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TOMMY ATKINS AT WAR
"The English soldier is the best trained soldier in the world. The
English soldier's fire is ten thousand times worse than hell. If we
could only beat the English it would be well for us, but I am
afraid we shall never be able to beat these English devils."
_From a letter found on a German officer._
TOMMY ATKINS AT WAR
As Told in His Own Letters
by
JAMES A. KILPATRICK
New York
McBride, Nast & Company
1914
NOTE
This little book is the soldier's story of the war, with all his vivid
and intimate impressions of life on the great battlefields of Europe. It
is illustrated by passages from his letters, in which he describes not
only the grim realities, but the chivalry, humanity and exaltation of
battle. For the use of these passages the author is indebted to the
courtesy and generosity of the editors of all the leading London and
provincial newspapers, to whom he gratefully acknowledges his
obligations.
J.A.K.
CONTENTS
I OFF TO THE FRONT 9
II SENSATIONS UNDER FIRE 18
III HUMOR IN THE TRENCHES 30
IV THE MAN WITH THE BAYONET 39
V CAVALRY EXPLOITS 46
VI WITH THE HIGHLANDERS 55
VII THE INTREPID IRISH 64
VIII "A FIRST-CLASS FIGHTING MAN" 73
IX OFFICERS AND GENTLEMEN 82
X BROTHERS IN ARMS 91
XI ATKINS AND THE ENEMY 100
XII THE WAR IN THE AIR 112
XIII TOMMY AND HIS RATIONS 121
TOMMY ATKINS AT WAR
I
OFF TO THE FRONT
"It is my Royal and Imperial Command that you concentrate your energies,
for the immediate present upon one single purpose, and that is that you
address all your skill and all the valor of my soldiers to exterminate
first the treacherous English and walk over General French's
contemptible little army."[A]
While this Imperial Command of the Kaiser was being written, Atkins,
innocent of the fate decreed for him, was well on his way to the front,
full of exuberant spirits, and singing as he went, "It's a long way to
Tipperary." In his pocket was the message from Lord Kitchener which
Atkins believes to be the whole duty of a soldier: "Be brave, be kind,
courteous (but nothing more than courteous) to women, and look upon
looting as a disgraceful act."
Troopship after troopship had crossed the Channel carrying Sir John
French's little army to the Continent, while the boasted German fleet,
impotent to menace the safety of our transports, lay helpless--bottled
up, to quote Mr. Asquith's phrase, "in the inglorious seclusion of their
own ports."
Never before had a British Expeditionary Force been organized, equipped
and despatched so swiftly for service in the field. The energies of the
War Office had long been applied to the creation of a small but highly
efficient striking force ready for instant action. And now the time for
action had come. The force was ready. From the harbors the troopships
steamed away, their decks crowded with cheery soldiers, their flags
waving a proud challenge to any disputant of Britain's command of the
sea.
The expedition was carried out as if by magic. For a few brief days the
nation endured with patience its self-imposed silence. In the newspapers
were no brave columns of farewell scenes, no exultant send-off
greetings, no stirring pictures of troopships passing out into the
night. All was silence, the silence of a nation preparing for the "iron
sacrifice," as Kipling calls it, of a devastating war. Then suddenly the
silence was broken, and across the Channel was flashed the news that the
troops had been safely landed, and were only waiting orders to throw
themselves upon the German brigands who had broken the sacred peace of
Europe.
And so the scene changes to France and Belgium. Tommy Atkins is on his
way to the Front. He has already begun to send home some of those
gallant letters that throb throughout the pages of this book. If he felt
the absence of the stimulating send-off, necessitated by official
caution and the exigencies of a European war, he at least had the new
joy of a welcome on foreign soil. It is difficult to find words with the
right quality in them to express the feelings aroused in our men by
their reception, or the exquisite gratitude felt by the Franco-Belgian
people. They welcomed the British troops as their deliverers.
"The first person to meet us in France," writes a British officer, "was
the pilot, and the first intimation of his presence was a huge voice in
the darkness, which roared out 'A bas Guillaume. Eep, eep, 'ooray!'" As
transport after transport sailed into Boulogne, and regiment after
regiment landed, the population went into ecstasies of delight. Through
the narrow streets of the old town the soldiers marched, singing,
whistling, and cheering, with a wave of their caps to the women and a
kiss wafted to the children (but not only to the children!) on the
route. As they swept along, their happy faces and gallant bearing struck
deep into the emotions of the spectators. "What brave fellows, to go
into battle laughing!" exclaimed one old woman, whose own sons had been
called to the army of the Republic.
It was strange to hear the pipes of the Highlanders skirl shrilly
through old Boulogne, and to catch the sound of English voices in the
clarion notes of the "Marseillaise," but, strangest of all to French
ears, to listen to that new battle-cry, "Are we down-hearted?" followed
by the unanswerable "No--o--o!" of every regiment. And then the lilt of
that new marching song to which Tommy Atkins has given immortality:--
"IT'S A LONG, LONG WAY TO TIPPERARY"[B]
Up to mighty London came an Irishman one day;
As the streets are paved with gold, sure ev'ry one was gay,
Singing songs of Piccadilly, Strand and Leicester Square,
Till Paddy got excited, then he shouted to them there:
CHORUS
It's a long way to Tipperary,
It's a long way to go;
It's a long way to Tipperary,
To the sweetest girl I know!
Good-by Piccadilly,
Farewell Leicester Square.
It's a long, long way to Tipperary,
But my heart's right there!
It's a' there!
Paddy wrote a letter to his Irish Molly O',
Saying, "Should you not receive it, write and let me know!
If I make mistakes in spelling, Molly dear," said he,
"Remember it's the pen that's bad, don't lay the blame on me."
(_Chorus_)
Molly wrote a neat reply to Irish Paddy O',
Saying, "Mike Maloney wants to marry me, and so
Leave the Strand and Piccadilly, or you'll be to blame,
For love has fairly drove me silly--hoping you're the same!"
(_Chorus_)
It may seem odd that the soldier should care so little for martial
songs, or the songs that are ostensibly written for him; but that is not
the fault of Tommy Atkins. Lyric poets don't give him what he calls "the
stuff." He doesn't get it even from Kipling; Thomas Hardy's "Song of
the Soldiers" leaves him cold. He wants no epic stanzas, no heroic
periods. What he asks for is something simple and romantic, something
about a girl, and home, and the lights of London--that goes with a swing
in the march and awakens tender memories when the lilt of it is wafted
at night along the trenches.
And so "Tipperary" has gone with the troops into the great European
battlefields, and has echoed along the white roads and over the green
fields of France and Belgium.
On the way to the front the progress of our soldiers was made one long
fête: it was "roses, roses, all the way." In a letter published in _The
Times_, an artillery officer thus describes it:
"As to the reception we have met with moving across country it has been
simply wonderful and most affecting. We travel entirely by motor
transport, and it has been flowers all the way. One long procession of
acclamation. By the wayside and through the villages, men, women, and
children cheer us on with the greatest enthusiasm, and every one wants
to give us something. They strip the flower gardens, and the cars look
like carnival carriages. They pelt us with fruit, cigarettes, chocolate,
bread--anything and everything. It is simply impossible to convey an
impression of it all. Yesterday my own car had to stop in a town for
petrol. In a moment there must have been a couple of hundred people
round clamoring; autograph albums were thrust in front of me; a perfect
delirium. In another town I had to stop for an hour, and took the
opportunity to do some shopping. I wanted some motor goggles, an
eye-bath, some boracic, provisions, etc. They would not let me pay for a
single thing--and there was lunch and drinks as well. The further we go
the more enthusiastic is the greeting. What it will be like at the end
of the war one cannot attempt to guess."
Similar tributes to the kindness of the French and Belgians are given by
the men. A private in the Yorkshire Light Infantry--the first British
regiment to go into action in this war--tells of the joy of the French
people. "You ought to have seen them," he writes. "They were overcome
with delight, and didn't half cheer us! The worst of it was we could not
understand their talking. When we crossed the Franco-Belgian frontier,
there was a vast crowd of Belgians waiting for us. Our first greeting
was the big Union Jack, and on the other side was a huge canvas with the
words 'Welcome to our British Comrades.' The Belgians would have given
us anything; they even tore the sheets off their beds for us to wipe our
faces with." Another Tommy tells of the eager crowds turning out to give
our troops "cigars, cigarettes, sweets, fruits, wines, anything we
want," and the girls "linking their arms in ours, and stripping us of
our badges and buttons as souvenirs."
Then there is the other side of the picture, when the first battles had
been fought and the strategic retreat had begun. No praise could be too
high for the chivalry and humanity of our soldiers in these dark days.
They were almost worshiped by the people wherever they went.
Some of the earliest letters from the soldiers present distressing
pictures of the poor, driven refugees, fleeing from their homes at the
approach of the Germans, who carry ruin and desolation wherever they go.
"It is pitiful, pitiful," says one writer; "you simply can't hold back
your tears." Others disclose our sympathetic soldier-men sharing their
rations with the starving fugitives and carrying the children on their
shoulders so that the weary mothers may not fall by the way. "Be
invariably courteous, considerate, and kind" were Lord Kitchener's words
to the Army, and these qualities no less than valor will always be
linked with Tommy Atkins' name in the memories of the French and Belgian
people.
They will never forget the happy spick-and-span soldiers who sang as
they stepped ashore from the troopships at Boulogne and Havre, eager to
reach the fighting line. These men have fought valiantly, desperately,
since then, but their spirits are as high as ever, and their songs still
ring down the depleted ranks as the war-stained regiments swing along
from battle to battle on the dusty road to Victory.
II
SENSATIONS UNDER FIRE
It is said of Sir John French that, on his own admission, he has "never
done anything worth doing without having to screw himself up to it."
There is no hint here of practical fear, which the hardened soldier, the
fighting man, rarely experiences; but of the moral and mental conflict
which precedes the assumption of sovereign duties and high commands.
Every man who goes into battle has this need. He requires the moral
preparation of knowing why he is fighting, and what he is fighting for.
In the present war, Lord Kitchener's fine message to every soldier in
the Expeditionary Force made this screwing-up process easy. But to men
going under fire for the first time some personal preparation is also
necessary to combat the ordinary physical terror of the battlefield.
Soldiers are not accustomed to self-analysis. They are mainly men of
action, and are supposed to lack the contemplative vision. That was the
old belief. This war, however, which has shattered so many accepted
ideas, has destroyed that conviction too. Nothing is more surprising
than the revelation of their feelings disclosed in the soldiers'
letters. They are the most intimate of human documents. Here and there a
hint is given of the apprehension with which the men go into action,
unspoken fears of how they will behave under fire, the uncertainty of
complete mastery over themselves, brief doubts of their ability to stand
up to this new and sublime ordeal of death.
Rarely, however, do the men allow these apprehensions to depress or
disturb them. Throughout the earliest letters from the front the one
pervading desire was eagerness for battle--a wild impatience to get the
first great test of their courage over, to feel their feet, obtain
command of themselves.
"We were all eager for scalps," writes one of the Royal Engineers, "and
I took the cap, sword, and lance of a Uhlan I shot through the chest."
An artilleryman says a gunner in his battery was "so anxious to see the
enemy," that he jumped up to look, and got his leg shot away. Others
tell of the intense curiosity of the young soldiers to see everything
that is going on, of their reckless neglect of cover, and of the
difficulty of holding them back when they see a comrade fall. "In spite
of orders, some of my men actually charged a machine gun," an officer
related. After the first baptism of fire any lingering fear is
dispelled. "I don't think we were ever afraid at all," says another
soldier, "but we got into action so quickly that we hadn't time to think
about it." "Habit soon overcomes the first instinctive fear," writes a
third, "and then the struggle is always palpitating."
Of course, the fighting affects men in different ways. Some see the
ugliness, the horror of it all, grow sick at the sight, and suffer from
nausea. Others, seeing deeper significance in this desolation of life,
realize the wickedness and waste of it; as one Highlander expresses it:
"Being out there, and seeing what we see, makes us feel religious." But
the majority of the men have the instinct for fighting, quickly adapt
themselves to war conditions, and enter with zest into the joy of
battle. These happy warriors are the men who laugh, and sing, and jest
in the trenches. They take a strangely intimate pleasure in the danger
around them, and when they fall they die like Mr. Julian Smith of the
Intelligence Department, declaring that they "loved the fighting." All
the wounded beg the doctors and nurses to hurry up and let them return
to the front. "I was enjoying it until I was put under," writes
Lance-Corporal Leslie, R.E. "I must get back and have another go at
them," says Private J. Roe, of the Manchesters. And so on, letter after
letter expressing impatience to get into the firing line.
The artillery is what harasses the men most. They soon developed a
contempt for German rifle fire, and it became a very persistent joke in
the trenches. But nearly all agree that German artillery is "hell let
loose." That is what the enemy intended it to be, but they did not
reckon upon the terrors of Hades making so small an impression upon the
British soldier. There is an illuminating passage in an official
statement issued from the General Headquarters:
"The object of the great proportion of artillery the Germans employ is
to beat down the resistance of their enemy by a concentrated and
prolonged fire, and to shatter their nerve with high explosives before
the infantry attack is launched. They seem to have relied on doing this
with us; but they have not done so, though it has taken them several
costly experiments to discover this fact. From the statements of
prisoners, indeed, it appears that they have been greatly disappointed
by the moral effect produced by their heavy guns, which, despite the
actual losses inflicted, has not been at all commensurate with the
colossal expenditure of ammunition which has really been wasted. By this
it is not implied that their artillery fire is not good. It is more than
good; it is excellent. But the British soldier is a difficult person to
impress or depress, even by immense shells filled with high explosives
which detonate with terrific violence and form craters large enough to
act as graves for five horses. The German howitzer shells are 8 to 9
inches in caliber, and on impact they send up columns of greasy black
smoke. On account of this they are irreverently dubbed 'Coal-boxes,'
'Black Marias,' or 'Jack Johnsons' by the soldiers. Men who take things
in this spirit, are, it seems, likely to throw out the calculations
based on the loss of _moral_ so carefully framed by the German military
philosophers."
Every word of this admirable official message is borne out by the men's
own version of their experiences of artillery fire. "At first the din is
terrific, and you feel as if your ears would burst and the teeth fall
out of your head," writes one of the West Kents, "but, of course, you
can get used to anything, and our artillerymen give them a bit of hell
back, I can tell you." "The sensation of finding myself among screaming
shells was all new to me," says Corporal Butlin, Lancashire Fusiliers,
"but after the first terrible moments, which were enough to unnerve
anybody, I became used to the situation. Afterwards the din had no
effect upon me." And describing an artillery duel a gunner declares: "It
was butcher's work. We just rained shells on the Germans until we were
deaf and choking. I don't think a gun on their position could have sold
for old iron after we had finished, and the German gunners would be just
odd pieces of clothing and bits of accouterment. It seems 'swanky' to
say so, but once you get over the first shock you go on chewing biscuits
and tobacco when the shells are bursting all round. You don't seem to
mind it any more than smoking in a hailstorm."
Smoking is the great consolation of the soldiers. They smoke whenever
they can, and the soothing cigarette is their best friend in the
trenches. "We can go through anything so long as we have tobacco," is a
passage from a soldier's letter; and this is the burden of nearly all
the messages from the front. "The fight was pretty hot while it lasted,
but we were all as cool as Liffy water, and smoked cigarettes while the
shells shrieked blue murder over our heads," is an Irishman's account of
the effect of the big German guns.
The noise of battle--especially the roar of artillery--is described in
several letters. "It is like standing in a railway station with heavy
expresses constantly tearing through," is an officer's impression of it.
A wounded Gordon Highlander dismisses it as no more terrible than a bad
thunderstorm: "You get the same din and the big flashes of light in
front of you, and now and then the chance of being knocked over by a
bullet or piece of shell, just as you might be struck by lightning."
That is the real philosophy of the soldier. "After all, we are may-be as
safe here as you are in Piccadilly," says another; and when men have
come unhurt out of infinite danger they grow sublimely fatalistic and
cheerful. An officer in the Cavalry Division, for instance, writes: "I
am coming back all right, never fear. Have been in such tight corners
and under such fire that if I were meant to go I should have gone by
now, I'm sure." And it is the same with the men. "Having gone through
six battles without a scratch," says Private A. Sunderland, of Bolton,
"I thought I would never be hit." Later on, however, he was wounded.
Though the artillery fire has proved most destructive to all ranks, by
far the worst ordeal of the troops was the long retreat in the early
stages of the war. It exhausted and exasperated the men. They grew angry
and impatient. None but the best troops in the world, with a profound
belief in the judgment and valor of their officers, could have stood up
against it. A statement by a driver of the Royal Field Artillery,
published in the _Evening News_, gives a vivid impression of how the men
felt. "I have no clear notion of the order of events in the long
retreat," he says; "it was a nightmare, like being seized by a madman
after coming out of a serious illness and forced towards the edge of a
precipice." The constant marching, the want of sleep, the restless and
(as it sometimes seemed to the men) purposeless backward movement night
and day drove them into a fury. The intensity of the warfare, the fierce
pressure upon the mental and physical powers of endurance, might well
have exercised a mischievous effect upon the men. Instead, however, it
only brought out their finest qualities.
In an able article in _Blackwood's Magazine_, on "Moral Qualities in
War," Major C.A.L. Yate, of the King's Own Yorkshire Light Infantry,
dealt with the "intensity" of the war strain, of which he himself had
acute experience. "Under such conditions," he wrote, "marksmen may
achieve no more than the most erratic shots; the smartest corps may
quickly degenerate into a rabble; the easiest tasks will often appear
impossible. An army can weather trials such as those just depicted only
if it be collectively considered in that healthy state of mind which the
term _moral_ implies." It is just that _moral_ which the British
Expeditionary Force has been proved to possess in so rich a measure, and
which must belong to all good soldiers in these days of nerve-shattering
war.
Little touches of pathos are not wanting in the scenes pictured in the
soldiers' letters, and they bring an element of humanity into the cold,
well-ordered, practical business of war. Men who will meet any personal
danger without flinching often find the mists floating across their eyes
when a comrade is struck down at their side. Private Plant, Manchester
Regiment, tells how his pal was eating a bit of bread and cheese when he
was knocked over: "Poor chap, he just managed to ask me to tell his
missus." "War is rotten when you see your best pal curl up at your
feet," comments another. "One of our chaps got hit in the face with a
shrapnel bullet," Private Sidney Smith, First Warwickshires, relates.
"'Hurt, Bill?' I said to him. 'Good luck to the old regiment,' says he.
Then he rolled over on his back." "Partings of this kind are sad
enough," says an Irish Dragoon, "but we've just got to sigh and get used
to it."
Their own injuries and sufferings don't seem to worry them much. The
sensation of getting wounded is simply told. One man, shot through the
arm, felt "only a bit of a sting, nothing particular. Just like a sharp
needle going into me. I thought it was nothing till my rifle dropped out
of my hand, and my arm fell. Rotten luck." That is the feeling of a
clean bullet wound. Shrapnel, however, hurts--"hurts pretty badly,"
Tommy says. And the lance and the bayonet make ugly gashes. In sensitive
men, however, the continuous shell-fire produces effects that are often
as serious as wounds. "Some," says Mr. Geoffrey Young, the _Daily News
and Leader_ correspondent, "suffer from a curious aphasia, some get
dazed and speechless, some deafened"; but of course their recovery is
fairly rapid, and the German "Black Marias" soon exhaust their terrors.
A man may lose his memory and have but a hazy idea of the day of the
week or the hour of the day, but Tommy still keeps his nerve, and after
his first experience of the enemy's fire, to quote his own words,
"doesn't care one d---- about the danger."
As showing the general feeling of the educated soldier, independent
altogether of his nationality, it is worth quoting two other
experiences, both Russian. Mr. Stephen Graham in the _Times_ recites the
sensations of a young Russian officer. "The feeling under fire at first
is unpleasant," he admits, "but after a while it becomes even
exhilarating. One feels an extraordinary freedom in the midst of death."
The following is a quotation from a soldier's letter sent by Mr. H.
Williams, the _Daily Chronicle_ correspondent at Petrograd: "One talks
of hell fire on the battlefield, but I assure you it makes no more
impression on me now than the tooting of motors. Habit is everything,
especially in war, where all the logic and psychology of one's actions
are the exact reverse of a civilian's.... The whole sensation of fear is
atrophied. We don't care a farthing for our lives.... We don't think of
danger. In this new frame of mind we simply go and do the perfectly
normal, natural things that you call heroism."
When the heroic things are done and there comes a lull in the fighting,
it is sweet to sink down in the trenches worn out, exhausted, unutterly
drowsy, and snatch a brief unconscious hour of sleep. Some of the men
fall asleep with the rifles still hot in their hands, their heads
resting on the barrels. Magnificently as they endure fatigue, there
comes a time when the strain is intolerable, and, "beat to the world,"
as one officer describes it, they often sink into profound sleep, like
horses, standing. At these times it seems as if nothing could wake them.
Shrapnel may thunder around them in vain; they never move a muscle. In
Mr. Stephen Crane's fine phrase, they "sleep the brave sleep of wearied
men."
III
HUMOR IN THE TRENCHES
One of the most surprising of the many revelations of this war has been
that of the gaiety, humor, and good nature of the British soldier. All
the correspondents, English and French, remark upon it. A new Tommy
Atkins has arisen, whose cheery laugh and joke and music-hall song have
enlivened not only the long, weary, exhausting marches, but even the
grim and unnerving hours in the trenches. Theirs was not the excitement
of men going into battle, nervous and uncertain of their behavior under
fire; it was rather that of light-hearted first-nighters waiting in the
queue to witness some new and popular drama.
"A party of the King's Own," writes Sapper Mugridge of the Royal
Engineers, "went into their first action shouting 'Early doors this way!
Early doors, ninepence!'" "The Kaiser's crush" is the description given
by a sergeant of the Coldstream Guards as he watched a dense mass of
Germans emerging to the attack from a wood, and prepared to meet them
with the bayonet. When first the fierce German searchlights were turned
on the British lines a little cockney in the Middlesex Regiment
exclaimed to his comrade: "Lord, Bill, it's just like a play, an' us in
the limelight"; and as the artillery fusillade passed over their heads,
and a great ironical cheer rose from the British trenches, he added:
"But it's the Kaiser wot's gettin' the bird."
Many of the wounded who have been invalided home were asked whether this
humor in the trenches is the real thing, or only an affected drollery to
conceal the emotions the men feel in the face of death; but they all
declare that it is quite spontaneous. One old soldier, well accustomed
to being under fire, freely admitted that he had never been with such a
cheery and courageous lot of youngsters in his life. "They take
everything that comes to them as 'all in the game,'" he said, "and
nothing could now damp their spirits."
Songs, cards and jokes fill up the waiting hours in the trenches; under
fire, indeed, the wit seems to become sharpest. A corporal in the Motor
Cycle Section of the Royal Engineers writes: "At first the German
artillery was rotten. Three batteries bombarded an entrenched British
battalion for two hours and only seven men were killed. The noise was
simply deafening, but so little effect had the fire that the men shouted
with laughter and held their caps up on the end of their rifles to give
the German gunners a bit of encouragement." The same spirit of raillery
is spoken of by a Seaforth Highlander, who says one of the Wiltshires
stuck out in the trenches a tin can on which was the notice "Business as
Usual." As, however, it gave the enemy too good a target he was cheerily
asked to "take the blooming thing in again," and in so doing he was
wounded twice.
"The liveliest Sunday I ever spent" is how Private P. Case, Liverpool
Regiment, describes the fighting at Mons. "It was a glorious time,"
writes Bandsman Wall, Connaught Rangers; "we had nothing to do but shoot
the Germans as they came up, just like knocking dolls down at the fair
ground." "A very pleasant morning in the trenches," remarks one of the
Officers' Special Reserve; and another writer, after being in several
engagements, says, "This is really the best summer holiday I've ever
had."
Nothing could excel the coolness of the men under fire. With a hail of
bullets and shells raining about them they sing and jest with each
other unconcernedly. Wiping the dust of battle from his face and loading
up for another shot, a Highlander will break forth into one of Harry
Lauder's songs:
"It's a wee deoch an' doruis,
Jist a wee drap, that's a',"
and with a laugh some English Tommies will make a dash at the line "a
braw, bricht, minlicht nicht," with ludicrous consequences to the
pronunciation! According to "Joe," of the 2nd Royal Scots, the favorite
songs in the trenches or round the camp-fire are "Never Mind," and "The
Last Boat is leaving for Home." "Hitchy Koo" is another favorite, and
was being sung in the midst of a German attack. "One man near me was
wounded," says a comrade, "but he sang the chorus to the finish."
It is remarkable how these songs and witticisms steady the soldiers
under fire. In a letter in the _Evening News_ Sergeant J. Baker writes:
"Some of our men have made wonderful practise with the rifle, and they
are beginning to fancy themselves as marksmen. If they don't hit
something every time they think they ought to see a doctor about it....
Artillery fire, however, is the deadliest thing out, and it takes a lot
of nerve to stand it. The Germans keep up an infernal din from morning
till far into the night; but they don't do half as much damage as you
would think, though it is annoying to have all that row going on when
you're trying to write home or make up the regimental accounts."
Writing home is certainly done under circumstances which are apt to have
a disturbing effect upon the literary style. "Excuse this scrawl,"
writes one soldier, "the German shells have interrupted me six times
already, and I had to dash out with my bayonet before I was able to
finish it off." Another concludes: "Well, mother, I must close now. The
bullets are a bit too thick for letter-writing." To a young engineer the
experience was so strange that he describes it as "like writing in a
dream."
Some of the nick-names given by Tommy Atkins to the German shells have
already been quoted, but the most amusing is surely that in a letter
from Private Watters. "One of our men," he relates, "has got a ripping
cure for neuralgia, but he isn't going to take out a patent for it!
While lying in the trenches, mad with pain in the face, a shell burst
beside him. He wasn't hit, but the explosion rendered him unconscious
for a time, and when he recovered, his neuralgia had gone. His name is
Palmer, so now we call the German shells 'Palmer's Neuralgia Cure.'"
The amusing story of a long march afforded some mirth in the trenches
when it got to be known. A party of artillerymen who had been toiling
along in the dark for hours, and were like to drop with fatigue, ran
straight into a troop of horsemen posted near a wood. "We thought they
were Germans," one gunner related, "for we couldn't make out the colors
of the uniforms or anything else, until we heard some one sing out
'Where the hell do you think you're going to?' _Then we knew we were
with friends._"
Football is the great topic of discussion in the trenches. Mr. Harold
Ashton, of the _Daily News and Leader_, relates an amusing encounter
with a Royal Horse Artilleryman to whom he showed a copy of the paper.
"Where's the sporting news?" asked the artilleryman as he glanced over
the pages. "Shot away in the war," replied Mr. Ashton. "What!" exclaimed
Tommy, "not a line about the Arsenal? Well, I'm blowed! This _is_ a
war!" "We are all in good spirits," writes a bombardier in the 44th
Battery, Royal Artillery, "and mainly anxious to know how football is
going on in Newcastle now." "I got this," said a Gordon Highlander,
referring to his wound, "because I became excited in an argument with
wee Geordie Ferris, of our company, about the chances of Queen's Park
and Rangers this season."
An artilleryman sends a description of the fighting written in the
jargon of the football field. He describes the war as "the great match
for the European Cup, which is being played before a record gate, though
you can't perhaps see the crowd." In spite of all their swank, he adds,
"the Germans haven't scored a goal yet, and I wouldn't give a brass
farthing for their chances of lifting the Cup." At the battle of Mons it
was noticed that some soldiers even went into action with a football
attached to their knapsacks!
But there is no end to the humor of Tommy Atkins. Mr. Hamilton Fyfe
tells in the _Daily Mail_ how he stopped to sympathize with a wounded
soldier on the roadside near Mons. Asking if his injury was very painful
he received the remarkable reply: "Oh, it's not that. I lost my pipe in
the last blooming charge." In a letter from the front, published in the
_Glasgow Herald_, this passage occurs: "Our fellows have signed the
pledge because Kitchener wants them to. But they all say, 'God help the
Germans, when we get hold of them for making us teetotal.'"
What a Frenchman describes as the "new British battle-cry" is another
source of amusement. Whenever artillery or rifle fire sweeps over their
trenches some facetious Tommy is sure to shout, "Are we downhearted?"
and is met with a resounding "No!" and laughter all along the line.
To those at home all this fun may seem a little thoughtless, but to
those in the fighting line it is perfectly natural and unforced. "Our
men lie in the trenches and play marbles with the bullets from shrapnel
shells," writes one of the Royal Engineers; "we have been in two
countries and hope to tour a third," says a letter from a cheery
artilleryman; and Mr. W.L. Pook (Godalming), who is with one of the
field post-offices, declares that things are going so badly with "our
dear old chum Wilhelm" that "I've bet X---- a new hat that I'll be home
by Christmas."
Bets are common in the trenches. Gunners wager about the number of their
hits, riflemen on the number of misses by the enemy. Daring spirits,
before making an attack, have even been known to bet on the number of
guns they would capture. "We have already picked up a good deal in the
way of German souvenirs," says one wag; "enough, indeed, to set a
decent-sized army up in business." The British Army, indeed, is an army
of sportsmen. Every man must have his game, his friendly wager, his
joke, and his song. As one officer told his men: "You are a lively lot
of beggars. You don't seem to realize that we're at war."
But they do. That is just Tommy's way. It is how he wins through. He
always feels fit, and he enjoys himself. Corporal Graham Hodson, Royal
Engineers, provides a typical Atkins letter with which to conclude this
chapter. "I am feeling awfully well," he writes, "and am enjoying myself
no end. All lights are out at eight o'clock, so we lie in our blankets
and tell each other lies about the number of Germans we have shot and
the hairbreadth escapes we have had. Oh, it's a great life!"
IV
THE MAN WITH THE BAYONET
Some military writers have declared that with the increasing range of
rifle and artillery fire the day of the bayonet is over. Battles, they
say, must now be fought with the combatants miles apart. Bayonets are as
obsolete as spears and battle axes. Evidently this theory had the full
support of the German General Staff, whose military wisdom was in some
quarters believed to be infallible--before the war.
As events have proved, however, there has been no more rude awakening
for the German soldiery than the efficacy of the bayonet in the hands of
Tommy Atkins. In spite of the employment of gigantic siege guns and
their enormous superiority in strength, though not in handling, of
artillery, the Germans have failed to keep the Allies at the theoretical
safe distance. They have been forced to accept hand-to-hand fighting,
and in every encounter at close quarters there has never been a moment's
doubt as to the result. They have shriveled up in the presence of the
bayonet, and fled in disorder at the first glimpse of naked steel. It is
not that the Germans lack courage. "They are brave enough," our soldiers
admit with perfect frankness, "but the bayonet terrifies them, and they
cry out in agony at the sight of it."
Admittedly, it requires more than ordinary courage to face a bayonet
charge, just as it calls for a high order of valor to use that deadly
weapon. Instances are given of young soldiers experiencing a sinking
sensation, a feeling of collapse, at the order "Fix Bayonets!" their
hands trembling violently over the task. But when the bugle sounds the
charge, and the wild dash at the enemy's lines has begun, with the skirl
of the pipes to stir up the blood, the nerves stiffen and the hands grip
the rifle with grim determination. "It was his life or mine," said a
young Highlander describing his first battle, "and I ran the bayonet
through him." There is no time for sentiment, and there can be no
thought of chivalry. Just get the ugly business over and done with as
quickly as possible. One soldier tells what a sense of horror swept over
him when his bayonet stuck in his victim, and he had to use all his
strength to wrench it out of the body in time to tackle the next man.
Many men describe the effects of the British bayonet charges and the way
the Germans--Uhlans, Guards, and artillerymen--recoil from them. "If you
go near them with the bayonet they squeal like pigs," "they beg for
mercy on their knees," "the way they cringe before the bayonet is
pitiful"--such are examples of the hundreds of references to this method
of attack.
Private Whittaker, Coldstream Guards, gives a vivid account of the
fighting around Compiègne. "The Germans rushed at us," he writes, "like
a crowd streaming from a Cup-tie at the Crystal Palace. You could not
miss them. Our bullets plowed into them, but still on they came. I was
well entrenched, and my rifle got so hot I could hardly hold it. I was
wondering if I should have enough bullets, when a pal shouted, 'Up
Guards and at 'em.' The next second he was rolled over with a nasty
knock on the shoulder. When we really did get orders to get at them we
made no mistakes, I can tell you. They cringed at the bayonets. Those on
the left wing tried to get round us. We yelled like demons, and racing
as hard as we could for quite 500 yards we cut up nearly every man who
did not run away."
One of the most graphic pictures of the war is that of attack in the
night related by a sergeant of the Worcester Regiment, who was wounded
in the fierce battle of the Aisne. He was on picket duty when the attack
opened. "It was a little after midnight," he said "when the men ahead
suddenly fell back to report strange sounds and movements along the
front. The report had just been made when we heard a rustling in the
bushes near us. We challenged and, receiving no reply, fired into the
darkness. Immediately the enemy rushed upon us, but the sleeping camp
had been awakened by the firing, and our men quickly stood to arms. As
the heavy German guns began to thunder and the searchlights to play on
our position we gathered that a whole Army corps was about to be engaged
and, falling back upon the camp, we found our men ready. No sooner had
we reached the trenches than there rose out of the darkness in front of
us a long line of white faces. The Germans were upon us. 'Fire!' came
the order, and we sent a volley into them. They wavered, and dark
patches in their ranks showed that part of the white line had been
blotted out. But on they came again, the gaps filled up from behind. At
a hundred yards' range, the first line dropped to fix bayonets, the
second opened fire, and others followed. We kept on firing and we saw
their men go down in heaps, but finally they swarmed forward with the
bayonet and threw all their weight of numbers upon us. We gave them one
terrible volley, but nothing could have stopped the ferocious impetus of
their attack. For one terrible moment our ranks bent under the dead
weight, but the Germans, too, wavered, and in that moment we gave them
the bayonet, and hurled them back in disorder. It was then I got a
bayonet thrust, but as I fell I heard our boys cheering and I knew we
had finished them for the night."
This is one of the few accounts that tell of the Germans using the
bayonet on the offensive, and their experience of the businesslike way
in which Tommy Atkins manipulates this weapon has given them a wholesome
dread of such encounters. Private G. Bridgeman, 4th Royal Fusiliers,
tells of the glee with which his regiment received the order to advance
with the bayonet. "We were being knocked over in dozens by the artillery
and couldn't get our own back," he writes,[C] "and I can tell you we
were like a lot of schoolboys at a treat when we got the order to fix
bayonets, for we knew we should fix them then. We had about 200 yards to
cover before we got near them, and then we let them have it in the neck.
It put us in mind of tossing hay, only we had human bodies. I was
separated from my neighbors and was on my own when I was attacked by
three Germans. I had a lively time and was nearly done when a comrade
came to my rescue. I had already made sure of two, but the third would
have finished me. I already had about three inches of steel in my side
when my chum finished him."
The charge of the Coldstream Guards at Le Cateau is another bayonet
exploit that ought to be recorded. "It was getting dark when we found
that the Kaiser's crush was coming through the forest to cut off our
force," a sergeant relates, "but we got them everywhere, not a single
man getting through. About 200 of us drove them down one street, and
didn't the devils squeal. We came upon a mass of them in the main
thoroughfare, but they soon lost heart and we actually climbed over
their dead and wounded which were heaped up, to get at the others."
"What a sight it was, and how our fellows yelled!" says another
Coldstreamer, describing the same exploit.
Tommy Atkins has long been known for his accurate artillery and rifle
fire, but the bayonet is his favorite arm in battle. Through all our
wars it has proved a deciding, if not indeed the decisive, factor in the
campaign. Once it has been stained in service he fondles it as, next to
his pipe, his best friend. And it is the same with the Frenchman. He
calls his bayonet his "little Rosalie," and lays its ruddy edges against
his cheek with a caress.
V
CAVALRY EXPLOITS
"We have been through the Uhlans like brown paper." In this striking
phrase Sir Philip Chetwode, commanding the 5th Cavalry Brigade,
describes the brilliant exploits in the neighborhood of Cambrai when, in
spite of odds of five to one, the Prussian Horse were cut to pieces. Sir
Philip was the first man to be mentioned in despatches, and Sir John
French does not hesitate to confirm this dashing officer's tribute to
his men. "Our cavalry," says the official message, "do as they like with
the enemy."
There is no more brilliant page in the history of the war than that
which has been furnished to the historian by the deeds of the British
cavalry. They carried everything before them. In a single encounter the
reputation of the much-vaunted Uhlans was torn to shreds.
The charge of the 9th Lancers at Toulin was a fine exploit. It was
Balaclava over again, with a gallant Four Hundred charging a battery of
eleven German guns. But there was no blunder this time; it was a
sacrifice to save the 5th Infantry Division and some guns, and the
heroic Lancers dashed to their task with a resounding British cheer. "We
rode absolutely into death," says a corporal of the regiment writing
home, "and the colonel told us that onlookers never expected a single
Lancer to come back. About 400 charged and 72 rallied afterwards, but
during the week 200 more turned up wounded and otherwise. You see, the
infantry of ours were in a fix and no guns but four could be got round,
so the General ordered two squadrons of the 9th to charge, as a
sacrifice, to save the position. The order was given, but not only did A
and B gallop into line, but C squadron also wheeled and came up with a
roar. It was magnificent, but horrible. The regiment was swept away
before 1,000 yards was covered, and at 200 yards from the guns I was
practically alone--myself, three privates, and an officer of our
squadron. We wheeled to a flank on the colonel's signal and rode back. I
was mad with rage, a feeling I cannot describe. But we had drawn their
fire; the infantry were saved."
"It was the most magnificent sight I ever saw," says Driver W. Cryer,
R.F.A., who witnessed the Lancers go into action. "They rode at the
guns like men inspired," declares another spectator, "and it seemed
incredible that any could escape alive. Lyddite and melinite swept like
hail across the thin line of intrepid horsemen." "My God! How they
fell!" writes Captain Letorez, who, after his horse was shot under him,
leapt on a riderless animal and came through unhurt. When the men got up
close to the German guns they found themselves riding full tilt into
hidden wire entanglements--seven strands of barbed wire. Horses and men
came down in a heap, and few of the brave fellows who reached this
barrier ever returned.
The 9th Lancers covered themselves with glory, and this desperate but
successful exploit will live as perhaps the most stirring and dramatic
battle story of the war. The Germans were struck with amazement at the
fearlessness of these horsemen. Yet the 9th Lancers themselves took
their honors very modestly. "We only fooled around and saved some guns,"
said one of the Four Hundred, after it was over. He had his horse shot
under him and his saddle blanket drilled through.
Captain F.O. Grenfell, of the 9th Lancers, was the hero of an incident
in the saving of the guns. All the gunners had been shot down and the
guns looked likely to fall into the enemy's hands. "Look here, boys,"
said Grenfell, "we've got to get them back. Who'll help?" A score of men
instantly volunteered--"our chaps would go anywhere with Grenfell," says
the corporal who tells the story--and "with bullets and shrapnel flying
around us, off we went. It was a hot time, but our captain was as cool
as on parade, and kept on saying, 'It's all right; they can't hit us.'
Well, they did manage to hit three of us before we saved the guns, and
God knows how any of us ever escaped." Later on Captain Grenfell was
himself wounded, but before the ambulance had been brought up to carry
him off he sprang into a passing motor-car and dashed into the thick of
the fighting again.
The 18th Hussars and the 4th Dragoon Guards were also in these brilliant
cavalry engagements, but did not suffer anything like so badly as the
9th Lancers. Corporal Clarke, of the Remount Depot, which was attached
to the 18th Hussars, thus described their "little scrap" with the German
horsemen near Landrecies: "We received orders to form line (two ranks),
and the charge was sounded. We then charged, and were under the fire of
two batteries, one on each side of the cavalry. We charged straight
through them, and on reforming we drove the Germans back towards the
1st Lincoln Regiment, who captured those who had not been shot down. We
had about 103 men missing, and we were about 1,900 strong. The order
then came to retreat, and we returned in the direction of Cambrai, but
we did not take any part in the action there."