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THE IRISH ON THE SOMME
THE IRISH
ON THE SOMME
_BEING THE SECOND SERIES OF
"THE IRISH AT THE FRONT"_
By MICHAEL MACDONAGH
_Author of "Irish Life and Character"_
_WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY_
JOHN REDMOND, M.P.
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO
MCMXVII
TO
THE MEMORY OF
MAJOR WILLIAM REDMOND, M.P.
ROYAL IRISH REGIMENT (IRISH BRIGADE)
WHO DIED OF WOUNDS RECEIVED IN ACTION
JUNE 7, 1917
LEADING HIS MEN IN THE ATTACK
ON WYTSCHAETE WOOD
INTRODUCTION
BY JOHN REDMOND, M.P.
THE RESPONSE OF THE IRISH RACE
This war is a war of liberation, and its battle-cry is the rights and
liberties of humanity. From the very beginning of the conflict my
colleagues of the Irish Party, and I myself, have availed of every
opportunity in Parliament, on the platform, and in the Press, to
present this view of it to the Irish race at home and abroad; and
despite the tragic mistakes made in regard to Ireland by the
successive Governments which have held office since war broke out, we
are still unshaken in our opinion that Ireland's highest interests lie
in the speedy and overwhelming victory of England and the Allies.
The response of the Irish race the world over to our appeal to rise in
defence of civilisation and freedom has been really wonderful. The
example was set by Ireland herself.
At the outbreak of the war I asked the Irish people, and especially
the young men of Ireland, to mark the profound change which has been
brought about in the relations of Ireland to the Empire by
wholeheartedly supporting the Allies in the field. I pointed out that
at long last, after centuries of misunderstanding, the democracy of
Great Britain had finally and irrevocably decided to trust Ireland
with self-government; and I called upon Ireland to prove that this
concession of liberty would have the same effect in our country as it
has had in every other portion of the Empire, and that henceforth
Ireland would be a strength instead of a weakness. I further pointed
out that the war was provoked by the intolerable military despotism of
Germany, that it was a war in defence of small nationalities, and that
Ireland would be false to her own history and traditions, as well as
to honour, good faith and self-interest, if she did not respond to my
appeal.
The answer to that appeal is one of the most astonishing facts in
history. At the moment, fraught with the most terrible consequences to
the whole Empire, this Kingdom found for the first time in the history
of the relations between Great Britain and Ireland that the Irish
Nationalist members, representing the overwhelming mass of the people
of Ireland, were enabled to declare themselves upon the side of
England. They did that with their eyes open. They knew the
difficulties in the way. They knew--none so well--the distrust and
suspicion of British good faith which had been, in the past, universal
almost in Ireland. They recognised that the boon of self-government
had not been finally granted to their country. They knew the
traditional hostility which existed in many parts of Ireland to
recruiting for the British Army. Facing all these things, and all the
risks that they entailed, they told Ireland and her sons abroad that
it was their duty to rally to the support of the Allies in a war which
was in defence of the principles of freedom and civilisation. We
succeeded far better than we had anticipated, or hoped at the
commencement. This is a notorious fact. There is genuine enthusiasm in
Ireland on the side of the Allies. Addressing great popular gatherings
in every province in Ireland in support of the Allies, I called for a
distinctively Irish army, composed of Irishmen, led by Irishmen and
trained at home in Ireland. With profound gratitude I acknowledge the
magnificent response the country has made. For the first time in the
history of the Wars of England there is a huge Irish army in the
field. The achievements of that Irish army have covered Ireland with
glory before the world, and have thrilled our hearts with pride. North
and South have vied with each other in springing to arms, and, please
God, the sacrifices they have made side by side on the field of battle
will form the surest bond of a united Irish nation in the future.
From Ireland, according to the latest official figures, 173,772
Irishmen are serving in the Navy and Army, representing all classes
and creeds amongst our people. Careful inquiries made through the
churches in the north of England and Scotland and from other sources,
show that, in addition, at least 150,000 sons of the Irish race, most
of them born in Ireland, have joined the Colours in Great Britain. It
is a pathetic circumstance that these Irishmen in non-Irish regiments
are almost forgotten, except when their names appear in the casualty
lists. Some of the Irish papers have, for a considerable time past,
been publishing special lists of killed and wounded under the heading,
"Irish Casualties in British Regiments." One of these daily lists,
taken quite haphazard, and published on November 1, 1916, contains 225
names, all distinctively Irish--O'Briens, O'Hanlons, Donovans, etc.
These men were scattered amongst the following non-Irish regiments--
Grenadier Guards.
Coldstream Guards.
Scots Guards.
Welsh Guards.
Royal Field Artillery.
Royal Engineers.
Royal Scots Fusiliers.
The Black Watch.
Northumberland Fusiliers.
Yorkshire Regiment.
East Yorks Regiment.
Dorsetshire Regiment.
Cheshire Regiment.
York and Lancaster Regiment.
Lancashire Fusiliers.
King's Royal Rifles.
London Regiment.
Manchester Regiment.
King's Liverpool Regiment.
Loyal North Lancashire Regiment.
Royal Warwickshire Regiment.
Highland Light Infantry.
Leicestershire Regiment.
Worcestershire Regiment.
Sherwood Foresters.
King's Own Yorks Light Infantry.
Border Regiment.
Durham Light Infantry.
Notts. & Derby Regiment.
Machine Gun Corps.
Army Service Corps.
Army Cyclist Corps.
As showing the extent to which Scottish regiments at the Front are
made up of Irishmen, one newspaper quotes four hundred names from the
casualty lists issued on four successive days one week. All the names
are Irish, all the addresses are Scotch, and in only about twenty
cases were the men enrolled in Irish regiments, all the others being
attached to Scottish regiments. These sad records show the many
thousands of Irishmen serving in non-Irish regiments who are never
taken into account to the credit of Ireland, in estimating the part
she is playing in this war, until they come to light in the casualty
lists.
In addition to these voluntary contributions of Ireland and her sons
in Great Britain to the British Army, I am informed on the highest
authority that from twenty to twenty-five per cent of all the troops
from the oversea Dominions are men of Irish blood. General Botha sent
me this cablegram from South Africa: "I entirely endorse your view
that this victory"--he is referring to his great defeat of the Germans
in their colonies--"is the fruit of the policy of liberty and the
recognition of national rights in this part of the Empire." General
Botha had enormous difficulties to face, serious racial animosity, and
bitter national memories. Does any fair-minded man think that General
Botha could have overcome those difficulties as he did if the war had
broken out just after the recognition of those national rights to
which he referred and before they had come into operation? The
national rights of Ireland are recognised, but they have not yet come
into operation. Yet it is true to say that the overwhelming sentiment
of the Irish people is with the Empire for the first time. That fact
is of incalculable value. Its influence has spread to every corner of
the Empire. If the sentiment of the Irish people at home had not been
with England in this war, the depressing and benumbing effect would
have been felt everywhere in the self-governing Dominions. Ireland
herself has made a splendid response, and the result has been that a
wave of enthusiasm has stirred the hearts of men of Irish blood
throughout the Empire. I received a New Year's card from the
commanding officer and the other officers of a regiment raised in
Vancouver, commanded by Irishmen and composed of Irishmen. They call
themselves "The Vancouver Irish Fusiliers." Then, not long since, in
Cape Town, green flags were presented by General Botha's wife--a
member of the historic Emmet family--to an Irish regiment raised
there. These facts constitute a striking result of the action we felt
it our duty to take to bring feeling in Ireland in regard to the war
into line with that of the rest of the Empire. Then there is that
remarkable Irish battalion of the Canadian Expeditionary Force, the
Irish Canadian Rangers, which is composed of Irish Catholics and Irish
Protestants in equal numbers, commanded by officers more than half of
whom are Catholics and having a Catholic chaplain and a Protestant
chaplain. This battalion, unique among the fighting units raised at
home or abroad during the war, and a magnificent body of men, made a
tour through the ancient motherland of their race in January 1917 (on
their way to the Front), and received in Dublin, Belfast, Cork and
Limerick the most enthusiastic popular welcomes.
Ireland is very proud of these sons of the Irish race who, in every
part of the Empire, have followed the lead which she herself has given
in rallying to the cause with which she has always sympathised and has
always supported--the cause of right against might. The Irish race is
represented in this war by at least half a million of men who have
voluntarily joined the Colours. How gallantly they have fought this
book, in part, relates. In his first series of _The Irish at the
Front_ Mr. MacDonagh deals with the achievements of the Irish Guards
and the Regular Irish regiments of the Line in Flanders and France in
the earlier years of the war; the landing of the Munsters and Dublins
of the immortal 29th Division at Beach V, Gallipoli; and the fighting
of the 10th (Irish) Division of the New Armies at Suvla Bay. The
story of these glorious deeds sent a wave of emotion through the land.
The King, addressing a battalion of the Irish Guards on St. Patrick's
Day, 1916, said--
"On St. Patrick's Day, when Irishmen the world over unite to
celebrate the memory of their Patron Saint, it gives me great
pleasure to inspect the reserve battalion of my Irish Guards,
and to testify my appreciation of the services rendered by the
regiment in this war.... I gratefully remember the heroic
endurance of the 1st Battalion in the arduous retreat from Mons,
again at Ypres on the critical November 1st, when, as Lord
Cavan, your Brigadier, wrote, those who were left showed the
enemy that Irish Guards must be reckoned with, however hard hit.
After twenty-eight days of incessant fighting against heavy
odds, the battalion came out of the line less than a company
strong, with only four officers--a glorious tribute to Irish
loyalty and endurance.... In conferring the Victoria Cross on
Lance-Corporal, now Lieutenant, Michael O'Leary, the first Irish
Guardsman to win this coveted distinction, I was proud to honour
a deed that, in its fearless contempt of death, illustrates the
spirit of my Irish Guards. At Loos the 2nd Battalion received
its baptism of fire and confirmed the high reputation already
won by the 1st Battalion."
_The Daily Telegraph_ (London), writing on March 18, 1916, said--
"There is one key to the soul of Ireland--the word 'freedom.' It
was realised instantly that this was no dynastic war on the part
of the Allies, no struggle for material ends, but a life and
death conflict for liberty of thought and action. Once the issue
was exposed, Irishmen, with all the white heat which injustice
inspires in their breasts, threw themselves into the battle. The
enemy has since felt Irish steel and fallen under Irish bullets.
Whatever the future may have in store, the British people will
never forget the generous blood of the sister nation, which has
been shed on so many hard-fought battlefields since the
world-war began."
In this, the second series of _The Irish at the Front_, the thrilling
story is continued. The Irish troops dealt with are all of the New
Armies--the Ulster Division, the Irish Division and the Tyneside Irish
Brigade. I am as proud of the Ulster regiments as I am of the
Nationalist regiments. I do not want to boast of their valour. We
Irishmen are inclined to take it as a matter of course. These Irish
regiments, Unionist and Nationalist, merely keep up the tradition of
our race. But I say that Lord Kitchener's words remain true--the words
that he wrote to the Viceregal Recruiting Conference in Dublin in
1915, when he said that in the matter of recruiting, "Ireland's
performance has been magnificent." Let me ask any fair-minded man this
question: If five years ago any one had predicted that in a great war
in which the Empire was engaged 173,772 men would have been raised
from Ireland, and that there would be more than half a million
Irishmen with the Colours, would he not have been looked upon as a
lunatic? It is the free offering of Ireland. Surely it must be
regarded as a proud and astonishing record!
J.E. REDMOND.
PREFACE
This narrative is concerned chiefly with the three distinctively Irish
units of the New Armies engaged on the Western Front--the Ulster
Division, the Irish Division (representative of the south and west),
and the "Tyneside Irish," in which Irishmen living in the north of
England enlisted. It also deals incidentally with the Irish Regular
regiments of the Line, and with that numerous body of Irishmen serving
in English, Scottish and Welsh battalions and in the Anzacs and
Canadians.
The first series of _The Irish at the Front_ covers, first, the
fighting of the Irish regiments of the Regular Army in France,
Flanders and the Dardanelles during the early stages of the war; and,
secondly, the operations of the 10th (Irish) Division--composed
entirely of "Kitchener's men"--against the Turks at Gallipoli. The
latter, an exceptionally fine body of young Irishmen, gallantly fought
and fell--as the story discloses--in that expedition, so ill-fated and
yet so romantic, though they had never handled a rifle or done a day's
drill before the war. In this series we see Irishmen of the same type
matched against the Germans in France. As we know, Germany confidently
expected that such levies, hastily raised and insufficiently trained,
would break in pieces at the first encounter with her seasoned
troops. But it was the formidable German lines that were broken, and
they were broken by these very raw levies at the bayonet's point.
For the telling of the Irish part in the story of the Somme I am much
indebted to the assistance given by officers and men of the Irish
battalions engaged in that mighty battle. But the Irish soldiers are
not only "splendid fighting material"--a rather non-human phrase now
much in vogue, as if the only thing that matters in warfare is the
physical capacity of man--they have souls and minds and hearts, as
well as strong right hands, and of these also something is said in
this book.
MICHAEL MACDONAGH.
CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION BY JOHN REDMOND, M.P.
PREFACE 7
CHAP.
I.--IN THE TRENCHES WITH THE CONNAUGHT RANGERS 11
Scenes Comic and Tragic
II.--EXPLOITS OF THE ULSTER DIVISION 24
Belfast's Tribute to the Dead
III.--ULSTERS' ATTACK ON THE SLOPES OF THIEPVAL. 32
"Not a man turned to come back, not one"
IV.--FOUR VICTORIA CROSSES TO THE ULSTER DIVISION 47
Brilliant Additions to the Record of Irish Valour
and Romance
V.--COMBATIVENESS OF THE IRISH SOLDIER 56
The British Blends of Courage
VI.--WITH THE TYNESIDE IRISH 67
Over the Heights of La Boiselle, through Bailiff's
Wood to Contalmaison
VII.--THE WEARING OF RELIGIOUS EMBLEMS AT THE FRONT 84
VIII.--THE IRISH SOLDIER'S HUMOUR AND SERIOUSNESS 104
Stories from the Front, Funny and Otherwise
IX.--THE IRISH BRIGADE 118
"Everywhere and Always Faithful"
X.--IRISH REPLIES TO GERMAN WILES AND POISON GAS 128
How the Munsters captured the Enemy's wheedling
Placards
XI.--STORMING OF GUILLAMONT BY THE IRISH BRIGADE 138
Raising the Green Flag in the Centre of the Village
XII.--THE BRIGADE'S POUNCE ON GUINCHY 146
Gallant Boy Officers of the Dublin Fusiliers
XIII.--HONOURS AND DISTINCTIONS FOR THE IRISH BRIGADE 152
How Lieut. Holland of the Leinsters won the V.C.
XIV.--THE WOODEN CROSS 158
Death of Lieut. T.M. Kettle of the Dublins
XV.--MORE IRISH HEROES OF THE VICTORIA CROSS 165
Deeds of the Highest Merit and Lustre
XVI.--RELATIONS BETWEEN ENEMY TRENCHES 182
Irish Kindliness and German Guile
CHAPTER I
IN THE TRENCHES WITH THE CONNAUGHT RANGERS
SCENES COMIC AND TRAGIC
"The men are as anxious for the road, sir, as if 'twere to Galway
races they were going, no less, or to Ballinasloe Fair," said the
company sergeant-major to the captain. Those referred to belonged to a
battalion of the Connaught Rangers ordered to the firing-trenches for
the first time. "The real thing at last;" "The genuine McCoy, and no
mistake," they said to one another as, in preparation for the march,
they hurriedly packed their things in the barns and cow-sheds that
served as billets, and, to provide further vent for their jubilation,
danced Irish jigs and reels and sang national songs.
These Irishmen had read a lot about the fighting, and had heard a
great deal more, but they felt that print and talk, however graphic
and copious, left many strange things to be disclosed by the actual
experience. Some of them would "get the beck"--the call from
Death--but what matter? Were not soldiers who died in action to be
envied, rather than pitied, by those who found themselves alive when
the war was over, and had not been to the mysterious Front at all? So
they thought and said, and now that they were on the road there was a
look of proud elation on their faces, as though they had been singled
out by special favour for a grand adventure. They did not regard
themselves in the least as heroes, these entirely unsophisticated men,
without a trace of self-consciousness. They had volunteered for
service in the belief that Ireland would be false to her historical
self if she did not take part in this war for freedom, democracy and
humanity. But now there was nothing in their minds about revenging the
wrongs of Belgium, or driving the invader from the soil of France, or
even of saving the British Empire. It was the fight that was the
thing. It was the chance of having a smack at "the Gerrys"--as the
enemy is called by the Irish soldiers--that they prized. More exalted
feelings would come again when the battle was over and won. Then, and
not till then, as they return with many gaps in their ranks, do Irish
troops see themselves as an army of redemption and deliverance; and
the only land they think of having saved is Ireland. To them Ireland
personifies all the great causes of the war, and a blow struck for
these causes, no matter where, is a blow struck for her.
By the light of many stars sparkling in the sky that dark October
night the men could see signs that battles had been fought in the
country they were traversing. It was a devastated bare expanse,
stretching for miles and miles, very muddy and broken up with shell
holes. Roads had been made across it, and along one of these the
battalion went in the wake of the guides with swinging lanterns. The
men were fully loaded. In addition to his fighting equipment, almost
every one carried something extra, such as a pick or shovel, a bag of
rations, or a bundle of fire-wood. The company officers also had heavy
packs strapped on their shoulders. Great good-humour prevailed.
Whenever, at awkward turns of the road, or at very dark points,
progress was interrupted, those in front would shout some preposterous
explanation of the delay to their comrades behind. "Begonnies, boys,
we're taking tickets here for Galway. Word has come down that the war
is over," cried one joker. Deep groans of pretended dismay and
disappointment rose from the rear ranks. "And poor me, without a
German helmet, or even a black eye, to show that I was in it," was one
of the responses.
When the open plain was quitted the battalion disappeared into a
trench like a narrow country lane winding between high banks. It was
much darker in these deeps than it had been outside. The gloom was
broken occasionally by the light of lanterns carried by sentinels, or
electric torches at junctions where several trenches crossed. Soon the
trench became narrower and more tortuous. It also became more soaked
with rain. Pools of water were frequently encountered. The battalion
was now a floundering, staggering, overloaded and perspiring closely
packed mass of men, walking in couples or in single file and treading
on each other's heels.
The mishaps arising from this crowded scramble in the dark through mud
and mire, between banks of unsupported crumbling earth, did not
exhaust the Irish cheerfulness of the battalion. There was laughter
when a man got a crack on the skull from a rifle which a comrade
carried swung across his shoulder. There was louder laughter still
when another, stooping to pick up something he had dropped, was bumped
into from behind and sent sprawling. So sucking and tenacious was the
mud that frequently each dragging footstep called for quite a physical
effort, and a man was thankful that he did not have to leave a boot
behind. "Ah, sure this is nothin' to the bog away in Connemara, where
I often sunk up to me neck when crossing it to cut turf," was the
comfort imparted in a soft brogue. "True for you, Tim," remarked
another. "It's an ould sayin' and a true one that there's nothin' so
bad but it could be worse."
The trench certainly proved the truth of the saying. Bad as it had
been, it sank to a still lower degree of slush. There were deep holes
filled with water into which the men went with an abrupt plunge and
passed through with much splashing. Just ahead of one of these
particularly treacherous points singing was heard. The chorus was
taken up by many voices, and its last line was rapped out with hearty
boisterousness--
"Out and make way for the bould Fenian Men."
This joyous noise heralded the appearance of a party of the Dublin
Fusiliers, belonging to the same Division, who were coming down the
trench. By the light of lanterns and lamps it was seen that they had
taken off their trousers and socks and, holding up their shirts, were
wading in their boots blithely through the pools, like girls in bare
legs and lifted petticoats paddling at the seaside.
The Connaught men laughed hilariously. "Sure the Dublin jackeens have
never been beaten yet for cuteness," they cried. "They stripped to
their pelts so as they wouldn't get the 'fluensy by means of their wet
clothes. And, faix, 'twould be the greatest pity in the world anything
would ail stout and hearty boys like them." As they spoke, the men of
the west lay close against the embankments to let the men of the east
go by. But weren't the Dublins in the divil of a hurry back to
billets? the Rangers went on to remark. And why not? answered the
Dublins. Sure if they'd only sniff with their noses they would smell
the roast beef and the steaming punch that were being got ready for
them by special orders of Field-Marshal Haig for the great things they
did away up in the firing-line. "Lucky boys!" shouted the Rangers,
responding to the joke. "And tell us now, have ye left us a Gerry at
all alive to get a pelt at, and we new at the game?" A Dublin man gave
the reply as he went past. "To tell ye the truth, except there's a
raid, there isn't much divarshion in the way of fighting; but every
man of ye will have his full and plenty of mud and water before he's
much oulder." "Well, there's nothing in that to yowl about." "Maybe
not, if you can swim." The trench resounded with laughter at the
exchange of banter. But for fear any of the Rangers might take some of
the talk as half a joke and whole earnest, a kind-hearted sergeant of
the Dublins, wishful to say the cheery word, called out, "Don't mind
them playboys; there's no more water and mud in it than is natural in
such wet weather as we're getting."
The Rangers reached their destination just as the day was dawning in a
cold drizzle from a grey, lowering sky. They were all plastered with
yellowish mud. Mud was on their hands, on their faces, in their hair,
down their backs; and the barrels of their rifles were choked with
mud. For the next four days and nights of duty in the trenches they
were to be lapped about with mud. War was to be for them a mixture of
mud and high explosives. Of the two mud was the ugliest and most
hateful. Soon they would come to think that there was hardly anything
left in the world but mud; and from that they would advance to a state
of mind in which they doubted whether there ever had been a time in
their existence when they were free from mud. But through it all this
battalion, like the others in the Division, preserved their
good-humour. They are known, in fact, as "The Light-Hearted Brigade."
Every difficulty was met with a will to overcome it, tempered with a
joke and a laugh. No matter how encrusted with filth their bodies
might be, their souls were always above contamination.
Men off duty at night slept in shelter pits dug deep into the soil by
the side of the trenches. It was overcrowded in stark violation of all
the sanitary by-laws relating to ventilation in civil life. No time
was wasted in undressing. The men lay down fully clad in their
mud-crusted clothes, even to their boots, wrapped round in blankets.
During the night they were awakened by a loud explosion. "All right,
boys; don't stir," cried the sergeant. "It's only one of those chape
German alarum clocks going off at the wrong time. Get off to sleep
again, me heroes." In the morning more time was saved by getting up
fully dressed, and not having to wash or to shave, so as to spare the
water. A private, looking round the dug-out and noticing the absence
of windows, remarked, "Faix, those of us who are glaziers and
window-cleaners will find it hard to make a living in this country."
As the battalion was new to the trenches, another Irish battalion of
more experience shared with them the holding of this particular line.
To a group of lads gathered about a brazier of glowing coke in a
sheltered traverse an old sergeant that had seen service in the
Regular Army was giving what, no doubt, he thought was sound and
valuable advice, but which was at times of a quality calculated more
to disturb, perhaps, than to reassure.
"Bullets are nothin' at all," said he. "I wouldn't give you a snap of
me fingers for them. Listen to them now, flyin' about and whinin' and
whimperin' as if they wor lost, stolen or strayed, and wor lookin' for
a billet to rest in. They differ greatly, do these bullets; but sure
in time you'll larn them all by sound and be able to tell the humour
each one of them is in. There's only one kind of bullet, boys, that
you'll never hear; and that is the one which gives you such a pelt as
to send you home to Ireland or to kingdom come. But," he continued,
"what'll put the fear of God into your sowls, if it isn't there
already, is the heavy metal which the Gerrys pitch across to us in
exchange for ours. The first time I was up here I was beside a man
whose teeth went chatterin' in a way that put me in fear of me life.
Sure, didn't I think for a minute it was a Gerry machine-gun--may the
divil cripple them!--startin' its bloody work at me ear. Now, there
must be none of that in this trench. If you're afraid, don't show it;
remimber always that the Gerrys are in just as great a fright, if not
more so. Show your spunk. Stand fast or sit tight, and hope for the
best. Above all, clinch your teeth."
The bombardment of a trench by shells from guns in the rear of the
enemy's lines, or by bombs thrown from mortars close at hand, is
probably the greatest test of endurance that has ever been set to
humanity. The devastating effect is terrific. At each explosion men
may be blown to pieces or buried alive. Even the concussion often
kills. A man might escape being hit by the flying projectiles and yet
be blinded or made deaf or deprived of his speech by the shock. All
feel as if their insides had collapsed. The suspense of waiting for
the next shell or bomb, the uncertainty as to where it is going to
fall, followed by the shake which the detonation gives the nervous
system, are enough to wear out the most stout-hearted of soldiers. It
is then that companionship and discipline tell. The men catch from one
another the won't-appear-frightened determination, and the spirit of
won't-give-in.
Crash! A fierce gust of wind sweeps through the trench. Men are lifted
from their feet and flung violently to the ground amid showers of
earth and stones. There is a brief pause; and then is heard the most
unexpected of sounds--not the moaning of pain, but a burst of
laughter! Four men of the battalion were playing "Forty-five," a card
game beloved of Hibernians, seated under a piece of tarpaulin propped
up on poles, as much at their ease as if they lay under a hedge on a
Sunday evening in summer at home in Ireland, with only the priest to
fear, and he known to be on a sick call at the other side of the
parish. The bomb came at the most inopportune moment, just as the fall
of the trick was about to be decided. When the card party recovered
their senses, the man who held the winning card was found to be
wounded. "'Twas the Gerrys--sweet bad luck to them!--that jinked the
game that time, boys," he exclaimed. His companions, standing round
him, burst into laughter at the remark.
Merriment is not uncommon as the shells are bursting. The spectacle of
four or five men hurriedly tumbling for shelter into the same "funk
hole," a wild whirl of arms and legs, has its absurd side and never
fails to excite amusement. The way in which men disentangle themselves
from the ruins caused by the explosion is often also grotesque. Racy
oddities of character are revealed. One man was buried in the loose
earth. His comrades hastened to rescue him, and to cheer him up told
him he would be got out next to no time, for Tim Maloney, the biggest
as well as the fastest digger in the company was engaged on the job.
"I feel that right well," cried the victim, as he spluttered the mud
from his mouth. "But I've enough on top of me without him! Pull me out
of this from under his feet." There was an explosion close to a man at
work repairing the trench. The man was overheard saying to himself, as
he turned his back disdainfully to the shell, "Oh, go to blazes, with
yez."
But it is not all comedy and farce. How could it be with stern,
black-visaged Death always watching with wolfish eyes to see men die?
Fate plays unimaginable tricks with its victims. A bullet stops many a
casual conversation for ever. "Look at this!" cries a man, holding up
his cap for a comrade to see the bullet-hole that had just been made
through it. "A close shave," he adds; "but what matter? Isn't a miss
as good as a mile?" And, as he was putting the cap on again, he fell a
corpse to a surer bullet. There he lay, just a bundle of muddy khaki;
and a dozing comrade, upon whom he dropped, elbowed him aside, saying
impatiently, "Get out of that, with yer andrew-martins" (jokes and
tricks); "can't you let a poor divil get a wink of sleep?" Tragedy
takes on, at times, queer, fantastic shapes. A man has his right arm
blown off close to the shoulder. He picks the limb up with his left
hand, shouting, "My arm! my arm! Oh, holy mother of God, where's my
arm?" In raging agony he rushes shrieking down the trench carrying the
limb with him until he encounters his company officer. "Oh, captain,
darlin'," he cries. "Look what the Gerrys have done to me! May God's
curse light upon them and theirs for ever! An' now I'll never shoulder
a rifle for poor ould Ireland any more."
The night, and only the night, has terrors for the Irish soldiers,
especially those from the misty mountains and remote seaboard of the
west and south. In the daylight they are merry and prolific of jest.
Strongly gregarious by instinct, they delight in companionship. They
are sustained and upheld by the excitement of battle's uproar. They
will face any danger in the broad daylight. But they hate to be alone
in the dark anywhere, and are afraid to pass at night even a graveyard
in which their own beloved kith and kin lie peacefully at rest for
ever. They feel "lonesome and queer" as they would say themselves.
So it is that when by himself at a listening post in a shell hole in
No Man's Land, lapped about with intense blackness, peering and
hearkening, the superstitious soul of the Irish soldier seems to
conjure up all the departed spectral bogies and terrors of the Dark
Ages. He is ready to cry out like Ajax, the Greek warrior, in "Homer,"
"Give us but light, O Jove; and in the light, if thou seest fit,
destroy us."
Even a Cockney soldier, lacking as he is in any subtle sympathy with
the emotional and immaterial sides of life, confesses that it gives
him the creeps proper to be out there in the open jaws of darkness,
away from his mates and almost right under the nose of old Boche. An
Irish soldier will admit that on this duty he does have a genuine
feeling of terror. Crouching in the soft, yielding earth, he imagines
he is in the grave, watching and waiting he knows not for what.
Everything is indefinite and uncertain. There is a vague presentiment
that some unknown but awful evil is impending. Perhaps a thousand
hostile German eyes are staring at him through the darkness along
rifle barrels; or, more horrible still, perhaps a thousand invisible
devils are on the prowl to drag his soul to hell. The supernatural
powers are the only forces the Irish soldier fears.
The senses of the sentry are so abnormally alert that if grass were
growing near him he had only to put his ear to the ground to hear the
stirring of the sap. But though he listens intently, not a sound comes
out of the blackness. He regards the profound stillness as
confirmation of his worst fears. All is silence in the trench behind
him, where his comrades ought to be. He would welcome the relief of
voices and the sound of feet in the enemy's lines. But the Gerrys give
no sign of life. Is he alone in the whole wide world, the solitary
survivor of this terrible war? What would he not part with to be able
to get up and run! But he is fixed to his post by a sense of duty,
just as strong as if he were chained there by iron bands. To cry out
would afford immense relief to his overwrought feelings. But his
tongue seems paralysed in his mouth. Then he bethinks him of his
prayers. From his inside tunic pocket he takes out his beads--which
his mother gave him at parting and made him promise faithfully always
to carry about his person--and, making the sign of the cross, he is
soon absorbed in the saying of the Rosary. Resignation and fortitude
came to his aid. The invisible evil agencies by which he had really
been encompassed--loneliness, anxiety, melancholy--are dispelled.
Scouting is the night work that appeals most to the Irish soldiers.
There is in it the excitement of movement, the element of adventure
and the support of companionship, too, for four, five or six go out
together. Oh, the fearful joy of crawling on one's stomach across the
intervening ground, seeking for a passage through the enemy's wire
entanglements or wriggling under it, taking a peep over their
parapets, dropping down into a sparsely occupied part of the trench,
braining the sentry and returning with rifle and cap as trophies! This
is one of the most perilous forms of the harassing tactics of war, and
for its success uncommon pluck and resource are required. Yet, like
everything else at the Front, it often has an absurd side. A Connaught
Ranger, back from such an expedition, related that, hearing the Gerrys
talking, he called out, "How many of ye are there?" To his surprise he
got an answer in English: "Four." Then, throwing in a bomb, he said,
"Divide that between ye, an' be damned to ye." "Faix, 'twas the bomb
that divided them," he added, "for didn't they come out of the trench
after me in smithereens." Another party returned from a raid with
tears streaming down their cheeks. "Is it bad news ye bring, crying
in that way?" they were asked. No! they hadn't bad news; nor were they
crying. If it was crying they were, wouldn't they be roaring and
bawling? and there wasn't a sound out of them for any one to hear.
Only asses could say such a thing as that. 'Twas they that looked like
silly asses, they were told, with the tears pouring out of their eyes
like the Powerscourt waterfall. What the mischief was the matter with
them, anyway? Well, then, if any one cared to know, was the reply,
'twas the Gerrys that treated them to a whiff of lachrymose gas!
The fatigue, the disgust, and the danger of life in the trenches are,
at times, stronger than any other impulse, whether of the flesh or of
the soul. "'Tis enough to drive one to the drink: a grand complaint
when there's plenty of porter about," said a private; "but a terrible
fate when there's only the water we're wading in, and that same full
up--the Lord save us!--of creeping and wriggling things." "True for
you; it's the quare life, and no mistake," remarked another. "You do
things and get praise for them, such as smashing a fellow's skull, or
putting a bullet through him, which if you were to do at home you'd be
soon on the run, with a hue and cry and all the police of the country
at your heels."
Back in billets again, for a wash and a shave and a brush up, and
lying in their straw beds in the barns, the Rangers would thus
philosophise on their life. The bestial side of it--the terrible
overcrowding of the men, the muck, the vermin, the gobbling of food
with filthy hands, the stench of corrupting bodies lying in the open,
or insufficiently buried, and, along with all that, its terror, agony
and tragedy are, indeed, utterly repellent to human nature. Still,
there was general agreement that they had never spent a week of such
strange and exquisite experiences. Fear there was at times, but it
seemed rather to keep up a state of pleasurable emotion than to
generate anguish and distress. Certainly most Connaught Rangers will
swear that life in the trenches has at least three thrilling and
exalting moments. One is when the tot of rum is served round. Another
is the first faint appearance of light in the sky behind the enemy's
lines, proclaiming that the night is far spent and the day is at hand.
The third is the call to "stand to," telling that a visit from the
Gerrys is expected, when the men cease to be navvies and become
soldiers again--throwing aside the hateful pick and shovel and taking
up the beloved rifle and bayonet.