Ever since we had received news of the German peace offers and President
Wilson's replies, rumours had multiplied enormously--the Kaiser had been
assassinated, the German Fleet had surrendered, German troops were
deserting in masses, German submarines were floating on the surface and
flying white flags, a German Republic had been proclaimed with
Liebknecht as President.
One evening after a day of unusually hard labour, we were lying
exhausted in our tent. Suddenly the flap was thrown open, a man pushed
his head in and shouted excitedly:
"I say, you chaps, the Armistice has been signed--it's official!"
"Who says so? Did you see it in print?"
"No, I just heard it from a despatch rider. He got it from his
C.O.--it's official."
"Don't believe it. We've heard that tale too often."
"All right, then, don't!" the man shouted angrily and walked off.
No sooner had he gone when our Corporal said:
"It wouldn't surprise me if he were right. In any case, even if the
Germans haven't signed yet, they'll have to do so soon. Bulgaria,
Turkey, and Austria have collapsed. The Germans have decreasing
resources and no reserves. The Allies have increasing resources and
unlimited reserves. The longer the war goes on, the more desperate is
Germany's position. She must accept our terms, she can't help herself."
"I do not think they will sign," I replied. "I think we can expect at
least another year of war. I know Germany is in a bad way, but our terms
mean unconditional surrender. The Germans will not be silly enough to
imagine that, once they are disarmed and helpless, we shall stick to the
Fourteen Points or be bound by any promises of any kind. No, the Germans
will fight on, they will shorten their front, and they will at least
keep the Allies off German territory for an indefinite period until they
can secure better terms."
"You overrate the strength of the Germans. I think the German army is
becoming completely demoralized. I also think that the blockade has done
its work amongst the civilian population. We shall have an armistice
within the next few days. Perhaps rumour is correct for once and the war
is already over. We haven't heard any guns for a long time--the front is
extraordinarily quiet."
"Yes, but we would have heard officially--news like that would never be
kept from us."
"That's true enough--I expect the thing is being discussed and a
decision will be reached before long."
We all agreed that as soon as the fighting ceased, we would be informed.
The news of the Armistice would be telegraphed to every unit and it
would reach us within a few minutes from the actual signature. And then,
what would we do then? How would our feelings find an outlet? It was
impossible to say. Shouting, singing, dancing, would they give us
relief? Speculation was useless, painfully useless. And yet what else
could we think about?
Peace--peace did not matter so very much, if only the slaughter would
stop. To us soldiers, and most of all to soldiers in the line, an
Armistice would mean more than any words could tell. And, therefore, we
would be the first to receive the news. Bad as the army was, it was not
so bad as to keep such tidings from us. Besides, everybody would rejoice
so much, that all distinctions of rank would disappear and the general
would be no more privileged than the private. Still, the war was not
over yet, and it would be better not to hope too much.
It was Sunday, the 10th of November. We had no work to do and wandered
restlessly round the town. An official communique was posted up outside
the Mairie, but it contained nothing new. There was a crowd of soldiers
round a Belgian boy who was selling English papers. We bought the last
copies, but they were of the previous Thursday and did not add to our
knowledge. The suspense was becoming unbearable. My conviction that the
Germans would reject the terms of the Allies was shaken--not by any
further evidence, but by the general atmosphere of excitement and
hopeful expectation which communicated itself to me. I kept on repeating
to myself, "They will not sign, they will not sign," and intellectually
I believed my own words. And yet I was continually imagining the war
already over and what I merely thought seemed unessential and
irrelevant. The stress of wild hopes and mental agitation became almost
a physical pain.
Darkness came on and we retired to our tents. I gradually became aware
of a faint noise, so faint that I hardly knew whether it was real or
not. As soon as I listened intently I could hear nothing. Then one of us
said: "What's that funny noise?" There it was again, a low, hollow sound
like that of a distant sea. It grew louder and then ceased. Then it
became audible once more and grew louder and still louder. Suddenly we
realized what it was--it was the sound of cheering. It came nearer and
nearer, gathering speed. It flooded the whole town with a great rush,
paused a moment, and then burst over our camp.
Everybody went mad. The men rushed out of the tents and shouted: "It's
over--it's over--it's over!" I could hear one shrill voice screaming
wildly: "No more bombs--no more shells--no more misery." The deafening
clamour from innumerable throats was topped by the piercing blasts of
whistles and the howling of catcalls. A huge bonfire was lit in the camp
and sheets of flame shot skyward. The brilliant stars of signal-rockets
rose and fell in tall parabolæ and lit up all the neighbourhood. The
Sergeant-Major blew his whistle with the intention of restoring order.
He was answered by a hullabaloo of derisive hoots and yells. He gave up
the attempt and instead he headed a procession that marched into the
town, banging empty tins and whirling trench-rattles. An anti-aircraft
battery opened fire with blank charges. Aeroplanes flew overhead with
all lights on.
Many of us went back into our tents and sang with all the power of our
lungs.
So the war was over! The fact was too big to grasp all at once, but
nevertheless I felt an extraordinarily serene satisfaction. Then someone
said: "The people who've lost their sons and husbands--now's the time
they'll feel it." The truth of this remark struck me with sudden
violence. My serenity was broken and I looked into the blackness beneath
it. I knew what I was going to see, but, nevertheless, I looked, in
spite of myself, and saw innumerable rotting dead that lay unburied in
all postures on the bare, shell-tossed earth. A horror of death such as
I had never known before came upon me--a crushing, annihilating horror
that seemed to impart a fiendish character to the shouting and singing
in the camp, as though millions of demoniac spirits were howling and
dancing with devilish glee over the accomplishment of the greatest
iniquity ever known. At the same time I felt ashamed of not joining in
the general jubilation, and bitterly disappointed that my own
thoughts--always my worst enemies--should obsess me at this supreme
hour. But I knew that the war had lasted too long and that the world's
misery had been too great ever to be shaken off. I also knew that all
the dead had died in vain. In order to escape from my intolerable
meditations I sat up and began to talk to my neighbour:
"I suppose it'll be read out officially to-morrow morning?"
"Sure--and we'll get a day off at least."
We continued to talk of commonplace things. It was several hours after
midnight and the uproar was dying down a little. I felt sleepy and
something like contentment was beginning to steal over me once again.
Reveillé did not sound until nine o'clock on the Monday morning. The
whistle blew for parade. There would, of course, be an official
announcement that the Armistice had been signed and perhaps a letter of
thanks to the "splendid troops who had won the war" (which would bore us
extremely) and a holiday (which would be welcomed with loud cheers).
We paraded. The Sergeant-Major addressed us:
"I'm sorry, boys, but nothing official's coom through. You must go to
work as usual. It's a damned shame, I know, but I can't help it. I
expect the message'll coom during the day and you're sure to get
to-morrow off."
There was a murmur in the ranks, but bewilderment deprived us of the
power of taking concerted action. A sudden fear seized me--could last
night's celebrations have been the result of a false alarm?
We marched off. But no one did a stroke of work the whole day. All
discipline had gone. The N.C.O.'s had no vestige of authority left. Men
from other units whom we met knew no more than we did. They said the
Armistice had been signed, but there had been no official announcement.
We got back to camp in the afternoon. No official news.
In the evening the celebrations were renewed. I was troubled by an
intense anxiety which began to spread to the others. Still, there would
certainly be an announcement the following morning.
We paraded on Tuesday morning. No announcement of any kind. We marched
off to work as usual, but again no work was done. Suddenly I caught
sight of a soldier walking along the road a long way off with a
newspaper in his hand. I ran after him and caught him up.
"Any news?" I asked.
He gave me the paper. It was dated Monday, the 11th November--only a day
old. The headline ran: "No Armistice yet."
So Sunday's demonstration had been a sham and a fraud!
I rejoined the others. They, too, had heard that no Armistice had been
signed by Sunday midnight from a despatch rider who had, however, added
that signature was expected every minute.
We were back in camp. Many new rumours were circulating--the Germans had
rejected the terms, the Italians had renewed the offensive. In the
evening some of us thought they could hear distinct gunfire. We listened
carefully, but our mental tension destroyed our power of hearing very
faint sounds.
Wednesday morning, and still no definite news. The suspense was becoming
unbearable. No work was done. I questioned men from five other units,
but none of them were any better informed than we were.
The expectation of peace had made us forget our bitterness towards the
army, but it began to show itself again:
"They don't want us to know!"
"They're damned sorry it's all over!"
"There's too many of 'em wi' soft jobs what wants the war to go on for
ever!"
"What are you grumbling about? What has the Armistice got to do with us?
The Armistice concerns the Staff, not us. It's not our business--we're
only common soldiers."
When we got back to camp a boy was selling papers at the entrance. I
bought a _Times_. It was Tuesday's. The Armistice had been signed on the
Monday morning!
I went to my tent and sat down and thought it over. The terms were
ominous. There was no doubt about it this time--the war had come to an
end. I thought of home and of freedom. It almost seemed as though
army-life had been a dream. I was still in the army, but a few months
more or less would make no difference, for my thoughts would be all in
the future.
Then I pondered over the last insult the army had given us--the insult
of not even telling us when the war was over, and making no concessions
to allow us time for rejoicing or reflection. After having slaved and
suffered all these years we were ignored as though we did not exist.
Still, one insult more or less did not matter, for we would be out of it
soon.
In the evening the celebrations were resumed. They lacked the
spontaneity of those that were held on the Sunday night. Nevertheless,
the rejoicing was genuine, for our suspense had been followed by an
immense relief.
As I lay in my tent amid the shouting and singing I again felt that
bitter thoughts were gathering, but I was distracted by a man sitting
two places from me, who said:
"It's a bloody shame we can't get any wine or spirits and get bloody
well drunk to-night."
A man lying near him, who had kept very quiet all the evening, suddenly
sat up erect, glaring with fury, and shouted:
"That's all you can think about, getting drunk--you dirty little
blackguard! You don't deserve to have peace, you don't! Bloody lot of
fools--all shouting and singing and wanting to get drunk! They ought to
have more respect for the dead! The war's over, and we're bloody lucky
to get out of it unharmed, but it's nothing to shout about when there's
hundreds and thousands of our mates dead or maimed for life."
"Don't talk bloody sentimental rot--call yourself a soldier? You ought
to be a bloody parson!"
"I don't call myself a soldier--it's a bloody insult to be called a
soldier. I'm not a bloody patriot either--I reckon patriotism's a bloody
curse. I kept out of the army as long as I could, but they combed me out
(that's their polite way of putting it!), and shoved me into khaki, but
they never made a soldier of me! I've never been any use to them! I only
worked when they forced me to. I've been more expense and trouble to
them than I'm worth. I haven't helped to win this wicked war, and I'm
proud of it too! Sentimental rot be damned--if everyone had been my way
of thinking there wouldn't have been a war, no, not in any country. The
war's won, I know, and I'm sorry for it. But Fritz has come off best,
not us. He's lost the war, but he's found his bloody soul! I'll tell the
civvies something about war when I get home--I'll tell 'em we rob the
dead, I'll tell 'em...."
"For God's sake chuck it...."
"All right, I'll chuck it--I know it's no bloody good talking to fellows
like you. Go and get drunk, then, do as you bloody well please. That's
all you're fit for...."
He flung himself back into bed and wrapped himself up in his blanket and
did not say another word.
Garden City Press, Printers, Letchworth, Herts.