A Rifleman Went to War

Germans were likely to shoot at prisoners going to the rear in this manner, but in case they did, it was just too bad, that’s all.

Those Germans who ran out on us had evidently been a combat group or outpost of some sort, for they left two rifles and plenty of ammunition behind them, and also a sizable stack of “potato-masher” grenades piled up in a corner of the trench. I had the prisoner climbing out, and we all picked up our loads and started on when that Heinie slid back into the trench and reached for those grenades. Very fortunately, the last man in our party was one who carried a pistol — he dropped his load, made one of the quickest draws I have ever seen, fired twice, and shot that smart Dutchman through the knee joint, almost smashing his leg apart. All this was done and over with in much less time than it has taken me to tell you about it — and none of our party could possibly have unslung a rifle, or fired it in time to have stopped that German — had he managed to pick up three or four of those grenades and gotten around the corner with them we would simply have been S.O.L.

To make matters worse, we got up to where I had left the man on watch and found it impossible to get any further ahead. So we had to stick in that bit of trench until night and listen to the “goings on” of that shot-up German. By that time, I for one, was sorry our man was not a better pistol shot.

So much for the occasional “emergency” use of a pistol. However, there comes a time when any fighting man may find that his very existence depends upon a pistol hanging from his side. Now, every new war starts where the last one left off. Of course, the instigator of it will probably have an ace or two up his sleeve in the nature of new inventions, but generally speaking, it will be just the same old game with a new dealer. Innovations will develop, probably more rapidly than in the past. What with the daily-increasing knowledge of the effect of “rays” (for want of a better designation) it is well within the bounds of reason to expect that, when the next great war between modem powers comes along, far more effective measures will have been perfected to separate the soldier from his grocery and rent bills and to transport him to Paradise.

Think I am trying to get away from our subject? Nay, nay my friend. Just trying to bring this matter back to where it “has been, is now, and ever shall be.” Wars are fought by men, against other men. New weapons, new schemes and devices will be conceived, but when it comes right down to the finish there will be nothing on earth but man opposed to man. If one man has a club and the other has none, the man with the club will undoubtedly win. If one has a sword or bayonet and the other a pistol, the man with the pistol will surely be the survivor. For every aircraft, for every tank or any other as yet unknown mechanical device, there must needs be, not only men to direct and control them but many more men to build, rebuild, repair and service them. Historically, wars are won by nations. Literally and practically, they are won by men — individuals working in concert and following certain well-conceived plans. The last living man able to stand on his feet and fight may decide the issue between victory and defeat.

Until something better is invented, I believe that the pistol is the best weapon for this last stand. Personally, I have had but three chances to prove it, but I know of many others who have had more than that. If a man really knows how to handle his pistol, he can whip — yes, kill — five men within the last ten yards of any assault. He may be killed, often is, by a shot from the side or from someone behind his immediate adversaries, but he can, with the utmost confidence, undertake to handle at least three enemy bayonet men.

It must be understood that the pistol is not, habitually, used for sniping — that is, for picking off individual targets by aimed fire at any range from, say, twenty yards up. It is especially adapted for use at any range within that limit, but is seldom actually used beyond fifteen or twenty feet. Most of the men killed with the one-hand gun, including all the more-or-less bad men in the early days of the West have “got their needin’s” at these shorter distances — mostly shorter than that. The average old time bar-rooms were pretty small, and what shooting was done was generally between men spaced the width of a poker table apart. The outside shooting — and I have this from no less authorities than Bat Masterson, Jim Lee and Schwin Box — was not so very effective. They have told me innumerable tales of how this one and that one had emptied their guns, reloaded and emptied them again at adversaries who were doing the same thing, within less than one hundred feet and with scant damage on either side.

Bat and Lee were both in the famous “Battle of the Barrels” at Abilene, I think it was (possibly Dodge; they were active at both places) and Jim got two .45 bullets right through his chest; “one on either side of my wishbone,” as he described it one day we were both stripped and in bathing. I often thought of these old incidents when we were in France, because the experiences we were then having just about agreed in most respects with the tales these old timers had told to me in my earlier days in New Mexico. Personally I did not have very much experience when it came to using my own automatic, but what little I did have seemed highly essential at the time and if I had not had that pistol along I would not be telling this now. Maybe I better tell about one of those times right here and now.

During the course of the war, those of us who were equipped with pistols were sometimes called upon to do a little scouting, and if not called, occasionally did it anyway, just to break the monotony. If it were a regularly organized and authorized patrol, probably the only one in the detachment who carried a pistol would be the officer in charge, the others carrying bombs (Mills hand grenades) and rifles. Some of us however, among my machine gun crews, were prone to slip out at night, just to “see what we could see” or to try and locate some new machine-gun emplacement which we had reason to believe that Heinie had built, and we always “packed a gun”. On these ventures we soon learned that the only logical place to carry your pistol was in a holster slung right square in the middle of your back. You simply can’t carry it anywhere else. I carried mine on the waist belt and saw to it that it didn’t slide about too much. I know of other chaps who slung their pistol between their shoulder blades and reached up over their shoulder to get the gun out. In an argument with one of these lads he told me he could get under the wire better with the pistol holster fastened up there, and could reach up and unfasten it much easier if it did get caught. If you attempt to crawl about with the holster strapped to your side it immediately slides around to the front and punches you in the belly — and gets in the mud, which is worse — and if you try tying the bottom of the holster to your leg, it still hobbles you — and still gets in the mud. Often we had to crawl through mud and slime several inches deep, and the back was the only place where it was possible to keep anything reasonably clean and dry — and ready for use. Even our gas masks, after we were equipped with them, were either carried in the same manner, or (as was usually the case) left at home.

As these patrols, or scouts, were primarily for the purpose of getting information and not to fight, we did not as a rule, go out looking for trouble. Quite frequently we would pass enemy patrols, within easy bombing distance, without either party “starting things”. Just like a couple of strange dogs which will pass, one on either side of the street, both very watchful and with hair bristling, watching for the first hostile move on the part of the other. But there were times, perhaps just because we were feeling pretty low and ornery, or maybe because the rum ration was late in arriving, that some of us would go out “with blood in our eyes”. Then we went looking for trouble — and nearly always found it.

On the first expedition of this kind in which I participated, we all carried bombs — no rifles. I happened to have a French bayonet which I had picked up that day and Norton-Taylor also had one of them. I think that he was the first and I the second to grasp the fact that these silent but terribly effective weapons were perfectly adapted to this stealthy night work. I believe that this was the origin of the “trench knives” which were later introduced. Of course, the Gurkhas, with their curious knives were ahead of us; it is the white troops that I refer to.

Well, this night I am telling about, we slipped over the parapet and through the wire and took up a position where we had reason to believe the regular German patrol would pass. It was understood by all hands that we were out to “clean up”, get a live prisoner if possible, but to kill them all if necessary.

It was tedious waiting. No man who has not gone through it can imagine the terrific strain under which a person lives during such a time. There we were, spread out along the edge of an old crater, trying to look as much like the surrounding, shell-torn ground as we could. Every time a flare went up, from our side or the other, we simply “froze”. Any movement at that time would surely expose us to the watchful eyes of the enemy, across the way. It was only about a hundred and fifty yards between our trenches at that place and there was no more than one hundred feet between our outside wire and that of the “Allemand”. There were only four of us and we knew that the regular German patrol, at that time and place, consisted of from six to eight men. We had agreed that we would wait until they were directly opposite our position and then each one of us was to throw a bomb, duck until after the explosion, and then wade into them and try to pick up a live prisoner. We knew, from previous observations, just about where they would pass. That is, we thought we knew but, in this case as in many others, the unexpected happened. Whether they had a new and more enterprising leader or whether they had simply lost their way, we never will know, but that patrol came upon us from the rear.