hard labour--clearing out a trench and building up a parapet, we'll
say--is undone and washed out just as it's finished by a succession of
Boche oil-cans, mortars, and general bombardment, which also lays out a
few good men, and blows the next meal rations sky-high, so that there's
the prospect of a long night's extra hard work where some rest had been
expected, and all on an empty stomach--then you'll hear no grousing at
all, but any number of jocular remarks:
"I tell you, the Army of to-day's _all right_!" "We don't get much
pay, but, my word, we _do_ see life!" "Save me a lot o' trouble, this
will. My fightin' weight was goin' up a lot too fast, but this'll save
me givin' up my port wine an' turtle soup!" Then some wag pretends
to consult his newspaper, and, looking up, announces that: "On the
remainder of the Front the night was comparatively quiet." "Yes,"
says another, quoting further from the imaginary news, "and the
banquet which had been arranged for 'A' Company was pos'poned till the
following day." "When it is hoped," adds yet another joker, "that a
number of prominent Boche prisoners will attend." Elaborate winks and
nods; and one man positively licks his lips as he mutters: "Gosh! If
only they really _would_ come over the sticks to-night; if only they
would!" "Reg'ler bloomin' pacifist, isn't he?" remarks a student of the
Press, "longin' to welcome the gentle Hun with open arms, he is--not
'arf!" "We'll welcome him all right, if only the beggar 'd come. I'd
like to use a section or two of 'em for buildin' up this bloomin'
parapet. Be stiffer than these sand-bags full o' slush." "Shame! An'
you a yewmanitarian, too. Why, how'd our poor chaps ever be able to
stand the smell of all them potted Huns, an' so close, too? You're too
harsh, mate; reg'ler Prussian, I call you."
So it goes on. It's a bitter cold night. They are up nearly to their
thighs in half-frozen slush. Their day's work has been entirely undone
in half an hour, and has to be done over again without any interval
for rest; and the supper ration's "gone West." You can hardly imagine
what the loss of a meal means, with a night like that ahead of you,
and occasional shells still dropping round the bit you must repair.
They look awful ruffians, these chaps; caked all over with mud, hair
and eyebrows and all; three or four days' stubble on their chins, and
all kinds of ribaldry on their lips. They love their ease and creature
comforts at least as much as any conscientious objector could; and God
knows they are here as far removed from ease and creature comfort as
men well could be--entirely of their own free will. And they will carry
on all night, cracking their simple jokes and chaffing one another, and
jostling each other to get to the front if one or two are required for
anything extra dangerous. And the spirit that dictates their little
jokes, isn't it as fine as any shown in bygone days by the aristocrats
of France and England? If you told these fellows they were aristocrats,
imagine how they'd take it! "'Ere, 'op it! Not so much of it! Wotcher
givin' us?"
But aren't they--bless 'em! I tell you, when I come to compare 'em
with the fellows we're up against across the way; with those poor
devils of machine-driven Boches, with their record of brutish murder
and swinishness in Belgium--why, there's not a shadow of doubt in my
mind they are real aristocrats. The war has helped to make them so, of
course. But, whatever the cause, they stand out, with the splendidly
gallant _poilus_ of France: true aristocrats--five hundred miles of
'em from the North Sea to Switzerland, pitted against the deluded and
brutalised, machine-driven Boches. There are no officers and machine
driving our fellows, or the cheery, jolly French soldiers. Held back
occasionally, directed always, they may be. There's no need of any
driving on our side. Unquestioning obedience to an all-powerful machine
may be a useful thing in its way. I know a better, though; and that's
convinced, willing, eager determination, guided--never driven--by
officers who share it, and share everything else the men have and do.
And that's what there is all down our side of the line, from the North
Sea to Switzerland.
But, look here; I've just read through my last page, and it seems to
me I've been preaching, ranting, perhaps. I'd better stow it and get on
with my work. You see, one can't _talk_ this kind of thing; and yet--I
don't know, one feels it pretty often, and rather strongly. It's a bit
of a relief to tell you something about it--in writing. Even to you, I
probably shouldn't, by word of mouth, you know. One doesn't, somehow;
but this sort of chatting with a pen is different. All I actually want
to say, though it has taken such a lot of paper to say it on, is that
the men really are splendid. I love them. (It certainly is easier
writing than talking.) I want you to know about it; to know something
about these chaps--they come from every class of the community--so that
you'll love 'em, too. I wish we could make every woman, and every man
and child, too, in England understand how fine these fellows are, and
how fine, really, the life they're leading is.
For sheer hardness and discomfort there's nothing in the life of the
poorest worker in England to compare with it. They are never out of
instant danger. And the level of their spirits is far higher than
you'd find it in any model factory or workshop at home. Death itself
they meet with little jokes; I mean that literally. And the daily
round of their lives is simply full of little acts of self-sacrifice,
generosity, and unstudied, unnoted heroism, such as famous reputations
are based upon in civil life in peace time. I feel I can't make
it plain, as it deserves to be. I wish I could. But you must just
accept it because I say it, and love 'em all--the French as well as
ours--because they've made themselves loved by your
"_Temporary Gentleman_."
AN UNHEALTHY BIT OF LINE
Rather to the general surprise, we have been moved into a new sector of
the line, immediately south of what we called "our own." We have not
been told why--the Olympians do not deal in whys and wherefores--but,
according to gossip, we can take our choice between the wish to make
us all familiar with the general lie of the land round here, to be the
better prepared for a push; and the undoubted fact that a new Division
is being moved into the line, and that our move southward facilitates
this. Perhaps the real reason of the move is a mixture of both these;
but, whether or no, the move itself provides striking evidence of the
marked differences which exist between different parts of the line, and
the extremely narrow and circumscribed nature of the knowledge one gets
of the Front while serving in trenches.
Our "B" Company is holding just now the subsection which actually
adjoins the right of the sector we used to hold. We are on the right of
"B," and "C" is on our right, with "D" back in the support line. Even
"B's" bit, though it does adjoin our old beat, differs greatly from
that; and our present short line is hemispheres away from the sector
we knew before. There's not very much of it--about half the length of
the line we last held--but what there is is hot and strong, I can tell
you. The way in which "B" Company's bit differs is chiefly that it's
in sandy soil, instead of all clay, and so is much drier and cleaner,
more habitable in every way than anything we are accustomed to. But
our bit, variously known as Petticoat Lane (why, I can't imagine),
Cut-Throat Alley (obvious enough), and The Gut--well, our bit is, as
"the Peacemaker" said directly he saw it, "very interesting." I think
that's about the kindest thing you can say of it; and interesting it
certainly is.
To begin with, the greatest distance between any one spot in it and
the Boche front line is seventy or eighty yards; and there's a place at
which it's only half that. But the salient point in the whole sector
is this: the half of our line that is seventy or eighty yards from
the Boche line has between it and the Boche line a string of craters,
the far lips of which are not more than fifteen to twenty paces from
Fritz's sentries. These craters are sometimes occupied by the Boche and
sometimes by us; but nobody attempts to hold them by day; they don't
give shelter enough for that; and the betting as to who is to hold them
on any given night is about even.
You might almost say, "But why should anybody want to hold the beastly
things?" And if you ever set foot in one of them, you'd say it with
some feeling, for it's like trying to walk, or rather to crawl, in a
bottomless pit of porridge. When dusk is coming on of an evening half
a dozen of our bombers may start crawling from our parapet, making
for the nearest crater. Maybe Fritz is dull and misses them. Maybe
he opens such a hot fire they have to shin back quick. Maybe, just
as we are getting close to the near edge of a crater, and flattering
ourselves we've been a bit too nippy for the Boche this time, we get a
rousing welcome from the crater itself, in the shape of three or four
well-aimed bombs among us. Then those of us who are still able to think
realise that the Boche has been a bit beforehand and got there first.
Next night the process is reversed. During last night those confounded
craters changed hands three times, remaining at last, I am glad to say,
with us. We lost one man killed and two wounded. But we brought back
two wounded and one dead Boche, and we reckon to have knocked out at
least six others.
It was a nightmare of a night, to tell the truth, but nothing big
enough to get into dispatches. One point about the holding of these
craters is that it enables you to lob bombs, or almost anything else
for that matter, into the Boche front trench. Down here we really are
learning something about oil-cans, mortars, and short range heavy stuff
generally. It's very much hand-to-hand warfare, and, I suppose because
of that, much more savage and more primitive than anything we've seen
before. There practically isn't any No Man's Land here. It's just our
trench and their trench and the muddy, bloody cock-pit between, all
churned into a slushy batter by high explosives, and full of all manner
of ghastly remains. Souvenirs! By Heavens! the curio hunters could find
all they wanted here within a few yards of where I'm sitting, but not
many of 'em would have the spunk to gather 'em in. You see, I haven't
any great respect for the souvenir hunter. He seems a ghoulish sort of
a creature to me, and I can't believe the cynical old "Peacemaker" when
he says the bulk of them, and all the more inveterate sort, are women.
The C.O. tells "the Peacemaker" he is so arranging things that no
Company will get more than four days on end in Petticoat Lane, and then
the other three days of the turn in trenches, in the support line,
where Battalion Headquarters is. "A" Company, of course, takes glory
to itself for having been the first to be sent in here, and I think
this fully compensates them for the fact that nobody's had any rest
worth speaking about since we got in. We shall probably do better in
that respect when we have time to get used to the change. In fact, I
can see a difference already in the men's attitude. But, mind you, the
change is radical, from two hundred yards' interval between yourself
and Fritz, down to fifty yards. It affects every moment of your life,
and every mortal thing you do. More, it actually affects what you say.
You don't make any telephonic arrangements about patrols and that sort
of thing here. We are learning German at a great rate. But it was
very startling to our fellows the first night, when they found they
could hear voices in the enemy line. It seemed to bring Fritz and his
ingenious engines very close indeed.
But already the men have begun to crack their little jokes about it,
and pretend to be careful about setting down a canteen of tea or a
bit of bread lest one of "them bloomin' sauer-krauters lean over and
pick it up before you can turn round--hungry blighters!" I confess I'm
conscious that the nearness represents a great deal of added nerve
strain; but, thank goodness, the men don't seem to feel it a bit.
They're just as jolly as ever. But it is mighty intimate and primitive,
you know.
Imagine! The first thing I laid my hand on when I got into a crater on
our first night, after we'd bombed Fritz out of it, was the face of a
wounded Boche; and he bit my little finger to the bone, so that I had
to have it washed and dressed by the M.O. for fear of poisoning. It's
nothing; but I mention it as an instance of the savage primitiveness of
this life at close quarters with the Boche.
There's simply no end to his dodgy tricks here. Three or four of 'em
will cry out for help from a crater--in English, you know--and pretend
to be our own men, wounded and unable to move, or Boches anxious to
give themselves up. And then, if anyone's soft enough to get over the
parapet to go and lend a hand, they open a hot fire, or wait till we
get very near and then bomb. We had verbal warnings in plenty from the
Company we relieved, but it's experience that teaches; and, whilst they
may not be brilliant tricksters--they're not,--our fellows will at all
events never allow the same trick to be worked off twice on us.
By his fondness for all such petty tricks as these--and, of course,
they have dozens of dirtier ones than this--the Boche has rather shut
the door on chivalry. Given half a chance, the natural inclination of
our men is to wage war as they would play cricket--like sportsmen.
You've only to indicate to them that this or that is a rule of the
game--of any game--and they're on it at once. And if you indicated
nothing, of their own choice they'd always play roughly fair and
avoid the dirty trick by instinct. But the Boche washes all that out.
Generosity and decency strike him as simply foolishness. And you cannot
possibly treat him as a sportsman, because he'll do you down at every
turn if you do; and here in Petticoat Lane being done down doesn't only
mean losing your money. As a rule, you haven't any of that to lose. It
means--"going West for keeps"; that is, being killed. It's that sort of
thing that has made Petticoat Lane life savage and primitive; and the
fact that it's so close and intimate as to be pressing on you all round
all the time, that is what gives the additional nerve strain.
It is, of course, a great place for little raids. The trenches are
so close that you're no sooner out of your own than you're on top of
theirs. And I take it as evidence of the moral superiority being on
this side of the line, that we see very much more of their trenches
than they ever see of ours. It is a great deal more difficult to repair
trenches here than it was when we were a couple of hundred yards away
from the enemy, because of the frequency of the oil-cans and bombs. The
consequence is that, from the point of view of the cover they give,
both our trenches and the Boches' are much inferior to those we had
before. But, curiously enough, we have some very decent dug-outs here,
deep and well protected.
In fact, take it all round, we are not so badly off at all. And
"interesting" the place most certainly is. ("The Peacemaker" generally
means "dangerous" when he says "interesting.") There's something doing
in the strafing line pretty nearly all the time; and strafing is a
deal more interesting than navvying, pumping, and mud-shovelling. The
chances for little shows of one sort and another are more numerous here
than where we were before. We've tried one or two already, and when we
get back into the support line you shall have full particulars from
your somewhat tired but quite jolly
"_Temporary Gentleman_."
THEY SAY----
We were relieved in Petticoat Lane by "D" Company last night, and
took the place they'd held in the support line; "a corner of Heaven
itself," of course, after The Gut. And I have had a most luxurious and
delightful day to-day, out of trenches altogether.
Our O.C. "the Peacemaker"--you do remember, don't you, that the
Officer Commanding the Battalion is the C.O., and the Officer
Commanding the Company the O.C.: saves confusion--is an awfully good
chap. He didn't say anything about it, but I feel sure he put me on my
job of to-day--chose me for it--because he thought it would be good for
me. He was ordered to send an officer to arrange about billets for the
Company in ---- ready for when we go out. Taffy's been a bit under the
weather in Petticoat Lane, and is able to get a rest here in support.
This meant rather more sticking to it for me in the front line, and,
as a matter of fact, I didn't get an hour's sleep while we were there.
We had little strafes going most of the time, and I was rather cheap
when we came out last night; bit shaky, you know; that's all. Two
Boche mines were exploded in The Gut while we were there; both with
extraordinarily little loss to us. But I was lifted out of the trench
by one of 'em; and I suppose these things do indirectly affect one a
bit, somehow, even when there is nothing to show for it; at all events,
when they are combined with shortage of sleep.
Anyhow, I'm as right as ninepence to-night, and had a fine sleep after
midnight yesterday. And to-day, with "the Peacemaker's" horse for
company, I've been playing the country gentleman at large and fixing
up billets for the Company, and done pretty well for 'em, too. It was
something of a race between Grierson of "D" and myself for the best
officers' mess and sleeping quarters in ----; but Grierson hadn't much
chance, really. He hasn't even my smattering of French, and his O.C.
had not lent him a horse.
The goodwife at the place I've got for ourselves is a torrential
talker, and in rounding up the boys and girls working on her farm she
shows a bit of a temper; but I'm certain she's a jolly capable manager,
and she has promised to cook for us, which will mean a fine change from
the batman's efforts in that line. Also the billets themselves are
good, those for the men being the best I've seen anywhere: dry as a
chip, and thoroughly sheltered from the wind. We shall be in clover for
our week out, especially as I think ---- is a bit too far back to admit
of our being on trench fatigues at all while out.
I did enjoy the pottering about on my own, and the nearest firing
being three or four miles away all the time, made everything seem
so extraordinarily peaceful after the roaring racket and straining
watchfulness of Cut-Throat Alley; where one's eyes sort of ache from
trying to look all ways at once, and one's ears and head generally
get dead from the effort of recording the precise meaning of each
outstanding roar in the continuous din. Also I met two or three
interesting people, including the Town Major in ----.
I had some grub about one o'clock in a big _estaminet_, almost a
restaurant, really; and it was most interesting, after the trenches,
to listen to the gossip and eat without feeling you had to look out
for anything. There are a number of French residents left in this
place, and this makes it different from the village we were last in,
just behind the line, where the inhabitants have left, and the place
is purely a camp, and partly in ruins at that. This place still has a
natural human sort of life of its own, you know. And there are women in
it, and a priest or two, and cows and sheep, and a town-crier, and that
sort of thing--something fascinatingly human about all that, though it
is within four miles of the firing line.
The café was simply full of rumours and gossip. Military gossip is,
of course, taboo with strangers and civilians, and rightly, since one
cannot be sure who is and who is not a spy. But I suppose there's
no harm in it among people who can recognise each other's uniforms
and badges. Anyhow, I heard a lot to-day, which may or may not have
anything in it.
The things that interested me most were things about our own bit
of front, and there were two definite reports about this. First, I
heard that we are to throw out a new front-line trench to bridge
the re-entrant south of Petticoat Lane. And then I heard we are to
make a push to collar the Boche front line on the bend opposite us,
because a few hundred yards of line there would mean a lot to us in
the straightening of our front generally, and in washing out what is
undoubtedly a strong corner for the Boche now, because it gives him
some fine enfilading positions. If this were brought off it would wash
out The Gut altogether as firing line, and that in itself would be a
godsend. Also it would mean a real push, which is naturally what we
all want. We think the fact of that extra Division having been fitted
into our line rather endorses the report, and are feeling rather
bucked in consequence. The whole Battalion, and for that matter the
whole Division, is just spoiling for the chance of a push, and I doubt
whether we've a man who wouldn't volunteer for the front line of the
push at this moment, and jolly glad of the chance.
I said in my last letter that I'd tell you about our little strafing
stunts while we were in Petticoat Lane. But, really, this new prospect
of a push and the report about the new front-line trench to be cut make
them seem pretty small beer, and quite a long way off now, anyhow. You
remember I told you there was a startling difference between the left
of our present sector and the right of the one we were in before. It
wasn't only the difference between clay and sand, you know. It was
that, whereas the right of the old sector was hundreds of yards away
from the Boche--as much as six and seven hundred in parts--the left of
the present sector runs down to sixty or seventy yards where it joins
Petticoat Lane.
That means a big re-entrant in the line, of course, and a part
where our front runs almost at right angles to Fritz's, instead of
parallel with it. The new trench would be to bridge the mouth of
this re-entrant, and equalise the distance between our line and the
Boche's, right along. Apart from anything else, it would make any
subsequent push much easier. It's a low-lying, wet, exposed bit, that
re-entrant; but this wouldn't matter if we were just going to use it as
a jumping-off place, which is what we hope.
However, as there's no official news, one mustn't think too much about
it.
It seems there's been some sickness at our Brigade Headquarters,
which is a château marked large on the map, though out of sight from
the Boche line. The sickness among the orderlies was attributed to
something queer about the drains, and I suppose the thing was reported
on. Anyhow, as the story I heard to-day goes, a tremendous swell
arrived in a car to have a look at the place; an Olympian of the first
water, you understand. No doubt I should be executed by means of
something with boiling oil in it if I mentioned his name. As he stepped
from his car outside the château two shells landed, one on the lawn and
one in the shrubbery. The Olympian sniffed at Fritz's insolence. Before
he got into the doorway another shell landed very near his car, and
spattered it with mud from bonnet to differential. The august one is
reported to have greeted the Brigadier by saying rather angrily:
"This is obviously a most unhealthy spot, sir; most unhealthy. Ought
never to have been chosen."