Fashions at the Front
Sleeping out in the open in all weathers is rough on clothes, and our
soldiers had to treat themselves to new suits whenever they could
pick them up. A Highlander was rigged out in the boots of a Belgian
infantryman killed at Mons, the red trousers of a Frenchman, the khaki
tunic of a Guardsman, and the Glengarry cap of his own corps. When he
wanted to look particularly smart he wore a German cavalryman's cloak.
An Irish soldier complained that the trousers he had got from a dead
man were tighter than his skin. "I can sit down in my skin, but I
can't sit down in them trousers." Another said that he had been almost
equally unfortunate. His nether garments were so short that they made
him "look like a blooming boy scout." A trooper is reported to have
said that he did not get a pair of Uhlans' boots to fit him until he
had "knocked out six of the blighters."
The following is an extract from the letter of an officer in the Army
Veterinary Corps:
"The British soldier has done all right. He is a most curious
creature. When he goes to war he gives away most of his badges and all
distinguishing marks to the nearest girl, loses his hat and replaces
it with a chauffeur's cap or a felt hat, and by not washing or shaving
for a week at a time makes himself look like a tramp or a gipsy,
and as unlike a soldier as can be. He then--without the slightest
warning--proceeds to show that he is the finest fighting man in the
world."
The dress worn in the trenches makes us think of Robinson Crusoe. The
"Trench Kit" consists of a short greatcoat of goatskin, with the hair
outside, woolly Balaclava caps, and sandbags filled with straw for the
legs and feet.
Rifleman Roberts wrote to his wife: "We have all got nice fur
coats--'Teddy Bears' we call them--and they are all right, I can tell
you. I have just got a complete change of new underclothing, all
swansdown, and nice thick gloves and a scarf."
The Sergeant-major of the 1st Leicestershire Regiment said in a letter:
"A barber would do a roaring trade here, no one having shaved for
weeks. Beards vary according to the age of the individual. Mine, for
instance, is something to gaze on and remember. They are not by any
means what the writer of a lady's novelette would describe as a perfect
dream."
In a letter to his mother an officer wrote: "I haven't washed for six
days at all, as we have only one water-bottle each day for drink and
all, and I don't know how long it is since I have had a bath. To-day I
had my hair cut; you would faint if you could see it. It was done by
one of the battery cooks with a pair of very blunt, loose scissors, and
an enormous comb with all the teeth split."
A German bullet once did a little hair-cutting. It took the cap of a
soldier off his head and made a groove in his hair just like a barber's
parting. All thought that the German who fired the shot was a London
hairdresser.
A private of the 4th Middlesex Regiment found two pieces of scented
soap in a German haversack, and got greatly chaffed for using scented
soap on active service. The luxury of a bath was indulged in by a
company of Berkshires at one encampment. Forty wine barrels nearly full
of water were discovered, and the thirsty men were about to drink it
when their officer stopped them. "Well," said one, "if it's not good
enough to drink it'll do to wash in," and with one accord they stripped
and jumped into the barrels!
This was told of "wee Hecky MacAlister" by Private T. McDougall, of
the Highland Light Infantry. Hecky went into a burn for a swim, and
suddenly found the attentions of the Germans were directed to him.
"You know what a fine mark he is with his red head," says the writer
to his correspondent, "and so they just hailed bullets at him." Hecky,
however, "dooked and dooked," and emerged from his bath happy but
breathless.
A sergeant wrote: "I happened to find a bit of looking-glass. It made
a rare bit of fun. As it was passed from comrade to comrade we said,
'Have a last look at yourself, my boy, and bid yourself good-bye.' The
laugh went round; then 'Advance!' and we were all at it again."
"One man of the Life Guards was very particular about his appearance
(says Trooper Walter Dale, now at Newcastle-upon-Tyne), and even in
war-time always carried a little hand mirror about in order to take
occasional peeps at himself to see that all was right. I happened to
pass him on the field when he had been badly wounded. There he lay,
with the glass in his hand, curling his moustache. I suppose he was
anxious that when death found him he should be a credit to a smart
regiment. I had to pass on that time, but the next journey we intended
to take him to hospital. It was too late. He was dead, and his glass
was still clutched in his hand. His 'quiff' had been curled till it was
a beauty."
A _Times_ correspondent wrote: "Within sight of the spot where these
words are being penned the chauffeur of the General Staff motor-car is
completing his morning toilet in the open. After washing hands and
face in a saucepan, minus the handle, which is balanced on an empty
petrol can, he carefully brushes his hair with an old nailbrush, using
the window of the car in which he has slept as a looking-glass."
Another man had his toilet completed in a French hospital without any
trouble to himself. After being sent to England because of a wound
in his left thigh he told a friend that his finger nails had been
manicured. "'Shocking fingers,' the French nurse said, 'for a young man
to go about with,' so she brought a bowl of soapy water and a box of
tools and manicured (that is what she called it) my finger nails."
A corporal of the Coldstream Guards wrote:
"There was a chap of the Grenadier Guards who was always mighty
particular about his appearance, and persisted in wearing a tie all the
time, whereas most of us reduced our needs to the simplest possible.
One day, under heavy rifle fire, he was seen to be in a frightful
fluster. 'Are you hit?' he was asked. 'No,' he said. 'What is it, then?'
"'This ---- tie is not straight,' he replied, and proceeded to adjust
it."
A motor-cycle despatch-rider wrote: "I have just had a hot bath and
shave, and complete change of underclothing; the shock may kill me, but
it is a glorious feeling, and I am glad to say I have by the use of
iodoform kept free from vermin, which so many fellows suffer from out
here."
"I hung my shirt out all night to dry on a tree," writes Lance-Corporal
Laird, Royal Army Medical Corps. "At daylight I found that a piece of
shell had taken the elbow of it. Good job I wasn't in it."
Some of the shirts wanted washing badly. Seeing a man busily examining
his shirt, an officer asked him had he caught many. "Yes, sir," was the
reply, "I think there's a new draft come in."
Fashion demanded a clean shirt when an Army Service Corps man went to
a party. "We stayed at ---- four days. The inhabitants were delighted
to see us as they felt much safer. Little did they dream of what was
in store for them later on. A lady and a gentleman gave me and my two
mates an invitation to tea. They came down the lines to fetch us. We
made ourselves up as best we could under the circumstances. I put on
a clean shirt, washed, shaved, and had a regular brush-up. We arrived
at the house, or rather mansion, and were quite out of place, as we
thought, walking on polished tiles in the passage, with our big heavy
boots. It was a perfect slide. We took a seat by a big round table, had
wine, cakes, tea, cigars and cigarettes. To our surprise, this lady's
father was mayor of ----. The lady, whose husband was with his regiment
about eleven miles away, sang us two songs in English, 'The Holy
City' and 'Killarney.' It was a perfect treat to have one's legs under
a table to drink from cups and saucers. Next day we thought it was a
dream."