A TRAGEDY OF WAR.
There is nothing which brings home to the heart with such force the
iron discipline of war as the execution of men who desert from the
front line. It was my painful duty on one occasion to have to witness
the carrying out of the death sentence. One evening I was informed by
the A.P.M. that a man in one of our brigades was to be shot the next
morning, and I was asked to go and see him and prepare him for death.
The sentence had already been read to him at six o'clock, and the
brigade chaplain was present, but the A.P.M., wished me to take the
case in hand. We motored over to the village where the prisoner was
and stopped at a brick building which was entered through a courtyard.
There were men on guard in the outer room and also in a second room
from which a door led into a large brick chamber used as the condemned
cell. Here I found the man who was to pay the penalty of his
cowardice. He had a table before him and on it a glass of brandy and
water and writing materials. He was sitting back in his chair and his
face wore a dazed expression. The guards kindly left us alone. He rose
and shook hands with me, and we began to talk about his sentence. He
was evidently steeling himself and trying to fortify his mind by the
sense of great injustice done to him. I allowed him to talk freely and
say just what he pleased. Gradually, I succeeded in getting at the
heart of the true man which I knew was hidden under the hard exterior,
and the poor fellow began to tell me about his life. From the age of
eleven, when he became an orphan, he had to get his own living and
make his way in a world that is often cold and cruel to those who have
no friends. Then by degrees he began to talk about religion and his
whole manner changed. All the time I kept feeling that every moment
the dreaded event was coming nearer and nearer and that no time was to
be lost. He had never been baptised, but wished now to try and make up
for the past and begin to prepare in a real way to meet his God.
I had brought my bag with the communion vessels in it, and so he and I
arranged the table together, taking away the glass of brandy and water
and the books and papers, and putting in their place the white (p. 211)
linen altar cloth. When everything was prepared, he knelt down
and I baptised him and gave him his first communion. The man's mind
was completely changed. The hard, steely indifference and the sense of
wrong and injustice had passed away, and he was perfectly natural. I
was so much impressed by it that while I was talking to him, I kept
wondering if I could not even then, at that late hour, do something to
avert the carrying out of the sentence. Making some excuse and saying
I would be back in a little while, I left him, and the guard went into
the room accompanied by one of the officers of the man's company. When
I got outside, I told the brigade chaplain that I was going to walk
over to Army Headquarters and ask the Army Commander to have the death
sentence commuted to imprisonment.
It was then about one a.m. and I started off in the rain down the dark
road. The Chateau in which the General lived was two miles off, and
when I came to it, I found it wrapped in darkness. I went to the
sentry on guard, and told him that I wished to see the General on
important business. Turning my flashlight upon my face, I showed who I
was. He told me that the General's room was in the second storey at
the head of a flight of stairs in a tower at the end of the building.
I went over there, and finding the door unlocked, I mounted the wooden
steps, my flashlight lighting up the place. I knocked at a door on the
right and a voice asked me who I was. When I told my name, I was
invited to enter, and an electric light was turned on and I found I
was in the room of the A.D.C., who was sitting up in bed. Luckily, I
had met him before and he was most sympathetic. I apologized for
disturbing him but told him my mission and asked if I might see the
General. He got up and went into the General's room. In a few moments
he returned, and told me that the General would see me. Instead of
being angry at my extraordinary intrusion, he discussed the matter
with me. Before a death sentence could be passed on any man, his case
had to come up first in his Battalion orderly room, and, if he was
found guilty there, it would be sent to the Brigade. From the Brigade
it was sent to the Division, from the Division to Corps, from Corps to
Army, and from Army to General Headquarters. If each of these courts
confirmed the sentence, and the British Commander-in-Chief signed the
warrant, there was no appeal, unless some new facts came to light. Of
all the men found guilty of desertion from the front trenches, only a
small percentage were executed. It was considered absolutely (p. 212)
necessary for the safety of the Army that the death sentence should
not be entirely abolished. The failure of one man to do his duty might
spoil the morale of his platoon, and spread the contagion of fear from
the platoon to the company and from the company to the battalion,
endangering the fate of the whole line. The General told me, however,
that if any new facts came to light, suggesting mental weakness or
insanity in the prisoner, it might be possible for the execution to be
stayed, and a new trial instituted. This seemed to give hope that
something might yet be done, so I thanked the General for his kindness
and left.
When I got back to the prison, I made my way to the cell, not of
course, letting the condemned man know anything that had happened. By
degrees, in our conversation, I found that on both sides of his family
there were cases of mental weakness. When I had all the information
that was possible, I went out and accompanied by the brigade chaplain,
made my way once again to Army Headquarters. The chances of averting
the doom seemed to be faint, but still a human life was at stake, and
we could not rest till every effort had been made. I went to the room
of the A.D.C., and was again admitted to the presence of the Army
Commander. He told me now that the only person who could stop the
execution was the Divisional Commander, if he thought it right to do
so. At the same time, he held out very little hope that anything could
be done to commute the sentence. Once more I thanked him and went off.
The brigade chaplain was waiting for me outside and we talked the
matter over, and decided that, although the case seemed very hopeless
and it was now half-past three, one last effort should be made. We
walked back through the rain to the village, and there awoke the
A.P.M. and the Colonel of the battalion. Each of them was most
sympathetic and most anxious, if possible, that the man's life should
be spared. The A.P.M. warned me that if we had to go to Divisional
Headquarters, some seven miles away, and return, we had no time to
lose, because the hour fixed for the execution was in the early dawn.
The question now was to find a car. The only person in the place who
had one was the Town Major. So the Colonel and I started off to find
him, which we did with a great deal of difficulty, as no one knew
where he lived. He too, was most anxious to help us. Then we had to
find the chauffeur. We managed to get him roused up, and told him (p. 213)
that he had to go to Divisional Headquarters on a matter of life and
death. It was not long before we were in the car and speeding down the
dark, muddy roads at a tremendous rate, whirling round corners in a
way that seemed likely to end in disaster. We got to the Divisional
Commander's Headquarters and then made our way to his room and laid
the matter before him. He talked over the question very kindly, but
told us that the courts had gone into the case so carefully that he
considered it quite impossible to alter the final decision. If the
action of the prisoner had given any indication of his desertion being
the result of insanity, something might be done, but there was nothing
to suggest such was the case. To delay the execution for twenty-four
hours and then to have to carry it out would mean subjecting a human
being to unspeakable torture. He felt he could not take it upon
himself to run the chance of inflicting such misery upon the man. The
Colonel and I saw at once that the case was utterly hopeless and that
we could do no more. The question then was to get back in time for the
carrying out of the sentence. Once more the car dashed along the
roads. The night was passing away, and through the drizzling rain the
gray dawn was struggling.
By the time we arrived at the prison, we could see objects quite
distinctly. I went in to the prisoner, who was walking up and down in
his cell. He stopped and turned to me and said, "I know what you have
been trying to do for me, Sir, is there any hope?" I said, "No, I am
afraid there is not. Everyone is longing just as much as I am to save
you, but the matter has been gone into so carefully and has gone so
far, and so much depends upon every man doing his duty to the
uttermost, that the sentence must be carried out." He took the matter
very quietly, and I told him to try to look beyond the present to the
great hope which lay before us in another life. I pointed out that he
had just one chance left to prove his courage and set himself right
before the world. I urged him to go out and meet death bravely with
senses unclouded, and advised him not to take any brandy. He shook
hands with me and said, "I will do it." Then he called the guard and
asked him to bring me a cup of tea. While I was drinking it, he looked
at his watch, which was lying on the table and asked me if I knew what
time "IT" was to take place. I told him I did not. He said, "I think
my watch is a little bit fast." The big hand was pointing to ten
minutes to six. A few moments later the guards entered and put a (p. 214)
gas helmet over his head with the two eye-pieces behind so that he was
completely blindfolded. Then they handcuffed him behind his back, and
we started off in an ambulance to a crossroad which went up the side
of a hill. There we got out, and the prisoner was led over to a box
behind which a post had been driven into the ground. Beyond this a
piece of canvas was stretched as a screen. The firing party stood at a
little distance in front with their backs towards us. It was just
daylight. A drizzling rain was falling and the country looked chilly
and drear. The prisoner was seated on the box and his hands were
handcuffed behind the post. He asked the A.P.M. if the helmet could be
taken off, but this was mercifully refused him. A round piece of white
paper was pinned over his heart by the doctor as a guide for the men's
aim. I went over and pronounced the Benediction. He added, "And may
God have mercy upon my soul." The doctor and I then went into the road
on the other side of the hedge and blocked up our ears, but of course
we heard the shots fired. It was sickening. We went back to the
prisoner who was leaning forward and the doctor felt his pulse and
pronounced him dead. The spirit had left the dreary hillside and, I
trust, had entered the ranks of his heroic comrades in Paradise.
The effect of the scene was something quite unutterable. The firing
party marched off and drew up in the courtyard of the prison. I told
them how deeply all ranks felt the occasion, and that nothing but the
dire necessity of guarding the lives of the men in the front line from
the panic and rout that might result, through the failure of one
individual, compelled the taking of such measures of punishment. A
young lad in the firing party utterly broke down, but, as one rifle on
such occasions is always loaded with a blank cartridge, no man can be
absolutely sure that he has had a part in the shooting. The body was
then placed in a coffin and taken in the ambulance to the military
cemetery, where I held the service. The usual cross was erected with
no mention upon it of the manner of the death. That was now forgotten.
The man had mastered himself and had died bravely.
I have seen many ghastly sights in the war, and hideous forms of
death. I have heard heart-rending tales of what men have suffered, but
nothing ever brought home to me so deeply, and with such cutting
force, the hideous nature of war and the iron hand of discipline, as
did that lonely death on the misty hillside in the early morning. (p. 215)
Even now, as I write this brief account of it, a dark nightmare
seems to rise out of the past and almost makes me shrink from facing
once again memories that were so painful. It is well, however, that
people should know what our men had to endure. Before them were the
German shells, the machine-guns and the floods of gas. Behind them, if
their courage failed, was the court-martial, always administered with
great compassion and strict justice, but still bound by inexorable
laws of war to put into execution, when duty compelled, a grim and
hideous sentence of death.
If this book should fall into the hands of any man who, from
cowardice, shirked his duty in the war, and stayed at home, let him
reflect that, but for the frustration of justice, he ought to have
been sitting that morning, blindfolded and handcuffed, beside the
prisoner on the box. HE was one of the originals and a volunteer.