A CHAPTER OF INCIDENTS
Life at the Front cannot fail to be full of stirring incidents; indeed,
I very much question whether any experience comes up to it for interest
and excitement. I am not speaking of the ding-dong trench warfare which
has characterized the campaign on the Western front for so many months
past, but refer more particularly to those early days when both armies
were exceedingly active; and the operations very much resembled a game
of chess, with not too long an interval between the moves.
In the early days of the war in Flanders, the times were wondrously
stirring; one never knew where an attack would be launched, and what
would happen next. With such huge and mobile opposing forces in front of
us, every day had some fresh surprise in store. 'From early morning till
dewy eve' we lived on the tiptoe of expectation; for, indeed, the early
morning carried its message, but generally of discomfort, for not the
least discomfort of a campaign is the very early hour at which reveille
is sounded, usually at five, but sometimes at four; or, in the case of
emergency, at any hour of the night. But generally it comes just as the
attitude necessary to comfort has been discovered, and the somnolent
individual is ready for the luxury of what I may call a half and half
snooze. It is at that moment, in that mysterious borderland of sleeping
and waking, that the strident and compelling sound of the bugle falls
upon the unwilling ear. There is no turning over for another spell. One
comfort is, there is always very little toilet to perform; and in a few
minutes the place is alive with dishevelled and half-awake men. Where
water can be easily procured, cleanliness is the order of the day; and
with all our faults, one essential feature stands to the credit of the
British soldier: he _is_ a clean man. Never does Tommy miss his wash and
shave if there is half a chance of gratifying this admirable instinct.
All visitors to the Front are struck with the glorious health and
fitness of our lads. In fact, I have never seen such a collection of
healthy manhood in my life. This is attributable in the first place to
the natural open-air life which the men lead, but in the next place to
the excellent sanitary arrangements and precautions adopted and insisted
upon by the authorities, which very largely account for the remarkable
immunity from disease enjoyed by the troops.
Behind all this, comes the most important question of 'grub.' The
commissariat of the British Expeditionary Force is a marvel of
organization. During the last six months of my military service I
enjoyed the advantage of travelling up and down the lines from Ypres to
Bethune, and everywhere I was most profoundly impressed by the marvel of
supply. Scattered over the whole front are units, large and small, each
of which has to be fed daily; and woe to the unlucky A.S.C. officer who
is responsible for delay in forwarding or conveying rations. 'Tommy' is
nothing without a good 'grouse,' but in this respect he is not always
logical; bread which is stale will give him cause to grumble for hours;
but he will rush into the most desperate and bloody work, and suffer
untold misery, without a murmur.
Alluding to the masterpiece of organization, which enables our army to
be fed while in the battle front, Mr. Philip Gibbs, writing in the
_Daily Chronicle_, says: 'The British soldier has at least this in his
favour, in spite of all the horrors of war which has put his manhood to
the test, he gets his "grub" with unfailing regularity, if there is any
possible means of approach to him, and he gets enough and a bit more. It
is impossible for him to "grouse" about that element of his life on the
field. The French soldier envies him and says,--as I have heard one of
them say--"Ma foi! our comrades feed like princes! they have even jam
with their tea! The smell of bacon comes from their trenches and touches
our nostrils with the most excellent fragrance, more beautiful than the
perfume of flowers. The English eat as well as they fight, which is
furiously."'
It may interest my readers to see what a man's daily ration consists of.
This table refers to officers and men alike, for there is no difference
in this respect:--
1-1/4 lb. fresh meat, _or_, 1 lb. preserved meat;
1-1/4 lb. bread;
4 oz. bacon;
3 oz. cheese;
4 oz. jam;
3 oz. sugar;
1/2 lb. fresh vegetables, _or_, 2 oz. dried;
5/8 oz. tea, coffee, _or_ cocoa;
2 oz. tobacco per week, _or_ 50 cigarettes.
This ration is more scientifically arranged than its recipient imagines;
as a matter of fact, it comprises all the essentials which go to build
up the stamina of the fighting man; and thus, well provided with fresh
air, good food, to say nothing of hard exercise, the animal side of Mr.
Thomas Atkins is kept in the pink of condition, and he is able to face
the burdens of life which are incidental to his calling, and which are
not a few, with remarkable ease and success.
Life at the Front is a strange compound of the grave and the gay. One of
the most appealing features is witnessed in the sad lot of the Belgian
refugees, who, often at a moment's notice, have fled from their homes,
leaving all their property to the devastation of war. I have frequently
seen mournful processions on the road, consisting of old and young. It
is heartrending to witness the pitiable look of an aged couple, who
through a long life have lived in some happy homestead, taking their
last gaze at the house with its trim garden, which one knows in a few
hours will be shattered past recognition; women, sometimes in a most
delicate condition, struggling bravely on; children crying; and the men
with set teeth and despairing faces striding on, carrying the few
articles which they have hurriedly snatched up, as the whole family has
escaped from the hell which has so suddenly befallen them. Where are
they to go to? God only knows what becomes of them. I have seen them
lining the road on a pouring wet night, outside a town already full to
overflowing with like unhappy sufferers; the while Belgian soldiers,
with fixed bayonets, have prohibited any further entrance to that which
promised a lodging place. Soldiers are not proverbially given to
overmuch sensitiveness where human suffering is concerned, for a daily
intercourse with terrible scenes cannot fail to harden a man, but I
declare that I have seen strong men burst into tears as they have gazed
at one of these processions of great mental and bodily agony.
One serious aspect of life at the Front is found in the remarkable
system of espionage which unfortunately abounds. One lives in a constant
state of suspicion, for in this respect the enemy is as daring as he is
resourceful.
The first time I passed through Hooge we suddenly saw a homing pigeon
let out of the loft of a cottage; immediately the house was surrounded
and entered. I speedily made for the back of the premises, hoping to
intercept any one who had been responsible for a most suspicious act. A
boy of some eighteen years was discovered in the loft, with a large
number of carrier pigeons, which were immediately confiscated, and the
boy was arrested. I rode off to Head-quarters, some mile and a half
away, and reported the occurrence, with the result that the boy was
marched off for close examination. The pigeons, however, formed a very
agreeable addition to the men's menu that night. I believe the boy was
released; but whilst he was under arrest, a very personable and
well-dressed individual approached, and introduced himself as Count
----, stating that he had known the boy for years, and that the keeping
of pigeons formed his hobby. Something in the manner of the man aroused
our suspicion, and after careful examination it was found that he
himself was a spy; and in due course he was shot.
Another somewhat remarkable instance of the ramifications of this aspect
of warfare occurred in a certain well-known town; one of the high
officials of which--whom I knew well--a most courteous gentleman--proved
to be in close touch with the enemy. He, too, was shot. Daily there are
men, and sometimes women, who risk their lives in securing items of
information as to the disposition of troops, guns, etc., which are
likely to prove of value to the enemy. Notwithstanding the strictest
orders, I am afraid our men are not always wise in their intercourse
with strangers. On one occasion, very stringent orders from
Head-quarters had been read out to the men, prior to moving off in the
early morning, informing them that on no account were they to disclose
any information whatsoever as to the movements or disposition of
troops; and yet, during a ten minutes' halt later in the day, as I rode
by a transport wagon, I heard the driver gassing on with refreshing
innocence, as he retailed to a civilian where we had come from; where we
were going to; where our Brigade was situated, etc. I am afraid I raised
my voice in hot anger, and riding round to the other side of the wagon
was just in time to see the eager listener disappearing across country.
It was impossible to arrest him, and the incident closed; not altogether
to the satisfaction of the thoughtless purveyor of news I imagine.
Amid men so full of such animal life as our brave lads, it will be
readily imagined that existence is not wholly composed of shadow;
indeed, few careers are so full of brightness and geniality as those of
our fighting men. 'Tommy Atkins' is a unique creation. I know not from
whence he springs. There is something in his environment which evolves
him, I suppose; it is not a question of years of association with men of
his like, for the New Army which has only been in being for a few months
produces precisely the same type; and men whom this time last year were
far removed from the very thought of soldiering, are now found to
possess all the attributes and qualities--good, bad and
indifferent--which formed the traditional soldier in the ranks. His
cheeriness is unbounded. For some time the pronunciation of Ypres
bothered him seriously, but he soon settled the difficulty by calling it
'Wypers.' Étaples was also another stumbling block, but 'Eatables' soon
revealed Tommy's way out of another difficulty. Ploegstreete, which for
centuries has been an insignificant hamlet, is now known throughout the
British Army as 'Plug Street'; well known for possessing some of the
finest trenches along the line.
One afternoon I had ridden back into Ypres to purchase a note-book, and
had procured what I wanted, when two privates who stood by my side in
the little stationer's shop determined on the purchase of some small
article; the difficulty at the moment was to find out its cost. One of
them, who acted as spokesman, held up his selection, and astonished the
woman at the other side of the counter by saying, 'How mooch monnee?'
Naturally enough the woman gazed at him with a bewildered air, when
'Tommy' turned to the pal by his side and said, 'Silly swine, they don't
know their own language.'
A remarkable feature which I frequently encountered in connexion with
what I may call the soldier's social life, is the great facility with
which he introduces himself to the native inhabitants. In a very few
minutes he seems to be thoroughly at home with them, girls and all, and
is in some mysterious way holding conversation, or at all events
conveying his meaning, to the satisfaction of both parties. In the
gloaming you will see him strolling about with the girls of the village,
as much at home as in the lanes of his own countryside. What they talk
about I can't tell, but talk they do; and as far as one can determine,
to their mutual pleasure.
Even in the deadliest moments, the wit of the man is to the front. At
the battle of Neuve Chapelle, at the beginning of March, a bomb-thrower,
rushing through the village, came upon a cellar full of Germans in
hiding. Putting his head in at the door, at the risk of his life he
cried: 'How many of yer are there in there?' The answer came, 'Ve vos
twelve.' Then said Tommy, throwing in a bomb, 'Divide that amongst yer,'
with the result too ghastly for words.
Such humour, coarse though it may be, is not by any means confined to
terra firma. On the first of April, a British aeroplane sailed over the
German lines, and when over the first line of trenches, dropped a
football. The Huns were simply terrified, as they saw this new kind of
bomb slowly descending, and fled right and left. With amazement they saw
it strike the ground, and then bounce high up, until it gradually
settled down; then very cautiously the bolder elements amongst them
crept up and found a football, on which was written, 'The first of
April, you blighters.'
It is strange to see this remarkable spirit evinced in the most
hazardous moments of life. Right out in front of the trenches one night
a man was badly hit, and his chum, at the risk of his life, rushed out
to his help, saying, 'Get on my back, mate, and I will carry you in,'
only to be met with, 'Not darned likely; I shall be shot in the back,
and you will get the V.C.'
A further illustration of this most remarkable military production
occurs in the following incident. A friend of mine, who has himself been
twice wounded, on the last occasion of injury was in the trenches, when
suddenly a man by his side was hit in the wrist; clapping his hand upon
the wound he exclaimed, 'Got it! I've been waiting for this since last
August.' Then, putting his left hand into his pocket, he pulled out a
mouth-organ and played 'Home, Sweet Home.' Who but an English 'Tommy'
could, or would, do that. No wonder that the French are puzzled by this
strange composition of humanity with which they are fighting as allies.
The enemy, too, wonders, as he comes across a foe so remarkable in his
words and methods. A German officer--a most charming man--lying in the
next bed but one to me, on the hospital ship which brought me home from
France, was asked what he thought of the comparative fighting values of
the allies, and he remarked, 'Well! we can manage the Belgians, and we
understand the French, but we cannot comprehend you English, for by
every known law of war you are beaten again and again, but you never
seem to know it!' This is, of course, not an original utterance, but
derived from one of Napoleon's great Generals; but at all events it
shows the estimate placed upon our fighting capacity by an enemy who at
one time styled us as 'that contemptible little army.' There is
sometimes a weird sense of disproportion revealed, as in the case of a
Highlander who was visited by a brother chaplain at a Base hospital some
two or three months ago, and who remarked to the patient, 'Well, Jock,
what do you think of Jack Johnsons? They put the fear of God into your
heart, don't they?' 'Aye, sir, they do, but let's hope it will soon wear
off.'
My readers will see that we are a strange compound of grave and gay at
the Front, as I have already said. There is, however, a deeper side of
the soldier's life, which after all is even more correctly
characteristic of the man than that which only appears upon the
surface.
THE FIRST BATTLE OF YPRES