A Soldier's Place Page 11

  “Hmm. Keep a very sharp watch. A prisoner, captured on our right, said an attack was due in this sector. Sergeant,” he turned to the form beside him, “send those Lewis gunners to this post. This is a weak point, I believe; so be as quick as you can.”

  A little later the sergeant returned with a Lewis gunner and his helper. They set up their weapon directly beside Izzard, and the new man became so nervous he could not keep still. “How close can the Germans get before you see them?” he whispered to the gunner.

  The fellow bit off a chew of tobacco before answering, and despite the dark the short man was conscious of scrutiny.

  “You just up?” The query was grunted rather than spoken.

  “Yes, I—I am,” stammered Izzard. “Just got up to the transports this mornin’ and they sent me right on up here. It ain’t fair, is it?”

  “Hardly, soldier. New guys should be broke in a bit before shovin’ them in with us gunners. It don’t give us a fair chance.”

  “W-what do you mean? Ain’t fair to you—?”

  Izzard was silenced by a grip on the arm. Calico had leaned forward over the parapet and was peering intently into No Man’s Land, his hand upraised for caution. The gunners froze into readiness and the short man felt his limbs trembling. Phut! It was the dull report of a flare pistol. A light streaked high and looped earthward. Followed by a perfect pandemonium of noise. The clatter of machine guns was interspersed with the bark of Lee Enfields and soon the ping-ng of Mills bombs added to the din. Izzard was conscious of the deafening rattle of the Lewis gun, but his strength oozed from him as red flashes spat angrily from just beyond their wire and he glimpsed a horde of crouching forms.

  For a brief second he thought of flight, but refused as he remembered the sentence given for desertion at the front. Then a German bomb landed in the trench and its explosion roused him like a heavy boot, energetically applied. Calico was shooting as fast as he could work the bolt of his rifle and the Lewis gun hardly slackened its crackling performance. Cra-ash! Another bomb—so close that the odour of its explosives irritated Izzard’s nostrils. He sneezed violently, and unconsciously stepped back and down into the trench. That act saved his life. A third bomb landed just where his rifle had been. The Lewis gun and its handlers were thrown in a heap.

  Calico had leaped to a corner of the bay, yelling and pointing to a shelf in the parapet. Before Izzard recollected that it contained the emergency bomb store the tall man jumped back on the firestep and was performing rapid overhead movements. Simultaneously came the metallic pin-nging of Mills bombs. In the flash of their explosions Izzard glimpsed a flying “coal-scuttle” helmet, waving arms, a face, curiously white and distorted. Despairing cries cut through the uproar.

  Calico’s overhand heaving ceased and he pawed wildly for his rifle. Izzard, standing as if entranced, had seen it topple into the darkness of the trench. Stupidly, he watched his mate’s frantic gestures. A shouting reached him. He swung about to discern the officer who had posted the gunners, saw him pointing with his revolver, saw it spurt flame just as a huge German appeared in the haze. Utterly bewildered by the rapidity of events, the new man tightened his pressure on the trigger of his rifle that he was clutching tightly, and was started out of his inaction as the weapon discharged and a second Hun pitched forward beside the first comer.

  “You got him! Great work! They’re stopped!” yelled the officer. “Help me with the Lewis gun.”

  Izzard, thrilled by his unexpected achievement, sprang to assist, and with Calico, who had recovered his rifle, giving directions, they planted the machine in place again. The two wounded gunners were hastily bandaged and sent out of the way.

  “Now boys, keep steady,” the officer’s voice was shrill and jubilant. “You sure saved the line here. Listen—they’re beat back on each side.”

  From right and left came sounds of lusty cheering and the firing slackened to even bursts from machine guns. Clearly the Royal Canadians had the situation in hand. “I’ll send two more gunners as soon as I can,” said the officer. “Fix up your post and get some more bombs.” He hesitated. “Aren’t you a new man?” he asked Izzard.

  “Yes, sir. My first trip in.” Izzard had recovered enough to steady his voice. “By Jove! Your first trip! We need men like you. I’ll be back soon.”

  As he disappeared Izzard discovered that his fingers were wet and sticky. He held them closer and was horrified to smell warm blood. “Gee, Calico,” he wailed. “I’m bleeding. Am I wounded?”

  “No,” snapped Calico. “You got that blood off the gun. Both them chaps were hit bad. That was a close call—on account of you doing nothing to help.”

  “I—I was waitin’ for a shot,” stammered Izzard.

  “Can that stuff,” ordered Calico. “Lucky for you your rifle went off or we’d be throwin’ you over into a shell hole by now. Help me heave this Fritz over. You were frightened stiff—but it was your first scrap.”

  Izzard seized at the relenting. “Honest, Calico, I was just dizzy the way things was happenin’. Gee, I can’t touch that dead guy. Can’t you drag him up the trench? If you’ll say nothing about me I’ll give you five francs.”

  “I don’t want your five francs,” retorted Calico. “Give me a green envelope and we’ll call it quits.”

  “Sure thing,” Izzard’s voice was eager. “What’s them things for anyhow?”

  “Our officers don’t censor them,” said Calico calmly as the exchange was made. “You know I’m engaged to Arabella, and I write every Friday. Now grab hold of this Heinie.” The command was unmistakable.

  Izzard took hold gingerly, grew desperate as the body yielded and surged against him, and lifted with all his might. The German was rolled over the top and out of the way. Then they manned the Lewis gun. The firing had now abated to the usual night shooting. Flares were soaring up from different areas. From farther up the trench came the sound of picks and shovels. The RCRs were repairing damages. The sergeant came into the bay accompanied by two men carrying Lewis gun ammunition. “There’s the gun, boys,” he said gruffly, then turned to Izzard. “Give these men a hand if anything happens,” he ordered, “and get a shovel. Can’t you see your parapet wants fixin’.”

  “I’ll bet it does,” said Izzard, as if just remembering. “We just rolled a big Heinie out there, and there’s another one beside him. Close call for us, sergeant.”

  “Are you the new man that put up such a scrap?” There was a mixture of awe and unbelief in the question.

  “Surest thing, Sarge. Me and Calico, that’s my chum there, must have killed a dozen of them Huns. We had a bellyful of fightin’.”

  Nothing further was said about shovels and so Izzard was still relaxing when a runner arrived, panting heavily. “Is Private Izzard here?” he asked.

  “Right here, my lad,” said the short man. “What now?”

  “I’m one of the company scouts,” panted the fellow. “Was down at headquarters and they sent for me to go out on listening post. My partner got knocked out in the scrap. The officer said you had lots of guts and said you could go with me. Come on, we’re late. Put these bombs in yer pocket.”

  Dry-lipped, feverish with a thousand apprehensions, Izzard hustled after the man, too dumbfounded to find excuse. They crawled out through a “lane” in the wire, avoided shell holes, wreckage, brick heaps, things that smelled, listened a time and crawled again. Izzard’s heart palpitated furiously. His teeth chattered as if he were chilled.

  “They think Heinie might try comin’ over ag’in,” wheezed his leader. “Keep your eyes peeled.”

  Izzard could hardly navigate the last few yards that led to a small crater, too shallow for comfortable cover. “Just lay quiet and watch,” were the orders given by the scout.

  Flares were rising regularly from the German trenches. Occasionally a machine stuttered or a rifle bullet whined over their heads. A rat rustled
by. Izzard kept watch to the left, his partner to the right. Suddenly the new man’s gaze was arrested by something bunched darkly, too far away to be defined. He tensed rigid. The thing had moved—was crawling toward him! In one heart beat absolute terror had robbed him of strength to speak or move. The figure crept closer, halting briefly, but never swerving in direction. Yard by yard it advanced, and was within feet of him before sheer desperation enabled him to rouse the scout with his elbow. Then he pointed at the unknown menace. “That you, Dicky?” came a low hiss.

  “Yep, Jimmy, but by old split heels you’re a lucky guy. I forgot to tell this new guy you was on patrol. Great stuff, partner. Some chaps would-a shot at anything that moved.”

  The figure crawled up beside them. “Hell, Dicky,” it complained, “you’ll have me killed yet. Why don’t you use your thinker? Here,” he extended a water bottle toward Izzard, “have a snort. You’re a good head, Mac, for a new guy.”

  Izzard gulped eagerly. The rum restored him. “I figured you wasn’t a Heinie,” he whispered hoarsely. “Anyways I had a bead on you.”

  Both scouts chuckled. “Great stuff, partner,” they murmured.

  Morning came without further incident. At night the battalion was relieved. Back in billets rumours of the new man’s conduct circulated freely and several of Izzard’s platoon became friendly with him. Calico said nothing, and passed almost unnoticed. The new man accepted all compliments with ready grace, and made several references to his tall chum. When that individual put on his belt and announced that he was going to the “Y” to write a letter, Izzard did not go with him. He felt it an opportunity to explain their friendship.

  “Him and me’s from the same little burg,” he announced with nonchalance. “We called him ‘Calico’ back there because he worked in a dry-goods shop. He’s not a bad head, kind-a slow and all that, but quite decent if you take him right. I’m goin’ to kind-a look after him when we’re in the line.”

  There was a chorus of approval and only one dissenting voice. A rough-throated, grizzled veteran spat his quid at the stove and declared that he was “fed up with umpty-ump chatter.” Izzard turned swiftly to see who dared, alone, to challenge his prestige. The veteran was too husky of build, had too much bulldog in his appearance; to risk a quarrel with him was not worthwhile. The sergeant entered, and walked straight to Izzard.

  “I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice, “but you’re down for guard. We always use the new men.”

  “Guard! Me? What’s the idea? I’m only with you three days. Who’s in charge? I’ll go see him.”

  “The RSM is the guy to see.” The rough-voiced veteran spoke quickly, “that is, if you got the guts enough to talk to him.”

  “You’re kind-a doubtin’ it, eh?” Izzard shot back. “Where is this guy? I’ll show you.”

  A dozen voices rose in protest: “Don’t go near Sunshine.” “Gad! He’d murder ya.” “Don’t be a fool, Mac. They’re kiddin’ ya.” “You’ll be shot at sunrise.”

  Defying them all, Izzard put on his belt and strode to the billet that bore the RSM’s shingle. In a minute he was before RSM Bricker, commonly known as “Sunshine,” the pride of the Royal Canadian Regiment. Sixteen years in His Majesty’s forces was Sunshine’s record. His uniform was immaculate, his back hollowed with Guard exactness. The business of the trenches he regarded as temporary evils—the regulations of the parade were his Bible.

  With majestic condescension he heard Izzard’s tale of his prowess, his wish to be relieved of guard duty, and then, in the manner so known and feared by the regiment, thundered forth the dictum that not only would the new man mount guard, but he should do so in all the glitter obtainable by brass polish.

  “Shine your buttons, your brass, your bayonet, and your boots. Wrap your puttees carefully, and never come here again with such…fool whinings. Get out.”

  Izzard got. And not until he was at the door of his billet again did he realize that that awful voice had ceased. It seemed to follow him. A moment he stood, thinking. So this was the reward given the man who fought in the trenches, took his life in his hands! What was this dandified personage doing to win the war? Bah! He burst inside, slammed the door, and proclaimed his righteous indignation.

  ***

  Hobnailed boots sounded heavily on the cobbled road that fronted the battered brick and sandbag headquarters of D Company, RCRs. There was not a light showing from any of the ruined buildings in the vicinity, and the only other evidences of human occupation, besides the sentry who pounded the cobblestones, were voices that issued from a blanketed doorway across the street. It was twelve o’clock and Izzard was on the beat. The guard mounting had been a fearful ordeal. The corporal of the guard had used scathing language when they lined up at the billet, and the sergeant had seconded his helper’s opinions. Twice Sunshine had thrust his right hand in his right tunic pocket. When that individual thrust his hand in his pocket on an inspection it boded evil for someone. In his right-hand pocket Sunshine kept his notebook, and never did he trust to a sergeant’s taking an offender’s name.

  Izzard had sanded and polished his bayonet until it rivalled the candle that shone in the guardroom, behind the blanketed doorway. He had passed the inspection, but fires of indignation simmered within. That honest men should be subjected to such abuse, that human energy should be wasted on brass and leather at such a world crisis, were the most atrocious examples of injustice he had known. Thus he pondered as he paced twenty-three steps to the right, turned smartly and paced twenty-three steps left.

  He had framed, in his mind, a letter he should send to the mayor of his home town, exposing the livid wrongs that delayed victory, when over toward Villers au Bois he heard the droning of planes. Farther back, long beams of light shot into the sky, searchlights, and he knew that bombers were abroad. Then came a series of dull, heavy explosions, and he halted, staring apprehensively at the distant village. On the instant he was aware of a rushing noise somewhere above him, and glanced up. A dark shape seemed to hover right over him and then he heard a phew-phew-phew, a whistling threat, horribly personal. Cra-a-ash! A terrific explosion. Izzard was hurled to the ground. Brick and cobblestone thudded down in all directions. Choking dust and gas fumes drifted from the corner of the ruin that bordered the guardroom. Voices were calling. There were crisp commands and startled queries. Some leather-lunged authority ordered everyone to stay in his billet.

  Izzard, moaning from fright and a badly bruised elbow, was helped to the guardroom and there huddled miserably. The sergeant explained that the aeroplane had gone and that it was only a chance bomb he had dropped. The new man revived considerably as the hour passed without the airman’s returning, and then, all at once, grasped the reason of his being singled as a target. He gestured wildly in the candlelight.

  “What did I tell you guys?” he shrilled. “This is what comes of this blasted shining. That Boche saw my bayonet in the moonlight. He was right low over the street and there I was like a bally target. I knew it—such foolery as shining a bayonet—I—I—” He grew incoherent.

  “Dry up.” “Stow it.” “Give your jaw a rest.” Brusque and unfriendly were the interruptions, but Izzard was not finished.

  “Listen,” he shouted, “they can’t scare me into killing myself by such foolishness. As sure as you hear me I’ll get even with Sunshine. It’s murder—pure murder—this shining.”

  “You’re through, umpty-ump,” the rough-voiced veteran was speaking now. “You can rest your yap. Don’t kid yourself that any Heinie will ever waste a bomb in your direction. But, say, if you can take a rise out-a old Sunshine you got my vote, and the gang’s with you.”

  “Hear, hear!” The assent was a chorus.

  After guard relief Calico had to listen to a reiteration of Izzard’s vow, but he was not affected. It was Friday again and he had a green envelope. Composing an epistle to Arabella required a concentration that excluded o
ther matters. Yet he took time solemnly to shake Izzard’s hand and wish him luck.

  Anything new spread like magic among the soldiers. The word that the new guy was out to “get” Sunshine spread during parade, and perhaps a rumour leaked through to the intended victim.

  Perhaps it was fate guided the next events.

  Izzard made his second trip into the line. Under Calico’s steadying influence the experience was not so bad, and three days in supports, where only light working parties were used, rendered him almost cheerful. Then the battalion marched back to billets and on the first parade Sunshine assisted with the inspection. Like an inexorable pendulum he swung around to Izzard and pulled open one of his cartridge pouches. The clips were not as clean as they might be.

  “Disgraceful—this is disgraceful!” bellowed Sunshine. “How dare you come on parade with dirty ammunition?”

  At the words all of Izzard’s acceptance of conditions vanished. His interior became a volcano and he saw red. He would not stand further persecution. “I never heard of shining bullets,” he snarled loud enough to be heard. “Do we shine the bombs, too?”

  “Silence!” roared the sergeant and Sunshine in unison.

  The RSM’s right hand shot into his pocket and jerked forth the fateful notebook. “Two charges,” he grated. “Insubordination and dirty ammunition.”

  And at noon Izzard was paraded before the major. The result was inevitable, for the accused broke forth in scathing comment of the diabolical treatment awarded the men who came to save their country. As D Company fell in after absorbing their mulligan, word was passed around that the newcomer had lost his first round with Sunshine, and that the loser was engaged in digging a latrine under the watchful eye of the regimental police.

  His sentence had been fourteen days “number one.”

  ***

  The night was misty black. On the far side of Vimy Ridge moved a phantom procession. It was a ration party from the transports of the RCRs, carrying up supplies to a point near Avion, where the battalion was entrenched and where they would meet ration crews from each of the companies. Sunshine was in charge. This blackest of nights was the date of an important brigade raid, and the rest of the transports were to act as escorts for the expected prisoners. Sharp at midnight a fifteen-minute barrage was to be laid on Avion and its outskirts, and then the famous Seventh Brigade, RCRs on the right, would swarm from their trenches and assault the German lines in front of the town. All the casualties and prisoners would be hustled to the rear, as the conquerors were only to hold the captured trenches until two o’clock. The object of the raid was to get prisoners, harass the Hun, and catch his counter attack with another barrage as they massed to re-take the line.