Iron County News

NIGHT WORK IN WAR
Manning a Roaring Cannon in Total Darkness.

Splinter of Shell Whizzes by Writer's Head and Buries Itself With a Thud in Cliff—Fifteen Shots Fired.

By GABRIEL DELAGARDE.
(Correspondent of the Chicago News.)

At the Front, in French army.—We have scarcely finished our dinner when an under-officer appears at our stable door.

"Delagarde, Lerrick, you are to go on duty tonight at the quarry."

And away he goes. We prepare our things. Besides our cartridge case, which contains indispensable toilet articles and a few provisions which a prudent soldier always carries with him, such as biscuits and tinned beef, we each take our blanket, cap and tent canvas, also a cane, and start to mount the hill.

Just above us a few German shells fall on the trenches. A fragment of a shell breaks the branch of a tree under which I am sitting.

Unfortunately, our guardhouse is badly situated. We are in an old sand quarry, three yards deep, dug almost on the top of a hill. The top is nearly flat and the two adversaries hang on to the sides. A hundred yards separate the two lines of trenches. Our cannon is installed at the foot of a little artificial cliff formed by the excavation of the quarry. Our refuge has been dug alongside. A "150" would soon demolish it.

And the refuge is very narrow. It contains two berths formed of wattles and supported by heavy logs. Hardly have we extinguished our candle than a rat races across our faces. And he is promptly followed by friends who come out of a hole above our heads. These poor beasts cannot be very comfortable, for they are devoured by parasites.

At about seven o'clock, in our first troubled sleep, we begin to notice explosions which seem rather near. In the dead silence of our shelter and the black night, deadened by the walls of earth, these brusque detonations reach us at intervals of one or two minutes. They come from our right, from a place where there is a trench which we know has not many occupants. Doubtless the earth is flying. But the explosions draw nearer. A "minenwerfer" exploding close to us makes us jump. We hear footsteps. A man enters the shelter.

We are glad to be disturbed, to get away from the insects and from that mutual compression which was so trying. We could not even move an arm.

The lieutenant has sent us orders to fire a few torpedoes in the direction of the wood. We examine our list and mark the direction. Then the head gunner goes out and points the small dark cannon, which is hardly visible in its black hole. We light our way by means of a candle which we have to hide under our coat. It is I who go to bring the torpedoes to the shelter. I crawl in the moon's rays, silently, and soon return. I place one in the cannon's mouth. The third gunner attaches the fuse; the head gunner sets a light to the wick and we withdraw hurriedly. Briskly the powder burns with a sputtering noise.

Each time the shock of air extinguishes the candle in our shelter. We fire four or five times. A messenger arrives.

"The lieutenant says you can fire as many times as you like. Fire chiefly in retaliation, but you can do as you like."

We return to our shelter and discuss the situation. The head gunner says we are to fire to the right or to the left, but not in front of us, as this would draw the shells our way. The Germans will be deceived as to the direction of our machines. (And the unfortunate infantry will pay for it!)

We take out our list and mark the direction. Our head gunner, feeling himself at liberty, is anxious to fire. Meanwhile we are being bombarded. During one of my trips to bring the torpedoes a splinter of a shell buzzes over my head and buries itself with a thud in the cliff.

The head gunner gets excited. He wants to keep firing; he would exhaust our ammunition. He admits he is afraid. Besides, he is the head gunner and is anxious to show it. We succeed in calming him.

This night work does not appeal to me. I do it unwillingly and the deafening noise of the exploding projectiles which wait for us does not tend to make my heart beat with pleasure. The third gunner, an old, peaceful territorial, thinks the same as I. Moreover, our head gunner expends this energy solely as a reaction against his fear. He is as unwarriorlike as possible; he hates this war. Is it not curious that men like that are often the most ferocious?

We fire 15 shots. All is silent. Not a rifle shot, not an explosion. Nothing further troubles the night.

As it is really too uncomfortable in the berth I roll myself in my blanket, my tent canvas, and lie down on the ground.

It is now two o'clock in the morning. We shall sleep till six o'clock, when we shall be called, for today we have only twelve hours on duty instead of twenty-four and thus fortunately only one night to pass here.