call on August 5, 1914, and went to France on September 14, going all
through the fighting until wounded at the battle of Ypres in November
1914, by a bullet in the thigh. Returning to the Front, he was
"gassed," and the resulting injuries to his eyes laid him up for three
weeks in hospital. On going back to the trenches the second time he
performed his heroic deed on December 22, 1915.
Young's home was at Preston, where he had a wife and nine children,
the youngest of whom was born while the father was at the war. In the
following letter to his wife Private Young told how the news of his
distinction was received by him in a military hospital in England,
where he underwent an operation for the complete removal of his lower
jaw and the fitting of an artificial one in its place.
"Of course, long enough before you get this letter you will see
by the papers that I have received the greatest honour that any
Britisher can get, namely, the V.C., and, of course, I am
naturally very proud of the great honour, both for my sake and
the sake of you and the kiddies and the good old regiment I have
the honour to belong to, and the old proud town of Preston. I
was shaving when the news came through, and the matron and
sisters, nurses and patients have the hands wrung off me, and I
can see I could do with another pair of hands. There are
telegrams coming every two or three minutes, so I have a busy
time in front of me. I have another soldier from Lancashire
helping me to answer them."
Young's indomitable spirit was finely evidenced in a second letter to
his wife--
"I feel all right, seeing what I have gone through; in fact it
was the grace of God, careful nursing, and a grand constitution
that pulled me through.... You know the old saying, 'Fools rush
in where Angels dare not tread,' and if I was in the same place
to-morrow I would do exactly the same thing. I knew that if I
went over the wife and the kiddies would be well looked after. I
am very glad to say that the sergeant I carried out is all
right, and I expect in about a fortnight's time he will be at
home on sick leave with his young wife, as he only got married
just after the war broke out, so you see it's an ill wind that
blows nobody good."
Young was able in April 1916 to visit Preston, where he was given a
public welcome. But he had to return to hospital again, and died in
August 1916. A local fund was raised, and so generously responded to
that it was possible to invest a sum of over L500 for the family.
Captain Henry Kelly of the Duke of Wellington's West Riding Regiment
got the V.C. for deeds which are thus officially described--
"For most conspicuous bravery in attack. He twice rallied his
company under the heaviest fire, and finally led the only three
available men into the enemy trench, and there remained bombing
until two of them had become casualties and enemy reinforcements
had arrived. He then carried his company sergeant-major, who
had been wounded, back to our trenches, a distance of seventy
yards, and subsequently three other soldiers. He set a fine
example of gallantry and endurance."
Captain Kelly was born in Manchester of Irish parentage. His father
was from Wicklow and his mother from Limerick. He is twenty-eight
years of age, and joined the Manchester "Pals" with his younger
brother on September 4, 1914. He was promoted to the rank of
Sergeant-Major two months later, and in the following May was gazetted
Second Lieutenant to the West Riding Regiment. Prior to joining the
Army he was employed at the General Post Office in Manchester as a
sorting clerk and telegraphist. He was a prominent member of the
Ancient Order of Hibernians, and also of the city branch of the United
Irish League. He could speak the Irish language before he ever spent a
holiday in Ireland. A detailed account of the circumstances in which
Captain Kelly won the V.C. is given by a soldier in his company--
"The enemy had pounded us unmercifully with their big guns, and
the strain put on our men was so great that they began to waver.
Captain Kelly sprang forward and urged his men to the attack
under a blistering hot fire. They responded with cheers, and
under his direction they held a very exposed position for hours.
Later, things looked black once more. So he up again and called
on his lads to hold fast for all they were worth. To show his
contempt for the danger to which we were exposed he led the way
towards another position. He decided to have a cut in at the
enemy's trench. He got hold of a non-com, and two privates
belonging to the bombing section. With these he entered the
enemy trench and started to bomb the Boches out. They got a good
way along, driving before them an enemy more than big enough to
eat up the whole company. Then Fritz was reinforced, and under
the direction of a very brave officer the enemy began to push
our party back. The two privates were knocked out, and Captain
Kelly had to make for home. He picked up the sergeant-major and
carried him out of the German trench. The enemy had many a pot
shot at him, and the shell fire continued as well. It is a
miracle how he escaped. The Boches were close on his heels. The
captain just laid down his burden for a few minutes and threw a
bomb or two at them. They skulked back. Then he picked up his
burden and came marching back to us. All the way he was under
heavy fire. After taking a look round to see how things were
shaping he found that three of our chaps were out in the open,
wounded. Immediately he set off to find them. One by one he
carried them into safety, in spite of the furious fire kept up
by the enemy."
Australia is proud of Private Martin O'Meara, V.C., of the Australian
Infantry. So also is Tipperary. He comes of an old Tipperary family,
and has well sustained the splendid traditions of the fighting race.
The official record of the award of the V.C. is as follows--
"For most conspicuous bravery. During four days of very heavy
fighting he repeatedly went out and brought in wounded officers
and men from 'No Man's Land' under intense artillery and
machine-gun fire. He also volunteered and carried up ammunition
and bombs through a heavy barrage to a portion of the trenches
which was being heavily shelled at the time. He showed
throughout an utter contempt of danger and undoubtedly saved
many lives."
Private O'Meara, V.C., is thirty-two years of age. He is the youngest
son of Mr. Thomas O'Meara, Rathcabbin, Birr, and is one of a family of
nine children. Before he left Ireland, in 1911, Private O'Meara worked
as a tree-feller, and in Australia he continued to labour in the
woods, being engaged in making railway sleepers at Collie in West
Australia. In the August of 1915 he answered the call to arms, and
entered the Blackboy Training Camp as a member of the 12th
reinforcements of the Australian Infantry. Before embarking from
Australia a friend vouches that O'Meara said: "As I am going I will do
the best I can to bring back the Victoria Cross." To achieve the
highest award in the British Army was evidently strongly before his
mind. He was two months in France before going up to the trenches,
where he remained five days in all, covering himself with glory and
winning the V.C. in this short period.
Private O'Meara got a fortnight's leave in October 1916--two months
after he had won the V.C.--and availed himself of it to visit his
native place. The modesty of the man is to be seen in the mode of his
home-coming. His family expected him, but did not know the exact date
of his arrival. He got off the train at Birr Station and walked
home--about five miles--in the darkness, along the disused Birr and
Portumna railway line, which passes close to his home. No one
recognised him at the station or along the way. He opened the door and
walked in, surprising his brother and sister inside. At the end of his
leave he returned almost as quietly as he had come. A fund to make him
a presentation was raised locally, and a considerable sum was invested
in War stock, and a gold watch was bought. Advantage was taken of the
presence of General Hickie, commanding an Irish Division, on a short
visit from France to his home at Selvoir, North Tipperary, to have him
present the gold watch to O'Meara. But O'Meara, like the genuine
fighting man that he is, had immediately volunteered for active
service on his return to London from home, after recovering from his
wounds, and it was found exceedingly difficult to get into touch with
him. In fact, but for the interest taken by General Hickie it would
have been impossible. Ultimately his exact whereabouts were learned
through the War Office, and arrangements were made for his return.
Even so, O'Meara could not get home in time for the presentation, and
it was made to his brothers and sisters. Physically, he is a fine type
of manhood, and in disposition is most lovable.
CHAPTER XVI
RELATIONS BETWEEN ENEMY TRENCHES
IRISH KINDLINESS AND GERMAN GUILE
In the trenches one evening a battalion of the Leinster Regiment held
a "kailee" (_ceilidh_), or Irish sing-song, at which there was a
spirited rendering of the humorous old ballad, "Bryan O'Lynn," sung to
an infectiously rollicking tune. The opening verse runs--
"Bryan O'Lynn had no breeches to wear,
So he bought a sheep-skin to make him a pair,
With the woolly side out, and the skinny side in,
Faix, 'tis pleasant and cool, says Brian O'Lynn."
The swing of the tune took the fancy of the Germans in their trenches,
less than fifty yards away. With a "rumpty-tum-tumty-tum-tumty-tum-tum,"
they loudly hummed the air of the end of each verse, all unknowing
that the Leinsters, singing at the top of their voices, gave the words
a topical application--
"With the woolly side out and the skinny side in,
Sure, We'll wallop the Gerrys, said Brian O'Lynn."
Hearty bursts of laughter and cheers arose from both trenches at the
conclusion of the song. It seemed as if the combatants gladly availed
themselves of the chance opportunity of becoming united again in the
common brotherhood of man, even for but a fleeting moment, by the
spirit of good-humour and hilarity.
Lieutenant Denis Oliver Barnett, a young English officer of a
different battalion of the same Leinster Regiment (whose letters from
the Front have been published as a memorial by his parents), tells of
a more curious incident still, which likewise led to a brief cessation
of hostilities. Two privates in his company had a quarrel in the
trenches, and nothing would do them but to fight it out on No Man's
Land. The Germans were most appreciative and accommodating. Not only
did they not molest the pugilists, but they cheered them, and actually
fired the contents of their rifles in the air by way of a salute. The
European War was, in fact, suspended in this particular section of the
lines while two Irishmen settled their own little differences by a
contest of fists.
"Who will now say that the Germans are not sportsmen?" was the comment
of the young English officer. There is, however, another and perhaps a
shrewder view of the episode. It was taken, I have been told, by a
sergeant of the company. "Yerra, come down out of that, ye pair of
born fools," he called out to the fighters. "If ye had only a glimmer
of sense ye'd see, so ye would, that 'tis playing the Gerrys' game ye
are. Sure, there's nothing they'd like better than to see us all
knocking blazes out of each other." But as regards the moral pointed
by the officer, there must be, of course, many "sportsmen" among the
millions of German soldiers; though the opinion widely prevailing in
the British Army is that they are more often treacherous fighters.
Indeed, to their dirty practices is mainly to be ascribed the bitter
personal animosity that occasionally mark the relations between the
combatants, when the fighting becomes most bloody and desperate,
and--as happens at times in all wars--no quarter is given to those who
allow none.
In the wars of old between England and France, both sides were
animated by a very fine sense of chivalry. Barere, one of the chief
popular orators during the worst excesses of the French Revolution,
induced the Convention to declare that no quarter was to be given to
the English. "Soldiers of Liberty," he cried, "when victory places
Englishmen at your mercy, strike!" But the French troops absolutely
refused to act upon the savage decree. The principle upon which both
French and English acted during the Peninsular War was that of doing
as little harm to one another as possible consistently with the
winning of victory. Between the rank and file friendly feelings may be
said, without any incongruity, to have existed. They were able, of
their own accord, to come to certain understandings that tended to
mitigate, to some extent, the hardships and even the dangers to which
they were both alike exposed. One was that sentries at the outposts
must not be fired on or surprised. Often no more than a space of
twenty yards separated them, and when the order to advance was given
to either Army the sentries of the other were warned to retire. Once a
French sentry helped a British sentry to replace his knapsack so that
he might more quickly fall back before the firing began. A remarkable
instance of signalling between the opposing forces is mentioned by
General Sir Charles Napier in his _History of the Peninsular War_.
Wellington sent a detachment of riflemen to drive away some French
troops occupying the top of a hill near Bayonne, and as they
approached the enemy he ordered them to fire. "But," says Napier,
"with a loud voice one of those soldiers replied, 'No firing,' and
holding up the butt of his rifle tapped it in a peculiar way." This
was a signal to the French and was understood by them--probably as a
result of a mutual arrangement--to mean, "We must have the hill for a
short time." "The French, who, though they could not maintain, would
not relinquish the post without a fight if they had been fired upon,
quietly retired," Napier writes; "and this signal would never have
been made if the post had been one capable of a permanent defence, so
well do veterans understand war and its proprieties."
Throughout that long campaign the British and French recognised each
other as worthy foemen, and they were both solicitous to maintain
unstained the honour and dignity of arms. As the opposing forces lay
resting before Lisbon for months, the advanced posts got so closely
into touch that much friendly intercourse took place between them.
French officers frequently asked for such little luxuries as cigars,
coffee and stationery to be brought to them from Lisbon, which was
held by the British, and their requests were always readily complied
with. At the battle of Talavera, on July 28, 1809, the possession of a
hill was fiercely contested all day. The weather was so intensely hot
that the combatants were parched with thirst. At noon there was an
almost entire cessation of artillery and rifle fire, as if an informal
truce had been suddenly come to, by a flash of intuition, and with one
accord French and British rushed down to the rivulet at the foot of
the hill to moisten their burning throats. "The men crowded on each
side of the water's edge," says Napier. "They threw aside their caps
and muskets, and chatted to each other in broken French and still more
fragmentary English across the stream. Flasks were exchanged; hands
shaken. Then the bugle and the rolling drum called the men back to
their colours, and the fight awoke once more."
Such amenities between combatants are very ancient--the Greeks and
Trojans used to exchange presents and courtesies, in the intervals of
fighting--and the early stages of this war seemed to afford a promise
that they would be revived. The fraternising of the British and
Germans at their first Christmas under arms, in 1914, will, perhaps,
always be accounted as the most curious episode of the war. It was
quite unauthorised by the higher command. The men themselves, under
the influence of the great Christian festival, brought about a
suspension of hostilities at several points of the lines, and they
availed themselves of the opportunity to satisfy their natural
curiosity to see something more of each other than they could see
through the smoke of battle with deadly weapons in their hands and
hatred in their eyes. Each side had taken prisoners; but prisoners are
"out of it," and therefore reduced to the level of non-combatants. The
foeman in being appears in a very different light. He has the power to
strike. You may have to kill him or you may be killed by him. So the
British and the Germans, impelled in the main by a common feeling of
inquisitiveness, met together, unarmed, in No Man's Land. There was
some amicable conversation where they could make themselves understood
to each other, which happened when a German was found who could speak
a little English. Cigarettes and tunic-buttons were freely exchanged.
But, for the most part, British and Germans stood, with arms folded
across their breasts, and stared at each other with a kind of dread
fascination.
It never happened again. How could it possibly be repeated? The
introduction of the barbaric elements of "frightfulness," hitherto
confined to savage tribes at war, the use of such devilish inventions
as poison gas and liquid fire, are due to the malignant minds of the
German high command, and for them the German soldiers cannot be held
accountable. But the native lowness of morality shown by so many of
the German rank and file, their apparent insensitiveness to ordinary
humane instincts, the well-authenticated stories of their filthy and
cruel conduct in the occupied districts, inevitably tended to harden
and embitter their adversaries against them too. Of the instances of
their treachery to Irish soldiers which have been brought to my
notice, I will mention only two. One arose out of the "truce" of
Christmas Day, 1914, despite the goodwill of the occasion. The victim,
Sergeant Timothy O'Toole, Leinster Regiment, first mentions that he
took part in a game of football with the Germans, and then proceeds--
"I was returning to my own trench unaccompanied about 12.15 p.m.
When I reached within fifteen paces I was sniped by a Hunnish
swine, the bullet entering my back, penetrating my intestines.
Following the example of Our Lord, I instantly forgave him,
concluding he was only a black sheep, characteristic of any army
or community, but I was labouring under a delusion. Within five
minutes of being hit, I had quite a number around me, including
officers and clergymen. I was so mortally wounded that the
'Padre' administered the last rite of the Church on the spot.
Four stretcher bearers came out for me. I noticed the white band
and Red Cross on their arms. Immediately I was lifted up on the
stretcher. Though I was semi-unconscious I remember the bullets
beating the ground like hailstone on a March day. I was wounded
again, this time the bullet going through the lower part of my
back. Here two of my bearers got hit, Privates Melia and Peters.
The former died in hospital immediately after. Naturally the two
bearers instantly dropped the stretcher. I fell violently to the
ground--nice medicine for a man wounded in the abdomen."
"Thank Providence, I am still living," Sergeant O'Toole adds, "but a
living victim of German atrocity and barbarism." In the other case a
very gallant young officer of the Dublin Fusiliers, Lieutenant Louis
G. Doran, lost his life on the Somme, October 23, 1916, through the
guile and falsehood of German soldiers. The circumstances are told in
a letter written by Captain Louis C. Byrne to the father of Lieutenant
Doran, Mr. Charles J. Doran of Blackrock, co. Dublin--
"Believe me, Mr. Doran, I sympathise fully with you in your
loss because I was your son's company commander and by his death
I have lost one of the best officers in my company. We attacked
a certain position and we had just got to it when some Germans
put up their hands to surrender. Your son went out to take their
surrender and they shot him through the heart and he died at
once. My other three officers were also knocked out, and only
myself and thirty-six men returned to headquarters after the
battle. Still, we took the position owing to gallantry of men
like your son. He died a noble and heroic death--no man could
possibly wish for a better one. He told me he had just had a
brother wounded, so your loss is double and words cannot express
my sympathy with you. Your son was buried with the men in the
position we took. It was impossible to bring his body down owing
to heavy fire. I think it is what he would have liked best."
The lady to whom Lieutenant Doran was engaged to be married kindly
sent me a few extracts from his letters which convey something of his
care and thought for his men. "Those I have seen from the men," she
says, "amplify this from their own experience in ways which he would
never dream of mentioning, he was always so modest about all he did."
"I'm going to tell you what I would really love to get now and again,"
Lieutenant Doran wrote in one letter. "You see, we officers are never
very hard up for grub, and I would much prefer to receive something
for my men, who get very little in the way of luxuries or dainties. As
you know, a platoon is split into four sections, and anything that I
could divide into four parts amongst them would be most acceptable.
For instance, four small tins of butter would be a great luxury, or a
big cake--anything that gives them a change." In another he said: "As
you say, there are always hungry soldiers to be found, and I often
wish some of the presents I receive would only come together, as one
cake is a useless thing among forty hungry men. The poor fellows have
fairly rough fare as a rule, and sometimes not even much of that. One
wonders how it is they keep so cheerful." The men, in turn, were most
devoted to Lieutenant Doran. They would do anything to prevent a hair
of his head being hurt.
Generally speaking, feeling in the British Army is, however,
extraordinarily devoid of that vindictiveness which springs from a
deep sense of personal injury, and evokes, in turn, a desire for
revenge which, were it shown, would, however lamentable, be not
unnatural in many circumstances of this war. The Germans, in the mass,
are regarded as having been dehumanised and transformed into a process
of ruthless destruction. In any case, they are the enemy. As such,
there is a satisfaction--nay, a positive delight--in sweeping them out
of existence. That is war. But the rage for killing them is
impersonal. Against the German soldier individually it may be said
that, on the whole, there is no rancour. In fact, the British soldiers
have a curiously detached and generous way of regarding their
country's enemies. When the German soldier is taken prisoner, or
picked up wounded, the British soldier is disposed, as a hundred
thousand instances show, to treat him as a "pal"--to divide his food
and share his cigarettes with him as he passes to the base.
It is very noticeable how all the war correspondents, in their
accounts of the taking of the village of Guinchy on the Somme by the
Irish Division, dwelt on the chivalrous way in which the Irish treated
their vanquished foes. Once the spirit of combativeness is aroused in
the Irish soldiers they hate the enemy like the black death to which
they strive to consign them. But when the fury of battle has died down
in victory there are none so soft and kindly to the beaten enemy.
Surrender should always, of course, disarm hostility. No true soldier
would decline to lower his bayonet when a foeman acknowledges defeat
and places his life in his keeping. That is, after a fair and gallant
fight on the part of the foeman. It was because the Germans at
Guinchy were vindictive in combat, and despicable when overthrown,
that the Irish acted with rare magnanimity in accepting their
submission and sparing their lives.
In that engagement the Irish made a characteristically headlong dash
for the enemy positions. Rifle and machine-gun fire was poured into
them by the Germans up to the very last moment--until, in fact, they
had reached the trenches; and then, as they were about to jump in and
bayonet and club their bloodthirsty foemen, they found them on their
knees, with hands uplifted. The Irish were enraged at the sight. To
think that men who had been so merciless should beg for mercy when
their opponents were on top of them! Were their comrades slain only a
moment since to go unavenged? These thoughts passed rapidly through
the minds of the Irish. As swiftly came the decision, worthy of
high-souled men. An enemy on his knees is to them inviolable, not to
be hurt or injured, however mean and low he may have proved himself to
be. So the Irish bayonet, at the very breasts of the Germans, was
turned aside; that was the right and proper thing to do, and it would
not call for notice but that it shines with the light of chivalry in
comparison with the black meanness and treachery of the Germans.
In the gladiatorial fights for the entertainment of the people in
ancient Rome the defeated combatant was expected to expose his throat
to the sword of the victor, and any shrinking on his part caused the
arena to ring with the angry shouts of the thousands of spectators:
"Receive the steel." The way of the Irish at Guinchy was different,
and perhaps the renunciation of their revenge was not the least
magnificent act of a glorious day.
"If we brained them on the spot, who could blame us? 'Tis ourselves
that would think it no sin if it was done by any one else," said a
private of the Dublin Fusiliers. "Let me tell you," he went on, "what
happened to myself. As I raced across the open with my comrades,
jumping in and out of shell holes, and the bullets flying thick around
us, laying many the fine boy low, I said to myself, this is going to
be a fight to the last gasp for those of us that get to the Germans.
As I came near to the trenches I picked a man out for myself. Straight
in front of me he was, leaning out of the trench, and he with a rifle
firing away at us as if we were rabbits. I made for him with my
bayonet ready, determined to give him what he deserved, when--what do
you think?--didn't he notice me and what I was up to. Dropping his
rifle, he raised himself up in the trench and stretched out his hands
towards me. What could you do in that case, but what I did? Sure you
wouldn't have the heart to strike him down, even if he were to kill
you. I caught sight of his eyes, and there was such a frightened and
pleading look in them that I at once lowered my rifle. I could no more
prod him with my bayonet than I could a toddling child. I declare to
the Lord the state of the poor devil almost made me cry. I took him by
the hand, saying, 'You're my prisoner.' I don't suppose he understood
a word of what I said, but he clung to me, crying, 'Kamerad! kamerad!'
I was more glad than ever then that I hadn't the blood of him on my
soul. 'Tis a queer thing to say, maybe, of a man who acted like that;
but, all the same, he looked a decent boy every bit of him. I suppose
the truth of it is this: we soldiers, on both sides, have to go
through such terrible experiences that there is no accounting for how
we may behave. We might be devils, all out, in the morning, and
saints, no less, in the evening."
The relations between the trenches include even attempts at an
exchange of repartee. The wit, as may be supposed, in such
circumstances, is invariably ironic and sarcastic. My examples are
Irish, for the reason that I have had most to do with Irish soldiers,
but they may be taken as fairly representative of the taunts and
pleasantries which are often bandied across No Man's Land. The Germans
holding part of their line in Belgium got to know that the British
trenches opposite them were being held by an Irish battalion. "Hello,
Irish," they cried; "how is King Carson getting on? and have you got
Home Rule yet?" The company sergeant-major, a big Tipperary man, was
selected to make the proper reply, and in order that it might be fully
effective he sent it through a megaphone which the colonel was
accustomed to use in addressing the battalion on parade. "Hello,
Gerrys," he called out. "I'm thinking it isn't information ye want,
but divarshion; but 'tis information I'll be after giving ye, all the
same. Later on we'll be sending ye some fun that'll make ye laugh at
the other side of ye'r mouths. The last we heard of Carson he was
prodding the Government like the very devil to put venim into their
blows at ye, and more power to his elbow while he's at that work, say
we. As for Home Rule, we mean to have it, and we'll get it, please
God, when ye're licked. Put that in ye're pipes and smoke it."
Of all the horrible features of the war, surely the most heartrending
is the fate of the wounded lying without succour in the open between
the opposing lines, owing to the inability of the higher command on
both sides to agree to an arrangement for a short suspension of
hostilities after an engagement so that the stricken might be brought
in. Prone in the mud and slush they lie, during the cruel winter
weather, with the rain pouring down upon them, their moans of agony in
the darkness of the night mingling with the cold blasts that howl
around them. But, thanks to the loving kindness of man for his
fellow, even in war, these unfortunate creatures are not deserted.
British soldiers without number have voluntarily crept out into No
Man's Land to rescue them, often under murderous fire from the enemy.
Many of the Victoria Crosses won in this war have been awarded for
conspicuous gallantry displayed in these most humane and chivalrous
enterprises.
One of the most uplifting stories I have heard was told me by a
captain of the Royal Irish Fusiliers. Out there in front of the trench
held by his company lay a figure in khaki writhing in pain and wailing
for help. "Will no one come to me?" he cried in a voice broken with
anguish. He had been disabled in the course of a raid on the German
trenches the night before by a battalion which was relieved in the
morning. These appeals of his were like stabs to the compassionate
hearts of the Irish Fusiliers. Several of them told the captain they
could stand it no longer, and must go out to the wounded man. If they
were shot in the attempt, what matter? It happened that a little dog
was then making himself quite at home in both the British and German
trenches at this part of the lines. He was a neutral; he took no
sides; he regularly crossed from one to the other, and found in both
friends to give him food and a kind word, with a pat on the head. The
happy thought came to the captain to make a messenger of the dog. So
he wrote, "May we take our wounded man in?", tied the note to the
dog's tail, and sent him to the German trenches. The message was in
English, for the captain did not know German, and had to trust to the
chance of the enemy being able to read it. In a short time the dog
returned with the answer. It was in English, and it ran: "Yes; you can
have five minutes." So the captain and a man went out with a stretcher
and brought the poor fellow back to our lines.
Some of these understandings are come to by a sort of telepathic
suggestion inspired by the principle of "live and let live," however
incongruous that may seem in warfare. As an instance, recuperative
work, such as the bringing up of food to the firing lines is often
allowed to go on in comparative quietude. Neither side cares to stand
on guard in the trenches with an empty stomach. Often, therefore,
firing is almost entirely suspended in the early hours of the night,
when it is known that rations are being distributed. That is not the
way everywhere and always. A private of the Royal Irish Regiment told
me that what he found most aggravating in the trenches was the
fusillading by the Germans when the men were getting ready a bit to
eat. "I suppose," he remarked, "'twas the smell of the frying bacon
that put their dandher up." But even defensive work has been allowed
to proceed without interference, when carried on simultaneously by
both sides. Heavy rain, following a hard frost, turned the trenches in
the Ypres district into a chaos of ooze and slime. "How deep is it
with you?" a German soldier shouted across to the British. "Up to our
knees, bedad," was the reply. "You are lucky fellows. We're up to our
belts in it," said the German. Driven to desperation by their hideous
discomfort, the Germans soon after crawled up on to their parapets and
sat there to dry and stretch their legs, calling out, "Kamerads, don't
shoot; don't shoot, kamerads!" The reply of the Irish was to get out
of their trenches and do likewise. On another occasion, in the broad
daylight, unarmed parties of men on both sides, by a tacit agreement,
set about repairing their respective barbed-wire entanglements. They
were no more than fifteen or twenty yards apart. The wiring-party on
the British side belonged to the Munster Fusiliers. Being short of
mallets, one of the Munsters coolly walked across to the enemy and
said, "Good-morrow, Gerrys. Would any of ye be so kind as to lend me
the loan of a hammer?" The Germans received him with smiles, but as
they did not know English they were unable to understand what he
wanted until he made it clear by pantomimic action, when he was given
the hammer "with a heart and a half," as he put it himself. Having
repaired the defences of his own trench, he brought back the hammer to
the Germans, and thought he might give them "a bit of his mind,"
without offence, as they did not know what he was saying. "Here's your
hammer, and thanks," said he. "High hanging to the man that caused
this war--ye know who I mean--and may we be all soon busily at work
hammering nails into his coffin."
Many touching stories might be told of the sympathy which unites the
combatants when they find themselves lying side by side, wounded and
helpless, in shell holes and copses, or on the open plain after an
engagement. The ruling spirit which animates the soldier in the fury
of the fight is, as it seems to me, that of self-preservation. He
kills or disables so that he may not be killed or disabled himself.
Besides that, each side are convinced they are waging a purely
defensive war. So it is that hostility subsides, once the sense of
danger is removed, and each side sees in its captives not devils or
barbarians, but fellow-men. Especially among the wounded, British and
German, do these sentiments prevail, as they lie together on the field
of battle. In a dim way they pitifully regard each other as hapless
victims caught in the vortex of the greatest of human tragedies, or
set against each other by the ambitions of rulers and statesmen in
which they have no part. They try to help each other, to ease each
other's sufferings, to stanch each other's wounds, to give each other
comfort in their sore distress.
"Poor devil, unnerved by shell shock," was the comment passed as a
wounded German was being carried by on a stretcher sobbing as if his
heart would break. It was not the roar of the artillery and the
bursting of high explosives that had unnerved him, but the
self-sacrifice of a Dublin Fusilier, who, in succouring him, lost his
own life. At the hospital the German related that, on recovering his
senses after being shot, he found the Dublin Fusilier trying to stanch
the wound in his shattered leg, from which blood was flowing
profusely. The Irishman undid the field-dressing, consisting of
bandage and antiseptic preparation, which he had wrapped round his own
wound, and applied it to the German, as he appeared to be in danger of
bleeding to death. Before the two men were discovered by a British
stretcher party, the Dublin Fusilier had passed away. He developed
blood-poisoning through his exposed wound. The German, on hearing the
news, broke down and wept bitterly.
Reconciliation between wounded foemen is happily a common occurrence
on the stricken plain. The malignant roar of the guns may still be in
their ears, and they may see around them bodies battered and twisted
out of all human shape. All the more are they anxious to testify that
there is no fury in their hearts with each other, and that their one
wish is to make the supreme parting with words of reconciliation and
prayers on their lips. I have had from a French officer, who was
wounded in a cavalry charge early in the war, an account of a pathetic
incident which took place close to where he lay. Among his companions
in affliction were two who were far gone on the way to death. One was
a private in the Uhlans, and the other a private in the Royal Irish
Dragoons. The Irishman got, with a painful effort, from an inside
pocket of his tunic a rosary beads which had a crucifix attached to
it. Then he commenced to mutter to himself the invocations to the
Blessed Virgin of which the Rosary is composed. "Hail, Mary! full of
grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and
blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus." The German, lying huddled
close by, stirred with the uneasy movements of a man weak from pain
and loss of blood on hearing the murmur of prayer, and, looking round
in a dazed condition, the sight of the beads in the hands of his
fellow in distress seemed to recall to his mind other times and
different circumstances--family prayers at home somewhere in Bavaria,
and Sunday evening devotions in church, for he made, in his own
tongue, the response to the invocation: "Holy Mary, Mother of God,
pray for us sinners now at the hour of our death. Amen." So the voices
intermingled in address and prayer--the rapt ejaculations of the
Irishman, the deep guttural of the German--getting weaker and weaker,
in the process of dissolution, until they were hushed on earth for
evermore.
War has outwardly lost its romance, with its colour and pageantry. It
is bloody, ugly and horrible. Yet romance is not dead. It still
survives, radiant and glowing, in the heroic achievements of our
soldiers, and in the tender impulses of their hearts.
THE END
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED,
BRUNSWICK ST., STAMFORD ST., S.E., AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.
THE IRISH AT THE FRONT
By MICHAEL MacDONAGH
FROM THE REVIEWS OF THE FIRST SERIES
_Westminster Gazette._--"Mr. MacDonagh has crammed into a small
volume an almost incredible number of thrilling stories of great
deeds, whether of collective dash and daring and endurance or of
individual heroism. He has found his material in the letters of
officers and men and the conversation of those who have come
home, as well as from the records compiled at regimental depots;
and he has utilised it skilfully, avoiding too frequent
quotation and giving his reader a connected and fluent narrative
that is of absorbing interest. He gives us vivid pictures of the
retreat from Mons--of the Irish Guards receiving their baptism
of fire; of the Connaught Rangers' part in the first stand that
was made ('It was a grand time we had,' one of them said, 'and I
wouldn't have missed it for lashin's of money!'); of the Dublins
at Cambrai, where they went into the fray in a way that is well
described as 'uproariously and outrageously Irish,' after
singing all the Fenian songs for which they had time; and of the
Munsters who harnessed themselves cheerfully, for lack of
horses, to the guns they had captured from the Germans. He tells
us of the green flag that Corporal Cunningham bought from a
pedlar in London, and that the Irish Guards have since followed
to the gates of death on a score of fields; of the Irish Rifles
rallying to the 'view-hallo' that Lieutenant Graham gave them on
a French newsboy's horn; of the glorious sacrifices of the
Dublins and the Munsters at the Gallipoli landings; and of the
desperate resistance at Loos, where, as the Brigadier said to
his men when it was over, 'It was the London Irish who helped to
save a whole British Army Corps.' From first to last it is a
glorious story of almost incredible deeds."
_Star._--"It is an amazing story of incredible gallantry and
fantastic daring, gay with humour and poignant with pathos. I
defy anybody except a tapeworm to read it without a lump in the
throat and tears in the eyes."--JAMES DOUGLAS.
Bound in cloth, 1s. 3d. net. Postage 4d. extra.
THE IRISH AT THE FRONT
SOME FURTHER REVIEWS
_The Times._--"'It is heroic deeds entering into their
traditions that give life to nations,' writes Mr. John Redmond
in his preface to Mr. Michael MacDonagh's _The Irish at the
Front_. The phrase sums up the aim and temper of the book, which
is designed to bring home to English, and especially to Irish,
readers the magnificent service of Irish soldiers in the war and
the sanctity of the cause for which they fight. It is an appeal
to Irishmen not to let the national effort flag, for the sake of
the highest interests both of humanity and of Ireland. In a
vivid and earnest popular style Mr. MacDonagh puts flesh and
blood on the dry bones of the official dispatches by drawing on
regimental records and the narratives of officers and men. The
letters of Irish soldiers give a lively impression of battle
scenes, and add greatly to the spirit of the volume; but many of
the most striking testimonies to the achievements of the Irish
regiments come from comrades who are not Irish. It is
indisputable that the traditional military valour of the Irish
race has been brilliantly sustained in this war, not only by the
old Regular battalions, but by the Irishmen of the New Army."
_Irish Times._--"Page after page uncovers the story of a heroism
such as few of us had dreamt of--a story told with the
understanding of one who is an Irishman of Nationalist
sympathies, intensely proud of his country, and of the form of
faith which is predominant in Ireland. We do not regard
ourselves as easily giving visible expression to our feelings,
but we must confess that we found the tears coming to our eyes
again and again as we read the magnificent, yet sad, story.
Whether it was the valour of the Munsters in their retreat from
Mons, or the headlong impetuosity of the Irish Guards at the
Battle of the Rivers, or the football charge of the London Irish
at Loos, or the glorious but ghastly tale of the 29th Division
at Beach V, or the hardly less awful landing of the 10th
Division at Suvla Bay, it was the same. We were overcome, yet
filled with pride, at the glory and the sorrow of it all. The
old spirit is still in the soldiers of Ireland. The shifting
scenes of the narrative tell us that the imperturbability and
daring which belonged to the Irish of past battles are seen as
strongly marked as ever in the hurriedly trained units of the
New Armies."
_Freeman's Journal._--"A vivid human narrative of the war, at
once a fine contribution to the history of the great deeds of
our day and a tribute to the heroism and sacrifices of the
Irish."
HODDER & STOUGHTON: London, New York and Toronto.
SOME RECENT WAR BOOKS
WITH A PREFACE BY RUDYARD KIPLING
BRITAIN AND THE WAR. By ANDRE CHEVRILLON. With a Preface by
RUDYARD KIPLING. Cloth, 5/-net.
J.P. BANG
HURRAH AND HALLELUJAH: The Spirit of New Germanism. A
Documentation. By J.P. BANG, Professor of Theology in the
University of Copenhagen. Second Edition. Cloth, 5/-net.
CAPTAIN PHILIPPE MILLET
COMRADES IN ARMS: Vignettes from the Trenches, the Artillery Zone,
or Behind the Lines. By Captain PHILIPPE MILLET. Translated by
Lady FRAZER. Cloth, 3/6 net.
JOHANNES JORGENSEN
FALSE WITNESS: The Authorised Translation of "Klokke Roland." By
JOHANNES JORGENSEN. With Illustrations. Cloth, 3/6 net.
L. MOKVELD
THE GERMAN FURY IN BELGIUM: The Personal Experiences of a
Netherlands Journalist during Four Months with the German
Armies. By L. MOKVELD, War Correspondent of _De Tyd_. Cloth, 3/6
net.
JACQUES BAINVILLE
ITALY AND THE WAR. By JACQUES BAINVILLE. Cloth, 3/6 net.
Ch. DE VISSCHER
BELGIUM'S CASE: A Juridical Enquiry. By CH. DE VISSCHER, Professor
of Law at the University of Ghent. Cloth, 3/6 net.
HODDER & STOUGHTON, Publishers, Warwick Sq., London, E.C.
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End of Project Gutenberg's The Irish on the Somme, by Michael MacDonagh