Chapter III: Part 3

"'Well, mate, as is usual under the circumstances, we talked, or at least I did. She did most of the listening. That wine sure untied my tongue; another drink or two and I would have promised her Buckingham Palace. I was just fool crazy in love with her. Once I caught her stifling a yawn when I was in the midst of one of my verbal barrages, but the pretty smile which quickly followed once again had me in a fool's paradise.

"'My back was to the door leading to the stables. Suddenly it opened. I sprang for my rifle which I had left leaning against the table close at hand. It wasn't there. I faced around and there in the door stood Lance Corporal Hawkins. A pretty looking sight he was, with hay in his hair, cap gone, and no rifle. One look at his eyes was enough. They were red rimmed and watery. The fool was drunk, I could see that at a glance, but he seemed to be fighting it off; he wabbled on his pins, blinked his eyes, and rubbed his forehead with his hand as if bewildered.

"'Angry at being disturbed, I yelled at him, "Well, what do you want? What's the matter?"

"'This seemed to sober him momentarily, because he blurted out in a thick voice, "'Scuse me, Sergeant, but--hic,--back in Blighty,--I could drink 'em all under the table, 'ad the name for a-doin' it in the pubs. Was champeen of 'em all--an' I know this blinkin' red ink I been a drinkin' ain't made me drunk--hic--it's mighty damned queer" (a hard look from me) "excuse me, Miss, but my 'ead's like a buzz saw."

"'I was getting madder and madder. Adrienne seemed to be getting fidgety. She was looking around nervously. I could stand it no longer, so I let out on Hawkins.

"'"You get back to that stable, you drunk, you're a disgrace to that uniform; I'll attend to you in the morning. You're under arrest." Hawkins didn't move and after a strong effort started talking, more to himself than to me,--he seemed in a daze.

"'"Sergeant, I--there's a horse--there's a horse, it's missing--the rifles are gone--can't find a nary one--only thirteen horses--one from fourteen's thirteen--had fourteen--one from thirteen's fourteen--"

"'I looked for my rifle. Adrienne smiled at me and reassuringly pointed to the far corner of the room. There was my rifle. But how did it get there? I was getting alarmed and uneasy. Noting this, Adrienne with her sweetest smile said,--

"'"I see my Sergeant is not used to our French wine; it plays many tricks on the mind." And she glanced significantly at Hawkins.

"'Hawkins, giving me a wondering look, mumbled, "Sergeant's got same kind of drunk--hic--I got--rifles walk--hic--horses fly."

"'Adrienne gave me a look of disdain which decided me. Turning to Hawkins, I ordered,--

"'"You get back to that stable, quick; not another word from you. I tell you, you are drunk."

"'Hawkins gave me a sarcastic salute and muttered loud enough for me to hear, "Sergeant has more brains than Lance Corporal--or wouldn't be sergeant--don't know there's a war on--thinks this is a blinkin' peace time maneuver--ter 'ell with the bloody horses--a bloomin' rifle's only extra weight." Then he turned around and stumbled out of the door.

"'I was mad to the core. Still I was uneasy about Hawkins's report concerning the rifles and horses and intended immediately to investigate.

"'Adrienne came over to me and, putting a hand on each of my shoulders, looked up into my eyes and said, "My sergeant has taken too much wine. I am sorry. I thought he was strong and could laugh at such trifles, but I see I was mistaken."

"'This sent me up in the air completely. I would show her. Removing her hands from my shoulders, I reached for the glass of wine. She gently took it from me and, just touching the edge of the glass to her pretty lips, passed it back and said in a voice of silver, "Drink, my Sergeant, drink to our betrothal. Drink to the honour of France. Drink to the honour of England. Drink to the confusion of our enemies."

"'I drank with my fool heart pounding against my ribs.

"'She started to fade into a mist,--she was laughing--there were three Adriennes--why was the table floating in the air--the horses--the rifles--we had been betrayed--crash--bang--a shell hit the house. Then blackness.

"'When I awoke, I was lying on the floor. My head seemed to be bursting with pain. The gray dawn was filtering through the curtained windows, and there in the middle of the room, with my Adrienne in his arms, stood a captain of Uhlans. I was a prisoner. I saw it all in a flash. She had betrayed me. Now I knew why she had wanted no guard posted,--why the horse was missing, the rifles gone. The wine we pledged our troth in was drugged. What an ass I had been! Hawkins was right.

"'I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep. They were talking in German. Pretty soon the captain came over and roughly shook me. I only grunted. With an exclamation of disgust, he called out in German. Two troopers came in, and, lifting me by the shoulders and feet, carried me out into the air. I slightly opened my eyes, and saw that I had been carried out to the gate, where two horses were standing with their reins thrown over a hitching post. By the equipment I knew one of the horses belonged to the captain, while the other was the orderly's. The two troopers dumped me down on the road, one giving me a kick with his boot. I was lying on my left side, and by a certain hard pressure on my ribs, I knew they had neglected to search me. That pressure was my automatic pistol. A feeling of exultation rushed over me. I had a fighting chance.

"'Fate worked into my hands. A hail in German came from the stables, and one of the troopers left to answer it. The odds were even, one against one. I slowly turned over on my face, as if in sleep, and my fingers grasped the butt of the automatic. But just then I heard steps on the gravel walk. The captain and Adrienne were coming toward me. She stopped beside me, and said in English: "You poor English fool! Make love to me, will you? Good-bye, my idiotic sergeant. While you are rotting in prison, think of your Adrienne, bah!"

"'My hand gave the butt of my automatic just the slightest squeeze. I was thinking of her hand on my shoulder. Well, two could play that game.

"'The captain said something to the orderly, who left in the direction of the house. Now was my chance. Springing to my feet and leveling the pistol at the captain, I grabbed the reins of his horse from the post and mounted. The orderly came running toward me, yelling out in German, and I could see Uhlans emerging from the stable. I had to work quickly.

"'When I mounted, the captain reached for his revolver. I covered him with mine. With a shriek of terror, Adrienne threw herself on his breast to protect him. I saw her too late. My bullet pierced her left breast, and a red smudge showed on her white silk blouse as she sank to the ground. I shot the orderly's horse to prevent immediate pursuit. Then I set off at a mad gallop down the road. It was a long chase, but I escaped them.

"'So that is my story, Yank. Just forget that I ever told it to you. Enough to make a fellow get the blues occasionally, isn't it? Just pass me a fag, and take that look off your face.'

"I gave him the cigarette, and, without a word, went out of the dugout, and left him alone. I was thinking of Adrienne. Upon reaching the trench I paused in wonder and fright. The sky was alight with a red glare. The din was terrific. A constant swishing and rushing through the air, intermingled with a sighing moan, gave testimony that our batteries were sweating blood. The trench seemed to be rolling like a ship. I stood in awe. This bombardment of ours was something indescribable, and a shudder passed through me as I thought of the havoc and destruction caused in the German lines. At that moment I really pitied the Germans, but not for long; suddenly hell seemed to burst loose from the German lines as their artillery opened up. I could hear their 5.9's screeching through the air and bursting in the artillery lines in our rear. Occasionally a far off rum-rum-rump-rump-Crash! Bru-u-un-nn-ng-g! could be heard as one of their high calibered shells came over and burst in our reserve. I crouched against the parados, hardly able to breathe. While in this position, right overhead, every instant getting louder, came a German shell--whi-z-z! bang-g-g! I was blinded by the flash. Down I went, into the mud. Struggling to my feet in the red glare of the bombardment, I saw that the traverse on my left had entirely disappeared. Covered with mud, weak and trembling, I staggered to my feet, and again rested against the parados, trembling with fear. I could hear what sounded like far distant voices coming from the direction of the bashed-in traverse.

"'Blime me, get 'is bloomin' napper out a th' mud; 'e's chokin' to death. Pass me a bandage--tyke 'is b'yonet fer a splint. Blime me, 'is leg is smashed, not 'arf h'it h'ain't. Th' rest o' you blokes 'op it fer a stretcher. 'Ello, 'e's got another one--quick, a tourniquet, the poor bloke's a-bleedin' to death. Quick, h'up against the parapet, 'ere comes another.'

"Whiz-z-z! Bang-g-g!

"Another flare, and once again I was thrown into the mud. I opened my eyes. Bending over me, shaking me by the shoulder and yelling into my ear, was Atwell. His voice sounded faint and far away. Then I came to with a rush.

"'Blime me, Yank, that was a close one. Did it get you?'

"He helped me to my feet and I felt myself all over. Seeing I was all right, he yelled into my ear:

"'We've got to leg it out of 'ere. Fritz is sure sendin' over whizz-bangs and Minnies. Number 9 platoon in the next firebay sure clicked it. About eighteen of them have gone West. Come on, we'll see if we can do anything for the poor blokes.'

"We plowed through the mud and came into the next firebay. In the light of the bursting shells an awful sight met our eyes. The traverses were bashed in, the firestep was gone, and in the parados was a hole that looked like a subway entrance. There was mud and blood all around. An officer of the Royal Army Medical Corps and several stretcher-bearers were working like Trojans. We offered our aid, which was gladly accepted.

"Every now and then ducking as a whizz-bang or Minnie came over, we managed to get four of the wounded on the stretchers, and Atwell and I carried one to the rear to the First Aid Dressing Station. We passed the dugout which I had left a few minutes before, or, at least, what used to be the dugout, but now all that could be seen was a caved-in mass of dirt; huge, square-cut timbers sticking out of the ground and silhouetted against the light from bursting shells. A shudder passed through me as I realized that if we had stayed in the dugout we would have now been lying fifteen to twenty feet down, covered by that caved-in earth and wreckage.

"Atwell jerked his head in the direction of the smashed-in dugout and, as was his wont, remarked: 'How about that fancy report you were writing out a few minutes ago? Didn't I tell you that it never paid to make out reports in the front line? It's best to wait until you get to Headquarters, because what's the use of wasting all that bally time when you're liable to be buried in a dugout?'

"Turning my head to listen to Atwell, I ran plump into a turn in the trench. A shout came from the form on the stretcher we were carrying: 'Why in the bloody 'ell don't you blokes look where you're a-goin'? You'd think this was a bloomin' Picadilly bus, and I was out with my best girl on a joy-ride.' I mumbled my apologies and the form relapsed into silence. Then the muddy Tommy on the stretcher began to mumble. Atwell asked him if he wanted anything. With a howl of rage, he answered: 'Of all the bloody nerve,--do I want anything? No, I don't want anything--only a bloody pair o' crutches, a dish of "fish and chips" and a glawss of stout.'

"When we came to the First Aid Dressing Station we turned our charge over to some R.A.M.C." (Royal Army Medical Corps) "men, and, ducking and running through the communication trench, we at last reached one of the roomy 'Elephant Dugouts.' We were safe. Stumbling over the feet of men, we came to an unoccupied corner and sat down in the straw. Several candles were burning. Grouped around these candles were a lot of Tommies, their faces pale and with a frightened look in their eyes. Strange to say, the conversation had nothing to do with themselves. They were sympathizing with the poor fellows in the front line who were clicking it.

"I must have dropped off to sleep. When I awoke it was morning, and after drinking our tea and eating our bread and bacon, Atwell and I reported to Brigade Headquarters, and again returned to the front line trench."

WINNING A D.C.M.

As Told by Ikey

WINNING A D.C.M.

The gun's crew were sitting on the straw in the corner of the billet, apart from the rest of the section. The night before they had been relieved from the fire trench, and were "resting" in rest billets. Their "day's rest" had been occupied in digging a bombing trench, which was to be used for the purpose of breaking in would-be bombers.

Hungry was slicing away at a huge loaf of bread, while on his knee he was balancing a piece of "issue" cheese. His jack-knife was pretty dull and the bread was hard, so every now and then he paused in his cutting operation to take a large bite from the cheese.

Curly whispered to Yank: "Three bob to a tanner, Yank, that he eats the cheese before he finishes slicing that 'rooty.'"

Yank whispered back: "Nothing doing, Curly, you are Scotch, and did you ever see a Scotchman bet on anything unless it was a sure winner?"

He answered in an undertone: "Well, let's make it a pack of fags. How about it, Yank?"

"That's a bet," replied Yank.

(Curly won the fags.)

Sailor Bill was sitting next to Curly, and had his dog, Jim, (named after his former pet dog, Private Jim)--a scroggly-looking cur,--between his knees, and was picking hard pieces of mud from its paws. Jim was wagging his stump of a tail and was intently watching Hungry's operation on the bread. Every time Hungry reached for the cheese, Jim followed the movement with his eyes, and his tail wagged faster. Hungry, noting this look, bit off a small piece of the cheese and flipped it in Jim's direction. Jim deftly caught it in his mouth, and then the fun began. Jim hated cheese. It was amusing to watch him spit it out and sneeze.

Ikey reached over, took the candle, and started searching in his pack, amid a chorus of growls from the rest at his rudeness in thus depriving them of light. Yank was watching him closely and suspected what was coming. Sure enough, out came that harmonica and Yank knew it was up to him to start the ball of conversation rolling before Ikey began to play; for after he had once started nothing short of a German "five nine" shell-burst would stop him. Yank slyly kicked Sailor Bill, who immediately got wise, and then Yank broke the ice:

"Sailor, I heard you say this afternoon, while we were digging that trench, that in your opinion darn few medals were really won: that it was more or less an accident or luck. Now, just because your D.C.M. came up with the rations, and, as you say, was wished on you, there is no reason in my mind to class every winner of a medal as 'accidentally lucky.'"

This medal business was a sore point with Sailor Bill, and he came right back:

"Well, if any of you lubbers can tell me where a D.C.M. truly came aboard in a ship-shape manner; that is, up the after gangplank, and piped over the side, then h'I will strike my colors and lay up on a lee shore for a keel 'auling."

Ikey had just taken a long, indrawn breath, and his cheeks were puffed out like a balloon, preparatory to blowing it into the harmonica which he had at his lips. But he paused, and, removing the musical instrument of torture, exploded:

"Blime me, I know a bloke who won a D.C.M., and it wasn't accidental or lucky, either. I was right out in front with him. Blime me, I sure had the wind-up, but with French it was 'Business as usual.' He just carried on."

The rest chirped in, "Come on, Ikey, let's have the story."

"I will if you'll just let me play this one tune first," answered Ikey.

He started in and was accompanied by a dismal, moaning howl from Jim. Ikey had been playing about a minute, when the Orderly Sergeant poked his head in the door of the billet, and said:

"The Captain says to stop that infernal noise."

Highly insulted, Ikey stopped playing and said, "Some people 'ave no idea of music." The gun's crew unanimously agreed with him.

Somewhat mollified, he started:

"Corporal French is the same bloke who just returned from Blighty and joined the 3rd Section yesterday.

"We were 'oldin' a part o' the line up Fromelles w'y, and were about two 'undred yards from the Germans. This sure was a 'ot section o' the line, h'against the Prussians, an' it was a case, at night, o' keeping your ears an' eyes open. No Man's Land was full o' their patrols and ours, an' many fights took place between them.

"One night we would send over a trench-raiding party, an' the next night over would come Fritz.

"There was a certain part o' our trench nicknamed 'Death Alley' an' the company which held it were sure to 'click' it hard in casualties.

"John French--'e was a Lance Corporal then--was in charge o' our section. This was before I went to Machine Gunners' School an' transferred to this outfit. This French certainly was an artist when it came to scoutin' in No Man's Land. 'E knew every inch o' the ground h'out in front, an' was like a cat--'e could see in the dark.

"On the night that 'e won his D.C.M., 'e 'ad been out in front with a patrol for two hours, an' had just returned to the fire trench. A sentry down on the right o' Death Alley reported a suspicious noise out in front, an' our Captain gave orders for another patrol to go out an' investigate.

"Corporal Hastings was next on the list for the job, but, blime me, 'e sure 'ad the wind-up, an' was shakin' and tremblin' like a dish o' jelly.

"A new Leftenant, Williams by name, 'ad just come out from Blighty, an' a pretty fine officer, too. Now, don't you chaps think because this chap was killed that I say he was a good officer, because, dead or alive, you would 'ave to go a bloomin' long way to get another man like Williams. But, this young Leftenant was all eagerness to get out in front. You see, it was 'is first time over the top. 'E noticed that Hastings was a bit shaky, an' so did French. French went up to the officer an' said:

"'Sir, Corporal Hastings 'as been feeling queer (sick) for the last couple of days, an' I certainly would deem it a favor if I could go in 'is place.'

"Now, don't think that Hastings was a coward, because 'e was not. The best of us are liable to get the 'shakes' at times. You know, Hastings was killed at La Bassée a few months ago,--killed while goin' over the top.

"There were seven in this patrol,--Leftenant Williams, Corporal French, myself an' four more from B Company.

"About sixty yards from Fritz's trench an old ditch--must have been the bed of a creek, but at that time it was dry--ran parallel with the German barbed wire. Linin' the edge of this ditch was a scrubby sort o' hedge which made a fine hidin'-place for a patrol. Why Fritz had not sent out a workin' party an' done away with this screen was a mystery to us. French leadin', followed by Leftenant Williams, myself third, an' the rest trailin' behind, the patrol crawled through a gap under our barbed wire leadin' out to a listenin'-post in No Man's Land. Williams carried a revolver--one of those Yankee Colts,--and his cane. Blime me, I believe that officer slept with that cane. He never went without it. The rest of us were armed with bombs and rifles, bayonets fixed. We had previously blackened our bayonets so they would not shine in the glare of a star-shell. Reachin' the listenin'-post, French, under orders from Williams, told us to wait about five minutes until he returned from a little scoutin' trip on his own. When he left, we, with every nerve tense, listened for his comin' back. We could almost 'ear h'each h'other's 'eart pumpin', but not a sound around the listenin'-post. Suddenly, a voice, about six feet on my right, whispered, 'All right, the way is clear; follow me an' carry on.' My blood froze in my veins. It was uncanny the way French approached us without being heard.

"Then, with backs bendin' low, out of the listenin'-post we went, in the direction of the ditch in front of the German barbed wire. We reached the scrubby hedge and lay down, about six feet apart, to listen. French an' the officers were on the right of our lines.

"About twenty minutes 'ad elapsed, when suddenly, directly in front of the German wire, we could see dark, shadowy forms rise from the ground and move along the wire. Silhouetted against the skyline these forms looked like huge giants and took on horrible shapes. My 'eart almost stopped beating. Sixty-two I 'ad counted as the last form faded into the blackness on my left. A whisper came to my ear: 'Don't move or make a sound; a strong German raidin' party is going across.' It was French's voice. I did not hear him approach me, nor leave--Yank, he must have got his trainin' with the Indians on your Great Plains along the Hudson River." (Yank snickered, but it was unnoticed by Ikey.) "I could hear a slight scrapin' noise on my right and left. Pretty soon the whole reconnoiterin' patrol was laying in a circle, heads in. French had, in his noiseless way, given orders for them to close in on me, and await instructions.

"Leftenant Williams' voice, in a very low whisper, came to us: 'Boys, the men, in our trenches 'ave received orders not to fire on account of our reconnoiterin' patrol bein' out in front. A strong German raidin' party has just circled our left, an' is makin' for our trench. It's up to us to send word back. We can't all go, because we might make too much noise and warn the German party, so it's up to one of us to carry the news back to the trench that the raidin' party is on its way. With this information it will be quite easy for our boys to wipe them out. But it's up to the rest of us to stick out here, and if we go West on account of the fire from our trench, well, we have done our duty in a noble cause. Corporal French, you had better take the news back, because you are too valuable a man to sacrifice.'

"French, under his breath, answered: 'Sir, I've been out since Mons, and this is the first time that I've ever been insulted by an officer. If this patrol is going to click it, I'm goin' to click it too. If we come out of this you can try me for disobedience of orders, but here I stick, an' I'll be damned if I go in, officer or no officer.'

"Williams, in a voice husky with emotion, answered:

"'French, it's men like you that make it possible for our little Island to withstand the world. You are a true Briton, an' I'm proud of you.'

"I was hopin' that he would detail me to go back, but he didn't. Henderson was picked for the job. When Henderson left, Williams shook hands all around. I felt wet all over.

"You see, fellows, it was this way: Henderson was to tell the men in the trench that we had returned an' that it was all right for them to turn loose on the raidin' party with their rifle and machine-gun fire, without us clicking their fire. It was a damned big lie, but it would save the blokes in our trench from a bloody bashing. That Leftenant Williams sure was a lad, not 'arf he weren't.

"The next twenty minutes of waiting was Hell. Our man must have got in safe, because from out of the blackness, over towards our trench, rang that old familiar ''Alt! who goes there?' I recognized Corporal Johnson's voice as doing the challengin' and I said to myself, 'You lucky bloke, Johnson, in a trench, an' me out here to click it.' We hugged the ground because we knew what was comin'. Then, a volley from our trench, and four 'type-writers' (machine-guns) turned loose. Bullets cracked right over our head. One hit the ground about a foot from me, ricocheted, and went moanin' and sighin' over the German lines.

"Leftenant Williams sobbed under his breath:

"'God, we're in direct line of our own fire. The trench-raidin' party must have circled us.'

"Our boys in our trenches were sure doin' themselves proud. The bullets were crackin' an' bitin' the ground all around us. I wished I was safe in Blighty, or jail, it didn't matter.

"In between our trench an' our party, curses rang out in German as the Boches clicked the fire from the English trench. Star-shells were shootin' into the air an' droppin' in No Man's Land. It was a great, but terrible sight which met our eyes. Fritz's raidin' party was bein' wiped off like numbers on a kid's slate. Ten or fifteen dark forms, the remnants of the German raidin' party, dashed past us in the direction of the German trench. We stuck close to the ground. It was our only chance. We knew that it would only be a few seconds before Fritz turned loose from his trench. We were caught, all right, you see. If we had legged it for our trench we would have been wiped out by our own fire. You see, our boys thought we were safely in, and would have mistaken us for Boches. Up went Fritz's star lights, and the clock jumped twelve hours, turnin' midnight into the blaze of noon, and Hell cut loose. Their bullets were snippin' twigs from the hedge over our heads.

"Suddenly, the fellow on my left, MacCauley by name, emitted a muffled groan and started kickin' the ground: then there was silence. He 'ad gone West. A bullet through the napper, I suppose. There were now five of us left. Suddenly Leftenant Williams, in a faint, choking voice, exclaimed:

"'They've got me, French, it's through the lung'--and then fainter--'you're in command. So that--' His voice died away.

"Pretty soon he started moaning loudly. The Germans must have heard these moans because they immediately turned their fire on us. French called to me:

"'Ikey, come here, my lad, our officer has clicked it.'

"I crawled over to him. He was sittin' on the ground with the Leftenant's head restin' in his lap, and was gettin' out his first-aid packet. I told him to get low or he would click it. He answered:

"'Since when does a bloomin' Lance Corporal take orders from a bloody private? You tell the rest of the boys, if there's any of them left, to leg it back to our trench at the double and get a stretcher, and you go with them. This lad of ours has got to get medical attention, an' damned quick, too, if we want to stop his bleedin'.'

"Just then a German star-shell landed about ten feet from us, an' in its white, ghostly light I could see French sittin' like a bloomin' statue, his hands covered with blood, tryin' to make a tourniquet out of a bandage an' his bayonet. I told the rest to get in an' get the stretcher. They needed no second urgin', an' soon French was left there alone, sittin' on the ground, holdin' his dyin' officer's head in his lap. A pretty picture, I call it. He sure was a man, was French; with the bullets crackin' overhead and kickin' up the dirt around him."

Just then Happy butted in with: "Were you one of the men who went in for the stretcher?"

Ikey answered: "None of your damned business. If you blokes want to hear this story through, don't interrupt."

Happy vouchsafed no answer.

"About ten minutes after the fellows left for the stretcher, French got a bullet through the left arm."

Sailor Bill interrupted here:

"How do you know it was ten minutes?"

Ikey blushed and answered:

"French told me when he got back to the trench. You see, he carried the officer back through that fire, because the stretcher-bearers took too long in coming out."

Yank asked Ikey how Corporal French, being wounded himself, could carry Leftenant Williams in, when he must have been a dead weight.

Ikey answered, "Well, you blokes give me the proper pip, and you can all bloomin' well go to hell," and he shut up like a clam.

Hungry got up and silently withdrew from the circle. In about ten minutes he returned, followed by a tall, fair-haired Corporal, who wore a little strip of gold braid on the left sleeve of his tunic, denoting that he had been once wounded, and also wore a little blue and red ribbon on the left breast of his tunic, the field insignia of the Distinguished Conduct Medal.

Hungry, in triumph, brought him into the circle an' handed him a fag, which he lighted in the flame from the candle on the mess tin, an' then Hungry introduced him:

"Boys, I want you to meet Corporal French."

We shook hands all around.

Ikey got red an' was tryin' to ease out of the candle light, when Sailor Bill grabbed him by the tunic and held him.

Then Hungry carried on: "French, I'm goin' to ask you a mighty personal question, and I know you'll answer it. How in hell did you, hit in the left arm, bring Leftenant Williams back from that reconnoiterin' patrol?"

French got a little red, an' answered: "Well, you see, boys, it was this way. Ikey an' I stuck out there with him, an' taking the slings from our rifles, Ikey made a sort of a rope which he put around my shoulder an' under the arms of the Leftenant, an' Ikey gettin' the Leftenant by the legs, we managed to get him into the trench. You know, I got a D.C.M. out of the affair, because I was the Corporal in charge. Damned unfair, I call it, for they only handed him the Military Medal. If the true facts were known he was the bloke who deserved the D.C.M."

They all turned in Ikey's direction. Sailor Bill, in his interest, had released his hold on Ikey's tunic and Ikey had disappeared.

Happy asked French if the Leftenant had died in No Man's Land. French, with tears in his eyes, answered: "No, but the poor lad went West after we got him to the first aid dressin' station, an' next day we buried him in the little cemetery at Fromelles. He sure done his bit, all right, blime me, and here I am, bloomin' well swankin' with a ribbon on my chest."

A dead silence fell on the crowd. Each one of them was admirin' the modesty of those two real men, French an' Ikey. But such is the way in the English Army,--the man who wins the medal always says that the other fellow deserved it. An' German Kultur is still wonderin' why it cannot smash through the English Lines.

THE FUSILIER GIANTS UNDER FIRE

As Told by Yank

THE FUSILIER GIANTS UNDER FIRE

"Come on, Yank, give us that baseball story you promised," pleaded Dick.

"All right. Here goes," answered Yank.

"We were sitting on the firestep. It was bright and sunny and we were bubbling over with good humor. There were two reasons for this: First, our Battalion was to be relieved at nine that night and we were going back for a two weeks' rest. Second, it was spring. We could smell it in the air. Even the wind blowing from the German trenches in our direction had a sweet and 'springy' smell.

"About thirty yards down a communication trench 'to the left' was an orchard. The trees were scarred from bullets and fragments of shell; but even these battered trunks could not resist the feel of spring, for here and there on the twigs and branches could be seen bursting buds. Flitting around were numerous birds, chirping or sometimes wrangling among themselves.

"It seemed odd that birds could accustom themselves to war. Occasionally a German shell, or perhaps one of ours, would go screaming over the orchard. The birds did not seem to mind the noise,--just carried on with their nest building.

"In our company was another American, called 'Alex,'--his last name doesn't matter. Naturally, we were very chummy. Alex and I were the chief 'Amusement Promoters' in the company, the Tommies constantly looking to us for some new diversion.

"You know you Tommies seem to have the idea that an American's chief vocation in the United States is to invent, and keep on inventing. Well, this bunch was just like the rest, had the same idea. Of course, Alex and I did not in any way try to dissipate their idea; in fact we encouraged it, and took great pride in being looked up to in this way; but, believe me, it kept us hustling to keep them amused.

"It was getting too warm for soccer football, and we knew as soon as we got into rest billets that the issue would be put right up to us, 'How are you going to amuse us while we are behind the lines?'

"We were Americans, and red-blooded; spring was in the air, and our thoughts turned to what every American boy is thinking of upon the arrival of spring--baseball.

"I turned my eyes to the muddy parados of the trench, and fixed my gaze on a fragment of German shell imbedded in the mud. Pretty soon this fragment changed into a baseball player, with mask, protector and catcher's mitt. He was crouching behind the home-plate and signaling to the pitcher. Just then Alex said, 'Say, Yank, I wonder if we could teach the Tommies how to play baseball.'

"I immediately turned in his direction. He was also staring at that fragment of shell.

"I answered: 'Did you ever try to teach a Chinaman how to speak French?'

"He got it right away. A dejected look spread over his countenance, and he let out a long-drawn sigh.

"A Tommy sitting on my right butted in with: 'Did you sye byse-ball, Yank? Why, I saw a gyme in London. It's absurdly easy to plye, but I cawn't sye I fawncy h'it.'

"With a look of disgust Alex turned to me and said, 'I guess you're right, Yank, it would be easier to teach the Chinaman French!'

"That night we were relieved and went behind the lines.

"The next afternoon, after parade" (drill), "we were sitting in an orchard drinking tea. About a month before, Alex and I had taught the Tommies how to pitch horseshoes. There was great rivalry among the different squads, each squad having a team.

"Just then Corporal Watkins came over to us and asked, 'Where are the 'orse-shoes, I cawn't find 'em?'

"Another Tommy answered: 'Strafe me pink, where are your h'eyes? Cawn't you bloomin' well see the h'officers usin' 'em be'ind that billet over there? Blime me, they're always a-gummin' the gyme.'

"Sure enough, the officers were using our horseshoes.

"Alex, with a look of determination, turned to me, and said, 'Well, here goes, Yank. Steve Brodie took a chance, so I might be able to get away with this.'

"Then, turning to the Tommies, he said, 'Did any of you blokes ever hear of John McGraw?'

"Three of the Tommies answered, 'Yes.'

"A sunny smile and a look of hope flitted across Alex's face, and he breathlessly asked, 'Who is he?'

"The three started to answer at once, but Alex majestically extending his hand, palm forward, said, 'Get in line, one at a time. Now, Perkins, who is John McGraw?'

"Perkins answered, 'Why, 'e's a Lawnce Corporal in the Royal Irish Rifles.'

"According to Alex's look, that Tommy should have immediately dropped dead. Turning to the next, he said, 'Thwaites, for the Love o' Mike, who is he?'

"Thwaites, with a knowing look, answered, ''E runs the King's Arms Public 'ouse, down Rye Lane.'

"With a piteous look, Alex glanced in my direction and I jerked my thumb in the direction of the other Tommy, who seemed to be bursting with suppressed eagerness. Alex looking at him, ejaculated: 'Spit it out before you choke.'

"This fellow, with a superior air, turned in the direction of the two dejected Tommies, and answered, 'John McGraw, why everybody knows 'im; he was the fellow in the London Scottish who clicked crucifixion for stealing the rum issue at Wipers. 'E was a lad, not 'arf he weren't.'

"A hissing noise issued from Alex's lips, and he collapsed like a punctured toy balloon. After a few seconds he straightened up and a look of determination came into his eyes. Addressing the Tommies, he exploded: 'You blokes are enough to make Billy Sunday take to drink. Now, listen here, and let it sink in deep. John McGraw is the manager of the New York Giants. He is a baseball player; get it? A baseball player. He's a guy what manages a baseball team. And any fellows who can't make good on his team, or in the bush leagues, he sends 'em a cricket bat with their name inscribed on it and pays their passage to England. Get me?'

"Several Tommies took exception to this, and said that they had followed cricket all their lives, but had never heard of any American cricketers being sent over by Mr. McGraw. At this I exploded with laughter, and Alex went up in the air. Standing up and turning to the bunch under the trees, pointing his fingers in their direction, he let out:

"'Now listen, this is good. I'm going to send down to the Ordnance Corps and get a dozen gimlets and some funnels. With these gimlets I'm going to bore holes in your nappers, and using the funnel I'm going to pour into those garrets of yours a little brains. Then, after you've acquired gray matter, I'm going to teach you the great American game of baseball; and then when through teaching you, I'm going to retire to the Old Soldiers' Home as physically and mentally unfit, because I know the job will put me there.'

"The Tommies did not take exception to his pointed remarks about their lack of brains. They overlooked this because they were very eager to learn how to play baseball. A chorus of, 'Go to h'it, Yank, that's what we want; something new out 'ere in this bloody mess of mud and "cooties."' Alex said that we would have to talk the matter over, and beckoning to me, went in the direction of the billet. I followed. He then outlined his scheme.

"We were to form two baseball classes, Alex in charge of one, I of the other. On the plaster of the billet we carefully scratched out a baseball diamond, and then called the Tommies in. They sat around like little children in a school, eagerly intent. For two hours we explained the game to them. When we got through they all knew how to play baseball--on paper. We dismissed them, telling them another class would be held the following afternoon. That night Alex and I, around the stump of a candle, went into details for organizing two teams. Everything appeared rosy, and we were highly jubilant. A Tommy eased over in our direction and innocently asked:

"'I sye, Yank, isn't it necessary to 'ave byse-balls and clubs? We cawn't very well plye without 'em.'

"This was a bomb-shell to us. In our eagerness and excitement we had quite forgotten that bats, balls and gloves were necessary. I thought Alex was going to burst. Letting out a 'Well, I'll be blowed,' which nearly blew the candle out, he turned a silly look in my direction, and I looked just as cheap. At last the Tommies had stumped us, and we could see our reputation fading into nothing. A dead silence reigned. Then Alex started to madly open his haversack. I thought he had suddenly gone crazy. I reached my hand in the direction of my bayonet, fearing that he was looking for a Mill's bomb. When he drew his hand out, hanging to his fist was a writing pad. I guiltily let go of my bayonet. Borrowing a pencil from me (Alex was always borrowing), he started writing. I thought perhaps he was going to commit suicide and was writing a farewell letter home, and asked him what was up. He whispered to me:

"'Yank, we're two bloody fools not to have thought of this long ago. All we've got to do is to write home to one of the New York papers asking the readers to send out baseball stuff to us and it will only be a matter of a few weeks before we will have enough to equip two teams.'

"I offered to write the letter, and with Alex bending over me, I eagerly wrote an appeal to the readers of the New York _Evening Telegram_, and turned the letter over to the Mail Orderly.

"We then explained to the Tommies that equipment was necessary and that we had written home, but while waiting for the baseball stuff to arrive we would carry on with our instruction classes. The next day Alex and I made a woolen baseball out of an old puttee, fixed up a temporary diamond, and showed the Tommies the general run of the game. Their antics were awful. If we had used regular baseballs I don't think there would have been a Tommy in the squad without a black eye. Did you ever watch a girl trying to catch a ball? Well a girls' team alongside of some of these Tommies would have looked like the winner in our World's Series. It was hard work keeping their interest up.

"Two weeks later we went 'up the line'; then came back again for another rest. The interest in baseball was dying out and we were at our wit's end. Time passed, and we figured out that we should be hearing from our appeal, but nothing came. Then once again we went into the front line trench. The Tommies were getting very skeptical and every time baseball was mentioned they would gaze in our direction with a sneering look. This completely got our goats.

"One evening we were sitting in a dugout of the support trench: it was raining like the mischief, and we were cold and downhearted. Pretty soon the rations came up. As you know, the ration party generally brings the rations down into the dugouts, but the two men carrying our dixie set it down in the mud of the trench and almost shot the chutes down the entrance to the dugout. They were breathless with excitement. One of them yelled out:

"Yank, there's a limber" (small two-wheeled wagon) "full of parcels down in the Sergeant-Major's dugout. They're all addressed to you, and they're from America.'

"Alex let out a shout and I felt warm all over. How we lorded it over those poor Tommies. That night we were to be relieved and go back to rest billets. We could hardly wait for the time.

"The next morning was Sunday, and after church parade we made a mad rush to the Orderly Room to get our mail. The Quartermaster-Sergeant was waiting for me, and behind him stood every officer in the company, trying to disguise the expectant look on their faces. Every eye was turned in the direction of a heap of parcels. I thought the 'Quarter' never would start. Even the Captain could not stand it, and suppressing his eagerness, said: 'Sergeant, you had better issue the mail.' Alex and I were breathless with anxiety.

"Then, stooping down, the Sergeant took up a parcel and read off my name, and threw it over to me. I caught it on the fly. The Sergeant kept on reading out 'Yank' and parcels came through the air like a bombardment. The first parcel I picked up was stamped 'Passed by Censor' and contained twelve brand new balls, or, at least, eleven, and the remains of one. This twelfth ball was stamped 'Opened by Censor,' but search as I could, I could find no stamp reading 'Sewed up by Censor.' We did the sewing up, but that ball looked like a duck's egg when we had finished. Alex and I roundly cussed the Censor. Later, we both cussed the inventor of baseball. There was a reason.

"The readers of the _Telegram_ had nobly responded to our appeal. There were enough gloves and balls for two teams, and even a chest-protector and mask. The mask was an article of great curiosity to all. Some of them thought it was a bomb protector. Everyone in turn tried it on, and everyone, upon learning that the catcher was to wear the mask, wanted to immediately sign up for that position. Alex and I could have been elected to Parliament right there. The next afternoon, the candidates, forty in all, and the rest of the company, turned out _en masse_ on the baseball field, which we had laid out during our previous stay in rest billets.

"From that day on, Alex and I led a dog's life. Though on paper everything looked bright, and the candidates were letter perfect in the game, or thought they were, on the field they were dubs of the worst caliber,--regular boneheads. If McGraw had had that mob wished on him, he would have chucked up his job and taken the stump for Women Suffrage, so you can appreciate our fix.

"Alex was a really good pitcher; plenty of curved stuff, having played semi-pro ball in the United States. It was my intention to catch for him, and fill in the other positions with the most likely candidates. This scheme did not work in with the popular version a little bit. Out of the forty trying for the team, twenty-eight insisted on being catcher. They wanted to secure that mask. If there had been a camera, each of the forty would have had a photo taken of himself wearing the 'wire cage.' Here was a great dilemma. At that time I was only a private, and there were Sergeants, Corporals, and even an officer who wanted to catch. Alex again came to the rescue. Calling me aside he said:

"'Leave it to me, Yank, I'll fix 'em. I'll try out each one in turn. Let him wear the mask, and I'll send in some curves, and after the ball cracks them on the shins a couple of times you couldn't pay 'em to put on the cage.'

"The Tommies were strange to curved balls, and Alex had speed. It did my heart good to see him dampen their ardor and dent their anatomy at the same time. The Tommies would see the ball coming to them and would reach up their hands to get it. Then the ball would break and hit them on the shin or knee. After five or six had retired, rubbing sore spots and cussing Alex out, no one else wanted to catch, and the situation was saved.

"Tommy is a natural born soccer player and clever with his feet, but stupid with his hands when it comes to baseball. Several of them had a bad habit of stopping grounders with their feet, especially our shortstop. He would see a hot grass-eater coming his way; then, instead of using his hands, he would put the side of his foot in front of it. The ball would climb his leg and hit him in the chin or eye. After receiving a puffed-up lip and a beautiful black eye, he flatly refused to play unless I would let him wear the mask. (Americans, picture a shortstop wearing a catcher's mask, and then sympathize with Alex and me.) The shortstop was a Sergeant, and through diplomatic reasons I gave the mask to him. At this every infielder wanted to wear it. Alex solved this by putting in another shortstop and giving me the mask. (In England they have a game called 'Rounders,' in which you are supposed to hit the base runner with the ball to put him out. This is generally a tennis ball and does not hurt very much.) Well, those Tommies had a habit of lamming the baseball with all their might at the unfortunate runner. Many an early practice was broken up this way, because the team would lose interest in baseball when they had a chance to view a fight between a giver and receiver.

"After about ten days' practice we had picked two pretty fair teams and arranged for a scrub game. Alex's side won, thanks to his pitching. Then, as is usual in baseball, things began to happen. A jinx seemed to rest on our candidates. Every time we had to go up the line on a working party, one or two of the players would get wounded or killed; in fact, being a baseball player got to be a perfect Jonah, and the Tommies became superstitious. If one of our team happened to be working among ten or twelve other company men, he was sure to get hit, while the other fellows came through without a scratch. Alex and I also began to get frightened, and decided to chuck up the whole thing before we clicked it ourselves.

"Then we went further back behind the lines. During this stay we rounded out a passable team. A Canadian Battalion, just sent out from England on their way to 'Wipers,' went into billets about a mile from us. This was our chance. Alex went over and proposed a game with them for the following Sunday. The challenge was accepted. We had a week's time in which to strengthen some weaknesses and to teach the bunch a little 'inside' baseball. Then the jinx popped up again. On the morning of the game with the Canadians, our cleverest infielder, the first baseman, picked up an old German hand grenade, and brought it to the billet. This man was a great souvenir collector; always hammering at 'dud' shells, trying to remove the nose-caps.

"On seeing him fooling around with the German bomb, I told him to throw it away, saying that one could never trust those things, and that I did not want to take any chances of losing a first baseman; but being of a naturally curious disposition, he refused to do so, and taking the bomb out behind the billet proceeded to take liberties with its mechanism: result, right hand blown off, and another vacancy to be filled at first base. What we said about him would have met with the highest approval of exponents of German Kultur.

"The game was scheduled for two o'clock, and at exactly one-thirty-five Mr. Fritz plunked a stray 'five-nine' shell into our infield between home and first base, making a hole big enough for a limber to hide in. This meant picks and shovels for all hands to fill in the hole. By this time a large crowd of rooters of both sides had lined themselves along the foul lines. The compliments that were wafted back and forth made the Sky Pilot pick up and leave before the game started.