EYES OF THE GUNS.

Waipawa Mail, Volume XXXVII, Issue 7919, 16 August 1917, Page 3

EYES OF THE GUNS.

THE OBSERVATION OFFICER. HIS DANGEROUS TASK OUT IN FRONT. There is no doubt that the infantryman has the most unpleasant time in this war, and there is no doubt that he likes other people to know it. But there is no job that is not always “cushy,” and is apt to become so exciting that the “foot-slogger,” safe in his trench, will mutter a little speech of appreciation of the fact that he is in the infantry. For the man who sometimes has “real hell” is the observation officer, the eyes of the guns (writes Vernon Bartlett). Once, long ago, I made the discovery that the Germans were digging hard jn their trench 35 yards away from us. I could occasionally see spades tossing up the earth, and the earth always came from the same place, which obviously meant that the Germans had some evil intent—were mining or sapping. So we rang up the gunners, and twenty minutes later a major appeared in our trench, folloAved by a telephone operator who was carrying an immense roll of wire and paying it out as he came along. “Where’s the young officer who’s spotted the Huns at Avork?” asked the major. And very proudly—for I had only recently come out to the front—l stepped forward and shoAved him through the periscope where the digging was in progress. “H’m! There’s no doubt they’re up to mischief” said the major, “but it’s unpleasantly close to shell. You had better observe with me,” and he handed me a periscope, and issued a host of instructions to the telephone operator.

“They’re fired, sir,” said the operator, and a second later there was a most fearful rushing above my head, and I ducked as two shells passed over me and burst a little way beyond. “Bit too far,” said the major; Avhat do you think?” I explained that I had not seen very well—how could I see from the bottom of the trench?

So the majqr issued a lot of instructions about degrees, and said, “Come down 25 yards.” Upon which I found urgent business at the other end of the trench. But he had me hack, and I crouched there, my eye glued to a periscope, until the German trench Avas battered almost beyond recognition. And that appalling feeling that a shell is just going to whisk off the top of your head as it passes has giA’en me a wholesome respect for the obserA’ation officer. And he is very well worth a respectful interest, for I know of no man Avho is apt to find himself in more dramatic situations. There was the case of an officer who once climbed a tree just behind the trenches before dawn, and had the misfortune to be spotted by the Germans. Their snipers sent one or two bullets whistling horribly close through the foliage in a manner which must have made the observation officer consider seriously what would happen when he emerged from between the branches to climb down the tree. And there lie had to stay for fully five minutes, until we had stretched out a blanket under the tree and had telephoned to his battery to shell for all they were worth to persuade the Hun snipers to keep their heads down. Then he jumped for safety, and escaped with nothing worse than a flesh wound in the arm.

But still more unpleasant was the situation of a subaltern who used to observe from the cellar of a ruined house. He was there one day with a telephone operator when the Germans suddenly began to “crump” the village, and the very first shell landed near the exit and completely entombed them. For over an hour the two men worked to make a hole out of their prison while the Germans dropped “heavies” all round the house. And for tools they had nothing but a bayonet and a clasp-knife. When at last they had made an aperture wide enough to allow them to escape, a shell hit the cellar as they were crawling out to safety. The telephone operator was killed outright, and the observation officer, pinned down by a block of masonry, had to wait for 14 hours until a passer-by found him. And nearly all the time the A’illage was being shelled. As- the observation officer stopped me on a shell-pocked road to tell me his adventure, a machine gun opened fire, and the bullets swish-swished above our heads. “It’s an exciting life a.t times,” he said as avc ducked.

“It is,” I agreed fervently, and I hurried off to the blessed safety of the firing line.