THE TRENCH MORTAR OFFICER

Dominion, Volume 9, Issue 2741, 8 April 1916, Page 7

THE TRENCH MORTAR OFFICER

-frA FIELD IMPRESSION (By Adrian Stephen, R.F.A.). "Seven o'clock, sir. Shall I got breakfast?" "What is there for breakfast?" "Bacon sir." The T.M.O. turned over on his wiro bed and survoyed his servant dreamily. "Bacon," ho repeated. "I think I have heard that word before." His voico hardened. "It seems to pursue mo down a lefng vista, of mornings. You might say the word clicorfully, as though the I bacon really weren't all fat. If you can't vary the breakfast, at least vary your tone. Dismiss." "Here's a shell coming, sir," shouted the servant. ('Well, stop the blooming thing; can't j you see I'm busy?" He returned to the dug-out in time to support one corner I of the roofj which was drooping suspi-1 ciously as a result of the shell, Ho spent an acrobatic breakfast, supporting his home with one hand and eating the bac— — (no, won't 6ay the beastly word)—with' the other. ' "Life," he muttered, "is not worth living." Ho was rescued from pessimism by a frenzied messenger who announced breathlessly that an infantry officer had thought he saw a. German in the enemy's front trench. Would the T.M.O. como at once and fire a 501b. bomb at him (i.e., the German)? 'He T.M.O. received tho news with masterful self-control. "Jones," ho shouted to his servant, "come and hold the dug-out up while I go down the trenches. "Perhaps, sir," suggested Jones, "I could prop it up with something." "A distinct idea, Jones. Masterful fellow; I always said you had brains." The T.M.O. dragged on his thigh gum boots and set off to his gun, which was in the reserve trench, a matter of ten minutes' walk from the dug-out. At the commencement of the trench he paused. "Why don't the bally infantry. clean tihoir tranches for/me?" ha queried to tho world at large. The next moment he trod oii nothing, and a suinp hole received him. He swam ashore in time to see a sergeant, gravely saluting him. "Did I liotice you smiling, sergeant?" he spluttered. "Oh, no, sir" (a liar, obviously; but a tactrul one). "If it had been a staff officer, sir" —commenced the sergeant. Their eyes met —anil twinkled. Tho T.MiO. reached his gun, looking like a slab of animated trench. Ho called the gun detachment - together, aritl prepared for action. An infantry officer sauntered into gsiht. v "I'm afraid that German beggar has gone," lie said to tho .T.M.O. "In.fact, he wasn't a at all: he was a stump; but I 'rather want to see how your jolly old mortar works." The T.M.O. did not lose his temper —he was a perfect gentleman. Taking the gun to pieces, he explained it thoroughly. "Thank you," said the infantry officer, who had been watching an aeroplane during the demonstration. "I don't understand a word you've said; perhaps if you were to fire a round from the old' bus'. — Tho T.M.O. put the gun together. "Ra'ngo 500, fuze 11," he ordered. ■ Just then a captain strolled along. "Hullo, that's a now sort of mortar, isn't it? Ugly-looking beast; what? How does it work? • After another exhaustive explaantion the. captain suggested'that the , 1 old jigger" should be fired. ■ The T.M.O. placed two sticks on top of the trench in lino with a German sap, and proceeded ■ to. . the. -gun.,' on to! the sticks. "Bring' out a' bomb," he thundered in his best martial voice. . But a staff officer appeared on tho scene. 1 "Good morning, is this thstrench mortar ?. . Vory interesting. Now, how does it work? Can you explain?" ' The T.M.O. drew a long breath. '"Perhaps if you took it to pieces" suggested tho staff officers: When the gun had been dismantled to its smallest detail, the staff officer confessed, with tho usual modesty of his tribe, that he didn't quite follow the explanation. Would the T.M.O. please fire a round. At moment a briga-dier-general joined .the group, i "A mortar, eh?" ho .exclaimed. ''How docs it——?" • "Excuse me, sir," hurriedly broke in the T.M.0., "but the Bosches invariably drop- their Min'enwerfers just where you 1 aro standing, and at about this" time, too." ' Tho audience then remembered that it had business elsewhere, and went on its way with an alacrity that only duty can inspire. "What target, sir?" asked the number one' gunner. "Target," pauted the T.M.0., mopping his brow, "any old target; oniy, for heaven's sake, fire, and git it over." "A loud bang—a huge watermelon bomb sailing through the sky; a dull thud in.the enemy trench, and thensilence. The bomb had not exploded. A dud 1 A dud! . A messenger ran up to the .T.M.O. "Please, sir, -the' staff captain wants your ammunition report, showing how many rounds expended and how many exploded." The T.M.O. waved him away, and buried liis face in his hands. Was it all a ghastly joke? "Shall I fire again, sir?" asked- the gunner. "Not now," groaned the T.M.O. ; 'some other time; some other war." He set off for his' dug-out. A salvo of shells and four Mincnwerfer bombs fell in the trenches around him, making the earth rock. They were a peevish hint that the efforts of mortars are cot appreciated b.v the Teutonic mind.' He hardly noticed them. ■He was Wondering whether a certain sump-hole could have possibly cngulfod those exalted personages who had just preceded j him. After all, a sump-hole is no re-, spector of rank. Thus he wondored, and wondering thus, fell into the sump himself. "Life," he gurgled, "is not worth living." After lunch his servant confronted bim with a. pile of army forms. "There is one form here, sir, that asks how many -English, French, Russian, Belgians, aud Italians there are in tho battery." "What about Germans?" \ "Tlioy aro 3iot. oiiicially on the strongth, "sir " • "Well," concluded the T.M.0.. with dignity, "please inform the staff capta?n that this is a- battery, aud not a foreign opera company." The sergeant placed tho pile of forma on the table. "Thoso must be filled in

by 4 o dock, sir. An ominous silence. "Hand me tlie whisky," commanded the - oiheor, iu funereal' tones. "Bo npi disturb me till 4 o'clock. If by that tinio • I have not mastered these forms, ,vou will find my body hanging from the root" "The roof is not too' strong, sir.' "Leave me!" The sergeant tip-toed out, feeling that ho was a party to the making of tic- ' mendous history. When ovoning came, tho officer ntoppod from his dug-out, p:Jo but tritimplmnt, yet he looked older, mich . 1 older. Army forms have that effect. Around him wore tho charrtxl rafters and tlio lonely, jagged walls of. a ruined town. The moon shining through this skeleton turnod its desolation into beauty—the Bpecral beauty of memories and of dreams. • _ Softly tlirougli this dead village floated the sounds of music, bringing haunting visions of the past and gay liopas 1 for the future. "Life," murmured tho T.M.0., "k ' worth living after all—even here." > ■■ * ■■■