AN IMPERIAL AFFAIR.
"_I see_ Sergeant Tamson is in divisional orders to-day," said Colonel
Corkleg to Lieutenant Greens during breakfast in the dug-out.
"What for, sir?"
"Oh, his leading of that attack the other night. He's been awarded the
Distinguished Conduct Medal. Useful man. Useful man."
"Yes, sir. Isn't it wonderful how a man like that, born in the slums,
has all the instinct of a leader, as well as the pluck of a dozen
ordinary men."
"They're all the same, Greens," said the colonel, laying down his knife.
"You know, I have always commanded that type of man. In peace times you
find him convicted daily for drunkenness, absence, insolence, and a
hundred other things, yet in war he is always a hero."
"I think, sir, the reason of that is that they are nearer to the brute
creation, and better able to stand the shocks of war."
"Well--yes. Those fancy corps composed of gilded youths haven't much
stomach for a long campaign. They're bothered with brains. They think
too much. A man who thinks deeply isn't much use in the ranks. An
officer can do the thinking, the man must go to the cannon's mouth
without asking the reason why. It wouldn't do to have three million
generals in an army."
"Another point, sir, that I have often thought of; that is, how these
men from the slums have always fought Britain's battles. Up till a few
years ago it could be said that Britain's battles were won by
aristocrats and paupers."
"I never thought of that, Greens, but it's quite true, only the word
'pauper' might be interpreted in a broader sense. What I mean is, that
the very poor--honest poor in many cases--have always been in the ranks.
There are many reasons. First, since the feudal days, it has been their
lot to serve. Traditions have been passed down, even into such a place
as the Gallowgate. And tradition, as you know, is a wonderful
incentive."
"But hasn't poverty got something to do with it, sir?"
"Yes. Forty per cent enlist for the thrills of the business, another
forty per cent come in because of an empty stomach; the remainder have
probably been inspired to clear from their haunts through an energetic
policeman or an unfortunate affair of the heart. Still, poverty's no
crime, and a Don Juan is usually a gallant soldier. And, after all,
every one is a volunteer."
"True. And yet I think this class of man will eventually pass out, sir.
Look at the hovels they live in,--the awful lives they're compelled to
lead. That, in time, will debilitate this class. Worse than that, I'm
afraid that Socialism is rapidly spreading. In fifty years these men
from the backlands of our cities will be anarchists and
revolutionaries."
"You're wrong, Greens. These men are instinctively conservative; they
will remain conservative to the end. Every Britisher is at heart a Tory.
Look at Blatchford and Lloyd George. They used to wave the red flag, but
now they're ranting Imperialists--quite on a par with Salisbury or
Kipling. It's in the blood, my boy. They can't help it. Mark you,
Greens, I'm not arguing that there is no discontent in the slums. That
is partly the fault of the ruling caste, and partly the result of our
industrial system. We have been much too selfish in the past, and these
great factories are sweating the life-blood out of our city people. I
wish to God we could get them back to the land. The old, old days were
best. Then a man was 'passing rich with forty pounds a year.'"
"I'm afraid, sir, that 'back to the land' is only a play term--nothing
more."
"In our country--certainly. But we have a solution in our oversea
dominions. Why, I have seen boys from the slums of our country sent to
Canada, New Zealand, and Australia; now they are prosperous farmers. If
we cannot save our men in the ranks from the pauper's roll, I certainly
think we ought to get at their children. It is our duty. Their blood has
sealed the bonds of Empire. Let us give their children a share of the
Empire's treasure. If we don't, Greens, disease, as you say, will kill
these people, and then the vulgar rich will have to work their own mills
and defend their money-bags."
These Colonials in our Division are certainly an excellent advertisement
for the Colonies. If their discipline is weak, their physique and pluck
leave nothing to be desired. It makes one feel awfully proud to see them
doing their bit. And the sight must annoy the Kaiser very much."
"Ah, yes," said the old colonel with a fine gleam in his eyes, "we have
the right to feel proud. These men represent the finest Empire the world
has ever seen. No wonder they fight well. They've got something worth
fighting for. Of course, you know the Colonies well."
"Yes, sir. Canada, Australia, and New Zealand are fine countries. And I
can understand why these men find discipline irksome. They are pioneers.
Every man has had to cut his way. They have pushed the plough and the
cash-desk over the prairies and on to the hills. They have sustained
civilisation and culture at the point of their rifles. Indians, Maoris,
and aborigines have been overawed by them and gathered into their
keeping. It's really wonderful what these young nations have done. Do
you know, colonel, I believe our colonial cousins will eventually become
so powerful that no hostile Alliance will be able to tackle us."
"Yes; but, hello, who's this?" concluded the colonel, as a figure
darkened the doorway of the dug-out. It was the brigade-major.
"Good-morning, Jones--anything on?"
"Good-morning, sir, I've got some trouble for you," remarked the major
with a dry smile.
"Oh!"
"The Kaiser's got another brain storm. He has decided to lunch with the
gay madames of Calais. Our Division is, of course, in the way, and the
Brigade in particular, so there's going to be some fun."
"When?"
"Soon, sir. Our aeroplanes and agents report a great concentration
behind the enemy's lines. As we hold them on the most likely line of
advance, you may expect to be in the affair."
"Well, Jones, it's a case of us making our wills. We hold the key of our
whole line. Their fury will be spent on that."
"Yes, sir; and the brigadier wishes you to hold on at all costs. He will
reinforce you if things go badly. He said that he was glad you were
there."
"Old toughs for a hard road, eh, Jones. Now--any more orders?"
"Only one more, that is, to double your sentries and reinforce your
firing-line trench. If you can make any obstacles or entanglement tricks
in front of your line, the brigadier will be very glad."
"I'll see to that."
"Thank you, sir, good-morning."
"Good-morning, Jones," and out jumped the brigade-major in continuance
of his task. When he had gone, the colonel sent for his company
commanders. The situation was explained, and all were instructed to
strengthen the line, erect more entanglements, and use every means in
their power to embarrass the enemy's advance. Nothing, of course, could
be done during the day. The enemy was only three hundred yards distant
from the first line of trenches. But for the next three nights all were
busy. Fifty yards in front of their trenches deep pits were dug. The
earth was removed, and over the deep gaps thin sticks were laid or
wedged into the sides. Green sods, which had been carefully cut, were
neatly laid across the sticks, so as to disguise the pits and resemble
the general lay of the ground. Behind these death-traps low barbed wire
entanglements were fixed. Some loose brushwood and other green stuff
aided in the disguise of these lures. Finally, the higher entanglements
were strengthened in such a way as to make the complete scheme a
death-making obstacle of no mean order. Many of the trenches were also
screened by a few dummy earthworks to draw the enemy's fire, and thus
minimise the casualty roll. Every man was given 250 rounds, all rifles
thoroughly cleaned, bayonets grimly sharpened to a razor-like standard,
and sentries doubled. These preparations were continued all along the
line. Behind, in the reserve area, reinforcements were prepared at a
central point to enable the G.O.C. to throw them forward where required.
These arrangements, of course, were an indication to the rank and file
that something was on. That was all they knew, for in this war the
Allies had learned the need of secrecy and the folly of allowing war
correspondents to publish the orders of the day. This system is wise,
though annoying to the soldier and civilian with an inquiring turn of
mind. It makes the soldier feel like a chessman on a board--a mere atom
to be moved forward to death, or back into cover at the will of the
master-hand. It is the German system, and a splendid one, for published
orders and war correspondents are the curse of an army. South Africa
proved that. Intelligence agents of the Boers used to cable back the
illuminating paragraphs which had been sent by "Our Special
Correspondent." The new system naturally upsets the podgy club critics,
who like to direct the affairs of Britain from behind the cover of
roast-beef and whisky. "K," however, is a master-hand in dealing with
this type. He knows his job, and he has the will to overrule the clubman
and the crowing cocks at our parish pumps. But we must get on with the
killing business.
Meantime the Germans had not been idle. With that vigour and
thoroughness so characteristic of the nation, they prepared for "The
Day"--another of the _THE'S_, of course. Victory was certain, for the
Kaiser had invoked the aid of his God. In a general proclamation
sprinkled with oaths, imbecile pleas, and biblical embellishments, he
called on his generals and army to charge for the Fatherland. He would
be with them--miles to the rear, of course--and he would stand waiting
with thousands of iron crosses to plaster round his soldiers' chests.
God was to be on the side of his big battalions.
The plan on this occasion was the old one--dense masses of men. Line
after line of conscripts to be thrown to death and destruction. But the
preliminary bombardment was a thing which they also relied on. This
commenced at the dawn of a cold and drizzling day. The boom of the first
shell roused "Sunny Jim" and the Staff of the Mixed Division. A tinkle
of a telephone bell stirred the British gunners to action. Observers
cunningly concealed in some haystacks in the forward part of the line
immediately 'phoned back the range of the German batteries. The crash of
our shells 'midst the guns of the enemy was a fitting reply. The range
was accurate and the toll a deadly one. However, these German gunners
have a wonderful pluck and persistency. Their observers saw many guns,
new trenches, and here and there fields dotted with turbans, caps, and
badly concealed guns in the Allied lines. Eagerly they worked out their
range tables, and crash went their guns again. One great line of
trenches with Indian turbans and Tommies' caps peeping over was
bombarded with three hundred powerful shells. The parapets were wrecked,
trenches burst, and great craters made in the surrounding fields. Deadly
gunnery and deadly havoc. No wonder Krupp's hirelings gained the iron
cross. The exposed guns were crushed to smithereens, and the gunners
near knocked down like dollies in a fair. This made the German observers
glad. To them the battle promised well. But one of the German observers,
stationed in an old windmill, received sudden marching orders through
the agency of a powerful British shell.
"Sunny Jim" was pleased to allow the "hits" of the German batteries. His
unorthodox methods had proved supreme. With his wonderful cunning he had
prepared those long and exposed lines of dummy trenches, dotted with
turbans and caps. The "guns" which they had smashed were simply trees
resting on the wheels of old farm carts. The "gunners" killed had been
made out of old khaki suits filled with straw. True, the Germans had
registered some good hits on the real trenches and live men, while here
and there a gun had been knocked out of action. Yet the stagecraft of
this clever G.O.C. had lessened the casualty roll and drawn the enemy's
fire away from the hives of our warriors. Britons are not so stupid as
they seem. As for our guns, they were a match for Krupp's newest and
latest. The Mixed Division was armed with weapons of a powerful range
and a deadly type. There was no useless aiming or extravagant shooting.
Almost every shell burst near a breech block and mangled its defenders.
For six hours they pumped death and destruction into the gun-pits,
trenches, and masses of grey-coated Germans waiting for the assault.
This was very annoying to Kaiser Bill, sitting in his three-ply
armour-plated travelling booth. But it did not alter his decision.
"Forward" was his order after the bombardment. As he himself was excused
the honour of advancing, he made certain of the fulfilment of his
commands.
There was an air of death and stillness in those British lines towards
which the deep ranks of the Germans marched. The gunners must have done
well. A spirit of victory filled them: more eagerly they marched to
Calais--the Kaiser's dream. But the reckoning was to come. Deep in their
burrows lay thousands of expectant British warriors. Every magazine was
charged, and every sentry coolly watching the stern advance of the
German host. Nearer, still nearer they came. At last they reached the
deadly zone--300 yards.
"Rapid fire," roared Colonel Corkleg, and every other commander in that
great, long line. The crash was terrific, the surprise amazing, and the
shrieks of death and pain alarming. The great line paused in terror, but
only for a moment. On they came again, the living jumping over the dead.
Do not call them cowards. They can fight and die. They faced their
punishment nobly. Maxims and rifles poured death into line after line;
still on they came. With a devilish delight the Glesca Mileeshy watched
their advance.
"They're near Bannockburn noo," said Spud to his pals as the enemy ran
towards the pits.
"They're in! They're in!" he yelled as the first line tumbled down into
the death-traps. Hundreds floundered to an awful end in front of the
British lines. The cries of the struggling mass were even heard above
the din of shooting. The next line paused in horror, and many tried to
run, but the officers' swords and revolvers drove on the men in rear and
shoved still more into the chambers of horror. At last they were filled,
and over the mangled and moaning men the others charged to the trenches.
"Rapid fire!" ordered Spud, and every other section commander all along
the line. The response was startling. Worse, something caught the feet
of the first line. It was the low entanglements. The running men were
thrown forward on to the jagging stakes and piercing wire. Again the
advance was stemmed, and again the British maxims and rifles exacted a
frightful toll. To the sensitive soul such a sight is awful and
sickening. Brutality is triumphant, and war shown in all its hellish
aspects. There is little culture in the business. It is simply the awful
expression of Hate. Nevertheless, such men as the Glesca Mileeshy viewed
almost calmly the scene. They even joked and laughed as they sent their
bullets into the reeling masses of men.
"They're comin' again--Rapid fire," commanded Spud to his men once more.
The weight of numbers had pushed the living over the maimed. They
clambered across their bodies towards the high entanglements. A crisis
was near, and every man in the Glesca Mileeshy fixed his bayonet, then
opened fire again. Dead men paved the way to the higher entanglements.
Click! Click! Click! went the enemy's wire-cutters all along the line.
Some even tore themselves over or through the barbed wire. They had
reached their goal.
"Gae them H----, boys," roared Spud above the din. There was no need to
command. Out of the trenches leaped the front line of the Glesca
Mileeshy. The slaughter was fierce. Blood spurted everywhere. Germans
and British struggled like Dervishes for the mastery. Screams were mixed
with curses, moans drowned in the awful din. Germans hate our British
bayonets; in fact they loathe cold steel at any time. Seldom will they
face such music, but this attack had been driven on. To turn meant death
from the bayonets behind; even if they had escaped from the crush a
German officer's revolver would have quickly ended their flight. Brave
as they are, when equal in numbers against our arms the British assert
their superiority with natural ease. The Glesca Mileeshy, like their
co-partners, had centuries of tradition behind them. Germans, after all,
are young at the game of war.
Colonel Corkleg viewed the awful struggle from the supporting trenches.
The condition of affairs was uninspiring. He saw more and more grey
masses of the enemy surging forward to swell the attacking line.
"Good God!" he exclaimed, as two great columns burst through on the
right and left of his line. He also noticed that the regiments on his
flanks were retiring. Was it panic? Were they complying with previous
orders? He did not know. All he knew was that his regiment had been told
to hold on at all costs. He would do so, for, like a true soldier, he
had a firm sense of duty and a belief in his general. As it was useless
to waste more men in his front line, he signalled to them to retire
through the communication trench.
"Retire, man by man," ordered Lieutenant Greens, waiting with Spud to
see all the men through. Perhaps the action of the officer and sergeant
was unnecessarily cautious and daring; yet it is typical of the British
officer and N.C.O. Quickly the men jumped down into the communication
trench and ran on to the supports. Nearly all had gone, when Spud was
alarmed to hear some one say--
"Sergint--Spud--for the love of God, don't lave me--I'm done in, bhoy."
Spud turned from his act of bayoneting a German to see poor Muldoon
lying half mangled across the parapet.
"Get hold of him, sergeant--I'll keep the devils off," roared Greens,
smiting the attackers with the butt-end of a rifle. Spud jumped forward
and grabbed the heavy form of his faithful chum. He staggered with the
weight, but, with a superhuman effort, half carried and dragged the
wounded man along the deep communicating trench. Colonel Corkleg and his
men had seen it all. They even stopped for a second to cheer. As Spud
dropped his load he turned to look for his officer. He saw him
surrounded by half a dozen wild Bavarians.
"Come on, three o' ye," he shouted to the nearest men. They clattered
down the trench behind his nimble form. Into the surging mob they
dashed, gashing and hacking as they went. Poor old Greens had fallen. He
seemed almost dead as Spud jumped and pulled him out from beneath the
attackers' feet.
"Haud them for a meenit," roared Spud, "and I'll get him back."
"Richt ye are," was the willing response of the three stalwarts. Nobly
they tackled their men, but, alas! two were killed in the _melee_; the
third man had to flee with a terrible bayonet wound in his chest. Spud
pulled the lieutenant under cover of the supporting trench, and then
handed him and the other wounded men over to the stretcher-bearers.
"Things look bad," mused Colonel Corkleg, viewing the surging horde of
yelling Bavarians, who were now advancing again. He knew he was in a
tight hole; he was also aware that the eyes of his men were on him. That
is the Tommie's way. In danger he looks to his officer. If the officer
is still the same cool gentleman who has kindly but firmly guided him in
the other affairs of peace and war--all's well. But--if there is a sense
of despair, a touch of pallor, a command given out in a nervous way,
then that wonderful confidence which wins all battles dies out in a
flash. Corkleg knew the working of the soldier's mind. This was an
occasion to preserve to the last the air of ease and the sense of hope.
Between puffs of a cigarette he calmly issued his orders, directed the
fire, and occasionally cursed a slacker who fiddled with his bolt.
"Thank Heaven for our Maxims," he remarked to the adjutant, as he
watched Cocky Dan and his gunners sending death and disorder into the
German ranks. Then jumping over the dead bodies of some of his gallant
men, he entered a little dug-out where the telephone was. Turning the
handle, he waited. A faint tinkle quickly echoed through the din.
"Hello--is that the brigadier?"
"Yes."
"We're in a tight fix here, sir. We've lost the first line of trenches.
The regiments on my right and left have gone. It looks as if we're going
to be scuppered."
"Hold on, for God's sake, colonel. Yours is the key of the whole line.
They must not get it. We'll reinforce you soon. Good-bye."
"I hope to God you will," he muttered, dropping the 'phone. He was not
afraid of slaughter, but he was certainly afraid of the enemy capturing
this, the pivot of the defence. The colonel, of course, was not aware of
the higher policy which had placed him there, for even commanding
officers are seldom informed of the inner secrets of attack and defence.
In this case the G.O.C. knew the strength of the enemy and fully
estimated the deadly weight of their numbers. Brave as his men were, it
was impossible for them to repel this great attack in its early stages.
Nor would it have been wise to do so. He knew the enemy could break the
line. It was, therefore, essential to work out his defence in such a way
that he might avoid needless casualties, gain time, inflict a frightful
slaughter, and then drive home the counter-attack--the soundest maxim of
war. The point held by the Glesca Mileesha, however, could not even be
temporarily surrendered. It was on a knoll commanding the flat country
round. If captured by the enemy it would have been an easy matter for
them to gallop forward their light field batteries under cover of this
hill, and then render to the attacking German infantry a weighty
co-operation which would have been fatal to the British general's plan.
That was why this regiment was there, and the presence of this regiment
gave their general the assurance that they would hold out while he
attempted a venture thrust upon him by the will and numbers of the
enemy. Colonel Corkleg, of course, may have divined this thought of the
G.O.C., but he had not been informed of the fact. He had been given a
definite order--"To hold out till the last," and in the British Army
orders are always obeyed. The orders to the colonels of the regiments on
his immediate right and left were to promptly retire when the enemy
reached the first line of their trenches. On arriving at two little
knolls covering the ground which they had surrendered, they were
instructed to immediately reform behind them. There they would find
sixteen Maxim guns and fresh troops to aid them. That was all they knew.
But behind a great earthwork screen, some five hundred yards to the rear
of this second line, the Canadians, Australians, New Zealanders, and
Gurkhas lay under cover, ready, if need be, to repulse a serious
reverse, but really destined to carry out the counter-assault.
Now, imagine the scene. The Glesca Mileeshy fighting like Trojans
against the helmeted hordes who tried to envelop and crush them. Their
trenches were filled with blood, and hundreds lay maimed and dead. Round
their flanks swept rank after rank of the Germans, in vigorous pursuit
of the little sections of retiring regiments who fired a few rounds,
then ran on to the next bit of cover, where they repeated the same
performance with a coolness truly wonderful and inspiring. Their volleys
were deadly enough, but feeble against such a mighty deluge of men.
Still, they lured them on, then finally disappeared behind the flanks of
their second line of defence. Meantime, the German reserves had arrived.
Inspired by the success of their first lines, they pressed bravely
forward to finish their job, leaving the Glesca Mileeshy almost
encircled by their friends.
Z-r-r-p--Z-r-r-p--Z-r-r-p spat the machine-gun batteries behind the
little knolls. This was accompanied by a terrific explosion of land
mines, which burst beneath the feet of the enemy, as well as the rapid
fire of the infantry and the crashing bombs from five aeroplanes above.
Hundreds were blown lifeless and mutilated into the air, hundreds more
were riddled with the traversing fire of the Maxim guns, while many were
caught with the well-aimed musketry of the eager Tommies. The great host
reeled with the blow. Death and fumes, the smoke and noise, stupefied
them all. They were like lost sheep in a wilderness. Indeed, the enemy
had reached that mental state when a counter-attack will always win.
"Double forward the reserves, and, when ready, charge," was the order
flashed from the G.O.C. of the Mixed Division. Out of the earth rose the
Indians and Colonials--brothers in arms. Their advance was covered by
the men and Maxims on the knolls in front of them. Gleefully they
ran--Indians mixed with Canadians, New Zealanders, and Australians. They
reached the second line of defence and lay down for a breath.
"Fix bayonets--prepare to charge," was the next order flashed along the
line. The clicking of the steel rings on the bayonet standards was a
cheerful sound to all.
"Charge!" A wild hurrah was heard from seven thousand men. Seven
thousand bayonets gleamed in the now sparkling sun. And down like an
avalanche swept the sons of Empire. Words can never depict a charge. It
is wild, almost insane, yet glorious. There is a thrill of pride in the
veins that kills all fear and makes even the fattest and laziest envious
of the fleet-footed subalterns, who always lead the way. And this was an
Imperial charge--a charge of willing volunteers, who loved the
Motherland.
The stupefied Germans were horror-struck. Seven thousand fresh and lusty
warriors struck terror into their hearts. And those bayonets! Well, who
wouldn't run! They fled like hares on a frosty morning, pursued by the
yelling and stabbing multitude. The slow-footed fell in hundreds. But on
pressed the Mixed Division. Over their original line they charged to a
great and glorious victory. The counter-attack had won the day.
Just as the battle ended, "Sunny Jim" dashed up in his motor-car. News
of the victory had cheered him, but he was anxious to learn the fate of
the Glesca Mileeshy. As the car neared Colonel Corkleg's position, he
was received with a cheer from a hundred men.
"Good God, colonel--is that all that's left to you?" said the general
quietly, looking on the living, then at the piled-up dead.
"Yes, sir," said Corkleg, with a catch in his voice, as he tried to
salute. The strain and an awful bayonet wound in the shoulder had
drained much of his blood. He collapsed at the general's feet.
"Never mind me, doctor," he whispered in a weak voice to the surgeon who
had jumped to his side. "Look after Sergeant Tamson."
"Who, sir?"
"The man who saved me," said the colonel, trying to point to the
prostrate form of Spud, who lay almost lifeless on the top of some dead
Germans. Then closing his eyes he swooned away, muttering, "Useful
man--useful man."
Spud Tamson was found living, yet seriously wounded. He had been
bayoneted in the chest while gallantly rescuing his colonel from a band
of lusty Bavarians.
"Save him if you can, for he has earned the V.C.," said the adjutant to
the doctor as Spud was lifted into the motor ambulance.
"Oh, he'll live all right," was the cheerful reply as the motor started
on its way. And live he did. The whole Empire cried "Well done," and all
the world wondered at this hero from the slums.
A CONVENTIONAL FINISH.
EXTRACT FROM THE PRESS.
_Marriages_.--At the residence of Colonel Corkleg, C.B., by the Rev.
Father Murphy, Sergeant Spud Tamson, V.C., The Glesca Mileeshy, to Mary
Ann M'Ginnes, daughter of Patrick M'Ginnes, The Gallowgate, Glasgow.
THE END.
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" ... Since 'The Battle of Dorking' nothing so realistic has
appeared."--_Pall Mall Gazette._
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, Edinburgh and London.