IN THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT.

Dominion, Volume 8, Issue 2430, 8 April 1915, Page 3

IN THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT.

NERVE TRIALS

WHAT OUTPOST DUTY IS LIKE

A soldier in the f'roncfi army writes as follows in the "Daily Mail":—

A quarter to 121 The sergeant's voice rings gruffly through the barn we are occupying that detested word "Debout!" His watch is always a quarter of an hour fast oti these occasions. We should be up at midnight, with an hour before us to pack our sacks, and strap our blankets ar.d tent-flaps together ; at one we are due to leave for the firing-line once more for a week's outpost duty, and long before wo leave we_ are all assembled "sac au dos " waiting for our captain to arrive and lead the way. The rain is falling pitilessly, but the first three or four miles are easy marching along the muddy roads, the silence only broken uow and then by an oath as an unfortunate comrade stops into a delusive puddle, which proves to bo a ' Jack Johnson" hole. The faint light indicates clearly enough the water, but does not reveal its depth. Ton minutes' halt, and we resume our way again across the field, sinking above our ankles m the sticky clay until wo reach the confines of the forest. Another short rest, followed by a weary hour's struggle, at one moment on the slippery path, at another through the dense undergrowth, and we begin to descend the hill to the little village of X. Suddenly a, sharp challenge brines the.column to an abrupt Btop. The captain advances, and gives the password, the sentry, with a wave of his hand, indicates the wire entanglement stretched! across the road, and, climbing over it, we continue our way to our cantonment. Some of us are lodged in ruined cottages, others m the outhouses and cellars of a dilapidated house dignified by the name of "chateau."

It is past s—just time to have a cup of coffee, unstrap one's sack, and wash one's hands at the pump. At 6 we must start in order to relieve the men at the "petit poste"—24 hours- outpost duty—by day in the little cemetery on the hillside, half a mile beyond the village, at night farther on still, where, as a long line_ of sentries, we can give timely warning in case of attack. A Day's Grim Sport. The trenches on the crest of the hill are untenable by either side, dominated as they are by both French and German artillery. So. as the first streaks of daylight touch the horizon, I instal myself comfortably in an open grave, where a granite slab will shelter me from hostile eye and bullet, and prepare for a day's grim "sport." I have two substantial meals with me—the Government rations of meat and .bread and cheese, supplemented by a tin of marmalade, a huge chunk of Buzzard's cake (most delectable of food to a hungry man), and a flask of rather fiery rum, with literature in the shape or two recent London newspapers, and the ever-welcome "Punch," and I prepare to bide my time. An hour, two hours passthrough my glasses 1 see something move on tho ridge 400 yards before mo. I have my first shot. I got in 11 during the day; some of my comrades manage more, some less. A, disappearing head is not an ideal, target at that range, but we hope, at any rate, some of our shots have reached their mark. Anyway, we have the satisfaction of knowing our positions have not been located. At the upper end of the cemetery' there is a big mausoleum, near which a sentry is stationed. Evidently he is accounted the disturber of the peace, as all day long we hear tho ping of the German bullets as they strike the masonry, and his own muttered anathemas at receiving such unwelcome attention. The day is fast turning into night, and the second section of our company, which has been resting, conies, up to replace us, and we advance slowly, in single file, up the slope, to take ,our positions for a long and lonely vigil. . The False Alarms. A fierce struggle has taken place on that bleak hillside, and French and German lie together on all sides and in every position. Once there is real cause for alertness —an enemy's patrol is outlined against the skyline on the ridge above us —a few. shots are fired, a few bullets come tearing the air in our direction, then all is silent again. Later the rain commences, and darkness falls on us once more. Suddenly you hear a slight metallic sound—is it an enemy creeping towards you who has accidentally brushed against one of the entanglements? You challenge I No answer! It is only a twig blown from a branch by the wind which has' fallen upon the wirel You turn a little to one Bide, and your eye catches a faint glimmer in the furrow a couple of paces away. Is it a bayonet which in another moment will transfix you? You move forward cautiously. No sound! It is but the edge of a sardine-tin embedded in the earth, which the rain has washed bright and clean!. You have done your two hours' sentry duty, and return to the trenches. Ono more spell of this nerve-racking strain in the early hours of the morning, and it is time to return to our quarters in the village to snatch what rest and sleep we can on the damp straw, and in the heavy atmosphere of the chateau cellar before we return to duty, this time to pass the night, in the cemetery—another long night in the company of the dead, tint of those who joined their forefathers in less troubled times, and whose bones were acoorded Christian sepulture.