would have blamed in turn his eyesight, his digestion, his sobriety, and
his sanity before he allowed that he had anything to do with the
supernatural. He now tells, without the least semblance of a blush, that
he puts his faith in superstitions, and charms, and mascots, and that
his lucky sign has saved his life on half a dozen occasions.
Of all the many and weird superstitions that exist in the British Army
of to-day, the most popular has to do with the jar that contains the
ration of rum. Rumour has it that once, long ago, a party that was
bringing up rations for a company in the trenches was tempted by the
thought of a good drink, and fell. When all the rum had been consumed
the question arose as to how to explain matters, and the genius of the
party suggested breaking the jar and pretending that it had been hit by
a bullet. When the party filed into the trench, the waiting company was
shown the handle of the jar, and had to listen to a vivid tale of how a
German bullet that had just missed Private Hawkes had wasted all the
company's rum. Rumour also has it that the unsteady gait of one member
of the party gave the lie to the story--but this is beside the point.
From this little incident there has sprung up a far-reaching
superstition--German bullets, the men have it, swerve instinctively
towards the nearest rum jar. A few stray shots have helped to strengthen
the belief, and the conviction holds firm down nearly the whole length
of the British line that the man who carries the rum jar runs a double
risk of being hit.
Mascots and talismans hold an important place in the soldier's life. I
know of one man who used to carry in his pack a rosary that he had
picked up in one of the streets of Ypres. One day his leg was fractured
in two places by a large piece of a trench-mortar bomb, but, in spite of
his pain, he refused to be taken down to the dressing station until we
had hunted through his pack and found him his rosary. "If I don't take
it with me," he said, "I'll get 'it again on the way down."
And this is by no means an isolated example. Nearly every man at the
front has a mascot of some sort--a rosary, a black cat, a German button,
or a weird sign--which is supposed to keep him safe.
Their superstitions, too, are many in number. One man is convinced that
he will be killed on a Friday; another man would rather waste a dry--and
therefore valuable--match than light three cigarettes with it; another
will think himself lucky if he can see a cow on his way up to the
trenches; a fourth will face any danger, volunteer for any patrol, go
through the worst attack without a qualm, simply because he "has got a
feeling he will come through unhurt." And he generally does, too.
I once had a servant who used to wear a shoe button on a piece of string
round his neck. At some village billet in France a tiny girl had given
it him as a present, and he treasured it as carefully as a diamond
merchant would treasure the great Koh-i-noor stone--in fact, I am
convinced that he often went without washing just to avoid the risk of
loss in taking it off and putting it on again. To you in England it
seems ridiculous that a man should hope to preserve his life by wearing
a shoe button on a piece of string. But then, you have not seen the
strange tricks that Fate will play with lives. You have not watched how
often a shell will burst in a group of men, kill one outright, and leave
the others untouched; you have not joked with a friend one moment and
knelt by him to catch his dying words the next; you have not stood at
night by a hastily dug grave and wondered, as you mumbled a few
half-remembered prayers, why the comrade who is lying there on a
waterproof sheet should have been killed while you are left unhurt.
Besides, there are so many things which tend to make a man superstitious
and to confirm him in his trust in mascots and charms. Many a man has
had a premonition of his death, many a man has come through long months
of war, and then has been killed on the day on which he lost his mascot.
The thought of superstition recalls to me Joe Williams, the
ex-policeman. Joe Williams was a fatalist, and believed every word he
read in his little book of prophecies, so that the dawn of September 4th
found him glum and depressed.
"It ain't no bloomin' good," he grumbled. "It says in my book as 'ow
September 4th is a disastrous day for England, so it will be. There
ain't no way of stopping Fate." And when his section laughed at him for
his fears he merely shrugged his shoulders, and sat gazing into the
brazier's glow.
The day wore quietly on, and I had forgotten all about Williams and his
gloomy prophecies when a corporal came along to my dug-out. "Williams
has been hit by a bomb, sir," he said, "and is nearly done for."
At the other end of the trench lay Joe Williams, near to death, while
his comrades tied up his wounds. The glumness had gone from his face,
and when he saw me he signed for me to stoop down. "What did I tell you,
sir, about the disaster for England?" he whispered. "Ain't this a
bloomin' disaster?" and he tried to laugh at his little joke, but the
flow of blood choked him, and he died.
Perhaps, though, he was nearer the mark than he imagined, for it is a
rash thing to say that the death of a man who can joke with his dying
breath is not a disaster to England.
* * * * *
It may all seem intensely foolish to you, and childish; it may strike
you that our men at the front are attempting to bribe Fate, or that we
are returning to the days of witches and sorcerers. But it is not
without its good points, this growth of superstition. Man is such a
little, helpless pawn in the ruthless game of war, and death is so
sudden and so strange, that the soul gropes instinctively in search of
some sign of a shielding arm and a watchful power. The Bible, the
Crucifix, a cheap little charm--any of these may bring comfort to the
man in the trench, and give him the illusion that he is not one of
those marked for the sickle of Death.
A man who is confident that he will come through a battle unhurt
generally does so, or, if Death comes, he meets it with a smile on his
lips. The man who expects to be killed, who has no belief in some
shielding power--though it be but symbolised by a common shoe button--is
taken by Death very soon, but, even then, not before he has gone through
those long, morbid hours of waiting that breed the germs of fear.
The penny lucky charm that can bring comfort to a man in danger is not a
thing to be ridiculed. It may be a proof of ignorance, but to the man it
is symbolical of his God, and is therefore worthy of all respect and
reverence from others.
XVI
THE TEA SHOP
Baker came to me directly after lunch. "Look here," he said, "I'm not
satisfied."
"What's the matter now?"
"I want something respectable to eat. Let's go into Poperinghe and get a
properly cooked tea."
"It's six miles," I objected, "and a confoundedly hot day."
"All the better for an omelette appetite."
I thought of the omelettes in the tea shop of Poperinghe, and I knew
that I was lost. "Can't you get horses?" I asked.
"No luck. The transport has to shift to-day and there's nothing doing in
that line. I asked just before lunch."
The omelettes danced up and down before my eyes until the intervening
miles over hard cobble stones dwindled to nothing. "All right," I said.
"Will you go and get leave for us? I'll be ready in a minute." And I
went off to borrow some money from Jackson with which to pay for my
omelettes.
The church tower of Poperinghe shimmered in the heat and seemed to
beckon us on along the straight road that led through the miles of flat
country, relieved here and there by stretches of great hop poles or by
little red-roofed farms where lounged figures in khaki.
In every field grazed dozens of horses and in every lane were
interminable lines of motor lorries, with greasy-uniformed men crawling
about underneath them or sleeping on the seats. In one place, a
perspiring "Tommy" hurried round a farmyard on his hands and knees, and
barked viciously for the benefit of a tiny fair-haired girl and a filthy
fox-terrier puppy; and right above him swung a "sausage" gleaming in the
sunlight. Just outside Poperinghe we met company after company of men,
armed with towels, waiting by the roadside for baths in the brewery,
and, as we passed, one old fellow, who declared that his "rheumatics was
that bad he couldn't wash," was trying to sell a brand-new cake of soap
for the promise of a drink.
The sun was hot in the sky, and the paving, than which nothing on earth
is more tiring, seemed rougher and harder than usual; motor lorries, or
cars containing generals, seemed, at every moment, to compel us to take
to the ditch, and we were hot and footsore when we tramped through the
Grande Place to the tea shop.
But here we were doomed to disappointment, for not a chair was
vacant--"Not room for a flea," as Madame explained to us, and we had to
curb our appetites as best we could.
The tea shop at Poperinghe! Where could you hope to find a more popular
spot than was the tea shop in the early part of 1915? Where could you
get better omelettes served by a more charming little waitress?--was she
really charming, I wonder, or did she merely seem so _faute de mieux_?
Where could you find a nicer place to meet your friends from other
regiments, to drink coffee, to eat quantities of dainty French cakes? It
is not surprising that the shop at Poperinghe was always crowded by four
in the afternoon in those old days before the second battle of Ypres.
As patiently as might be, Baker and I waited, lynx-eyed, until two
chairs were vacated.
"Mademoiselle," we called, "deux omelettes, s'il vous plait."
"Bien, messieurs, tout de suite."
But we were far too hungry to wait, and before the omelettes arrived we
had cleared a great plate of cakes. After weeks of indifferent trench
cooking the first well-done omelette is a great joy, and, as I put down
my fork, I glanced inquiry at Baker.
"Rather," he answered to my unspoken question.
"Mademoiselle, encore deux omelettes, s'il vous plait," I ordered. "Nous
avons une faim de loup."
"Je m'en apercois, messieurs les officiers," answered our fair
enchantress, as she hurried off to repeat our order in the kitchen,
while a crowd of predatory officers glared murder at us when they found
we did not intend to leave our places so soon. "Some fellows are pigs,"
murmured one.
"That was splendid," said Baker when we started off on our homeward
walk. "But six miles is a hell of a long way."
Personally, though, I enjoyed those six miles through the dusk, for we
seemed to hear the hum of the traffic and the shouts of newsboys. Our
tea brought back souvenirs of England, and we talked of London and of
home, of theatres, and of coast patrol on the southern cliffs, until the
little low huts of our camp showed up ahead.
* * * * *
It is nearly two years now since Baker was killed. He was found gassed
in a dug-out on Hill 60, and by his side lay his servant, who had died
in the attempt to drag him out to the comparative safety of the open
trench. Nearly two years since another friend gave up his life for his
country; nearly two years since another mother in England learned that
her son had been killed in a "slight diversion on the Ypres salient"!
But it was thus that he would have wished to die.
XVII
"HERE COMES THE GENERAL"
A servant brought me a note to my dug-out:
"Come down and have some lunch in trench 35D," it ran, "in C Company
officers' dug-out. Guests are requested to bring their own plates and
cutlery; and, if it is decent, their own food. Menu attached. R.S.V.P."
The menu was as follows:
MENU OF LUNCHEON GIVEN BY C COMPANY AT THEIR COUNTRY RESIDENCE, "THE
RETREAT," 15/5/15.
SOUPS
Soup a la Bully Beef. Soup a l'Oxo.
FISH
Salmon (and Shrimp Paste) without Mayonnaise Sauce.
Sardines a l'Huile (if anyone provides them).
ENTREES
Maconochie, very old.
Bully beef and boiled potatoes.
SWEETS
Pineapple Chunks, fresh from the tin.
English Currant Cake.
SAVOURY
Welsh Rarebit.
I read through the menu, and decided to risk it, and, procuring the
necessary crockery, I clanked through fully half a mile of trenches to C
Company. The officers' dug-out was in the cellar of an old cottage which
just came in our line of trenches. The only access to it was by means of
a very narrow stairway which led down from the trench. The interior,
when I arrived, was lit by three candles stuck in bottles, which showed
officers in almost every vacant spot, with the exception of one corner,
where a telephone orderly was situated with his apparatus. I occupied
the only untenanted piece of ground I could find, and awaited events.
The soup was upset, as the moment when the servant was about to bring it
down from the outer air was the moment chosen for a rehearsal of that
famous game, "Here comes the General." The rules of this game are
simple. The moment anyone utters the magic phrase there is an immediate
rush for the steps, the winner of the game being he who manages to
arrive at the top first and thus impress the imaginary general with his
smartness.
The soup stood but a poor chance in a stampede of eleven officers, the
candles were kicked out, and a long argument ensued as to whose plate
was which, and why Martin's spoon should have gone down Fenton's neck,
and if the latter should be made to forfeit his own spoon to make up for
his unintentional theft.
Order was at length restored, and the meal was proceeding in comparative
peace, when, suddenly, Jones, who had not been invited to the luncheon,
appeared at the top of the steps.
"I say, you fellows," he cried excitedly. "Here comes the General."
"Liar!" shouted someone. But the magic words could not be allowed to
pass unnoticed, even though we were eating pineapple chunks at the time,
and they are very sticky if you upset them over your clothes.
A fearful scramble took place, in which everyone--with the exception of
Walters, who placed himself in the further corner with the tin of
pineapple--tried to go together up steps which were just broad enough to
allow the passage of one man at a time.
A conglomerate mass of officers, all clinging convulsively to each
other, suddenly burst into the open trench--almost at the feet of the
General, who came round the traverse into view of them at that moment.
When I returned to C Company's dug-out, an hour or so later, to try to
recover my plate and anything else that had not been smashed, I found
three officers reading a message that had just come by telephone from
Battalion Headquarters. It was prefixed by the usual number of
mysterious letters and figures and ran:
"The Brigadier has noticed with regret the tendency of several officers
to crowd into one dug-out. This practice must cease. An officer should
have his dug-out as near those of his own men as possible, and should
not pass his time in the dug-outs belonging to officers of other
companies."
"Here comes the General!" whispered somebody.
I got first up the steps and hurried, a battered plate in my hand, along
the trenches to my dug-out.
XVIII
THE RASCAL IN WAR
Even the most apathetic of us has been changed by war--he who in times
of peace was content with his ledgers and daily office round is now in
the ranks of men who clamber over the parapet and rush, cheering, to the
German lines; she who lived for golf, dances, and theatres is now caring
for the wounded through the long nights in hospital. Everyone in every
class of life has altered--the "slacker" has turned soldier, and the
burglar has become a sound, honest man.
Strange it is that war, which might be expected to arouse all the animal
passions in us, has done us so much good! There are among the men in the
trenches many hundreds who were, before the war, vastly more at home in
the police courts and prisons than is the average Londoner at a public
dinner. That they should be brave is not astonishing, for adventure is
in their bones, but they are also as faithful, as trustworthy, as
amenable to discipline as any soldiers we possess.
There was "Nobby" Clarke, for instance. "Nobby" was a weedy little
Cockney who became my "batman," or servant. He had complete control of
my privy purse, did all my shopping, and haggled over my every halfpenny
as carefully as though it were his own. Then, when he had served me for
over six months, I overheard him one day recounting his prison
experiences, and I discovered that he had been a pilferer and pickpocket
well known in all the London police courts. In his odd moments out of
jail, he would hover outside the larger stations, touch a bedraggled cap
with a filthy finger, and say, "Kerry yer beg, sir?" in a threatening
tone to all passers-by; his main income, however, appeared to come from
far less respectable sources.
And yet he served me more faithfully than I have ever been served before
or since, and I have seldom been more sorry than I was when "Nobby"
Clarke was hit. As we were tying him up--he had been wounded in eight
places by a rifle grenade--he signed to me and I stooped over him.
"I ain't got no one at 'ome as cares fer me," he said, "so yer might
'and me things round to the blokes 'ere. I've got a photograph of me ole
woman wot died five years ago. It's in me pay book, sir, an' I'd like
yer to keep it jest to remind yer of me." Then, his voice getting weaker
every moment, "I ain't been such a bad servant to yer, 'as I, sir?" he
whispered, his eyes looking appealingly into mine. And when "Nobby"
Clarke, onetime loafer and pickpocket, passed away, I am not ashamed to
own that there was a queer sort of lump in my throat.
And he was only one of many, was "Nobby" Clarke. There was Bennett, the
tramp, who was always ready with a song to cheer up the weary on the
march; there was a Jewish money-lender who was killed while trying to
save a man who was lying wounded in No Man's Land; there was Phillips,
who had been convicted of manslaughter--he became a stretcher-bearer,
and was known all over the battalion for his care of the wounded.
In every regiment in every army you will find a little group of men who
were tramps and beggars and thieves, and, almost without exception, they
have "made good." For the first time in their lives they have been
accepted as members of great society, and not driven away as outcasts.
The Army has welcomed them, disciplined them, and taught them the
elements of self-respect--a quality whose very existence they ignored
before the war.
There is an Italian proverb--"Tutto il mondo e paese"--which means, in
its broadest sense, "All the world is ruled by the same passion and
qualities." In the old days it needed a Dickens, and, later, a Neil
Lyons to discover the qualities of the criminal classes; now war has
brought us all together--the erstwhile city merchant warms himself
before the same brazier as the man who would have picked his pocket
three years before--and we suddenly find that we are no better than the
beggar, and that a man who stole apples from a stall is no worse at
heart than the inhabitant of Mayfair.
It is not that our ideas of greatness have degenerated when we call
these men heroes; it is not that war is entirely a thing of evil, so
that the criminal shines as a warrior--it is that these "outcasts" have
changed. Statistics prove that crime has decreased since the war began,
and crime will continue to decrease, for that indefinable instinct we
call patriotism has seized on all classes alike, so that the criminal
can make the supreme sacrifice just as magnificently as the man who has
"kept straight" all his life.
And the best of it is that this reform among burglars and beggars is not
for the "duration of the war only." War has lost us our sons and our
fathers, it has brought appalling sorrow and suffering into the world,
but it has given the very poor a chance they have never had before. No
more are they outcasts; they are members of society, and such they will
remain. If this were all the good that war could do, it would still be
our ultimate gain that the great scourge is passing over the world.
XIX
"PONGO" SIMPSON ON OFFICERS
"Orficers," said "Pongo" Simpson, "is rum blokes. I've got a fam'ly of
six kids back at 'ome, not counting Emma what's in service, an' I reckon
my orficer's more trouble to look after nor all the lot of 'em put
together. It's always: 'Simpson, where the dooce is my puttees?' or
'Simpson, you've sewed this 'ere button on in the wrong place,' or
'Simpson, the soup tastes like cocoa and the cocoa tastes like
soup'--does 'e expect me to kerry a bloomin' collection of canteens?
Don't 'e think it better to 'ave cocoa what's got a bit o' soup in it
than to 'ave a canteen what's been washed in a shell 'ole along of a
dead 'Un? Why, if we was goin' to charge to Berlin to-morrer I'd 'ave to
spend 'arf the night cleanin' 'is boots and buttons.
"Yes, 'e's a funny sort o' bloke, my orficer, but, my Gawd!"--and here
Simpson expectorated to give emphasis to his statement--"I'd foller 'im
against a crowd of 'Uns, or a lot of wimmen what's waiting for their
'usbands what ain't come 'ome at three in the morning, or anythink else
you like. 'E's an 'elpless sort of chap, an' 'e's got funny ideas about
shavin' and washin'--sort of disease, you know--but 'e's a good sort
when you knows 'is little ways.
"Do you remember that young Mr. Wilkinson?" asked "Pongo," and a few of
the "old hands" in the dug-out nodded affirmatively. "'E was a one, 'e
was," resumed "Pongo." "Do you remember the day we was gassed on 'Ill
60? 'E used to be my bloke then, and I was with 'im all the time. 'E was
a proper lad! When the gas 'ad gone over there was only five of A
Company left, with 'im in charge, and we knew as 'ow the 'Uns would
attack as soon as they thought we was properly wiped out. And Mr.
Wilkinson was fine. All down the trench 'e put blokes' rifles on the
parapet, and the 'ole bloomin' six of us ran up an' down the trench like
a lot of rabbits, firin' off rifle after rifle till the Alleymans must
'ave thought we was an 'ole battalion. The only times when Mr. Wilkinson
wasn't firin' rifles, 'e was fusin' bombs, jest as busy as that little
girl be'ind the counter of the Nag's 'Ead of a Saturday night. 'E must
'ave sent a good number of 'Uns 'ome that day with bits of bombs inside
of them.
"And you should 'a' seen Mr. Wilkinson when the Sergeant wos for givin'
in and goin' back to the second line! We'd all the gas in us more or
less, and 'e could 'ardly talk, 'e was that bad, but when 'e 'eard the
Sergeant say as 'ow 'e was goin' back, 'e shouted like the Colonel on a
battalion parade. 'Curse you, Sergeant!' 'e yelled, 'what's the good of
goin' back? We've got to 'old this trench or 'op it. If you don't like
the air down there, come up on the parapet with me.' And up 'e jumps on
to the parapet with the gas clearin' away, and the Fritzes only 30 or 40
yards off.
"'It? Why, of course 'e was 'it. 'E was laughin' like a kid what's
stealin' apples--all excited like--when they got 'im right through the
'ead, and 'e fell down on the other side of the parapet. But 'e'd done
what 'e wanted to, for the Sergeant wasn't talkin' any more about goin'
back. 'E crawled out over the parapet and brought poor Mr. Wilkinson
back, and got 'it in the leg while 'e was doin' it, too. But that didn't
matter to 'im, for 'e was out to 'ave 'is own back, was the Sergeant,
and we 'eld that bloomin' trench for another hour until the blokes got
up the communication trench to 'elp us. There's a lot of medals what
ought to go to blokes as don't get them, and it might 'ave 'elped Mr.
Wilkinson's mother if they'd given 'im the V.C., but there weren't no
other orficers about, and they didn't take any notice of us chaps."