CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
_All rights reserved_
[Illustration: MULES
(see page 26) _From a drawing by Bert Thomas._]
CANADA
IN WAR-PAINT
BY CAPT.
RALPH W. BELL
[Illustration]
LONDON AND TORONTO
J. M. DENT & SONS LTD.
PARIS: J. M. DENT ET FILS
NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO.
_First Published in 1917_
PREFACE
There is no attempt made in the little sketches which this book
contains to deal historically with events of the war. It is but a small
_Souvenir de la guerre_--a series of vignettes of things as they struck
me at the time, and later. I have written of types, not of individuals,
and less of action than of rest. The horror of war at its worst is fit
subject for a master hand alone.
I have to thank the proprietors of _The Globe_ for their courtesy in
allowing the reproduction of “Canvas and Mud” and “Tent Music,” and of
the _Canadian Magazine_ for the reproduction of “Martha of Dranvoorde.”
Finally, I feel that I can have no greater honour than humbly to
dedicate this book to the officers, N.C.O.’s and men of the First
Canadian Infantry Battalion, Ontario Regiment, with whom I have spent
some of the happiest, as well as some of the hardest, days of my life.
RALPH W. BELL.
_December 11th, 1916._
CONTENTS
PAGE
CANVAS AND MUD! 9
TENT MUSIC 15
RATTLE-SNAKE PETE 21
MULES 26
“OFFICE” 31
OUR FARM 37
AEROPLANES AND “ARCHIE” 41
STIRRING TIMES 47
SICK PARADE 53
BATMEN 60
RATIONS 67
OUR SCOUT OFFICER 73
MARTHA OF DRANVOORDE 78
COURCELETTE 89
CARNAGE 101
“A” COMPANY RUSTLES 106
“MINNIE AND ‘FAMILY’” 113
AN OFFICER AND GENTLEMAN 118
“S.R.D.” 123
BEDS 128
MARCHING 134
THE NATIVES 140
“OTHER INHABITANTS” 147
BOMBS 153
SOFT JOBS 158
“GROUSE” 163
PANSIES 169
GOING BACK 174
THREE RED ROSES 181
ADJUTANTS 187
HOME 193
ACTION 198
CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
CANVAS AND MUD!
To those men who, in days of peace, have trained on the swelling,
lightly-wooded plains round about Salisbury, no doubt this portion
of Old England may seem a very pleasant land. But they have not been
there in November under canvas. When the old soldiers of the Canadian
contingent heard that we were to go to “the Plains,” some of them said,
“S’elp me!” and some a great deal more! It was an ideal day when we
arrived. The trees were russet brown and beautiful under the October
sun, the grass still green, and the winding road through picturesque
little Amesbury white and hard, conveying no hint of that mud for which
we have come to feel a positive awe.
At first we all liked our camp; it was high and dry, the tents had
floor-boards, that traitorous grass was green and firm withal, and
a balmy breeze, follower of the Indian summer, blew pleasantly over
the wide-rolling land. We liked it after the somewhat arid climate of
Valcartier, the sand and dust. Then it began to rain. It rained one
day, two days, three days. During that time the camp named after the
fabulous bird became a very quagmire. The sullen black mud was three
inches deep between the tent lines, on the parade ground, on the road,
where it was pounded and ridged and rolling-pinned by transports,
troops, and general traffic; it introduced itself into the tents in
slimy blodges, ruined the flawless shine of every “New Guard’s” boots,
spattered men from head to foot stickily and persistently. The mud
entered into our minds, our thoughts were turbid. Some enterprising
passer-by called us mud-larks, and mud-larks we have remained.
Canadians think Salisbury Plains a hideous spot. Those who have been
there before know better, but it were suicide to say so, for we have
reached the rubber-boot stage. When the rain “lets up” we go forth with
picks and spades and clean the highways and byways. Canadians do it
with a settled gloom. If the Kaiser tries to land forces in England
they hope he will come to Salisbury with his hordes. There they will
stick fast. In the fine intervals we train squelchily and yearn for
the trenches. What matters the mire when one is at the front, but to
slide gracefully into a pool of turgid water, in heavy marching order,
for practice only, is hardly good enough. Most Canadians think the
concentration camp might preferably have been at the North Pole, if
Amundsen would lend it, and we could occupy it without committing a
breach of neutrality.
That brings us to the cold weather, of which we have had a foretaste.
It was freezing a few days ago. The ground, the wash-taps, and we
ourselves, all were frozen. A cheerful Wiltshireman passed along
the highway. There was a bitter damp north wind; despite the frost
everything seemed to be clammy. “Nice weather for you Canadians,”
he shouted happily. Luckily we had no bayonets. It is quite natural
that in this country it should be thought that Canadians love cold
weather and welcome it. But there is cold and cold. The Salisbury
Plains type is of the “and cold” variety! It steals in through the
tent flaps with a “chilth” that damply clings. It rusts rifles, blues
noses, hoarsens the voice, wheezes into the lungs. It catches on to
the woollen filaments of blankets and runs into them, it seeks out
the hidden gaps in canvas walls and steals within, it crawls beneath
four blankets--when one has been able to steal an extra one--through
overcoats, sweaters, up the legs of trousers, into under-garments,
and at last finds gelid rest against the quivering flesh, eating its
way into the marrow-bones. Like the enemy, it advances in massed
formation, and though stoves may dissipate platoon after platoon it
never ceases to send up reinforcements until a whining gale has seized
on the tent-ropes, squeaks at the poles, draws in vain at the pegs,
tears open loose flaps, and veering round brings back sodden rain and
the perpetual, the everlasting mud. We know the hard, cold bite of “20
below,” the crisp snow, the echoing land, the crackling of splitting
trees, even frost-bite. But it is a dry cold, and it comes: “Whish!”
This cold of England’s creeps into the very heart. It takes mean
advantages. “Give me the Yukon any old time,” says the hard-bitten
shivering stalwart of the north-west. “This, this, it ain’t kinder
playin’ the game.”
It must not be thought that Canadians are complaining, for they are
not. But England’s climate is to them something unknown and unspeakably
vile! One must have been brought up in it to appreciate and to
anticipate its vagaries. Canadians feel they have been misled. They
expected English cold weather to be a “cinch.” But it’s the weather
puts the “cinch” on, not they! There will come a time when we shall be
in huts, and the leaky old canvas tents that are now our habitat will
have been folded and--we hope for the benefit of others--stolen away!
Those tents have seen so much service that they know just as well how
to leak as an old charger how to drill. They become animated--even
gay--when the wind-beaten rain darkens their grimy flanks, and with
fiendish ingenuity they drip, drip, drip down the nape of the neck,
well into the eye, even plumb down the throat of the open-mouthed,
snoring son of the maple-land.
No matter, we shall be old campaigners when the winter is over; old
mud-larkers, as impervious to wet earth as a worm. Even the mud is good
training for the time we shall have in the trenches!
TENT MUSIC
It is not often that Thomas Atkins of any nationality wears his heart
upon his sleeve, and it is quite certain that the British Tommy but
rarely does so, or his confrere of the Canadian Contingent. Perhaps he
best shows his thoughts and relieves his feelings in song.
Salisbury Plains must have seen and heard many things, yet few
stranger sounds can have been heard there than the chants which rise
from dimly-lighted canvas walls, when night has shrouded the earth,
and the stars gleam palely through the mist. It is the habit of the
Canadian Mr. Atkins, ere he prepares himself for rest, to set his
throat a-throbbing to many a tune both new and old. The result is
not invariably musical--sometimes far from it, but it is a species
of sound the male creature produces either to show his “gladness or
his sadness,” and by means of which he relieves a heavy heart, or
indicates that in his humble opinion “all’s well with the world.” On
every side, from almost every tent, there is harmony, melody, trio,
quartette, chorus, or--noise! It is a strange mixture of thoughts
and things, a peculiar vocal photograph of the men of the Maple, now
admirable, now discordant, here ribald, there rather tinged with the
pathetic.
No programme-maker in his wildest moments, in the throes of the most
conflicting emotions, could begin to evolve such a varied, such a
startling programme as may be heard in the space of a short half-hour
under canvas--in a rain-sodden, comfortless tent--anywhere on Salisbury
Plains. It does not matter who begins it; some one is “feeling good,”
and he lifts up his voice to declaim that “You made me love you; I
didn’t want to do it!” The rest join in, here a tenor, there a bass or
a baritone, and the impromptu concert has begun.
Never have the writers of songs, the composers of music, grave and
gay, come more into their own than among the incorrigibly cheerful
warriors of the Plains. The relative merits of composers are not
discussed. They are all good enough for Jock Canuck as long as there is
that nameless something in the song or the music which appeals to him.
It is curious that we who hope to slay, and expect to be slain--many
of us--should sing with preference of Killarney’s lakes and fells,
“Sunnybrook Farm,” “Silver Threads Among the Gold,” rather than some
War Chant or Patriotic Ode, something visionary of battle-fields, guns,
the crash of shells. Is not this alone sufficient to show that beneath
his tunic, and in spite of his martial spirit, Tommy “has a heart,” and
a very warm one?
Picture to yourself a tent with grimy, sodden sides, lighted by three
or four guttering candle-ends, stuck wherever space or ingenuity
permits. An atmosphere tobacco laden, but not stuffy, rifles piled
round the tent-pole, haversacks, “dunnage” bags, blankets, and
oil-sheets spread about, and their owners, some of them lying on the
floor wrapped in blankets, some seated, one or two perhaps reading
or writing in cramped positions, yet quite content. Yonder is a
lusty Yorkshireman, big, blue-eyed, and fair, who for some reason
best known to himself _will_ call himself an Irishman. We know him
as “the man with three voices,” for he has a rich, tuneful, though
uncultivated tenor, a wonderful falsetto, and a good alto. His tricks
are remarkable, but his ear is fine. He loves to lie sprawled on his
great back, and lift up his voice to the skies. All the words of half
the old and new songs of two peoples, British and American, he has
committed to memory. He is our “leading man,” a shining light in the
concert firmament. We have heard and helped him to sing in the course
of one crowded period of thirty minutes the following varied programme:
“Tipperary,” “Silver Threads Among the Gold,” “My Old Kentucky Home,”
“Fight the Good Fight,” “A Wee Deoch an’ Doris,” “When the Midnight
Choochoo Leaves for Alabam,” “The Maple Leaf,” “Cock Robin,” “Get Out
and Get Under,” “Where is My Wandering Boy To-Night,” “Nearer, My God,
to Thee,” and “I Stand in a Land of Roses, though I Dream of a Land of
Snow.” But there is one song we never sing, “Home, Sweet Home.” Home is
too sacred a subject with us; it touches the deeper, aye, the deepest,
chords, and we dare not risk it, exiles that we are.
Very often there are strange paradoxes in the words we sing, when
compared with reality.... “I stand in a land of roses!” Well, not
exactly, although Salisbury Plains in the summer time are, like the
curate’s egg, “good in parts.” But the following line is true enough
of many of us. We do “dream of a land of snow”; of the land, and those
far, far away in it. Sometimes we sing “rag-time melodee,” but that is
only _pour passer le temps_. There is something which prompts us to
other songs, and to sacred music. It often happens that in our tent
there are three or four men with voices above the average who take a
real delight in singing. One of the most beautiful things of the kind
the writer has ever heard was a quartette’s singing of “Nearer, My God,
to Thee.” Fine, well-trained voices they possessed, blending truly and
harmoniously, which rang out almost triumphal in the frosty night.
They sang it once, and then again, and as the last notes died away the
bugles sounded the “Last Post.”
Taa-Taa, Taa-Taa, Ta-ta-ti-ti-ti-ti-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta.
Ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ta-ta-ta-ta-taa, Taa-Taa, Taa-Taa, Taaa, Tiii!
Verily, even under canvas music _hath_ charms to soothe the savage
breast.
RATTLE-SNAKE PETE
Very tall, thin, and cadaverous, with a strong aquiline nose, deep-set,
piercing black eyes, bushy eyebrows matching them in colour, and a
heavy, fiercely waxed moustache, streaked with grey, he was a man who
commanded respect, if not fear.
In spite of his sixty years he was as straight as the proverbial poker,
and as “nippy on his pins” as a boy a third of his age. Two ribbons
rested on his left breast--the long service ribbon and that of the
North-West Rebellion. His voice was not harsh, nor was it melodious,
but it could be heard a mile off and struck pure terror into the heart
of the evil-doer when he heard it! Rattle-Snake Pete was, as a matter
of fact, our Company Sergeant-Major.
Withering was the scorn with which he surveyed a delinquent “rooky,”
while his eyes shot flame, and in the terrified imagination of
the unfortunate being on whom that fierce gaze was bent his ears
seemed to curve upwards into horns, until he recalled the popular
conception of Mephistopheles! We called him--when he was safely beyond
hearing--Rattle-Snake Pete, but that worthy bravo was far less feared
than was his namesake.
First of all, the Sergeant-Major was a real soldier, from the nails in
his boots to the crown of his hat. Secondly, he was a man of strong
prejudices, and keen dislikes, and, lastly, a very human, unselfish,
kind-hearted man.
Discipline was his God, smartness on parade and off the greatest virtue
in man, with the exception of pluck. He ruled with a rod of iron,
tempered by justice, and his keenness was a thing to marvel at. At
first we all hated him with a pure-souled hate. Then, as he licked us
into shape, and the seeds of soldiering were sown, we began to realise
that he was right, and that we were wrong--and that, after all, the
only safe thing to do was to obey!
One day a man was slow in doing what his corporal told him to do. As
was his habit, the S.-M. came on the scene suddenly, a lean tower of
steely wrath. After he had poured out the vials of his displeasure on
the head of the erring one, he added: “I’ll make you a soldier, lad, or
I’ll break your heart!” He meant it; he could do it; we knew he could,
and it resulted in our company being the best in the regiment.
Shortly before we moved to France, a personage and his consort
inspected us. He shook hands with Rattle-Snake, and spoke to him for
several moments.
“How old are you?”
“Forty-five, Your Majesty.”
“Military age, I suppose?” queried the Personage with a kindly smile.
“Yes, sir.”
Never in his life was Rattle so happy as he was that day, and we felt
rather proud of him ourselves.
_Our_ Sergeant-Major had shaken hands with the King!
Those who had stood near enough to hear what had passed achieved a
temporary fame thereby, and in tent and canteen the story was told,
with variations suited to the imagination of the raconteur, for days
after the event.
When we moved to France Rattle-Snake Pete came with us. I think the
doctor saw it would have broken his heart not to come, although at his
age he certainly should not have done so. But come he did, and never
will the writer forget the day Rattle pursued him into an old loft, up
a broken, almost perpendicular ladder, to inquire in a voice of thunder
why a certain fatigue party was minus a man.
“Come you down out of there, lad, or you’ll be for it!” And, meekly as
a sucking-dove, I came!
He was wounded at the second battle of Ypres, and, according to all
accounts, what he said about the Germans as he lay on that battle-field
petrified the wounded around him, and was audible above the roar of
bursting Jack Johnsons.
They sent him to hospital in “Blighty,” an unwilling patient, and there
he has been eating out his heart ever since, in the face of adamantine
medical boards.
One little incident. We were billeted in an old theatre, years ago it
seems now, at Armentières. We had marched many kilometres in soaking
rain that afternoon, and we were deadly weary. Rattle, though he said
no word, was ill, suffering agonies from rheumatism. One could see it.
Being on guard, I was able to see more than the rest, who, for the most
part, slept the sleep of the tired out. One fellow was quite ill, and
he tossed and turned a good deal in his sleep. Rattle was awake too,
sitting in front of the dying embers in the stove, his face every now
and then contorted with pain. Often he would go over to the sick man
and arrange his bed for him as gently as a woman. Then he himself lay
down. The sick man awoke, and I heard his teeth chatter. “Cold, lad?”
said a deep voice near by. “Yes, bitter cold.” The old S.-M. got up,
took his own blanket and put it over the sick man. Thereafter he sat
until the dawn broke on a rickety chair in front of the dead fire.
MULES
Until there was a war, quite a lot of people hardly knew there were
such things as mules. “Mules?” they would say, “Oh, er, yes ... those
creatures with donkey’s ears, made like a horse? or do you mean
canaries?”
_Nous avons changé tout cela!_ “Gonga Din” holds no hidden meaning
from us now. We have, indeed, a respect for mules, graded according to
closeness of contact.
In some Transports they think more of a mule than of a first-class,
No. 1 charger. Why? Simply because a mule is--a mule. No one has yet
written a theory of the evolution of mules. We all know a mule is a
blend of horse and donkey, and that reproduction of the species is
mercifully withheld by the grace of heaven, but further than that we do
not go.
When the war began our C.O. was talking about mules. We had not crossed
the water then. He said: “I will _not_ have any mules. No civilised
man should have to look after a mule. When I was in Pindi once, a mule
... Mr. Jenks”--our worthy Transport Officer--“there will be no mules
in this regiment.” That settled it for a while.
Our first mule came a month after we had landed in Flanders. It was
a large, lean, hungry-looking mule. It stood about 17 feet 2 inches,
and it had very large floppy ears and a long tail: it was rather a
high-class mule, as mules go. It ate an awful lot. In fact it ate about
as much as two horses and a donkey put together. The first time it was
used some one put it in the Maltese cart, and it looked round at the
cart with an air of surprise and regret. We were on the move, and the
Transport was brigaded, and inspected by the Brigadier as it passed the
starting point. James--the mule--behaved in a most exemplary fashion
until he saw the Brigadier. Then he was overcome by his emotions.
Perhaps the red tabs reminded him of carrots. (James was a pure hog
where carrots were concerned.) At all events he proceeded to break up
the march. He took the bit between his teeth, wheeled to the left,
rolled his eyes, brayed, and charged across an open ditch at the G.O.C.
with the Maltese cart.
The G.O.C. and staff extended to indefinite intervals without any word
of command.
James pulled up in a turnip patch and began to eat contentedly. It took
six men and the Transport Officer to get him on to the road again, and
the Maltese cart was a wreck.
After that they tried him as a pack-mule. He behaved like an angel for
two whole weeks, and then some bright-eyed boy tried him as a saddle
mule. After that the whole of the Transport tried him, retiring worsted
from the fray on each occasion. One day the Transport Officer bet
all-comers fifty francs on the mule. The conditions were that riders
must stick on for five minutes. We used to think we could ride any
horse ever foaled. We used to fancy ourselves quite a lot in fact,
until we met James. Half the battalion came to see the show, which took
place one sunny morning at the Transport lines. We looked James over
with an appraising eye. We even gave him a carrot, as an earnest of
goodwill. James wore a placid, far-away expression and, now and then,
rolled his eyes sentimentally.
We gathered up the reins, and vaulted on to his back. For a full two
seconds James stood stock still. Then he emitted an ear-splitting
squeal, laid back his ears, bared his teeth, turned round and bit at
the near foot, and sat down on his hind legs. He did all these things
in quick time, by numbers. The betting, which had started at 2-1 on
James, increased to 3-1 immediately. However, we stuck. James rose
with a mighty heave, then, still squealing, made a rush of perhaps ten
yards, and stopped dead. We still stuck. The betting fell to evens,
except for the Transport Sergeant, who in loud tones offered 5-1 (on
James). That kept him busy for two minutes, during which time James did
almost everything but roll, and bit a toe off one of my new pair of
riding boots.
There was one minute to go, and there was great excitement. James gave
one squeal of concentrated wrath, gathered his four hoofs together
tightly, bucked four feet in the air, kicked in mid-ether, and tried to
bite his own tail. When we next saw him he was being led gently away.
Since then we have had many mules. We have become used to them, and we
respect them. If we hear riot in the Transport lines we know it is a
mule. If we hear some one has been kicked, we know it is a mule. If we
see one of the G.S. wagons carrying about two tons we know mules are
drawing it. Old James now pulls the water-cart. He would draw it up to
the mouth of the biggest Fritz cannon that ever was, but Frank Wootton
could not ride him!
“OFFICE”
“Charge against No. 7762543, Private Smith, J.C.; In the field,
11.11.16, refusing to obey an order, in that he would not wash out a
dixie when ordered to do so. First witness, Sergeant Bendrick.”
“Sirr! On Nov. 11th I was horderly sergeant. Private Thomas, cook,
comes to me, and he says as ’ow ’e ’ad warned the pris-- the haccused,
sir, to wash out a dixie, which same the haccused refused to do.
Hordered by me to wash hout the dixie, sir, the haccused refused again,
and I places ’im under hopen arrest, sir.”
“Cpl. Townsham, what have you to say?”
“Sirr! On Nov. 11th I was eatin’ a piece of bread an’ bacon when I was
witness to what took place between Sergeant Bendrick an’ Private Smith,
sir. I corroborates his evidence.”
“All right; Private Thomas?”
“Sirr! I coboriates both of them witnesses.”
“You corroborate what both witnesses have said?”
“Yessir.”
“Now, Smith, what have you got to say? Stand to attention!”
“I ain’t got _nothin’_ to say, sir, savin’ that I never joined the army
to wash dixies, an’ I didn’t like the tone of voice him”--indicating
the orderly Sergeant--“used to me. Also I’m a little deaf, sir, an’
my ’ands is that cut with barbed wire that it’s hagony to put ’em in
boilin’ water, sir! An’ I’m afraid o’ gettin’ these ’ere germs into
them, sir. Apart from which I ain’t got anything to say, sir!”
After this Private Smith assumes the injured air of a martyr, casts his
eyes up to heaven, and waits hopefully for dismissal. (The other two
similar cases were dismissed this morning!)
The Captain drums his fingers on the table for a few moments. “This is
your first offence, Smith.”
“Yessir!”
“But it is not made any the less serious by that fact.”
The gleam of joy in Smith’s eye departs.
“Disobedience of an order is no trivial matter. A case like this should
go before the Commanding Officer.”
Long pause, during which the accused passes from the stage of hope
deferred to gloom and disillusion, and the orderly Sergeant assumes a
fiercely triumphant expression.
“Twenty-eight days Field Punishment number one,” murmurs the Captain
ruminatively, “or a court-martial”--this just loud enough for the
accused to hear. The latter’s left leg sags a trifle, and consternation
o’erspreads his visage.
“In view, Smith,” says the Captain aloud, “in view of your previous
good record, I will deal with you myself. Four days dixie washing, and
you will attend all parades!”
Before Private Smith has time to heave a sigh of relief the C.S.M.’s
voice breaks on the air, “Left turrn! Left wheel, quick marrch!”
“A good man, Sergeant-Major,” says the Captain with a smile. “Have to
scare ’em a bit at times, what?”
Battalion Orderly Room is generally a very imposing affair, calculated
to put fear into the hearts of all save the most hardened criminals.
At times the array is formidable, as many as thirty--witnesses, escort,
and prisoners--being lined up outside the orderly room door under the
vigilant eye of the Regimental Sergeant-Major. It is easy to see which
is which, even were not the “dress” different. The prisoners are in
clean fatigue, wearing no accoutrements or equipment beyond the eternal
smoke-helmet. The escort are in light marching order, and grasp in
their left hands a naked bayonet, point upwards, resting along the
forearm. The witnesses wear their belts. Most of the accused have a
hang-dog look, some an air of defiance.
“Escort and prisoners.... Shun!”
The Colonel passes into orderly room, where the Adjutant, the Battalion
Orderly Officer, and Officer witnesses in the cases to be disposed of
await him, all coming rigidly to attention as he enters. In orderly
room, or “office” as the men usually call it, the Colonel commands the
deference paid to a high court judge. He is not merely a C.O., he is an
Institution.
The R.S.M. hovers in the background, waiting for orders to call the
accused and witnesses in the first case. The C.O. fusses with the
papers on his desk, hums and haws, and finally decides which case he
will take first. The Adjutant stands near him, a sheaf of papers in his
hand, like a learnéd crown counsel.
Not infrequently the trend of a case depends on whether the C.O.
lunched well, or if the G.O.C. strafed or complimented him the last
time they held palaver. Even colonels are human.
“Charge against Private Maconochie, No. 170298, drunk,” etc., reads the
Adjutant.
After the evidence has been heard the Colonel, having had no
explanation or defence from the accused, proceeds to pass sentence.
This being a first “drunk” he cannot do very much but talk, and talk he
does.
“You were drunk, Thomkins. You were found in a state of absolutely
sodden intoxication, found in the main street of Ablain-le-Petit at
4 P.M. in the afternoon. You were so drunk that the evidence quotes
you as sleeping on the side-walk. You are a disgrace to the regiment,
Thomkins! You outrage the first principles of decency, you cast a
slur on your battalion. You deliberately, of set purpose, intoxicate
yourself at an early hour of the afternoon. I have a good mind to
remand for a Field General Court-martial. Then you would be shot! Shot,
do you understand? But I shall deal with you myself. I shall not permit
the name of this battalion to be besmirched by _you_. Reprimanded!
Reprimanded! Do you hear, sir!”
(Voice of the R.S.M., north front.) “Right turn. Right wheel; quick
marrch!”
OUR FARM
_July 30th, 1916._
We are staying at a farm; quite an orthodox, Bairnsfather farm, except
that in lieu of one (nominal) dead cow, we possess one (actual) portion
of Dried Hun. The view from our doorway is somewhat extensive, and
full of local colour! There are “steen” other farms all around us,
all of which look as though they had been played with by professional
house-wreckers out on a “beno.” “AK” Company--what there is left of
it--has at present “gone to ground,” and from the lake to “Guildhall
Manor” (we are very Toney over here!) there is no sign of life. A
Fokker dropped in to call half an hour ago, but Archie & Sons awoke
with some alacrity, and he has gone elsewhere. It is too hot even to
write, and the C.O. of “AK” Coy., who _will_ wash every day, is a
disturbing influence. He splashes about in two inches of “wipers swill”
as though he really liked it, and the nett result is that somewhere
around 4 “pip emma” the rest of us decide to shave also, which ruins
the afternoon siesta.
This is a great life. Breakfast at 2 A.M., lunch at noon, dinner at 4
P.M., and supper any old time.
Macpherson--one of those enthusiastic blighters--insisted on taking
me for a walk this morning. Being pure Edinburgh, Mac collects rum,
whisky, and miscellaneous junk of all descriptions. When he returns to
Canada he intends to run a junk shop in rear of a saloon.
The Boche was in a genial mood this morning. As we squelched along
Flossy way, “out for bear,” he began to tickle up poor old Paradise
Wood with woolly bears, and Mount Sparrow with Minnies. Mac has no
sense of humour, he failed to see the joke. “There is a pairfectly
good pair of field-glasses to the left of Diamond Copse,” he said
mournfully, “and we cannot get them.” Diamond Copse is the sort of
place one reads about, and wishes one had never seen. It is about an
acre and a half in extent, and was once a pretty place enough, with a
few fine oak trees, and many young saplings. Nowadays, it can hardly
show a live twig, while shell-holes, bits of shrapnel, stinking pools
tinged with reddy-brown, and forlorn remnants of trench--not to speak
of dead bodies--make it into a nightmare of a place.
“There is a sniper in Paradise Wood, and I do not like him,” Mac
announced gravely, after the fifth bullet, so we dodged over a
grave, under a fallen oak, and into a shell-wrecked dug-out full of
torn web equipment, machine-gun belts, old bully-beef, biscuits, a
stained blanket, and a boot with part of the wearer’s leg in it. The
horse-flies were very annoying, and a dead donkey in a narrow street
of Cairo would be as violets to patchouli compared with the smell. Mac
kept nosing around, and finally retrieved a safety razor and a box of
number nine pills from an old overcoat. “There is some one over there
in need of burial,” he said, “I can see the flies.” The flies were
incidental, but Mac is that kind of chap.
We found what was left of the poor fellow near by. There was nothing
but bone and sinew, and torn remnants of clothing. It was impossible
to identify the man, and equally impossible to move him. By his side
lay a bunch of letters, dirty and torn, and in a pocket which I opened
gingerly with a jack-knife, a photograph of a girl--“With love, from
Mary.” The letters had no envelopes, and all began, “Dear Jimmy.” Mac
read one, and passed it over to me: “Dear Jimmy,--Enclosed you will
find a pair of socks, some chewing gum, and a pair of wool gloves I
knitted myself. The baby is well, and so am I. Peraps you will get
leeve before long. Take care of yourself, Jim dear. The pottatoes have
done good, an’ I am growing some tommatos. My separashun allowence
comes reglar, so don’t worry. You will be home soon, Jim, for the
papers say the Germans is beaten. I got your letter written in May.
Alice is well. Your lovin’ wife, Mary.” “Och, it’s a shame,” said Mac,
not looking at me. “A Tragedy, and but one of thousands.”
We covered poor Jim over with old sand-bags, as best we might, and
his letters and photograph with him. Then we came back to our farm to
lunch.
AEROPLANES AND “ARCHIE”
There is something fascinating about aeroplanes. However many thousands
of them one may have seen, however many aerial combats one may have
witnessed, there is always the desire to see these things again, and,
inwardly, to marvel.
Ten thousand feet above, round balls of black smoke appear in the blue
sky, coming, as it were, out of the nowhere into here. After long
listening you hear the echo of the distant explosion, like the clapping
together of the hands of a man in the aisle of an empty church, and
if you search very diligently, you will at last see the aeroplane, a
little dot in the ether, moving almost slowly--so it appears--on its
appointed course. Now the sun strikes the white-winged, bird-like thing
as it turns, and it glitters in the beams of light like a diamond in
the sky. Now it banks a little higher, now planes down at a dizzy
angle. Suddenly, short, sharp, distinct, you catch the sound of
machine-gun fire. Quick stuttering bursts, as the visible machine and
the invisible enemy circle about each other, seeking to wound, wing,
and destroy. Ah! There it is! The Fokker dives, steep and straight,
at our machine, and one can clearly see the little darts of flame as
the machine-guns rattle. Our man quite calmly loops the loop, and then
seems almost to skid after the Fokker which has carried on downwards,
evidently hit. He swoops down on the stricken plane, pumping in lead
as he goes. The twain seem to meet in collision, then--yes, the Fokker
is plunging, nose-diving, down, down, at a terrific rate of speed. Our
aviator swings free in a great circle, banks, and at top speed makes
back to his air-line patrol, while the German Archies open up on him
with redoubled violence, as, serenely confident, he hums along his way.
It is truly wonderful what a fire an aeroplane can pass through quite
unscathed as far as actual hinderance to flight is concerned. Many a
time you can count nearly two hundred wreathing balls of smoke in the
track of the machine, and yet it sails placidly onward as though the
air were the native element of its pilot and the attentions of Archie
nonexistent.
It is Tommy who first gave the anti-aircraft gun that euphonious name.
Why, no one knows. It must be intensely trying to be an Archie gunner.
Rather like shooting at driven partridges with an air-gun, though far
more exciting. The shells may burst right on the nose of the aeroplane,
to all intents and purposes, and yet the machine goes on, veering this
way or that, dropping or rising, apparently quite indifferent to the
bitter feelings it is causing down below. It is the most haughty and
inscrutable of all the weapons of war, to all outward appearances, and
yet when misfortune overtakes it, it is a very lame duck indeed.
Archie is very much like a dog, his bark is worse than his bite--until
he has bitten! His motto is “persevere,” and in the long run he meets
with some success. Halcyon days, when he wags his metaphorical tail and
the official communiqués pat him on the head. He does not like other
dogs, bigger dogs, to bark at him. They quite drown his own bark, so
that it is useless to bark back, and their highly explosive nature
forces him to put his tail between his legs and run for it, like a chow
pursued by a mastiff. No common-sense Archie stops in any place long
after the five-nines and the H.E. shrapnel begin to burst around it. In
that case discretion is indubitably the better part of valour.
Aeroplanes have a nasty habit of “spotting” Archies, whereby they
even up old scores and prove their superiority. For even the lordly
aeroplane does not charge an Archie barrage by preference.
It is when the planes come out in force, a score at a time, that
poor Archibald has a rough time, and, so to speak, scratches his ear
desperately with his hind leg. The planes do not come in serried mass,
but, wheeling this way and that, diving off here and down yonder,
so confuse poor Archie that he even stops barking at all, wondering
which one he ought to bark at first! By this time most of the planes
have sidled gracefully out of range, rounded up and driven down the
iron-cross birds, and, having dropped their “cartes de visite” at the
rail-head, are returning by ways that are swift and various to the
place whence they came. All of which is most unsettling to the soul of
Archibald.
In the evening, when the west is pink and gold, Archie’s eyes grow
wearied. He sees dimly many aeroplanes, here and there, going and
coming, and he _has_ been known to bark at the wrong one! Wherefore the
homing aeroplane drops a star-signal very often to let him know that
all is well, and that no German hawks menace the safety of the land
over which he is the “ethereal” guardian, in theory, if not always in
practice.
At night Archie slumbers profoundly. But the birds of the air do not
always sleep. Many a night one hears the throb and hum of a machine
crossing the line, and because Archie is asleep we pay him unconscious
tribute: “Is it ours, or theirs?”
Once, not a mile from the front line, Archie dreamed he saw a Zeppelin.
He awoke, stood to, and pointed his nose straight up in the air. Far
above him, many thousands of feet aloft, a silvery, menacing sphere
hung in the rays of the searchlights. And he barked his loudest and
longest, but without avail, for the distance was too great. And the
imaginative French folk heaped unintentional infamy upon him when they
spoke quite placidly of “Archie baying at the moon!”
STIRRING TIMES
At the corner of the Grande Route de Bapaume near the square, stands
the little old Estaminet of La Veuve Matifas.
It is only a humble Estaminet, where, in the old days, Pierre Lapont
and old Daddy Duchesne discussed a “chope,” and talked over the
failings of the younger generation, but nowadays it bears a notice
on the little door leading into the back room, “For officers only.”
The men have the run of the larger room, during hours, but the little
parlour in rear is a spot sacred to those wearing from one star upwards.
Madame Matifas is old, and very large.
“Mais, Monsieur le Capitaine, dans ma jeunesse.... Ah! Alors!”--and
she dearly loves a good hearty laugh. She also sells most excellent
champagne, and--let it be murmured softly--Cointreau, Benedictine,
and very rarely a bottle of “Skee” (“B. & W.” for choice). She has
twinkling brown eyes, fat comfortable-looking hands, and we all call
her “Mother,” while she calls those of us who please her “Mon brave
garçon.”
But La Veuve Matifas is not the sole attraction of the Bon Fermier nor
are even her very excellent wines and other drinks, that may inebriate.
She has two children: Cécile and Marie Antoinette. The former is,
strange to say, “petite” and “mignonne”--she is also very pretty and
she knows all the officers of our Division; most of the young and
tender ones write to her from the trenches. You may kiss Cécile on the
cheek if you know her well.
Marie Antoinette is of the tall, rather rich coloured, passionate type.
She was engaged to a “Little Corporal” of the 77th Infantry of the
Line. Alas, he died of wounds seven months ago. She wears mourning for
him, but Marie is now in love with the Senior Major, or else we are
all blind! (Uneasy rests the arm that wears a crown!) However, that is
neither here not there. We like the widow Matifas, and we all admire
her daughters, while some of us fall in love with them, and we _always_
have a “stirring time” when we reach rest billets within walking
distance of the “Estaminet du Bon Fermier,” or even gee gee distance.
In defiance of the A.P.M. we float into town about 8 “pip emma” (the
O.C. signals _will_ bring “shop” into every-day conversation) and
stealthily creep up the little back alley which leads to the back
door of the Estaminet. We gather there--four of us, as a rule--and we
tap thrice. We hear a fat, uneven walk, and the heavy respiration of
“Maman,” and then:
“Qui est là?”
“C’est nous, Mère Matifas!”
The door is unbolted, and we enter. Scholes invariably salutes Maman
on both cheeks, and we--if we have the chance--salute her daughters.
Then we carry on to the parlour. Pelham--who thinks all women love his
goo-goo eyes--tries to tell Marie Antoinette, in simply rotten French,
how much he loves her, and Marie gets very business-like, and wants to
know if we want Moët et Chandon at 12 frcs. a bottle or “the other” at
six.
So far we have never dared to try “the other,” for fear that we appear
“real mean”! Maman bustles about, and calls us her brave boys, and
_never_ says a word about the war, which is a real kindness to us
war-weary people.
Cécile makes her entrance usually after the second bottle; probably to
make her sister envious, because she always gets such a warm welcome.
In fact there is an almost scandalous amount of competition for the
honour of sitting next to her.
La Veuve Matifas stays until after the third bottle. She has tact, that
woman, and a confidence in ourselves and her daughters that no man who
is worthy of the name would take advantage of.
Last time we were there an incident occurred which literally took
all our breaths away. We were in the middle of what Allmays calls
“Close harmony” and Allmays was mixing high tenor, basso profundo, and
Benedictine, when suddenly the door opened in a most impressive manner.
That little plain deal door _felt_ important, and it had the right to
feel important too.
The C.O. came in.
We got up.
The C.O. turned to Cécile, who was sitting _far_ too close to Pelham,
in my estimation (for I was on the other side), and said, “Cécile, two
more bottles please!” Then to us, “Sit down, gentlemen, carry on.” We
were all fairly senior officers, but Maman nearly fainted dead away
when we conveyed to her the fact that a real, live, active service
Colonel was in her back parlour at 9.15 “pip emma,” ordering up the
bubbly.
He stayed a whole hour, and we had to sing. And then he told us that
he had been offered a Brigade, and was leaving us. We were all jolly
sorry--and jolly glad too--and we said so. We told the girls. “Un
Général!” cried Cécile. “Mon Dieu!” and before we could stop her she
flung her arms round the C.O.’s neck and kissed him. We all expected to
be shot at dawn or dismissed the service, but the C.O. took it like a
real brick, and Pelham swears he kissed her back--downy old bird that
he is!
After he had left we had a bully time. Marie Antoinette was peeved
because she had not kissed the Colonel herself, and Cécile was
sparkling because she _had_ kissed him. Which gave us all a chance.
Mère Matifas drank two whole glasses of champagne, and insisted on
dancing a Tarantelle with Allmays, whom she called a “joli garçon,” and
flirted with most shamelessly. Pelham got mixed up with a coon song,
and spent half an hour trying to unmix, and Scholes consoled Marie
Antoinette. As for me, well, there was nothing for it--Cécile _had_ to
be talked to, don’t you know!
Mother “pro-duced” a bottle of “B. & W.” also. In fact we had a most
stirring time!
We still go to see La Veuve Matifas. She never speaks to us without
saying at least once, “Ah! Mais le brave Général, image de mon mari, où
est il?”
I have a photograph of Cécile in the left-hand breast pocket of my
second-best tunic. Scholes says he is going to marry Marie Antoinette,
“Après la Guerre,” in spite of the Senior Major!
SICK PARADE
“The Company,” read the orderly Sergeant, “will parade at 8.45 A.M.,
and go for a route march. Dress: Light marching order.”
A groan went up from the dark shadows of the dimly-lighted barn, which
died down gradually on the order to “cut it out.” “Sick parade at
7.30 A.M. at the M.O.’s billet Menin-lee-Chotaw,” announced the O.S.
sombrely. “Any of you men who wanter go sick give in your names to
Corporal Jones right now.”
Yells of “Right here, Corporal,” “I can’t move a limb, Corporal,”
and other statements of a like nature, announced the fact that there
were quite a number of gentlemen whose pronounced view it was that
they could not do an eight-mile route march the next day. Corporal
Jones emerged, perspiring, after half an hour’s gallant struggle.
Being very conscientious he took full particulars, according to Hoyle:
name, number, rank, initials, age, religion, and nature of disease.
The last he invariably asked for by means of the code phrase,
“wossermarrerwi_you_?”
Having refused to admit at least half a dozen well-known scrimshankers
to the roll of sick, lame, and lazy, he finished up with Private
Goodman, who declared himself suffering from “rheumatics hall over. Me
legs is somethin’ tur’ble bad.”
There were thirteen names on the report.
Menin-le-Château being a good three kilometres distant, the sick
fell in at 6.30 A.M. the next day. The grey dawn was breaking in
the East, and a drizzling rain made the village street even more
miserable-looking than it was at all times. As on all sick parades, all
the members thereof endeavoured to look their very worst, and succeeded
admirably for the most part. They were unshaven, improperly dressed,
according to military standards, and they shuffled around like a bunch
of old women trying to catch a bus. Corporal Jones was in a very bad
temper, and he told them many things, the least of which would have
made a civilian’s hair turn grey. But, being “sick,” the men merely
listened to him with a somewhat apathetic interest.
They moved off in file, a sorry-looking bunch of soldiers. Each man
chose his own gait, which no injunctions to get in step could affect,
and a German under-officer looking them over would have reported to his
superiors that the morale of the British troops was hopeless.
At 7.25 A.M. this unseemly procession arrived in Menin-le-Château. In
the far distance Corporal Jones espied the Regimental Sergeant-Major.
The latter was a man whom every private considered an incarnation of
the devil! The junior N.C.O.’s feared him, and the Platoon Sergeants
had a respect for him founded on bitter experience in the past, when
he had found them wanting. In other words he was a cracking good
Sergeant-Major of the old-fashioned type. He was privately referred to
as Rattle-Snake Pete, a tribute not only to his disciplinary measures,
but also to his heavy, fierce black moustachios, and a lean, eagle-like
face in which was set a pair of fierce, penetrating black eyes.
“If,” said Corporal Jones loudly, “you all wants to be up for Office
you’ll _walk_. Otherways you’ll _march_! There’s the Sergeant-Major!”
The sick parade pulled itself together with a click. Collars and
the odd button were furtively looked over and done up, caps pulled
straight, and no sound broke the silence save a smart unison of
“left-right-left” along the muddy road. The R.S.M. looked them over
with a gleam in his eye as they passed, and glanced at his watch.
“’Alf a minute late, Co’poral Jones,” he shouted. “Break into double
time. Double ... march!” The sick parade trotted away steadily--until
they got round a bend in the road. “Sick!!!” murmured the R.S.M. “My
H’EYE!”
A little way further on the parade joined a group composed of the sick
of other battalion units, some fifty in all. Corporal Jones handed his
sick report to the stretcher-bearer Sergeant, and was told he would
have to wait until the last.
In half an hour’s time the first name of the men in his party was
called--Lance-Corporal MacMannish.
“What’s wrong?” asked the doctor briskly.
“’A have got a pain in here, sirr,” said MacMannish, “an’ it’s sair,
sorr,” pointing to the centre of his upper anatomy.
“Show me your tongue? H’m. Eating too much! Colic. Two number nine’s.
Light duty.”
Lance-Corporal MacMannish about-turned with a smile of ecstatic joy and
departed, having duly swallowed the pills.
“What did ye get, Jock?”
“Och! Light duty,” said the hero with the air of a wronged man
justified, “but _you’ll_ be no gettin’ such a thing, Bowering!”
“And why not?” demanded the latter scowling. However, his name being
then called put an end to the discussion.
“I have pains in me head and back, sir,” explained Mr. Bowering, “and
no sleep for two nights.” The doctor looked him over with a critical,
expert eye.
“Give him a number nine. Medicine and duty. Don’t drink so much,
Bowering! That’s enough. Clear out!”
“_He’s_ no doctor,” declared the victim when he reached the street.
“Huh! I wouldn’t trust a _cat_ with ’im!”
The next man got no duty, and this had such an effect on him that he
almost forgot he was a sick man, and walloped a pal playfully in the
ribs on the doorstep, which nearly led to trouble.
Of the remaining ten, all save one were awarded medicine and duty, but
they took so long to tell the story of their symptoms, and managed
to develop such good possible cases, that it was 8.45 before the
parade fell in again to march back to billets, a fact which they all
thoroughly appreciated!
Wonderful the swinging step with which they set forth, Corporal Jones
at the head, Lance-Corporal MacMannish, quietly triumphant, bringing
up the rear. They passed the Colonel in the village, and he stopped
Corporal Jones to inquire what they were.
“Your men are marching very well, Corporal. ‘A’ Company? Ah, yes.
Fatigue party, hey?”
“No-sir, sick-parade-sir!”
“Sick Parade! God bless my soul! Sick! How many men were given medicine
and duty?”
“Nine, sir.”
“Nine, out of thirteen.... ‘A’ Company is on a route march this
morning, is it not?”
“Yessir.”