above a light, low mist, and land sparkling with hoar-frost; when the
sky is azure blue, the air clean and cold, and the roads white and
hard. A day when the “fall-in” sounds from rolling plain to wooded
slope and back again, clear and mellow, and when the hearts of men are
glad.
“Bat-ta-lion ... Shun!”
It does one good to hear the unison of sound as the heels come
together, and a few moments later we have moved off, marching to
attention down the little main street of Blondin-par-la-Gironde, with
its 300 inhabitants, old, old church, and half-dozen estaminets.
Madame, where we billeted last night, and her strapping daughter
Marthe, are standing on the doorstep to see us go by. “Bonjour,
M’sieurs, Au revoir, Bonne chance!”
“Left, left, left--ri--left,” the pace is short, sharp, and decisive,
more like the Rifle Brigade trot. Even the backsliders, the men who
march as a rule like old women trying to catch a bus, have briskened up
this morning. Looking along the column from the rear one can see that
rhythmical ripple which betokens the best marching, and instinctively
the mind flashes back to that early dawn three days ago--no, four--when
they came out of the trenches, muddy, dead-beat, awesomely dirty, just
able to hobble along in fours.
Ninety-six hours and what a change!
“March at ease.”
The tail of the column has passed the last little low cottage in the
village, and the twenty-one kilometre “hike” has begun. Corporal
McTavish, mindful that he was once a staff bugler, unslings his
instrument, and begins--after a few horrid practice notes--to play
“Bonnie Dundee,” strictly according to his own recollection of that
ancient tune. The scouts and signallers are passing remarks of an
uncomplimentary nature anent the Colonel’s second horse, which, when
not trying to prance on the Regimental Sergeant-Major’s toes, shows an
evil inclination to charge backwards through the ranks. The bombers are
grousing, as usual; methodically, generally, but without bitterness.
“They will not sing, they cannot play, but they can surely fight.”
“A” Company band consisting of the aforesaid Corporal McTavish, three
mouth-organs, an accordion, a flute, and a piccolo, plus sundry
noises, is heartily engaged with the air “I want to _go_ back, I
WANT to _go back_ (_cres._), I want to go back (_dim._), To the farm
(_pizzicato_),” which changes after the first kilometre to “Down in
Arizona where the Bad Men are.” They are known as the “Birds,” and not
only do they whistle, but they also sing!
“B” Company is wrapped in gloom; they march with a grim determination,
a “just-you-wait-till-I-catch-you” expression which bodes ill for
somebody. Did not a rum-jar--a full jar of rum--vanish from the
rations last night? Isn’t the Quartermaster--and the C.S.M.’s batman
too--endowed with a frantic “hang-over” this morning? This world is an
unfair, rotten kind of a hole anyhow. The Company wit, one Walters,
starts to sing “And when I die.” He is allowed to proceed as far as
“Just pickle my bones,” but “in alcohol” is barely out of his mouth
when groans break in upon his ditty, coupled with loud-voiced protests
to “Have a heart.”
For six months past “C” Company has rejoiced in the generic title
of “Scorpions.” Their strong suit is limerics, the mildest of which
would bring a blush to the cheek of an old-time camp-follower. Within
the last twenty-four hours their O.C. has been awarded the Military
Cross. His usually stern visage--somewhat belied by a twinkling blue
eye--is covered with a seraphic smile. Cantering along the column
comes the Colonel. The artists of the limeric subside. Pulling up,
the C.O. about turns and holds out his hand. “I want to congratulate
you, Captain Bolton. Well deserved. Well deserved. Honour to the
regiment ... yes, yes ... excellent, excellent ... ahem ... thank you,
thank you...!” With one accord the old scorpions, led by the Company
Sergeant-Major, break into the refrain “See him smi-ling, see him
smi-ling, see him smi-i-ling just now.” And Bolton certainly does smile.
By this time we have marched for an hour, and the signal comes to halt,
and fall out on the right of the road. The men smoke, and the officers
gather together in little groups. It is wonderful what ten minutes’
rest will do when a man is carrying all his worldly goods on his back.
A few minutes after starting out again we see ahead of us a little
group of horses, and a red hat or twain, and red tabs. The Divisional
Commander _and_ the Brigadier. The Battalion takes a deep breath,
slopes arms, pulls itself together generally, dresses by the right, and
looks proud and haughty. There is a succession of “Eyes Rights” down
the column, as each unit passes the reviewing base, and then we all
sigh again. _That’s_ over for to-day!
On we march, through many quaint little old-world villages, every one
of which is filled with troops, up hill and down dale, through woods,
golden and brown, tramping steadily onward, a long green-brown column a
thousand strong. Cussing the new drafts who fall out, cussing the old
boots that are worn out, cussing the war in general, and our packs in
detail, but none the less content. For who can resist the call of the
column, the thought of the glorious rest when the march is done, and
the knowledge that whatever we may be in years to come, just now we are
IT!
THE NATIVES
“Bonn joor, Madame!”
“Bonjour, M’sieu!”
“Avvy voo pang, Madame?”
“Braëd? But yes, M’sieu. How much you want? Two? Seize sous, M’sieu.”
“_How_ much does the woman say, Buster?”
“Sixteen sous, cuckoo!”
“Well, here’s five francs.”
“Ah, but, M’sieu! Me no monnaie! No chanch! Attendez, je vous donnerai
du papier.”
Madame searches in the innermost recesses of an old drawer, and
produces one French penny, two sous, a two-franc bill of the Commune
of Lisseville, stuck together with bits of sticking-paper, a very
dirty one-franc bill labelled St. Omer, and two 50-centimes notes from
somewhere the other side of Amiens.
“Je regrette, M’sieu,” Madame waves her hands in the air, “mais c’est
tout ce que j’ai.... All dat I ’ave, M’sieu!”
The transaction, which has taken a full ten minutes, is at last
completed. They are very long-suffering, the natives, taken on the
whole. In the first place “C’est la guerre.” Secondly, they, too, have
soldier husbands, sons, and brothers and cousins serving in the Grandes
Armées. Is it to be expected that they be well treated unless _we_ do
_our_ share? And--these British soldiers, they have much money. And
they are generous for the most part.
So Madame, whose husband is in Champagne, gives up the best bedroom to
Messieurs les Officiers, and sleeps with her baby in the attic. The
batmen use her poële, and sit around it in the evening drinking her
coffee. Le Commandant buys butter, milk, eggs--“mais, mon dieu, one
would think a hen laid an egg every hour to hear him! Trois douzaine!
But, Monsieur, I have but six poules, and they overwork themselves
already! There is not another egg above eleven dans tous le pays,
M’sieu. Champagne? But yes, certainement. Bénédictine? Ah, non, M’sieu,
it is défendu, and we sold the last bottle to an officier with skirts
a week ago. Un treès bon officier, M’sieu; he stay two days, and make
love to Juliette. Juliette fiancée? Tiens, she has a million, M’sieu,
to hear them talk, like every pretty girl in France. So soon you enter
the doorway, M’sieu, and see Juliette, you say ‘Moi fiancé, vous?’ You
are très taquin--verree bad boys--les Anglais!”
Sometimes there is war, red war. Madame enters, wringing her hands, her
hair suggestive of lamentation and despair. She wishes to see M’sieu
l’Officier who speaks a little French.
“Ah, M’sieu, but it is terrible. I give to the Ordonnances my fire,
my cook-pots, and a bed of good hay in the stable, next to the cows,
and what do they do? M’sieu, they steal my gate that was put there by
my grandfather--he who won a decoration in soixante et six--and they
get a little axe and make of it fire-wood! And in the early morning
they milk the cows. Ah, but, M’sieu, I will go to the Maire and make a
réclammation! Fifteen francs for a new gate, and seventeen sous for the
milk that they have stolen! And the cuillers! Before the war I buy a
new set, with Henri, of twenty-four cuillers. Where are they? All but
three are volées, M’sieu! It is not juste. M’sieu le Capitaine who was
here a week ago last Dimanche--for I went to Mass--say it is a dam
shame, M’sieu. I do not like to make the trouble, M’sieu, but I must
live. La veuve Marnot over yonder, two houses down the street on the
left-hand side, she could have a hundred gates burned and say nothing.
She is très riche. They say the Mayor make déjà his advances. But me,
what shall I do, my gate a desecration in the stoves, M’sieu, and the
milk of my cows drunk by the maudits ordonnances!”
Note in the mess president’s accounts: “To one gate (burned) and milk
stolen, 7.50 francs.”
All over France and Belgium little stores have grown and flourished.
They sell tinned goods without limit, from cigarettes, through lobster,
to peaches.
Both are practical countries.
In nearly all these boutiques there is a pretty girl. Both nations have
learned the commercial value of a pretty girl. It increases the credit
side of the business 75 per cent. In the Estaminets it is the same,
only more so. Their turnover is a thing which will be spoken of by
their great-grandchildren with bated breath.
More cases than one are known where the lonely soldier has made a
proposal, in form, to the fair débitante who nightly handed him his
beer over the bar of a little Estaminet. Sometimes he has been accepted
pour l’amour de sa cassette--sometimes “pour l’amour de ses beaux yeux!”
In a little hamlet several days’ march behind the firing-line, lived
a widow. She was a grass-widow before Verdun, and there she became
“veuve.” She was a tall, handsome woman, twenty-seven or twenty-eight
perhaps, and her small feet and ankles, the proud carriage of her head,
and the delicate aquiline nose bespoke her above the peasantry. She
kept a little café at the junction of three cross-roads. The natives
know her as Madame de Maupin.
Why “de” you ask? Because her father was a French count and her mother
was a femme de chambre. The affair made an esclandre of some magnitude
many years ago. Madame de Maupin was fille naturelle. She married, at
the wishes of her old harridan of a mother, a labourer of the village.
She despised her husband. He was uncouth and a peasant. In her the
cloven hoof showed little. Despite no advantages of education she had
the instincts of her aristocratic father. The natives disliked her for
that reason.
Madame de Maupin kept a café. Until the soldiers came it did not pay,
but she would not keep an Estaminet. It was so hopelessly “vulgaire.”
After closing hours, between eight and ten, Madame de Maupin held her
Court. Officers gathered in the little back room, and she entertained
them, while they drank. She had wit, and she was very handsome. One of
her little court, a young officer, fell in love with her. Her husband
was dead.
Her lover had money, many acres, and position. He proposed to her. She
loved him and--she refused him, “because,” she said simply, “you would
not be happy.”
He was sent to the Somme.
Madame de Maupin closed her Estaminet and vanished.
There is a story told, which no one believes, of a woman, dressed in a
private’s uniform of the British army, who was found, killed, among the
ruins of Thiepval. She lay beside a wounded officer, who died of his
wounds soon after. He had been tended by some one, for his wounds were
dressed. In his tunic pocket was a woman’s photograph, but a piece of
shrapnel had disfigured it beyond recognition.
But, as I said, no one believes the story.
“OTHER INHABITANTS”
There is a little story told of two young subalterns, neither of whom
could speak the lingua Franca, who went one day to the Estaminet des
Bons Copins, not five thousand miles from Ploegstraete woods, to buy
some of the necessities of life, for the Estaminet was a little store
as well as a road-house. Both of the said subalterns had but recently
arrived in Flanders, from a very spick and span training area, and
neither was yet accustomed to the ways of war, nor to the minor
discomforts caused by inhabitants other than those of the country,
albeit native to it from the egg, as it were.
They entered the Bons Copins, and having bought cigarettes and a few
odds and ends, one of them suddenly remembered that he wanted a new
pair of braces, to guarantee the safety of his attire. But the French
word for braces was a knock-out. Neither himself nor his friend could
think of it, and an Anglo-French turning of the English version met
with dismal failure.
At last a bright idea smote him. He smiled benignly, and vigorously
rubbed the thumbs of both hands up and down over his shoulders and
chest. Madame beamed with the light of immediate understanding. “Oui,
Monsieur, mais oui ... _oui_!” She disappeared into the back of the
store, to return a moment later, bearing in her hand a large green box,
labelled distinctly: “Keating’s Powder!”
There are few things that will have the least effect on a vigorous
young section of “other inhabitants.”
Those good, kind people who send out little camphor balls, tied up in
scarlet flannel bags, and tins of Keating’s without number, little know
what vast formations in mass these usually deadly articles must deal
with. We have suspended camphor balls--little red sacks, tapes, and
all--in countless numbers about our person. We have gone to bed well
content, convinced of the complete route of our Lilliputian enemies.
And on the morrow we have found them snugly ensconced--grandmamma,
grandpapa, and their great-great-grandchildren--right plumb in the
centre of our batteries. Making homes there; waggling their little
legs, and taking a two-inch sprint now and then round the all-red
route. What is camphor to them? This hardy stock has been known to live
an hour in a tin of Keating’s powder, defiant to the last! What boots
it that a man waste time and substance on a Sabbath morn sprinkling his
garments over with powders and paraffins. He is sure to miss a couple,
and one of them is certain to be the blushing bride of the other.
From deep below the calf comes the plaintive wail, spreading far and
wide, to the very nape of the neck: “Husband, where are you? I am lost
and alone, and even off my feed!” With no more ado hubby treks madly
down the right arm and back again, hits a straight trail, and finds the
lost one.
And the evening and the morning see the grandchildren.
Grandpa leads them bravely to the first collision mat, an area
infected with coal-oil. “Charge, my offspring!” he cries, waggling
his old legs as hard as he can, “prove yourselves worthy scions of
our race!” And the little blighters rush madly over the line--with
their smoke-helmets on, metaphorically speaking--and at once set about
establishing a new base.
Henry goes to Mabel, and says: “Mabel, darling! I have found a sweet
little home for two--or (blushing!) perhaps _three_--in the crook of
the left knee. Will you be my bride?” And Mabel suffers herself to be
led away, and duly wed, at once. So they dance a Tarantelle under the
fifth rib, and then proceed to the serious business of bringing up
little Henrys and Mabels in the way they should go!
There is only one way to deal with them, cruel and ruthless though
it be. Lay on the dogs! Remove each garment silently, swiftly,
relentlessly. Pore over it until you see Henry hooking it like Billy-oh
down the left leg of your--er, pyjamas. Catch him on the wing, so to
speak, and squash him! Then look for Mabel and the children, somewhere
down the other leg, and do ditto! Set aside two hours _per diem_ for
this unsportsmanlike hunt, and you may be able to bet evens with
the next chappy inside a couple of months! Even then the odds are
against you, unless you hedge with the junior subaltern, who gets the
worst--and therefore most likely to be tenanted--bed!
If you see a man, en déshabille, sitting out in the sun, with an
earnest, intent look on his face, and a garment in his hands, you can
safely bet one of two things. He is either (1) mad, (2) hunting.
It adds variety to life to watch him from afar, and then have a
sweepstake on the total with your friends. You need not fear the
victim’s honesty. He will count each murdered captive as carefully as
though he were (or she were!) a batch of prisoner Fritzes. There is a
great element of luck about the game, too; you never can tell. Some men
develop into experts. Lightning destroyers, one might say. A brand-new
subaltern joined the sweepstake one day, and he bet 117. The chap had
only been at it half an hour by the clock, too!
The new sub. won.
You can always tell a new sub. You go up to him and you say politely:
“Are you--er ... yet?” If he looks insulted he is new. If he says,
“Yes, old top, millions of ’em!” and wriggles, he is old!
There was a man once who had a champion. He said he got it in a German
dug-out; anyhow, it was a pure-blooded, number one mammoth, and it won
every contest on the measured yard, against all comers. He kept it in
a glass jar, and fed it on beef. It died at the age of two months and
four days, probably from senility brought on by over-eating and too
many Derbies. Thank heaven the breed was not perpetuated, albeit the
Johnny who owned it could have made a lot of money if he had not been
foolishly careful of the thing.
He buried it in a tin of Keating’s--mummified, as it were--and enclosed
an epitaph: “Here lie the last ligaments of the largest louse the Lord
ever let loose!”
Some people think Fritz started the things, as a minor example of
frightfulness. One of them caused a casualty in the regiment, at
all events. A new sub., a very squeamish chappie, found _one_--just
one!--and nearly died of shame. He heard petrol was a good thing, so
he anointed himself all over with it, freely. Then his elbow irritated
him, and he lighted a match to see if it was another!
He is still in hospital!
BOMBS
We counted them as they came up the communication trench, and the
Commander of “AK” Company paled; yet he was a brave man. He cast a
despairing glance around him, and then looked at me.
“George,” he said (you may not believe it, but there can be a world of
pathos put into that simple name). “_George_, we are Goners.”
By this time they had reached the front line.
My thoughts flew to the Vermoral sprayer, last time it had been the
Vermoral sprayer. Was the V.S. filled, or was it not...?
They came from scent to view, and pulling himself together with a click
of the heels closely imitated by the S.I.C., the O.C. “AK” Coy. saluted.
“Good morning, sir!”
The General acknowledged the salute, but the ends of his moustache
quivered. G.S.O. one, directly in rear, frowned. The Colonel looked
apprehensive, and glared at both of us. The Brigadier was glum, the
Brigade Major very red in the face. Two of those beastly supercilious
Aides looked at each other, smiled, glanced affectionately at their red
tabs and smiled again.
It was exactly 2.29 “pip emma” when the mine went up.
“Discipline, sir,” said the General, “discipline is lacking in your
company! You have a sentry on duty at the head of Chelwyn Road. A
sentry! What does he do when he sees me? Not a damn thing, sir! Not a
damn thing!”
Of course the O.C. “AK” made a bad break; one always does under such
circumstances.
“He may not have seen you, sir.”
G.S.O. one moved forward in support, so that if overcome the General
could fall back on his centre.
A whizz-bang burst in 94--we were in 98--and the Staff ducked,
taking the time from the front. The Aides carried out the movement
particularly smartly, resuming the upright position in strict rotation.
The General fixed us with a twin Flammenwerfer gaze.
“What’s that? Not _see_ me? What the devil is he there for, sir? I
shall remember this, Captain--ah, Roberts--I shall remember this!”
Pause.
“Where is your Vermoral sprayer?”
Like lambkins followed by voracious lions, we lead them to the Vermoral
sprayer.
I was at the retaking of Hill 60, at Ypres long months ago, at
Festubert and Givenchy, but never was I so inspired with dread as now.
Praise be to Zeus, the V.S. was full!
We passed on, until we reached a bomber cleaning bombs. The General
paused. The bomber, stood to attention, firmly grasping a bomb in the
right hand, knuckles down, forearm straight.
“Ha!” said the General. “Ha! Bombs, what?”
The bomber remained apparently petrified.
“What I always say about these bombs,” the General continued, turning
to the Brigadier, “is that they’re so damn simple, what? A child can
use them. You can throw them about, and, provided the pin is in, no
harm will come of it. But”--looking sternly at me--“_always_ make sure
the pin is safely imbedded in the base of the bomb. That is the first
duty of a man handling bombs.”
We all murmured assent, faintly or otherwise, according to rank.
“Give me that bomb,” said the General to the bomber, waxing
enthusiastic. The man hesitated. The General glared, the bomb became
his.
We stood motionless around him. “You see, gentlemen,” the General
continued jocularly. “I take this bomb, and I throw it on the
ground--so! It does not explode, it cannot explode, the fuse is not
lit, for the pin----”
Just then the bomber leapt like a fleeting deer round the corner, but
the General was too engrossed to notice him.
“As I say, the pin----”
A frightened face appeared round the bay, and a small shaky voice broke
in:
“Please, sir, it’s a five-second fuse--an’ _I ’ad took HOUT the pin_!”
* * * * *
After all the General reached the traverse in time and we were not shot
at dawn. But G.S.O. one has gone to England “Wounded and shell-shock.”
SOFT JOBS
This war has produced a new type of military man--so-called--to
wit: the seeker after soft jobs. He flourishes in large numbers in
training areas; he grows luxuriantly around head-quarters staffs, and
a certain kind of hybrid--a combination of a slacker and a soldier--is
to be found a few miles to the rear of the firing-line in France and
Flanders. There are some of him in every rank, from the top of the tree
to the bottom. If he is a natural-born soft-jobber he never leaves
his training area--not even on a Cook’s tour. Should the virus be
latent, he will develop an attack, acute or mild, after one tour in the
trenches, or when one of our own batteries has fired a salvo close by
him.
If he is affected by very mild germs he may stand a month or two in the
firing-line in some sector where fighting troops are sent for a rest
and re-organisation. Broadly speaking, therefore, he belongs to one of
three classes, of which the second class is perhaps the worst.
There are some men who join the army without the least intention of
ever keeping less than the breadth of the English Channel between
themselves and fighting territory. Not for them the “glorious”
battle-fields, not for them the sweat and toil and purgatory of
fighting for their country. Nothing at all for them in fact, save a
ribbon and a barless medal, good quarters, perfect safety, staff pay,
weekend leave, with a few extra days thrown in as a reward for their
valuable services, and--a soft job!
They are the militaresques of our armies. The men who try hard to be
soldiers, and who only succeed in being soldier-like beings erect upon
two legs, with all the outward semblance of a soldier. Yet even _their_
lives are not safe. They run grave risks by day and by night in the
service of their country.
Zeppelins!
There is an air of bustle and excitement around the officers’ quarters
in the training camp to-day. Batmen--hoary-haired veterans with six
ribbons, whom no M.O. could be induced to pass for active service,
even by tears--rush madly hither and thither, parleying in odd moments
of Ladysmith, Kabul to Kandahar, and “swoddies.” Head-quarters look
grave, tense, strained.