WAR.
_The_ preceding chapters have given you the fun of the game, but do not
imagine the training of this corps was fun--and nothing more. The Glesca
Mileeshy spent many weary days and nights preparing for war. Every
weakness was found and ruthlessly eradicated. Every loafer and weed was
booted out. At the end of their training, one and all were as tough as
tinkers, and fit to shoot the tail of a sparrow at 500 yards. Better
still, every man was out to conquer and to kill. Colonel Corkleg was
proud of them, and he deserved to be, for, as old "Sunny Jim," the
G.O.C., had said, "They were the pride of the Mixed Division." Imagine
their bearing and think of their cheers on being ordered to move. Of
course, the Kirk-session of Mudtown made no protest about their
departure. The regiment mustered 1020 strong, and on their backs was
piled everything, from a shovel to a beer bottle. A thrill of pride ran
up the backbone of every officer as they viewed the throng, while old
Colonel Corkleg felt the strings of emotion pulling at his old heart.
Keen he was to fight and win; keen even to die at the cannon's mouth.
But he knew the cost of war, and realised that ere the game was done
many of his gallants would bite the dust, thus adding to the roll of the
widows and fatherless. However, duty was a stern call. He received the
adjutant's report of "All present" with the same stiff air which marked
his attitude on all parades.
"Battalion--'Shun! Advance in fours from the right of companies--Number
one leading."
"Quick march," ordered the leading commander. The band struck up "The
Girl I Left Behind Me," and with many a laugh and cheer the heroes
stepped to war. If you have never known this great experience you will
never understand. But a soldier knows it well. It is the greatest moment
in his life. His pride is dominant, his step jaunty and gay, and his
whole body permeated with an electric-like thrill peculiar to his kind.
And there is a look in a woman's eye which is a fine reward. Soldiers,
on such occasions, rouse all that is great in a woman's soul. She feels
she is gazing at men. She realises that such men guard her from the
brutalities of the Huns; she knows the children of her blood will not be
bayoneted like the babes of Liege and Namur. Deep in her heart there is
also sympathy and love, for women have a keen perception. Though she
never lives in the tented field, she fully understands the horrors of it
all. To one who has a lover in the van it is more trying still. Even the
poorest are capable of great devotion. To see the object of their
affection march to the field is a proud, yet a heart-gripping affair. If
many of these men were scallywags, they were delightful scallywags, if
one may use the term. And in their own way they could express that love
which is mightier than the sword. Words will, therefore, hardly depict
the sadness of parting. Thousands of fathers, mothers, and sweethearts
had gathered to see their heroes off. No rudeness; no mock hilarity was
seen. Even the men grew somewhat sad at leaving their all in all. As
they swung through the station in their sections of fours, women burst
into tears, some even swooned away.
"God bless you, laddie!" said an old woman, falling on the neck of her
son. He kindly unlinked the withered arms and marched silently on.
Another woman seized her husband in the frenzy of grief and despair;
while many a young girl clutched the hand of her lover for the last time
on earth. Even the officers' wives could not restrain their feelings.
Caste and education could not stem the tears of sorrow for their own.
Beautiful women in beautiful clothes stood sobbing by the carriage
doors. Tearful partings were seen in the quiet corners of the great
station. Even Spud Tamson was curiously white and still as he stood by
the side of his own Mary Ann.
"You'll no' forget me?" pleaded the distracted girl.
"Na, Mary, I'll no' forget ye," was the soft reply.
Then the great bell rang, after which a bugle sounded "Advance." A
rattle of carriage doors, a shriek of the engine's whistle, and off
steamed the great express. Some one led a strong Hurrah! and a band
played out a cheerful Good-bye. Handkerchiefs were waved and kind words
echoed far. Grief, for a moment, subsided, and patriotism sprang to its
heights. All gladly cheered their heroes off to war.
When the regiment arrived at Southampton they marvelled at the
organisation of the Embarkation Staff. A place for everything and
everything in its place. System paramount; disorganisation cursed and
banned as soon as it reared its head. The clockwork precision was
amazing, and the catching of the tides as ingenious as the sardine
packing of troops on the great transport ships. Even a place was
reserved for "the tears of the Marys and Lizzies," as an unromantic
skipper remarked. In two days the Mixed Division was embarked. In five
days it was landed all complete. Of course, it caused a stir in gay
Boulogne. Twenty thousand husky Scots in kilts and breeks amused and
amazed the excitable folks of France. The ladies threw flowers to the
gay commanders; the maids cast kisses to the men. The Glesca Mileeshy,
however, got more than flowers and kisses, thanks to a very cute
Bandmaster, who made his bandsmen play "The Marseillaise" till their
cheeks almost burst. The regiment lilted the air in grand style, thus
earning many a good flagon of real red wine.
Their first billets on the outskirts was also the scene of L'Entente
Cordiale. Gay little girls came out in scores to see their khaki gods.
Every billet had a swarm of unconventional flappers, who smoked the
Tommies' Woodbines with gusto, and donned their coats and caps, to the
amusement of the crowd. The Glesca Mileeshy had never seen such figures,
such lips, such eyes. Their women at home had not approached them with
such polished ease and frankness. These charming souls even put out
their lips to receive all the greetings that came their way. Naturally,
all were delighted, with the exception of the colonel and Sergeant
Bludgeon.
"There's going to be trouble here, Bludgeon," remarked the colonel on
the second day.
"Yes, sir, I expect anything from abduction to murder," answered the
sergeant, handling his great stick in a sinister way. For once Bludgeon
was wrong. When parades were done, the whole regiment swarmed into town,
and soon were in the toils of women and wine. Even the wizened and
bald-headed old veterans were rejuvenated. They sipped the champagne
with gusto, and danced the gay Can-can like the belles of the Russian
Ballet. Every cafe had its patrons. Tommies and "Frenchies" vied with
each other in "Tipperary," "A Wee Deoch-an-Doris," and other popular
airs. Never had the citizens seen such gay sports and fine soldiers. Yet
all played the game to a man--no riotous drunkenness, no absentees. If
all enjoyed themselves, they also remembered that they were at war, and
in a few days would be 'midst the horrors of the same. When they parted
there were many tears and lots of cheers, and, of course, all decided to
return again. Alas! they little reckoned on the grim days ahead.
Their first job was burying the dead and clearing up the battlefields of
the weeks before. Parties went out to gather up the stiffened corpses of
all nations. In places, too, they found human bodies torn, shattered,
and disfigured. It was a gruesome job, still the apprenticeship was
sound. The more irresponsible at once realised the seriousness of the
game; the older men perceived that this was different to the wars they
had seen before. The dead occasionally found in heaps showed the cruel
power of the modern shell; the great craters made in the ground also
illustrated the disastrous impact of those huge missiles from the German
guns. Blood-stained accoutrements, broken guns and rifles, dead and
wounded horses, trenches which had become cemeteries, dug-outs
transformed into catacombs, revealed what they were up against. It was
the science of fifty years exploited by the most cruel, clever, and
cunning disciples of Mars. And all the while there passed through their
ranks the motor transport with loads of wounded and dying men.
Prisoners, too, came in batches. Great strong men they were, some
stricken with hunger and cruel hardships, others dumb with the sense of
humiliation and despair. Over their heads the regiment frequently noted
the airships of their own army and the enemy. A bomb occasionally fell
in their ranks, forming a useful introduction to the game beyond. It
taught them how to run, how to take cover, and how to hit the
petrol-tank of such impudent offenders. They also acquired at first hand
a knowledge of our Allied arms. Little Belgians, they realised, were
poor at the pomp and flashwork of war, but sound at the game of killing
and holding men. The French, they saw, had all the _elan_ of their
fathers, but less of their stomach and nerve. They needed victories to
inspire them, and the sight of the khaki troops to remind them that war
is only for the patient and the strong. These early days created a sense
of comradeship with their Allies. The ever-generous heart of the French
and Belgians inspired a mutual feeling of love and respect. This, they
all felt, would hold them in the days to come.
Having served this apprenticeship, and learned that the men who wore red
breeks were French, and those with porter's bonnets Belgians, they
marched forward into the great battle-line in Flanders. What
devastation! What ruthless savagery! Churches, hospitals, cottages, in
ruins. Women and children homeless and fatherless, and cursing the
barbarous Huns. And still more processions of prisoners, wounded and
dying. Death on all sides, blood everywhere. Horror upon horror, allied
with hardship, pain, and sorrow. Tough as this regiment was, the sights
saddened and made them wise. This was war. And they were plunged into
the midst of all in less than a day. It was their job to relieve a
regiment of regulars, who had been fighting since Mons. This corps was
stuck in trenches a hundred yards from the enemy's lines. Snipers had
thinned the officers' ranks; repeated assaults had killed and worn out
the N.C.O.'s and men. To relieve them was a problem, for the area behind
their trenches was a shell-swept zone. But it had to be done. The safest
time was at night, so when dusk had come they cautiously went forward.
Sometimes they ran, at other points they had to creep and crawl. For a
while all seemed well, but aerial scouts had told their tale. Just as
the regiment reached the trenches, all were startled with the lurid
flashing of great star-shells in the sky. This lit up the whole area and
showed the lines of men advancing into the trenches.
Crack! went a Mauser rifle. This was a signal for hundreds more. More
star-shells went up, and then the Maxim guns of the enemy opened a
deadly fire.
"Double to the trenches!" roared a staff officer, who was the guide. In
a few minutes the whole were jumping into the long water-logged
fortresses. Many were left behind wounded and dying, but the danger
ahead was too great to study these casualties. Volley after volley came
across the narrow zone. The hits were now few, for sighting was
impossible. To the crouching men, who had just been baptised, the affair
was somewhat awe-inspiring. Many a man shivered, just as nearly all
brave men shiver in their first fight. The moans of the wounded men who
lay behind did not help matters. Worse, however, was yet to come. The
Germans, somehow, feared a night attack. Determined to check this, they
sallied out on a counter-assault. Across the hundred-yard zone they ran,
cursed, yelled, and stumbled. It was an anxious moment, for the
star-shells only lit the ground in a dim way. Colonel Corkleg, however,
was equal to the hour.
"Out men and at them!" he roared from a point somewhere in the darkened
region. There was a loud clatter as his gallants leapt out of their
trenches. A second to fix their bayonets, then passing through the
little avenues in the barbed wire they quickly formed and charged.
"Give them Hell, lads!" roared Coronet. And then there was a crash of
bodies and of steel. The sickening plug of bayonets into flesh was heard
all along the line. Still, these Bavarian men were game. They took their
punishment and nobly tried to wrest the laurels of this night affair.
But they were up against the toughest lot of men in the whole line. The
impact was terrific, the onslaught fierce and frightful. They felt the
backward push of those determined Militiamen. Their counter-assault was
useless, so, with a yell, they turned and fled. The victors pursued
them, routed them out of their own trenches, captured two Maxim guns and
smashed them, and after denuding the knapsacks of their fleeing enemy,
returned across the darkened zone into their own lines.
"Well done, colonel," whispered the staff officer to Corkleg. "Your men
are the right stuff," he concluded, as he disappeared into the night _en
route_ for headquarters of the Brigade.
Next morning the regiment counted the cost and the gains. In front of
their own lines lay a hundred Germans dead; side by side lay fifty of
their own; while in the rear of the trenches more dead were found.
"Not bad for a first night," said Greens, peeping out.
"Hardly a comedy," replied Coronet, bandaging up a wounded hand.
"No, melodrama, with full effects. Corkleg's a sound actor manager. But,
I say, how can we get those dead men buried? They'll soon smell like
polecats."
"Not during the day. It isn't safe," remarked the captain, putting his
cap up out of the trench on top of a stick. Crack! went a bullet.
"A bull!" shouted the owner, drawing it down and surveying a battered
cap badge.
"Sniper, eh?"
"Yes, Greens, a top-hole one at that. We'll need to be careful." The
men, however, enjoyed the sport. Spud Tamson and his friends delighted
in putting up empty jam-tins on the end of sticks. In a second there was
the usual crack, and down came the tin with a bullet-hole through it.
When an unfortunate sentry popped his head up too far, he generally met
the same fate, and was immediately struck off the strength of the
regiment. In some cases the men signalled such hits by putting up a
white piece of cardboard, meaning a bull's-eye to the sniper. These
German snipers were also sportsmen. Each time a Tommy inoculated the
square head of a Teuton with a dose of lead, they also signalled a hit.
In this way the troops managed to keep a musketry record. Of course, all
sorts of tricks were employed. One section placed a row of turnips with
Balaclava hats and Glengarrys on them at the edge of the trench. At once
there was a terrible fusilade, and for half an hour each sniper had a
go. Indeed, the refusal of these turnips to become casualties so annoyed
the opposing Germans that they all commenced to pop at them. While their
whole attention was thus concentrated, a small body of marksmen under
Lieutenant Greens suddenly popped out of a sap-head. They placed steel
plates for protection in front of them. All then took a deliberate aim
at the enemy. In three minutes they shot twelve men through the head,
and would have got more but for the sudden attack of a Maxim gun. This
was rather unpleasant, so Greens and his merry men flopped down into
their burrow again.
There were three kinds of trenches in which the men were placed. The
first line nearest the enemy was long and as deep as the holes in a
graveyard. No head-cover was allowed, and luxuries were barred. For
forty-eight hours all danced, cursed, snored, or shivered according to
the thermometer and the fulness (or emptiness) of the stomach. When one
grew tired of being a mole and absorbing the germs of rheumatism,
pneumonia, and enteric, he simply put up his head and got a free
discharge from an obliging sniper.
A communicating trench led to the supporting trenches. There was also a
telephone to inform the Brigadier when the first line had been sent to
heaven and more living targets required. Trunk calls to Oxford Street
and Piccadilly, of course, were barred--an annoying restriction. In
these supporting trenches, however, a man could manage to scrape a hole
in the earth and there lie down. This was not exactly a comfortable
experience, especially for those who slept with mouths open. Worms,
snails, and other messy slugs would persist in dropping right into the
gullets of the sleeping innocents. Only Frenchmen who had eaten frogs
could enjoy such delicacies.
From the supporting trenches another communicating line led to the
reserve trenches. These trenches were the last word in cunning, comfort,
and luxury. They were literally dug-outs or caves, where officers and
men improvised everything, from biscuit tins to toilet paper, in the
making of underground homes to while away the weary days. Bridge and nap
was played--not for money, but full tins of jam, which a beneficent
commissariat showers upon all British soldiers to keep off scurvy and
other Whitechapel diseases. Nights were made merry by liberal issues of
rum, and hope was inspired by the regular arrival of love epistles
through the F.P.O. Replies to these communications had to be vague and
somewhat guarded, for the colonel censored all officers' letters, while
the officers acted similarly with the correspondence of the rank and
file. Parcels of tucker cheered the somewhat plain fare, and bundles of
New Testaments from anxious maiden ladies taught many that their former
deeds would eventually make them stokers down under. When things became
too monotonous, the German artillery plunked a few Jack Johnsons over.
This employed all hands on burial services and writing letters of
sympathy to the widows and orphans.
The most wonderful person in this system was the transport officer,
Lieutenant Grain. He had an army of enlisted ostlers, carters, and
jockeys to bring up the rations from the rear. This had to be done over
quagmires and along serpent-like roads which were packed with
Hammersmith omnibuses, field guns, motor-cars, and hare-brained motor
cyclists. Worse, his job had to be done at night. It was enough to try
the will and nerves of Hannibal. But Grain did it every time. It was his
boast that the regiment had fresh bread, fresh meat, cigarettes and
tobacco every night--a great accomplishment. Fancy delivering cans of
hot tea and dixeys of good stew to the front trenches at midnight! This
had never been done in any previous campaign. No wonder some men wrote
home saying that they were "still well, but overfed."
This life in the trenches levelled all distinctions, and revealed all
that was good and bad. The skunk came forth in all his shady colours;
the loyal and patient soul quickly won the affection of all. Discipline
was difficult, especially when rain and frost gripped the flesh and
bones. Cold feet in the first line of trenches is more demoralising than
a thousand shells. Men object to being killed on a frosty morning. It is
very uncomfortable, and certainly unromantic. They feel it better to die
on the greensward with the sun lighting up the scene and the birds
twittering out a grand amen. But war is never waged to suit the
convenience of all. It is a battle for the fittest. The strong must
survive and the weakest die. And war in the trenches is the most awful
strain on officers and men. Perhaps it is worst for an officer. He
suffers just the same hardships; worse, he has the anxiety of
responsibility. Men seldom understand this. While they may sleep the
officer has to be awake, ever watchful for the assault and ever jealous
of the honour of his regiment and his name. Only men who have been
thoroughly disciplined can stand such a strain. The amateur at this game
is usually a nuisance, and better at home.
The disadvantage of trench-fighting is that it robs even the best
soldiers of their dash and initiative. Men who have been stuck in
trenches for months get out of condition, and, at times, fail to seize
opportunities to strengthen and consolidate their lines. Perhaps that
was the reason for the deliberate progression of the Allied Army. Each
week a certain forward movement had to be done, even if this only
amounted to a few yards. Saps were made underneath the enemy's barbed
wire, explosions levelled these obstructions low, then with a rush our
men would have a go to capture another of the German trenches. This work
provided scope for all. Variety was frequently afforded in village
fighting--the toughest job in war. The most interesting was a fight for
a little house which commanded a short bridge and road over a Belgian
canal. It was important to gain this point. Half a battalion of the
Glesca Mileeshy, under Major Tartan, was ordered out to the job. The
house itself was loopholed and sandbagged. There were two machine guns
inside as well as fifty snipers. Outside there was a circular redoubt,
manned by three hundred more. The whole place was thoroughly protected
by barbed wire and other tricky lures.
"It will cost us a lot of men, major," said Colonel Corkleg; "but the
Brigadier says it must be done."
"Yes, and we'll do it, sir," replied Tartan, with a decision in his
words which was inspiring.
"Very well, Tartan, I leave it to you--you know your job."
Tartan's attack was preceded by a terrific bombardment by our artillery.
But these shells did not dislodge the enemy. They stuck gamely to their
job, and opened a fierce fusilade on the three skirmishing lines, which
moved forward after the bombardment.
Captain Hardup had the first line. He took his men forward inch by inch.
Trees, walls, holes, fence-posts, all sorts of cover were used by the
men. Now and again a groan and curse was heard as men fell back wounded
or dead.
"Come on, lads!" roared Lieutenant Longlegs, who was Hardup's subaltern.
They gallantly replied and pushed forward to within one hundred yards of
the barbed wire entanglements. Matters were serious here, and casualties
heavy. Ten men were knocked out in twenty minutes.
"Sergeant Brown, have a go with your cutters."
"Right, sir," said the sturdy little fellow, crawling forward. He
wriggled like a snake right up to the wires. Click! went his cutters
through one strand, click! through another, and up went his arm to get a
strand higher up. All the while he was under a terrible fire. Just as he
cut the third strand a bullet struck his arm. It fell limp and
shattered. With wonderful fortitude he adjusted his body and cut the
fourth strand with his other hand. Zip! sang a bullet again. It went
right through his head. He rolled over dead.
Lieutenant Longlegs saw it all, and looked round for another man. But he
had no need to shout. A young lance-corporal jumped over a wall and
crawled up to the wires. Seizing the dead man's cutters he coolly
commenced to cut right and left. Bullets whizzed around,--they even
passed through his cap and clothes,--but still he went on, making a
great gap in the strands of wires. He was succeeding splendidly when a
bullet struck the wire-cutters, smashed them, and pierced his right
hand. At once he lay low, tore out his field dressing, bandaged his
hand, then commenced to crawl back to his lines. He got half-way when a
bullet struck him in the spine. A weird yell told all of his fate.
"By God," muttered Longlegs, "that's too brave a lad to leave out
there." He jumped over the wall, and, heedless of the fire, ran forward,
picked up his man and brought him into the shelter of his line. A great
cheer went up as he returned. Longlegs had asserted his pluck.
This success at cutting the wires inspired many more to go forward. In
three hours five good gaps had been made, and the way paved for a final
assault. Meantime Major Tartan had arrived in the firing line with the
reserves. He opened a fierce fusilade and accounted for almost a hundred
of the enemy. Having done all that was possible at that point he passed
the word along, "Prepare to charge." Bayonets were fixed, and every eye
centred on the tough figure of the old Highland Chief. Like a deer he
rose, and, raising his arm, shouted, "Up, lads, and at them." What a
din! Four hundred gallants running, yelling, cursing, and panting.
Through the gaps in the wire they rushed, leaving many on the way.
Things were going well till a bullet struck the old major in a vital
part. He fell mortally wounded. The sight checked the whole advance. His
eyes saw the pause.
"Go on, men--give them it--never mind----" and he rolled back dead.
Hardup and Longlegs now called them on. With a mighty rush they scaled
the great redoubt and leapt down into the ranks of the Germans. Some of
the Teutons fought gamely; others cowered back, listless and powerless,
an awful fear and awe in their eyes. The sight chilled the men, but a
bloodthirsty old sergeant shouted, "Remember the Belgian atrocities,
boys." That was enough. They bayoneted every man on the spot. During
this bloody combat the machine guns and snipers in the house were
pumping out volleys of death.
"Take the house now, men," roared Hardup.
"By God, we'll soon do that," answered Muldoon, the worst character in
the regiment. Running forward to the walls this powerful man got near
the mouth of a Maxim gun projecting through the wall. With a terrible
swipe he smashed the end of the tube, breaking his butt at the job.
Another man did the same for the other gun, while the remainder of the
men made for the doors. A check happened here. The doors were barred and
the enemy firing furiously from within.
"Smash it in," ordered Hardup, standing near. Three men sprang forward.
First they smashed the protruding rifle barrels and then they tackled
the doors. In ten minutes great holes were made. Captain Hardup was the
first man through. Longlegs followed at his heels. The captain pinned a
great big German with his bayonet, but another of the enemy stuck the
gallant officer right through the chest. Longlegs had just got in when
he saw his captain fall. Jumping forward he clubbed the man's brains
out. The remaining Germans cleared up a stair to the next floor. This
gave a breathing space and time to get more men through. When enough had
been collected Longlegs led the way. Another barred door was found.
Willing hands quickly ended this, and into a room Longlegs and his men
dashed. The enemy stood at the end of the room with bayonets fixed.
"Come on, lads--wipe them out." Forward they went. There was a terrific
tussle for five minutes. Longlegs had the muscle of his arm torn away
with a bayonet, while three of his men were killed on the spot; but
every German was bayoneted to death. Longlegs had his arm hastily
bandaged. "Come on," he shouted again, and up to the top flat they
rushed to end their job. There they found a German officer and a host of
men inside a loft. The door of the place was also barred. But this was
easily smashed, and into the den the gallants rushed. As they went an
old sergeant pushed Longlegs back out of danger.
"What's wrong?" he inquired angrily.
"I'm in charge o' this lot, sir. You're owre braw a fechter tae get
kill't."
"Nonsense, sergeant."
"Nae nonsense aboot it, sir. Staund there," kindly insisted the old
non-com., who saw that Longlegs would soon faint from loss of blood.
Meantime the din inside the room was deafening. Squeals, groans, and
curses rent the air. It was a battle to the death. The officer fought
like a Trojan for his life, but, in the end, he was bayoneted to death.
Half of the enemy were killed, the other half surrendered or jumped
through the windows, smashing their legs on the hard stones below.
"We've won, sir," reported the sergeant, rushing out of the shambles to
where the pale-faced officer was standing at the top of the stair.
"Good!" said the subaltern, tumbling in a heap from loss of blood. At
that moment a thundering cheer was heard outside the house. It was the
colonel and the other half of the battalion, who had been sent up in
support. The job, however, had been well done. Old Corkleg was met at
the door by the faithful sergeant.
"We've done it, sir," said he, saluting.
"Yes," said the colonel gravely, as he looked at his dead and wounded
men. Then looking up, he remarked, "Where is Major Tartan?"
"Killed, sir."
"And Captain Hardup?"
"Inside, sir, badly wounded."
"What about Mr. Longlegs?"
"He's lying upstairs wounded too."
"Any other casualties?"
"Two other officers wounded, sir, and I think we've lost over a hundred
men."
"Sad--very sad, and some of the best," said the old colonel, turning
away to hide the moisture in his eyes.
"Well done, Corkleg," said the Brigadier, walking up to the scene.
"Yes. Our men have done well, but our casualties have been awful."
"Still, Corkleg, your men have captured the key to the whole German
lines here. They will have to retire for almost a mile now. Good
business! Good business! Terrible scamps, these men of yours, but heroes
every time. Let me have any recommendations."
Hardup and Longlegs got the D.S.O., the old sergeant and wire-cutting
corporal received the Distinguished Conduct Medals, while every paper in
Britain wrote columns about the gallantry of the Glesca Mileeshy.
"Useful men! Useful men!" said Corkleg, on reading the appreciation in
'The Times' a few days later.
"Yes, sir," replied the adjutant.