written letters in return after waking; and there was nothing to do now
except to relax and breathe, to renew the vitality that had been
expended in the fierce work where shells were still threshing the earth,
which rose in clouds of dust to settle back again in enduring passive
resistance.
There was much talk early in the war about British cheerfulness; so much
that officers and men began to resent it as expressing the idea that
they took such a war as this as a kind of holiday, when it was the last
thing outside of Hades that any sane man would choose. It was a question
in my own mind at times if Hades would not have been a pleasant change.
Yet the characterization is true, peculiarly true, even in the midst of
the fighting on the Ridge. Cheerfulness takes the place of emotionalism
as the armor against hardship and death; a good-humored balance between
exhilaration and depression which meets smile with smile and creates an
atmosphere superior to all vicissitudes. Why should we be downhearted?
Why, indeed, when it does no good. Not "Merrie England!" War is not a
merry business; but an Englishman may be cheerful for the sake of self
and comrades.
Of course, these battalions, officers and men, would talk about when the
war would be over. Even the Esquimaux must have an opinion on the
subject by this time. That of the men who make the war, whose lives are
the lives risked, was worth more, perhaps, than that of people living
thousands of miles away; for it is they who are doing the fighting, who
will stop fighting. To them it would be over when it was won. The time
this would require varied with different men--one year, two years; and
again they would turn satirical and argue whether the sixth or the
seventh year would be the worst. And they talked shop about the latest
wrinkles in fighting; how best to avoid having men buried by
shell-bursts; the value of gas and lachrymatory shells; the ratio of
high explosives to shrapnel; methods of "cleaning out" dugouts or "doing
in" machine guns, all in a routine that had become an accepted part of
life like the details of the stock carried and methods of selling in a
department store.
Indelible the memories of these talks, which often brought out
illustrations of racial temperament. One company was more horrified over
having found a German tied to a trench _parados_ to be killed by
British shell fire as a field punishment than by the horrors of other
men equally mashed and torn, or at having crawled over the moist bodies
of the dead, or slept among them, or been covered with spatters of blood
and flesh--for that incident struck home with a sense of brutal
militarism which was the thing in their minds against which they were
fighting.
With steel helmets on and gas masks over our shoulders, we would leave
our car at the dead line and set off to "see something," when now the
fighting was all hidden in the folds of the ground, or in the woods, or
lost on the horizon where the front line of either of these two great
armies, with their immense concentration of men and material and roads
gorged with transport and thousands of belching guns, was held by a few
men with machine guns in shell-craters, their positions sometimes
interwoven. Old hands in the Somme battle become shell-wise. They are
the ones whom the French call "varnished," which is a way of saying that
projectiles glance off their anatomy. They keep away from points where
the enemy will direct his fire as a matter of habit or scientific
gunnery, and always recollect that the German has not enough shells to
sow them broadcast over the whole battle area.
It is not an uncommon thing for one to feel quite safe within a couple
of hundred yards of an artillery concentration. That corner of a
village, that edge of a shattered grove, that turn in the highway, that
sunken road--keep away from them! Any kind of trench for shrapnel; lie
down flat unless a satisfactory dugout is near for protection from high
explosives which burst in the earth. If you are at the front and a
curtain of fire is put behind you, wait until it is over or go around
it. If there is one ahead, wait until another day--provided that you are
a spectator. Always bear in mind how unimportant you are, how small a
figure on the great field, and that if every shell fired had killed one
soldier there would not be an able-bodied man in uniform left alive on
the continent of Europe. By observing these simple rules you may see a
surprising amount with a chance of surviving.
One day I wanted to go into the old German dugouts under a formless pile
of ruins which a British colonel had made his battalion headquarters;
but I did not want to go enough to persist when I understood the
situation. Formerly, my idea of a good dugout--and I always like to be
within striking distance of one--was a cave twenty feet deep with a roof
of four or five layers of granite, rubble and timber; but now I feel
more safe if the fragments of a town hall are piled on top of this.
The Germans were putting a shell every minute with clockwork regularity
into the colonel's "happy home" and at intervals four shells in a salvo.
You had to make a run for it between the shells, and if you did not know
the exact location of the dugout you might have been hunting for it some
time. Runners bearing messages took their chances both going and coming
and two men were hit. The colonel was quite safe twenty feet underground
with the matting of débris including that of a fallen chimney overhead,
but he was a most unpopular host. The next day he moved his headquarters
and not having been considerate enough to inform the Germans of the fact
they kept on methodically pounding the roof of the untenanted premises.
After every battlefield "promenade" I was glad to step into the car
waiting at the "dead line," where the chauffeurs frequently had had
harder luck in being shelled than we had farther forward. Yet I know of
no worse place to be in than a car when you hear the first growing
scream which indicates that yours is the neighborhood selected by a
German battery or two for expending some of its ammunition. When you are
in danger you like to be on your feet and to possess every one of your
faculties. I used to put cotton in my ears when I walked through the
area of the gun positions as some protection to the eardrums from the
blasts, but always took it out once I was beyond the big calibers, as
an acute hearing after some experience gave you instant warning of any
"krump" or five-point-nine coming in your direction, advising you which
way to dodge and also saving you from unnecessarily running for a dugout
if the shell were passing well overhead or short.
I was glad, too, when the car left the field quite behind and was over
the hills in peaceful country. But one never knew. Fifteen miles from
the front line was not always safe. Once when a sudden outburst of
fifteen-inch naval shells sent the people of a town to cover and
scattered fragments over the square, one cut open the back of the
chauffeur's head just as we were getting into our car.
"Are you going out to be strafed at?" became an inquiry in the mess on
the order of "Are you going to take an afternoon off for golf to-day?"
The only time I felt that I could claim any advantage in phlegm over my
comrades was when I slept through two hours of aerial bombing with
anti-aircraft guns busy in the neighborhood, which, as I explained, was
no more remarkable than sleeping in a hotel at home with flat-wheeled
surface cars and motor horns screeching under your window. A subway
employee or a traffic policeman in New York ought never to suffer from
shell-shock if he goes to war.
The account of personal risk which in other wars might make a magazine
article or a book chapter, once you sat down to write it, melted away as
your ego was reduced to its proper place in cosmos. Individuals had
never been so obscurely atomic. With hundreds of thousands fighting,
personal experience was valuable only as it expressed that of the whole.
Each story brought back to the mess was much like others, thrilling for
the narrator and repetition for the polite listener, except it was some
officer fresh from the communication trench who brought news of what was
going on in that day's work.
Thus, the battle had become static; its incidents of a kind like the
product of some mighty mill. The public, falsely expecting that the line
would be broken, wanted symbols of victory in fronts changing on the map
and began to weary of the accounts. It was the late Charles A. Dana who
is credited with saying: "If a dog bites a man it is not news, but if a
man bites a dog it is."
Let the men attack with hatchets and in evening dress and this would win
all the headlines in the land because people at their breakfast tables
would say: "Here is something new in the war!" Men killing men was not
news, but a battalion of trained bloodhounds sent out to bite the
Germans would have been. I used to try to hunt down some of the
"novelties" which received the favor of publication, but though they
were well known abroad the man in the trenches had heard nothing about
them.
Bullets, shells, bayonets and bombs remained the tried and practical
methods there on the Ridge with its overpowering drama, any act of which
almost any day was greater than Spionkop or Magersfontein which thrilled
a world that was not then war-stale; and ever its supreme feature was
that determination which was like a kind of fate in its progress of
chipping, chipping at a stone foundation that must yield.
The Ridge seeped in one's very existence. You could see it as clearly in
imagination as in reality, with its horizon under shell-bursts and the
slope with its maze of burrows and its battered trenches. Into those
calm army reports association could read many indications: the telling
fact that the German losses in being pressed off the Ridge were as great
if not greater than the British, their sufferings worse under a heavier
deluge of shell fire, the increased skill of the offensive and the
failure of German counter-attacks after each advance.
No one doubted that the Ridge would be taken and taken it was, or all of
it that was needed for the drive that was to clean up any outstanding
points, with its sweep down into the valley. A victory this, not to be
measured by territory; for in one day's rush more ground was gained
than in two months of siege. A victory of position, of will, of
_morale_! Sharpening its steel and wits on enemy steel and wits in every
kind of fighting, the New Army had proved itself in the supreme test of
all qualities.
XVIII
A TRULY FRENCH AFFAIR
A French lieutenant arm-in-arm with two privates--A luncheon at the
front--French regimental officers--Three and four stripes on the
sleeves for the number of wounds--Over the parapet twenty-three
times--Comradeship of soldiers--Monsieur Élan again--Baby
_soixante-quinze_--An incident truly French.
This was another French day, an ultra French day, with Monsieur Élan
playfully inciting human nature to make holiday in the sight of bursting
shells. There had been many other luncheons with generals and staffs in
their chateaux which were delightful and illuminating occasions, but
this had a distinction of its own not only in its companionship but in
its surroundings.
_Mon lieutenant_ who invited me warned me to eat a light breakfast in
order to leave room for adequate material appreciation of the
hospitality of his own battalion, in which he had fought in the ranks
earning promotion and his _croix de guerre_ in a way that was more
gratifying to him than the possession of a fortune, chateaux and
high-powered cars. I have seen him in the streets of our town "hiking"
along with the French marching step arm-in-arm with two French
privates, though he was an officer. He introduced them as from "my
battalion!" with as much pride as if they were Generals Joffre and
Castelnau.
What a setting for a "swell repast," as he jokingly called it! A table
made of boxes with boxes for seats and plates of tin, under apple trees
looking down into a valley where the transport and blue-clad regiments
were winding their way past the eddies of men of the battalion in a rest
camp, with the _soixante-quinze_ firing from the slopes beyond at
intervals and a German battery trying to reach a British sausage balloon
hanging lazily in the still air against the blue sky and never getting
it. A flurry of figures after some "krumps" had burst at another point
meant that some men had been killed and wounded.
As the colonel and the second in command were not present there was no
restraint of seniority on the festivity, though I think that seniority
knowing what was going on might have felt lonely in its isolation. We
had many courses, soup, fish, entrée and roast, salad and cheese which
was cheese in a land where they eat cheese, and luscious grapes and
pears; everything that the market afforded served in sight of the front
line. Why not? France thinks that nothing is too good for her fighters.
If ever man ought to have the best it is when to-morrow he returns to
the firing-line and hard rations--when to-morrow he may die for France.
The senior captain presided. He was a man of other wars, burned by the
suns of Morocco, with a military moustache that gave effect to his
spirited manner. When my friend, the lieutenant, joined the regiment as
a private he was smooth-shaven and his colonel asked him whether he was
a priest or a bookmaker, or meant to be a soldier. Next morning he
allowed nature to have her way on his upper lip, the colonel's hint
being law in all things to those who served under him.
Every officer had his _croix de guerre_ in this colonial battalion with
its ranks open to all comers of all degrees and promotion for those who
could earn it in face of the machine guns where the New Army privates
were earning theirs. One officer with the chest of Hercules, who looked
equal to the fiercest Prussian or the tallest Pomeranian and at least
one additional small Teuton for good measure, mentioned that he had been
in Peking. I asked him if he knew some officer friends of mine who had
been there at the same time. He replied that he had been a private then,
and he liked the American Y.M.C.A.
His breast was a panoply of medals. Among them was the Legion of Honor,
while his _croix de guerre_ had all the stars, bronze, silver and gold,
and two palms, as I remember, which meant that twice some deed of his
out in the inferno had won official mention for him all the way up from
the battalion through brigade, division and corps to the supreme
command. The American Y.M.C.A. in Peking ought to be proud of his good
opinion.
The architect, tall, well built, smiling and fair-haired, with an
intellectual face, sat opposite the little dealer in precious stones who
had traveled the world around in his occupation. There was an artist,
too, who held an argument with the architect on art which _mon
capitaine_ considered meretricious and hair-splitting, his conviction
being that they were only airing a wordy pretentiousness and really knew
little more of what they were talking about than he. In politics we had
a Republican, a Socialist and a Royalist, who also were babbling without
capturing any dugouts, according to _mon capitaine_ who was simply a
soldier. It was clear that the Socialist and the Royalist were both
popular, as well as my friend, though he had been promoted to the staff.
Another present was the "Admiral," a naval officer, commanding the
monstrous guns of twelve to seventeen inches mounted on railway trucks,
who wrote sonnets between directing two-thousand-pound projectiles on
their errands of mashing German dugouts. He did not like gunnery where
he did not see his target naval fashion, but he had done so well that
he was kept at it. His latest sonnet was to an abstract girl somewhere
in France which the Socialist, who was a man of critical judgment in
everything and of a rollicking disposition, praised very highly and read
aloud with the elocution of a Coquelin.
While others had as many as three and four gold stripes on their sleeves
to indicate the number of their wounds, the Socialist had been over the
parapet twenty-three times in charges without being hit, which he took
as a sure sign that his was the right kind of politics, the Royalist and
the Republican disagreeing and _mon capitaine_ saying that politics were
a mere matter of taste and being wounded a matter of luck. Thereupon,
the Socialist undertook a brief oration rich with humor, relieving it of
too much of the seriousness of the tribune in the Chamber of Deputies,
where he will probably thunder out his periods one of these days if he
contrives to keep on going over the parapet without being hit.
A man was what he was as a man and nothing more in that distinguished
company which had gained its distinction by extinguishing Germans.
Comradeship made all differences of opinion, birth and wealth only the
excuse for banter in this variation of type from the tall architect with
his charming manner to the matter-of-fact expert in diamonds and opals,
from the big private of colonial regulars who had won his shoulder
straps to the fellow with the blue blood of aristocratic France in his
veins. The architect I particularly remember, for he was killed in the
next charge, and the dealer in precious stones, for a shell-burst in the
face would never allow his eyes to see the flash of a diamond again.
But let youth eat, drink and be merry in the shadow of the fortunes of
war which might claim some of them to-morrow, making vacancies for
promotion of privates down in the camp. Where Cheeriness was the
handmaiden of _morale_ with the British, Monsieur Élan was with the
French. Everybody talked not only with his lips but with his hands and
shoulders, in that absence of self-consciousness which gives grace to
free expression. They spoke of their homes at one juncture with a sober
and lingering desire and a catch in the throat and they touched on the
problems after the war, which they would win or fight on forever,
concluding that the men from the trenches who would have the say would
make a new and better France and sweep aside any interference with the
march of their numbers and patriotism.
We ate until capacity was reached and loitered over the black coffee,
with the private who had produced all the courses out of the dugout with
the magic of the rabbit out of a hat sharing in the conversation at
times without breaking the bonds of discipline. Finally, the cook was
brought forth, too, to receive his meed of praise as the real magician.
Then we went to pay our respects to the colonel and the second in
command. A sturdy little man the colonel, a regular from his neat
fatigue cap to the soles of his polished boots, but with a human twinkle
through his eyeglasses reflecting much wisdom in the handling of men of
all kinds, which, no doubt, was why he was in command of this battalion.
Afterward, we visited the men lounging in their quarters or forming a
smiling group, each one ready with quick responses when spoken to, men
of all kinds from Apaches of Paris to the sons of princes, perhaps,
while the Washington Post March was played for the American. Later,
across the road we saw the then new baby _soixante-quinze_ guns for
trench work, which were being wheeled about with a merry appreciation of
the fact that a battery of father _soixante-quinze_ was passing by at
the time.
Finally, came an incident truly French and delightful in its boyishness,
as _mon capitaine_ hinted that I should ask _mon colonel_ if he would
permit _mon capitaine_ to go into town and have dinner with my friend
and the admiral and myself, returning in my friend's car in time to
proceed to the firing-line with the battalion to-morrow. Accordingly I
spoke to the colonel and the twinkle of his eye as he gave consent
indicated, perhaps, that he knew who had put me up to it. _Mon
capitaine_ had his dinner and a good one, too, and was back at dawn
ready for battle.
It is not that France has changed; only that some people who ought to
have known better have changed their opinions formed about her after '70
when, in the company of other foreigners, they went to see the sights of
Paris.
XIX
ON THE AERIAL FERRY
The "Ferry-Pilot's" office--Everybody is young in the Royal Flying
Corps--Any kind of aeroplane to choose from--A flying machine new
from the factory--"A good old 'bus"--Twenty planes a day from England
to France--England seen from the clouds--An aerial
guide-post--Stopping places--The channel from 4,000 feet aloft--Out
of sight in the clouds midway between England and France--Tobogganing
from the clouds--France from the air--A good flight.
Personal experience now intrudes in answer to the question whence come
all the aeroplanes that take the place of those lost or worn out, which
was made clear when I was in London for a few days' change from the
fighting on the Ridge through a request to a general at the War Office
for permission to fly back to the front.
"Why not?" he said. "When are you going?"
"Monday."
He called up another general on the telephone and in a few words the
arrangements were made.
"And my baggage?" I suggested.
"How much of it?"
"A suit case."
"The machine ought to manage that considering that it carries one
hundred and fifty pounds in bombs."
On Monday morning at the appointed hour I was walking past a soldierly
line of planes flanking an aerodrome field scattered with others that
had just alighted or were about to rise and inquiring my way to the
"Ferry-Pilot's" office. I found it, identified by a white-lettered sign
on a blackboard, down the main street of temporary buildings occupied by
the aviators as quarters.
"Yes, all right," said the young officer sitting at the desk, "but we
are making no crossings this morning. There is a storm over the
channel."
Weather forecasts, which had long ago disappeared from the English
newspapers lest they give information to Zeppelins, had become the
privilege of those who travel by air or repulsed aerial raids.
"It may clear up this afternoon," he added. "Why not go up to the mess
and make yourself comfortable, and return about three? Perhaps you may
go then."
At three I was back in his office, where five or six young aviators were
waiting for their orders as jockeys might wait their turn to take out
horses. Everybody is young in the Royal Flying Corps and everybody
thinks and talks in the terms of youth.
"You can push off at once!" said the officer at the desk.
Of course I must have a pass, which was a duplicate in mimeograph with
my name as passenger in place of "machine gunner;" or, to put it another
way, I was one joy-rider who must be officially delivered from an
aerodrome in England to an aerodrome in France. Youth laughed when I
took that view. Had I ever flown before? Oh, yes, a fact that put the
situation still more at ease.
"What kind of a 'bus would you like?" asked the master pilot. "We have
all kinds going over to-day. Take your choice."
I went out into the field to choose my steed and decided upon a big
"pusher," where both aviator and passenger sit forward with the
propeller and the roar of the motor behind them. She had been flown down
across England from the factory the day before and, tried out, was ready
for the channel passage.
"You'll take her over," said the master pilot to one of the group
waiting their turn.
Then it occurred to somebody that another official detail had been
overlooked, and I had to give my name and address and next of kin to
complete formalities which should impress novices, while youth looked on
smilingly at forty-three which was wise if not reckless. They put me in
an aviator's rig with the addition of a life-belt in case we should get
a ducking in the channel and I climbed up into my position for the long
run, a roomy place in the semi-circular bow of the beast which was
ordinarily occupied by a machine gun and gunner.
"She's a good old 'bus, very steady. You'll like her," said one of the
group of youngsters looking on.
There were no straps, these being quite unnecessary, but also there was
no seat.
"What is _à la mode_?" I asked.
"Stand up if you like!"
"Or sit on the edge and let your feet hang over!"
We were all laughing, for the aviation corps is never gloomy. It rises
and alights and fights and dies smilingly.
"I like your hospitality, but not having been trained to trapeze work
I'll play the Turk," I replied, squatting with legs crossed; and in this
position I was able to look over the railing right and left and forward.
The world was mine.