exciting for a minute or so, but I expect the Captain has been
pulling your leg no end. Yes, they smashed my gun. Yes, they hit
pretty well everything except me and my mascot--they didn't get that,
by good luck. No, I don't think a fellow would mind 'getting it' in
the ordinary way--a bullet, say. But it's the damned petrol catching
alight and burning one's legs." Here the speaker bent to survey his
long legs with serious eyes. "Burning isn't a very nice finish
somehow. They generally manage to chuck themselves out--when they
can. Hello--here comes one of our new machines--engine sounds nice
and smooth!" said he, cocking an ear. Sure enough, came a faint purr
that grew to a hum, to an ever-loudening drone, and out from the
clouds an aeroplane appeared, which, wheeling in graceful spirals,
sank lower and lower, touched earth, rose, touched again, and so,
engine roaring, slid smoothly toward us over the grass. Then appeared
men in blue overalls, who seized the gleaming monster in unawed,
accustomed hands, steadied it, swung it round, and halted it within
speaking distance.
Hereupon its leather-clad pilot climbed stiffly out, vituperated the
weather and lit a cigarette.
"How is she?" enquired the Captain.
"A lamb! A witch! Absolutely tophole when you get used to her." The
tophole lamb and witch was a smallish biplane with no great wing
spread, but powerfully engined, whose points N. explained to me
as--her speed, her climbing angle, her wonderful stability, etc.,
while the Captain and Lieutenant hastened off to find the Major,
who, appearing in due course, proved to be slender, merry-eyed and
more youthful-looking than the Lieutenant. Indeed, so young seeming
was he that upon better acquaintance I ventured to enquire his age,
and he somewhat unwillingly owned to twenty-three.
"But," said he, "I'm afraid we can't show you very much, the
weather's so perfectly rotten for flying."
"Oh, I don't know," said the Captain, glancing towards the
witch-lamb, "I rather thought I'd like to try this new machine--if
you don't mind, sir."
"Same here," murmured the Lieutenant.
"But you've never flown a Nieuport before, have you, eh?" enquired
the Major.
"No, sir, but--"
"Nor you either, C.?"
"No, sir, still--"
"Then I'll try her myself," said the Major, regarding the witch-lamb
joyous-eyed.
"But," demurred the Captain, "I was rather under the impression
you'd never flown one either."
"I haven't--yet," laughed the Major, and hasted away for his coat and
helmet.
"Can you beat that?" exclaimed the Lieutenant.
The Captain sighed and went to aid the Major into his leathern
armour. Lightly and joyously the youthful Major climbed into the
machine and sat awhile to examine and remark upon its unfamiliar
features, while a sturdy mechanic stood at the propeller ready to
start the engine.
"By the way," said he, turning to address me. "You're staying to
luncheon, of course?"
"I'm afraid we can't," answered our Intelligence Officer.
"Oh, but you must--I've ordered soup! Right-oh!" he called to his
mechanician; the engine hummed, thundered, and roaring, cast back
upon us a very gale of wind; the witch-lamb moved, slid forward over
the grass, and gathering speed, lifted six inches, a yard, ten
yards--and was in flight.
"Can you beat that?" exclaimed the Captain enthusiastically, "lifted
her clean away!"
"I rather fancy he's about as good as they're made!" observed the
Lieutenant. Meanwhile, the witch-lamb soared up and up straight as an
arrow; up she climbed, growing rapidly less until she was a gnat
against a background of fleecy cloud and the roar of the engine had
diminished to a whine; up and up until she was a speck--until the
clouds had swallowed her altogether.
"Pity it isn't clear!" said the Captain. "I rather fancy you'd have
seen some real flying. By the way, they're going to practise at the
targets--might interest you. Care to see?"
The targets were about a yard square and, as I watched, an aeroplane
rose, wheeling high above them. All at once the hum of the engine was
lost in the sharp, fierce rattle of a machine gun; and ever as the
biplane banked and wheeled the machine gun crackled. From every angle
and from every point of the compass these bullets were aimed, and
examining the targets afterwards I was amazed to see how many hits
had been registered.
After this they brought me to the workshops where many mechanics were
busied; they showed me, among other grim relics, C.'s broken machine
gun and perforated cartridge tray. They told me many stories of
daring deeds performed by other members of the squadron, but when I
asked them to describe their own experiences, I found them diffident
and monosyllabic.
"Hallo!" exclaimed C., as we stepped out into the air, "here comes
the Major. He's in that cloud--know the sound of his engine." Sure
enough, out from a low-lying cloud-bank he came, wheeling in short
spirals, plunging earthward.
Down sank the aeroplane, the roaring engine fell silent, roared
again, and she sped towards us, her wheels within a foot or so of
earth. Finally they touched, the engine stopped and the witch-lamb
pulled up within a few feet of us. Hereupon the Major waved a
gauntleted hand to us.
"Must stop to lunch," he cried, "I've ordered soup, you know."
But this being impossible, we perforce said good-by to these
warm-hearted, simple-souled fighting men, a truly regrettable
farewell so far as I was concerned. They escorted us to the car, and
there parted from us with many frank expressions of regard and stood
side by side to watch us out of sight.
"Yesterday there was much aerial activity on our front.
"Depots were successfully bombed and five enemy machines were forced
to descend, three of them in flames. Four of ours did not return."
I shall never read these oft recurring lines in the communiques
without thinking of those three youthful figures, so full of life and
the joy of life, who watched us depart that dull and cloudy morning.
Here is just one other story dealing with three seasoned
air-fighters, veterans of many deadly combats high above the clouds,
each of whom has more than one victory to his credit, and whose
combined ages total up to sixty or thereabouts. We will call them X.,
Y. and Z. Now X. is an American, Y. is an Englishman, whose
peach-like countenance yet bears the newly healed scar of a bullet
wound, and Z. is an Afrikander. Here begins the story:
Upon a certain day of wind, rain and cloud, news came that the Boches
were massing behind their lines for an attack, whereupon X., Y. and
Z. were ordered to go up and verify this. Gaily enough they started
despite unfavourable weather conditions. The clouds were low, very
low, but they must fly lower, so, at an altitude varying from fifteen
hundred to a bare thousand feet, they crossed the German lines, Y.
and Z. flying wing and wing behind X.'s tail. All at once "Archie"
spoke, a whole battery of anti-aircraft guns filled the air with
smoke and whistling bullets--away went X.'s propeller and his machine
was hurled upside down; immediately Y. and Z. rose. By marvellous
pilotage X. managed to right his crippled machine and began, of
course, to fall; promptly Y. and Z. descended. It is, I believe, an
unwritten law in the Air Service never to desert a comrade until he
is seen to be completely "done for"--hence Y. and Z.'s hawk-like
swoop from the clouds to draw the fire of the battery from their
stricken companion. Down they plunged through the battery smoke,
firing their machine guns point-blank as they came; and so, wheeling
in long spirals, their guns crackling viciously, they mounted again
and soared cloudward together, but, there among the clouds and in
comparative safety, Z. developed engine trouble. Their ruse had
served, however, and X. had contrived to bring his shattered biplane
to earth safely behind the British lines. Meanwhile Y. and Z.
continued on toward their objective, but Z.'s engine trouble becoming
chronic, he fell behind more and more, and finally, leaving Y. to
carry on alone, was forced to turn back. And now it was that, in the
mists ahead, he beheld another machine which, coming swiftly down
upon him, proved to be a German, who, mounting above him, promptly
opened fire. Z., struggling with his baulking engine, had his hands
pretty full; moreover his opponent, owing to greater speed, could
attack him from precisely what angle he chose. So they wheeled and
flew, Z. endeavouring to bring his gun to bear, the German keeping
skilfully out of range, now above him, now below, but ever and always
behind. Thus the Boche flying on Z.'s tail had him at his mercy; a
bullet ripped his sleeve, another smashed his speedometer, yet
another broke his gauge--slowly and by degrees nearly all Z.'s gear
is either smashed or carried away by bullets. All this time it is to
be supposed that Z., thus defenceless, is wheeling and turning as
well as his crippled condition will allow, endeavouring to get a shot
at his elusive foe; but (as he told me) he felt it was his finish, so
he determined if possible to ram his opponent and crash down with him
through the clouds. Therefore, waiting until the Boche was aiming at
him from directly below, he threw his machine into a sudden dive.
Thus for one moment Z. had him in range, for a moment only, but the
range was close and deadly, and Z. fired off half his tray as he
swooped headlong down upon his astonished foe. All at once the German
waved an arm and sagged over sideways, his great battle-plane
wavering uncertainly, and, as it began to fall, Z. avoided the
intended collision by inches. Down went the German machine, down and
down, and, watching, Z. saw it plunge through the clouds wrapped in
flame.
Then Z. turned and made for home as fast as his baulking engine would
allow.
These are but two stories among dozens I have heard, yet these, I
think, will suffice to show something of the spirit animating these
young paladins. The Spirit of Youth is surely a godlike spirit,
unconquerable, care-free, undying. It is a spirit to whom fear and
defeat are things to smile and wonder at, to whom risks and dangers
are joyous episodes, and Death himself, whose face their youthful
eyes have so often looked into, a friend familiar by close
acquaintanceship.
Upon a time I mentioned some such thought to an American aviator, who
nodded youthful head and answered in this manner:
"The best fellows generally go first, and such a lot are gone now
that there'll be a whole bunch of them waiting to say 'Hello, old
sport!' so--what's it matter, anyway?"
XIII
YPRES
Much has been written concerning Ypres, but more, much more, remains
to be written. Some day, in years to come, when the roar of guns has
been long forgotten, and Time, that great and beneficent consoler,
has dried the eyes that are now wet with the bitter tears of
bereavement and comforted the agony of stricken hearts, at such a
time some one will set down the story of Ypres in imperishable words;
for round about this ancient town lie many of the best and bravest of
Britain's heroic army. Thick, thick, they lie together, Englishman,
Scot and Irishman, Australian, New Zealander, Canadian and Indian,
linked close in the comradeship of death as they were in life; but
the glory of their invincible courage, their noble self-sacrifice
and endurance against overwhelming odds shall never fade. Surely,
surely while English is spoken the story of "Wipers" will live on for
ever and, through the coming years, will be an inspiration to those
for whom these thousands went, cheering and undismayed, to meet and
conquer Death.
Ypres, as all the world knows, forms a sharp salient in the British
line, and is, therefore, open to attack on three sides; and on these
three sides it has been furiously attacked over and over again, so
very often that the mere repetition would grow wearisome. And these
attacks were day-long, week- and sometimes month-long battles, but
Britain's army stood firm.
In these bad, dark days, outnumbered and out-gunned, they never
wavered. Raked by flanking fire they met and broke the charges of
dense-packed foemen on their front; rank upon rank and elbow to elbow
the Germans charged, their bayonets a sea of flashing steel, their
thunderous shouts drowning the roar of guns, and rank on rank they
reeled back from British steel and swinging rifle-butt, and German
shouts died and were lost in British cheers.
So, day after day, week after week, month after month they endured
still; swept by rifle and machine-gun fire, blown up by mines, buried
alive by mortar bombs, their very trenches smitten flat by high
explosives--yet they endured and held on. They died all day and every
day, but their places were filled by men just as fiercely determined.
And ever as the countless German batteries fell silent, their troops
in dense grey waves hurled themselves upon shattered British trench
and dugout, and found there wild men in tunics torn and bloody and
mud-bespattered, who, shouting in fierce joy, leapt to meet them
bayonet to bayonet. With clubbed rifle and darting steel they fought,
these men of the Empire, heedless of wounds and death, smiting and
cheering, thrusting and shouting, until those long, close-ranked
columns broke, wavered and melted away. Then, panting, they cast
themselves back into wrecked trench and blood-spattered shell hole
while the enemy's guns roared and thundered anew, and waited
patiently but yearningly for another chance to "really fight." So
they held this deadly salient.
Days came and went, whole regiments were wiped out, but they held on.
The noble town behind them crumbled into ruin beneath the shrieking
avalanche of shells, but they held on. German and British dead lay
thick from British parapet to Boche wire, and over this awful litter
fresh attacks were launched daily, but still they held on, and would
have held and will hold, until the crack of doom if need be--because
Britain and the Empire expect it of them.
But to-day the dark and evil time is passed. To-day for every German
shell that crashes into the salient, four British shells burst along
the enemy's position, and it was with their thunder in my ears that I
traversed that historic, battle-torn road which leads into Ypres,
that road over which so many young and stalwart feet have tramped
that never more may come marching back. And looking along this road,
lined with scarred and broken trees, my friend N. took off his hat
and I did the like.
"It's generally pretty lively here," said our Intelligence Officer,
as I leaned forward to pass him the matches. "We're going to speed up
a bit--road's a bit bumpy, so hold on." Guns were roaring near and
far, and in the air above was the long, sighing drone of shells as we
raced forward, bumping and swaying over the uneven surface faster and
faster, until, skidding round a rather awkward corner, we saw before
us a low-lying, jagged outline of broken walls, shattered towers and
a tangle of broken roof-beams--all that remains of the famous old
town of Ypres. And over this devastation shells moaned distressfully,
and all around unseen guns barked and roared. So, amidst this
pandemonium our car lurched into shattered "Wipers", past the
dismantled water-tower, uprooted from its foundations and leaning at
a more acute angle than will ever the celebrated tower of Pisa, past
ugly heaps of brick and rubble--the ruins of once fair buildings, on
and on until we pulled up suddenly before a huge something, shattered
and formless, a long facade of broken arches and columns, great roof
gone, mighty walls splintered, cracked and rent--all that "Kultur"
has left of the ancient and once beautiful Cloth Hall.
"Roof's gone since I was here last," said the Intelligence Officer,
"come this way. You'll see it better from over here." So we followed
him and stood to look upon the indescribable ruin.
"There are no words to describe--that," said N. at last, gloomily.
"No," I answered. "Arras was bad enough, but this--!"
"Arras?" he repeated. "Arras is only a ruined town. Ypres is a
rubbish dump. And its Cloth Hall is--a bad dream." And he turned
away. Our Intelligence Officer led us over mounds of fallen masonry
and debris of all sorts, and presently halted us amid a ruin of
splintered columns, groined arch and massive walls, and pointed to a
heap of rubbish he said was the altar.
"This is the Church St. Jean," he explained, "begun, I think, in the
eleventh or twelfth century and completed somewhere about 1320--"
"And," said N., "finally finished and completely done for by 'Kultur'
in the twentieth century, otherwise I guess it would have lasted
until the 220th century--look at the thickness of the walls."
"And after all these years of civilisation," said I.
"Civilisation," he snorted, turning over a fragment of exquisitely
carved moulding with the toe of his muddy boot, "civilisation has
done a whole lot, don't forget--changed the system of plumbing and
taught us how to make high explosives and poison gas."
Gloomily enough we wandered on together over rubbish piles and
mountains of fallen brickwork, through shattered walls, past
unlovely stumps of mason-work that had been stately tower or belfry
once, beneath splintered arches that led but from one scene of ruin
to another, and ever our gloom deepened, for it seemed that Ypres,
the old Ypres, with all its monuments of mediaeval splendour, its
noble traditions of hard-won freedom, its beauty and glory, was
passed away and gone for ever.
"I don't know how all this affects you," said N., his big chin jutted
grimly, "but I hate it worse than a battlefield. Let's get on over to
the Major's office."
We went by silent streets, empty except for a few soldierly figures
in hard-worn khaki, desolate thoroughfares that led between piles and
huge unsightly mounds of fallen masonry and shattered brickwork,
fallen beams, broken rafters and twisted ironwork, across a desolate
square shut in by the ruin of the great Cloth Hall and other once
stately buildings, and so to a grim, battle-scarred edifice, its roof
half blown away, its walls cracked and agape with ugly holes, its
doorway reinforced by many sandbags cunningly disposed, through which
we passed into the dingy office of the Town Major.
As we stood in that gloomy chamber, dim-lighted by a solitary oil
lamp, floor and walls shook and quivered to the concussion of a
shell--not very near, it is true, but quite near enough.
The Major was a big man, with a dreamy eye, a gentle voice and a
passion for archaeology. In his company I climbed to the top of a high
building, whence he pointed out, through a convenient shell hole,
where the old walls had stood long ago, where Vauban's star-shaped
bastions were, and the general conformation of what had been
present-day Ypres; but I saw only a dusty chaos of shattered arch and
tower and walls, with huge, unsightly mounds of rubble and brick--a
rubbish dump in very truth. Therefore I turned to the quiet-voiced
Major and asked him of his experiences, whereupon he talked to me
most interestingly and very learnedly of Roman tile, of mediaeval
rubble-work, of herringbone and Flemish bond. He assured me also that
(_Deo volente_) he proposed to write a monograph on the various
epochs of this wonderful old town's history as depicted by its
various styles of mason-work and construction.
"I could show you a nearly perfect aqueduct if you have time," said
he.
"I'm afraid we ought to be starting now," said the Intelligence
Officer; "over eighty miles to do yet, you see, Major."
"Do you have many casualties still?" I enquired.
"Pretty well," he answered. "The mediaeval wall was superimposed upon
the Roman, you'll understand."
"And is it," said I as we walked on together, "is it always as noisy
as this?"
"Oh, yes--especially when there's a 'Hate' on."
"Can you sleep?"
"Oh, yes, one gets used to anything, you know. Though, strangely
enough, I was disturbed last night--two of my juniors had to camp
over my head, their quarters were blown up rather yesterday
afternoon, and believe me, the young beggars talked and chattered so
that I couldn't get a wink of sleep--had to send and order them to
shut up."
"You seem to have been getting it pretty hot since I was here last,"
said the Intelligence Officer, waving a hand round the crumbling ruin
about us.
"Fairly so," nodded the Major.
"One would wonder the enemy wastes any more shells on Ypres," said I,
"there's nothing left to destroy, is there?"
"Well, there's us, you know!" said the Major gently, "and then the
Boche is rather a revengeful beggar anyhow--you see, he wasted quite
a number of army corps trying to take Ypres. And he hasn't got it
yet."
"Nor ever will," said I.
The Major smiled and held out his hand.
"It's a pity you hadn't time to see that aqueduct," he sighed.
"However, I shall take some flashlight photos of it--if my luck
holds. Good-by." So saying, he raised a hand to his weather-beaten
trench cap and strode back into his dim-lit, dingy office.
The one-time glory of Ypres has vanished in ruin but thereby she has
found a glory everlasting. For over the wreck of noble edifice and
fallen tower is another glory that shall never fade but rather grow
with coming years--an imperishable glory. As pilgrims sought it once
to tread its quaint streets and behold its old-time beauty, so in
days to come other pilgrims will come with reverent feet and with
eyes that shall see in these shattered ruins a monument to the
deathless valour of that brave host that met death unflinching and
unafraid for the sake of a great ideal and the welfare of unborn
generations.
And thus in her ruin Ypres has found the Glory Everlasting.
XIV
WHAT BRITAIN HAS DONE
The struggle of Democracy and Reason against Autocracy and Brute
Force, on land and in the air, upon the sea and under the sea, is
reaching its climax. With each succeeding month the ignoble foe has
smirched himself with new atrocities which yet in the end bring their
own terrible retribution.
Three of the bloodiest years in the world's history lie behind us;
but these years of agony and self-sacrifice, of heroic achievements,
of indomitable purpose and unswerving loyalty to an ideal, are surely
three of the most tremendous in the annals of the British Empire.
I am to tell something of what Britain has accomplished during these
awful three years, of the mighty changes she has wrought in this
short time, of how, with her every thought and effort bent in the one
direction, she has armed and equipped herself and many of her allies;
of the armies she has raised, the vast sums she has expended and the
munitions and armaments she has amassed.
To this end it is my privilege to lay before the reader certain facts
and figures, so I propose to set them forth as clearly and briefly as
may be, leaving them to speak for themselves.
For truly Britain has given and is giving much--her men and women,
her money, her very self; the soul of Britain and her Empire is in
this conflict, a soul that grows but the more steadfast and
determined as the struggle waxes more deadly and grim. Faint hearts
and fanatics there are, of course, who, regardless of the future,
would fain make peace with the foe unbeaten, a foe lost to all shame
and honourable dealing, but the heart of the Empire beats true to the
old war-cry of "Freedom or Death." In proof of which, if proof be
needed, let us to our figures and facts.
Take first her fighting men: in three short years her little army has
grown until to-day seven million of her sons are under arms, and of
these (most glorious fact!) nearly five million were _volunteers_.
Surely since first this world was cursed by war, never did such a
host march forth voluntarily to face its blasting horrors. They are
fighting on many battle-fronts, these citizen-soldiers, in France,
Macedonia, Mesopotamia, Palestine, Western Egypt and German East
Africa, and behind them, here in the homeland, are the women, working
as their men fight, with a grim and tireless determination. To-day
the land hums with munition factories and huge works whose countless
wheels whirr day and night, factories that have sprung up where the
grass grew so lately. The terrible, yet glorious, days of Mons and
the retreat, when her little army, out-gunned and out-manned, held up
the rushing might of the German advance so long as life and
ammunition lasted, that black time is past, for now in France and
Flanders our countless guns crash in ceaseless concert, so that here
in England one may hear their ominous muttering all day long and
through the hush of night; and hearkening to that continuous
stammering murmur one thanks God for the women of Britain.