The Red Glutton: With the German Army at the FrontCobb, Irvin S. (Irvin Shrewsbury)
History
The Red Glutton: With the German Army at the Front
Cobb, Irvin S. (Irvin Shrewsbury)
World War, 1914-1918 -- Campaigns -- Western Front; World War, 1914-1918 -- Personal narratives
"It isn't always quite so quiet hereabouts," said the lieutenant. "The
commander of this battery tells me that yesterday the French dropped
some shrapnel among his guns and killed a man or two. Perhaps things
will be brisker at the ten-centimeter-gun battery." He spoke as one who
regretted that the show which he offered was not more exciting.
The twenty-one-centimeters, as I have told you, were in the edge of the
woods, with leafy ambushes about them, but the little ten-centimeter
guns ranged themselves quite boldly in a meadow of rank long grass
just under the weather-rim of a small hill. They were buried to their
haunches--if a field gun may be said to have haunches--in depressions
gouged out by their own frequent recoils; otherwise they were without
concealment of any sort. To reach them we rode a mile or two and then
walked a quarter of a mile through a series of chalky bare gullies, and
our escorts made us stoop low and hurry fast wherever the path wound
up to the crest of the bank, lest our figures, being outlined against
the sky, should betray our whereabouts and, what was more important,
the whereabouts of the battery to the sharpshooters in the French rifle
pits forward of the French infantry trenches and not exceeding a mile
from us. We stopped first at an observation station cunningly hidden
in a haw thicket on the brow of a steep and heavily wooded defile
overlooking the right side of the river valley--the river, however,
being entirely out of sight. Standing here we heard the guns speak
apparently from almost beneath our feet, and three or four seconds
thereafter we saw five little puff-balls of white smoke uncurling above
a line of trees across the valley. Somebody said this was our battery
shelling the French and English in those woods yonder, but you could
hardly be expected to believe that, since no reply came back and no
French or English whatsoever showed themselves. Altogether it seemed
a most impotent and impersonal proceeding; and when the novelty of
waiting for the blast of sound and then watching for the smoke plumes
to appear had worn off, as it very soon did, we visited the guns
themselves. They were not under our feet at all. They were some two
hundred yards away, across a field where the telephone wires stretched
over the old plow furrows and through the rank meadow grass, like
springes to catch woodcock.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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