ACTIVE SERVICE
The popular conception of active service is of a succession of
encounters with the enemy. Desperate deeds of valour, brilliant charges
by bodies of troops, men saving other men under fire, the storming
of positions, and the flush of victory after strenuous action enter
largely into the civilian conception of war.
The reality is a sombre business of marching and watching, nights
without sleep and days without food; retracing one’s steps in order to
execute the plan of the brain to which a man is but one effective rifle
out of many thousands, marching for days and days, seeing nothing more
exciting than a burnt-out house and the marching men on either side and
to front and rear--and then the contact with the enemy. A vicious crack
from somewhere, or the solid boom of a piece of artillery; somewhere
away to the front or flank is the enemy, and his pieces do damage in
the ranks; there is a searching for cover, some orders are given,
perhaps a comrade lies utterly still, and one knows that that man will
not move any more; there is a desperate sense of ineffectiveness, of
anger at this cowardly (as it seems) trick of hitting when one cannot
hit back. There is the satisfaction of getting the range and firing,
with results that may be guessed but cannot be known accurately by the
man who fires; there is the curious thrill that comes when an angrily
singing bullet passes near, and one realises that one is under fire
from the enemy. In a normal action, there is the sense of disaster,
even of defeat when one’s side may in reality be winning, for one sees
men dying, wounded, lying dead--one knows the damage the enemy has
inflicted, but has no idea of the damage ones own force has inflicted
in return. Often, when it begins to be apparent that the enemy is
nearly beaten, there comes the order to retire; one does not understand
the order, but, with a sullen sense of resentment at it, retires,
ducking at the whizzing of a shell, though not all the ducking in the
world would avail if the shell were truly aimed at the one who ducks,
or starting back to avoid a bullet that whizzed by--as if by starting
back one could get out of the way of a bullet!
After a day of action, or after the chance has come to rest for a
while after days of action, one gets a sense of the horror of the whole
business--the tragedy of lives laid down, in a good cause certainly,
but the men are dead, and one questions almost with despair if it is
worth while. So many good men with whom one has joked and worked and
played in time of peace have gone under--and there are probably more
battles yet to fight. It is not until a war has concluded, and men who
have served are able to get some idea of the operations as a whole,
that they are able to understand what has been done and why it has been
done. Men who came back wounded from Mons and Charleroi, away from
the magnificent three weeks’ retreat that was then in progress for
the British and French armies, were, in many cases, fully convinced
that they had been defeated--that their armies were beaten, and had
to retreat to save themselves from destruction. The man in the ranks
cannot understand the plan of the staff who control him, for he sees so
very little of the whole; at the most, he knows what is happening to a
division of men, while engaged in the retreat to the position of the
Marne were, at the least, twenty divisions on the side of the Allies.
Had one of these been utterly shattered in a set battle, the other
nineteen might still have won a decisive victory, and, if news of
that victory had not come through for a day or two, the survivors from
the shattered division would have spread tidings of a defeat--which it
would have been, to them. The man in the ranks sees so little of the
whole.
Here the war correspondent makes the most egregious mistakes, for,
untrained in military service himself, he takes the word of the man
in the ranks--the man on the staff of army headquarters is far too
busy and far too discreet to talk to war correspondents--and out of
what the man in the ranks has to say the war correspondent makes up
his story. Though the man in the ranks may believe his own story to be
true, though he may tell of the operations as he conceives them, he may
be giving an utterly false impression of what is actually happening.
The man in the ranks is one cog in a machine, and he cannot tell what
all the machine is doing at any time, least of all when a battle is in
progress.
Every battle fought differs from all other battles, for no opposing
forces ever meet under precisely identical conditions twice. Thus it
is useless to speak of a typical battle except in the broadest general
sense, and useless to attempt to describe a typical battle, or action
of any kind. Usually, the artillery get into action after cavalry have
reconnoitred the enemy’s position; the guns shell the enemy until he
is considered sufficiently weakened to permit of infantry attack, and
then the infantry go forward, even up to the rarely occurring bayonet
charge. If their advance dislodges the enemy, the cavalry are set on
to turn retreat into rout; if, on the other hand, the attacking force
is compelled to retire, the cavalry cover the retreat, and, in order
to make good in a retreat, a part of a force is taken back while
the remainder hold the enemy in check. In modern actions, artillery
fire their shells over the heads of their own infantry at the enemy,
distance and trajectory permitting of this. By trajectory is meant the
curve that a projectile describes in its flight; both rifles and big
guns are so constructed and sighted that they throw their projectiles
upward to counteract the pull of gravity, and the missile eventually
drops down toward its object--it does not travel in a perfectly
straight line. But it is bad for infantry to be in front of their
own guns, with their own artillery shells passing over them, for too
long--_morale_ suffers from this after a time, since a man cannot
distinguish in such a case between his own artillery’s shells and those
of the enemy. Whenever possible, the artillery in rear of an infantry
force are posted slightly to either flank; circumstances, however, do
not always admit of this.
On mobilisation for active service, the first thing that happens in
the British Army is the calling up of the reserves. All men enlist, in
the first case, for a certain number of years with the colours and a
further period “on the reserve.” In this latter force, they are free
to follow any civilian avocation, but on mobilisation must immediately
report themselves at headquarters--wherever their headquarters may
be--and take the place appointed to them in the mobilised army. Then
comes the business of drawing war kit and equipment from stores. As a
battleship clears for action, so the Army rids itself for the time of
all things not absolutely necessary on active service, exchanges blank
ammunition for ball, sharpens swords and bayonets, and in every way
prepares for stern business. Each man is issued with a little aluminium
plate which he is compelled to wear, and on which are inscribed such
particulars as his name, regimental number, unit, etc., so that in case
of his being killed on the field he can be identified and the news of
his death transmitted to his next of kin. Each man, too, is issued
with an “emergency ration,” which is a compressed supply of food amply
sufficient for one day’s meals, so that in any tight corner, where
provisions are not obtainable, he may be able to hold out for at least
one day without being reduced to starvation. The opening and use of
this ration, except by permission of an officer, counts as a crime in
the Army, unless a man is placed in such a position that no officer
is at hand to sanction the opening of the package, when the matter is
perforce left to the man’s discretion.
Marching on service is a different matter from marching in time of
peace. Not only is there the strain of ever-possible attack, but there
is also, for cavalry and infantry, the weight of service armament and
equipment to be considered. Every man carries in his bandoliers 150
rounds of ammunition for his rifle--not a bit too much, when the rate
of fire possible with the modern rifle is taken into account. But 150
rounds of ball cartridge is a serious matter when one has to carry
it throughout the day, and, when active service opens, it is easy to
understand why only really fit men are passed by doctors into the Army.
So far as the rank and file are concerned, it is power to endure that
makes the soldier on active service; bravery is needed, initiative is
needed, but staying power is needed most of all.
There may be days of solid marching without a sight of the enemy.
One may form part of a flanking force whose business is to march from
point to point, fighting but seldom, but always presenting a threat to
the enemy or his lines of communication, and thus ever on the move,
with very little time for sleep or eating; again, one may be placed
with a force which has to march half a day to come in contact with the
enemy, and to fight the other half of the day; or yet again, it may be
necessary to march all night in order to take a position--or be shot
in the attempt--at dawn. In time of peace and on manœuvres, officers
take care that compensating time is allowed to men, so as to give them
the normal amount of rest; on active service, the officer commanding
a force spares his men as much as he can, and gives them all the rest
possible, but he has to be guided by circumstances, or to rise superior
to circumstances and cause himself and his men to undergo far more than
normal exertions. War, as carried out to-day, requires all that every
man has to give in the way of staying power, and now, as in the days of
the battle-axe and long-bow, physical endurance is the greatest asset
a man can have on active service. The hard drinker in time of peace
and the man who has been looking for “soft jobs” all the time of his
peace service soon “go sick” and become ineffective; they may be just
as brave as the rest, but they lack the staying power requisite to the
carrying on of war.
Men’s impressions of being under fire vary so much that every account
is of interest. “My principal impression was that I’d like to run away,
but there was nowhere to run to, so I stuck on, and got used to it
after a bit.” “I felt cold, and horribly thirsty--I never thought to be
afraid till afterwards.” “It was interesting, till I saw the man next
to me rolled over with a bullet in his head, and then I wanted to get
up and go for the devils who had done that.” Thus spoke three men when
asked how they felt about it. My own impression was chiefly a fear that
I was going to be afraid--I did not want to disgrace myself, but to be
as good as the rest.
One man, who came back wounded after the day of Mons, described how
he felt at first shooting a man and knowing that his bullet had taken
effect--for in the majority of cases, with a whole body of men firing,
it is difficult to tell which of the bullets take effect. This,
however, was a clear case, and the man could not but know that he was
responsible for the shot.
“I had four men with me on rear-guard,” he said, “and we were holding
the end of a village street to let our chaps get away as far as
possible before we mounted and caught up with them. We could see German
infantry coming on, masses of them, but they couldn’t tell whether the
village street held five men or a couple of squadrons, so they held
back a bit. At last I could see we were in danger of being outflanked,
so I got my men to get mounted, and just as they were doing so a German
officer put his head round the corner of the house at the end of the
street--not ten yards away from me. I raised my rifle, shut both eyes,
and pulled the trigger--it was point-blank range, and when I opened my
eyes and looked it seemed as if I’d blown half his face away. I felt
scared at what I had done--it seemed wrong to have shot a man like
that, though he and his kind drive women and children in front of their
firing lines. It seemed to make such a horrible mess, somehow. I got
mounted, and just as I swung my leg over the horse, a fool of a German
infantryman aimed a blow at me with the butt end of his rifle--I don’t
know where he sprung from--and damaged my arm like this. If he’d had
the sense he could have run me through with a bayonet or shot me, but
I suppose he was too flurried. But that officer’s face after I’d shot
him stuck to me, and I still dream of it, and shall for some time,
probably.”
He who told this story is a boy of twenty-two or three, and he has
gone back to the front to rejoin his regiment, now--with three stripes
on his arm, instead of the two that were his at the beginning of the
campaign.
On forced marches, and often on normal marches as well, all the things
that one considers necessities--with the exception of sufficient
food to keep one in condition--go by the board. One sleeps under the
stars, with no other covering than a coat and blanket; one lies out
to sleep in pouring rain, with no more covering; tents are out of the
question, for there is no time to pitch and strike them. One goes for
days without a wash, and for days, too, without undressing. There were
two scamps in the South African campaign who promised each other, for
some mysterious reason, that they would not take their boots off for
a month, and they ran into such a series of marches and actions that,
even if they had not made the compact, they would only have been able
to remove their boots three times in the course of that month. The
smart soldier of peace service goes unshaven, unwashed, careless of all
except getting enough of food and sleep at times; and when a lull comes
in the operations, so that he gets a day or even an hour or two to
himself, a bath is a luxury undreamed of by the man who can have one
every morning and consider it a mere usual thing.
If in time of peace the soldier considers a rifle carelessly, and even
resents having to carry it about with him, he looks on it differently
on service, knowing as he does that his life may depend on the quality
of the weapon and his ability to use it at almost any minute of the day
or night. The confirmed “grouser” of peace time, who will make a fuss
over having to put twenty rounds of blank ammunition in his bandolier
to go out on a field-day, will swing his three bandoliers of ball
cartridges on to his person without a word of complaint, for he knows
that he may need every round. Values alter amazingly on service; the
man with a box of matches, when one has been away from the base for
a few days, is a person of importance, and a mere cigarette is worth
far more than its weight in gold. In General Rundle’s column during
the South African war, half a biscuit was something to fight for, and
the men who thought it such had many a time thrown away the same sort
of unpalatable biscuits and bought bread to eat instead. An ant-heap
acquired a new significance, for it might be the means of saving a
man’s life at any time, and among mounted men a “fresh” horse, which
might give its rider some trouble at the time of mounting, was no
longer to be avoided, for by its freshness it showed that it had plenty
of spirit and go about it, spirit that might take a man out of rifle
range at a critical moment, when the slower class of mount might come
out of action without its rider.
This reversal of the circumstances of ordinary life produces lasting
effect on men; no man who has undergone the realities of active service
comes back to the average of life unchanged. The difference in him may
not be apparent at a casual glance, but it is there, for the rest of
his life. He has looked on death at close quarters, and, whatever his
intelligence may be--whether he be gutter-snipe or ’Varsity man, sage
or fool--he has a clearer realisation of the ultimate values of things.
One may count the Army in peace time as a great training school out of
which men come moulded to a definite pattern, and yet retaining their
individuality. But active service is a fire through which men pass,
emerging on the far side purified of little aims to a greater or less
extent, according to the material on which the fire has to work. For
many--all honour to them and to those who mourn their loss--it is a
destroying fire.
So far as the limits of space will permit, there is set down in these
pages a record of what military service amounts to for the rank and
file, in peace and war. It is necessarily incomplete, for the story of
the British Army of to-day, apart from its history of great yesterdays,
is not to be told in any one book--there is too much of it for that.
There are those who belittle the Army and its ways and influence on the
men who serve, but one who has served, with the perspective of time to
give him clearness of vision, can always look back on the Army and be
glad that he has learned its lessons, accomplished its tasks; the men
who would belittle it are themselves very little men, too little to be
worthy of serious notice. The British Army is a gathering of brave men,
fighting in this year of grace 1914 in a noble cause, and fighting, as
the British Army has always fought, bravely and well.
WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD.
PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH
Transcriber’s Notes
Punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant
preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed.
Simple typographical errors were corrected; occasional unbalanced
quotation marks retained.
Ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained. Inconsistent
hyphenation was not changed.
Page 173: _morale_ was printed as _moral_; changed here.