It is the effigy of Christ which is usually seen in wayside

Transcriber's note:

This version of the text cannot represent certain typographical

effects.

Italics are delimited with the '_' character as _italic_.

The illustrations with a caption have been replaced with

[Illustration: caption].

The few minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected.

Please see the transcriber's note at the end of this text for details

regarding the handling of any textual issues encountered during its

preparation.

NEWS FROM NO MAN'S LAND

[Illustration: "Now they begin to return."

(See page 60.) ]

NEWS FROM

NO MAN'S LAND

BY

JAMES GREEN

SENIOR CHAPLAIN THE AUSTRALIAN IMPERIAL FORCE

WITH INTRODUCTION BY

LIEUT.-GEN. SIR W. R. BIRDWOOD,

K.C.S.I., K.C.M.G., C.B., C.I.E., D.S.O.

LONDON

CHARLES H. KELLY

25-35 CITY ROAD, AND 26 PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.

First Edition, 1917

INTRODUCTION

I am indebted to the Rev. James Green for the privilege of writing an

introduction to his book, in which he gives a lucid and interesting

description of the life of our gallant soldiers of the A.I.F. In his

capacity as one of our Chaplains to the Force, all of whom have done

such noble work during the war, he has been able to enjoy a close

personal touch with our men—more particularly perhaps at Gallipoli; the

record of his sympathetic observation and experience will, I am sure, be

heartily welcomed by all who are interested in the welfare of the A.I.F.

Previous publications have, I know, chronicled the incidents of our

campaign in Egypt and on the Gallipoli Peninsula—deeds in which the

greatest courage, determination, and self-sacrifice have been displayed

by our men from the Southern Seas, many of whom, alas! have made the

supreme sacrifice in the cause of Justice and Freedom. Chaplain Green's

work will, however, be an interesting sequel in that he describes what

one may call our second phase of operations on the Western Front.

Here, in France, our Australian troops have continued to show that

magnificent bravery and spirit which has enabled them to undergo

cheerfully the severest hardships, and even to enhance their fine

reputation as soldiers, which now stands second to none in this huge

Army. No words of mine can adequately express my admiration and

affection for them. I am proud to think that for nearly three years now

I have been privileged to serve with them, during which period they have

made traditions which will live for all time in the history of

Australia.

I wish all success to Chaplain Green in the publication of his book.

W. R. BIRDWOOD.

FRANCE, May 13, 1917.

FOREWORD

For reasons known to the men of the Australian Imperial Force, I am

always interested in meeting others who wear the green badge on their

arm. A good soldier is always as proud of the colours he wears on his

shoulder as the colours he wears on his breast. He knows that each

brigade and battalion possesses a soul of its own, and he is proud to

belong to his battalion and to worthily wear its colours. For these

reasons I ask the privilege of dedicating this book to the officers and

men of the First and the Fourteenth Brigades. Sister brigades they are,

from the Mother State; with them I campaigned, and for them I have a

proud affection.

Heroes of many a fight,--for those two Brigades will stand out specially

in Australian History, the story of the Landing at Anzac, the Battle of

the Lone Pine, Pozières, Fromelles, Bapaume, and Bullecourt. Some of the

men drafted from the First to the Fourteenth shared in the perils of

Gallipoli, and all are associated with the fighting on the Western

Front.

For them all, I wish that they may fight on to the certain and glorious

victory, and have the luck to return to Australia, the land of sunshine

and opportunity—there to help in building up the Commonwealth in harmony

with the principles of freedom for which they are fighting.

In spite of necessary suppression, or vagueness of names of localities,

my comrades of the Fifty-fifth Battalion, to which I was attached, will

recognize many of the incidents described, and I can only hope that

reading what the padre has to say may cheer them in some lonely places,

or help them to be happy though miserable in some indifferent billets.

JAMES GREEN.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I. A QUIET NIGHT ON THE WESTERN FRONT 11

II. NOTRE DAME DE DÉLIVRANCE 29

III. NEWS FROM NO MAN'S LAND 43

IV. THE BOMBER 67

V. ROMANCE AND REALITY 79

VI. THE GOD OF BATTLES 97

VII. THE CHIMNEY-POTS OF LONDON 121

VIII. HORSEFERRY ROAD 135

I

A QUIET NIGHT ON THE WESTERN FRONT

We marched along, the sun was high;

We marched along—the halt was nigh;

We marched along, a little parched,

It seemed we marched—and marched—and marched;

We sang a song, a little dry,

We sang a song, a halt was nigh.

The whistle blew, ah! welcomed cry--

'Halt!'--welcomed rest from wearied road,

With opened tunic, laid-down load;

Ah! welcomed rest with opened vest,

'Twere worth that strain to rest again!

H. H. V. CROSS,

London Rifle Brigade.

'A Route March in Northern France, 1916.'

I

A QUIET NIGHT ON THE WESTERN FRONT

We are getting near IT at last. We have started our march through the

quaint Flemish villages, past canals where long strings of barges,

painted grey, and bearing the marks of the wonderful Army Service Corps

of the British Army, are being towed steadily forward.

Occasionally, we march through good French towns, with their fine

churches and cathedrals. We hate the pavé. It is hard for marching; but

we recognize that it is a great advantage to possess such hard roads to

bear the enormous War traffic of great guns and heavy motor-lorries,

proceeding constantly to the front. Our band cheers us up. We are proud

of it. The tunes we like best are, 'Advance, Australia Fair,' 'Australia

will be There,' and 'Bonnie Dundee.'

The women and children and a few old men come out to cheer and clap,

and, occasionally, we see some woman in black turn aside to weep. Is she

thinking of some brave husband or son who marched to the front just as

gaily as we are doing, and who did not come back?

But what rouses the enthusiasm of those stricken people is the

'Marseillaise.' When our band strikes up the martial strains of that

most wonderful melody, the old men square their shoulders and the boys

march bravely alongside us, and the whole roadside seems to be vibrant

with the fighting spirit.

I remember one little fellow with a crutch who, though a confirmed

cripple, hobbled in front of our band for miles. It was a sight which

made us forget that we were footsore and hungry. Away, behind us, are

the memories of the long train journey from Ismailia to Alexandria. Only

a vague recollection remains of our small fleet of transports sailing

the beautiful waters of the Mediterranean. We do sometimes think of the

reception we got as we steamed into Marseilles, with its statue of Notre

Dame guarding the seas from her eminence on the hill above. Then the

long troop trains and longer journey across La Belle France. A beautiful

country, 'worth fighting for,' is the verdict of many a stalwart

Australian from 'out back,' and from perhaps some little Bush township,

with but a church, a blacksmith's shop, and an hotel. Further out, of

course, there was a race-course, and divided by miles there were the

stations and farms, but it was a land of magnificent distances. Here,

however, there is intensive cultivation, and towns close to each other.

A pleasant land of beautiful trees and rivers, and grass of greenness

new to us. But we are getting closer to the desolation of war, closer to

the valley of decision.

By and by we rest in a small village, and it is Sunday. The church bells

are ringing, and as I have made elaborate arrangements for church

parades, I am looking forward to a good padre's day.

The brigadier, however, cancels everything. 'Sorry, padre, the men are

going to be "gassed" this morning, but not by you.' They are, and they

look very uncanny manœuvring there in the fields with gas-helmets on. No

one is harmed by the gas, and they learn that it is possible to live and

move under gas. But I am sure they would have preferred my gas for once.

I am billeted with a very nice family here; and as the daughter is quite

charming, I have many visits from the younger officers. I did not know I

was so popular with them. Mademoiselle has learnt to speak English quite

well.

'Don't you like Australians best of all?' said Lieutenant Gallant, with

a languishing look to mademoiselle.

'We have many good soldiers here; English (they do not say much);

Scotch—very good men; they speak more, and ask if there is any place

where they can buy whisky. I like them all, and I do like Australians

best.' The gallant lieutenant beams with joy; but she continues archly,

'Because I always like those best who come last.'

Now the battalion is formed up to march. My batman says to mademoiselle:

'You are very sorry we are going, aren't you?'

'But, yes,' and one could see it was real sorrow.

'I know why,' I ventured to say. 'It is Sunday, and to-day you would

have worn your beautiful dress.'

'Ah, _oui_,' she says sadly, 'you are very wise, and it is true. Come';

and she leads us into the house again, opens the wardrobe, and behold

the costume from Paris, _très chic_, the lovely hat—a creation; the

high-heeled boots, they are all there. Quite innocently she tells us

that, had we stayed, she, with many another fair one, would have 'made

promenade.'

Oh, what we have missed! and what greater pleasure they have missed who

would have 'made promenade' to the big church and along the quaint

streets of that beautiful village. We have seen them working in the

fields, on the railway, in the signal-boxes; but the brave women of this

village would have liked us to see another side of their life when in

their Parisian costumes they promenaded the streets with the grace which

seems natural to every Frenchwoman.

We have had the deep sound of the big guns in our ears for days now, and

we are getting so near that we have seen fights in the air. Our band

instruments have been packed away, and we are in our last billet before

'going in.'

It is afternoon, the day following. The whole brigade is on the move in

readiness to fight. The men march in file under the avenues of

poplar-trees. The points where the various companies enter the sector

have all been detailed, and officers who have been down to the sector

before act as guides. At a cross-road the colonel on his horse watches

the men break off for their different directions, and receives reports

from time to time; nevertheless, in the darkness, the transport which I

am temporarily with goes too far, and we have to halt for instructions.

By this time our guns are booming out. We don't know whether there is

some 'stunt' on, or whether they are merely firing to cover our

'changing over.' Some thousands of men are 'coming out' and 'going in.'

It is a difficult operation. The noise of shell-fire is great, and now

we can see the festoons of flares going up in the Hun lines. The

lieutenant has inquired, and he says we are right and must go on. I

don't believe it. I have been down the road and I saw a parapet. I wish

I had not come with the transport. They are so visible on the white

road. At any time we may be discovered and a machine-gun turned on to

us. The horses are getting restive. The doctor has kindly lent me his

horse, and it is jumping about. I seem so high up and exposed there in

the saddle, and yet I cannot hold the beast when I dismount.

The wagons, too, make such a distinct noise as they rumble over the

metal road. I agree with one of the men whom I hear declaring to a chum

that 'the whole bally thing is "no bon."' The men inquire, when a fresh

gun-shock is heard, 'Is that ours or theirs?' With a brave optimism, I

assure them that all the guns in action are ours. They take me for a

veteran, and say, 'It's all right; the padre says they are all ours.'

Most of the men who have been in action before add to their authority by

agreeing with me. But I have a shrewd suspicion that, like me, they

_think_ they are all ours, and I know they _hope_ they are all ours.

With a splendid audacity and tone of finality, reminiscent of my

cricket-umpiring days, I continue coolly to announce to every inquirer,

'Yes, of course that's one of ours.' At last a shell breaks on the road

with a vicious 'whiz-bang.' No one is hurt, thank God, but it was close,

and the horses are playing up. Amid the silence which follows, one of

our Australians cries out: 'Now, then, padre, what about that? Is that

one of ours?' Such a question, and at such a time, demands a moment's

thought. But I answer quite confidently, 'Yes, that's ours—now.'

Everybody laughs, but it relieves the tension. It is relieved more by

the fact that the lieutenant, realizing that we _have_ gone too far, has

given the order to 'About turn,' and we are getting the horses and

wagons behind the bend of the road.

More inquiries. I've lost my faith in the transport. The doctor's groom

has come for the restless 'Rosinante,' and I'm free. If I am to get to

the Battalion Head Quarters, I must proceed 'on my own.' But first I

will turn into this little shelter, a forsaken dug-out covered with

stout beams and sand-bags.

Two of us light up our pipes, but a profane sentry draws near. 'Now,

then, you blighters, put out those pipes. You mustn't show the Huns a

light. Don't you know you're in a very dangerous place?'

It's all dangerous, but we didn't know that this place was specially

dangerous. I must make some inquiries of my own. I would have to leave

the transport some time. Why not now? I get into a long communication

sap. Like many another on the Western Front it is called Watling Street.

But it gives me a cue. I remember now that it leads into Convent Avenue,

and that, I heard them say, leads into Plug Street, and that is the road

to the Battalion Head Quarters.

I pull my tin-hat firmly down, and when the banks are low I crouch, for

the machine-gun bullets are whistling overhead, and all the choir and

orchestra of the guns on both sides are in full voice now. The Concert

of Europe has, by a metallic crescendo, reached its fortissimo.

The full diapason is out, but, as always in war, the _vox humana_ is

silent. There are little islands (traverses) in the communication

trench, and suddenly emerging from the sap near one of these, I nearly

bump into a sturdy machine-gunner I know well. He is a member of my

Church, a sweet singer in my choir when he is at home. And this is the

night for the choir practice, too. I see it now as in a vision. The

choir is gathered round the great organ, and the conductor raps out his

admonitions with the baton. They are practising one of my favourite

anthems, 'Send out Thy Light.'

'You must duck your head here, padre; it is a bad place, and you are not

supposed to loiter.'

But I must wait. I am asking myself, 'Are these guns sending out the

Light and Truth?' 'Yes, they are,' I say to myself. It is a quick mental

process, but I am satisfied with the conclusion.

We crouch down together and talk of the old church. He gives me more

information, and I press on again. I am talking to myself, a bad sign,

but the meeting and the memory has stirred up emotions not to be

stilled.

'We must have two anthems next Sunday,' I say to the conductor as though

he were present. 'First, "Send out Thy Light," and second, "The Radiant

Morn."'

I wonder if, after this fury, there will be a radiant morn for Europe;

not one that has passed away.

When wilt Thou save the people?

O God of mercy, when?

Not kings alone, but nations!

Not thrones and crowns, but men!

Flowers of Thy heart, O God, are they;

Let them not pass like weeds away,

Their heritage a sunless day.

God save the people!

A few more turns of the sap, and then I come to three trenches meeting,

and it is a dangerous spot, for shells are dropping close. But the

sentry, with bayonet fixed, is on guard.

'A hot place here.'

'Yes, padre, you can plop one any time here. I keep to the left side as

much as possible under the bank.'

'You're wise; and what are you here for?'

'Men of the "Fifty-fifth" are to be directed down this sap to the front

line, and men of the "Fifty-fourth" go down that, and by this you can

find your way to the Battalion Head Quarters.'

'Eureka! I've found it. _Bon soir_,' and '_bonne chance_, sonny'; my

present troubles are over.

Arriving at the Battalion Head Quarters, I find it to be a farm-house,

ruined beyond recognition as such. Kindly nature has covered it with a

screen of verdure, rendering it almost invisible. The cook is there and

his assistant. My kit has not come down to trolley-line yet, but the

major, who has been 'in' some days, shows me my dug-out, a mere hole.

Hours after the officers begin to turn up after various adventures. They

seem surprised to see me in first. 'Our padre is the limit,' says the

colonel. 'Chuck him into the centre of Darkest Africa, and he would

strike out for home.' They glare at me with vengeful jealousy, but they

have to confess I got supper on the way with the help of the cook.

Hot coffee melts them. It is professional jealousy. I tell them we ought

to have a few non-combatants to settle this war. We're good pals after

all, and I know they would not care for a padre who got lost; worse

still, they wouldn't want one who didn't _go in_ with them at all.

There's nothing like sticking up to these fine young fellows now and

again. Mutual admiration, tempered by strong opinions on irrelevant

questions. The colonel is jubilant because our battalion is right in now

without a casualty. Others, both going in and getting out, have,

unfortunately, not been so lucky.

Bed made at last. Fritz is still letting off fireworks.

Now to get to my dug-out. I walk quietly to the left behind a wall of

sand-bags, then going through an opening, I run smartly for the hole,

for machine-gun bullets are splitting the air. I have a bag in front of

my dug-out, and a sheet of corrugated iron to keep in the light. All

night long the guns boom, but you sleep all the same.

When we get our papers up a day afterwards, we read of this particular

night a neutral paragraph, headed, 'A Quiet Night on the Western Front.'

II

NOTRE DAME DE DÉLIVRANCE

From city homes—from country homes we came;

From mother's love and father's gift we came,

A wind most terrible blew o'er earth's seas;

It waved a smouldering ash, and blazed up war;

The smoke and heat of that great Hell drew us,

And from our lives we came to live, to live.

From sluggish routine, sluggish wrong we came.

From heedless walks, from ageing rust we came

--we called it life.

'Twas not! We came to live.

Out of the profound, profound we'll come, out, up;

Out of the deep we'll come, not from the shallows.

H. H. V. CROSS,

London Rifle Brigade.

'A Young Soldier's De Profundis.'

II

NOTRE DAME DE DÉLIVRANCE

At the gate of a ruined farm in our sector in Flanders is a little

chapel to 'Our Lady of Deliverance.' It is seventy years old. The

brickwork at one corner is broken down by shell-fire, but the ancient

picture above the altar, and the altar also, are intact.

What was the idea of the ancient proprietor in building this chapel at

his gate? for most of the wayside sanctuaries hereabout are dedicated to

our Saviour. It was a large farm-house, evidently the property of some

wealthy farmer. It must have survived the Franco-German War of 1870; but

it has not survived this, for the huge grange is a mass of ruins.

Perhaps the shrine is a recognition of deliverance during the first war.

Although it stands amid ruin to-day, the chapel is prophetic of a

deliverance which is in process of being worked out.

Near it there is a battery of field-guns, and in rear of it a battery of

'heavies'; in fact, all around there are guns, guns, and more guns!

They were hurling an avalanche of shells into the Hun lines when I

passed on a Sunday afternoon to conduct a service at a post in the

second line. What a horror of sound!

The Huns began to reply, and they sent nothing over but high explosives.

'Crump, crump, crump,' went the shells as they exploded, raising clouds

of dust and smoke, but fortunately missing all our batteries. To be

comparatively safe it was necessary for me to go by a way which avoided

all the targets the German gunners were aiming at. As though despairing

of getting our guns the Germans began to belabour our trenches with

minenwerfers, and soon the crash of mortars began to mingle with the

noise of our howitzers, field-guns, and machine-guns.

Thank God it did not last long. In ten minutes' intense bombardment in a

large sector like this hundreds of projectiles are launched in the air.

But we had the last word in this duel, and when it died down we were not

done. A flight of our aeroplanes droned overhead. They were going over

for the usual afternoon 'strafe.' There is some danger to pedestrians

from fragments of anti-aeroplane shells, for the Germans ceaselessly

bombard our 'planes, usually without any luck. They go right over the

German lines, probably carrying bombs for some depot or ammunition dump.

When they have passed, a different, a solitary aeroplane appears. The

'flight' was of battle-planes. This one is for spotting purposes, and a

single battery begins to fire in its direction.

The intense bombardment therefore gives place to a deliberate slow

firing of shell after shell in obedience to the observer above. They are

trying to get some special object, and 'registering' their shots for

future guidance.

At night-time this little sanctuary of Our Lady of Deliverance becomes

the centre of a scene which might be taken from some drama of the

underworld. Huge ammunition motor-lorries dash past with a reverberation

which makes the ruined walls tremble. They are delivering stores of

shell (largely made by the women of England) for the daily consumption

of the guns. Our Lady of Deliverance has many disciples among both

English and French women in these days; daughters of deliverance we

might call them.

Then very often at night-time the gun positions are changed, and by

immense efforts great howitzers are hauled into new pits. The Army

Service Corps must deliver its goods also by the light of the moon, and

from the front glide past the motor-ambulances with wounded and sick.

They are protected by a mesh of expanded steel, for they go right into

the zone of fire.

In this way deliverance is worked out for unhappy Flanders. Amid

thunderous roar of cannon, the rising and falling of star-shells,

rockets, and flares, of all colours and meanings, and the ceaseless

rattle of machine-guns, Our Lady of Deliverance is thrusting forth the

flail of retribution and the banner of freedom.

It is no sacrilege to ascribe our slow and sure pressure on the enemy to

higher and divine powers, even if we acknowledge, for our sins, that the

backward sweep of the awful flail smites us also. This would be the last

thought to the inhabitants of these war-stricken areas. To begin with,

they are a deeply religious people, and their religion gives them hope

and faith for the future. The Germans have destroyed their church but

not their faith. They have removed the altar from the ruins of their

once beautiful church to a neighbouring farm-house, and there they pray

to Notre Dame de Délivrance.

The same spirit is seen in the neighbouring towns and villages. In such

churches as are left standing you usually see the Union Jack and the

Tricolour at each side of the chancel, and always the statue of St.

Jeanne D'Arc is prominent, decorated, sometimes illuminated, and ever

the object of many devotions. It is this spirit which possesses the

women of France. Yet religion here to-day manifests itself in masculine

types, and even the Maid of Orleans is portrayed in the garb of a

soldier and with a drawn sword.

It is the effigy of Christ which is usually seen in wayside sanctuaries,

and they are not usually dedicated to Notre Dame. This is natural enough

in such a virile country as Northern France. The women, however, are

doing their share in working out the deliverance. Near this very

sanctuary you may see women and girls on the top of the haystacks

building them up. A soldier on leave is usually seen tossing the stooks

up, and boys drive the big Flemish horses in the lumbering old fashioned

wains, but all the rest is the work of the women, even to harrowing the

fields. The harvest is being got in right up to the guns, and the

soldiers are not allowed to harm crops or traverse fields. The heavy

traffic on roads by guns and army transport has necessitated a good deal

of reconstruction. The boys and the old men are doing it. How the women

can stay on and attend to the little shops in the villages at the front

is a mystery to us, for these shops and houses are being steadily

demolished by gunfire.

During one of our heavy bombardments recently I went into a little shop

to make a small purchase. The building alongside had been shelled the

previous week and had to be abandoned. The girl behind the counter was

obviously nervous, and she said to me in broken English, 'Too much

bombardment I do not like.' '_Tout Anglais_,' I replied. Immediately she

brightened up wonderfully. '_Très bon pour les Allemands_,' she said,

and went about her work singing.

A curious note amid this quaint Flemish environment of red brick and

tiles, interspersed with trees and grass of a greenness unknown to

Australia, is produced by the London motor-buses. They rush past with a

roar, filled with Tommies singing, 'Keep the home-fires burning.'

From one end of the line to the other every man has his job. There are

snipers, machine-gunners, trench-mortar men, bombers, signallers,

pigeon-men. This last suggests the pigeon service. Men who _know_

pigeons are chosen for this work, and they like it. In the stress and

strain of battle 'wireless' and 'wire' may break down, so pigeons are

trained by a daily service of duplicate messages. They have their

regular flights, and there is a constant service of cages being brought

up to the lines by motor-bike, and flights of pigeons returning to their

lots at stated times. We see the German birds flying back too, so that

man, beast, and bird have all been drawn into this great war. They get

very wise too, and the older pigeons fly low along the hedges and by the

avenues of poplar-trees to avoid gunfire. The pigeon-man follows the

commander into battle as well as the telephonist.

But most useful and enthusiastic of all are the observers. 'O. Pip'

observers' post is a place the enemy is always seeking to discover and

'knock out.' But they are cleverly hidden. The other day, however, one

of our men fell by his enthusiasm. He was directing gunfire on an enemy

battery, and by and by he got it. When the Hun gun position was hit he

forgot for a moment how precarious a foothold he had in his eyrie in the

spreading branches of a tree. 'We've got it!' he cried, standing up and

waving his hands. He fell out of his perch and broke his leg. He is now

rejoicing in a hospital. We must not forget the wonderful work of the

miners. They drive tunnels and construct weird 'bomb-proofs' and other

works, thus contributing their share to the coming deliverance in which

everybody at the Front firmly believes.

Yes, that little chapel is a parable and a prophecy. Itself intact amid

the ruins, it reminds us that although we ourselves are imperfect

instruments, our cause is good, and the day is surely coming when these

farm-houses and churches will be rebuilt in this beautiful countryside

and prosperity and peace will rule. Every gun-shot expresses our faith

and what we suffer in the price we pay for freedom and security which

shall be ours and for many long years our children's.

In the quiet days they brought their offering of flowers to this shrine.

To-day we bring our howitzers drawn by huge traction engines, our

field-guns, our mortars, our machine-guns, our rifles, and these are our

offerings.

More: from distant lands many thousands of miles across the ocean _men_

have come. Nay, they have been _sent_. They have been given up by their

women, for they are husbands, fathers, sons, and brothers. These men,

greater than they know themselves to be, are the living offerings at

this shrine, given to the cause of Notre Dame de Délivrance.

III

NEWS FROM NO MAN'S LAND

There's a zone,

Wild and lone,

None claim, none own,

That goes by the name of No Man's Land;

Its frontiers are bastioned, and wired, and mined,

The rank grass shudders and shakes in the wind,

And never a roof nor a tree you find

In No Man's Land.

They that gave

Lives so brave

Have found a grave

In the haggard fields of No Man's Land.

By the foeman's reddened parapet

They lie with never a head-stone set,

But their dauntless souls march forward yet

In No Man's Land.

H. D'A. B.,

Major, 55th Division, B.E.F., France.

III

NEWS FROM NO MAN'S LAND

'No Man's Land' is that bit of ground six hundred yards, and sometimes

only thirty yards, between our trenches and those of the enemy. Over

this disputed area we 'strafe' each other night and day. There are often

water-holes, even swamps, in No Man's Land, and both sides have a habit

of draining trenches into it. Wild flowers and even garden flowers grow

in this area, for it contains ruined farm-houses and orchards. Poppies

red as blood, lilies white as snow, roses, and blue cornflowers are

often seen there waving in the breeze, sometimes swaying before the hail

of bullets from machine-guns.

The birds sing oblivious of war here, but sometimes you see pigeons

trying to fly across. I say trying, because our men always endeavour and

sometimes succeed in shooting them. Why? Because probably they are

carrying spies' messages to the Huns which may mean death to us. We do

not want the enemy to know how we are distributing our batteries in the

rear, so we try to stop enemy aeroplanes or pigeons crossing either way.

As soon as daylight appears you will usually hear the droning of a swarm

of great bees humming their way across No Man's Land. They are British

aeroplanes, often flown by young men from eighteen years of age and

upwards. They never refuse a fight, and the best proof of their

efficiency is seen in the fact that fortunes are wasted by the Germans

every day in anti-aeroplane fire, in the vain hope of stopping them.

They often cross in ordered ranks, and go through wonderful evolutions

on their way—circling over each other like catherine-wheels, and looping

the loop as if in the joy of battle and contempt of the enemy.

Our airmen are the pride of the infantry. If you want to be cheered up,

all you have to do is to look up, and watch these adventurers of the

air. Many a stirring fight have we witnessed in the air over that

unowned terrain called No Man's Land. One evening we watched a fearless

observer making his regular circles amid such intense anti-aeroplane

fire that we trembled for him. By-and-by he began to fall, and we

watched his descent with our hearts in our mouths. When we saw that he

was going to land just in our lines, we raced madly to the spot. Some of

the officers, revolver in hand, thinking they might need to fend off the

enemy, were so eager that they forgot their _tin-hats_ which were really

more necessary. To make sure of him the Boches simply plastered the spot

where he had landed with shell-fire. Arriving, we saw him desperately

dragging the engine, which was intact, under a parapet. Then he took

refuge, and we congratulated him, saying he was 'very lucky.'

'Lucky, do you call it?' he responded. 'Why, they have ruined my

machine.'

Why, so they had!

There was a legend with us in one sector not far from Armentières of an

airman whom we called 'the mad major.' I don't know whether he was one,

or two, or three. Like the gun we called 'Beechy Bill' at Gallipoli,

perhaps there were several of him. All we knew was that we would see an

airman flying gamely among the puffballs of the breaking anti-aeroplane

shells of the enemy, and sometimes he seemed to get into trouble, and we

used to cry out, 'They have got him!' He would fall like a stone,

recover, fall again, and then when we looked for the awful end he would

skim low over the German trenches plying his machine-gun like one

o'clock. Good luck to the mad major! There was a method in his madness,

although we never knew what he was going to do next. Nor did the Hun. In

spite of danger and orders, we used to crouch behind the parapets

watching our airmen, and it was a tonic to us.

Of course at any time, and for long periods all the time, shells, from

spitting rifle batteries to 60-lb. projectiles from big guns in the

rear, are screaming and hissing over No Man's Land; and wherever you are

'you never know your luck.' Moral: Do not despise your tin-hat. It may

be uncomfortable, but it would be more uncomfortable to 'stop one' even

if it were but a fragment.

New monsters called Tanks have taken to moving across the debateable

territory called No Man's Land, spitting out flaming death as they go.

In short, all the accumulating frightfulness which we are learning to

use is being used to say to the Hun in tongues of fire and steel, 'This

is not your land; begone, and take up once more your watch on the

Rhine!'

But you wonder why we do not annex No Man's Land, and advance. The

strategy of staying here till the right moment comes is wise and humane.

There are fine towns and villages containing non-combatants on the other

side of No Man's Land. It would be but to mock their hopes to advance

unless we could sweep on everywhere. Nor do we wish to conquer in such a

way that every village is left in ruins. Here and there at strategic

points we may have to do that. It is not so much that we want to break

through as that we want the whole line to break. Meanwhile it is a very

hot and unhealthy place for Fritz.

Besides that, we are beating the enemy every day on this line. It suits

us. We have organized it. Here we have trolley-lines, concrete

bomb-proof stores, and many things that take time to build. Later, when

the right time comes, we shall cross No Man's Land at many places, and

it will become France again for ever. Until that time comes we cannot do

more than present our claim to No Man's Land. We do this frequently and

'in person.' Our patrols and scouts enter it nightly, and it requires

courage and craft to do this. Through secret sally-ports, over parapets,

and where the line has been damaged by shell-fire, they steal out in the

darkness, and the German sentries keep a succession of flares and

star-shells going to detect them. What hairbreadth escapes they have,

and what escapes the Hun sentries have; for sometimes they find

themselves very near to one, and they have to get back with their

information without raising an alarm if possible. Sometimes, however,

through a mistake, in the fog or darkness they get into the German line,

and they have to fight and escape amid following bullets. At such times

our men at the parapets have carefully to cover their return with

rifle-fire, and even help them over or under our defences back again to

safety. Young intelligence officers take many risks as they crawl amid

the hollows in No Man's Land, revolver in hand, in search of

information.

We got a few body-shields for our scouts in our battalion, and they went

out for a long time with a greater confidence. The protection they

afforded gave them a calmer frame of mind, which produced extra

efficiency. But we make more serious claims on this disputed ground by

our 'raids,' which occur in many places every night. The raid is a

survival, or perhaps a revival, of the old hand-to-hand fighting. It is

a curious anti-climax of science in war, of which there are so many

illustrations to-day.

In spite of long-range guns of great power and high-velocity telescopic

rifles, we fight in trenches close together, and we have got back to

grenadier days. Hand-grenades, rifle-grenades, and trench-mortar bombs

as big as howitzer-shells are tossed over to the enemy lines at the same

murderous distances as those at which Wellington's and Napoleon's

veterans fired at each other in Peninsula days.

The raid is the last illustration of our backsliding in an age of

science to the primaeval fighting instinct, unrelieved by the chivalry

of a knightly age. You may be sure there are no banners flying or

trumpets blowing, no heraldic challenge to warn the Hun that he is to be

raided. It is a form of frightfulness calculated to jar the nerves of

the most militant disciple of the gospel of blood and iron.

We were warned that our battalion, in common with others, would be

expected to raid the enemy's lines in its turn, and volunteers were

immediately called for. There was no lack of response. Then the men had

to go through a long and careful training, as those do who are out to

win a county football cup. In the rear of the sector they dug trenches

which were a replica of those to be raided. They did this from

photographs provided by our indomitable airmen. On this ground the men

were trained physically, and in the use of the special arms they were to

carry. Relay races to give them speed, crawling attacks at night to make

them wary and acquaint them with the 'lie of the land'; and added to

this, bayonet-fighting, revolver-practice, and all this again and again,

and in all sorts of light or darkness, until at last they were smitten

with a desire to 'get it through,' and a confidence that they could 'put

it through.' So much so, that two of their number who became due for

leave declined it, as they thought it was 'up to them' to be in the raid

after training for it.

At last the great day arrived. No one knew until almost the last moment.

When the raiders came up in two London motor-buses singing 'Australia

will be There,' we did not know them at first. They were a disgrace to

the battalion as far as clothing went, for they were clad in ragged and

dirty clothes from which all marks of identification were absent. Short

as the notice was, we had organized a 'banquet' for them, and even got a

huge three-decker bride-cake from a neighbouring village. We had a solid

meal of three courses, and you may be sure it was none the less hearty

because of the absence of intoxicants. Every one was cheerful, but there

was an undercurrent of seriousness and grim determination. The chaplain

had to propose a toast, and after he had wished them 'Good luck' and

'God bless you,' the men came up with apparent casualness to say a word

or two of intimate confidence not to be divulged in this sketch.

Then the men were prepared. They all wore aprons containing bombs; some

had rifle and bayonet, some clubs, entrenching-tool handles with

cog-wheels at the end—commonly called chloroform sticks—some bombs and

revolvers. Every non-com. had a watch set to divisional time and an

electric torch.

Amid a good deal of merriment they blackened each other's faces—not for

fun, but because white faces would be easily revealed under the white

light of the German flares. Then the motor-lorries came up to take them

into the sector, and with many cheerful wishes they drove away as jolly

as though they were going to a party. A motor-ambulance followed with

the regimental doctor, the chaplain, and the stretcher-bearers. Down the

long communication trenches we followed them silently over the

duck-boards, from which occasionally some would slip partially into the

water draining below.

The arrival at the front line is marked by a 'fading away' of the troops

holding it. 'It's me for my dug-out,' I heard one man say. 'It ain't

healthy with raiders about.' This is wise, because when the raid begins

the Boches will rain shells on No Man's Land, and then put a barrage on

or about the parapets to get them on the return. Now the raiders are

sorted out and put round the three secret sally-ports through which each

party will enter the 'verboten' land. The doctor inspects the special

aid-posts to see if all arrangements are perfect. Yes, the bandages and

doctor's kit are all laid out, and the A.M. Corps men at their posts,

and I and the doc., with an A.M.C. sergeant, repair to the main aid-post

to wait. It is three-quarters of an hour yet to zero time, but before

that many of the raiders will be lying out in No Man's Land in holes and

hollows. We try to read a bit, then talk, and all the time smoke.

Smoking has a curious psychological effect. It steadies the nerves,

makes you believe you are not perturbed, but there is no doubt that the

time of waiting is always the worst.

Every now and again we look at the watches. 'Quarter of an hour to go.'

'Yes,' says the doc. 'I expect some of them have crawled out now.' 'Ten

minutes to go.' You throw down your book. It is no good pretending to

read. For three days our gunners have been 'wire-cutting.' They have cut

the wire over a very wide front, but they always take care to cut it

where our men are going to attack.

Zero time is 9 p.m., and exactly on the second hell breaks out. Guns in

the rear roar out in fury. Trench mortars close at hand vomit forth

their missiles of death, and even machine-guns and rifle batteries help

to swell the crescendo of battle. The ranges are well known, and the

guns do their work without harming our men, who are now crawling

forward.

Our aid-post is a dug-out covered with steel joists and sand-bags; but

it rocks with the swish, swish, swish of the shells flying through the

air like hail. Now the Boche begins to reply, and every now and then a

'whiz-bang' bursts on the parapets. We can only hope that no high

explosive will happen to break on _our_ dug-out. Now the guns lift, and

the raiders get closer up. A frenzy of flares go up, and we are so

curious that we sneak out to see across No Man's Land. We cannot see a

man of our party, and we take that to indicate that the Huns, too,

cannot see them yet.

Now it is 9.10, and on the instant there is a silence as terrible as was

the fearful noise. The raiders are among the Germans now. They rush from

dug-out to dug-out bombing. Meeting Huns, they fight face to face and

hand to hand. German fire breaks out on No Man's Land, and occasionally

a rifle shot. Then, 'bad luck to us,' the Hun ceases to engage our guns,

and he puts his high explosives on, and just over our parapets. And this

is the time we must get out for our work, for casualties soon come back;

indeed a message has come to say that two are back. One man who has

brought a wounded comrade and himself has suffered a fall, injuring the

knee. As we run along the duck-boards behind the parapet we bend low and

listen fearfully to the crump, crump, crump of shells exploding behind

our line. The raiders have just ten minutes for their fighting. At that

time our guns will raise another curtain of fire behind them to keep the

Huns from a counter-attack.

They must not stay under our own fire. Now they begin to return, with

their eyes bright with the excitement of battle, covered with mud, with

a German helmet or two, with many stories of the fighting, and with

their wounded. The stretcher-bearers are out in No Man's Land seeking

others, and we have enough to do dealing with those at hand. We have got

most of them close up to the parapet, and the doctor has difficult work

to do under circumstances the reverse of helpful, for German shells are

landing in our lines pretty thickly. But when you reach this point in a

'stunt' you cease to think of danger; you are absorbed in helping. The

wounded turn to the padre as a friend and almost as a father. They

babble of their home folks, give you messages, and they hold your hand

tightly when they are in pain. You cannot stay with one longer than is

necessary, for others ask for you. 'Ask the padre to come' is something

which makes it worth your while to be with the men in battle. One man,

not at all young, gives me many loving messages to one whom I took to be

his wife. I send them all to Australia, and receive thanks from his

mother, who explains that her son was a confirmed bachelor. Another poor

chap has a slight wound; but it does not bleed, and he is so cold. We

heap blankets and new sand-bags on him and give him stimulants. But he

gets colder and colder, and just as the ambulance reaches the billets in

the village he dies of shell-shock. The wounded men are put on the

trolleys, and the stretcher-bearers begin to push them out of the

sector; and while they do so the Huns' shells fall all round. 'But who

cares?' That is the feeling you have at this stage. Now we have a

bother. Some of the raiders are not easily persuaded to start on the

homeward march up the communication trench. The special officer stands,

notebook in hand, ticking off the names of the raiders who have

returned. In spite of his assurance some want to go back to find chums

who are really not lost. Others seek excuses because they want to go

back for trophies or booty which they now remember to have seen.

One of our company is still missing, and a wounded man tells me where he

has seen him. As a matter of fact, things have quietened down a lot now,

and we have virtual possession of No Man's Land; the Huns have hidden.

They are satisfied to sprinkle our sector with shells in the hope of

getting returning men. But our stretcher-bearers are indignant at the

idea of my attempting to get the lost man. Securing my information, they

go into No Man's Land and find him. We still have a number of less

seriously wounded men behind the parapets. Everybody is talking of the

exploits of one of them. He is an athletic fellow whom the doctor is

attending. To counterbalance the pain he is suffering I congratulate

him, and suggest that he will probably get recommended for reward.

'No fear of that,' he says laughing. 'More likely ten days' C.B.'

(confinement to barracks).

'Why?' I inquire.

'Well, I shouldn't have been there at all,' he replies.

'I can't understand that,' I say.

'Well, sir, I'm not a raider at all; but when I heard the shots, I

couldn't resist, so I slipped over the parapet and into it.'

It is difficult to tell exactly what success the raid has had; but the

men seem to agree that with those they accounted for and Huns they found

killed by our artillery fire altogether twenty-five of the enemy were

destroyed. We have lost three killed in action, and a number of wounded

who will recover. One prisoner has been brought back, and he seems to be

a regular walking orderly-room for the number of official documents in

his possession. It may be but a small affair; but when we remember that

there were twenty-five raids the same night, it will be recognized that

we are not sitting down tamely and submitting to the German occupation

of any part of France.

Probably the British press will announce to-morrow, 'All calm on the

Western Front'; but we know that every night No Man's Land is the scene

of deeds of valour and self-sacrifice, proving that our men have the

fighting spirit of their fathers; and that apart from the clash of

material forces, in the great battle of spirits which is the ultimate

basis upon which a decision in war depends, we need not doubt the 'will

to victory' of our men. No Man's Land, with all its pathos and sorrow,

the grave of unknown heroes, the battle-ground on which many a brave

exploit is enacted which is unnoticed and unrecognized, is still the

pledge and prophecy of our final victory.

Now we must trudge back to the village. We walk about two miles in saps,

and then join the ambulances waiting on the road. You begin to feel

tired at this stage!

IV

THE BOMBER

'THE CALL OF THE BUGLE.'

The Bugles of England were blowing o'er the sea,

As they had called a thousand years—calling now for me.

They woke me from my dreaming in the dawning of the day,

The Bugles of England—and how could I stay!

The Banners of England unfurled across the sea,

Floating out upon the wind, were beckoning to me.

Storm-rent and battle-torn, smoke-stained and grey:

The Banners of England—and how could I stay!

O England, I heard the cry of those who died for thee,

Sounding like an organ voice across the winter sea;

They lived and died for England, and gladly went their way:

England, O England—how could I stay!

PTE. J. D. BURNS, A.I.F.

(Killed in action, Gallipoli.)

Son of Rev. ---- Burns, late of Bairnsdale, Victoria.

IV

THE BOMBER

We had a treasure in our battalion—a sergeant who knew all about bombs.

He liked them, and knew exactly how to treat them. Of course we could

not keep such a man in the battalion. He was manifestly called to the

vocation of Instructor for Bombing Schools.

They will never make a general of him—he is too valuable in his present

capacity. Besides, his grammar and pronunciation are not equal to such a

strain. The more lucid his explanations are, the looser is his control

of the aspirate; although that is nothing in these days, for I heard a

member of the British Parliament speaking the other day, and he---- But

that is another story!