There is not in the whole British Isles a more efficient military body
than the Ballyhaine Veterans’ Corps. The men look like soldiers when
they have their grey uniforms on and their brassards on their sleeves.
They talk like soldiers. They have the true military spirit. There is
not a man in the company under fifty years of age, but if the Germans
attempt a landing on the Ballyhaine beach, by submarine or otherwise,
they will be sorry for themselves afterwards--those of them who remain
alive.
Ballyhaine is a residential suburb, entirely built over with villas of
the better kind. Each villa has its garden. In times of peace we discuss
sweet peas or winter spinach or chrysanthemums on our way into town
in the morning, travelling, as most of us do, by the 9.45 train, with
season tickets, first class.
When our boys went off from us, as they all did early in the war, we
felt that it was time for us to do something too. There was not the
least difficulty about enrolling the men. We all joined the corps, even
poor old Cotter, who must be close on seventy, and who retired from
business three years ago. He used to bore us all by talking about his
rheumatism, but when the Volunteer Corps was formed he dropped all that,
and went about saying that he had never suffered from pain or ache in
his life, and could do twenty miles a day without feeling it. We made
Cotter a corporal.
Our Commanding Officer is Haines, who plays the best hand at bridge of
any man in the club. He held a commission in a line regiment before he
went on the Stock Exchange. That was thirty-five years ago, and it is
not to be supposed that his knowledge of soldiering is up-to-date, but
he is the only one of us who has any knowledge of soldiering at all, so
we chose him.
The women were a difficulty at first. They insisted on regarding us as
a joke, and used to repeat the absurd witticism of the street boys.
I heard Janet say “Methusaleers” one day. She denied it, but I am
perfectly certain she did not say “Fusiliers,” My wife fussed about dry
socks and wanted me to take my umbrella on a route march one wet Sunday.
Every other member of the corps had similar experiences. It was Tompkins
who hit on a way of dealing satisfactorily with the women. Tompkins is
our local doctor. He stays in Ballyhaine all day long when the rest
of us go up to town, so he naturally knows a good deal about women. He
enrolled them in a volunteer ambulance brigade, and after that they
were just as keen as any of us. We did the thing handsomely for them. We
bought six stretchers, a small motor ambulance waggon, and some miles
of bandages. Janet and Cotter’s youngest girl carried one of the
stretchers. I should not like to say that my wife actually hoped I
should be wounded, but I think she would have liked the chance of
bandaging any other man in the corps. The rest of the women felt as she
did.
The drawback to Ballyhaine as a centre of military activity is the
difficulty of finding a place for practising field manoeuvres. There is
the golf links, of course, but we got tired of marching round and round
the golf links, and we did not want to dig trenches there. Haines, who
does not play golf, drew up a plan of trench digging which would have
ruined the golf links for years. But we would not have that. Nor could
we dig in each other’s gardens, or practise advancing over open country
in skirmishing order when there was no open country. The whole district
is a network of high walls with broken glass on top of them, a form of
defence rendered necessary by the attacks of small boys on our fruit
trees.
Fortunately, we had the sea beach. The strand--there are three miles of
it--is one of the glories of Ballyhaine. We did most of our manoeuvring
there and dug our trenches there. Haines was opposed to this plan at
first.
“If the Germans come at all,” said Cotter, “they’ll come from the sea.
They must, this being an island.”
“Of course,” said Haines.
“Then,” said Cotter, “the beach is the place where we shall have to meet
them, and the strand is where our trenches ought to be.”
There was no answering that argument. Even Haines gave way.
“With barbed wire entanglements,” said Cotter, “down to the water’s
edge.”
The weather round about Christmas-time was extraordinarily severe in
Ballyhaine. We came in for a series of gales, accompanied by driving
rain, and the days at that time of year are so short that most of our
soldiering had to be done in the dark.
I got one cold after another, and so did every other member of the
corps. Poor old Cotter limped pitifully on parade, but he did not say a
word about rheumatism. The spirit of the men was splendid, and not
one of us showed a sign of shirking, though Haines kept us at it with
ferocity.
Haines varied the digging by making us practise a horrible manoeuvre
called “relieving trenches.” This was always done in the middle of
the night, between twelve and one o’clock. Part of the corps went out
early--about 10.30 p.m.--and manned the trenches. The rest of us marched
forth at midnight and relieved them.
The worst evening we had all winter was December 8th. It was blowing
terrifically from the south-east The sea was tumbling in on the beach
in enormous waves, fringing the whole line of the shore with a broad
stretch of white foam. The rain swept over the country pitilessly. I
came out of town by the 5.10 train, and called at the club on my way
home. I found a notice posted up:
“Ballyhaine Veterans’ Corps.
“Tonight, December the 8th, trenches will be relieved at 12 midnight.
No. 1 and No. 2 Platoons to parade at 10.30, march to north end of the
strand, and occupy trenches.”
That meant a six-mile march for those platoons--three there and three
back.
“No. 3 and No. 4 Platoons to parade at 11 p.m., march to cliffs, descend
rocks, and relieve trenches as soon as possible after midnight.”
I am in No. 3 Platoon, and I confess I shuddered. The rocks at the
north end of the beach are abominably slippery. A year ago I should have
hesitated about climbing down in broad daylight in the finest weather.
My military training had done a good deal for me physically, but I still
shrank from those rocks at midnight with a tempest howling round me.
When I reached home I put a good face on the matter. I was not going to
admit to my wife or Janet--particularly to Janet--that I was afraid of
night operations in any weather.
“Please have my uniform left out for me,” I said, “I shall put it on
before dinner.”
“Surely,” said my wife, “you’re not going out to-night? I don’t think
you ought to.”
“Duty, my dear,” I said.
“Just fancy,” said Janet, “if the Germans came and father wasn’t there!
We might be murdered in our beds!”
I am sometimes not quite sure whether Janet means to scoff or is in
serious earnest On this occasion I was inclined to think that she was
poking fun at the Veterans’ Corps. I frowned at her.
“You’ll get dreadfully wet,” said my wife.
“Not the least harm in that,” I said cheerily.
“It’ll give you another cold in your head,” said Janet
This time she was certainly sneering. I frowned again.
“Of course,” said my wife, “it won’t matter to you. You’re so strong and
healthy. Nothing does you any harm.”
I suspected her of attempting a subtle form of flattery, but what she
said was quite true. I am, for a man of fifty-three, extremely hardy.
“I’m thinking,” she said, “of poor old Mr. Cotter. I don’t think he
ought to go. Mrs. Cotter was round here this afternoon. She says he’s
suffering dreadfully from rheumatism, though he won’t admit it, and if
he goes out to-night... But he’s so determined, poor old dear. And she
simply can’t stop him.”
“Cotter,” I said, “must stay at home.”
“But he won’t,” said my wife.
“Military ardour is very strong in him,” said Janet.
“I’ll ring up Dr. Tompkins,” I said, “and tell him to forbid Cotter to
go out. Tompkins is Medical Officer of the corps, and has a right to give
orders of the kind. In fact, it’s his duty to see that the company’s not
weakened by ill-health.”
“I’m afraid,” said my wife, “that Dr. Tompkins can do nothing. Mrs.
Cotter was with him before she came here. The fact is that Mr. Cotter
won’t give in even to the doctor’s orders.”