigade H.Q. were making preparations for another “strafe,” which would inevitably mean heavy artillery retaliation, casualties, and subsequent fatigues to repair wrecked emplacements.

So that when we commandeered an infantry dug-out in order to make a brew of tea over a few sticks of charcoal, there was something of a chilly atmosphere, until our involuntary huts learned that we were headed for Spoil Bank, after which they became quite cheerful.

Probably they assumed we were not likely to live long enough to cause them much trouble.

At nightfall we were on our way once more …

It is a thankless business stumbling along a strange trench in the dark, occasionally coming into collision with a sentry crouched on the fire-step, with the imminent risk of a playful prod from his bayonet, or hearing a hoarse voice from somewhere under one’s feet imploring us to “put out that ‑‑‑‑ flashlight.”

Overhead the velvety night sky is powdered with stars, eclipsed from time to time by the lazy incandescent arc of a Verey[2] light, which enables one to see the tense faces of the remainder of the party, listening to the distant crunch of a bursting shell or the sibilant whisper of a machine-gun bullet passing over-head.

“Be with the guns boys, this is an artillery war.” What ruddy fool invented that slogan, I wonder. He ought to be here now, toting an entrenching tool and a couple of pit-props …

[1] Cuinchy is a village midway between Béthune and La Bassée, the site of several Commonwealth cemeteries: http://www.cwgc.org/search/cemetery_details.aspx?cemetery=2000098&mode=1

[2] The most common type of flare gun is a Very (sometimes spelled Verey) which was named after Edward Wilson Very (1847–1910), an American naval officer. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flare_gun

The Sleepless Major Leaves Me Stripeless

We found the battery snugly ensconced in a series of four gun-pits overshadowed by tall trees by the side of a narrow road.

On the left, our flank was protected by La Bassée canal, while on the right and a little nearer the support trenches was “C” Battery of our Brigade, not so well placed in the middle of a swamp.

In spite of much sporadic shelling, which included incendiary and gas, there were quite a lot of waterfowl breeding here-abouts, including wild duck, coots, and moorhens.

I recall seeing a fond mother coot followed by her family, consisting of half a dozen tiny, fluffy balls of black down, paddling serenely between splashes made by two bursts from a 5·9 inch section salvo from behind the German lines, and apparently not in the least perturbed.

AN ABOMINATION

The canal, on the other hand, was an abomination of desolation, its stagnant waters choked with rusted barbed wire or littered with all sorts of abandoned impedimenta, the aftermath of battle; amid which a wrecked barge mouldered on the slimy bottom or a smashed bridge reared its twisted girders against the gloomy skyline.

There were four guns on the main position and another two in an advanced section. The gun-pits were in effect sand-bagged emplacements roofed over with heavy logs, these last intended to explode a H.E. shell before it penetrated into the pit, where as many as 300 rounds of ammunition might have been stacked in racks on each side of the pits.

As the whole position was under constant observation not only from the interminable line of captive balloons stretching along the line of the front as far as the eye could see, each glinting in the sun like a sinister unwinking eye, but also from “spotter” planes, which swooped so low that they almost grazed the tree tops, we were under strict orders to move about as little as possible in the hours of daylight.

In addition, camouflage nets were hung over the front of the pits when the guns were not in action and every day fresh grass was scattered over the scorched, withered herbage in front of the gun muzzles, to efface traces of blast.

NIGHT LIFE

But at night we were busy enough for the edict had gone forth from Battery Office that the whole position had to be improved, gun-pits reinforced with new sandbags and where they were out of alignment, brought into position!

Rumour had it that the Divisional C.R.A. was coming to inspect us and that he liked to see all gun muzzles in perfect dressing, like soldiers on parade.

This entailed heavy fatigues with depleted detachments and some “grousing” particularly among the old sweats, who thought they ought to be allowed to take things easy on such a quiet front.

Not that life was always so peaceful. On Sunday, April 1^st, the Battery diary tersely records: “the Bosche a great deal more active. Knocked about Fenton’s Folly (our observation post) with Minnies and put 4·2s including gas shells round Sapper’s House, knocking down part of the adjoining wall.”

This entailed retaliatory fire, which in turn set the enemy lines buzzing like a swarm of bees.

Machine guns began their staccato rattle across the waste of No-Man’s-Land and soon SOS flares were lighting up the night sky, red over green over yellow, like aerial traffic lights crying out for artillery support.

It was quite a regular thing to have three or four such alarms in a single night.

CRYPTIC MESSAGES

Nor was this our only bugbear. We had, if I remember right, five SOS lines, all carefully calibrated and divided into arcs of fire, all with line, range, angle of sight, and fuses set according to whether the code word was “Canal Right, Canal Centre, Canal Left, Defend Givenchy, or Defend Dragon.” (Dragon incidentally being a mine crater which changed hands with monotonous regularity whenever we or the Bosche decided upon a raid.) so that we could switch over to the danger spot almost on the instant.

Unfortunately our Battery Office was in a direct line about half a mile in rear of the position and as the major (according to a blasphemous theory held by “B” sub-gun detachment) suffered from chronic insomnia he whiled away the midnight hours phoning through to the battery such cryptic messages as, “No. 1 gun test Canal Centre” or “No. 4 gun test Defend Givenchy”.

This meant that the gun in question had to fire a single round on that particular SOS line, the detachment dashing out of their dug-out into the adjoining gun-pit, often half-naked and in pouring rain, while the major, seated in comfort over his supper, timed their reactions with his stop-watch.

Woe betide the NCO in charge of a team of laggards; a stern reprimand was his sure and certain portion on the morrow.

RAPID FIRE

It was this amiable habit which landed me into my first spot of bother. In the early hours of the morning, after my detachment bad just crept into “kip” after a particularly heavy fatigue, the telephonist passed along the order: “No. 2 gun test Canal Left.” It was really more than flesh and blood could stand.

“All right, lads, stay put,” I said. “This is my show,” and, stumbling out into the darkness, I groped my way into the gun-pit, where the gun, with a shell already in the breech, was laid on “Defend Dragon”.

By the light of a pocket torch I spun round the range drum to extreme elevation and then sent a shell whizzing merrily somewhere into the German back areas, chuckling to myself as I thought of the major and his stop-watch recording one of the fastest tests in the history of ballistics.

But alas, as I turned to leave, a second torch flashed in my face and there stood the Battery Officer, who ought to have been sleeping peacefully in his bunk, coming to supervise the whole proceedings.

I draw a veil over the harrowing sequel, except to recall that I lost my stripes one day and got them back the day after, Gun-layer NCO’s were scarce in those days.