OVERVIEW:
A YANKEE IN THE TRENCHES by R. Derby Holmes (Robert Derby Holmes) is a historical account written during the early 20th century, specifically during World War I. The narrative follows Corporal Holmes, an American who joins the British Army and shares his personal experiences of life in the trenches on the Western Front, shedding light on both the camaraderie and the horrors faced by soldiers in this devastating conflict. The opening of the book introduces the author’s motivations for joining the British military, reflecting on his initial ambivalence towards the war and his eventual resolve to participate. As Holmes recounts his journey from Boston to England, he describes the chaotic atmosphere of recruitment and his reflections on the realities of military life as he prepares for battle. The tone captures a mix of youthful naivety and burgeoning courage as he faces the stark truths of life in trenches, ranging from the camaraderie among soldiers to the constant presence of danger and death. The narrative sets the stage for a deeper exploration of the experiences that shaped his understanding of warfare, loyalty, and the sacrifices made during one of history's most tumultuous periods.
The following excerpt from A
YANKEE IN THE TRENCHES is titled 7.
FASCINATION OF PATROL WORK:
7. FASCINATION
OF PATROL WORK
I want to say a word right here about patrol work in
general because for some reason it fascinated me and was my favorite game.
If you should be fortunate—or unfortunate enough, as the
case might be—to be squatting in a front-line trench this fine morning and
looking through a periscope, you wouldn't see much. Just over the top, not more
than twenty feet away, would be your barbed-wire entanglements, a thick network
of wire stretched on iron posts nearly waist high and perhaps twelve or fifteen
feet across. Then there would be an intervening stretch of from fifty to one
hundred fifty yards of No Man's Land, a tortured, torn expanse of muddy soil
pitted with shell craters and, over beyond, the German wire and his parapet.
There would be nothing alive visible. There would
probably be a few corpses lying around or hanging in the wire. Everything would
be still except for the flutter of the rag of a dead man's uniform. Perhaps not
that. Daylight movements in No Man's Land are somehow disconcerting. Once I was
in a trench where a leg—a booted German leg— stuck up stark and stiff out of
the mud, not twenty yards in front. Some idiotic joker on patrol hung a helmet
on the foot, and all the next day that helmet dangled and swung in the breeze.
It irritated the periscope watchers, and the next night it was taken down.
Ordinarily, however, there is little movement between the
wires or behind them. And yet you know that over yonder there are thousands of
men lurking in the trenches and shelters.
After dark, these men, or some of them, crawl out like
hunted animals and prowl in the black mystery of No Man's Land. They are the
patrol.
The patrol goes out armed and lightly equipped. He has to
move softly and, at times, very quickly. It is his duty to get as close to the
enemy lines as possible and find out if they are repairing their wire or if any
of their parties are out, and then to word back to the machine gunners, who
immediately cut loose on the indicated spot.
Sometimes he lies with his head to the ground over some
suspected area, straining his ears for the faint scrape, scrape that means a German mining party is down there,
getting ready to plant a ton or so of high explosive, or it may be preparing to
touch it off at that very moment.
Always, the patrol is supposed to avoid encounters with
enemy patrols. He carries two or three Mills bombs and a pistol, but not for
use except in extreme emergencies. Also, a persuader stick or a trench knife,
which he may use if he is near enough to do it silently.
The patrol stares constantly through the dark and gets so
he can see almost as well as a cat. He must avoid being seen. When a Verey
light goes up, he lies still. If he happens to be standing, he stands still.
Unless the light is behind him so that he is silhouetted, he is invisible to
the enemy.
Approaching a corpse, the patrol lies quiet and watches
it for several minutes, unless it is one he has seen before and is acquainted
with. Because sometimes the man isn't dead, but a perfectly live Boche patrol
lying "doggo" [concealed or out of sight].
You can't be too careful.
If you happen to be pussyfooting forward erect and
encounter a German patrol, it is policy to scuttle back unless you are near
enough to get in one good lick with the persuader. He will retreat slowly
himself, and you mustn't follow him. Because the British patrol usually goes
out singly or at the most in pairs or threes.
The Germans, on the other hand, hunt in parties. One man
leads. Two others follow to the rear, one to each side. And then two more, and
two more, so that they form a V, like a flock of geese. Now if you follow up
the lead man when he retreats, you are baited into a trap and find yourself
surrounded, smothered by superior numbers, and taken prisoner. Then back to the
Boche trench, where exceedingly unpleasant things are apt to happen.
It is, in fact, most unwholesome for a British patrol to
be captured. I recall a case in point which I witnessed and which is far enough
in the past so that it can be told. It occurred not at Vimy Ridge but further
down the line, nearer the Somme.
I was out one night with another man, prowling in the
dark, when I encountered a Canadian sergeant who was alone. There was a
Canadian battalion holding the next trench to us, and another farther down. He
was from the farther one. We lay in the mud and compared notes. Once, when a
light floated down near us, I saw his face and he was a man I knew, though not
by name.
After a while we separated, and he went back, as he was
considerably off from his patrol. An hour or so later the mist began to get
gray, and it was evident that dawn was near. I was a couple of hundred yards
down from our battalion, and my man and I made for the trenches opposite where
we were. As we climbed into a saphead [listening
post ahead of a front trench line, in No Man’s Land], I was greeted by a Canadian corporal. He invited me to
a tin of char, and I sent my man up the line to our own position.
We sat on the fire-step drinking, and I told the corporal
about meeting the sergeant out in front. While we were at the char, it kept
getting lighter, and presently a pair of Lewis guns started to rattle a hundred
yards or so away down the line. Then came a sudden commotion and a kind of low,
growling shout. That is the best way I can describe it. We stood up, and below
we saw men going over the top.
"What the dickens can this be?" stuttered the
corporal. "There's been no barrage. There’s no orders for a charge. What
is it? What is it?"
Well, there they were, going over, as many as two hundred
of them—growling. The corporal and I climbed out of the trench at the rear,
over the parados [bank of earth behind a trench to
protect from a rear attack], and ran
down to a point opposite where the Canadians had gone over and watched.
You can find the complete eBook edition of A YANKEE IN THE TRENCHES by R. Derby Holmes at: https://tinyurl.com/3xrn4755
Complete World War One works of author Cotter Bass and Moonshadow Publishing: https://tinyurl.com/4v68wcy8
Complete works of Cotter Bass and Moonshadow Publishing: https://moonshadow-publishing-shop.fourthwall.com
Next time: OUT TO WIN by Coningsby Dawson . . . . .
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