COURAGE--FEAR--COWARDICE
Practically all men and most
women are brave when the occasion
requires it. Out there one sees many types of
brave men. There are few cases of cowardice
in the face of the enemy, though in all the
armies in this great conflict men have been shot
for this crime. Conscience may make cowards
of us all, but war makes brave men of most of
us. In this war the pampered few, as well as
those who earned their bread by the sweat of
their brow, have shown a courage unsurpassed
in the so-called chivalrous ages that are gone.
Death-dealing instruments have been multiplied
and refined by the inventive resources of
our times till they have reached a stage of
perfection never even approached in the past.
Aeroplanes, zeppelins, artillery, various types
of trench mortars, mining, machine-guns,
poisonous gases, liquid fire, and the many other
means of killing and disabling our enemies
have rendered this war the most horrible and
terrifying in history. Yet it is rare at the front
to see officers or men exhibit cowardice. With
few exceptions all face death in its many forms
with a smile on their lips, bearing at the same
time indescribable hardships of mud, dirt, lice,
work and weather with unbeatable stoicism.
They are always ready to go forward with
their faces to the foe, an irresistible army of
citizen soldiers. The hardships are often more
trying than the dangers, yet it is always an
inspiration to hear gay peals of laughter at the
discomforts and hardships borne by men
accustomed to all the luxuries of comfortable
homes and beloved families.
Just at dark on a zero-cold winter's
day our battalion arrived at some new frame
huts on the edge of a wood. The huts had just
been built; they knew not the meaning of
bunks, stoves, or other comforts. The gray
sky could be seen through many chinks in the
war-contract lumber, and the frozen earth
through cracks in the floor. After a cold
supper of bully beef, bread, and jam, there lay
down on the bare floor of the H.Q. hut to
sleep as best they could,--the colonel, a
criminal lawyer of Vancouver; the second in
command, a lumber dealer of Ottawa; an attached
major, a lawyer of the same place; the
adjutant, a broker of Montreal; the paymaster, a
banker of Kingston; the signal officer, a bank
clerk of Edmonton; the scout officer, son of a
well-known high court judge of Quebec; and
myself. Not a complaint was heard, but jokes
were bandied to and fro, and shortly the
regular breathing of some and the snoring of others
testified that man may quickly become
accustomed to strange surroundings. In the
morning the boots of all were frozen to the floor!
Men are brave because of many motives.
When they are standing shoulder to shoulder
facing an enemy, few of them flinch, no
matter how dark the outlook is at the moment.
Their pride in themselves, their loyalty to their
native land, their love of their comrades, and
their hatred for the enemy combine to prevent
them from allowing fear to conquer them.
Fear, _per se_, is another matter. Practically
all men experience fear under fire at times, but
they grit their teeth and press on. The quality
that makes them do this is what we call
courage. Any man who could look into a hole in
the ground into which you could drop a small
house, and, knowing this hole was made by a
large caliber shell, yet feel no fear on going
through a barrage of such shells, is not a brave
man; he's an imbecile. As Kelly said:
"A man that's not afeard o' thim shells has
more courage than sinse."
But even outside of that natural fear of
shells there is no doubt that at certain moments
during the multitudinous dangers of war all
men really feel afraid. It cannot be avoided
if a man sets any value whatever upon his life;
999 out of 1,000 conquer that impulse to fly,
and carry on, the thousandth allows the
impulse to conquer him. He is thereafter
branded, "coward," unless he retrieves himself later.
Instinctively the brave man is recognized by
his fellowmen. In a dangerous advance there
are usually a few who drop behind, hide in a
shellhole or dugout till the danger passes or
lessens, and then rejoin their unit, claiming to
have been lost or stunned by a shell. In this
way they escape being accused of, and perhaps
shot for, desertion. It may be that these
men are more to be pitied than blamed. Self
preservation is the first law of nature, but it is
a physical law, and the moral law that man
must not be a coward overrules it. A few
hours after the advance over Vimy Ridge, my
corporal and I, while dressing wounded on the
field, met a number of stragglers, all going
toward the front lines. They gave various
excuses for being behind their companies, and
some no doubt told the truth, but it is also
certain that a few had shirked.
There is a legitimate nervousness, named
"shell shock." The real cases of this condition,
when they are extreme, are sad to see. An
officer or Tommy, who has previously been an
excellent soldier, suddenly develops "nerves"
to such an extent as to be uncontrollable. He
trembles violently, his heart may be disorderly
in rhythm, he has a terrified air, the slightest
noise makes him jump and even occasionally
run at top speed to a supposed place of safety.
He is the personification of terror, at times
crying out or weeping like a child. He is
unfit for duty, and will require rest for an
extended time. Some cases are not so extreme
as this and may simply display sufficient
nervousness to prevent their going on.
Shell shock is brought about by the effects
of severe shelling; by being buried by an
explosion of shell or mine; or by the killing beside
the sufferer of a companion. In short, these
cases are due to the subjection of the nervous
system to a strain which it is unable to
withstand, making it collapse instead of resiliency
rebounding. The extreme cases are pitiable to
observe, and are just as ill as if they were
suffering from insanity, or delirium tremens. It
is doubtful if the man who has suffered from
a severe attack of this malady is ever again fit
to serve in the firing line. Only time can tell
whether or not any permanent weakness will
be left in the nervous system as its result.
These are not cases of cowardice, though to a
superficial observer they might appear so.
Some of them six months later, after that full
period of rest and care, still show marked
tremor, a fast or irregular heart, are "jumpy" on
the slightest sharp sound, and are generally
unfit for service.
It is interesting to study the psychology of
the coward, but it is more interesting and
infinitely more inspiring to study that of the
brave man. Brave men and courageous
women are so common, as this war has amply
proven, that we may find plenty of material for
this study. The women--God bless them, and
sustain them--have to show more courage than
the men; for they have to endure in patience
the life-sapping tedium of staying at home,
while their loved ones go into danger--and
perhaps to death. They have not, as their
men have, the variety of change, the interest
of novelty, or the excitement of battle to
sustain them and occupy their minds. Their duty
is to wait, wait, wait--praying and hoping that
a good and merciful God will spare _their_ loved
ones. Oh, you wives, and mothers, and
sweethearts, who wait, the world owes to you much
more of honor and thanks than it owes to the
men at the front! You, in your sublime
unselfishness, prefer to see your beloved
men-folks get the honors and praise, while you are
content and happy to accept the reflected
glory!
Every country in the world believes that it
has the fairest women and the bravest men,
and, to make an Irishism, each is right in
believing it. It is only natural that each country
should have a national pride in the deeds of its
heroes, and this war will give to most countries
enough acts of bravery and of chivalry to
inspire their youth for a few generations.
--------
Capt. Gammil was a handsome, dashing
chap whose love of fine clothes, bright colors,
silk pajamas--which he wore even in the lines,
while the rest of us slept in our uniforms,
according to orders--and immaculate cleanliness,
gained for him the sobriquet, Beau
Brummel. His farcical gayety was continuous,
and rarely did he appear serious, even
though a serious mien would have been more
appropriate. His extremes of style made him
a daily cause of humorous remarks on the
part of his comrades; and yet his courage was
unquestioned. I have seen him coolly walking
along, daintily smoking his special brand of
cigarette, apparently as much at ease as if he
were in his own smoking room, with the shells
at the same time bursting all about him. Good
stories were told of his careless fearlessness at
the Somme and elsewhere, as he carried out his
duties in tight corners with the _sang-froid_ of
a veteran. Here was a fellow one would take
to be the lightest of the light, a poseur, a
farceur, a dandy of the ladies, who could be as
gay and light in danger as in London. He is
the type of chap who was, no doubt, "a sissy"
in the opinion of his fellow-schoolboys, but is
in reality of the stuff that men are made.
Major Billbower, an English bank-clerk
who had lived some years in Canada, was
rather the reverse of the above. He took life
more seriously, and hardly a day went by that
he did not put into the orderly room a
complaint, great or small, until he got the name,
"the grouser." Usually his complaints were
on behalf of his men whom he seemed to think
were always getting discriminated against by
someone. Because he was of the rather
extreme, unmixable, aristocratic type his men
respected him rather than loved him (though he
was a very likable chap to those who really
knew him) but they would unhesitatingly
follow him through hell-fire, for in danger his
handsomely-chiseled features wore a scornful
smile as he strode along, gayly swinging his
cane, with the same air that he had worn in
more peaceful days in Hyde Park. He had
been decorated for conspicuous bravery, and
well deserved it. On one occasion a large
caliber dud shell struck in the doorway of a
superficial dugout in which he was writing, and
rolled to his feet. Without more than a glance
at it, he coolly pushed it to one side with his
foot, and continued writing.
Corporal Pare, a red-headed Irish boy, was
for a long time my sanitary corporal in the
lines and out. He had been serving in the
lines for sixteen months at the time of which
I write, and was tired of it. He frankly said
he was afraid to do certain things, but when
ordered to do them, he carried them out
cheerfully and smilingly. At the Somme he won
great praise as a runner for carrying messages
through heavy barrages, always appearing
terrified at the prospect, but always getting
through. Many a time inspecting the trenches
with me he would say, respectfully: "Those
pineapples are dropping in just ahead of us,
sir. Hadn't we better turn back?" Perhaps
to tease him, I would go on, telling him to
"come along." "Very good, sir," he would say
with a cheerful smile on his red face, and he
would trudge along like a faithful dog. He
was "homely" in looks, red-headed, not clever,
and said he was afraid, but no more faithful or
more dependable soldier ever went to the front
than Corporal Pare.
Sergeant Gascrain was a small, shriveled,
sharp-tongued, five-foot-high, French
Canadian who assisted me for some time. He was
cynical as to the illnesses of the men, and
treated them usually like so many cattle,
believing them all to be malingerers, till one day
I reminded him that a man may often malinger,
but that did not prevent him from occasionally
getting sick. He apparently did not believe
it, though he often cursed the rheumatism that
afflicted his own joints. He said they all had
"frigidity of the feet, with a big F." He was
at times addicted to alcohol and every few
months he lost his stripes because of intoxication.
Then he would labor incessantly till,
by his good work, he won them back again.
And when he did regain them he was as proud
as if he had won his marshal's baton, until the
next occasion when the great god Bacchus put
him back to the ranks with one fell swoop.
With all his faults he had an absolute
disregard of danger. I sincerely believe that he
thought that if a shell should strike him--well,
so much the worse for the shell. At the Somme
his cool, courageous work under heavy shell
fire won for him, at the recommendation of a
British colonel who had observed it, the
military medal. But one deed he performed which
I think deserved more praise than any other.
While working on the field a Lieutenant
Colonel was brought to him on a stretcher.
The Lieutenant Colonel's wound was so slight
as to cause a sneer to hover about the sergeant's
lips as he dressed it. A stretcher squad
carried the colonel to the rear, and another squad,
under the sergeant's direction, carried a
badly-wounded Tommy. An ambulance came for
them. The sergeant had the soldier put in first
and then the colonel. But the colonel angrily
protested against the Tommy being allowed to
go in the same ambulance with him.
"_Tres bien, monsieur_," replied the sergeant
in his quick, sharp tones, and turning to a
stretcher squad, said, "Remove the officer." It
was quickly done, the colonel staring in angry
astonishment, the sergeant coolly continuing
his work while the officer awaited the coming
of another ambulance. In my opinion this act
of an N.C.O. was worthy of a V.C.
Major Peters.--This officer somehow
impressed me as being without any semblance of
nervousness under any conditions. He was
always an interesting study. If a shell burst in
our neighborhood, close enough to make most
of us "duck," Pete would go on serenely as
if on church parade. Rather slow thinking,
he was sure in judgment. He never made
haste to give his thoughts tongue, "nor any
unproportioned thought his act." He had a
quiet, dry humor, and generous, kindly nature.
He was invariably late on parade, and
probably improperly dressed. I have met him on
one occasion wandering aimlessly across an
area looking for his company, which he had
somehow mislaid. If the orderly room gave
out an order for some return to be made by
company commanders by 8 a.m., his was never
in before 10, and then only after he had been
reminded of the order. After the Battle of
Arras he forgot altogether to put in his
recommendations for bravery on the part of any of
his men, though by a rush movement he
succeeded in getting them in on time.
But with all these faults he had the respect,
trust and confidence of everyone. He had
won the M.C. twice for coolness and bravery
in action. If the holding of the front line was
a particularly risky proposition at any time,
he would probably be the man in charge of the
task. He was never found wanting when cool,
courageous action was needed, and all knew
it. Many are the good tales told of him in his
early front line days. By night he would
quietly wander off over the parapet by
himself, and an hour or so later would come
strolling back, after having had a good look into the
German lines, and perhaps into some of their
dugouts. In his slow voice he would give any
valuable information, not wasting any words
in doing it. On one of these trips, as he
stepped back over the parapet he was met by a
senior officer who, knowing his junior's
characteristics, said,--
"Well, Pete, what have you found out this time?"
Pete sat himself down on the firing step of
the trench and gave him all the information
that he had. Suddenly the senior noticed that
a pool of blood was collecting where Major
Peters sat.
"Are you wounded?" he cried.
"Well, yes," Peters answered slowly, "guess
they got me that time," and he rose and strolled
carelessly along to the R.A.P. where his
wounds were found to be serious enough to put
him out of action for a few weeks. The
Germans had thrown a bomb at him.
The major loved dearly going into dangerous
zones, just wandering off to see what he
could see. After we had taken Vimy Ridge,
but not yet progressed beyond it, we had
outposts on the German side of it, looking down
on Vimy and other German positions, 400 or
500 yards away. A good deal of sniping was
going on against us, as our men were so much
exposed on the side of the hill, where they had
very little protection except an odd shellhole
or a few feet of shallow trench here and there.
Our battalion was holding this line, and I, on
the day Vimy village was taken, April 13th,
had occasion to make a hurried trip along this
whole front, At one spot, where a trench two
feet deep was the only protection from possible
sniping or shell fire, Major Peters stood,
leaning back against the parados, two-thirds of
his body exposed, hands in pockets, gazing
pensively across at the Vimy ruins.
"What are you trying to do? Get your
bally head blown off?" I demanded.
Without looking around, or otherwise changing
his position, he replied in his slow voice:
"I don't think there's anyone there to blow
my head off." This shows his judgment, for
he was right, as it proved a little later when
our scout officer, followed by a single platoon,
entered it. But it showed also his carelessness
as to danger, for at the moment he was
only guessing, or surmising, that there was no
one in Vimy, and at any moment he might have
found it out to his sorrow.
A few minutes after this the accidental
explosion of a Mills bomb killed one man,
wounded two officers severely, and six men
almost as severely, and I was kept busy for some
time attending to them. Having finished, I
found Major Peters near me, looking longingly
toward Vimy, into the ruins of which
our scout officer, Lieutenant A----; our
O.C. battalion, Major E----; and a platoon in
charge of ever-smiling Lieutenant G---- had
all disappeared. Major Peters was apparently
impatient to go across, though he had no right
to do so without orders. Leaving the wounded
to be evacuated by my always trustworthy and
fearless assistants, Corporal H---- and Private
B----, M.M., and their stretcher bearers,
I joined him. Though I had even less right
to go across than he, we dared each other to
go, and off we went. An odd shell was falling
about and it was quite characteristic for
Pete to remark, slowly and seriously,--
"I don't mind dodging shells, but I do hate
dodging that damned orderly room of ours."
But he was as joyously gay as if he were a
schoolboy going on some forbidden picnic.
Without encountering a Boche we leisurely
strolled through the ruined and deserted
streets, passing here and there a dead German,
and one Canadian who must have got lost, and
been killed while looking for his own lines.
On the main road was a wagon of heavy shells
with its wheels interlocked with those of
another wagon--both apparently deserted in a
hurry by the fleeing Germans, for an officer's
complete kit lay beside them. We passed the
station and went on out 500 yards to where
our platoon was "digging in." We joined
them, and then wandered on for one hundred
yards into what was to be the new No Man's
Land, without ever having encountered a
German. They had deserted the village by dark,
and had not left even the proverbial corporal's
guard behind. Guided by the major through
the streets which were now in the shadows of
evening we unerringly found our way back
whence we had come, for he had the path-finding
instincts of the North American Indian.
On arrival we found that, while my absence
had been unnoticed, poor Pete's had been, and
for some minutes in the orderly room he was
in hot water explaining matters. His
explanations ended, as they usually did, by
being unsatisfactory, and our strict disciplinarian
adjutant, Major P----, turned aside to
hide a smile, and murmur,--
"Poor Pete! Always in trouble." No
matter what breach he ever made in the rules,
Peters was always forgiven, for his sterling
worth was too well known to allow anyone in
authority to hold anger against him.
One of the best stories told of him is so droll,
and yet so typical, that it is worth repeating:
He was attending a course of instruction with
a number of other officers on measures to be
taken during a gas attack. The gas expert
had shown carefully how the gas masks should
be put on quickly and correctly, and the
officers were applying them. They were
instructed to take off the masks, and to see which
of them could have his on in the shortest time.
To the surprise of all present the slow-moving
major had his mask on before any of the
others. On inquiring of him how it happened,
he admitted with that humorous dry smile of
his that he had not bothered taking his mask
off after the first trial.
CAPT. J. A. CULLUM, C.A.M.C.
Some twelve years ago when I was studying
in Edinburgh, at Scotland's famous
university, I occupied rooms at the apartment
house of a bonnie little Scotch woman on
Marchmont Road. Miss Anderson was a
mother to us all. How well I remember her
smiling, sweet face, above which her white hair
made an appropriate halo, as she came in to
do for us some kindly, thoughtful act. May
she still be in the land of the living and happy!
In the next suite of rooms lived Jack Cullum
of Regina, Canada, and for the last month
before examinations, the regular lessees of his
rooms having returned, he and I occupied the
same suite. He was a square-jawed,
firm-mouthed, good-looking chap, with a strong arm
and leg, made strong by breaking bronchos
on the western Canadian ranch where he grew
to manhood and prosperity. He was blunt,
almost to a fault, but his word was good, his
mind fair, and his manners sociable. Other
Canadians who were post-graduating there at
the same time will remember many a gay
evening we passed in the old R.B. on Princes
Street, that most magnificent thoroughfare in
Scotland, with the old Castle which saw many
of the happy and unhappy hours of poor Mary
Queen of Scots as a background, Calton Hill
and its unfinished Grecian architecture at one
end, and that fine Gothic monument to Sir
Walter Scott in the center. In all these jolly
evenings dear old Cullum was foremost in
pay-times and gay-times.
In serious moments and in times of leisure,
however, his mind often carried him back in
happy reminiscence to his homeland where a
pretty Canadian girl, whose photo he carried
and often showed, was anticipating his return.
When the war came Jack was among the
first to come forward. He went across to
France with a Western Canadian battalion.
In the next year Cullum was decorated for
conspicuous gallantry three times, twice by the
King and once by the French Government
with the Croix de Guerre. His first act of
bravery was performed when the Huns blew
up a mine in No Man's Land, injuring many
of his battalion. He, heedless of danger--and
orders--rushed over the top, and attended
his men in plain view of the enemy. For this
he was given the Military Cross by King
George; and a bar to the M.C. and the French
decoration came later for acts of almost
reckless courage. He was the first Canadian to
win three decorations, and now he was thought
to bear a charmed life by his comrades. Shortly
after the last bit of ribbon came to him he
applied for transfer to the fighting forces,
resigning his commission in the medical corps, to
accept a lower rank in the infantry. And just
following this noble act, while sitting in a mess
hut two miles behind the lines at Noulette
Wood, a stray shell came through the roof,
slightly injuring two other officers, and
mortally wounding Cullum. His generous soul
displayed itself to the last, for he absolutely
refused to have his wounds dressed until after
the others had been attended to, maintaining
that his injuries were slight. And the gallant
Cullum died in the ambulance on his way to
the hospital.
But of course they are not all the fine types.
You occasionally meet what the English call
a rotter, but his kind is exceedingly scarce.
After all, the finest type is the ordinary
common soldier, without any special qualifications,
who, day in and day out, night in and night
out, performs the dirty, rough, hard, monotonous,
and often very dangerous, tasks of the
Tommy; who does his duty, grumbling perhaps,
swearing often, but does it without
cowardice, without hope of honor or emolument,
except the honor of doing his duty and doing
it like a man. When his work is done he comes
back, if still alive and well, to sleep in wet
clothes, on a mud floor, under a leaky roof or
no roof, often hungry, or his appetite satisfied
by bully beef and biscuit.
Yes; with all his swearing, despite any
lead-swinging, the finest type of all, the real hero
of the war, is the ordinary common soldier!