The Ypres Times.
17
by the Sappers for our line to be buried with the water main as the work progressed. Every night
for the next three weeks Blinks and Co. were with the Sapper party, burying that pair of telephone
lines, which would one day leap into fame as the Pipe Line." It was indeed a proud day in Blink's
life when the Pipe Line was proved through between our front line O.P. and the Battery, but it
was only two days after the birth of the line that Blinks was wounded.
The Major, after a few cursory remarks regarding the appointment of a new linesman, slid from
view into the Officers' Mess, leaving me free to appoint a successor. As I sat pondering, and wondering
from where a second Blinks was to come, Macgaven, the great Irishman of six feet of brawn and muscle,
appeared deftly enquiring if someone had pinched the Pipe Line," or had my girl jilted me and
married a blasted munition worker. (Mac.'s contempt for the eligible munition worker was most
pathetic.) NoMac.," I replied, it's something far more serious." Ahthen Sergeant, p'raps it's
of the linesman ye ll be thinking of." I admitted that this was the theme of my meditations. Is
it asking too much if it's to meself that yell give the job to?" asked Mac. Mac. was a most efficient
signaller, and his immense strength was always of such value in constructing new positions and other
heavy work. I should miss him in that respect well I knew. It was no easy matter to decide, for all
our signallers were remarkably efficient. Eventually, however, I decided on Mac., the Major warmly
endorsing my choice.
MacGaven was like a great bouncing schoolboy as I took him over the lines the next morning, which
he in future would have to tend and maintain. It meant a free life mingled with a spice of danger for
him. It was only three days later just before dawn that the Bosche opened a terrific bombardment
with the suddenness and fury of a tornado. It was as though Hades itself was released. The air whipped
with the rushing of myriads of shells, both our own and of the enemy's. S.O.S. had been received from
the O.P. and our gunners were sweating away feeding the voracious appetites of our steel monsters.
A message was just coming through telling us to shorten fuses as the Bosche was attacking in mass
formation. The only line left intact was the Pipe Line," which we were receiving our messages over.
With a curse the signaller dropped the receiver, The Pipe Line is busted. Sergeant," he cried.
The last link with those forward who wanted our help so badly was gone. Mac. who had stood ready
equipped at the call of S.O.S., saw my look of approval, and swung out of the signal pit at once into
the raging tornado of attack and counter-attack.
Minutes dragged by like hours waiting for the buzz that would prove the line through. Signallers
were organised into parties to repair the other lines. A buzz at last! It was Mac. speaking, but he
could not get through forward, evidently there was another break between him and the O.P., so he
would go on he informed us. A frantic buzzing of the battery code call, announced the fact that com
munication was again restored with the O.P. and the Infantry. Messages poured from the O.P.; our
counter-attack had been successful, and our front line restored.
Two hours had elapsed since Mac. had gone out on the Pipe Line," and no word had been heard
of him, so I decided to take a walk along the line, and assist with the reburying of it. As I walked
along I could see to the full extent the ravages the storm of shell had wrought during the attack. I
concluded the crouching figure in the distance was Mac. at work. He seemed to make no movement
as I drew near, then the truth dawned on meMac. had been wounded. I raced to that crouching
figure in the middle of a great shell holea quick examination revealed the fact that Mac. had gone
west." Firmly gripped in his hands were the bare ends of the Pipe Line wires he had not even
had time to tie them together when he was struck down. Mac. had won; the Pipe Line" was
through
My letter of condolence to Mac.'s old people finished, and his few personal belongings packed up,
the thought struck me how proud the old people would be of his Military Medal Ribbon. I unpinned
the torn, blood soaked ribbonit was too ghastly. I couldn't send that. Unpinning my own ribbon
I enclosed that in my letter, for after all none need know, God only was witness. I said probably the
ribbon from the breast of their son might prove a slight consolation to them. Whatever quahiis of
conscience I might have suffered, was more than compensated by the beautiful letter of thanks I
received from the old people for the white lie I had told.
T. MARTIN.
A NIGHT ATTACK.
I was full of peace and comfort, half asleep in a most elegant bed, in a dug-out, all luxury. The
French had marched away that afternoon to the stark foulness and horror of Verdun, sleek, rosy-faced
men from these restful trenches that we marvelled at, weary and sodden with our half-year of Ypres
muck and din of war. The aroma of hot coffee and red wine still lingered.
Just above my staircase, arras-curtained, two riflemen sat on the fire-step, and their voices were
audible as I lay. Gawd, Dick, if this ain't a bit of allright."
There was a sound and scent of bacon frizzling. Give us the butter, Lewin." A moon shone,
and the curtains let the light glimmer in. What a relish in my warmth and drowsiness, contrasting
then and now. The soft light glorified the pile carpet on the floor. "Herbert," our mouse friend in
