PART II

_UBIQUE_

1

The Division of Field Artillery to which I was posted by the War

Office was training at Bulford up to its neck in mud, but the brigade

had moved to Fleet two days before I joined. By that time--it was a

good fifteen days since I had come home--I had grown accustomed to

the feel and splendour of a Sam Browne belt and field boots and the

recurring joy of being saluted not merely by Tommies but by exalted

beings like sergeants and sergeant-majors; and I felt mentally as

well as physically clean.

At the same time I arrived at the Fleet Golf Club, where most of

the officers were billeted, feeling vastly diffident. I’d never

seen a gun, never given a command in my life and hadn’t the first

or foggiest idea of the sort of things gunners did, and my only

experience of an officers’ mess was my dinner with the Major in

France. Vaguely I knew that there was a certain etiquette demanded.

It was rather like a boy going to a new school.

It was tea time and dark when the cab dropped me at the door and

the place was practically empty. However, an officer emerged, asked

me if I’d come to join, and led me in to tea. Presently, however, a

crowd swarmed in, flung wet mackintoshes and caps about the hall and

began devouring bread and jam in a way that more and more resembled

school. They looked me over with the unintentional insolence of all

Englishmen and one or two spoke. They were a likely-looking lot,

mostly amazingly young and full of a vitality that was like an

electric current. One, a fair willowy lad with one or two golden

fluffs that presumably did duty as a moustache, took me in hand. He

was somewhat fancifully called Pot-face but he had undoubtedly bought

the earth and all things in it. Having asked and received my name he

informed me that I was posted to his battery and introduced me to the

other subaltern, also of his battery. This was a pale, blue-eyed,

head-on-one-side, sensitive youth who was always just a moment too

late with his repartee. Pot-face, who possessed a nimble, sarcastic

tongue, took an infinite delight in baiting him to the verge of

tears. His nickname, to which incidentally he refused to answer, was

the Fluttering Palm.

The others did not assume individualities till later. It was an

amusing tea and afterwards we adjourned to the big club room with

two fireplaces and straw armchairs and golfing pictures. The

senior officers were there and before I could breathe Pot-face

had introduced me to the Colonel, the Adjutant, and the Captain

commanding our battery, a long, thin, dark man with India stamped all

over him and a sudden infectious laugh that crinkled all his face. He

turned out to be the owner of a vitriolic tongue.

A lecture followed, one of a series which took place two or three

evenings a week attended by all the officers in the brigade, a good

two thirds of whom were billeted in the village and round about. Of

technical benefit I don’t think I derived any, because I knew no

gunnery, but it helped me to get to know everybody. A further help

in that respect was afforded by my Captain who on that first evening

proposed getting up a concert. Having had two years on the stage in

America I volunteered to help and was at once made O. C. Concert.

This gave me a sort of standing, took away the awful newness and

entirely filled my spare time for two weeks. The concert was a big

success and from that night I felt at home.

To me, after my experience in the ranks, everything was new and

delightful. We were all learning, subalterns as well as men. Only the

Colonel and the Battery Commanders were regulars and every single

officer and man was keen. The work therefore went with a will that

surprised me. The men were a different class altogether to those with

whom I had been associated. There were miners, skilled men, clerks,

people of some education and distinct intelligence. Then too the

officers came into much closer contact with them than in the Cavalry.

Our training had been done solely under the sergeant-major. Here

in the Gunners the officers not only took every parade and lecture

and stable hour and knew every man and horse by name, but played in

all the inter-battery football matches. It was a different world,

much more intimate and much better organised. We worked hard and

played hard. Riding was of course most popular because each of us

had a horse. But several had motor-bicycles and went for joy-rides

half over the south of England between tattoo and reveille. Then the

Golf Club made us honorary members, and the Colonel and I had many a

match, and he almost invariably beat me by one hole.

My ignorance of gunnery was monumental and it was a long time before

I grasped even the first principles. The driving drill part of it

didn’t worry me. The Cavalry had taught me to feel at home in the

saddle and the drawing of intricate patterns on the open country with

a battery of four guns was a delightful game soon learnt. But once

they were in action I was lost. It annoyed me to listen helplessly

while children of nineteen with squeaky voices fired imaginary salvos

on imaginary targets and got those gunners jumping. So I besought

the Colonel to send me on a course to Shoebury and he did.

Work? I’d never known what it meant till I went to Shoebury and put

on a canvas duck suit. We paraded at ungodly hours in the morning,

wet or fine, took guns to bits and with the instructor’s help put

them together again; did gun drill by the hour and learnt it by heart

from the handbook and shouted it at each other from a distance;

spent hours in the country doing map-reading and re-section; sat

through hours of gunnery lectures where the mysteries of a magic

triangle called T.O.B. became more and more unfathomable; knocked

out countless churches on a miniature range with a precision that

was quite Boche-like; waded through a ghastly tabloid book called

F.A.T. and flung the thing in despair at the wall half a dozen times

a day; played billiards at night when one had been clever enough to

arrive first at the table by means of infinite manœuvring; ate like

a Trojan, got dog-tired by 9 p.m., slept like a child; dashed up to

London every week-end and went to the theatre, and became in fact the

complete Shoeburyite.

Finally I returned to the brigade extraordinarily fit, very keen

and with perhaps the first glimmerings of what a gun was. A scourge

of a mysterious skin disease ran through the horses at that time.

It looked like ringworm and wasn’t,--according to the Vet. But we

subalterns vied with each other in curing our sections and worked day

and night on those unfortunate animals with tobacco juice, sulphur

and every unpleasant means available until they looked the most

wretched brutes in the world.

Little by little the training built itself up. From standing gun

drill we crept to battery gun drill and then took the battery out for

the day and lost it round Aldershot in that glorious pine country,

coming into action over and over again.

The Colonel watched it all from a distance with a knowledgeable eye

and at last took a hand. Brigade shows then took place, batteries

working in conjunction with each other and covering zones.

Those were good days in the early spring with all the birds in full

chorus, clouds scudding across a blue sky, and the young green

feathering all the trees, days of hard physical work with one’s blood

running free and the companionship of one’s own kind; inspired by a

friendly rivalry in doing a thing just a little bit better than the

other fellow--or trying to: with an occasional week-end flung in like

a sparkling jewel.

And France? Did we think about it? Yes, when the lights were turned

out at night and only the point of the final cigarette like a

glowworm marked the passage of hand to mouth. Then the talk ran on

brothers “out there” and the chances of our going soon. None of them

had been except me, but I could only give them pictures of star-shell

at night and the heart-breaking mud, and they wanted gunner talk.

It was extraordinary what a bond grew up between us all in those

days, shared, I think, by the senior officers. We declared ourselves

the first brigade in the Division, and each battery was of course

hotly the finest in the brigade; our Colonel was miles above any

other Colonel in the Army and our Battery Commanders the best fellows

that ever stepped. By God, we’d show Fritz!----

2

We had left Fleet and the golf club and moved into hutments at

Deepcut about the time I returned from the gunnery course. Now the

talk centred round the firing practice when every man and officer

would be put to the test and one fine morning the order came to

proceed to Trawsfynydd, Wales.

We “proceeded” by train, taking only guns, firing battery wagons and

teams and after long, long hours found ourselves tucked away in a

camp in the mountains with great blankets of mist rolling down and

blotting everything out, the ground a squelching bog of tussocks

with outcrops of rock sprouting up everywhere. A strange, hard, cold

country, with unhappy houses, grey tiled and lonely, and peasants

whose faces seemed marked by the desolation of it all.

The range was a rolling stretch of country falling away from a

plateau high above us, reached by a corkscrew path that tore the

horses to pieces, and cut up by stone walls and nullahs which after

an hour’s rain foamed with brown water. Through glasses we made out

the targets--four black dots representing a battery, a row of tiny

figures for infantry, and a series of lines indicating trenches. For

three days the weather prevented us from shooting but at last came a

morning when the fog blanket rolled back and the guns were run up,

and little puffs of cotton wool appeared over the targets, the hills

ringing with countless echoes as though they would never tire of the

firing.

Each subaltern was called up in turn and given a target by the

Colonel who, lying silently on his stomach, watched results through

his glasses and doubtless in his mind summed each of us up from the

methods of our orders to the battery, the nimbleness and otherwise

with which we gauged and corrected them. A trying ordeal which

was, however, all too short. Sixteen rounds apiece were all that

we were allowed. We would have liked six hundred, so fascinating

and bewildering was the new game. It seemed as if the guns took a

malignant pleasure in disobeying our orders, each gun having its own

particular devil to compete with.

In the light of to-day the explanation is simple. There was no such

thing as calibration then, that exorciser of the evil spirit in all

guns.

And so, having seen at last a practical demonstration of what I had

long considered a fact--that the Gunners’ Bible F.A.T. (the handbook

of Field Artillery Training) was a complete waste of time, we all

went back to Deepcut even more than ever convinced that we were the

finest brigade in England. And all on the strength of sixteen rounds

apiece!

Almost at once I was removed from the scientific activities

necessitated by being a battery subaltern. An apparently new

establishment was made, a being called an Orderly Officer, whose

job was to keep the Colonel in order and remind the Adjutant of all

the things he forgot. In addition to those two matters of supreme

moment there were one or two minor duties like training the brigade

signallers to lay out cables and buzz messages, listen to the

domestic troubles of the regimental sergeant-major, whose importance

is second only to that of the Colonel, look after some thirty men and

horses and a cable wagon and endeavour to keep in the good books of

the Battery Commanders.

I got the job--and kept it for over a year.

Colonel, didn’t I keep you in order?

Adj, did I _ever_ do any work for you?

Battery Commanders, didn’t I come and cadge drinks daily--and

incidentally wasn’t that cable which I laid from Valandovo to Kajali

the last in use before the Bulgar pushed us off the earth?

3

So I forgot the little I ever knew about gunnery and laid spiders’

webs from my cable wagon all over Deepcut, and galloped for the

Colonel on Divisional training stunts with a bottle of beer and

sandwiches in each wallet against the hour when the General, feeling

hungry, should declare an armistice with the opposing force and

Colonels and their Orderly Officers might replenish their inner men.

Brave days of great lightheartedness, untouched by the shadow of what

was to come after.

May had put leaves on all the trees and called forth flowers in every

garden. Then came June to perfect her handiwork and with it the call

to lay aside our golf clubs and motor-cycles, to say good-bye to

England in all her beauty and go out once more to do our bit.

There was much bustle and packing of kits and writing of letters and

heartburnings over last week-end leaves refused and through it all a

thirst for knowledge of where we were going. Everything was secret,

letters severely censored. Rumour and counter-rumour chased each

other through the camp until, an hour before starting, the Captain in

whose battery I had begun appeared with a motor car full of topees.

Then all faces like true believers were turned towards the East and

on every tongue was the word Gallipoli.

Avonmouth was the port of embarkation and there we filled a mass of

waiting boats, big and little.

The Colonel, the Adjutant and I were on one of the biggest. My horses

had been handed over to a battery for the voyage and I had only the

signallers to look after. Everything was complete by ten o’clock in

the morning. The convoy would not sail till midnight, so some of us

got leave to explore and took train to Bristol, lunching royally for

the last time in a restaurant, buying innumerable novels to read on

board, sending final telegrams home.

How very different it was to the first going out! No red lead. No

mud. The reality had departed. It seemed like going on a picnic, a

merry outing with cheery souls, a hot sun trickling down one’s back;

and not one of us but heard the East a-calling.

A curious voyage that was when we had sorted ourselves out. The

mornings were taken up with a few duties,--physical jerks, chin

inspection and Grand Rounds when we stood stiffly to attention,

rocking with the sway of the boat while the two commanders of the

sister services inspected the ship; life-boat drill, a little

signalling; and then long hours in scorching sunshine, to lie in a

deck chair gazing out from the saloon deck upon the infinite blue,

trying to find the answer to the why of it all, arguing the alpha and

omega with one’s pals, reading the novels we had bought in Bristol,

writing home, sleeping. Torpedoes and mines? We never thought about

them.

Boxing competitions and sports were organized for the men and they

hammered each other’s faces to pulp with the utmost good fellowship.

Then we passed The Rock and with our first glimpse of the African

coast--a low brown smudge--we began to stir restlessly and think

of terra firma. It broke the spell of dreams which had filled the

long days. Maps were produced and conferences held, and we studied

eagerly the contours of Gallipoli, discussed the detail of landings

and battery positions, wagon lines and signalling arrangements,

even going so far as to work off our bearing of the line of fire.

Fragments of war news were received by wireless and a _communiqué_

was posted daily, but it all seemed extraordinarily unreal, as

though it were taking place in another world.

One night we saw a fairyland of piled-up lights which grew swiftly as

we drew nearer and took shape in filigreed terraces and arcades when

our anchor at last dropped with a mighty roar in Valetta harbour.

Tiny boats like gondolas were moored at the water’s edge in tight

rows, making in the moonlight a curious scalloped fringe. People in

odd garments passed in noiseless swarms up and down the streets, cabs

went by, shop doors opened and shut, and behind all those lights

loomed the impenetrable blackness of the land towering up like a

mountain. From the distance at which we were anchored no sound could

be heard save that of shipping, and those ant-sized people going

about their affairs, regardless of the thousands of eyes watching

them, gave one the effect of looking at a stage from the gallery

through the wrong end of an opera glass.

Coaling began within an hour, and all that night bronze figures naked

to the waist and with bare feet slithered up and down the swaying

planks, tireless, unceasing, glistening in the arc light which

spluttered from the mast of the coaling vessel; the grit of coal dust

made one’s shoes crunch as one walked the decks in pyjamas, filled

one’s hair and neck, and on that stifling night became as one of the

plagues of Pharaoh.

A strange discordant chattering waked one next morning as though

a tribe of monkeys had besieged the ship. Then one leaped to the

port-hole to get a glimpse of Malta, to us the first hint of the

mysterious East. There it was, glistening white against the turquoise

blue, built up in fascinating tiers with splashes of dark green trees

clinging here and there as though afraid of losing their hold and

toppling into the sea. All round the ship the sea was dotted with

boats and dark people yelling and shouting, all reds and blues and

bright yellows; piles of golden fruit and coloured shawls; big boats

with high snub noses, the oarsmen standing, showing rows of gleaming

teeth; baby boats the size of walnut shells with naked brown babies

uttering shrill cries and diving like frogs for silver coins.

Was it possible that just a little farther on we should meet one end

of the line of death that made a red gash right across Europe?

We laughed a little self-consciously under the unusual feel of our

topees and went ashore to try and get some drill khaki. Finding none

we drank cool drinks and bought cigars and smiled at the milk sellers

with their flocks of goats and the _café au lait_ coloured girls,

some of whom moved with extraordinary grace and looked very pretty

under their black mantillas. The banks distrusted us and would give

us no money, and the Base cashier refused to undo his purse strings.

We cursed him and tried unsuccessfully to borrow from each other,

having only a few pounds in our pockets. Down a back street we found

a Japanese tattooist and in spite of the others’ ridicule I added a

highly coloured but pensive parrot to my collection. But the heat was

overwhelming and our puttees and tunics became streaked with sweat.

We were glad to get back to the boat and lie in a cold bath and climb

languidly into the comparative coolness of slacks. The men had not

been allowed ashore but hundreds of them dived overboard and swam

round the boat, and the native fruit sellers did a thriving trade.

After dinner we went ashore again. It was not much cooler. We

wandered into various places of amusement. They were all the same,

large dirty halls with a small stage and a piano and hundreds of

marble-topped tables where one sat and drank. Atrociously fat women

appeared on the stage and sang four songs apiece in bad French. It

didn’t matter whether the first song was greeted with stony silence

or the damning praise of one sarcastic laugh. Back came each one

until she’d finished her repertoire. Getting bored with that I

collected a fellow sufferer and together we went out and made our way

to the top of the ramparts. The sky looked as if a giant had spilt

all the diamonds in the world. They glittered and changed colour. The

sea was also powdered as if little bits of diamond dust had dropped

from the sky. The air smelled sweet and a little strange, and in that

velvety darkness which one could almost touch one’s imagination went

rioting.

As if that were not enough a guitar somewhere down below was suddenly

touched with magic fingers and a little love song floated up in a

soft lilting tenor.--We were very silent on the old wall.

4

The next morning on waking up, that song still echoing in our ears,

we were hull down. Only a vague disturbance in the blue showed where

Malta had been, and but for the tattoo which irritated slightly, it

might have been one of the Thousand and One Nights. We arrived at

last at Alexandria instead of Gallipoli. The shore authorities lived

up to the best standards of the Staff.

They said, “Who the devil are you?”

And we replied, “The ---- Division.”

And they said, “We’ve never heard of you, don’t know where you come

from, have no instructions about you, and you’d better buzz off

again.”

But we beamed at them and said, “To hell with you. We’re going to

land,”--and landed.

There were no arrangements for horses or men; and M.L.O.’s in all the

glory of staff hats and armlets chattered like impotent monkeys. We

were busy, however, improvising picketing-ropes from ships’ cables

borrowed from the amused ship’s commander and we smiled politely and

said, “Yes, it _is_ hot,” and went on with the work. Never heard of

the ---- Division? Well, well!

Hot? We had never known what heat was before. We thought we did lying

about on deck, but when it came to working for hours on end,--tunics

disappeared and collars and ties followed them. The horses looked

as if they had been out in the rain and left a watery trail as we

formed up and marched out of the harbour and through the town. We

bivouacked for the night in a rest camp called Karaissi where there

wasn’t enough room and tempers ran high until a couple of horses

broke loose in the dark and charged the tent in which there were two

Colonels. The tent ropes went with a ping and camp beds and clothing

and Colonels were mixed up in the sand. No one was hurt, so we

emptied the Colonels’ pyjamas, called their servants and went away

and laughed.

Then we hooked in and marched again, and in the middle of the

afternoon found Mamoura--a village of odd smells, naked children,

filthy women and pariah dogs--and pitched camp on the choking sand

half a mile from the seashore.

By this time the horses were nearly dead and the only water was

a mile and a half away and full of sand. But they drank it, poor

brutes, by the gallon,--and two days after we had our first case of

sand colic.

The Staff were in marquees on the seashore. Presumably being bored,

having nothing earthly to do, they began to exhibit a taste for

design and each day the camp was moved, twenty yards this way,

fifteen that, twelve and a half the other, until, thank God, the sun

became too much for them and they retired to suck cool drinks through

straws and think up a new game.

By this time the Colonel had refused to play and removed himself,

lock, stock and barrel, to the hotel in the village. The Adjutant

was praying aloud for the mud of Flanders. The Orderly Officer made

himself scarce and the Battery Commanders were telling Indian snake

stories at breakfast. The sergeants and the men, half naked and with

tongues hanging out, were searching for beer.

The days passed relentlessly, scorching hot, the only work, watering

the horses four times a day, leaving everybody weak and exhausted.

At night a damp breeze sighed across the sand from the sea, soaking

everything as though it had rained. The busiest men in the camp were

the Vet. and the doctor.

Sand colic ran through the Division like a scourge, and dysentery

began to reduce the personnel from day to day. The flies bred in

their billions, in spite of all the doctor’s efforts, loyally backed

up by us. The subalterns’ method of checking flies was to catch

salamanders and walk about, holding them within range of guy ropes

and tent roofs where flies swarmed, and watch their coiled tongues

uncurl like a flash of lightning and then trace the passage of

the disgruntled fly down into the salamander’s interior. Battery

Commanders waking from a fly-pestered siesta would lay their piastres

eagerly on “Archibald” versus “Yussuf.” Even Wendy would have

admitted that it was “frightfully fascinating.”

Every morning there was a pyjama parade at six o’clock when we all

trooped across to the sea and went in as nature made us. Or else we

rode the horses with snorts and splashings. The old hairy enjoyed

it as much as we did and, once in, it was difficult to get him out

again, even with bare heels drumming on his ribs.

The infantry, instead of landing at Alexandria, had gone straight

to the Dardanelles, and after we had been in camp about a fortnight

the two senior brigades of Gunners packed up and disappeared in the

night, leaving us grinding our teeth with envy and hoping that they

wouldn’t have licked the Turk until we got there too.

Five full months and a half we stayed in that camp! One went through

two distinct phases.

The first was good, when everything was new, different, romantic,

delightful, from the main streets of Alexandria with European shops

and Oriental people, the club with its white-burnoused waiters with

red sash and red fez, down to the unutterable filth and foul smells

of the back streets where every disease lurked in the doorways.

There were early morning rides to sleepy villages across the desert,

pigeons fluttering round the delicate minarets, one’s horse making

scarcely any sound in the deep sand until startled into a snort

by a scuttling salamander or iguana as long as one’s arm. Now and

then one watched breathless a string of camels on a distant skyline

disappearing into the vast silence. Then those dawns, with opal

colours like a rainbow that had broken open and splashed itself

across the world! What infinite joy in all that riot of colour.

The sunsets were too rapid: one great splurge of blood and then

darkness, followed by a moonlight that was as hard as steel mirrors.

Buildings and trees were picked out in ghostly white but the shadows

by contrast were darker than the pit, made gruesome by the howling of

pariah dogs which flitted silently like damned souls.

The eternal mystery of the yashmak caught us all,--two deep eyes

behind that little veil, the lilting, sensuous walk, the perfect

balance and rhythm of those women who worshipped other gods.

Then there was the joy of mail day. Letters and papers arrived

regularly, thirteen days old but more precious because of it. How

one sprang to the mess-table in the big marquee, open to whatever

winds that blew, when the letters were dumped on it, and danced with

impatience while they were being sorted, and retired in triumph to

one’s reed hut like a dog with a bone to revel in all the little

happenings at home that interested us so vitally, to marvel at the

amazingly different points of view and to thank God that although

thousands of miles away one “belonged.”

Then came the time when we had explored everything, knew it all

backwards, and the colours didn’t seem so bright. The sun seemed

hotter, the flies thicker and the days longer. Restlessness attacked

everybody and the question “What the devil are we doing here?” began

to be asked, only to draw bitter answers. Humour began to have a

tinge of sarcasm, remarks tended to become personal and people

disappeared precipitately after mess instead of playing the usual

rubbers. The unfortunate subaltern who was the butt of the mess--a

really excellent and clever fellow--relapsed into a morose silence,

and every one who had the least tendency to dysentery went gladly

to hospital. Even the brigade laughter-maker lost his touch. It

had its echo in the ranks. Sergeants made more frequent arrests,

courts-martial cropped up and it was more difficult to get the work

done in spite of concerts, sports and boxing contests. Interest

flagged utterly. Mercifully the Staff held aloof.

The courts-martial seemed to me most Hogarthian versions of justice,

satirical and damnable. One in particular was held on a poor little

rat of an infantryman who had missed the boat for Gallipoli and

was being tried for desertion. The reason of his missing the boat

was that she sailed before her time and he, having had a glass or

two--and why not?--found that she had already gone when he arrived

back in the harbour five minutes before the official time for her

departure. He immediately reported to the police.

I am convinced that she was the only boat who ever sailed before her

time during the course of the war!

However, I was under instruction--and learnt a great deal. The heat

was appalling. The poor little prisoner, frightened out of his

life, utterly lost his head, and the Court, after hours of formal

scribbling on blue paper, brought him in guilty. Having obtained

permission to ask a question I requested to know whether the Court

was convinced that he had the intention of deserting.

The Court was quite satisfied on that point and, besides, there had

been so many cases of desertion lately from the drafts for Gallipoli

that really it was time an example was made of some one. He got three

years!

Supposing I’d hit that bullying sergeant in the eye in Flanders?

5

Two incidents occurred during that lugubrious period that helped to

break the dead monotony.

The first was the sight of a real live eunuch according to all the

specifications of the Arabian Nights. We were to give a horse show

and as the flag of residence was flying from the Sultan’s palace I

asked the Colonel if I might invite the Sultan. The Colonel was quite

in favour of it. So with an extra polish on my buttons and saddlery

I collected a pal and together we rode through the great gateway

into the grounds of the palace, ablaze with tropical vegetation

and blood-red flowers. Camped among the trees on the right of the

drive was a native guard of about thirty men. They rose as one man,

jabbered at the sight of us but remained stationary. We rode on at

a walk with all the dignity of the British Empire behind us. Then

we saw a big Arab come running towards us from the palace, uttering

shrill cries and waving his arms. We met him and would have passed

but he made as though to lay hands upon our bits. So we halted and

listened to a stream of Arabic and gesticulation.

Then the eunuch appeared, a little man of immense shoulders and

immense stomach, dressed in a black frock coat and stiff white

collar, yellow leather slippers and red fez and sash. He was about

five feet tall and addressed us in a high squeaky voice like a fiddle

string out of tune. His dignity was surprising and he would have done

justice to the Court of Haroun al Raschid. We were delighted with him

and called him Morgiana.

He didn’t understand that so I tried him in French, whereupon

he clapped his hands twice, and from an engine room among the

outbuildings came running an Arab mechanic in blue jeans. He spoke a

sort of hybrid Levantine French and conveyed our invitation of the

Sultan to the eunuch who bowed and spoke again. The desire to laugh

was appalling.

It appeared that the Sultan was absent in Alexandria and only the

Sultana and the ladies were here and it was quite forbidden that we

should approach nearer the palace.

Reluctantly, therefore, we saluted, which drew many salaams and

bowings in reply, and rode away, followed by that unforgettable

little man’s squeaks.

The other incident covered a period of a week or so. It was a

question of spies.

The village of Mamoura consisted of a railway terminus and hotel

round which sprawled a dark and smelly conglomeration of hovels out

of which sprouted the inevitable minaret. The hotel was run by people

who purported to be French but who were of doubtful origin, ranging

from half-caste Arab to Turk by way of Greek and Armenian Jew. But

they provided dinner and cooling drinks and it was pleasant to sit

under the awninged verandah and listen to the frogs and the sea or to

play their ramshackle piano and dance with the French residents of

Alexandria who came out for week-ends to bathe.

At night we used to mount donkeys about as big as large beetles and

have races across the sands back to camp, from which one could see

the lights of the hotel. Indeed we thought we saw what they didn’t

intend us to see, for there were unmistakable Morse flashings out at

sea from that cool verandah. We took it with grim seriousness and

lay for hours on our stomachs with field glasses glued to our eyes.

I posted my signalling corporal in a drinking house next door to the

hotel, gave him late leave and paid his beer so that he might watch

with pencil and notebook. But always he reported in the morning that

he’d seen nothing.

The climax came when one night an orderly burst into the hut which

the Vet. and I shared and said, “Mr. ---- wants you to come over at

once, sir. He’s taken down half a message from the signalling at the

hotel.”

I leapt into gum boots, snatched my glasses and ran across to the

sand mound from where we had watched.

The other subaltern was there in a great state of excitement.

“Look at it,” he said. “Morsing like mad.”

I looked,--and looked again.

There was a good breeze blowing and the flag on the verandah was

exactly like the shutter of a signalling lamp!

6

Having sat there all those months, the order to move, when it did

finally come, was of the most urgent nature. It was received one

afternoon at tea time and the next morning before dawn we were

marching down the canal road.

Just before the end we had done a little training, more to get the

horses in draught than anything else. With that and the horse shows

it wasn’t at all a bad turnout.

Once more we didn’t know for certain where we were bound for, but

the betting was about five to four on Greece. How these things leak

out is always a puzzle, but leak out they do. Sure enough we made

another little sea voyage and in about three days steamed up the

Ægean, passing many boats loaded with odd looking soldiers in khaki

who turned out to be Greek, and at last anchored outside Salonica in

a mass of shipping, French and English troopships, destroyers and

torpedo boats and an American battleship with Eiffel-tower masts.

From the sea Salonica was a flashing jewel in a perfect setting.

Minarets and mosques, white and red, sprouted everywhere from the

white, brown and green buildings. Trees and gardens nestled within

the crumbling old city wall. Behind it ran a line of jagged peaks,

merging with the clouds, and here and there ran a little winding

ribbon of road, climbing up and up only to lose itself suddenly by

falling over a precipice.

Here again the M.L.O. had not quite the Public School and Varsity

manner and we suffered accordingly. However, they are a necessary

evil presumably, these quayside warriors. The proof undoubtedly lies

in the number of D.S.O.’s they muster,----but I don’t remember to

have seen any of them with wound stripes. Curious, that.

We marched through mean streets, that smelled worse than Egypt, and a

dirty populace, poverty-stricken and covered with sores; the soldiers

in khaki that looked like brown paper and leather equipments that

were a good imitation of cardboard. Most of the officers wore spurs

like the Three Musketeers and their little tin swords looked as if

they had come out of toy shops. None of them were shaved. If first

impressions count for anything then God help the Greeks.

Our camp was a large open field some miles to the north-west of the

town on the lower slopes of a jagged peak. The tinkle of cow bells

made soft music everywhere. Of accommodation there was none of any

sort, no tents, nothing but what we could improvise. The Colonel

slept under the lee of the cook’s cart. The Adjutant and the doctor

shared the Maltese cart and the Vet. and I crept under the forage

tarpaulin, from which we were awakened in the dark by an unrestrained

cursing and the noise of a violent rainfall.

Needless to say everybody was soaked, fires wouldn’t light, breakfast

didn’t come, tempers as well as appetites became extremely sharp and

things were most unpleasant,--the more so since it went on raining

for three weeks almost without stopping. Although we hadn’t seen rain

for half a year it didn’t take us five minutes to wish we were back

in Egypt. Fortunately we drew bell tents within forty-eight hours and

life became more bearable. But once more we had to go through a sort

of camp drill by numbers,--odd numbers too, for the order came round

that tents would be moved first, then vehicles, and lastly the horses.

Presumably we had to move the guns and wagons with drag-ropes while

the horses watched us, grinning into their nose bags.

Anyhow, there we were, half the artillery in Greece, all

eighteen-pounders, the other half and the infantry somewhere in the

Dardanelles. It appeared, however, that the ---- Division had quite a

lot of perfectly good infantry just up the road but their artillery

hadn’t got enough horses to go round. So we made a sort of Jack Sprat

and his wife arrangement and declared ourselves mobile.

About four days after we’d come into camp the _Marquette_ was wrecked

some thirty miles off Salonica. It had the ---- Divisional Ammunition

Column on board and some nurses. They had an appalling time in the

water and many were lost. The surviving officers, who came dressed

in the most motley garments, poor devils, were split up amongst the

brigade.

On the Headquarters Staff we took to our bosoms a charming fellow

who was almost immediately given the name of Woodbine,--jolly old

Woodbine, one of the very best, whom we left behind with infinite

regret while we went up country. I’d like to know what his golf

handicap is these days.

The political situation was apparently delicate. Greece was still

sitting on the fence, waiting to see which way the cat would jump,

and here were we and our Allies, the French, marching through their

neutral country.

Slight evidences of the “delicacy” of the times were afforded by

the stabbing of some half dozen Tommies in the dark streets of the

town and by the fact that it was only the goodly array of guns

which prevented them from interning us. I don’t think we had any

ammunition as yet, so we couldn’t have done very much. However that

may be and whatever the political reasons, we sat on the roadside day

after day, watching the French streaming up country,--infantry, field

guns, mountain artillery and pack transport,--heedless of Tino and

his protests. Six months in Egypt, and now this! We _were_ annoyed.

However, on about the twentieth day things really happened.

“Don” battery went off by train, their destination being some

unpronounceable village near the firing line. We, the Headquarters

Staff, and “AC” battery followed the next day. The railway followed

the meanderings of the Vardar through fertile land of amazing

greenness and passed mountains of stark rock where not even live oak

grew. The weather was warm for November, but that ceaseless rain put

a damper on everything, and when we finally arrived we found “Don”

battery sitting gloomily in a swamp on the side of the road. We

joined them.

7

The weather changed in the night and we were greeted with a glorious

sunshine in the morning that not only dried our clothes but filled us

with optimism.

Just as we were about to start the pole of my G.S. wagon broke.

Everybody went on, leaving me in the middle of nowhere with a broken

wagon, no map, and instructions to follow on to the “i” of Causli in

a country whose language I couldn’t speak and with no idea of the

distance. Fortunately I kept the brigade artificer with me and a

day’s bully beef and biscuits, for it was not till two o’clock in the

afternoon that we at last got that wagon mended, having had to cut

down a tree and make a new pole and drive rivets. Then we set off

into the unknown through the most glorious countryside imaginable.

The autumn had stained all the trees red and the fallen leaves made

a royal carpet. Vaguely I knew the direction was north by east and

once having struck the road out of the village which led in that

direction I found that it went straight on through beds of streams,

between fields of maize and plantations of mulberries and tumbled

villages tenanted only by starving dogs. The doors of nearly every

house were splashed with a blue cross,--reminiscences of a plague of

typhus. From time to time we met refugees trudging behind ox-drawn

wagons laden with everything they possessed in the world, including

their babies,--sad-faced, wild-looking peasants, clad in picturesque

rags of all colours with eyes that had looked upon fear. I confess to

having kept my revolver handy. For all I knew they might be Turks,

Bulgars or at least brigands.

The sense of solitude was extraordinary. There was no sign of an army

on the march, not even a bully beef tin to mark the route, nothing

but the purple hills remaining always far away and sending out a

faint muttering like the beating of drums heard in a dream. The road

ahead was always empty when I scanned it through my glasses at hour

intervals, the sun lower and lower each time. Darkness came upon us

as it did in Egypt, as though some one had flicked off the switch.

There was no sign of the village which might be Causli and in the

dark the thought which had been uneasily twisting in my brain for

several hours suddenly found utterance in the mouth of the artificer

sergeant.

“D’you think we’re on the right road, sir?”

The only other road we could have taken was at the very start. Ought

I to have taken it? In any case there was nothing to be done but go

on until we met some one, French or English, but the feeling of

uncertainty was distinctly unpleasant. I sent the corporal on ahead

scouting and we followed silently, very stiff in the saddle.

At last I heard a shout, “Brigade ’Eadquarters?” I think both the

team drivers and myself answered “Yes” together.

The corporal had found a guide sent out by the Adjutant, who turned

us off across fields and led us on to another road, and round a bend

we saw lights twinkling and heard the stamp and movement of picketed

horses and answered the challenge of sentries. Dinner was over, but

the cook had kept some hot for me, and my servant had rigged up my

bivvy, a tiny canvas tent just big enough to take a camp bed. As

there was a touch of frost I went to the bivvy to get a woollen

scarf, heard a scuffle, and saw two green eyes glaring at me.

I whipped out my revolver and flicked on an electric torch. Crouched

down on the bed was a little tortoise-shell kitten so thin that

every rib stood out and even more frightened than I was. I caught

it after a minute. It was ice cold so I tucked it against my chest

under the British warm and went to dinner. After about five minutes

it began to purr and I fed it with some bits of meat which it

bolted ravenously. It followed that up by standing in a saucer of

milk, growling furiously and lapping for dear life. Friendship was

established. It slept in the British warm, purring savagely when I

stroked it, as though starved of affection as well as food; followed

close to my heels when I went out in the morning but fled wildly back

to the bivvy if any one came up to me, emerging arched like a little

caterpillar from under the bed, uttering cries of joy when I lifted

the bivvy flap.

It was almost like finding a refugee child who had got frightened and

lost and trusted only the hand that had done it a kindness.

8

The “i” of Causli showed itself in the morning to be a stretch of

turf in a broad green trough between two rows of steep hills. Causli

was somewhere tucked behind the crest in our rear and the road on

which I had travelled ran back a couple of miles, doubled in a

hairpin twist and curved away on the other side of the valley until

it lost itself behind a belt of trees that leaped out of the far

hill. Forward the view was shut in by the spur which sheltered us,

but our horses were being saddled and after breakfast the Colonel

took me with him to reconnoitre. Very soon the valley ceased and the

road became a mountain path with many stone bridges taking it over

precipitous drops. Looking over, one saw little streams bubbling

in the sunlight. After about three miles of climbing we came upon

a signal station on the roadside with linesmen at work. It was the

first sign of any troops in all that country, but miles behind us,

right back to Salonica, the road was a long chain of troops and

transport. Our brigade was as yet the only one up in action.

The signal station proved to be infantry headquarters. It was the

summit of the pass, the mountains opening like a great V in front

through which further mountains appeared, with that one endless road

curling up like a white snake. There was a considerable noise of

firing going on and we were just in time to see the French take a

steep crest,--an unbelievable sight. We lay on our stomachs miles

behind them and through glasses watched puffs of cotton wool, black

and white, sprout out of a far-away hill, followed by a wavering line

of blue dots. Presently the cotton wool sprouted closer to the crest

and the blue dots climbed steadily. Then the cotton wool disappeared

over the top and the blue dots gave chase. Now and then one stumbled

and fell. Breathless one watched to see if he would get up again.

Generally he didn’t, but the line didn’t stop and presently the last

of it had disappeared over the crest. The invisible firing went on

and the only proof that it wasn’t a dream was the motionless bundles

of blue that lay out there in the sun.--

It was the first time I’d seen men killed and it left me silent,

angry. Why “go out” like that on some damned Serbian hill? What was

it all about that everybody was trying to kill everybody else? Wasn’t

the sun shining and the world beautiful? What was this disease that

had broken out like a scab over the face of the world?--why did those

particular dots have to fall? Why not the ones a yard away? What was

the law of selection? Was there a law? _Did_ every bullet have its

billet? Was there a bullet for the Colonel?--For _me_?--No. It was

impossible! But then, why those others and which of us?--

I think I’ve found the answer to some of those questions now. But on

that bright November day, 1915, I was too young. It was all in the

game although from that moment there was a shadow on it.

9

“Don” battery went into action first.

The Headquarters moved up close to the signalling station--and I

lost my kitten--but “Don” went down the pass to the very bottom and

cross-country to the east, and dug themselves in near a deserted

farmhouse on the outskirts of Valandovo. “Beer” and “C” batteries

came up a day or two later and sat down with “AC.” There seemed to

be no hurry. Our own infantry were not in the line. They were in

support of the French and with supine ignorance or amazing pluck, but

anyhow a total disregard of the laws of warfare, proceeded to dig

trenches of sorts in full daylight and in full view of the Bulgar. We

shouldn’t have minded so much but our O.P. happened to be on the hill

where most of these heroes came to dig.

The troops themselves were remarkably ill-chosen. Most of those who

were not Irish were flat-footed “brickees” from Middlesex, Essex

and the dead-level east coast counties, so their own officers told

me, where they never raise one ankle above the other. Now they were

chosen to give imitations of chamois in these endless hills. Why not

send an aviator to command a tank? Furthermore, the only guns were

French 75’s and our eighteen-pounders and, I think, a French brigade

of mountain artillery, when obviously howitzers were indicated. And

there were no recuperators in those days. Put a quadrant angle of

28° and some minutes on an old pattern eighteen-pounder and see how

long you stay in action,--with spare springs at a premium and the

nearest workshops sixty miles away. My own belief is that a couple

of handfuls of Gurkhas and French Tirailleurs would have cleaned up

Serbia in a couple of months. As it was...--

The French gave us the right of the line from north-west of Valandovo

to somewhere east of Kajali in the blue hills, over which, said the

Staff, neither man nor beast could pass. We needn’t worry about

our right, they said. Nature was doing that for us. But apparently

Nature had allowed not less than eight Greek divisions to march

comfortably over that impassable right flank of ours in the previous

Græco-Bulgarian dust-up. Of course the Staff didn’t find it out till

afterwards. It only cost us a few thousand dead and the Staff were

all right in Salonica, so there was no great harm done! Till then the

thing was a picnic. On fine mornings the Colonel and I rode down the

pass to see Don battery, climbed the mountain to the stone sangar

which was their O.P. and watched them shoot--they were a joyous

unshaven crowd--went on down the other side to the French front line

and reconnoitred the country for advanced positions and generally got

the hang of things.

As I knew French there were occasions when I was really useful,

otherwise it was simply a joy-ride for me until the rest of the

batteries came into action. One morning the Colonel and I were right

forward watching a heavy barrage on a village occupied by the Bulgar.

The place selected by the Colonel from which to enjoy a really fine

view was only ten yards from a dead Bulgar who was in a kneeling

position in a shallow trench with his hands in his pockets, keeled

over at an angle. He’d been there many days and the wind blew our

way. But the Colonel had a cold. I fled to a flank. While we watched,

two enemy batteries opened. For a long time we tried to locate their

flash. Then we gave it up and returned up the pass to where a French

battery was tucked miraculously among holly bushes just under the

crest. One of their officers was standing on the sky line, also

endeavouring to locate those new batteries. So we said we’d have

another try, climbed up off the road, lay upon our stomachs and drew

out our glasses. Immediately a pip-squeak burst in the air about

twenty yards away. Another bracketed us and the empty shell went

whining down behind us. I thought it was rather a joke and but for

the Colonel would have stayed there.

He, however, was a regular Gunner, thank God, and slithered off the

mound like an eel. I followed him like his shadow and we tucked

ourselves half crouching, half sitting, under the ledge, with our

feet on the road. For four hours the Bulgar tried to get that

French battery. If he’d given five minutes more right he’d have

done it,--and left us alone. As it was he plastered the place with

battery fire every two seconds.--Shrapnel made pockmarks in the road,

percussion bursts filled our necks with dirt from the ledge and ever

the cases whined angrily into the ravine. We smoked many pipes.

It was my first experience under shell fire. I found it rather like

what turning on the quarter current in the electric chair must

be,--most invigorating, but a little jumpy. One never knew. Thank

heaven they were only pip-squeaks. During those crouching hours two

French poilus walked up the pass--it was impossible to go quickly

because it was so steep--and without turning a hair or attempting to

quicken or duck walked through that barrage with a _sangfroid_ that

left me gasping. Although in a way I was enjoying it, I was mighty

glad to be under that ledge, and my heart thumped when the Colonel

decided to make a run for it and went on thumping till we were a good

thousand yards to a flank.

The worst of it was, it was the only morning that I hadn’t brought

sandwiches.

10

When the other three batteries went into action and the ammunition

column tucked itself into dry nullahs along the road we moved up

into Valandovo and established Brigade Headquarters in a farmhouse

and for many days the signallers and I toiled up and down mountains,

laying air lines. It was an elementary sort of war. There were

not balloons, no aeroplanes and camouflage didn’t seem to matter.

Infantry pack transport went up and down all day long. It was only

in the valley that the infantry were able to dig shallow trenches.

On the hills they built sangars, stone breastwork affairs. Barbed

wire I don’t remember to have seen. There were no gas shells, no

5.9’s, nothing bigger than pip-squeaks. The biggest artillery the

Allies possessed were two 120-centimetre guns called respectively

Crache Mort and Chasse Boche. One morning two Heavy Gunners blew in

and introduced themselves as being on the hunt for sixty-pounder

positions. They were burning to lob some over into Strumnitza. We

assisted them eagerly in their reconnaissance and they went away

delighted, promising to return within three days. They were still

cursing on the quayside when we came limping back to Salonica.

Apparently there was no one qualified to give them the order to come

up and help. In those days Strumnitza was the Bulgar rail-head, and

they could have pounded it to bits.

As it was, our brigade was the only English Gunner unit in action,

and the Battery Commanders proved conclusively to the French (and the

Bulgar) that the eighteen-pounder was a handy little gun. The French

General ordered one of the 75 batteries to advance to Kajali. They

reconnoitred the hills and reported that it was impossible without

going ten miles round. The General came along to see for himself and

agreed. The Captain of “C” battery, however, took a little walk up

there and offered to get up if the Colonel would lend him a couple

of hundred infantry. At the same time he pointed out that coming

down in a hurry was another story, absolutely impossible. However,

it was discussed by the powers that were and the long and short of

it was that two of our batteries were ordered forward. “C” was the

pioneer; and with the two hundred infantry,--horses were out of the

question--and all the gunners they laboured from 4.30 p.m. to 6 a.m.

the next morning, at which hour they reported themselves in action

again. It was a remarkable feat, brought about by sheer muscle and

will power, every inch of the way a battle, up slopes that were

almost vertical, over small boulders, round big ones with straining

drag ropes for about two miles and a half. The 75’s refused to

believe it until they had visited the advanced positions. They bowed

and said “Touché!”

11

Then the snow came in blinding blizzards that blotted out the whole

world and everybody went underground and lived in overcoats and

stoked huge fires,--everybody except the infantry whose rifle bolts

froze stiff, whose rations didn’t arrive and who could only crouch

behind their stone sangars. The cold was intense and they suffered

terribly. When the blizzard ceased after about forty-eight hours the

tracks had a foot of snow over them and the drifts were over one’s

head.

Even in our little farmhouse where the Colonel and I played chess

in front of a roaring fire, drinks froze solid on the mantelpiece

and we remained muffled to the eyes. Thousands of rock pigeons

appeared round the horse lines, fighting for the dropped grain, and

the starving dogs became so fierce and bold that it was only wise

to carry a revolver in the deserted villages. Huge brutes some of

them, the size of Arab donkeys, a cross between a mastiff and a great

Dane. Under that clean garment of snow which didn’t begin to melt

for a fortnight, the country was of an indescribable beauty. Every

leaf on the trees bore its little white burden, firm and crisp, and

a cold sun appeared and threw most wonderful lights and shadows. The

mountains took on a virgin purity.

But to the unfortunate infantry it was one long stretch of suffering.

Hundreds a day came down on led mules in an agonised string, their

feet bound in straw, their faces and hands blue like frozen meat.

The hospitals were full of frost-bite cases, and dysentery was not

unknown in the brigade. Pot-face in particular behaved like a hero.

He had dysentery very badly but absolutely refused to let the doctor

send him down.

Our rations were none too good, and there were interminable spells

of bully beef, fried, hashed, boiled, rissoled, _au naturel_ with

pickles, and bread became a luxury. We reinforced this with young

maize which grew everywhere in the valley and had wonderful soup

and corn on the cob, boiled in tinned milk and then fried. Then too

the Vet. and I had a wonderful afternoon’s wild bull hunting with

revolvers. We filled the wretched animal with lead before getting

near enough to give the _coup de grâce_ beside a little stream. The

Vet. whipped off his tunic, turned up his sleeves and with a long

trench knife conducted a masterly post mortem which resulted in

about forty pounds of filet mignon. The next morning before dawn the

carcase was brought in in the cook’s cart and the Headquarters Staff

lived on the fat of the land and invited all the battery commanders

to the discussion of that excellent bull.

From our point of view it wasn’t at all a bad sort of war. We hadn’t

had a single casualty. The few rounds which ever came anywhere near

the batteries were greeted with ironic cheers and the only troubles

with telephone lines were brought about by our own infantry who

removed lengths of five hundred yards or so presumably to mend their

bivvies with.

But about the second week of December indications were not wanting

of hostile activity. Visibility was very bad owing to early morning

fogs, but odd rounds began to fall in the valley behind us in the

neighbourhood of the advancing wagon lines, and we fired on infantry

concentrations and once even an S.O.S. Rifle fire began to increase

and stray bullets hummed like bees on the mountain paths.

In the middle of this I became ill with a temperature which remained

for four days in the neighbourhood of 104°. The doctor talked of

hospital but I’d never seen the inside of one and didn’t want to.

However, on the fourth day it was the Colonel’s order that I should

go. It transpired afterwards that the doctor diagnosed enteric. So

away I went labelled and wrapped up in a four-mule ambulance wagon.

The cold was intense, the road appalling, the pip-squeaks not too far

away until we got out of the valley, and the agony unprintable. That

night was spent in a Casualty Clearing Station in the company of half

a dozen infantry subalterns all splashed with blood.

At dawn next morning when we were in a hospital train on our way to

Salonica, the attack began. The unconsidered right flank was the

trouble. Afterwards I heard about a dozen versions of the show,

all much the same in substance. The Bulgars poured over the right

in thousands, threatening to surround us. Some of the infantry put

up a wonderful fight. Others--didn’t. Our two advanced batteries

fired over open sights into the brown until they had exhausted their

ammunition, then removed breech blocks and dial sights, destroyed

the pieces and got out, arming themselves with rifles and ammunition

picked up ad lib. on the way down. “Don” and “AC” went out of one

end of the village of Valandovo while the enemy were held up at the

other by the Gunners of the other two batteries. Then two armies,

the French and English, got tangled up in the only road of retreat,

engineers hastening the stragglers and then blowing up bridges. “Don”

and “AC” filled up with ammunition and came into action in support

of the other brigades at Causli which now opened fire while “Beer”

and “C” got mounted and chased those of our infantry who “didn’t,”

rounded them up, and marched them back to face the enemy. Meanwhile

I was tucked away in a hospital bed in a huge marquee, trying to

get news from every wounded officer who was brought in. The wildest

rumours were going about but no one knew anything officially. I heard

that the infantry were wiped out, that the gunners had all been

killed or captured to a man, that the remnants of the French were

fighting desperately and that the whole thing was a _débâcle_.

There we all were helpless in bed, with nurses looking after us,

splendid English girls, and all the time those infernal guns coming

nearer and nearer.--At night, sleepless and in a fever, one could

almost hear the rumble of their wheels, and from the next tent where

the wounded Tommies lay in rows, one or two would suddenly scream in

their agony and try and stifle their sobs, calling on Jesus Christ to

kill them and put them out of their pain.--

The brigade, when I rejoined, was in camp east of Salonica, under the

lee of Hortiac, knee-deep in mud and somewhat short of kit. It was

mighty good to get back and see them in the flesh again, after all

those rumours which had made one sick with apprehension.

Having pushed us out of Serbia into Greece the Bulgar contented

himself with sitting on the frontier and making rude remarks. The

Allies, however, silently dug themselves in and prepared for the

defence of Salonica in case he should decide to attack again.

The Serbs retired to Corfu to reform, and although Tino did a

considerable amount of spluttering at this time, the only sign of

interest the Greeks showed was to be more insolent in the streets.

We drew tents and moved up into the hills and Woodbine joined us

again, no longer a shipwrecked mariner in clothes off the peg, but in

all the glory of new uniform and breeches out from home, a most awful

duke. Pot-face and the commander of “C” battery went to hospital

shortly afterwards and were sent home. Some of the Brass Hats also

changed rounds. One, riding forth from a headquarters with cherry

brandy and a fire in each room, looked upon our harness immediately

on our return from the retreat and said genially that he’d heard that

we were a “rabble.” When, however, the commander of “Don” battery

asked him for the name and regiment of his informant, the Brass Hat

rode away muttering uncomfortably. Things were a little strained!

12

However, Christmas was upon us so we descended upon the town with

cook’s carts and visited the Base cashier. Salonica was a modern

Babel. The cobbles of the Rue Venizelos rang with every tongue in

the world,--Turkish, Russian, Yiddish, Serbian, Spanish, Levantine,

Arabic, English, French, Italian, Greek and even German. Little tin

swords clattered everywhere and the place was a riot of colour, the

Jew women with green pearl-sewn headdresses, the Greek peasants in

their floppy-seated trousers elbowing enormous Russian soldiers in

loose blouses and jack boots who in turn elbowed small-waisted Greek

highlanders in kilts with puffballs on their curly-toed shoes. There

were black-robed priests with long beards and high hats, young men in

red fezzes, civilians in bowlers, old hags who gobbled like turkeys

and snatched cigarette ends, all mixed up in a kaleidoscopic jumble

with officers of every country and exuding a smell of garlic, fried

fish, decaying vegetable matter, and those aromatic eastern dishes

which fall into no known category of perfume. Fling into this chaos

numbers of street urchins of untold dirt chasing turkeys and chickens

between one’s legs and you get a slight idea of what sort of place we

came to to do our Christmas shopping.

The best known language among the shopkeepers was Spanish, but French

was useful and after hours of struggling one forced a passage out

of the crowd with barrels of beer, turkey, geese, pigs, fruit and

cigarettes for the men, and cigars and chocolates, whisky, Grand

Marnier and Cointreau for the mess. Some fund or other had decided

that every man was to have a plum pudding, and these we had drawn

from the A.S.C. on Christmas Eve.

In Egypt letters had taken thirteen days to arrive. Here they took

from fifteen to seventeen, sometimes twenty-one. Christmas Day,

however, was one of the occasions when nothing came at all and we

cursed the unfortunate post office in chorus. I suppose it’s the

streak of childhood in every man of us that makes us want our letters

_on_ the day. So the morning was a little chilly and lonely until we

went round to see that the men’s dinner was all right. It was, with

lashings of beer.

This second Christmas on active service was a tremendous contrast to

the first. Then there was the service in the barn followed by that

depressing lonely day in the fog and flat filth of Flanders. Now

there was a clear sunny air and a gorgeous view of purple mountains

with a glimpse of sea far off below.

In place of Mass in the barn Woodbine and I went for a walk and

climbed up to the white Greek church above the village, surrounded

by cloisters in which shot up cypress trees, the whole picked out

in relief against the brown hill. We went in. The church was empty

but for three priests, one on the altar behind the screen, one in a

pulpit on each side in the body of the church. For a long time we

stood there listening as they flung prayers and responses from one to

another in a high, shrill, nasal minor key that had the wail of lost

souls in it. It was most un-Christmassy and we came out with a shiver

into the sun.

Our guest at dinner that night was a Serbian liaison officer from

Divisional Headquarters. We stuffed him with the usual British food

and regaled him with many songs to the accompaniment of the banjo and

broke up still singing in the small hours but not having quite cured

the ache in our hearts caused by “absent friends.”

13

The second phase of the campaign was one of endless boredom, filthy

weather and the nuisance of changing camp every other month. The

boredom was only slightly relieved by a few promotions, two or three

full lieutenants becoming captains and taking command of the newly

arranged sections of D.A.C., and a few second lieutenants getting

their second pip. I was one. The weather was characteristic of the

country, unexpected, violent. About once a week the heavens opened

themselves. Thunder crashed round in circles in a black sky at

midday, great tongues of lightning lit the whole world in shuddering

flashes. The rain made every nullah a roaring waterfall with three or

four feet of muddy water racing down it and washing away everything

in its path. The trenches round our bell tents were of little avail

against such violence. The trench sides dissolved and the water

poured in. These storms lasted an hour or two and then the sky

cleared almost as quickly as it had darkened and the mountain peaks

gradually appeared again, clean and fresh. On one such occasion,

but much later in the year, the Adjutant was caught riding up from

Salonica on his horse and a thunderbolt crashed to earth about thirty

yards away from him. The horse stood trembling for full two minutes

and then galloped home in a panic.

The changing of camps seemed to spring from only one reason,--the

desire for “spit and polish” which covers a multitude of sins. It

doesn’t matter if your gunners are not smart at gun drill or your

subalterns in utter ignorance of how to lay out lines of fire and

make a fighting map. So long as your gun park is aligned to the

centimetre, your horse lines supplied conspicuously with the type

of incinerator fancied by your Brigadier-General and the whole camp

liberally and tastefully decorated with white stones,--then you are

a crack brigade, and Brass Hats ride round you with oily smiles and

pleasant remarks and recommend each other for decorations.

But adopt your own incinerator (infinitely more practical as a rule

than the Brigadier-General’s) and let yourself be caught with an

untidy gun park and your life becomes a hell on earth. We learnt it

bitterly, until at last the Adjutant used to ride ahead with the

R.S.M., a large fatigue party and several miles of string and mark

the position of every gun muzzle and wagon wheel in the brigade. And

when the storms broke and washed away the white stones the Adjutant

would dash out of his tent immediately the rain ceased, calling upon

God piteously, the R.S.M. irritably, and every man in the brigade

would collect other stones for dear life.

Time hung very heavy. The monotony of week after week of brigade

fatigues, standing gun drill, exercising and walking horses,

inspecting the men’s dinners, with nothing to do afterwards except

play cards, read, write letters and curse the weather, and the war

and all Brass Hats. Hot baths in camp were, as usual, as diamonds

in oysters. Salonica was about twelve miles away for a bath, a long

weary ride mostly at a walk on account of the going. But it was good

to ride in past the village we used to call Peacockville, for obvious

reasons, put the horses up in a Turkish stable in a back street in

Salonica, and bathe and feed at the “Tour Blanche,” and watch the

crowd. It was a change, at least, from the eternal sameness of camp

and the cramped discomfort of bell tents, and there was always a

touch of mystery and charm in the ride back in the moonlight.

The whole thing seemed so useless, such an utter waste of life. There

one sat in the mud doing nothing. The war went on and we weren’t

helping. All our civil ambitions and hopes were withering under our

very eyes. One hopeless dawn succeeded another. I tried to write, but

my brain was like a sponge dipped into khaki dye. One yearned for

France, where at least there was fighting and leave, or if not leave

then the hourly chance of a “blighty” wound.

About April there came a welcome interlude. The infantry had also

chopped and changed, and been moved about and in the intervals had

been kept warm and busy in digging a chain of defences in a giant

hundred-mile half-circle around Salonica, the hub of our existence.

The weather still didn’t seem to know quite what it wanted to

do. There was a hint of spring but it varied between blinding

snow-storms, bursts of warm sun and torrents of rain.

“Don” battery had been moved to Stavros in the defensive chain, and

the Colonel was to go down and do Group Commander. The Adjutant

was left to look after the rest of the brigade. I went with the

Colonel to do Adjutant in the new group. So we collected a handful

of signallers, a cart with our kits and servants, and set out on a

two-day trek due east along the line of lakes to the other coast.

The journey started badly in a howling snow-storm. To reach the lake

level there was a one-way pass that took an hour to go down, and an

hour and a half to climb on the return trip. The Colonel went on

ahead to see the General. I stayed with the cart and fought my way

through the blizzard. At the top of the pass was a mass of Indian

transport. We all waited for two hours, standing still in the storm,

the mud belly-deep because some unfortunate wagon had got stuck in

the ascent. I remember having words with a Captain who sat hunched

on his horse like a sack the whole two hours and refused to give an

order or lend a hand when every one of his teams jibbed, when at last

the pass was declared open. God knows how he ever got promoted.

However, we got down at last and the sun came out and dried us. I

reported to the Colonel, and we went on in a warm golden afternoon

along the lake shore with ducks getting up out of the rushes in

hundreds, and, later, woodcock flashing over our heads on their way

to water. As far as I remember the western lake is some eight miles

long and about three wide at its widest part, with fairy villages

nestling against the purple mountain background, the sun glistening

on the minarets and the faint sound of bells coming across the

water. We spent the night as guests of a battery which we found

encamped on the shore, and on the following morning trekked along the

second lake, which is about ten miles in length, ending at a jagged

mass of rock and thick undergrowth which had split open into a wild,

wooded ravine with a river winding its way through the narrow neck to

the sea, about five miles farther on.

We camped in the narrow neck on a sandy bay by the river, rock

shooting up sheer from the back of the tents, the horses hidden under

the trees. The Colonel’s command consisted of one 60-pounder--brought

round by sea and thrown into the shallows by the Navy, who said to

us, “Here you are, George. She’s on terra firma. It’s up to you

now”--two naval 6-inch, one eighteen-pounder battery, “Don,” one 4.5

howitzer battery, and a mountain battery, whose commander rode about

on a beautiful white mule with a tail trimmed like an hotel bell

pull. “AC” battery of ours came along a day or two later to join the

merry party, because, to use the vulgar but expressive phrase, the

Staff “got the wind up,” and saw Bulgars behind every tree.

14

In truth it was a comedy,--though there were elements of tragedy in

the utter inefficiency displayed. We rode round to see the line of

our zone. It took two days, because, of course, the General had to

get back to lunch. Wherever it was possible to cut tracks, tracks

had been cut, beautiful wide ones, making an enemy advance easy.

They were guarded by isolated machine-gun posts at certain strategic

points, and in the nullahs was a little barbed wire driven in on

wooden stakes. Against the barbed wire, however, were piled masses

of dried thorn,--utterly impassable but about as inflammable as

gun-powder. This was all up and down the wildest country. If a

massacre had gone on fifty yards to our right or left at any time, we

shouldn’t have been able to see it. And the line of infantry was so

placed that it was impossible to put guns anywhere to assist them.

It is to be remembered that although I have two eyes, two ears, and a

habit of looking and listening, I was only a lieutenant with two pips

in those days, and therefore my opinion is not, of course, worth the

paper it is written on. Ask any Brass Hat!

An incident comes back to me of the action before the retreat.

I had only one pip then. Two General Staffs wished to make a

reconnaissance. I went off at 3 a.m. to explore a short way, got

back at eight o’clock, after five hours on a cold and empty stomach,

met the Staffs glittering in the winter sun, and led them up a goat

track, ridable, of course. They left the horses eventually, and I

brought them to the foot of the crest, from which the reconnaissance

was desired. The party was some twenty strong, and walked up on to

the summit and produced many white maps. I was glad to sit down,

and did so under the crest against a rock. Searching the opposite

sky line with my glasses, I saw several parties of Bulgars watching

us,--only recognisable as Bulgars because the little of them that

I could see moved from time to time. The Colonel was near me and I

told him. He took a look and went up the crest and told the Staffs.

The Senior Brass Hat said, “Good God! What are you all doing up here

on the crest? Get under cover at once,”--and he and they all hurried

down. The reconnaissance was over!

On leading them a short way back to the horses (it saved quite twenty

minutes’ walk) it became necessary to pass through a wet, boggy patch

about four yards across. The same Senior Brass Hat stopped at the

edge of it, and said to me, “What the devil did you bring us this way

for? You don’t expect me to get my boots dirty, do you?--Good God!”

I murmured something about active service,--but, as I say, I had only

one pip then.--

It isn’t that one objects to being cursed. The thing that rankles

is to have to bend the knee to a system whose slogan is efficiency,

but which retains the doddering and the effete in high commands

simply because they have a quarter of a century of service to their

records. The misguided efforts of these dodderers are counteracted

to a certain extent by the young, keen men under them. But it is the

dodderers who get the credit, while the real men lick their boots

and have to kowtow in the most servile manner. Furthermore, it is no

secret. We know it and yet we let it go on: and if to-day there are

twenty thousand unnecessary corpses among our million dead, after

all, what are they among so many? The dodderers have still got enough

life to parade at Buckingham Palace and receive another decoration,

and we stand in the crowd and clap our hands, and say, “Look at old

so-and-so! Isn’t he a grand old man? Must be seventy-six if he’s a

day!”

So went the comedy at Stavros. One Brass Hat dug a defence line

at infinite expense and labour. Along came another, just a pip

senior, looked round and said, “Good God! You’ve dug in the wrong

place.--Must be scrapped.” And at more expense and more labour a new

line was dug. And then a third Brass Hat came along and it was all to

do over again. Men filled the base hospitals and died of dysentery;

the national debt added a few more insignificant millions,--and the

Brass Hats went on leave to Alexandria for a well-earned rest.

Not only at Stavros did this happen, but all round the half circle in

the increasingly hot weather, as the year became older and disease

more rampant.

After we’d been down there a week and just got the hang of the

country another Colonel came and took over the command of the group,

so we packed up our traps and having bagged many woodcock and duck,

went away, followed after a few days by “AC” and “Don.”

About that time, to our lasting grief, we lost our Colonel, who went

home. It was a black day for the brigade. His thoughtfulness for

every officer under him, his loyalty and unfailing cheeriness had

made him much loved. I, who had ridden with him daily, trekked the

snowy hills in his excellent company, played chess with him, strummed

the banjo while he chanted half-remembered songs, shared the same

tent with him on occasions and appreciated to the full his unfailing

kindness, mourned him as my greatest friend. The day he went I took

my last ride with him down to the rest camp just outside Salonica, a

wild, threatening afternoon, with a storm which burst on me in all

its fury as I rode back miserably, alone.

In due course his successor came and we moved to Yailajik--well

called by the men, Yellow-Jack--and the hot weather was occupied with

training schemes at dawn, officers’ rides and drills, examinations

A and B (unofficial, of course), horse shows and an eternity of

unnecessary work, while one gasped in shirt sleeves and stupid felt

hats after the Anzac pattern; long, long weeks of appalling heat

and petty worries, until it became a toss-up between suicide or

murder. The whole spirit of the brigade changed. From having been

a happy family working together like a perfect team, the spirit of

discontent spread like a canker. The men looked sullen and did their

work grudgingly, going gladly to hospital at the first signs of

dysentery. Subalterns put in applications for the Flying Corps,--I

was one of their number,--and ceased to take an interest in their

sections. Battery Commanders raised sarcasm to a fine art, and cursed

the day that ever sent them to this ghastly back-water.

I left the headquarters and sought relief in “C” battery, where,

encouraged by the sympathetic commanding officer, I got nearer to the

solution of the mysterious triangle T.O.B. than I’d ever been before.

He had a way of talking about it that the least intelligent couldn’t

fail to grasp.

At last I fell ill and with an extraordinary gladness went down to

the 5th Canadian hospital, on the eastern outskirts of Salonica,

on the seashore. The trouble was an ear. Even the intensest pain,

dulled by frequent injections of morphia, did not affect my relief

in getting away from that brigade, where, up to the departure of

the Colonel, I had spent such a happy time. The pity of it was that

everybody envied me.

They talked of an operation. Nothing would have induced me to let

them operate in that country where the least scratch turned septic.

After several weeks I was sent to Malta, where I was treated for

twenty-one days. At the end of that time the specialist asked

me if my career would be interfered with if he sent me home for

consultation as to an operation. One reason he could not do it was

that it was a long business, six weeks in bed, at least, and they

were already overfull. The prison door was about to open! I assured

him that on the contrary my career would benefit largely by a sight

of home, and to my eternal joy he then and there, in rubber gloves,

wrote a recommendation to send me to England. His name stands out in

my memory in golden letters.

Within twenty-four hours I was on board.

The fact that all my kit was still with the battery was a matter of

complete indifference. I would have left a thousand kits. At home all

the leaves were turning, blue smoke was filtering out of red chimneys

against the copper background of the beech woods--and they would be

waiting for me in the drive.