Bone, Muirhead, Sir, 1876-1953; World War, 1914-1918 -- Art and the war; World War, 1914-1918 -- Pictorial works
No two points in an Allied front trench are wholly alike. Certain
general patterns there are, but no facsimiles. Each traverse or bay
has a look of its own; it is personal and expresses, as Robinson
Crusoe’s stockade might have done, the nature of some man or men making
shift, each after his kind, to put up what they could, in the shortest
time, between their bodies and danger. A German firing trench is less
various. In it you seem to see the minds of a few large and able
contractors; in ours the minds of thousands of good campers-out. To put
it in another way, the German trench has, in some measure, the quality
of a long street built, well enough, to a single design; ours possesses
the charm of a strip of coast or a long country lane, where nature or
man has made every indentation and turn a surprise, and each farmer has
made gates and hedges to his own mind.
The line goes through wonderful places and charges them with singular
thrills of romance. It has made windmills famous as forts, and brought
herons into the suburbs of cities. In one place it runs across water
and land so intermixed that the sentries of both armies are upon little
islands crowned with breast-works like grouse butts; you see them,
when the winter evening falls, standing immobile, waist-deep in mist,
each man about forty yards from his enemy. Men have stood there, turn
by turn, for two years and a half, moving softly and whispering as
if in a church, till the shyest of wildfowl have learnt to treat the
surrounding marsh as their own, and the only sound is of wild duck and
snipe astir between the muzzles of two nations’ loaded rifles, snipe
safe among the snipers. At more than one place the two front lines
converge until each sentry knows that he is within a gentle bomb’s
throw of the enemy. Out of the firing trench, at one of these places,
you walk on tiptoe along a short sap that halves this short distance,
and from its end you look up at a small heap of rubble--a couple of
cart-loads--and know that some German is cautiously listening, like
you, on its further side.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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