Wild and lone,
None claim, none own,
That goes by the name of No Man's Land;
Its frontiers are bastioned, and wired, and mined,
The rank grass shudders and shakes in the wind,
And never a roof nor a tree you find
In No Man's Land.
They that gave
Lives so brave
Have found a grave
In the haggard fields of No Man's Land.
By the foeman's reddened parapet
They lie with never a head-stone set,
But their dauntless souls march forward yet
In No Man's Land.
H. D'A. B.,
Major, 55th Division, B.E.F., France.
'No Man's Land' is that bit of ground six hundred yards, and sometimes only thirty yards, between our trenches and those of the enemy. Over this disputed area we 'strafe' each other night and day. There are often water-holes, even swamps, in No Man's Land, and both sides have a habit of draining trenches into it. Wild flowers and even garden flowers grow in this area, for it contains ruined farm-houses and orchards. Poppies red as blood, lilies white as snow, roses, and blue cornflowers are often seen there waving in the breeze, sometimes swaying before the hail of bullets from machine-guns.
The birds sing oblivious of war here, but sometimes you see pigeons trying to fly across. I say trying, because our men always endeavour and sometimes succeed in shooting them. Why? Because probably they are carrying spies' messages to the Huns which may mean death to us. We do not want the enemy to know how we are distributing our batteries in the rear, so we try to stop enemy aeroplanes or pigeons crossing either way.
As soon as daylight appears you will usually hear the droning of a swarm of great bees humming their way across No Man's Land. They are British aeroplanes, often flown by young men from eighteen years of age and upwards. They never refuse a fight, and the best proof of their efficiency is seen in the fact that fortunes are wasted by the Germans every day in anti-aeroplane fire, in the vain hope of stopping them. They often cross in ordered ranks, and go through wonderful evolutions on their way—circling over each other like catherine-wheels, and looping the loop as if in the joy of battle and contempt of the enemy.
Our airmen are the pride of the infantry. If you want to be cheered up, all you have to do is to look up, and watch these adventurers of the air. Many a stirring fight have we witnessed in the air over that unowned terrain called No Man's Land. One evening we watched a fearless observer making his regular circles amid such intense anti-aeroplane fire that we trembled for him. By-and-by he began to fall, and we watched his descent with our hearts in our mouths. When we saw that he was going to land just in our lines, we raced madly to the spot. Some of the officers, revolver in hand, thinking they might need to fend off the enemy, were so eager that they forgot their tin-hats which were really more necessary. To make sure of him the Boches simply plastered the spot where he had landed with shell-fire. Arriving, we saw him desperately dragging the engine, which was intact, under a parapet. Then he took refuge, and we congratulated him, saying he was 'very lucky.'
'Lucky, do you call it?' he responded. 'Why, they have ruined my machine.'
Why, so they had!
There was a legend with us in one sector not far from Armentières of an airman whom we called 'the mad major.' I don't know whether he was one, or two, or three. Like the gun we called 'Beechy Bill' at Gallipoli, perhaps there were several of him. All we knew was that we would see an airman flying gamely among the puffballs of the breaking anti-aeroplane shells of the enemy, and sometimes he seemed to get into trouble, and we used to cry out, 'They have got him!' He would fall like a stone, recover, fall again, and then when we looked for the awful end he would skim low over the German trenches plying his machine-gun like one o'clock. Good luck to the mad major! There was a method in his madness, although we never knew what he was going to do next. Nor did the Hun. In spite of danger and orders, we used to crouch behind the parapets watching our airmen, and it was a tonic to us.
Of course at any time, and for long periods all the time, shells, from spitting rifle batteries to 60-lb. projectiles from big guns in the rear, are screaming and hissing over No Man's Land; and wherever you are 'you never know your luck.' Moral: Do not despise your tin-hat. It may be uncomfortable, but it would be more uncomfortable to 'stop one' even if it were but a fragment.
New monsters called Tanks have taken to moving across the debateable territory called No Man's Land, spitting out flaming death as they go. In short, all the accumulating frightfulness which we are learning to use is being used to say to the Hun in tongues of fire and steel, 'This is not your land; begone, and take up once more your watch on the Rhine!'
But you wonder why we do not annex No Man's Land, and advance. The strategy of staying here till the right moment comes is wise and humane. There are fine towns and villages containing non-combatants on the other side of No Man's Land. It would be but to mock their hopes to advance unless we could sweep on everywhere. Nor do we wish to conquer in such a way that every village is left in ruins. Here and there at strategic points we may have to do that. It is not so much that we want to break through as that we want the whole line to break. Meanwhile it is a very hot and unhealthy place for Fritz.
Besides that, we are beating the enemy every day on this line. It suits us. We have organized it. Here we have trolley-lines, concrete bomb-proof stores, and many things that take time to build. Later, when the right time comes, we shall cross No Man's Land at many places, and it will become France again for ever. Until that time comes we cannot do more than present our claim to No Man's Land. We do this frequently and 'in person.' Our patrols and scouts enter it nightly, and it requires courage and craft to do this. Through secret sally-ports, over parapets, and where the line has been damaged by shell-fire, they steal out in the darkness, and the German sentries keep a succession of flares and star-shells going to detect them. What hairbreadth escapes they have, and what escapes the Hun sentries have; for sometimes they find themselves very near to one, and they have to get back with their information without raising an alarm if possible. Sometimes, however, through a mistake, in the fog or darkness they get into the German line, and they have to fight and escape amid following bullets. At such times our men at the parapets have carefully to cover their return with rifle-fire, and even help them over or under our defences back again to safety. Young intelligence officers take many risks as they crawl amid the hollows in No Man's Land, revolver in hand, in search of information.
We got a few body-shields for our scouts in our battalion, and they went out for a long time with a greater confidence. The protection they afforded gave them a calmer frame of mind, which produced extra efficiency. But we make more serious claims on this disputed ground by our 'raids,' which occur in many places every night. The raid is a survival, or perhaps a revival, of the old hand-to-hand fighting. It is a curious anti-climax of science in war, of which there are so many illustrations to-day.
In spite of long-range guns of great power and high-velocity telescopic rifles, we fight in trenches close together, and we have got back to grenadier days. Hand-grenades, rifle-grenades, and trench-mortar bombs as big as howitzer-shells are tossed over to the enemy lines at the same murderous distances as those at which Wellington's and Napoleon's veterans fired at each other in Peninsula days.
The raid is the last illustration of our backsliding in an age of science to the primaeval fighting instinct, unrelieved by the chivalry of a knightly age. You may be sure there are no banners flying or trumpets blowing, no heraldic challenge to warn the Hun that he is to be raided. It is a form of frightfulness calculated to jar the nerves of the most militant disciple of the gospel of blood and iron.
We were warned that our battalion, in common with others, would be expected to raid the enemy's lines in its turn, and volunteers were immediately called for. There was no lack of response. Then the men had to go through a long and careful training, as those do who are out to win a county football cup. In the rear of the sector they dug trenches which were a replica of those to be raided. They did this from photographs provided by our indomitable airmen. On this ground the men were trained physically, and in the use of the special arms they were to carry. Relay races to give them speed, crawling attacks at night to make them wary and acquaint them with the 'lie of the land'; and added to this, bayonet-fighting, revolver-practice, and all this again and again, and in all sorts of light or darkness, until at last they were smitten with a desire to 'get it through,' and a confidence that they could 'put it through.' So much so, that two of their number who became due for leave declined it, as they thought it was 'up to them' to be in the raid after training for it.
At last the great day arrived. No one knew until almost the last moment. When the raiders came up in two London motor-buses singing 'Australia will be There,' we did not know them at first. They were a disgrace to the battalion as far as clothing went, for they were clad in ragged and dirty clothes from which all marks of identification were absent. Short as the notice was, we had organized a 'banquet' for them, and even got a huge three-decker bride-cake from a neighbouring village. We had a solid meal of three courses, and you may be sure it was none the less hearty because of the absence of intoxicants. Every one was cheerful, but there was an undercurrent of seriousness and grim determination. The chaplain had to propose a toast, and after he had wished them 'Good luck' and 'God bless you,' the men came up with apparent casualness to say a word or two of intimate confidence not to be divulged in this sketch.
Then the men were prepared. They all wore aprons containing bombs; some had rifle and bayonet, some clubs, entrenching-tool handles with cog-wheels at the end—commonly called chloroform sticks—some bombs and revolvers. Every non-com. had a watch set to divisional time and an electric torch.
Amid a good deal of merriment they blackened each other's faces—not for fun, but because white faces would be easily revealed under the white light of the German flares. Then the motor-lorries came up to take them into the sector, and with many cheerful wishes they drove away as jolly as though they were going to a party. A motor-ambulance followed with the regimental doctor, the chaplain, and the stretcher-bearers. Down the long communication trenches we followed them silently over the duck-boards, from which occasionally some would slip partially into the water draining below.
The arrival at the front line is marked by a 'fading away' of the troops holding it. 'It's me for my dug-out,' I heard one man say. 'It ain't healthy with raiders about.' This is wise, because when the raid begins the Boches will rain shells on No Man's Land, and then put a barrage on or about the parapets to get them on the return. Now the raiders are sorted out and put round the three secret sally-ports through which each party will enter the 'verboten' land. The doctor inspects the special aid-posts to see if all arrangements are perfect. Yes, the bandages and doctor's kit are all laid out, and the A.M. Corps men at their posts, and I and the doc., with an A.M.C. sergeant, repair to the main aid-post to wait. It is three-quarters of an hour yet to zero time, but before that many of the raiders will be lying out in No Man's Land in holes and hollows. We try to read a bit, then talk, and all the time smoke. Smoking has a curious psychological effect. It steadies the nerves, makes you believe you are not perturbed, but there is no doubt that the time of waiting is always the worst.
Every now and again we look at the watches. 'Quarter of an hour to go.' 'Yes,' says the doc. 'I expect some of them have crawled out now.' 'Ten minutes to go.' You throw down your book. It is no good pretending to read. For three days our gunners have been 'wire-cutting.' They have cut the wire over a very wide front, but they always take care to cut it where our men are going to attack.
Zero time is 9 p.m., and exactly on the second hell breaks out. Guns in the rear roar out in fury. Trench mortars close at hand vomit forth their missiles of death, and even machine-guns and rifle batteries help to swell the crescendo of battle. The ranges are well known, and the guns do their work without harming our men, who are now crawling forward.
Our aid-post is a dug-out covered with steel joists and sand-bags; but it rocks with the swish, swish, swish of the shells flying through the air like hail. Now the Boche begins to reply, and every now and then a 'whiz-bang' bursts on the parapets. We can only hope that no high explosive will happen to break on our dug-out. Now the guns lift, and the raiders get closer up. A frenzy of flares go up, and we are so curious that we sneak out to see across No Man's Land. We cannot see a man of our party, and we take that to indicate that the Huns, too, cannot see them yet.
Now it is 9.10, and on the instant there is a silence as terrible as was the fearful noise. The raiders are among the Germans now. They rush from dug-out to dug-out bombing. Meeting Huns, they fight face to face and hand to hand. German fire breaks out on No Man's Land, and occasionally a rifle shot. Then, 'bad luck to us,' the Hun ceases to engage our guns, and he puts his high explosives on, and just over our parapets. And this is the time we must get out for our work, for casualties soon come back; indeed a message has come to say that two are back. One man who has brought a wounded comrade and himself has suffered a fall, injuring the knee. As we run along the duck-boards behind the parapet we bend low and listen fearfully to the crump, crump, crump of shells exploding behind our line. The raiders have just ten minutes for their fighting. At that time our guns will raise another curtain of fire behind them to keep the Huns from a counter-attack.
They must not stay under our own fire. Now they begin to return, with their eyes bright with the excitement of battle, covered with mud, with a German helmet or two, with many stories of the fighting, and with their wounded. The stretcher-bearers are out in No Man's Land seeking others, and we have enough to do dealing with those at hand. We have got most of them close up to the parapet, and the doctor has difficult work to do under circumstances the reverse of helpful, for German shells are landing in our lines pretty thickly. But when you reach this point in a 'stunt' you cease to think of danger; you are absorbed in helping. The wounded turn to the padre as a friend and almost as a father. They babble of their home folks, give you messages, and they hold your hand tightly when they are in pain. You cannot stay with one longer than is necessary, for others ask for you. 'Ask the padre to come' is something which makes it worth your while to be with the men in battle. One man, not at all young, gives me many loving messages to one whom I took to be his wife. I send them all to Australia, and receive thanks from his mother, who explains that her son was a confirmed bachelor. Another poor chap has a slight wound; but it does not bleed, and he is so cold. We heap blankets and new sand-bags on him and give him stimulants. But he gets colder and colder, and just as the ambulance reaches the billets in the village he dies of shell-shock. The wounded men are put on the trolleys, and the stretcher-bearers begin to push them out of the sector; and while they do so the Huns' shells fall all round. 'But who cares?' That is the feeling you have at this stage. Now we have a bother. Some of the raiders are not easily persuaded to start on the homeward march up the communication trench. The special officer stands, notebook in hand, ticking off the names of the raiders who have returned. In spite of his assurance some want to go back to find chums who are really not lost. Others seek excuses because they want to go back for trophies or booty which they now remember to have seen.
One of our company is still missing, and a wounded man tells me where he has seen him. As a matter of fact, things have quietened down a lot now, and we have virtual possession of No Man's Land; the Huns have hidden. They are satisfied to sprinkle our sector with shells in the hope of getting returning men. But our stretcher-bearers are indignant at the idea of my attempting to get the lost man. Securing my information, they go into No Man's Land and find him. We still have a number of less seriously wounded men behind the parapets. Everybody is talking of the exploits of one of them. He is an athletic fellow whom the doctor is attending. To counterbalance the pain he is suffering I congratulate him, and suggest that he will probably get recommended for reward.
'No fear of that,' he says laughing. 'More likely ten days' C.B.' (confinement to barracks).
'Why?' I inquire.
'Well, I shouldn't have been there at all,' he replies.
'I can't understand that,' I say.
'Well, sir, I'm not a raider at all; but when I heard the shots, I couldn't resist, so I slipped over the parapet and into it.'
It is difficult to tell exactly what success the raid has had; but the men seem to agree that with those they accounted for and Huns they found killed by our artillery fire altogether twenty-five of the enemy were destroyed. We have lost three killed in action, and a number of wounded who will recover. One prisoner has been brought back, and he seems to be a regular walking orderly-room for the number of official documents in his possession. It may be but a small affair; but when we remember that there were twenty-five raids the same night, it will be recognized that we are not sitting down tamely and submitting to the German occupation of any part of France.
Probably the British press will announce to-morrow, 'All calm on the Western Front'; but we know that every night No Man's Land is the scene of deeds of valour and self-sacrifice, proving that our men have the fighting spirit of their fathers; and that apart from the clash of material forces, in the great battle of spirits which is the ultimate basis upon which a decision in war depends, we need not doubt the 'will to victory' of our men. No Man's Land, with all its pathos and sorrow, the grave of unknown heroes, the battle-ground on which many a brave exploit is enacted which is unnoticed and unrecognized, is still the pledge and prophecy of our final victory.
Now we must trudge back to the village. We walk about two miles in saps, and then join the ambulances waiting on the road. You begin to feel tired at this stage!