The Courage that Bears
The courage that bears and the courage that dares are really one and
the same.
At a certain period of the night it became exceedingly important that
the enemy should have no indication of the position of a detachment of
British infantry which had been moved up towards him. Unhappily a stray
shot shattered an arm of one of our men. In his agony the poor fellow
allowed a cry to escape him. Next moment, seizing a piece of turf with
his uninjured hand he thrust it into his mouth, where he held it in
position until he was able to crawl back through the lines.
Not less of the courage that bears was shown by Corporal Lancaster, of
the Coldstream Guards. He received an agonising wound, but was warned
by his comrades that if he groaned he would disclose their position to
the Germans. He endured in silence for six hours and then died.
If patience is a form of courage, those men were very brave who went
through the days and nights of marching that had to be done during
the retreat after the battle of Mons. "We were told if we fell out it
was at our own risk as we would be captured by the advancing Germans.
My feet were bleeding, the blood coming through the laceholes of my
boots." Even when they were marching men fell asleep. The Army Service
Corps had, at times, to work twenty-two hours out of twenty-four to get
food up to the men.
A Royal Medical Corps man who worked on hospital trains wrote: "Some
of the wounds are terrible, but the patients are very plucky. I asked
in one carriage how they were. The reply, though not a man could move,
was, 'We're all right, chum, our wounds are going on fine.' A few had
lain where they fell on wet ground for four days, as they could not
be taken away because of artillery fire. A man whose nose had been
hit said that it always had been too big. A chap who had been wounded
twenty-five times, said to a chum when the train was starting, 'Buck
up, Jack, I'll meet you in Berlin for Christmas dinner.'"
Soldiers who have got bad wounds often speak of them as "mere
scratches." They are plucky and do not want to annoy other people.
If indeed they groaned and whimpered they would be told by their
comrades to "shut up" and "make less row." A friend of the writer who
is a Chaplain to the Forces, speaking of the wounded after a battle,
wrote: "But, oh, the patient endurance of these men. I would not have
conceived it possible that they should have borne what they did bear
so absolutely without complaint--nay, not only without complaint or
murmuring, but with an unaffected gratefulness for not being worse,
and for having escaped at all. They get their wounds dressed, take
chloroform, give consent to have their limbs amputated just as if they
were going to have their hair cut."
"Give them a cigarette and let them grip the operating table, and they
will stick anything until they practically collapse," wrote Corporal
Stewart, R.A.M.C., in a letter from the front referring to the British
wounded.
A private of the Royal Munster Fusiliers did not mind a shrapnel wound
in his left arm, but deeply repined that it had taken off a tattooed
butterfly, which had long been his pride and joy. He consoled himself
with the elaborate tattoos on the other arm--"But the loike of that
butterfly I shall niver see agin," was his sad reflection.
"What gets over me," a soldier who had been shot in the foot remarked,
"is how it ain't done more damage to my boot!"
And wounded soldiers are most grateful for any attention that is shown
to them. An Irishman who was brought into a hospital a mere wreck,
after being washed, shaved and put between sheets told his nurse that
he could not "sleep for comfort," and then asked, "How can I thank you
enough for what you have done for me? There's no use praying for you,
for there is a place in Heaven reserved for the likes of you."
Of a nurse in a French hospital, which was a church, a British soldier
wrote: "If ever anyone deserved a front seat in Heaven she did. God
bless her! She has the prayers and all the love the remnants of the
Fourth Division can give her."
How Ruskin would have appreciated the gratitude of a man of the
Lancashire Fusiliers of whom a sergeant of the 5th Lancers wrote: "He
had two ghastly wounds in his breast, and I thought he was booked
through. He was quietly reading a little edition of Ruskin's 'Crown of
Wild Olive,' and seemed to be enjoying it immensely. As I chatted with
him for a few minutes he told me that this little book had been his
companion all through, and that when he died he wanted it to be buried
with him. His end came next day, and we buried the book with him."
War is not always exciting, but frequently monotonous, tedious and
painful. All this is taken as in the day's work. "Sore feet are the
great trouble, most of us being a bit lame. We also get sore hips
from sleeping and lying so much on the ground.... But don't imagine
there are funkers. The first time we were in action most of us were a
bit trembly, but soon the nerves got in hand, and our officers hadn't
much use for their 'Steady, boys.' What gets at you is not being able
to come to close quarters and fight man to man. As a fact, we see very
little of the enemy, but blaze away at the given range and trust to
Providence. For that matter we see very little of our own fellows,
and only know by the ambulance men passing through our lines what
regiments are near us. For hours we stick on one spot, and see nothing
but smoke, and something like a football crowd swaying half a mile off.
Our grub department works well, as we have not moved very rapidly, but
it sometimes happens that outlying companies, and even regiments, lose
touch of their kitchens for a day or even more. There has been some
trouble caused by one lot collaring the rations meant for another, but
that is bound to happen, even on manœuvres. It is all in a lifetime.
Keep smiling. That's the way to win the game."
One of the 3rd Hussars wrote: "The work out here is very stiff; in
fact, the Shop Hours Act doesn't come anywhere near it. We go out early
in the morning and about the following week we think of coming in for a
sleep. You would be surprised if you were to see how cheerful all our
troops are."
A soldier wrote to his wife: "After what I have gone through if I ever
get home from the war I shall never grumble at meals or care where
I sleep." Surely the thought of the hardships and wounds which our
soldiers bore so bravely should cure our "nerves" and give us a little
of their courage to bear.
Writing from an ambulance, Percy Higgins, of the Royal Medical Corps,
said: "It is surprising to me that anybody should ever complain of
ordinary aches and pains when you see men here with legs and parts of
their bodies plastered up in plaster of paris, quietly reading and
telling you they feel grand."