s.o.s.
By E. Charming Matthews, F.R.M.S., M.I.H. (Author of "A
Subaltern in the Field
166
The Ypres Times.
NEWS had come through from Battalion Headquarters that nightthe Boche
were expected to attack the next morning. The Platoon Commander was
nervous. There was little, if any, wire between the enemy and the thin British
line there were no adequate trenches for defence most of the men were
almost raw recruits hurriedly flung into the line to fill up gaps in the
depleted ranks.
Suddenly a Verey's light shot up, and after culmination of height gracefully returned
to gravity with a melancholy thud. The Platoon Officer on the fire-step took his chance
during the illumination, and peered intently in front. A little to the left he detected
a black object, and he gripped his revolver as firmly as the hand of a faithful friend. The
shadow of the object cast a fantastical likeness to a human head and shoulders. The
bloody fight of a few days since had left its wreckage, but no mangled corpse could lend
such vivid outlines. Another Verey's light shot up, again from the same position, and
the object which had attracted his attention had disappeared. The Platoon Officer
gave a sigh of relief. Perhaps, after all, it was only an optical illusion.
Groping his way along the traverses and bays he gave advice and encouragement
to his men, concealing at the same time his fears of the situation. Well he knew how
infectious fear was. Extra sentries had been posted, work had been suspended, and
each man warned to use his eyes and ears to the utmost. When the time came they were
to fight, if necessary, back to back.
The atmosphere itself that night seemed uncanny, and the silence of the usual artillery
duel reminded him of the lull of an approaching storm at sea. He gazed at his watch.
In less than an hour daylight would be creeping over the dismal surroundings, and then
perhaps no one knew. Away in the distance floated the moan of a solitary
shellto the right the sharp crack of a sniper's rifle pierced the gloom then a pause
of awful silence broken only, now and then, by the muffled tramp of a fatigue party or
the ramblings of a working party. Close by, the men were huddled together awaiting
their doomtheir faces cold and troubledtheir minds battling with multitudinous
thoughts of home and comfort. Minutes seemed hours, and the Platoon Commander
still nervously gripped the butt of his revolver as he endured the gloom and depression
of this sunken existence. Despite it all, life was yet dear to him.
At last the time of standing to bayonets glittered in the dim light of
dawn. Old Tommy gave a forced chuckle as he drank his last ration of rum, and
then the Platoon Commander with a shout of Come on, you fellows," led the way
followed by fierce outbursts of deadly fire all along the lonely tracks of No Man's
Land The Artillery received the S.O.S. call from the front line, and responded with
a roar enough to awaken the dead.
Next day the official communique reported that in that sector a determined attack
was successfully repulsed with heavy losses to the enemy."
Two years passed, and the old Platoon Commander with his M.C. and other medals
tramped the streets of London looking for work. A man of education and in the best of
health, he still seemed undismayed by futile searching, and he struggled bravely along
the precincts of old St. Paul's. As he passed the fine edifice, he looked up, and caught
signt of the great Cross at the top of the dome. Then suddenly he recollected the figure
