The Diggers 8

The Diggers 8

And one day when the labour was accomplished, the weapon was sent

forth in secrecy and placed in a tree-lined pocket of ground behind

the German trenches. Here was an emplacement prepared fit for its

installation, and on a movable carriage, a steel ribbed structure

of gigantic proportions, the gun was placed, its fifty foot barrel

rising to the sky.

 

Dynamos built in deep dug-outs waited, ready when the hour came to

touch the spark that would send out the missile of death to some far

off French town, Amiens perhaps, and wreak vengeance on the simple

people who dwelt there.

 

Whether or not the shell was fired is a matter of doubt, but rumour

has it that a shell never passed through the barrel of the gun. But

still it had its toll of victims, for by the emplacement can now be

seen fourteen graves and the crosses on these graves tell that the

men buried there are German gunners. The shell bursting in the barrel

of the gun served a purpose, and this was beneficial to the Allies.

 

Some day when the war comes to an end, report has it that the gun

will be sent to Australia, where sightseers in Sydney or Melbourne

will look with awe on the mighty weapon captured by the Diggers in

the great struggle.

 

Of this matter I spoke to an Australian soldier in London the other

day, but he shook his head.

 

"You don't think they'll be able to remove it?" I queried.

 

"It's not that," he said. "It may be taken to Australia, but to what

city? One place is jealous of another, and if Sydney gets the gun,

what is Melbourne going to say? For my own part, I think it would be

wise to leave the gun where it is."

 

 

THE GRAVE

 

The cross is twined with gossamer,

The cross some hand has shaped with care,

But by his grave the grasses stir

And he is silent, sleeping there.

 

The guns are loud; he hears them not:

The night goes by; he does not know:

A lone white cross stands on the spot

And tells of one who sleeps below.

 

The brooding night is hushed and still,

The crooning breeze draws quiet breath:

A star-shell flares upon the hill

And lights the lowly house of death.

 

Unknown, a soldier slumbers there

While mournful mists come drooping low--

But oh! a weary maiden's prayer,

And oh! a mother's tears of woe!

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER VII

 

GRAVES

 

 

There is a certain grave near Peronne, and in it rests a German

machine gunner, and though the cross over the grave testifies to the

valour of the dead man it also is witness to the chivalry of the men

who buried him there. The men were Australian soldiers, brave Diggers

who advanced to the attack and after making rapid strides they were

held up by the fire of a solitary machine gun that stood immovable in

the rout as a rock in running water. Round it the retreating army was

withering like snow in a thaw, the whole line bending, cracking and

floating backwards.

 

Still this gun kept hurling its lead against the advancing Diggers,

cutting great gaps in their ranks. For a full hour it kept up its

murderous fire, staying the Australians and causing them to halt. In

vain they streaked out to the left or right, wormed their way along

folds in the ground or took cover in natural hollows and advanced

from there when the fire ceased for a space. But the moment a head

showed or a khaki clad body came into view the gun found voice and

swept its missiles of death across the field.

 

Suddenly it became silent. The advance was resumed and the gun was

located. Here was found a solitary German lying dead beside his

weapon with a bullet wound in his head.

 

"A brave man!" said the Australians, looking at the dead man who

alone and unaided held up their advance for an hour. "We'll bury him!"

 

And there and then in the emplacement which he had guarded till death

they buried the German soldier and on the cross over the man is

written "Erected by the ---- in admiration of a soldier."

 

The officer who conducted our party spoke of another grave which is

near the same place, and which bears on the headstone:

 

"_Here lie two Huns who met a Digger._"

 

And near it, in terse and forcible language is inscribed on a second

headstone:

 

"_Here lies the Digger._"

 

Whether this is true or not is impossible to say. The officer who

told me of it merely got the story of the affair from some other man

who had not seen the headstones, but who heard of them from a mate.

In this way is rumour carried from mouth to mouth on the field of

battle. But if the story is true, it shows the grim humour which is

the soldier's; if not true, it shows the same humour as it takes form

in the imagination and makes itself manifest in dug-out drollery and

war mentality.

 

The Somme is a land of ruins and graves. These graves are everywhere

by the Amiens-St. Quentin road, by the road from St. Quentin to

Cambrai and the road from Eitenham to Bray. Not alone by the roadside

are the brave resting, they sleep in folds of the earth, on little

hillocks, in the shade of broken spinneys, by the banks of canals and

on the verge of disbanded trenches. Over one heap of earth can be

seen a bayonet topped with a helmet or cap, over another a rifle with

its barrel stuck in the ground. Crosses stand to unknown soldiers,

British, French or German, crosses with names stand singly or in

clusters, telling of the men who have given up their life in the

great war. None of these are secure from the leprosy of time; the

wind, weather and rain turn them black or green, blotting out all

record or detail. The grass and weeds grow up around them, covering

them and hiding them from the eyes of men. The French graves have

their red rosettes, the British graves their black lettering, and

amongst these latter many Australians are buried far away from the

land that gave them birth.

 

In the churchyard of Peronne are several crosses telling of British

soldiers buried there. The inscriptions on the crosses are written in

German and all are couched in a similar manner:

 

"Here rests in God, Private ---- of the ---- Regiment."

 

"The only kindly thing I've ever seen done by the Germans," said an

Australian officer who was with us as we looked at the graves.

 

 

A SOLDIER'S PRAYER

 

Givenchy village lies a wreck, Givenchy church is bare--

No more the peasant maidens come to say their vespers there;

The altar rails are wrenched apart; with rubble littered o'er,

The sacred sanctuary lamp lies smashed upon the floor--

And mute upon the crucifix He looks upon it all,

The great white Christ, the shrapnel-scourged, upon the eastern wall.

 

He sees the churchyard delved by shells, the tombstones flung about,

The dead men's skulls and yellow bones the shells have shovelled out,

The trenches running line by line through meadow fields of green,

The bayonets on the parapets, the wasting flesh between--

Around Givenchy's ruined church the levels, poppy red,

Are set apart for silent hosts, the legions of the dead.

 

And when at night on sentry-go, with danger keeping tryst,

I see upon the crucifix the blood-stained form of Christ

Defiled and maimed, the Merciful, on vigil all the time,

Pitying His children's wrath, their passion and their crime--

Mute, mute He hangs upon His Cross, the symbol of His pain

And as men scourged Him long ago they scourge Him once again--

There in the lonely war-lit night to Christ, the Lord, I call

"Forgive the ones who work Thee harm. O Lord, forgive us all."

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER VIII

 

CAMBRAI AND AMIENS

 

 

We went to the town of Cambrai on October 13, a famous day in the

history of the town, for it was then that the British handed the

town, captured by them from the Germans, over to the French. Sir

Douglas Haig and Premier Clemenceau were there: the French troops

furnishing a guard of honour.

 

In the distance, while the French were playing the Marseillaise on

the town square, we could hear the dull thud of shells bursting in

the fields outside the city.

 

In the afternoon a solemn thanksgiving for the relief of the town

from the Germans was held in the old cathedral amidst the wreckage of

war, Abbé Thuliez, the heroic priest who stayed in the town whilst

it was in the occupation of the enemy, officiating. On entering

the cathedral it could at once be seen that the Germans had left a

trail of ruin over the sacred house of prayer. Seats were broken and

overturned, a chair was attached to the sanctuary lamp and hung there

idly, the pipes of the organ have been wrenched out and taken away,

and candlesticks looted from the altar were found, on the entry of

the British, tied up in bundles ready for removal.

 

Walking through the wide but irregular streets one was forcibly

reminded of the cunning of those who had been in occupation. Here

and there attached to the doors of houses were notices put up by the

British engineers. One says "Dangerous," meaning that suspicious

objects in the house are not to be touched lest they explode a booby

trap, other houses bear the legend "Suspicious," and a third notice

says "O.K.," meaning that the engineers have examined the house,

removed anything dangerous and rendered it safe for habitation.

 

The big Town Hall is blown down and gutted with fire. Nothing remains

save the bare walls. The ground floor is littered with rubble,

curtains have been taken down and carried away, statuary and pictures have been removed.