The Great War has been terribly hard on the text-books.
When we began to dig trenches, many weeks ago, we always selected a
site with a good field of fire.
"No good putting your trenches," said the text-book, "where you can't
see the enemy."
This seemed only common-sense; so we dug our trenches in open plains,
or on the forward slope of a hill, where we could command the enemy's
movements up to two thousand yards.
Another maxim which we were urged to take to heart was--When not
entrenched, always take advantage of _natural_ cover of any kind; such
as farm buildings, plantations, and railway embankments.
We were also given practice in describing and recognising
inconspicuous targets at long range, in order to be able to harass the
enemy the moment he showed himself.
Well, recently generals and staff officers have been coming home
from the front and giving us lectures. We regard most lectures as
a "fatigue"--but not these. We have learned more from these
quiet-mannered, tired-looking men in a brief hour than from all the
manuals that ever came out of Gale and Poldens'. We have heard the
history of the War from the inside. We know why our Army retreated
from Mons; we know what prevented the relief of Antwerp. But above
all, we have learned to revise some of our most cherished theories.
Briefly, the amended version of the law and the prophets comes to
this:--
Never, under any circumstances, place your trenches where you can see
the enemy a long way off. If you do, he will inevitably see you too,
and will shell you out of them in no time. You need not be afraid
of being rushed; a field of fire of two hundred yards or so will be
sufficient to wipe him off the face of the earth.
Never, under any circumstances, take cover in farm buildings, or
plantations, or behind railway embankments, or in any place likely to
be marked on a large-scale map. Their position and range are known to
a yard. Your safest place is the middle of an open plain or ploughed
field. There it will be more difficult for the enemy's range-takers to
gauge your exact distance.
In musketry, concentrate all your energies on taking care of your
rifle and practising "rapid." You will seldom have to fire over a
greater distance than two hundred yards; and at that range British
rapid fire is the most dreadful medium of destruction yet devised in
warfare.
All this scraps a good deal of laboriously acquired learning, but
it rings true. So we site our trenches now according to the lessons
taught us by the bitter experience of others.
Having arrived at our allotted area, we get to work. The firing-trench
proper is outlined on the turf a hundred yards or so down the reverse
slope of a low hill. When it is finished it will be a mere crack in
the ground, with no front cover to speak of; for that would make it
conspicuous. Number One Platoon gets to work on this. To Number Two
is assigned a more subtle task--namely, the construction of a dummy
trench a comfortable distance ahead, dug out to the depth of a few
inches, to delude inquisitive aeroplanes, and rendered easily visible
to the enemy's observing stations by a parapet of newly-turned earth.
Numbers Three and Four concentrate their energies upon the supporting
trench and its approaches.
The firing-trench is our place of business--our office in the city, so
to speak. The supporting trench is our suburban residence, whither the
weary toiler may betake himself periodically (or, more correctly, in
relays) for purposes of refreshment and repose. The firing-trench,
like most business premises, is severe in design and destitute of
ornament. But the suburban trench lends itself to more imaginative
treatment. An auctioneer's catalogue would describe it as _A
commodious bijou residence, on_ (or of) _chalky soil; three feet wide
and six feet deep; in the style of the best troglodyte period. Thirty
seconds brisk crawl (or per stretcher) from the firing line. Gas laid
on_--
But only once, in a field near Aldershot, where Private Mucklewame
first laid bare, and then perforated, the town main with his pick.
--_With own water supply_--ankle-deep at times--_telephone, and the
usual offices_.
We may note that the telephone communicates with the
observing-station, lying well forward, in line with the dummy trench.
The most important of the usual offices is the hospital--a cavern
excavated at the back of the trench, and roofed over with hurdles,
earth, and turf.
It is hardly necessary to add that we do not possess a real
field-telephone. But when you have spent four months in firing dummy
cartridges, performing bayonet exercises without bayonets, taking
hasty cover from non-existent shell fire, capturing positions held
by no enemy, and enacting the part of a "casualty" without having
received a scratch, telephoning without a telephone is a comparatively
simple operation. All you require is a ball of string and no sense of
humour. Second Lieutenant Waddell manages our telephone.
Meanwhile we possess our souls in patience. We know that the factories
are humming night and day on our behalf; and that if, upon a certain
day in a certain month, the contractors do not deliver our equipment
down to the last water-bottle cork, "K" will want to know the reason
why; and we cannot imagine any contractor being so foolhardy as to
provoke that terrible man into an inquiring attitude of mind.
Now we are at work. We almost wish that Freeman, Hardy, and Willis
could see us. Our buttons may occasionally lack lustre; we may cherish
unorthodox notions as to the correct method of presenting arms; we
may not always present an unbroken front on the parade-ground--but we
_can_ dig! Even the fact that we do not want to, cannot altogether
eradicate a truly human desire to "show off." "Each man to his art,"
we say. We are quite content to excel in ours, the oldest in the
world. We know enough now about the conditions of the present war to
be aware that when we go out on service only three things will really
count--to march; to dig; and to fire, upon occasion, fifteen rounds
a minute. Our rapid fire is already fair; we can march more than a
little; and if men who have been excavating the bowels of the earth
for eight hours a day ever since they were old enough to swing a pick
cannot make short work of a Hampshire chalk down, they are no true
members of their Trades Union or the First Hundred Thousand.
We have stuck to the phraseology of our old calling.
"Whaur's ma drawer?" inquires Private Hogg, a thick-set young man with
bandy legs, wiping his countenance with a much-tattooed arm. He
has just completed five strenuous minutes with a pick. "Come away,
Geordie, wi' yon shovel!"
The shovel is preceded by an adjective. It is the only adjective that
A Company knows. (No, not that one. The second on the list!)
Mr. George Ogg steps down into the breach, and sets to work. He is a
small man, strongly resembling the Emperor of China in a third-rate
provincial pantomime. His weapon is the spade. In civil life he would
have shovelled the broken coal into a "hutch," and "hurled" it away to
the shaft. That was why Private Hogg referred to him as a "drawer." In
his military capacity he now removes the chalky soil from the trench
with great dexterity, and builds it up into a neat parapet behind, as
a precaution against the back-blast of a "Black Maria."
There are not enough, picks and shovels to go round--_cela va sans
dire_. However, Private Mucklewame and others, who are not of the
delving persuasion, exhibit no resentment. Digging is not their
department. If you hand them a pick and shovel and invite them to
set to work, they lay the pick upon the ground beside the trench and
proceed to shovel earth over it until they have lost it. At a later
stage in this great war-game they will fight for these picks and
shovels like wild beasts. Shrapnel is a sure solvent of professional
etiquette.
However, to-day the pickless squad are lined up a short distance away
by the relentless Captain Wagstaffe, and informed--
"You are under fire from that wood. Dig yourselves in!"
Digging oneself in is another highly unpopular fatigue. First of
all you produce your portable entrenching-tool--it looks like a
combination of a modern tack-hammer and a medieval back-scratcher--and
fit it to its haft. Then you lie flat upon your face on the wet grass,
and having scratched up some small lumps of turf, proceed to build
these into a parapet. Into the hole formed by the excavation of the
turf you then put your head, and in this ostrich-like posture await
further instructions. Private Mucklewame is of opinion that it would
be equally effective, and infinitely less fatiguing, simply to lie
down prone and close the eyes.
After Captain Wagstaffe has criticised the preliminary parapets--most
of them are condemned as not being bullet-proof--the work is
continued. It is not easy, and never comfortable, to dig lying down;
but we must all learn to do it; so we proceed painfully to construct a
shallow trough for our bodies and an annexe for our boots. Gradually
we sink out of sight, and Captain Wagstaffe, standing fifty yards to
our front, is able to assure us that he can now see nothing--except
Private Mucklewame's lower dorsal curve.
By this time the rain has returned for good, and the short winter day
is drawing to a gloomy close. It is after three, and we have been
working, with one brief interval, for nearly five hours. The signal is
given to take shelter. We huddle together under the leafless trees,
and get wetter.
Next comes the order to unroll greatcoats. Five minutes later comes
another--to fall in. Tools are counted; there is the usual maddening
wait while search is made for a missing pick. But at last the final
word of command rings out, and the sodden, leaden-footed procession
sets out on its four-mile tramp home.
We are not in good spirits. One's frame of mind at all times depends
largely upon what the immediate future has to offer; and, frankly,
we have little to inspire us in that direction at present. When we
joined, four long months ago, there loomed largely and splendidly
before our eyes only two alternatives--victory in battle or death with
honour. We might live, or we might die; but life, while it lasted,
would not lack great moments. In our haste we had overlooked the
long dreary waste which lay--which always lies--between dream and
fulfilment. The glorious splash of patriotic fervour which launched us
on our way has subsided; we have reached mid-channel; and the haven
where we would be is still afar off. The brave future of which we
dreamed in our dour and uncommunicative souls seems as remote as ever,
and the present has settled down into a permanency.
To-day, for instance, we have tramped a certain number of miles; we
have worked for a certain number of hours; and we have got wet through
for the hundredth time. We are now tramping home to a dinner which
will probably not be ready, because, as yesterday, it has been cooked
in the open air under weeping skies. While waiting for it, we shall
clean the same old rifle. When night falls, we shall sleep uneasily
upon a comfortless floor, in an atmosphere of stale food and damp
humanity. In the morning we shall rise up reluctantly, and go forth,
probably in heavy rain, to our labour until the evening--the same
labour and the same evening. We admit that it can't be helped: the
officers and the authorities do their best for us under discouraging
circumstances: but there it is. Out at the front, we hear, men
actually get as much as three days off at a time--three days of hot
baths and abundant food and dry beds. To us, in our present frame of
mind, that seems worth any number of bullets and frost-bites.
And--bitterest thought of all--New Year's Day, with all its convivial
associations, is only a few weeks away. When it comes, the folk at
home will celebrate it, doubtless with many a kindly toast to the lads
"oot there," and the lads "doon there." But what will that profit us?
In this barbarous country we understand that they take no notice of
the sacred festival at all. There will probably be a route-march, to
keep us out of the public-houses.
_Et patiti, et patita_. Are we fed up? YES!
As we swing down the village street, slightly cheered by a faint aroma
of Irish stew--the cooks have got the fires alight after all--the
adjutant rides up, and reins in his horse beside our company
commander.
Battalion orders of some kind! Probably a full-dress parade, to trace
a missing bayonet!
Presently he rides away; and Captain Blaikie, instead of halting and
dismissing us in the street as usual, leads us down an alley into the
backyard which serves as our apology for a parade-ground. We form
close column of platoons, stand at ease, and wait resignedly.
Then Captain Blaikie's voice falls upon our ears.
"A Company, I have an announcement to make to you. His Majesty the
King--"
So that is it. Another Royal Review! Well, it will be a break in the
general monotony.
"--who has noted your hard work, good discipline, and steady progress
with the keenest satisfaction and pride--"
We are not utterly forgotten, then.
"--has commanded that every man in the battalion is to have seven
days' full leave of absence."
"A-a-ah!" We strain our tingling ears.
"We are to go by companies, a week at a time. 'C' will go first."
"C" indeed! Who are "C," to--?
"A Company's leave--_our_ leave--will begin on the twenty-eighth of
December, and extend to the third of January."
The staccato words sink slowly in, and then thoughts come tumbling.
"Free--free on New Year's Day! Almichty! Free to gang hame! Free
tae--"
Then comes an icy chill upon our hearts. How are we to get home?
Scotland is hundreds of miles away. The fare, even on a "soldier's"
ticket--
But the Captain has not quite finished.
"Every man will receive a week's pay in advance; and his fare, home
and back, will be paid by Government. That is all."
And quite enough too! We rock upon our squelching feet. But the
Captain adds, without any suspicion of his parade-ground manner--
"If I may say so, I think that if ever men deserved a good holiday,
you do. Company, slope arms! Dis-_miss_!"
* * * * *
We do not cheer: we are not built that way. But as we stream off to
our Irish stew, the dourest of us says in his heart--
"God Save the King!"
X