"The war is doing me good as though it were a bath-cure."
(FIELD MARSHAL VON HINDENBURG.)
Some had dirty bandages round their heads. Some had their arms in
slings. Others had hands so thickly swathed that they looked like the
huge paws of polar-bears. Many were caked with mud and wore tattered
uniforms. Some limped or hobbled along. Others could walk unaided. Some
leaned heavily on our shoulders and some we had to carry on our backs.
As each one entered the waiting-room--a little wooden shed opposite the
swing-doors of the operating theatre--we took off his boots and tunic
and made him sit down in front of the glowing stove. From time to time
an orderly would shout across from the theatre:
"Next man!"
And we would take the "next man" over and help him to mount one of the
tables.
They were all very quiet at first and many sat with bowed heads. Some
were dreading the operation, others, who were not badly wounded, looked
bright and cheerful, as well they might, for they were going to have a
holiday, perhaps in England, but anyhow at the Base, where they would
enjoy a respite from danger, hardship, and misery--a respite that might
last for weeks. And in the meantime the war might come to an end--one
could never tell.
Two infantrymen with packs and rifles passed by. They had been
discharged from the C.C.S. and were going to rejoin their units. They
stopped outside the waiting-room for a few minutes and looked enviously
at the wounded sitting round the stove inside, and murmured with deep
conviction: "Lucky devils."
A patient came out of the theatre with bandaged arm. He held a large,
semi-circular piece of iron in his hand.
"Is that what they took out o' yer arm?" said one of the infantrymen.
"Yes--decent bit, isn't it!"
"Gorblimy, I wish I could 'ave a bit like that, in me knee or somewhere,
to lay me up for months."
His comrade added in a voice full of hopeless longing:
"I wish I were in his shoes. Anything to keep out of that hell up the
line!"
"'E's a sure Blighty, ain't 'e?"
"Sure!"
The man with the injured arm put on his boots and threw his tunic over
his shoulders and walked off, smiling happily.
A German, looking weak and pale, came in. He was in great agony and had
received permission to enter the theatre with the British wounded, so
that his pain might be relieved as soon as possible.
"'Ullo, Fritzie," said someone in a cheerful voice. "Got a Blighty?"
The German did not understand and looked utterly miserable. He sat down
timidly with the others. The room was dark except for the glow given out
by the stove that lit up the hands and faces of those around it.
Suddenly a man shouted from the background:
"Them bastard Fritzes--I'd poison the 'ole lot." And that started the
argument.
"I reckon one man's as good as another."
"I reckon a Tommy's worth a dozen Fritzes. The bleeders ought ter be
wiped orf the face o' the bleed'n' earth. I see 'em do a thing or two, I
tell yer--me an' my mate was in the line down Plugstreet way when they
crucified a Canadian. I see the tree what they did it on wi' me own
eyes--dirty lot o' swine!"
"Bloody lies! Yer read it in the paper!"
"Wha' if I did?"
"Yer said yer saw it yerself!"
"Well, I read it in the papers and then I see the tree what they did it
on arterwards. The nails was still there. An' what _d'you_ know about
it? Yer in the artillery, yer don't see no fightin'!"
"Don't see no fightin'! Gorblimy, I reckon the infantry wouldn't be much
bleedin' cop wi'out the artillery."
"I'll tell yer what the artillery do--blow up their own mates what's in
the front line, there now!"
"If we'd 'ad artillery in August, 1914, the war'd 'a' bin over in three
weeks!"
"Don't yer believe it! It's the infantry what 'as all the danger an'
gits all the rotten jobs. The artillery's cushey compared wi' the
infantry."
"The artillery 'as a bloody sight 'eavier losses!"
"Go on--tell us another! It's no good arguin' wi' yer, yer won't see any
side 'cept yer own."
But a third man, bringing the argument back to its original subject,
said:
"I reckon it's all bloody lies what's in the papers. The Belgies is a
damn sight worse'n Jerry. [The Germans.] Yer know that there gun what
used to shell Poperinge--well, they never knew where the shells came
from till they found it was a Belgian batt'ry 'id in a tunnel. They
caught the gunners when they was telephonin' to Jerry. They stood the
'ole bleed'n' lot up aginst a wall an' shot 'em--serve 'em right too."
"Go on--tell us another!"
"I bet yer it's true, now then!"
"How much do you bet?"
"Fifteen bloody francs!"
"All right, I'll take yer on!"
"I reckon the Froggies is the worst," said a man who had not spoken
before. "I was out 'ere in 1914 an' they didn't 'alf let us down. I was
a bloody fool ter join up though--I'd like to strangle meself for it.
They won't catch me volunteerin' for the next war, not this child, no
bloody fear! Look at the way they treat yer--like bleed'n' pigs. There
ain't no justice anywhere. There's strong an' 'ealthy fellers at the
Base just enjoyin' theirselves. Then there's the 'eads what 'as servants
to wait on 'em--d'yer think French or Duggie 'Aig ever 'as shells
burstin' round 'em? Then there's the Conchies what 'as a easy time in
clink--if I see a Conchy in civvy life, I'll knock 'is bloody 'ead orf,
struth I will. And the civvies--gorblimy--when I was 'ome on leave they
kep' on arstin' me, 'Ain't yer wounded yet?' an' 'When are yer goin'
back?' But d'yer think they care a damn--Not they, you bet yer life on
it! _They_ don't want the war to stop--they're earnin' good money an' go
to dances an' cinemas. They'd start cryin' if we 'ad peace--I tell yer,
I was glad when me leave was over an' I was back wi' me mates. I won't
'alf throw me weight about when I gits out o' the army! I won't 'alf
raise 'ell--I'll 'ave a bloody revverlution, you see if I don't!..."
The shout of "Next man" sounded across from the theatre, and the
would-be destroyer of the social order got up and walked across.
"Where were you wounded?" asked one of the soldiers of his neighbour who
was drawing his breath in sharply between his lips, evidently being in
great pain.
"Near Eeps, [Ypres] by the Canal. A shell busted in front o' me an' a bit
copped me in the shoulder. Fritz was sending 'em over by the 'undreds,
whizz-bangs an' 'eavy stuff all mixed up--gorblimy, 'e don't 'alf give
yer what for!"
There was a temporary lull in the conversation and then a small, wiry,
spiteful looking Cockney spoke. He had reddish hair and big round
spectacles of the army pattern.
"I didn' 'alf do it on a Fritz afore I was wounded! 'E give 'isself up
an' I takes 'im along--I makes 'im walk in front o' me--yer can't take
no risks wi' them bastards. 'E turns rahnd an' says ter me in
English--'e must 'a' bin a clurk or a scholard--'e says, sarcastic like,
'I s'pose yer think yer goin' ter win the war!' I gets me rag out an'
tells 'im ter mind 'is own bleed'n' business. I tells 'im if I catch 'im
lookin' rahnd agin I'll kill 'im! We walks on a bit an' suddenly I
throws a Mills at 'im--gorblimy, it wasn't 'alf a fine shot, it busted
right on 'is shoulder. It didn' 'alf make a mess of 'im--I bet 'is own
mother wouldn't 'a' rekkernized 'im as 'e lay there wi' 'is clock all
smashed up!"
"I think it's a damned shame to kill a man after he's surrendered," said
a tall Corporal.
"I wasn't goin' ter stand no bleed'n' sarcasm! An' Fritz does the same
to our blokes! It's 'e what started it! We learnt it orf of 'im!"
"Yes, that's what they all say. It's always the other man who's done it
first. There's been many a fellow who's quite decent at heart who's
murdered a helpless prisoner thinking to avenge some abominable outrage
that was never committed, but only dished up by some skunk of a
pen-pusher who's never seen any fighting in his life. I don't know much
about Fritz, he may be worse than us or he may be better, but I've seen
our fellows do some bloody awful things. Anyhow, I know the German
soldier's doing his bit just as we are. He thinks he's in the right and
we think we're in the right, and he's just as much entitled to his
opinion as we are to ours. And I tell you straight, if I had the choice
between killing a German soldier and killing Lord Northcliffe, I'd shake
hands with the German and ask him to help me kill Lord Northcliffe and a
few others like him. And I'm not the only one who's that way of
thinking, I can tell you. We call ourselves sportsmen, but have we ever
recognized that we got a brave enemy? Say what you like about Fritz, he
may be a brute, but he's got some pluck--he's up against the world, he
is. He'll be beaten in the end, that's a cert, but he's putting up a
bloody hard fight. I didn't think much of him before I came out, but
it's hats off to him now! But d'you think the civvies or the papers
admit it? No bloody fear! The other day I saw a picture of the grenades
we use--I think it was in the _Graphic_ or one of these illustrated
rags. It was headed, 'Ferreting Fritz out of his Funk Holes.' I know the
man who wrote that hasn't been in the trenches himself! He's never seen
a lot of Germans lying dead round their machine-gun after fighting to
the last, as I have! He hasn't even seen a shell burst, not he! I bet he
slipped into _his_ funk hole, though, when there was an air-raid on!
Dirty, filthy swine! When I was home on leave I got so wild at the way
the civvies talked that I gave them a piece of my mind and told them a
thing or two. And one of them called me a pro-German! He, of course, was
a patriot. He was making money out of the war and wanted a fight to a
finish. Well, I got my rag out properly and I caught him by the throat
and shook him till he was blue in the face. It was in the street too,
and a lot of people standing about. They didn't say anything more after
that, though! I felt I'd done a good deed. I was really glad to feel I'd
clutched his windpipe with all my strength. I expect he still wears the
marks of my finger-nails, although it happened months ago...."
"'Ere, 'ere! That's the stuff to give 'em! I reckon Fritz is a bloody
good sport. We ought ter shake 'ands an' make peace now. Peace at any
price, that's what I say.... I tell yer a thing what 'appened when I was
in the line. We 'ad a little dog wi' us an' one night she must 'a'
strayed inter Fritz's trenches. The next mornin' she came back wi' a
card tied round 'er neck an' on the card it 'ad: 'To our comrades in
misfortune--What about Peace.' I reckon that was a jolly decent thing
ter say. Jerry wants ter get 'ome to 'is missis an' kiddies just as much
as what we do!"
"Next three men," shouted the theatre orderly.
The next three were light cases. They were dealt with very quickly. Then
the German hobbled across and several English wounded followed in rapid
succession. When the waiting-room was empty we went over to the Prep.
and fetched the other Germans along. There were no wounded arriving at
the station at that moment, but we knew from the distant rumble of the
bombardment that the Prep. would soon be crowded once again.
A number of British soldiers gathered round the entrance of the
waiting-room, curious to see the prisoners and hear what they had to
say.
"Ask 'em if they're glad to be out of it."
I put the question and there was a chorus of fervent "Ja's" and "Gott
sei Dank's."
They were all glad to be out of it. No more fighting for them, Gott sei
Dank! War was no good, at least not for the common soldier.
"Ask him what he thinks of Hindenburg."
A cheerful youngster from East Prussia answered: "Der's' nicht besser
als wir--He's no better than we are!"
"Did you ever see him?"
"Yes, he came into the trenches a week ago and gave us cakes and
cigars."
"But that was jolly sporting of him, wasn't it?"
"He can keep his cigars--_he_ doesn't have to lie in shell holes for
days on end."
"War's no good," said a small man with a protruding forehead and keen
eyes and wearing a red-cross on his arm. "Ich danke meinem Gott--I thank
my God that I've never taken up a rifle during the whole war, and I've
been in it since the beginning. No human being has lost his life through
me, thank God."
"Was für'n Zweck hat es--What's the good of shooting each other like
this? The heads ought to come and fight it out amongst themselves."
"It's good for politicians and profiteers--für die ist's gut."
"Ask them what they think of the submarines."
A Lieutenant of the Prussian Guard answered contemptuously that he
didn't think much of them. He didn't believe stories of food-shortage in
England, he didn't believe anything the papers said, they were all full
of lies.
"Ask them if they're satisfied with their treatment."
Yes, they were all satisfied. The Lieutenant pronounced it "blendend"
(dazzling). They had not eaten so much and such good food for months and
months. Oh it was good to be out of the fighting. Yes, their treatment
was perfect--except for the thieving. Why were British soldiers allowed
to steal the buttons, caps, rings, and watches belonging to their
prisoners?
A German private, a tall thin man with bushy eyebrows, who had not
spoken hitherto, said he didn't mind losing a few buttons--but to rob a
man of his marriage ring, that was very mean--eine Gemeinheit--his
marriage ring had been taken from him: he would have lost anything
rather than that, for it always reminded him of home.
The boy from East Prussia said he didn't care what they took from him as
long as they didn't take his life. He was safe now and nothing else
mattered. He spoke with a Polish accent.