FREDERIC WILLIAM WILE, one of the Vigilantes, differs with Sherman in
declaring that war is mud. He had just returned from what he describes
as one of the periodical joy-rides which the British Foreign Office
and the General Staff organize from time to time to give civilians
an opportunity to visit the front. Mr. Wile’s visits occurred when
the war-god was evidently taking a much-needed rest, for he says
that on two occasions when he intruded upon Armageddon he saw more
rain than blood spilled. But he found Tommy Atkins—mud-caked and
rain-soaked—still wearing the grin that won’t come off. Mr. Wile thus
writes of his last visit:
I am in to-night from a day in the trenches. It rained all the time.
The trenches were gluey and sticky, and the “duck-boards” along which
we traveled were afloat a good share of the day. But the only people
who used really strong language about having to eat, sleep, and
navigate in such soggy territory was our party of civilian tenderfoots.
The cave-dwellers in khaki whom we encountered in endless numbers were
as happy as school-children on a picnic. Clay-spattered from head to
foot, their clothes often wringing wet, they looked up from whatever
happened to be their tasks and grinned as we passed.
Our chief and always dominating impression was of their grins and
smiles. I am firmly convinced that soldiers who can laugh in such
weather can not be overcome by anything, not even the Prussian military
machine. Perhaps Tommy smiled more broadly than usual to-day at our
expense, for during our hike from a certain quarry to a certain
front line “Fritz” sent over whiz-bangs which caused us arm-chair
warriors from home to duck and dodge in the most un-Napoleonic
fashion, even though our gyrations were in obedience to nature’s first
law—self-preservation.
When you’re in a trench and a shell screeches through the heavens—you
always hear it and never see it—the temptation to side-step is the last
word in irresistibility. You have been provided with a steel helmet
before starting out on the expedition in view of the possibility that
a stray piece of German shrapnel may come your way. These helmets have
saved many a gallant Tommy from sudden death.
After you’ve heard a whiz-bang and find that you are still intact, you
ask: “Was that a _Boche_ or one of ours?” You experience an indefinable
sense of relief when you are told that it was “one of ours,” but you
keep on ducking in the same old way whenever the air is rent.
Yes, it is the invincible grin of Tommy Atkins in abominable
atmospheric surroundings and in the omnipresent shadow of death that
has photographed itself most indelibly on my memory to-day. But next to
that I am struck by his amazing good health as mirrored by his ruddy
cheeks and bright eyes. Certainly the strapping young fellows whom I
have seen are a vastly finer, sturdier lot, physically viewed, than
any set of men now running around the streets of London in citizens’
clothes. It is manifestly “the life,” this endless sojourn of theirs on
the edge of No Man’s Land, with the enemy a rifle-shot away.
You ask their officers what explains this hygienic phenomenon—this
ability to keep at the top note of “fitness” amid privations almost
unimaginable. You will be told that it is the remorselessly “regular
life” the men lead for one thing, and the liberal supply of fresh air,
for another. Then it is the simple food they eat and the never-ending
exercise they get for their legs and arms and muscles. They sleep when
and where they can, in their clothes for weeks on end, never saying
“How-do-you-do?” to a bath-tub sometimes for many days, though they
shave each morning with religious punctuality, even in the midst of a
mighty “push.” Cleanliness of physiognomy is as much a passion with
Mr. Atkins as his daily ablutions are to a pious Turk. You will go far
before you will find a cleaner-faced aggregation of young men than the
British Army in the field.
Should you have any doubt as to what the physical appearance of the men
tells you, and ask an officer how Tommy is standing the strain of the
war, he declares enthusiastically, “The men are simply splendid!” And
you hear from the men that the officers are “top-hole.” But all that
you will learn from the officers on that subject is:
Regulation No. 1, when a man gets a commission in the British Army, is:
“Men first, officers next.” An officer’s business, in other words, is
to see that his men are well looked after. If there is any time left
when he has done that, he may look after himself. But Tommy comes
first. That is why the relations between superior and subordinate
in the mighty Citizens’ Army of Britain are perfect in the highest
degree. Duke’s son and cook’s son are real pals. Class distinctions are
non-existent in the England that is the trenched fields of France and
Flanders.
“Just so we keep on livin’—that’s all we ask,” was the sententious
observations of a mud-clotted Yorkshireman who backed against the slimy
wall of a trench to let us pass. We had asked him the stereotyped
question—“Well, Tommy, how goes it?” His answer was unmistakably
typical of the spirit which dominates the whole army. The men are not
happy to be there. They long for the war to end. They do not put in
their time in the slush and rain cheering and singing. They hanker
for “Blighty.” They want to go home. But not until the grim business
that brought them to France is satisfactorily finished. They want no
Stockholm-made peace. They are fighting for a knock-out.
I left behind me in London a lot of dismal, gloomy, and down-hearted
friends, candidates all for the Pessimists’ Club. I wish they could
have hiked through the trenches with me. It is the finest cure in
the world for the blues. It may thunder and pour day and night in
Trenchland, and the country may be a morass for miles in every
direction, but the sun of optimism and confidence is always shining in
the British Army’s heart.