Section 0 of THE LUTENANT AND OTHERS This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org THE LUTENANT AND OTHERS by Sapper Preface It is perhaps unnecessary to state that none of the sketches in this book refer to any particular individual. They are not arranged in chronological order. They do not pretend to be anything more than mere impressions of the grim drama now being played across the water. Some of those pictured in these pages have gone across the veil of shadows. May the Earth lie lightly on them, one and all. Others, there are who, perchance, may think they recognize themselves here and there. To them, I dedicate the book. The setting in most of the sketches is the salient of Ypres. There may be some who will recognize, not I trust without a throb of pleasure, Hooge, Fresenberg, the Menengate, and other health resorts of that delectable neighborhood. But should I lift in the smallest degree, for those who wait behind, the curtain that shrouds somewhere in France, and show them the tears and the laughter, the humor and the pathos that go to form the atmosphere over yonder, I shall be well satisfied. I am no artist in words, but each in his separate star shall paint the thing as he sees it, for the God of things as they are. End of Section Zero. Section One of the Lieutenant and Others. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jeffrey Wilson, Ames, Iowa. The Lieutenant and Others by Sapper. The Lieutenant, chapters one and two. The Lieutenant, a fortnight in France, May 10th to May 24th, 1915. Chapter One. Harold Ainsworth was the only son of his parents, and they made something in tins. He had lots of money as the sons of people who dabble in tins frequently do. He was a prominent member of several dull night clubs, where he was in the habit of seeing life while other people saw his money. He did nothing and was generally rather bored with the process. In fact, he was a typical product of the 20th century, with his father's house in the country full of footmen and ancestors, both types guaranteed by the best references, and his own rooms in London full of clothes and photographs. He was a very fair sample of that dread disease, the nut, and it was not altogether his own fault. Given an income that enabled him to do what he liked, certain that he would never be called on to work for his living, he had degenerated into a drifter through the pleasant paths of life, a man who had never done one single thing of the very slightest use to himself or anybody else. Then came the war, and our hero, who was not by any means a bad fellow at heart, obtained a commission. It was a bit of an event in the family of Ainsworth, named Blobs, and the soldier ancestor of Charles I's reign smiled approval from the walls of the family dining room. As I have said, it was guaranteed to behave as all well brought up ancestors are reputed to do.  It is possible that a small episode which occurred in the drawing room of the baronial hall had something to do with it. For I will repeat, he was not a bad fellow at heart, and this was the episode. Coming in one Saturday afternoon on weekend leave in the full glory of his new uniform, he found the room full of girls. His income would in time be over five figures, his return for the weekend had not been kept secret, and there may or may not be a connection. Also there were his mother and father and one very bored man of about thirty in plain clothes. This is my son Gerald, could the old lady. So splendid of him, you know, joining the army. This dreadful war, you know, Morty, my dear. Poor things out there how I pity them. Quite terrible. But don't you think it's splendid the way they're all joining? The bored man in Mufti looked more bored. Why? he asked resignedly. Why? echoed a creation on his right indignantly. How can you ask such a thing? Think of all the hardship and suffering they'll have to endure. Isn't that enough? And she glanced tenderly at Gerald while six other creations bit savagely at Muffins because she'd got it out first. I don't quite follow the argument, answered the bored man patiently. If a man has no ties I don't see that there is any credit in his joining the army. It is his plain duty and the gravest discredit attaches to him if he doesn't. Don't you agree with me? And he turned to Gerald. Certainly answered Gerald with the faintest hesitation. The line of argument was a little new. And what regiment are you going to join? remarked another creation with dangerous sweetness. The bored man smiled slightly. The one I've been in for ten years. I've just come back from Central Africa and crossed the day after tomorrow. As I have said, it is possible that this small incident tended to make the disease of uniformitis a mild one in our hero's case and to bring home to him exactly what the pucca soldier does think of it all. Time went on as time will do and over his doings in the winter I will not linger. Bar the fact that he'd been worked till he was just about as fit as a man can be, I really know nothing about them. My story is of his coming to France and what happened to him while he was there till, stopping one in the shoulder, he went back to England feet first, a man where before he had been an ass. He was only in France a fortnight from the time he landed at Avre till the time they put him on a hospital ship at Boulogne, but in that fortnight he lived, and not to put too fine a point on it, Deucid nearly died as well, so he got his money's worth. And now, for I have lingered too much on the introduction of my hero, I will get to business. The train crept on through the night, now pulling up with a series of nerve-shattering jolts, then on again at his apparently maximum speed of twenty miles an hour. In the corner of a so-called first-class carriage, Gerald Ainsworth stared into the darkness with unseeing eyes. The dim shapes that flashed past him seemed like the phantasmagoria of a dream. For the first time for three days he had the time to think. He recalled the lunch in Southampton when he had said goodbye to various people who seemed to have a slight difficulty in speaking. He remembered dining in the hotel whose sacred portals are barred to the civilian, still in ignorance of where he was going, to France, the Dardanelles, or even farther afield. Then all the bustle of embarking the regiment and later disembarking. And now he was actually under way, starting on the great adventure. There were others in the carriage with him, but only one was asleep, and he did not belong to the regiment. To him the adventure had ceased to be great. It was old and stale, and he had spent most of his time cursing at not being able to raise a motor-car. For when you know the ropes, be it whispered, it is generally your own fault if you travel by supply train. But of that the man who sat staring out of the window knew nothing. All he knew was that every minute carried him nearer the unknown, the unknown of which he had read so much and knew so little. His equipment was very new and beautiful and very bulky. Prominent among it was that abomination of desolation the fitted mess tin. Inside it reposed little receptacles for salt and pepper and plates and dinner napkins and spirit lamps that explode like bombs. Aunts are aunts, and there was none to tell him that the roads of Flanders are paved with fitted mess tins. His revolver was loaded, in fact five of those dangerous weapons reposed in the racks. The gentleman who slept was armed only with a walking stick. Gerald Ainsworth muttered impatiently under his breath as the train stopped for the twelfth time in an hour. Putra Journey, isn't it? said the man opposite him, and he grunted in acquiescence. Somehow he did not feel very much like talking. He recalled that little episode in the drawing room of months ago. He recalled the man in Mufti's cool, quiet face. His calm assumption that there was no credit in coming to fight, but merely disgrace if you did not. He realized that he and his like were on trial, and that the judge and jury were those same quiet-faced men who for centuries, from father to son, have carried the name of England into the four corners of the world without hope of reward, just because it was their job. Those men who for years have realized that the old country was slipping, sliding down from the place that is hers by right of blood. Those men who were hanging on, waiting for him and his like to come and do their bit. He realized that the trial for which he had trained so hard was approaching, that every minute carried him nearer the final test from which he might or might not come alive. And how many of those others, his judges, lay quiet and still in unmarked graves? In the dim light he looked critically at his hand. It was perfectly steady. Shame-facedly unseen he felt his pulse. It was normal. He was not afraid that he knew, and yet somehow in the pit of his stomach there was a curious sort of feeling. He recalled the first time he had batted at school before a large crowd. He recalled the time when, lying on an operating table, he had seen the doctor fiddling with his instruments. He recalled those horrible ancient newspapers in the waiting-room at his dentists. And grimly he realized that the feeling was much the same. It was fear of the unknown, he told himself savagely. Moreover he was right. Yet he envied furiously the man sleeping in the opposite corner who came to war with a walking stick. But the man who came to war with a walking stick, who slept so easily in his corner, who swore because he could not get a motor-car, had had just that same sinking sensation one night, eight or nine months ago. He recalled the girls whose photographs adorned his rooms in London. He recalled the nightclubs where women of a type always kind to him had been even kinder since he had put on a uniform. He recalled the home his father had bought. The home of a family finished and done with, wiped out in the market of money, wiped out by something in tins. And somehow the hollowness of the whole thing struck him for the first time. He saw himself for what he really was. The progeny of an uneducated man with a business instinct. And yet the welcome guest of people who would have ignored him utterly had the tins proved bad.  So far the only shells he had ever heard had been fired at a practice camp in England. So far he had never seen a man who had died a violent death. But that train crawling through the still summer night and his imagination supplied the deficiencies. He was face to face with realities, and the chains of England seemed a bit misty. And yet a week ago they had seemed so real. Can Bernardi have been right after all in some of the things he said? Is war necessary for a nation? Does it show up life in its true colors when money ceases to be the only criterion?  When Gerald Ainsworth woke up, the train had grunted to a final halt at a big-ish station, and the early morning sun was shining in a cloudless sky. Chapter 2 Ainsworth fell out of the train, endeavoring to buckle the various straps that held together his Christmas tree of equipment. In the intervals of getting his platoon sorted out, he looked about him with a vague sort of feeling of surprise. Somehow he had expected things would look different. And behold, everything was just normal. A French sentry with his long-point bayonet at the crossing just outside the station seemed the only thing alive besides himself and his men. The man opposite, who had slept so soundly, had disappeared, swearing volubly, to lie in wait for a motor-car. And then happening to look at the Colonel, he found him in earnest consultation with an officer, who sported a red band on his arm. This extremely crusty individual he subsequently discovered boasted the mystic letters RTO on his band, which for the benefit of the uninitiated may be translated Railway Transport Officer, and though as a rule their duties do not carry them within range of the festive Obuse or Shell, yet their crustiness, the few who are crusty, may be forgiven them. For to them come wandering at all hours of the twenty-four men of all sorts, sizes, and descriptions, bleeding for information and help. The type of individual who has lost his warrant, his equipment, and his head, and doesn't know where he is bound for, but it is somewhere beginning with a B, is particularly popular with them early in the morning. However, that is all by the way. They filed out of the station and the battalion sat down beside the road, while the cooks got busy over breakfast. Periodically a staff officer, hacked by on a rustic morning liver shaker, and a couple of aeroplanes, flying low, passed over their heads bound on an early reconnaissance. They were still many miles from the firing line, and saved for a low but insistent muttering, coming sullenly through the still morning air, they might have been in England. In fact it was a great deal more peaceful than training in England.  Souvenir? No one seemed at all interested in their existence. Everything was very different from the tin-god atmosphere of England. At last a whistle blew, and there was a general tightening of belts and straps. The battalion fell in, and with its head to the east swung off along the dusty road towards the distant muttering guns. As a route march it was much like other route marches, except that they were actually in Flanders. The country was flat and uninteresting. The roads were pavé and very unpleasant to march on. Ainsworth's pack felt confoundedly heavy, and the top had come off the pepper receptacle in the fitted mess tin. They passed some Indians squatting in a field by the roadside, and occasionally a party of cavalry horses out on exercise. For the cavalry were up in the trenches, and when they're up there they leave the horses behind. Also gilded beings in motorcars went past periodically to the accompaniment of curses and much dust. The battalion was singing as it swung along, and in front a band of a sort gave forth martial music. The principal result of which was to bring those auditors not connected with the regiment cursing from their bivouacs at the unseemly noise. And then miles away in the distance they saw a line of little white puffs up in the blue of the sky, a new one appearing every second. It was archibald, or the anti-aircraft gun, doing the dirty, that fruitful source of stiff necks to those who see him for the first time. But I will not dwell on that route march. It was, as I have said, much like others, only more so. That evening a very hot, tired, and dusty battalion came to rest in some wooden huts beside the road, their home for the next two or three days. The guns were much louder now, though everything else was still very quiet. Away about four or five miles in front of them, a great pall of smoke hung lazily in the air, marking the funeral pyre of ill-fated wipers. For that was their destination in the near future, as Ainsworth had already found out from the adjutant. Opposite them, on the other side of the road, a cavalry regiment just out of the trenches was resting. Everything seemed perfectly normal. No one seemed to feel the slightest excitement at being within half a dozen miles of the firing line. The officers over the way were ragging, much as they did at home. After a cursory glance at his battalion to size it up, none of them had paid the slightest attention to them. The arrival of some new men was too common a sight for anyone to get excited about. But Ainsworth could not be expected to know that. He had strolled out just before dinner, and as he reached a bend in the road, the evening frightfulness in Ypres started. For ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, a furious shelling went on, gradually dying away to comparative quiet again. Is anything happening? he asked of a passing cavalry subaltern. Not that I know of, returned the other in some surprise. But they're shelling very hard, aren't they? That? That's nothing. They do that most nights. Are you just out? Where are you going? Wipers, I think. What's it like? Damn nubble! rejoined the other tersely, and with that the conversation languished. For all that, when Gerald pulled the blankets up to his chin that night, the feeling in the pit of his stomach had gone. He felt that he'd started to bat, that he was actually in the dentist's chair. Three days of complete quiet passed, three days that seemed to give the lie to his laconic cavalry acquaintance. Occasionally a burst of shelling proclaimed that neither side was actually asleep, and at night, towards the south, the green German flares could be seen like brilliant stars in the sky. In the main, however, peace was the order of the day. Those who knew were not deceived, however, for there were many lulls before the storm in the second battle of Ypres, that long-drawn out struggle round the salient. But to the battalion, just arrived, the whole thing seemed rather disappointing. They were tired of arches and airplanes. They were tired of the red glow they could see through the trees at night, where Ypres lay burning. Above all, they were tired of getting smothered with dust from passing motor lorries and ambulances, which crashed up and down the road at all hours of the day and night. Like everyone when they first arrived, they wanted to be up and at it. The men had all been issued with respirators, and nightly did breathing exercises, in through the mouth and out through the nose, to the accompaniment of facetious remarks from the onlookers. They had not dabbled in hun gas as yet, nor appreciated its delights, so the parade was not a popular one. Comments on M with the iron mask, and requests of a personal nature to your friends always to wear a pad owing to their improved appearance, and livened what otherwise would have been a somewhat boring performance. A week later. But I will not anticipate. Ainsworth himself, to pass the time, had tried a little bomb throwing with his platoon. This also had not been an unqualified success. As far as the jam tins and hand grenades were concerned, everything in the garden was lovely. Quite a number went off, and all would have been well had not the tempter tempted. Reposing on the ground, brought up by an imbecile sergeant, lay a rifle grenade, that infernal invention which, on leaving the rifle, puts a boomerang to shame, and generally winds up in the commanding officer's dugout there exploding with great force. However, as I have remarked before, Ainsworth could not be expected to know that. Knowledge on the avoidance of supply trains, and boredom, and the devilry that lies latent in a rifle grenade, comes only with many weary weeks. So he fired it. A way it went, soaring into space, and at length a great explosion announced that all was over. It seemed to go some way, sir, said the sergeant. It did, answered Ainsworth. Farther than I thought. His face expressed a little uneasiness, when suddenly an apparition appeared. Hopping over a plowed field towards him, brandishing his arms, came an infuriated figure in carpet slippers. The platoon paused in silent dismay, while a bull-like bellow came floating through the air.   I have been shelled and gassed and shot at for two months without a pause by the Germans, and when I come back here to rest, you plaster my picket-line with lumps of steel, and burst lid-eyed bombs on my bed. I'm very sorry, sir, said Ainsworth. I had no idea.  Go away and make noises and explosions in your own bed, or apply to go to the Dardanelles or something.  So that, all things being considered, it came as a distinct relief to our somewhat roughed and misunderstood hero, when, on returning to lunch, he found the battalion was going up into the reserve trenches that night. End of Section 1. Recording by Jeffrey Wilson Ames, Iowa. Section 2 of The Lieutenant and Others. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jeffrey Wilson Ames, Iowa. The Lieutenant and Others by Sapper. The Lieutenant Chapters 3 and 4. Chapter 3. And so it came to pass that at six o'clock that evening, Gerald Ainsworth, with a few other officers of his battalion, jogged slowly along in a bone-shaking wagon toward Ypres. He was going up early to take over the trenches from the battalion they were relieving, which in turn was going up to the front line. Passed the station with its twisted rails and splintered sleepers, passed the water-tower, almost untouched at that time amid the general devastation, on down the road and then right-handed into the square. Some black and half-burned carcasses lying under the ruins of the cloth-hall, the first actual trace of war he had seen, held him fascinated. Down a side street a house was burning fiercely, but of life there was none, except one military policeman watching for looters. A very young subaltern on the box-seat was being entertained by the ASC driver, one of the good old sort. Six officers fresh from home, thirsting for blood, should they not have it? Every shell-hole held a story, and the driver was an artist. You can take it from Misa and I know's. This year's place weren't no blooming picnic three weeks ago. The Major, he says to me, Jones, he says, the ration-limbers have gone off and have forgotten the tea. I looked to you to get the tea to them lads in the trenches. Also, there's an allowance of pepper been sent out in a parcel by the League of Beauty in Tooting for our gallant defenders in France. Put that in two. Very good sir, I says, they shall have their tea and their pepper, or my name's not Alf Jones. With that sir, I harnesses up the old horses and I gallops. Through here, I comes, the old horses going like two-year-olds, and then they was shelling at no blooming error. As I was going through, the cathedral filled down and one of the tiles hit me on the napper. But what did I care? Just as I gets here, I meets a party of officers. Three generals and their staff blokes. Says they to me, they says, stop, for the generals are gassed and you must take us away. I says to him, I says, and what about the pepper gentlemen for the men in the trenches? Pepper cries a staff officer. And as he spoke, we took it sir. Right into the back of the wagon, they put a 17 inch shell and the gift from the League of Beauty was all over the square. Sneeze, you should have heard us. The commander-in-chief. He sneezed the gas right out of him and the linseed lancer he says to me. He says, Jones, you've saved our lives. Yes, I says, you're welcome to any little thing like that. But what about them poor trusting girls and their pepper? It was at this moment, I subsequently gathered, that my subaltern hove in sight carrying two large mirrors under his arm and finding where they were going demanded a lift. Very quiet tonight. He remarked when he was stowed inside. I've just been looting mirrors for periscopes. Now I've brought him into the story because he was the first man to tell them that the reserve trenches they were occupying were not all honey and strawberry jam. He's a useless young blighter and unless he's watched very carefully he always drinks more than his fair share of port. But in view of the fact that other people will arrive in time and go and sit, if not in those particular trenches at any rate in trenches like them, I would like to point out that the man on the spot knows what he's talking about. Also that because for three days on end you do a thing with perfect safety it does not follow that you won't be killed doing it the fourth. And I would like it to be clearly established that my poor drinking looter of mirrors told the officers in the wagon that the line they were going into was habitually shelled. Remember, everything was quiet. Those who may happen to read these words and who know Ypres will bear me witness as to how quiet it can be and will agree with me that it can frequently be otherwise. Now they dropped him halfway at a place where there are cellars in which a man may live in safety. And there they disembarked from the wagon and walked and all was peace. One dead horse, a very dead horse, raised its voice to heaven in mute protest but otherwise all was perfectly peaceful. Two or three shells passed overhead as they walked down the road but these were quite obviously harmless. And suddenly one of our own batteries let drive from close by with a deafening bang. Nothing untoward occurred and yet they were quite near enough to hear individual rifle shots. And so they came to the trenches which they were to occupy and found them full of a regiment which had been in them for two days and was going up to the front line that night. The right flank rested on a railway line and the left on no special mark in particular. Away in front of them on the left a dull brownish smudge could be seen on the ground in a place where the country was open. The German trenches. Who does not remember the feelings with which he first contemplated the German front trench and realized that there actually reposed the Huns and in passing it's a strange fact but nevertheless a true one that quite a number of men have been out to the trenches survived two or three days, been wounded and gone home without so much as seeing a Bosch. That night the battalion made their first acquaintance with trenches as a bed. Luckily they were dry as trenches go though they suffered in common with all other trenches from an eruption of small pools of water occurring exactly where you wanted to put your head. And now the time has come for me to justify my subaltern's existence and entry into this story. As I said before he had warned that party of officers that the trench was not healthy at all times but his voice was as the voice of the Tishbite or Job or whoever it was who cried in vain. For the next morning, a beautiful warm morning, the men woke up a bit cramped and stiff and getting up to stretch themselves found that everything was still quiet and peaceful and one by one they got out of the trenches and strolled about discussing life in general and breakfast in particular. Also several of the officers did the same. It came without warning like a bolt from the blue, a screaming sort of whiz and then bang bang bang all along the line for the range was known by the Germans to twenty yards.  For a moment Gerald stood dazed and then with a gasp fell into the trench pulling the officer after him. Crump crump came two high explosive shells plump on the parapet burying about ten men in the debris and for a space the battalion ceased to discuss things in general and breakfast in particular. Four hours later they were still sitting remarkably tight in the trenches. Earrings on the ground had ceased to be popular for behind the trench lay a dozen still forms with covered faces. Suddenly there came a voice from above Gerald inquiring to the accompaniment of much unparliamentary language who was in charge of that bit of trench. Looking up he encountered the fierce gaze of a staff officer and with him a crusty looking sapper captain. I say look out he cried getting up. It's awful up there. We lost about thirty men this morning. So I see answered the staff officer. What the deuce were they doing up here? Are you aware that this is under direct observation from the Germans?  He grunted dispassionately. The sapper captain took up the ball. What do you propose to do where the parapet has collapsed? he inquired. I really hadn't thought about it answered Ainsworth looking at the collapsed trench. I haven't had any orders. Orders! On matters of that sort you don't receive them you give them. On the road are hundreds of sandbags, thousands of sandbags, millions of. The staff officer caught his eye. Daily they quarreled over sandbags. At any rate, he went on firmly, there are lots of sandbags. Go and get them, fill them, build up the valley trench and don't leave it like that for the next poor blighters. Work on trenches is never finished. You can go on for days and weeks and months but the staff officer was leading him away. Years I tell you, can you work on these damn trenches? And he waits for orders. Peter, you're feverish. The staff officer gently drew him on and they suddenly paused. What! he cried in a voice of concentrated fury, gazing at a trench full of faces up turned to the sky. What are you looking at?  I know it's a German aeroplane. I saw it three minutes ago.  Keep down and don't move and above all don't show him a great line of white blotches. They're bad enough for us to bear as it is but, James, you're feverish now. It was the sapper officer's turn to draw him away. But I admit, he remarked sadly as they faded away, that it's all quite dreadful. They learn in time but, to begin with, they want nurses. And lest the morning perambulation of these two weary officers may seem inconsistent in any way with their words, I would point out that what two or three may do in perfect safety a body of men may not. They don't, as a rule, waste shells on an isolated man in khaki and these particular trenches were out of rifle range. For the time, therefore, we will leave Gerald building up his trench with those twelve silent bodies behind, eloquent testimony that appearances are deceitful and that the man on the spot knows best. Chapter 4 Is that the guide? What? You're the general's cook. Well, where the devil is the guide? All right, lead on. The battalion was moving up into the front line trenches after two uneventful days in reserve. Their lesson well learned they had kept under cover and the only diversion had been the sudden appearance out of heaven of an enormous piece of steel which had descended from the skies with great rapidity and an unpleasant zogging sort of noise. The mystery was unearthed from the parapet where it had embedded itself and completely defeated everyone till a stray gunner passing told them that it was merely part of a German archie shell which had burst up at a great height and literally fallen like manna from the heavens. Slow in front, for heaven's sake! Agitated mutterings from the rear came bursting up to the front of the column, mingled with crashes and stifled oaths as men fell into shell holes they couldn't see, probably half full of water. Keep still, duck! An insistent order muttered from every officer as a great green flare shot up into the night and, falling on the ground near them, burnt fiercely and then went out, leaving everything blacker than ever. On their left a working party furiously deepened a communication trench that already resembled a young river. Coming on their right as they crept and stumbled along in single file, a small party of men loomed out of the night. More agitated mutterings. Who are you? And from a medley of answers, comprising everyone from the Archbishop of Canterbury to the Kaiser, the fact emerges that they are the ration party of the regiment on their right. At last a halt. The head of the battalion has reached the trenches and the men begin getting in. Not used to the game, there is a lot of unnecessary delay before the men are settled and the other regiment away. They have left behind two or three officers to introduce the new men to the trenches, explain exactly what places are healthy and what are not, where the ammunition is kept and the bombs and the flares. A sniper with a fixed rifle has the other side of this traverse marked, said one of the officers to Gerald. He's up in a tree somewhere, so don't keep any men on the other side of it. He's killed a lot of ours. Listen to him. And from the other side came a ping-thud as the bullet hit the earth. Merely a rifle set on a certain mark during the day and loosed off ten or eleven times every hour during the night, hoping to bag something. They're pretty quiet here at present, he was told, but I don't trust them a yard. They're too quiet. Bavarians. If you want to, there's an officer out in front about fifty yards away with a good helmet on. Thought of going out myself last night, but they were too belly busy with their flares. Still, the helmet's worth getting. Well, so long. I think I've shown you everything. Bye-bye. Oh, while I think of it, they've got a bit of this communication trench. About forty yards down marked. I'd get it deepened. And with that he went, and Amesworth was alone. Stray rifle shots cracking through the night. Flares going up with steady persistency. He tested his telephone to headquarters it was working. He went along his length of trench. One man watching in each little length, the rest lying down with rifles by their sides. Occasionally the watching man gave them one round to show the hunt he wasn't forgotten, while without intermission the ping-thud from the fixed rifle came into the earth of the Traverse. It formed a sort of lullaby to Gerald. The awakening was drastic. Just as the dawn was faintly streaking the sky, and the men all awake were gripping their rifles in anticipation of any possible attack, the first shells burst along the line. From then on, for what seemed an eternity and was in reality two hours, the shells poured in without cessation. Shrapnel, high explosive, and sometimes a great sausage-shaped fellow, came twisting and hurtling through the air, exploding with the most deafening roar. That was the meanin-verfa, trench howitzer. The fumes from the shells got into their eyes, the parapet collapsed, Traverse's broke down, men gasping, twisting, buried, and still they came. Men, those who still lived, lay dazed and helpless. Whole sections of the front of the trench were torn away in great craters. In some places men, their reason almost gone, got blindly out of the trench. They're one idea to get away from the ghastly living death. But if death was probable in the trench, it was certain outside. The deadly rain of shrapnel searched them out, and one by one they fell. Some perhaps dragged on a space with shattered legs, muttering and moaning till another tearing explosion gave them peace. Keep down! Keep down! Ainsworth tried to shout. His lips, trembling with the fearful nerve-shattering inferno, could hardly frame the words. When they came it was only a whisper, but had he shouted through a megaphone none would have heard. The din was too incredible. And still they came. His eyes were fixed stupidly on a man kneeling down behind a Traverse, who was muttering foolishly to himself. He saw his lips moving, he cursed him foolishly, childishly, when, with a roar that seemed to split his whole head open, a high explosive shell burst on the Traverse itself. The man who had been muttering fell forward, was hurled forward, and his head stuck out of the earth which had fallen on him. Gerald laughed. It was deuces funny. He started to howl with mirth, when suddenly the head rolled towards him. But he could not stop laughing. At last he pulled himself together. So this was what he had read about so often in the papers at home, was it? A furious bombardment of our trenches. Perhaps though, he reflected, this was not a furious bombardment, perhaps this was only a slight artillery activity upon our front. And then he very nearly started laughing again. It was all so frightfully funny. The actual thing was so utterly different. And so far he had not seen a German. Everything had been so completely peaceful, until that morning, and then, without warning, this. Most amazing of all, he was not touched. And as that realization first took hold of him, so his dulled faculties first grasped the fact that the fire was slackening. It was, and just like a tropical storm, suddenly it seemed to die away. Shells still passed screaming overhead, but those devastating explosions on the trenches, on his trenches, had ceased. Like the sudden cessation of bad toothache, he could hardly believe it at first. His mind, his brain were still dazed. He seemed to be waking from a nightmare, but only half awake. How long he lay there no one will ever know, trying to steady his hand, to still the twitching of his muscles, but suddenly he was recalled to his senses by seeing a figure coming crawling round the shattered traverse. It was his captain. Thank heaven, you've not stopped one, old boy, he said. Good God, you've had it bad here. Gerald nodded. He could not speak. His captain looked at him and so did the sapper officer who came behind. And being men of understanding, for a space there was silence. Worst bit of the whole line, said the sapper. We must hold it where we can today and get it patched up tonight. How many men have you got left, Gerald, in your platoon? I don't know, he answered, and his voice sounded strange. He looked to see if the others noticed it, but they made no sign. As a matter of fact, his voice was quavering like an old man's. But as I have said, they were men of understanding. I'll go and see. And so the three crawled on, and in various odd corners they pulled out white-faced men. One in a corner was mad. He was playing a game by himself with another man's boot, a boot that contained its original owner's foot. One man was sobbing quietly, but most of them were just staring daisily in front of them. Suddenly Gerald clutched his captain's arm. Heavens, sir, he croaked. They can get through here! Not by day, answered the sapper. The ground in front is inflated from higher up, and, as a matter of fact, they show no signs of advancing. The bombardment has failed. Failed! Failed! Croaked Ainsworth, and he laughed hideously. Rather, I noticed the failure. Nevertheless, old chap, what I say is right. They've failed because they can't advance. He put his hand on Gerald's arm for a moment. They may try to make a small local advance tonight under cover of dark, but I don't think we'll be troubled till then. They won't renew the bombardment from what I know of them. And with that he was gone. And so Gerald gathered together the remnants of his platoon, and there were fifteen all told. He put them where he could and waited for the night, when, with another working party, the trenches could be built up to their proper shape again.  Overhead the shells still screamed on their way. In the distance the dull boom of their explosion still came reverberating through the air. He was getting fairly skilled now in estimating where they would burst, for a desultory shelling of the trenches was still going on, though not in his section of the line.  For as he listened to the rushing noise through the air, saw the great cloud of blackish white smoke, and later heard the roar of the explosion somewhere down the line, it was borne in on him that there were other things in the world besides nightclubs, that there were other things besides cocktails and whiskey sours and amusing women, and that a new force was at work, the force of death, which made them all seem very petty. The ancestors seemed a bit petty. The money that came from things in tins seemed a bit petty.  It struck him that his might have been the head. End of Section 2. Recording by Jeffrey Wilson, Ames, Iowa. Section 3 of The Lieutenant and Others. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jeffrey Wilson, Ames, Iowa. The Lieutenant and Others by Sapper. The Lieutenant Chapters 5 and 6. Chapter 5. Now, in reading over what I have written concerning the commencement of Gerald Ainsworth's pilgrimage in the smiling fields of Slanders, I feel that I too have merited the rebuke so quietly given him in those words. They have failed. He had lost his sense of proportion, about which another and a worthier pen than mine has written in connection with this same game of war, and I too have perhaps given those who may read these pages an unfair impression. That bombardment of which I have told was not an ordinary one, it is true, but at the same time it was not anything very extraordinary. Considered by the men who occupied those trenches, it was the nearest approach to a complete cataclysm of the universe that can be conceived of. Considered by the men who sit behind and move the ponds on the board, it was a furious bombardment of one-fifethundredths of what they were responsible for. Moreover, it had failed. But it is not to be wondered at that when, some time later, Gerald was attempting to give his father some impression of what that mourning had been like, where the old gentleman should have expressed great surprise and indignation that it was not reported in the papers, and stated with some freedom his opinion on the muscling of the English press. And yet, would it not have been making a mountain out of a molehill, a great battle out of nothing at all? Yes, nothing at all. For in this struggle what are fifty, a hundred men, provided the enemy does not get what he wants. Much to the relatives of the fifty, but nothing to the result. Hard but true. A somewhat bitter fact. However, all this is a digression. We left Gerald, I think, with the remnants of his platoon scattered along what once were trenches, holding them till under cover of night a fresh working party could come up and rebuild them.  The Germans facing him had established a superiority of rifle fire. Securing in practically undamaged trenches did a man but show his hat opposite them it was riddled with bullets. Wherefore, after a couple of the remnants of the platoon had ill-advisedly shown their hats with their heads inside them, and a second later had subsided with a choking grunt and a final kick, the survivors confined their attention to the bottom of the trench and from it sorted out the bombs and the flares and the reserve ammunition. Also they sorted out other things which we need not specify and threw them out behind, where in time perhaps they might be decently buried. And then, having done all they could, they sat down with their backs to the parapet and hoped for the best. It was not till half past eight that night that the German artillery condescended to notice them again, and then for about ten minutes they put a desultory fire of shrapnel on to the trenches, then the range lengthened. Now Gerald was no fool, and suddenly the words of the sapper captain in the morning ran through his brain. They may make a small local advance under cover of dark. It was almost dark. They had shelled the trenches, apparently aimlessly, and now were shooting behind on the support trenches. Why? He groveled in the bottom of the trench and found a very pistol and flare. Up it shot into the air, and as it did he saw them. The whole line saw them, and the fun started. The mad minutes started in earnest all along the trench. The trench that enfilated the ground in front of him got going with a maxim. Flares flew up into the air from all along the line, falling behind the advancing Germans. For about ten minutes the most glorious pandemonium reigned. Everyone was mixed up end ways. In places the English had come out of their trenches and were going for them grunting and snarling in the open with bayonets. In places they were fighting in our trenches, in places we were in theirs. The maxim had ceased for fear of hitting its own men, and without intermission flares went up from both sides. Suddenly on top of Gerald as he stood blazing away into the dusk there loomed a Bavarian officer. It was touch and go, and if a sergeant beside him had shot a second later this yarn might have had to close here. As it was the bullet from the Bavarian officer's revolver found a home in the earth, and the Bavarian himself fell with a crash to the bottom of the trench. But it could not go on. In places they were breaking. In places they were broken. But unfortunately in one place they had got through. At the extreme left of Gerald's trench, which he had been unable to reach during the day owing to a huge hole blown out of the parapet, the Germans had scrambled in. Elsewhere they had fallen back to their own lines, pursued the whole way by men stabbing and hacking at them, their eyes red with the lust of killing, getting a bit of their own back after the unspeakable hell of the morning. And what but a quarter of an hour previously had been bare open ground was now covered with motionless bodies, from which later a few wounded would drag themselves back to their own people. It was when comparative quiet again reigned that one of his sergeants came to Gerald and reported the uninvited appearance of the Germans away down on the left. Now the presence of the enemy in your own trench in small parties is, I understand, a thing that has frequently puzzled those who read about it at home. It is, however, a thing of fairly common occurrence, and a small hostile party on the offensive may prove extremely unpleasant. The whole thing becomes a question of bombs and rapidity of action. Also, I will willingly lay two to one on the side that gets off the mark first. A traverse, as everyone knows, is a great lump of the original soil left standing when the trench is dug, and round which the trench is cut. Its object is to localize the bursts of high explosive shell. As you cannot see round a corner or through solid earth, it is, therefore, obvious that you cannot see from one bit of fire trench into the next, though you can get there by walking round the traverse. If, however, there is a man sitting waiting for you with a rifle, this process is not to be recommended, as he will certainly get in the first shot at a range of about five yards. Now all that Gerald knew, and to his credit be it said, he acted with promptitude and without hesitation, and the man who does that in war, as in other things, generally acts with success. Bombs, he cried to the sergeant who had told him, bombs of all sorts, plum and apple, hairbrush, any damn thing you can get, and all the men at once. They scrambled them out of the debris and searched for them in the mud where they had been buried, and at last the party was ready, ten in all. What's the jest? said the sapper officer, dropping into the trench as they were being mustered. Boshes lower down. We're bombing them out, answered Gerald. Then for heaven's sake, see the fuse isn't too long, he replied. Just over an inch is enough for traverse work, or they'll bung them back. An inch of the fuse used will burn about a second and a half. With that the party was off, led by Gerald, and they crept on till suddenly the sergeant gripped his arm and muttered, they're behind the next traverse. And from behind the earth in front came a guttural exclamation in German. Gerald, gripping a rifle, was quivering with excitement. He stole forward to where the trench bent back behind the traverse, while the two frontmen came up each with a bomb in his hand to throw wind-lighted over the top. It was at the precise moment that Gerald gave them the signal to light that he met his first German face-to-face. For finding all was silent, the enemy had decided to make a little tour of inspection on his own. And just as the two bombs were lit and propelled over the traverse, a stout and perspiring Bavarian bumped his head almost onto Gerald's rifle. For a moment Gerald was as surprised as the crouching German, but only for a moment. For the Bavarian's death-grunt, the crack of the rifle, and the roar of the two bombs were almost simultaneous. On him, boys, he shouted, jerking out his empty cartridge, and they scrambled round over the body into the next bit of trench. Four Germans lay stiff, and two were struggling to get round the next traverse. One did, and one did not. The sergeant got him first, up to the next traverse, and the same process over again. But move, move, for heaven's sake, move is the motto if you want to keep him on the run. And if a German wounded tries to trip you, well, halt, everyone, and send for the doctor and a motor ambulance for the poor chap. I don't think. For three traverses they went on, and then a voice came from the other side, We surrender! Oh, Gerald, Gerald, would that one who knew the sweeps had been there with you. After all that's been written, why, oh, why did you not tell them to come to you instead of going to them? Surely you have read of their callous swinishness, and your sergeant's life was in your keeping. There were three of them when he rounded the traverse, and three shots rang out at the same moment. One hit his sergeant in the head, and one hit his sergeant in the heart, between his own left arm and his body, cutting his coat. It was then he saw red, and so did the men who streamed after him. Let's stick him, sir, said the men, though the Germans had now thrown down their rifles. Nothing of the sort, he snarled. Which of you said, We surrender? And with the veins in his forehead he glared at the Germans. I did, answered one of them, smiling. We really thought you would not be such fools as to be taken in. Extraordinary, wasn't it? laughed Gerald.  His laugh caused the smiling German to stop smiling. As you avoided our bombs entirely owing to an unwarrantable mistake on my part, which cost me the life, he swallowed once or twice and his hands clenched. The life of a valued man, I can only remedy this loss on your part to the best of my ability. Ah, well, answered the German, We shall no doubt meet after the war and laugh over the episode. All is fair in love and he shrugged his shoulders and now we are your prisoners. Quite so, drawled Gerald, all ready for a first class ticket to Donington Hall. You shall now have it. Bring my lads three hairbrush grenades and put in four inches of fuse. That's about eight seconds, my dear friends. And he smiled on the Germans, who were now groveling on their knees. Got in himmel! Screamed the one who had spoken. You would murder us after we have surrendered. Gerald pointed to the dead sergeant lying huddled in the corner.  Chapter 6 And now I come to the last day that our friend was privileged to spend in the lotus land of Ypres. When he returns, let us hope we shall have moved on. The place is a good deal to lotus-y for most of us, if the heavily-sended air is any criterion. He had had most of the excitements which those who come over to this entertainment can expect to get. And on this last day he got the bon-bouche! The cream of the sideshows. His battalion had come to the reserve trenches, as I have said. And from there they had gone to an abode of cellars, where the men could wash and rest, for nothing save a direct hit with a seventeen inch shell could damage them. It was at three o'clock in the morning that Gerald was violently roused from his slumbers by his captain. Get to the men at once! Respirators to be put on.  It seems to have missed these cellars, but one never knows. Then go and see what's happening. Upstairs a confused babble of sound was going on, and upstairs Gerald sprinted after he had seen his men. A strange smell hung about in the summer air. The peculiar stench of chlorine.  The water poured out of them as eddies of wind made the gas stronger. And for a time he stood there utterly helpless. All around him men grunted and coughed and lurched about helpless as he was deprived of sight for the time. He heard odd fragments of conversation. The front line has broken gassed out. They're through in thousands. We're done for. Let's go. And then clear above the shelling which had now started furiously he heard a voice which he recognized as belonging to one of the staff officers of his brigade. The first man who does go I shoot. Sit down. Keep your pads on and wait for orders. The road came a few stragglers men who had broken from the front line and from the reserve trenches. One or two were slightly gassed one or two were wounded several were neither and what are you doing asked the same officer planting himself in the middle of the road wounded men in there the remainder joined that party and wait for orders but they're through us muttered a man pushing past the officer. I'm off. Did you hear my order said the officer sternly catching his arm.   There was a sharp crack and with a grunt the man subsided in the road twitching. The staff officer turned round and with his revolver still in his hand pointed to the party sitting down by Gerald without a word the men went there. I am going up to see what's happening he told Gerald. Get these men below in the cellars and keep them there. It's the shelling will do the damage now. The gas is over. Was it a bad attack asked Gerald one of the worst we've had. One part of the line has been pierced but the men have stuck it well everywhere else mercifully we've almost avoided it here and with that he was gone. Two hours later the wounded started to come down the road and with them men who had really been gassed badly probably through having mislaid their pads and not being able to find them in time. Some were on stretchers and some were walking. Some ran a few steps and then collapsed panting and gasping on the road. Some lurched into the ditch and lay there vomiting and on them all impartially there rained down a hail of shrapnel. In the dressing station they arranged them in rows and that day two sweating doctors handled over 700 cases. For the gassed men teasing gasping fighting for breath with their faces green and their foreheads dripping they could do next to nothing. In ambulances they got them away as fast as they could down the shell swept road and still they came pouring in without cessation. Gerald watching the poor struggling crowd swore softly under his breath he hadn't seen gas in its effects before and the first time he appeared you generally feel like killing something German to ease the strain and it was at this moment that a bursting shell scattered a bunch of staggering men and almost blew an officer coming down the road into his arms. The officer smiled at him feebly and then wiped some froth from his lips with the back of his hand. He stood there swaying his breath coming and going touched in the wind after being galloped. Out of one sleeve the blood was pouring and with his hand he'd made a great smear of blood across his mouth. His face was green and the gas sweat was all over him. Good God mother Gerald sit down my dear fellow No he answered I must get on he spoke slowly and with terrible difficulty passing his tongue over his lips from time to time and staring fixedly at Gerald Where is the general I have been sent to give him a message with a dreadful tearing noise in his throat he started to try to be sick the paroxysm lasted about five minutes and then he pulled himself together again give me the message I'll take it said Gerald quietly listen said the officer sitting down and heaving backwards and forwards listen for I'm done in they've broken through on our left there aren't many of them but our left has had to give it another paroxysm came on and the poor lad rolled in the gutter twisting and squirming the gas caught me in my dug out he croaked and I couldn't find my pad just like me always lose everything Gerald supported his head and again to the froth from his mouth our men and the wheezing voice continued at intervals our men are gassed to blazes but they're all up there they've not fallen back except on the left where they were up in the air poor chaps lying in heaps being sick noise in trenches like bellows out of work it's a swine's game this gas again the tearing and gasping tell the gunners to fire for God's sake get them to fire their infantry all over the place and we're getting about one shell of ours to twenty of theirs oh God this is awful and he tore at his collar I'll go and find the general at once to Gerald the officer nodded good I'll stop here till I'm better and then I suppose I must go back to the boys poor devils and I'm away out of it he croaked hideously my men never budged and now they're being shelled to bits and they're helpless get reserves man get reinforcements for heaven's sake hurry no one seems to know what's happening and it's been awful up there and so Gerald left him sitting by the side of the road his eyes staring fixedly at nothing periodically wiping the froth from his lips with a hand that left a crimson smear wherever it touched and there the stretcher bearers found him ten minutes later one of hundreds of similar cases reported so tersely as suffering from gas poisoning and here having staggered across our horizon he passes out again whether he lived or died I know not that man with the shattered arm and wet green face who had brought back the message from the men whose left flank was surrounded all I know is that a quarter of an hour later Gerald was giving the report to the general a report which confirmed the opinion of the situation which the staff had already informed. Half an hour later Gerald's battalion was ordered to counter attack and if they could get as far fill the gap exactly five minutes from the time when the battalion passed the reserve trenches and in extended order pressed forward my hero took it he took it in the leg and he took it in the arm from a high explosive shrapnel and went down for the count he did back all the ground lost but they did very nearly though of this Gerald knew nothing he was bad distinctly bad he remembers dimly the agony the ambulance gave his arm that night and has hazy recollections of a dear woman in a hospital train he had landed at Avra on a Tuesday that day fortnight he left Boulogne in a hospital ship back up the ancestral home founded on something in tins he will go in due course back to those same beautiful things creations was the word who grazed the ancestral drawing room some months ago the situation is fraught with peril as I have whispered his income will be something over five figures one day and the creations have taken up nursing but somehow or other his views on life have changed and I think the creations may have their work cut out end of section 3 recording by Jeffrey Wilson Ames, Iowa section 4 of the Lieutenant and others this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Linda Marie Nielsen Vancouver, B.C. the Lieutenant and others by Sapper the end of Wipers a sketch written during the first week of May a nice balmy day a good motor car and a first class lunch in prospect such was my comparatively enviable state less than a month ago true the motor car springs had had six months joy riding on the roads of Flanders and the lunch was to be in Prize but one can't have everything and Wipers was quite a pleasant spot then in the square souvenir hunters wandered through the Cloth Hall and the Cathedral intent on strange remnants of metal for the curious at home tobacco shops did a roaring trade market day was on villainous fragments of fried fish changed hands for a consideration and everyone was happy and contented in a delightful little shop I finally found my way 12 small tables spread with spotless linen and needless to say full of officers satisfying the inner man presided over by two charming French girls seemed good enough for me and sure enough the luncheon was on a par with the girls which is saying some in the vernacular as I left with a consignment of the most excellent white wine for thirsty officers elsewhere two soldiers passed me say Bill said one this or Wipers is a bit of oral right they can leave me here as long as they likes and as I cross the railway at the western end of the town one shall pass sullenly overhead the first I had heard that day the only discordant note the only sound of war that was a month ago a fortnight ago duty took me past the same little shop and through the square this time I did not linger there were no souvenir hunters there was no market day again I was in a motor car but this time I rushed through hoping for the best instead of one shell they came in their hundreds a drunken swaying noise through the air like a tramway car going homewards on its last journey down an empty road at crash and the roar of the explosion mixed with the ramble of falling masonry another house gone in the dead city huge holes clawed up in the path road and every corner dead and twisted horses children lying torn in the gutter women and men gaping in their death agony here and there a soldier legs arms fragments of what were once living breathing creatures and in nearly every house had one god in a little groups of civilians still moaning and muttering feebly they had crept into their homes frightened terrified to wait for the death that must come and without cessation came the shells in one corner motor ambulance stood drunkenly on three wheels in the middle a wagon overturned with four dead horses still fast in the traces and underneath them stuck out two legs the legs of what had been the lead driver a city of the dead not a sign of visible life save only our car picking its way carefully through dead horses and masses of bricks fallen across the road yesterday's tobacco buyers stiff in the gutters yesterday's vendors of fish dying in some corner like rats in a trap yesterday's luncheon shop a huge hole in the wall with the rafters twisted and broken and the floor of the room about scattered over the 12 tables with the spotless linen and perhaps worst of all the terrible all pervading stench which seemed to brood like a paw over everything at last we were clear of the square and getting into the open east of the town over the bridge and up a slight incline then clear above the pathways of the car for one most unpleasant second we heard the last tram going home the next second a deafening roar and we were in the center of the stifling black fumes of a present from crops all would have been well but for a dead horse in the center of the road which caused an abrupt stop we left the car till the fumes had cleared away and stumbled gasping into the air with the water pouring out of our eyes and the fumes catching our throats and it was then we saw yesterday's Tommy who had regarded wipers as a bit of oral right staggering down the road came three men lurching from the side bumping up against one another then falling apart ever and on collapsing in the road or the gutter disappearing into shell holes tripping over debris over trees over dead things gasping and panting they came on with their legs not strong enough to hold them nearer they came their faces were yellow green and their foreheads were thick with sweat though the evening was chilly they were half sobbing half moaning with their collars open and their clothes coated in mud and one of them had a great gash over his head just before they reached us he collapsed in the ditch last time he was leaning forward and heaving with the agony of getting his breath a froth was forming on his mouth and his face was green in God's name what is it we asked one of the other two as they staggered by he stared at us vacantly gassed out the one word gas and disappeared into the shambles of breeze we had not seen it before we have since and the first horror of it is past but as there is a heaven above there is not a man who has seen its effects who would not give every worldly possession he has to be able slowly to dribble the contents of a cylinder of the foulest and most diabolical invention yet conceived into a trench full of the originators of a device which most savages would be ashamed to use we picked up the poor devil in the ditch and got him to a dressing station he died in fearful agony half an hour after he subsequently heard that was a fortnight ago four nights ago there was a great light in the sky standing up out of the blaze what was left of the cathedral showed up like a blackened sentinel through the trees the yellow flames with a lurid glow and the crashing of falling houses completed the destruction started by german shells the site was one which will never be forgotten by those who saw it the final gutting of a stricken town for three days and three nights it blazed and now all is over it is the best end for that historic city the scene of so much senseless carnage how many of its harmless inhabitants have perished with it will never be known will probably never be even guessed at but fire is a purifier and purification was necessary in preese end of section 4 recording by lynda mary nielsen vancouver bc section 5 this is the libervox recording all libervox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit libervox.org recording by josh kibby the lieutenant and others by sapper the black sheep friesenberg april 30 1915 no one could have called herbert jones brilliant his best friend if he possessed such a thing would not have predicted a great future for him into the manner of his living during the first 20 years of his life it would be well not to inquire too closely herbert jones, more generally known to his intimates as herb was a dweller in dark places one of the human flotsam who emerged like rats from their holes at night and spend in the nearest gin palace the few pints they have nefariously earned during the day he was just a product of the gutter from the gutter he came and to the gutter he returned in the fullness of time and this was the way of it personally I never made the acquaintance of herbert jones such information as I possess of his disreputable history was told me one night at a dreary crossroads three or four miles east of ypres with the greenish flares lighting the sky all around us and the stench of dead horses in our nostrils my informant was one of my drivers who had lived in the same street with him in London what it was that had caused the temporary abolition of decent feeling in such an unpromising subject I was unable to find out it was something to do with a lady called Lizzie Green too much gin and a picture palace which displayed a film of the royal horse artillery galloping into action in view of the fact that 90% of herbert's income was derived from making himself a public pest at jobbing stables he quite naturally posed as a horsey youth and that fact coupled with Lizzie the gin and the film apparently produced this one ebullition of decent feeling of which I have spoken he enlisted the very next day he presented his unrepossessing personality at a recruiting office and his slum knew him no more the royal regiment swallowed him up gave him a uniform, decent food and prepared to make a man of him it failed hopelessly dismaly the revilings of officers the cursings of sergeants the blasphemia bombardiers alike failed to produce the slightest effect his conduct sheet rapidly assumed the appearance of a full-sized novel but there he was and there he remained a driver in the field artillery and the black sheep of his battery a year later found him in havre from there he drifted to ruin reviled by everyone who had the misfortune to have anything to do with him at last like a bad penny he had to begin at his old battery to the horror of all concerned who thought they had effectually got rid of him at the beginning of the war but the ways of record officers are wonderful passing the ways of women so when the news was broken to the major and he had recovered he ordered him to be put with the ammunition limbers whose job it is to take ammunition to the battery nightly when they are in action and then return for more and the captain whose job is largely ammunition supply and the remarks would be unprintable two nights later the battery was in action in the salient somewhere east of Ypres and the reserves of ammunition were away back somewhere to the west and Herbert Jones was with the reserves in the official communique it was known as a time of artillery activity in the neighborhood of Ypres in the communique of the battery it was known as a time of hell at loose but especially was it so known among the ammunition limbers who nightly passed from west to east with full limbers and returned from east to west with empty ones four as may be seen by anyone who takes the trouble to procure an ordinance map all roads from the west converge on Ypres and having passed through the neck of the bottle diverge again to the east which fact is not unknown to the Germans so the limbers do not linger on the journey but at an interval of ten yards or so they travel as fast as straining horse flesh and sweating drivers can make them in many places a map is not necessary even to a stranger the road is clearly marked by what has been left at its side the toll of previous journeys of limbers who went out six in number and returned only four and should the stranger be blind another of his senses will lead him unfailingly along the right road for these derelict limbers and their horses have been there some time the Germans were searching the road leading to Ypres from the crossroads where I sat waiting for an infantry working party that had gone astray on the first of the two occasions on which I saw herb that is to say they were plastering a bit of the road with shells and the hope of bagging anything living on that bit in the distance the rumble wagons up the road was becoming louder every minute all around us for it was assailant green flares lit up the sky showing where the front trenches lay and occasional rolls of musketry swelling to a crescendo and then dying fitfully away came at intervals from different parts of the line a few spent bullets pinged viciously overhead and almost without cessation came the angry roar of high explosive shrapnel bursting along the road or over the desolate plow on each side close to me at the crossroads itself stood the remnants of a village perhaps ten houses in all the flares shown through the ruined walls the place stank of death save for the noise it was a dead world a no man's land in a little village two motor ambulances balanced themselves like drunken derelicts dead horses lay stiff and distended across the road and a few overturned wagons completed the scene of desolation then suddenly over a slight rise swung the ammunition limbers grunting, cursing bumping into shell holes and dot again I watched them pass and swing away right-handed in the rear came six pairs of horses spare in case and as the last one went by a man beside me said hello there's herb it was then I got his history and hour later I was back at that same place having caught my wandering infantry party and placed them on a line with instructions to dig and continue digging till their arms dropped off but when I got there I found it had changed a little in appearance that dreary crossroads just opposite the bank where I had sat were two horses lying in the road and the legs of a man stuck up from underneath them and they had not been there an hour before the horses heads were turned toward eepras and it seemed to me that there was something familiar in the markings of one of them with the help of my drivers we pulled out the man it was no good but one never knows and the same voice said why it's herb crashing back on the return journey the limbers empty herb again bringing up the rear with the spares the blinding flash and we laid him in the gutter did I not say that he came from the gutter and to the gutter he returned in the fullness of time end of section 5 section 6 of the lieutenant and others this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Josh Kibbey the lieutenant and others by Sapper James and the landmine a comparatively truthful account of an unpleasing episode the reasons in triplicate which I gave to the general as to why the landmines had exploded at the wrong time are neither here nor there officially he accepted them but it was all very trying and entirely due to James James is a great thorn in my side he always has been he is always doing unexpected things thereby causing much alarm and despondency among everyone who has the doubtful pleasure of his acquaintance the last time I saw him before the war was at the pitchley hunt ball some 18 months ago and though I hesitate to give the incident which occurred there in view of possible doubts being cast on my veracity and also because of its apparently trifling nature yet its connection with the sad failure of the landmines is too deep to disregard it no then that James had on a pair of new silk breeches purchased a great cost from his already despondent tailor his pink coat was lovely James always was lovely before the war in addition to all that there was a lobster moose I know it all sounds very difficult but the fate of nations sometimes depends on far less than a lobster moose I discovered the lobster moose I alone I wrote off my supper partner a woman of doubtful charm but undoubted appetite and returned later to that moose it was the tenth wonder of the world a moose I'm pretty some reproach I still dream of it when it was nearly gone James appeared in the supper room and in a fit of generosity which still brings a lump to my throat I indicated the remnants of that moose to him he came he sat down he arose hurdly I will draw a veil over the painful scene that followed as I heard James pointing out to a beautiful being who posed as the head waiter a chair in the supper room was not the best place to put a bunch of grapes suspicion centered on the table waiter a two ton of repellent aspect whom James saw laughing he had a scar over his right eye and looked capable of anything personally both his partner and I thought it rather funny but then as he quite justly observed it was he who had sat on the chair in question the last I saw of him was in the cloakroom vowing vengeance on Germans in general and that waiter in particular from that day until one night about 10 days ago I did not see James his appearance as usual was most unnecessary and quite uncalled for and furnishes the true reason for the failure of the landmines which I regret to state differs in one or two small details from the one rendered to the general and triplicate briefly this is how the matter stood in one portion of our landmine we had a trench which was the semi-detached type both its ends were in the air and at times it was most unhealthy sometimes it was occupied by us sometimes by the Germans at times it was occupied by both at other times by neither it was a trench that had an air of expectancy over it like a lucky dip in a bizarre you might wander around a traverse one morning and find a German officer hating in a corner the next morning you might find a young calf or landmine to all this uncertainty coupled with the fact that the right flank of this trench was 50 yards from the one on its right and that its left rested on a cesspit made the general decide on drastic measures he had another one dug behind and ordered that it should be filled in and in view of the fact that it was only 40 yards from the Germans it all had to be done at night furthermore he suggested that it would indeed be nice if I could place half a dozen landmines in the field in trench dissembling my pleasure at this horrible suggestion I retired from his dugout relapsing hurriedly into a Johnson hole as a sniper opened a rapid and unpleasantly accurate fire on me as a result of my cogitations I found myself at about 10 that night crawling up a hedge towards the trench in question while behind me came a cursing subaltern and several grunting men armed with shovels in the rear a dozen stalwarts carried the landmines now the idea of a landmine is very simple you fill a box of some sort with gun cotton arranging the lid in such a way that it does not quite shut you then place the box in the ground with the lid just below the surface and the arrangement is such that should some unwary person tread on the lid it promptly does shut thereby driving a nail into a detonator and sending off the mine this causes a severe shock to the person who inadvertently treads on it at the same time causing great excitement among those of his neighbors who remain alive my idea was to crawl to the trench fill it in and arranging the mines in suitable positions retire and await developments my difficulty though it may seem a strange one to some people was to find the trench and having found it to get them in there without being seen it is astonishing how easy it is to lose one's way when crawling about a large open field at night and the bit of trench I was seeking for was not very long the German flares which are extremely good infinitely better than but I will be discreet though it is perfectly true render the process of walking about close to their trenches a somewhat hazardous one should one of these flares fall on the ground so that you are between it and the Germans the only way to escape detection is to lie perfectly motionless until it burns out all of which tends to make progress slow it was while one of them was burning itself out and I was endeavoring to set a safe course between two shell holes and a dead German that James appeared out of the blue from nowhere he had six German helmets a few bayonets and a variety of other trophies and was making a noise like a wagon full of saucepans on a cobbled road dear old boy he cried dropping everything on the ground it's the deuce of a time since I've seen you it is one of the few things for which I can honestly return thanks I remarked so much shortly would you like a megaphone to tell them what you mean up to work on that trench in front what are you going to do he demanded feel it in and mine it when I can find it splendid he answered I'm your man these and he kicked the trophies which promptly gave forth the crashy noise all come from it I've just been there I will guide you under normal circumstances I would as soon have been guided by a young elephant but as I say James is difficult very difficult I think there are one or two Germans in it he whispered as we crawled on I heard one talking and threw a bomb over the traverse but as I'd forgotten to light it it didn't go off the next instant he disappeared and the procession came to an abrupt halt a wallowing noise was heard and James' head came into view again this is the trench you remarked Tursley the cesspit end it was one of the few occasions that night that I laughed my subaltern extended them in while I untreated James to go I thanked him for his valuable assistance and earnestly begged him to depart he could help me no more and I knew there would be a calamity if he remained it was all in vain James was out for a night of it so ultimately I left him to his own devices and departed to see what was happening I found everything quite peaceful six landmines were lying at the bottom of a bit of trench where we could get them when wanted and the trench all except about 30 yards was being filled in the 30 yards would be filled in later and would be mined one could hear the Germans talking in their trenches and for the moment an air of complete calm brooded over the scene no sniper sniped no gunner gunned a few gaunt trees creaked slightly in the breeze and an occasional rifle crack came sharply through the night from farther down the line then James fell into the trench again this time he missed the cesspit and hit a German it was all almost annoying a worry noise was heard and everyone fell flat on his face as a rapid fusillade broke out from all directions flares went up by the score and everything became unpleasantly lively the only person who seemed quite oblivious of all the turmoil was James he suddenly loomed up in front of me dragging a diminutive Bosch behind him do you remember his voice was quite shaken with rage the accursed swine dog of a waiter at the pitchley hunt ball who laughed when I sat on the grapes I have him here I still you fool I muttered do you want to get everyone scuppered of course James paid not the slightest attention I have him here he grunted I know that scar you horrible reptile and he shook the little brood till his teeth rattled are you aware that you spoiled the best pair of silk breeches I ever had and I haven't paid for them yet and with that he threw him into the trench close by like James at the ball he sat down into rose hurriedly James would select the bit of trench where the landmines were there was a most deafening roar as all six went off and that waiter will undoubtedly wait no more James himself I'm glad to say was stunned which kept him quiet for a time but he was about the only quiet thing in France for the next hour it is my personal belief that in addition to all the batteries on each side which opened fire simultaneously the mysterious gun which has bombarded Dunkirk let drive as well for two hours I lay in a wet trench with a pick in the small of my back and James on top of me about three we all went home rather the worst for wear James said he had a headache and wouldn't play anymore I got one giving my reasons to the general in triple get end of section six section seven of the lieutenant and others this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Josh Kibbe the lieutenant and others by Sapper the sixth drunk to a very gallant Irishman who died in November 1914 number 10,379 Private Michael O. Flanagan you are charged first with being absent from roll call on the 21st instant until 3.30 am on the 22nd a period of five hours and 30 minutes second being drunk third assaulting an NCO in the execution of his duty the colonel lint back in his chair in the orderly room and gazed through his eyeglass and standing on the other side of the table the evidence was uninteresting as such evidence usually is the only humorous relief being afforded by the sergeant of the guard on the night of the 21st who came in with an eye of Cerulean Hugh which all the efforts of his painstaking wife with raw beef steak had been unable to subdue it appeared from his evidence that he and Private O. Flanagan had had a slight difference of opinion and that the accused had struck him in the face with his fist what have you got to say Private O. Flanagan? sure it was one of the boys from Waterford Sur I met in the town yonder and we put away a bit of the stuff I would not be denying I was late but I was not drunk at all it is for the sergeant sure it was missing me about he was and plaguing me and I did but push him in the face would I be hitting him and he be a little one? the colonel glanced at the conduct sheet in his hand then he looked up at O. Flanagan Private O. Flanagan this is your fifth drunk in addition to that you have struck a non-commissioned officer in the execution of his duty one of the most serious crimes a soldier can commit I'm sick of you you do nothing but give trouble the next drunk you have I shall endeavour to get you discharged as incorrigible and worthless as it is I shall send you up for court marshal perhaps they will save me the trouble march out prisoner and escort right turn, quick march the sergeant major piloted them through the door the incident closed now all that happened eighteen months ago the rest is concerning the sixth drunk of Michael O. Flanagan and what he did and it will also explain why at the present moment in a certain depot mess in England there lies in the centre of the dinner table every guest night a strange jagged looking piece of brown earthenware it was brought home one day in December by an officer on leave by him to the officer commanding the depot and once a week officers belonging to the thirteenth and fourteenth and other battalions gaze upon the strange relic and drink a toast to the sixth drunk it seems that during November last the battalion was in the trenches around Depres now as all the world knows at that time the trenches were scratchy the weather was vile and the Germans delivered infantry attacks without cessation in fact it was a most pleasing and unsavory period and one of these scratchy trenches reposed of the large bulk of Michael O. Flanagan he did not like it at all the permanent defensive which he and everyone else were forced into he did not suit his character along with O. Flanagan there were a sergeant and three other men and at certain periods of the day and night the huge Irishman would treat the world to an impromptu concert he had a great deep bass voice and when the mood was on him he would bellow out strange seditious songs songs of the wilds of Ireland and mingle with them taunts and jeers at the Germans opposite now these bursts of songs were erratic but there was one period which never varied the arrival of the rum issue was invariably heralded by the most seditious song in O. Flanagan's very seditious repertoire one evening it came about that the Huns tactlessly decided to deliver an attack just about the same time as the rum was usually issued for some time O. Flanagan had been thirstily eyeing the traverse in his trench round which it would come when suddenly the burst of firing all along the line proclaimed an attack moreover it was an attack in earnest the Huns reached the trenches and got into them and though they were twice driven out bit by bit the battalion retired O. Flanagan's trench being at the end and more or less unconnected with the others the Germans passed by though as the sergeant in charge very rightly realized it could only be a question of a very few minutes before it would be untenable get out he ordered and join up with the regiment in the trenches behind and before to the issue of rum demanded Michael O. Flanagan whose rifle was too hot to hold you may think yourself lucky my bucko if you ever get another said the sergeant get out O. Flanagan looked at him if you're after thinking that I would be leaving the rum to them swine you are mistaken sergeant are you going O. Flanagan but dad I'm not not at the king himself was asking me at that moment a Bosch rounded the traverse with the howl of joy O. Flanagan hit him with the butt of his rifle from that moment he went mad he hurled himself over the traverse and started it was full of Germans but this wild apparition finished them roaring like a bull and twisting his rifle round his head like a cane the Irishmen fell on them and as they broke he saw in the corner the well-beloved earthenware pot containing the rum he seized the thing in his right hand and poured most of the liquid down his throat while the rest of it ran over his face and clothes and then Michael O. Flanagan ran amuck his great voice rose high above the roar of the rifles as with the empty rum jar in one hand and his clubbed rifle in the other he went down the trench what he must have looked like with the red liquid pouring down his face his hands covered with it his clothes dripping with it and that eerie half-light heaven knows he was shouting an old song of the Fenian days and it is possible they thought he was the devil he was no bad substitute anyway and then of a sudden his regiments ceased to shoot from the trenches behind and a voice cried O. Flanagan it passed down the line and as one man they came back howling O. Flanagan they drove the Germans out like chaff and fell back into the lost trenches all save one little party who paused at the site in front of them there stood O. Flanagan astride the Colonel who was mortally wounded they heard rather than saw the blow that fetched home on the head of a Prussian officer almost simultaneously with the crack of his revolver they saw him go down with a crushed skull while the big earthenware jar shivered to pieces they saw O. Flanagan stagger a little and then look around still with the top of the rum jar in his hand you are back he cried it is well but the rum is gone and then the Colonel spoke he was near death and wandering the regiment has never yet lost a trench has it O. Flanagan you scoundrel and he peered at him it is not Saur answered the Irishman I thought muttered the dying officer there were Prussians in here a moment ago they were Saur but they were not liking it so they went suddenly the Colonel raised himself on his elbow what's the matter with you O. Flanagan what's that red on your face it's rum you blackguard you're drunk again his voice was growing weaker sixth time discharged incorrigible and worthless and with that he died they looked at O. Flanagan and he was sagging at the knees it is not the old rum the red on me Colonel dear he slowly collapsed and lay still and that is the story of the strange table adornment of the depot mess the depot of the regiment who have never yet lost a trench End of section 7