2. Panic Stricken
German Fokkers in formation
German Fokkers in formation
WE WERE IN our holes under our tents, sound asleep, when suddenly all the furies of hell broke loose. Sirens began screaming air raid warnings. Even as they screamed the raid itself was upon us with hissing, cracking, roaring sounds as the aerial bombs began to find their marks.
There was no other experience during the entire war that affected me as did this night of my initiation into hell.
I was panic stricken. I tried to rise, but couldn’t. I tried to speak, my tongue was paralyzed. I could not yell, I had no voice. My nerves were the only thing alive. They crawled madly over my entire body.
Even when my mind cleared somewhat, I had no control over my body. I hopped like a fish. I must have been a pathetic sight for some 20 or 30 minutes. The boys who were with me tried in every possible way to calm me. They told me not to worry, that the planes were gone. They would plead with me, rub me, and scold me in turn. They were real buddies. While never again did I so completely go to pieces. I had from then on a horror of the aerial raids. The damage to my nervous system continues to cause further complications and disorders.
After regaining partial control of myself, I joined the others. We were again on our way to the front lines. Close to the front we halted and bivouacked for the night, again staying in the woods. Here we experienced an electrical storm, which was accompanied by more bursting shells and exploding ammunition. During the night a Major and several soldiers were killed - the Major being hit by lightning.
Also encamped in these woods were some English troops. On the morning of July 4th, some of our boys broke out their rifles and revolvers for a five-minute celebration. English troops came pouring out of the woods surrounding us, rifles out, ready to fight. When they realized what had occasioned the outburst, they were dumbfounded. One of the officers began giving us advice on what should and what should not be done. Among the latter, of course, was that we were not to use our firearms for such a reason as celebrating the Fourth of July.
When he said "We thought the Jerrys had broken through, so we grabbed our guns and ran out quick to give 'em hell," one of our boys shouted "Give 'em hell hell, you mean give 'em the woods!" This ended the lecture.
The next morning we resumed our march. When a soldier starts out, he never knows what his destination will be, but we knew we were going toward the front. We marched for two days, meeting with outfits of Australians, English and Canadians. Infantry artillery was all along the line. We were marching, as nearly as I could tell, parallel with the front lines.
It was most interesting except when tragedy struck. I cannot recall any period of time that cur troops did not suffer casualties while maneuvering back and forth from one sector to another. Artillery shells and enemy planes accounted for most of these.
On this first trip to the front lines as fighting troops, we had many unpleasant experiences, some of which were not so dangerous but hard on the nerves. Once, while marching alone in the middle of the road, everything calm for the moment, all hell broke loose in the wheat field to our left. I leaped about six feet to the right and found myself still in line with my buddies. Seemed as though they had made the same leap at the same time. The explosion, which left a streak of fire and smoke, was caused by one of our own allied disappearing guns.
Entering the trenches was our next step. These were marked at intersections like street corners, with signs. At this sector, as in many others, our trenches and the German trenches were connected. We were very careful not to walk down the wrong trench. We respected the Germans by not using their trenches to invade them and they in turn showed us the same respect. None of us cared to commit suicide by carelessly walking down an enemy trench.
One incident at this point comes to my mind. This pertained to the many little friends who welcomed fresh troops, any and all troops, to these trenches. We were lined up in the communication trench talking to an Englishman who was sitting beside one of our boys. They were talking about the subject always on their minds, the war. Our boy was asking the Englishman how close we were to the front lines. He was told that we were about ten feet from our front lines, the Jerrys’ front lines were about 100 yards farther on.
At this point I noticed him move away from the Englishman, with a look of undisguised disgust on his face. Then we saw that the Englishman was crawling with lice.
As soon as he had left, our boys began brisking their clothes, all the while commenting on "those lousy Englishmen. " In their minds there could be no excuse for such filth - believe them they would never be like that. The very next morning after spending the night at our assigned outposts we found ourselves, each and every one of us without exception, to be just as lousy and, if possible, lousier than our companion of the night before. We were then and continued to be so until the end of the war since all trenches and dugouts were seething with vermin.
Rats were constant company in the trenches everywhere and very bold they were. We stepped out of their way when we met them for they would fight and their bite was very poisonous.
Here on our first front were many dead soldiers - Canadians, English and Australian. On warm days and nights there was wafted into the trenches such a stench, such a fearful odor, it would be impossible to describe. The rats, feeding on these bodies, and shells dropping on them occasionally kept the smell stirred until it became almost unbearable at times. I have laid down in a trench many a time for a little rest while rats ran over my body, then across my face, finally nosing around my ears to see if I was dead or alive. If one did not move quickly, his ear would at least be nibbled.
It was in just such a trench that one of my buddies, named Bertog, came to me one day and said:
"Dermody, let’s go get a revolver."
"Where are you going to get it?" I asked.
He replied, "Why, out there in no man’s land." I agreed to go, thinking he was only joking. We went down the trench leading toward German lines, then crawled out and under our barbed wire entanglements. At this point I whispered to him that I did not need a revolver and was going back. He protested, but I returned. He went on and in about 15 minutes returned with a large, fine-looking revolver.
"Where," I asked him, "did you get it?"
"I met up with an English officer out their on no man’s land," he answered, "and took it away from him. Of course he didn’t know I took it. He was dead."
The officer had emptied the gun before he died. Bertog, unable to obtain ammunition for it, finally had to throw it away after risking his life to get it.
At one time two of us were assigned to stand guard at a post so constructed it enabled us to observe any enemy activity which might be carried on above the parapet of their trenches. We were taking turns at this post. My buddy was on duty at the time, but since there was so little activity anywhere at this time of day, he was taking a little break. It happened that just as he was taking this break, a high-ranking English officer, followed by his staff, broke in on us. My buddy was still nowhere in sight.
"Who’s standing guard here?" the officer angrily asked. "I am sir," I replied. "It doesn’t look to me like anyone is," he all-but-shouted, and raised his hand as he started to say more.
Suddenly the quiet was broken as a trench mortar from the Germans landed a few feet from him. When the smoke and dirt cleared away, I was standing knee deep in rubble still waiting for my reprimand when I saw there was no officer, no staff, no post. I do not know what became of them.
One night most of the officers and men were removed from our trenches, leaving only a few troops to hold the front lines. It was supposed the Germans were coming over and would take the Front lines. Since their barrage would undoubtedly kill so many of our men it was thought best to thin the ranks so as to insure less casualties.
Both sides began putting over a barrage that rocked us around so much we didn’t know half the time whether we were in or out of the trenches. In the midst of this heavy shelling my buddy and I took turns poking our heads over the parapet to see if the Germans were in sight. Suddenly we saw someone come walking down the trench as if he owned the place. It looked as if his head and shoulders towered above the parapet.
It was Captain Mallen of E Company to our left. He came over to me and yelled "Are things pretty quiet out here?" I yelled back, "I suppose they are - everywhere but here. I think the Germans are concentrating all their guns on my buddy and I." He asked the whereabouts of our officers which I could not tell him, as I had not seen them since shortly before the shelling began.
"I guess they’re in the dugouts," he hollered.
I gave him a "Yes, sir," but thought to myself that if they were in the dugout, I sure wished I was in there with them.
This Captain Mallen, the boys told me later, was said to have been one of Jim Jeffreys' sparring partners. If he was, I pity Jim Jeffreys. It was told to me that once when he was out with a reconnoitering party, he walked toward the German trenches, stepped up on the parapet and yelled, "Anybody down there ?’’ A sergeant stepped up to him and cried, "Captain, you’re liable to get us all killed!" Captain Mallen whirled on the sergeant with a "What the hell did you come over here for?" As a leader he was completely fearless and greatly to be admired.
Another time it was said he came upon a German gun crew just as the gunner was about ready to pull the string to send another shell into our troops. He reached through the camouflage, grabbed the gunner by the collar, knocked him out, then beat the tar out of the whole gun crew quicker than he could have shot them. When he was finally wounded, he fought the stretcher bearers to try to keep from being taken back on a stretcher. He wanted to keep fighting.
When we relieved the English at Alberts Sector our squad was assigned to outpost duty. Our officer started to show us the way out to our post, then went back for something, leaving our corporal in charge till he returned. He was gone a couple of minutes when an English officer climbed out of our trench. "Are you the out post?" he asked. "Yes, sir." "All right," the officer said, "I just met your officer - he said for me to escort you boys to the outpost." Corporal Fengel shook his head. "No sir, our orders were to wait right here for the return of our officers." The Englishman said: "All right, corporal, but I’m going right by there and can save your officer a trip since he has plenty to do getting his men arranged."
Corporal Fengel was adamant and would not go with him. After the officer left, he turned to us and said, "I believe that guy was a German spy."
About five minutes later our officer returned, followed by several English officers. "Have you guys seen a man wearing an English officer’s uniform?"
Corporal Fengel answered, "Yes, he was a German spy, wasn’t he? He offered to show us our post!"
The English officers exchanged looks. "Yes, he is a spy and it’s a good thing you didn’t go with him. He would have escorted you smack into the German trenches. Guess he’s gone, got away - missed him by about five minutes!"
That spy must really have gotten the dope he wanted because the next morning they shelled our outpost with shells and gas.