THE PLAY SIDE OF WAR
There has to be a play side. Human nerves could not stand the strain
of this modern warfare without some chance to alternate the light and
frivolous with the tragedy of the struggle. It is not only that all war
and no play would make the soldier a dull boy, but the fact is it would
finish him up in short order. Every general recognizes this. It is not
a matter of sentiment. It is a matter of business--the business of
war. Men cannot absolutely be made into machines and they cannot work
well in the grim business of war if they fall below a certain point in
mental cheerfulness. Yes, men must be cheerful to fight well. Generals
found that out long ago and they are acting on this knowledge during
every day of the frightful conflict that is going on in Europe.
They not only take the men out of the trenches after a certain number
of hours to “rest” them, to get them away from the noise and strain of
battle, but also to give them a chance to laugh, to romp, to exercise
all such diversions as the men’s mentality may specially select. The
chance to get emotional relief as well as physical relief of which they
all stand in need after the ordeal of imminently facing death must be
afforded them.
In “Restville” good commanders give their men opportunities of all
kinds to ease their minds and bodies of nervous strain. Dancing,
singing, sheer frolicking is smiled upon by the officers. Every sort
of diversion is encouraged. Farmer soldiers and gardeners are supplied
with materials with which to plant and tend little gardens. Other
men are given facilities with which to sew or knit, artistic men are
furnished pencils, paper, charcoal, canvasses and paints. Others put in
their time composing songs and drilling choruses. In “Restville” there
have also been fashioned beautiful statuettes in wood, striking models
in clay.
Concerts and dramatic entertainments are common occurrences. There is
always a great deal of fun obtained from the necessity of men assuming
women’s parts in these comedies. The work of preparing for such
entertainment is often very elaborate. Nothing is too much trouble that
has enough fun in it. And you may be sure that the audiences at these
shows, which are sometimes held in the wreck of a theater of a smashed
French town or in a barn or again in a dug-out possibly 100 feet under
ground, are rapturously appreciative. There are always many recalls.
But the actors receive no reverence. They are yelled at by name and
“kidded” extravagantly.
In “Restville” are foot races, steeple-chases,
catch-the-ring-on-the-bayonet races, dashes with gas masks, all manner
of obstacle races invented on the spur of the moment.
The “catch-the-ring” may be taken as a good example of the ingenuity
in inventing games having a relation to the war game itself. The race
begins with a dash and ends with a difficulty. The difficulty is
presented by a series of small rings fixed in posts along the course.
Each man in the race reaches for these rings and must pass the bayonet
through them with a single stab. The winner, of course, is he who
successfully pierces with a single motion the most rings.
Air men fly over “Restville,” doing some of their fancy stunts for the
amusement of the men below. Cavalrymen give exhibitions of hippodrome
riding. Dances are encouraged in the hotels of these “Restvilles.”
But whether in “Restville” or in action, one cannot help pay a tribute
to the cheerfulness of the British soldier. Tommy sings, laughs
and jokes when marching along the white dusty road in France even
though he be dead fagged with the heaviness of his equipment. As the
reinforcements move over the devastated territory and while shells fall
all around him Tommy will sing, “Are we down-hearted?” “Are we fed up?”
The reply will come: “_NO!_ _NO!_ NO!”
During the suspense of waiting in the dug-outs and trenches and when
the German heavies are sending forth a continuous hurricane of high
explosives and shrapnel and those born to die on the battlefield are
being blown to pieces, the others can be heard singing, “I wouldn’t
leave my little wooden hut for you,” “Mother Machree,” “Home, sweet
home,” “Tipperary,” and “Pack all your troubles in your old kit bag.”
They--the men in “Restville”--talk a great deal among themselves
regarding the wounds they wouldn’t mind getting. All wounds are known
as “Blighty.” Some would not mind a nice little “Blighty” in the arm,
others express preference to a “Blighty” in the leg, and others, more
careless, say that any old “Blighty” would do. They all have a common
opinion and that is that they would rather be blown to pieces than be
blinded, gassed or taken prisoner.
When going over the top in the face of murderous fire from shells and
machine guns one often hears some cheerful soul shout: “Keep in step!
Left, right, left! I had a good job and I left!” Or in the crowding as
they start away, you will sometimes hear a man call merrily, “Keep your
distance, Bill, I’m not your little bit of fluff.” This because of the
natural tendency of men to huddle under such circumstances. It is a
tendency an officer must combat since men in mass can be pulverized by
machine-gun fire and bomb and shell explosions.
When a man falls someone is sure to say, “Poor old boy--his day’s work
is done.”
Or again in passing the wounded, the characteristic cry is: “Cheer up,
I’ll soon be joining you.” Another kindly call to a wounded comrade
is: “Keep a place for me in the next bed in hospital.” I’ve heard the
Tommies running through German trenches, throwing bombs to the tune of,
“You made me what I am today, I hope you’re satisfied.”
I can’t think of how such spirits can ever be beaten. The morale of the
British army can never be destroyed.
And I desire to say right here that as for the German he fights like
a dog under a master’s lash. I have never seen a smile or a grin on a
Hun’s face and never heard humorous remarks from his lips and I have an
army school certificate which asserts that I can understand German.
Even when the Huns are taken prisoners--and I might remind you we
don’t volunteer to take them--they bring all their surliness with them.
After some heavy fighting on the Ancre where we unavoidably captured
a few Huns and sustained many losses, I ordered four Germans to carry
one of my men who had been dangerously wounded. They refused, saying,
“They would not carry the English dog.” However, I punched them into
obedience.
Once I had as a prisoner a German officer. One of my men felt sorry for
him in his appearance of complete dejection. He went over to the man
and by way of commiseration offered him a cigarette. The German officer
growled, leaped to his feet, knocked the cigarette from the Tommy’s
hand and spat in his face. I never saw a quicker bayonet thrust in all
my life.
As for the play side of war, who can ever forget the men of the East
Surrey Regiment who on the fourth of July, 1916, went over the top in
the face of blasts of shrapnel, dribbling a football?
The Huns called those boys “Madmen.” But our prisoners frequently
admitted their admiration of that particular “stunt.”
It is an everyday occurrence “over there” to witness a football match
on some recently regained, devastated French field. Often enough shells
from a German battery engaged in its usual afternoon work of strafing
will be falling within a few hundred feet of the players.
I once acted as referee at a brigade boxing tournament when during
the final bout Boche airplanes spotted us. They sent down bombs and
darts, but we went on with our sport until a bomb fell close to the
ringside and killed several spectators. Even then the crowd seemed
bent on remaining to witness the end of the bout until the brigadier
commandant, one of the spectators, suddenly said: “We are a lot of
damn’ fools to stay here,” and he ordered the bugler to sound the
safety call.
Regimental, brigade and divisional concerts are daily affairs in
“Restville.” Every company has its singers, dancers and jokers.
It may not strike you as a delicate or charming phase of trench sport,
but in the summer months “Cootee-hunting” is the principal diversion.
In other words, flea picking. These vermin are more terrible than the
Germans in provoking our boys to profanity. Whether on the march, in
the trenches or in billets, cootee-hunting is played by everybody from
General to private. One trench game is to bet on who can capture the
most cootees in a given time.
A pack of cards is a precious possession, especially in the trenches.
The best known games for which they are used are Poker, Banker and
Broker, Brag, Twenty-one, Crown and Anchor and House.
The playing of these games provides a very necessary relaxation.
One day’s picture of life in the trenches will convey an idea of its
generality. You would find men not on duty reading newspapers and
books. They were reading any kind of newspaper or books. Old yellow
fragments of newspapers were precious possessions. You would find that
they had even memorized the advertisements and the contents of the
women’s pages. Pieces of printed matter were so precious that they
were read and re-read until each man could tell you the whole thing
without looking at the paper. Men write letters with tiny pencil stubs
that are guarded zealously and only loaned to closest friends.
I remember one day when some of the men were playing Brag. In this game
each man is given three cards and the best hand a man can hold is three
aces. Six men were playing in this game. After a few unimportant deals
two men got right down to earnest betting. They staked all their money.
And they staked their next most precious possession--cigarettes. Then
one man pitted one captured German officer’s cap against two private
German’s helmets. This was followed by the bet of the piece of a shell
that had been taken from the wound of one of the players some months
back against an iron cross which the other player had ripped off a
German’s breast in a night raid. In the end they had heaped up all
their souvenirs, but when they attempted to wager their next quarter’s
pay I interrupted the game. It was no wonder they had been betting
so hard. The winner held the highest possible hand of the game--three
aces. But the loser had three kings.
“House” is without doubt Tommy’s favorite game. It is really
old-fashioned Lotto. It can be played with crowds which is what makes
it the more interesting and popular. The game consists of numbered
cards with a banker who holds a bag containing the numbers which run
from one to ninety. As each number is called out the men with heads
down and eyes on their cards cover their respective numbers as they are
announced, using matches, bits of paper or stones as their covering
pieces. The man who has his card filled first receives the whole of the
“Kitty” less a small sum which the banker appropriates as his reward
for supplying the cards and calling the numbers.
“Bankers” start the games by barking in front of their trenches and
there is always lively competition. The shout with all of them is the
same, “Roll up! Roll up! Come along with your dough and souvenirs! Come
up with your riches and princely treasures. Come up! Come up!” and
occasionally a very honest one will add: “And go away skint” (broke).
Announcing the numbers that he draws from the bag the banker has a
language of his own. As, for instance, the number 1 is called “bottom
of the house,” number 90 “top of the house” and when you hear the
banker shout “clickety click,” put your covering piece on 66.
It’s just a little sidelight I have given you here of the optimism and
cheerfulness of the British soldier and my reason for presenting this
phase of his type is to claim for him that men of such spirit can never
be driven to the despondency which accepts defeat.