Angus McPhee was a God-fearing Scot who went to war with his sense of respect in full marching order. Therefore it was not strange that his very soul should writhe when he made his first trip up the line in the gory swamps of the Somme. Dead men, in discoloured field grey and khaki, lay about, half-buried in the slime, and the calloused veterans of the battalion to which he had been drafted, the “White Gurkhas,” often made use of them as shell hole parapets. Angus hid his aversion for a time and then rasped a broadside.
“Gi’ ower wi’ sic’ devil’s work,” he shouted at Dan Hopper, a little wooden-faced man who was trying to pull a pair of boots off a dead officer. Dan had lost his own in a mud hole the night before and had been splashing about in long rubber waders which were difficult to navigate, so he paid small heed to Angus until a second shout proved that the Scot was in earnest.
“Gi’ ower, I tell ye. Ye are worse than a German tae drag aboot the dead.”
“What’s bitin’ you?” asked Dan, dropping the officer’s leg. “I lost my boots and I’m goin’ to take this pair. No sense leavin’ them to spoil. Look at them.”
Angus looked, and saw that the boots really were a prize worthwhile. They were high-topped and laced, nearly new and of a russet grain. “It makes nae difference aboot the boots,” he retorted. “Ye are dishonorin’ the dead an’ I’ll be reportin’ ye tae the captain gin ye dinn gi’ ower.”
“You can report to Haig hisself, if you want,” snapped Dan. A comrade had called jeeringly and the taunt was all Dan needed. “Wait till yer been with soldiers a couple of minutes before you start tootin’ yer horn.” He picked up the booted foot again, got a firmer hold, twisted and pulled. The boot came free, but the officer was dragged farther in the soft mud.
Angus emitted a mighty roar and leaped a shell hole to attack the disturber of the dead. His plunge landed him thigh deep in the boggy trench side, and that was all that saved Dan from the assault. Before the Scot could free himself and make a further advance others had intervened and then the sergeant himself came along, a war-worn, hard-boiled South African veteran. “What in blazes is wrong here?” he demanded. “Who’s doin’ all the shoutin’?”
“Tis this mon here,” raged Angus. “He’s been pullin’ wi’ this dead officer something awfu’, disgracefu’, and I hope ye see him punished.”
“What is it, Dan?” said the sergeant. “Gettin’ yerself a pair of boots? Lost yours in that hole on the right, didn’t you? Well, go right ahead and get this pair you’re after. That guy don’t want them any longer and I’ll bet he’d be glad to lend them.” Then he turned to Angus. “Keep that porridge mouth of yours closed till someone asks you to open it,” He said harshly. “If you get nothin’ moren’ dead men to worry over, you’re goin’ to be—lucky.”
Angus smothered his anger and went on with his work, but he seethed inwardly the entire trip. For everywhere he went he saw the bodies of friend and foe lying where they had fallen, or else rudely rolled into support for muddy defenses. Occasionally there were dismembered parts tossed about great shell craters, bodies that had been torn and hurled from place to place. Never once did he see a corpse receive the reverence that he judged it should, and he was certain, above all things, that Dan Hopper was as unprincipled as a savage. Dan was a machine gunner, and his Lewis gun was his sweetheart. He kept it clean at all costs, and the little man was one of the best in hitting his target. He never spoke to Angus again during the trip, though the Scotchman came near taking the offensive again when he saw Dan calmly strip back the tunic of a dead man and tear away most of his shirt, as cleaning rags for his gun.
Some months later the battalion was out for rest in a village near Mount St. Eloi. Angus had developed into a first-class soldier and had transferred to the scouts, partly because he had a liking for the work, and partly to escape Dan and a few of his ilk who on all occasions treated the dead in a very casual manner. They did nothing that drew the resentment of the sergeant or platoon officer, but simply treated every corpse as but an ordinary feature of the battleground.
They would step over a dead man every time sooner than walk around him, would search his pockets for money, would bury him, after nightfall, back of the parados, without a sign of emotion. Such treatment roused Angus every time he saw it. Then came the night of his unexpected acquaintance with Dan Hopper.
Angus was at one of the little French homes seeking a plate of eggs and chips. Being a true Scot, he was alone on his quest, not wishing to bear the expense of treating a friend who might be broke, and had ill-luck in locating a “feeding place” until he knocked at the door of Tommy Jean. “Tommy” Jean was a widow who lived in three rooms with a swarm of small children. None of the soldiers billeted in that area ever knew how she managed to keep soul and body together, nor how many of the little tots were refugees she had taken under her wing. She looked up at Angus and shook her head to all his queries, for she never served food or sold anything, and then, seeing his badges, pulled him into the house and poured forth a deluge of questions in broken French and English. She apparently wanted to know about “ ‘Opper, ze wood face man, an’ Ted, an’ ze corporal.”
A good fire was going in the pot-bellied French stove that heated the room and Angus made his way to a seat beside it, and there sat while the children ringed about him, staring gravely. Finally, a boy more bold than the others, put forth his hand. “Chocolay—biskeet?” he piped hungrily. “Bon soldat.”
Angus paid no heed, so the inquiry was repeated. Then “Tommy” Jean tried to hush the child, though she was plainly puzzled herself by the Scotchman’s actions. “What is it ye say?” he asked, as he saw that they all were watching him expectantly. “I dinna ken yer language.”
Before the widow could make reply the door was opened without more than a warning knock and a quartet of “White Gurkhas” filed in. Dan Hopper was leading and behind him crowded Corporal Jack, Ted Brown, a runner, and Jerry Binks, an Irish bomber. Each man was laden with bundles and at sight of them the brood of children gave a wild shriek and rushed. “‘Opper—‘Opper,” they yelled. “Ted—Corporal Jerry.”
Such a confusion, such kissing, such smiles on all faces, such a chattering. Then the newcomers saw Angus. They stared at him, then stared at each other. They looked at the children, and the corporal suddenly spoke in rapid French. “Tommy” Jean answered him quickly, nodding towards Angus as she spoke.
The Scotchman was baffled. He could not comprehend the situation, but as he had been first in, and wanted his eggs and chips, he did not propose to relinquish his seat of vantage by the stove. Yet, as he watched proceedings, he began to realize that he had not entered a “feeding place.” Dan and his pals were dividing treats among the children. They had chocolate and biscuits, canned goods, and army rations. Several pairs of stockings and some warm underclothing denoted that some of the visitors had had parcels from home. “Tommy” Jean, watching, let tears flow unashamed, and Angus began to realize what was going on. These mates of his, these uncouth, seemingly heartless men, were giving practically all their meagre money would allow them to this family of refugees, and from the way it was being received he knew that there had been many previous visits. A little girl, happy with a packet of YMCA biscuits, unwittingly blundered against him and snuggled to his knees as she ate. Then the boy who had asked for “Chocolay—biskeet,” saw her. He caught her by the arm, crying some warning out of a mouth stuffed with candy, and the girl sprang away from the Scot as if he were unclean. It was more than Angus could bear, and in some way he knew he had made a mistake. He stood up.
“Dan,” he said in a softer voice than he generally used, “I see ye know this place. I cam’ juist seekin’ a plate o’ chips, but dinna care aboot them ower much. I’ll be going on, for the bairns are timid, but if ye’ll tak’ this bit o’ siller an’ use it for them as ye see fit I’ll be obleeged to ye.”
Dan, his poker face as passive as ever, looked questioningly at his mates, and received affirmative nods. “Thanks, Scotty,” he said gruffly, accepting the money. “We’ve been helpin’ these kids ever time we’re out of the line.”
That was all, but as Angus went back to his blankets in the hut he felt that he had possibly been mistaken in his condemnation of Dan. He could not dismiss the matter from his mind, and the next evening hung about the little French house until he saw the quartet go again to be greeted with a chorus of shrill cries. Another night and Angus was convinced he had judged too harshly, and then, the evening they were to march back to Neuville St. Vaast, he went to “Tommy” Jean himself and solemnly presented her with fifteen francs, every centime he had received on pay day.
“Tak’ this bit,” he said crisply. “‘Tis money I hae nae use fer. ‘Twill help ye while we’re up yonder.”
“Tommy” Jean looked at him wonderingly, then her face wreathed in smiles. “Merci—’dank you, bon soldat,” she cried, and, darting close up to him like a wren on a branch, she planted a warm kiss on the Scotchman’s leathery cheek. “Good luck—‘string beans’—merci, soldat,” she said tremulously, and Angus McPhee had strange emotions surging within him as he trudged “up the line” in the rear of ten platoon.
Came Vimy Ridge and Easter Monday, and only Dan Hopper remained of the quartet so welcome in the home of “Tommy” Jean. So it was that the “wood face” machine gunner came to Angus and invited him to the house. “I’ve a bit of ham and some eats I got from the headquarters cook,” he said gruffly, “and if I go alone some of these umpty-umps will be thinkin’ I’m up to no good. ‘Tommy’ Jean asks about you every time, so come and learn to talk to her yourself.”
Angus went, and before the battalion went back to battle had his favourite seat in the children’s corner and had whittled them many marvellous things to serve as toys. And it was when they returned to the trenches that the company noticed the comradeship of the dour Scot and Dan Hopper. The old timers told the new men, and they whiled hours on gas guard and post sentry discussing the problem, and had much more to talk about when the sergeant saw Dan carefully circumvent a dead man instead of stepping over him. After that the little Lewis gunner never disturbed a corpse. Twice he moved to a new gun position so as to avoid shooting over one.
In July they were in the line at the head of Napoo Valley, and Dan’s post was opposite the “three dead Germans.” It was a point where the war had raged exceedingly bitter and No Man’s Land was a fetid scar in the wilderness. The land was low at the mouth of the valley and three great scummy shell holes near the Hun lines grew myriads of flies and gave forth foul odours. At dawn a mist usually hovered over this boggy part, partially obscuring the wreckage of a part of the Hun front trench that had been abandoned. This line had been a corner, bending out in a sharp salient towards the three craters, but an hour of heavy shelling had completely demolished it, leaving only stubs and wire ends to mark where the barricade had been, and but a few mangled sandbags to tell of the German parapet. Yet, one of the freaks of war, a Hun post that had existed in the very apex of the salient, had remained practically undisturbed. Its parapet had been swept away, leaving the Maxim machine gun bare to view, and, grouped behind it, as natural as though they were alive, were three dead German gunners. Evidently they had been killed by concussion and, rigid in death and partly held by the wreckage about them, they had remained upright. So realistic did they appear that Dan loosed part of a pan at them before he saw that the bodies merely quivered with the impact of the bullets. Then Angus came hurrying along the trench to him. “Dinna do it, Dan,” he said quietly. “I hae juist learned that they Germans hae been there ower a week. Nae ither but their kind would leave them there.”
“I’ll not shoot them much,” said Dan, after a long survey, “but they make a corking good ranging mark for settin’ up the gun in the mornin.’”
“Ay, they maybe dae that,” said Angus, “but ye’ll no be forgetting, Dan, that they be dead men.”
That was all he said, and his voice was gentle as he said it, but Dan did not fire on the trio again, though he ranged his shots as near them as he could without hitting them.
That night Angus led a patrol very near the abandoned salient trench and explored the ground thoroughly. He discovered that owing to the unprotected part of low ground the Germans had never built a very strong defense to their new position. The wire was but a makeshift affair that could easily be swept aside. He reported this to Captain Mack, and the information was joyously received.
“By George, we’re in luck,” said the captain. “Brigade has been hinting at us getting them a prisoner. I’ll take a gang over and have a go at Heinie myself, and that’s just the point. Every morning there’s a mist hanging over that low ground. We’d get right over before they saw us, and we’ll use a box barrage to keep off reinforcements.”
Angus had little to say. He had his doubts about the captain’s success as a leader of raids. Captain Mack was a splendid officer, as far as attending to the needs of his men went, but as a raiding leader he had never been tried, and when he insisted that the artillery practise their box barrage a wee bit to assure him that they had the correct range, Angus made a stubborn protest. “Ye are giving they Germans warning ye are coming,” he argued. “Never fire a shot till ye are going over.” But he was over-ruled, and at evening, just before dark, a sprinkling of shells were placed in a perfect “box” about the area to be raided.
The Scotchman served an hour on listening post, then was relieved, but could not rest. He went to his sergeant and suggested a small patrol. “We can gae ower by the craters and hae a look aboot,” he said. “We can see if they Germans hae suspeecions or no.”
The sergeant gave consent.
Angus led his three men across no man’s land and then worked down toward the ruined trench. They did not see or hear anything unusual and were turned on their way back when they encountered a German patrol. There was a hectic moment of Mills grenades and potato masher bombs, pistol shots, and running feet. Then flares soared up from both sides and several machine guns became delirious. When all had quieted the three men of the Scotchman’s patrol crept into the trench of the White Gurkhas and reported. “Angus was hit in our little scrap,” they said. “He said he would crawl direct across and go right to the RAP. He told us to tell you that everything looked Jake. We worked away down left again and come in the same way as we went out.”
The sergeant cursed long and fluently. None but new men would have let a wounded comrade try to cross No Man’s Land alone. He himself went out, with another, and searched an hour, but they found no trace of Angus. Then came orders to make ready for the raiding party.
Angus, with a bullet in his thigh, found crawling more difficult than he had expected. Then, in the exchange of firing that followed, a bullet struck a glancing blow on the top of his head. His steel hat saved him, but the wallop muddled his sense and he crawled in a circle until he was completely exhausted. After a long rest he thought he discerned a parapet and made his way toward it. He wormed through wire and over sandbags, then huddled and lay still a long time. He had heard distinctly German voices.
The Scotchman lay so long that when he attempted to move his thigh had stiffened so that every movement meant excruciating agony, and then the breaking light showed him where he was. He was directly behind the deserted trench and not far from the three dead Germans. A friendly crater yawned close by him and he slithered into it, for his only hope lay in rescue by the raiding party—and he was not ten yards from the new Hun trench.
After he had got his breath again and heard no alarm given, he peered over the rim of his hiding place, and got the most horrible surprise of his life. The three dead Germans had come to life!
There they were, grouped back of their Maxim, but the gun was clean, free of mud, and the cartridge belt was also ready for usage. Each man was as still as the dead men had been, but there was no mistaking their expectant crouch, the slight shift they made now and then to rest themselves.
Angus understood in a flash. The Germans had suspected something after the box barrage, and had prepared for a surprise. Knowing that this low bit was their weakest point, they had removed the dead men in the night and placed a live trio in the position. They would not be recognized until the mist had cleared from the craters, and by that time no raid could be “pulled.” Angus thought of Captain Mack, so boyishly confident, and could picture him leading his wild gang in the rush across. What a slaughter it would be for the gunners at the Maxim.
There was nothing Angus could do. He had lost his revolver and could not hope to wave a warning before he would be shot down by a sentry. He trembled in his torture of suspense, was suddenly aware that the gloom had lightened, that it was within minutes of zero hour, and perspiration beaded his gaunt features. He listened for the “pop” of the flare pistol that was to signal for the barrage, and wondered if he should chance all on an attempted warning or not.
Then everything happened.
He saw the flare soar, saw the Hun gunners tauten, and heard the sharp tap-tap-tap of Dan Hopper’s gun. It was the quick bark of his Lewis that was always heard as the little gunner took his post, his ranging shots, and as they came the trio of gunners at the Maxim simply collapsed as one man. They wavered drunkenly for a moment and then sank from view, one clawing frantically for support and upsetting the gun. The next instant the barrage descended, Captain Mack and his boys came charging through the mist, bombs smashed, rifles rattled, shouts and cheers co-mingled with guttural cries of “Kamerad! Kamerad!” And in ten minutes Angus McPhee was safe in his own trench.
A stretcher-bearer worked to ease his pain and gave sharp orders to take the wounded man right on. But Angus protested.
“Calm yersel’ a meenute, mon,” he called. “Tell Dan I want him.”
Dan came, his “wood face” somewhat shameful. “I thought you had gone down to the RAP, Angus,” he said quickly, “or I wouldn’t have fired into those chaps. I won’t do it again, and anyway they tumbled over this time. It’s not that I want to hit them, but it was just a good ranging point.”
“Dan,” said Angus softly, “dinna mind a’ a sour body like mysel’ barks aboot. I can mak’ mistakes, and hae done. Juist remember me last wur-rds tae ye is that a bullet wi’ never hurt a deid mon.”