A Yankee in the Trenches quotes

That settled the ambulance for me.

I hadn’t wanted particularly to kill a Hun until it was suggested that I mightn’t. Then I wanted to slaughter a whole division.

So I decided on something where there would be fighting. And having decided, I thought I would “go the whole hog” and work my way across to England on a horse transport.

Then he told me I was a member of the Royal Fusiliers, gave me two shillings, sixpence and ordered me to report at the Horse Guards Parade next day.

I was in the British army⁠—just like that!

I spent the balance of the day seeing the sights of London, and incidentally spending my coin. When I went around to the Horse Guards next morning, two hundred others, new rookies like myself, were waiting. An officer gave me another two shillings, sixpence.

Well, I got into the fool things, and I felt as though I was naked from ankle to wishbone. I couldn’t get used to the outfit. I am naturally a modest man. Besides, my architecture was never intended for bare-leg effects.

I have no dimples in my knees.

So I began an immediate campaign for transfer back to the Surreys. I got it at the end of ten days, and with it came a hurry call from somewhere at the front for more troops.

The British Tommy growls or grouses over anything and everything.

He’s never happy unless he’s unhappy.

He resents especially having anything officially added to his pack, and you can’t blame him, for in full equipment he certainly is all dressed up like a pack horse.

At thirty seconds of eleven I looked at my watch and the din was at its height. At exactly eleven it stopped short. Fritz was still sending some over, but comparatively there was silence.

After the earsplitting racket it was almost still enough to hurt.

And in that silence over the top we went.

At thirty seconds of eleven I looked at my watch and the din was at its height. At exactly eleven it stopped short. Fritz was still sending some over, but comparatively there was silence. After the earsplitting racket it was almost still enough to hurt.

And in that silence over the top we went.

Lanes had been cut through our wire, and we got through them quickly. The trenches were about one hundred twenty yards apart and we still had nearly one hundred to go. We dropped and started to crawl.

I skinned both my knees on something, probably old wire, and both hands. I could feel the blood running into my puttees, and my rifle bothered me as I was afraid of jabbing Jerry, who was just ahead of me as first bayonet man.

They say a drowning man or a man in great danger reviews his past. I didn’t. I spent those few minutes wondering when the machine-gun fire would come.

I had the same “gone” feeling in the pit of the stomach that you have when you drop fast in an elevator.

Blofeld got the military cross for the night’s work, and several of the enlisted men got the D.C.M.

Altogether it was a successful raid. The best part of it was getting back.

Uniforms are brushed up, and equipment put in order. Then comes the bath, the most thorough possible under the conditions. After that comes the “cootie carnival,” better known as the “shirt hunt.”

The cootie is the soldier’s worst enemy. He’s worse than the Hun.

You can’t get rid of him wherever you are, in the trenches or in billets, and he sticks closer than a brother. The cootie is a good deal of an acrobat.

He’s not high enough to command any consideration from those higher up, and he is so close to the men that they take out their grievances on him as a matter of course.

He is neither fish, flesh, nor fowl, and his life is a burden.

I had the job of issuing the rations of our platoon, and it nearly drove me mad. Every morning I would detail a couple of men from our platoon to be standing mess orderlies for the day.

Open a can of Maconochie and you find a gooey gob of grease, like rancid lard. Investigate and you find chunks of carrot and other unidentifiable material, and now and then a bit of mysterious meat.

The first man who ate an oyster had courage, but the last man who ate Maconochie’s unheated had more.

Tommy regards it as a very inferior grade of garbage. The label notwithstanding, he’s right.

“Corporal Holmes, just carry this man’s rifle,” or “Corporal Collins, take that man’s pack. He’s jolly well done.”

Seemingly the corporal never is supposed to be jolly well done.

If one complained, his officer would look at him with astounded reproach and say:

It was a large, wet night. Everybody made a speech or sang a song, and we didn’t go home until morning. It was a farewell party, and we went the limit.

If there is one thing that the Britisher does better than another, it is getting ready to die. He does it with a smile⁠—and he dies with a laugh.

Poor chaps! Nearly all of them are pushing up the daisies somewhere in France. Those who are not are, with one or two exceptions, out of the army with broken bodies.

I think it was here that I first got the real meaning of that old quotation about the curse of a dead man’s eye. With so many lying about, there were always eyes staring at you.

Sometimes a particularly wide-staring corpse would seem to follow you with his gaze, like one of these posters with the pointing finger that they use to advertise Liberty Bonds.

We would cover them up or turn them over. Here and there one would have a scornful death smile on his lips, as though he were laughing at the folly of the whole thing.

In the half darkness they looked twice as big as they really were.

They lurched forward, slow, clumsy but irresistible, nosing down into shell holes and out, crushing the unburied dead, sliding over mere trenches as though they did not exist.

There were five in all. One passed directly over us. We scuttled out of the way, and the men let go a cheer. For we knew that here was something that could and would win battles.

I didn’t take any joy whatever in the appointment, but orders are orders and they have to be obeyed. The bombers are called the “Suicide Club” and are well named.

The mortality in this branch of the service is as great if not greater than in any other.

In spite of my feelings in the matter, I accepted the decision cheerfully—like a man being sentenced to be electrocuted—and managed to convey the impression to Captain Green that I was greatly elated and that I looked forward to future performances with large relish.

Along about seven we began to get hungry. A Tommy is always hungry, whether he is in danger or not. When we took account of stock and found that none of us had brought along “iron rations,” we discovered that we were all nearly starved.

Killing is hungry work.

We had only ourselves to blame. We had been told repeatedly never to go anywhere without “iron rations,” but Tommy is a good deal of a child and unless you show him the immediate reason for a thing he is likely to disregard instructions.

There was no one about, and we had gone through the outfit. We found two cases of rum, four gallons in a case, and we promptly filled our bottles, more than a pint each.

Tommy is always very keen on his rum.

The brand used in the army is high proof and burns like fire going down, but it is warming. The regular ration as served after a cold sentry go is called a “tot.”

I was sure thankful when that burial fatigue was over, and early in the forenoon we started back to rest.

Rest, did I say? Not that trip.

We were hardly back to Mametz and down to breakfast when along came an order to fall in for a carrying party. All that day we carried boxes of Millses up to the dump that was by High Wood, three long miles over hard going.

When we got that news, I got Dinky out and scolded him. Maybe I’d better tell you all about Dinky before I go any farther.

Soldiers are rather prone to superstitions.

Relieved of all responsibility and with most of their thinking done for them, they revert surprisingly quick to a state of more or less savage mentality. Perhaps it would be better to call the state childlike.

As one out of any group of three anywhere stands a fair chance of “getting his,” fag or no fag, the thing is reasonably sure to work out according to the popular belief. Most every man has his unlucky day in the trenches.

One of mine was Monday. The others were Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.

Practically every soldier carries some kind of mascot or charm. A good many are crucifixes and religious tokens. Some are coins. Corporal Wells had a sea shell with three little black spots on it. He considered three his lucky number. Thirteen was mine.

I realize perfectly that all this sounds like tommyrot, and that superstition may be a relic of barbarism and ignorance. Never mind! Wellsie sized the situation up one day when we were talking about this very thing.

“Maybe my shell ayen’t doin’ me no good,” says Wells. “Maybe Dinky ayen’t doin’ you no good. But ’e ayen’t doin’ ye no ’arm. So ’ang on to ’im.”

I figure that if there’s anything in war that “ayen’t doin’ ye no ’arm,” it is pretty good policy to “ ’ang on to it.”

Blighty meant life⁠—life and happiness and physical comfort.

What we had left behind over there was death and mutilation and bodily and mental suffering. Up from the depths of hell we came and reached out our hands with pathetic eagerness to the good things that Blighty had for us.

No longer fit for service.” In another part of the book you will find a reproduction of the character discharge also given. The discharged man also receives a little silver badge bearing the inscription, “For King and Empire, Services Rendered.”

I think that I value this badge more than any other possession.

Once free, I lost no time in getting my passport into shape and engaged a passage on the St. Paul, to sail on the second of June. Since my discharge is dated the twenty-eighth of May, you can see that I didn’t waste any time.

Mrs. Puttee and her eldest son saw me off at Euston Station. Leaving them was the one wrench, as they had become very dear to me. But I had to go. If Blighty had looked good, the thought of the U.S.A. was better.

My passage was uneventful. No submarines, no bad weather, nothing disagreeable.

On the eighth day I looked out through a welter of fog and rain to the place where the Statue of Liberty should have been waving a greeting across New York harbor. The lady wasn’t visible, but I knew she was there.

My passage was uneventful. No submarines, no bad weather, nothing disagreeable. On the eighth day I looked out through a welter of fog and rain to the place where the Statue of Liberty should have been waving a greeting across New York harbor.

The lady wasn’t visible, but I knew she was there.

And even in a downpour equal to anything furnished by the choicest of Flanders rainstorms, little old New York looked better than anything I could imagine, except sober and staid old Boston.

It is an easy thing to forget. You mustn’t. Out there life is chiefly squalor, filth, and stench. The boy gets disgusted and lonesome and homesick, even though he may write to the contrary.

Write to him at least three times a week. Always write cheerfully, even although something may have happened that has plunged you into the depths of despair.

If it is necessary to cover up something that would cause a soldier worry, cover it up. Even lie to him. It will be justified.

Even lie to him. It will be justified. Keep in mind the now famous war song, “Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile, smile, smile.”

Keep your own packed up and don’t send any over there for some soldier to worry over.

Just a few words to the men themselves who may go. Don’t take elaborate shaving tackle, just brush, razor, soap, and a small mirror. Most of the time you won’t need the mirror. You’ll use the periscope mirror in the trenches.