IN THE CAFÉ
The café was crowded, for the Diggers out of the trenches were making
the most of their short stay in the back area. To-morrow or the day
after they would be going back again and anything might happen up
there. "Laugh and be happy, for to-morrow we die," seemed to be the
motto of the evening.
The place was crowded, principally with Australian soldiers, though
here and there in the room, sitting at tables playing dominoes, were
a number of Frenchmen. Cordial relations bind the poilu and the
Digger in terms of friendship, for the Australians love the French,
and the French love the Australians.
The Diggers appreciate that everyday good-humour, generous warmth
and eager hospitality which gives tone and colour to the lives of
the French people. This courtesy and kindness is not for a certain
occasion with these people, it is their very nature. They seem to
like to see everybody happy and in good spirits, and go out of their
way to befriend and succour the men in khaki when these latter are
in need of help. Nothing goes farther to show the temper of a people
than their behaviour in matters of trifling importance, for when all
is said and done trifles make up the great sum of human existence;
take them away from life and what is left?
The civilian population of France show their appreciation of the
Australians in many ways. They are ready at any moment to give rooms
in their homes to men back from the lines, to prepare hot meals for
them, dry their clothes, wash and mend their underclothing.
On one occasion the Prefect of the Department of the Somme on behalf
of the French Government conveyed to the Australian Commander the
admiration and appreciation of the French people for the Australian
Army, not only for the work done by the soldiers in the field
when they fought against the invaders of France, but also for the
behaviour of the troops when quartered in the back area with the
civilian population, and the care taken of all property belonging to
the people.
Wherever the Diggers go they seem to win the universal affection of
women and children. An officer told me how these big men, rough in
many ways, fiery in language and frank to the point of brutality at
times, when they came to the ruined homes near Villers-Bretonneux,
set themselves during lulls in the fighting to the kindly job of
repairing the houses, salving the property, setting the religious
pictures at correct angles on the walls and mending the broken
shrines. They placed cradles and children's toys in the safety of
the cellars so that these might be ready to hand when the little
ones returned to their homes again. Having done this they took up
the fighting again, so that the country might be made ready for the
home-coming of the refugees.
Among the soldiers in the café were many of those who had fought at
Villers-Bretonneux and made history in defence of Amiens. But at
present a distance removed from the scene of war they were absorbed
in amusements and games that caused them to forget all about the
life of the firing line.
At one corner of the room half a dozen men were playing "Two up,"
winning and losing much money, others were talking of past operations
on the field, tracing with beer-wetted fingers the lines held by
themselves and the enemy. A tall dark man sat by the stove, his
half-empty glass on the floor at his feet and a big bowled pipe in
his mouth.
"What's your battalion?" he suddenly inquired, fixing his eye on
a man near him, one whom he had never met before. This Digger, a
youngster with a slight fringe of down on his upper lip, was leaning
both elbows on the table and gazing contemplatively at the empty
glass which stood in front of him.
"I'm fifth----" was the answer.
"Know old Harry C----?" inquired the tall man.
"Should think I do," said the other. "Knew him in Brighton. Played
football against his team. Fine fellow, old Harry."
"Killed?"
"Ay. On the Peninsula. Met him there one day," said the youngster.
"God's truth! You could have knocked me down dead. 'Harry!' I said.
'Where have I struck you?' he asked me. 'I've kicked some goals
against your team,' said I. 'And to meet you here. But wait till we
go back again and have another game of football. I'll kick your head
off.' 'Not much chance of a boose here,' said Harry, 'might as well
be cinder humping in hell.' That was all at the time. He was going up
to the front line, but he promised to call round and see me when he
came out that night. We were supports. And I waited for old Harry.
'Twas dark when his platoon came out. I went to meet him. 'Where's
Harry C----?' I called to the fellows. 'The footballer?' some one
asked me. 'Yes, old Harry C----' I told the man. 'He's killed,' said
the man, 'blown to pieces.'"
"It's hard when you look back on it," said the tall dark soldier by
the stove. "So many...."
At this moment a man rose from a table near the door and commenced to
recite a poem. All stopped their various pursuits to listen, for the
Australians love poetry, especially when it recalls memories of the
land they have left. The game of "Two up" was discontinued and the
French soldiers stopped their draughts and dominoes to listen.
The man who stood on the floor spoke his lines in a manner exalted
and serious, his hat thrust back on his head and the movement of arms
and hands accompanying the recital adding to its force and passion.
In the utterance it was impossible to discover anything beyond the
deep feeling which he had called up to interpret the spirit of the
poem. The verses written long ago had in them a gift of prophecy.
They told of a war to be, the war in which the Australian soldier was
now taking part.
"All creeds and trades will have soldiers there--
give every class its due,
And there'll be many a clerk to spare for the pride of the jackeroo,
They'll fight for honour and fight for love and a few will
fight for gold,
For the devil below and for God above as our fathers fought of old,
And some half blind with exultant tears and some stiff-lipped,
stern-eyed
For the pride of a thousand after years and the old eternal pride--
The soul of the world they will feel and see in the chase and the
grim retreat,
They'll know the glory of victory--and the grandeur of defeat."
This was but a beginning. Other men rose and declaimed verses that
told of life in the homeland. One poem after another was recited.
"The Old Whim Horse," "Out Back," "Sheedy Was Dying," poems dealing
with the swagman, shearer and sundowner and telling of the Paroo
parched with long drouths or blooming with the wattle blossoms. For
the moment all the company were back there, and the patronne, with
bottles red and blue gleaming on the shelves over her head, viewed
the big boys with eyes that from time to time were moist with tears.
For did she not know them, those who were now for a moment under
the roof of her café, who would leave to-morrow night, go up to the
trenches, and come back again in a week or a fortnight. But not all.
In that was the tragedy: some would come back again. But not all.
Some would remain up there resting for ever near the lip of the
trench. She knew of the grim tragedy of the trenches and felt for
the boys. Her own husband dead and buried at Verdun! But it was war.
And at that moment the tall, dark man by the stove rose, squared his
shoulders, gave a preliminary cough and started a poem.
"East and backward pale faces turning--
That's how the dead men lie,
Gaunt arms stretched with a voiceless yearning--
That's how the dead men lie.
Oft in the fragrant hush of nooning,
Hearing again their mother's crooning,
Wrapt for aye in a dreadful swooning,
That's how the dead men lie...."
It was now on the verge of closing time and military policemen were
already standing at the door, listening to the poems and loth to put
a stop to the performance in the café. A young giant, in the making
of whom the gods forgot none of their ancient craft, was standing in
the centre of the room telling the story of "Clancy of the Overflow."
"In my wild erratic fancy visions came to me of Clancy
Gone a-droning down the Cooper where the Western drovers go.
As the stock are slowly stringing Clancy rides behind them singing,
For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never
know...."
The poem told of an incident of years far back and the young reciter,
if he had once wrought as a clerk, was living a life now such as
Clancy of the Overflow had never known and never would know unless,
as perhaps was the case, he had given up shearing and taken to the
life of soldiering.
But away here in a café of the back area, where the patronne sold
weak red wine and weaker beer, the Diggers' thoughts were of home, of
the land they left and for which they were fighting.
These men who dwell in France are creating for Australia a national
sentiment, and gaining for themselves a wide outlook in their
travels and accomplishments afield. At present the war waged ten
thousand miles away from the Southern Continent is welding together
the people's outlook, aspiration and sympathy. Men from all parts
of the continent, from out back and from the sea-coast are grouped
together in one great brotherhood, fighting for a common cause,
and the ground over which they fight is the one central point on
which all eyes of Australia are directed. Back home many voices are
raised in declamation or praise of this or that political move or
industrial policy, but on one point there is complete and unanimous
acquiescence, and that one point is the prosecution of the war
towards a successful conclusion. It must be waged till the end, until
Germany is beaten and the wrong done to the world, to France and
Belgium, righted.
And so the Australians make great battle in the mud of France and
Flanders, fighting with heroic persistence, carving the way to
victory. As we remember what the Diggers have done at Gallipoli,
Polygon, Pozieres and Peronne, we may quote the famous couplet from
the prologue to "The Revenge," played by a company of convicts in
Sydney, 1796, and thereto add two lines of our own making:
True patriots all, for be it understood
We left our country for our country's good.
Their children we and back again, we feel
That we've returned for that country's weal.
L' ENVOI
(_Written on the day the British Fleet entered the Dardanelles_)
From Suvla Cove to Sed-el-Bahr
In gullies, clefts and dells,
Beneath the shade of Sari Bair
They watch the Dardanelles.
To other lands their mates have fled
Fresh fields of war to find,
They sleep, but sleep uneasily
The men who stay behind.
What drums upon the narrow seas
That run by Sed-el-Bahr
Come, Digger, up! Come, Tommy, up!
A British man-of-war!
A sailor singing on the deck
The tale of conquest tells....
Lie down again! Sleep easily!
Beside the Dardanelles.
* * * * *
* * * * *
THIRD EDITION
THE RED HORIZON
By PATRICK MACGILL, Author of "Children of the Dead End," "The
Rat-Pit," "The Amateur Army," etc. Crown 8vo. Price 3/- net. Inland
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FIRST REVIEWS
PALL MALL GAZETTE. "Vivid work."
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cover."
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series of wonderful word pictures."
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has a place of its own in the literature
of the war."
COUNTRY LIFE. "_The Red Horizon_ is sure to be as
widely read as the most vivid description
yet written of the actualities of
this war."
GLOBE. "_The Red Horizon_ should be read in
conjunction with 'The First Hundred
Thousand.' Each is a pendant to
the other. Mr. MacGill's book is
one of the few volumes on the war
which one can cordially recommend."
DAILY NEWS. "His book is a book of real things. It
will also be eagerly read as a book of
adventures, for, in his experiences
with the London Irish, Mr. MacGill
found adventures at every step. Its
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and gross reality is likely to make it
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SATURDAY REVIEW. "Bill the Cockney is a breathing
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until the book dies. All the other
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* * * * *
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NOW IN ITS SEVENTH EDITION
CHILDREN OF THE DEAD END
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* * * * *
GLENMORNAN
An Irish Novel by PATRICK MACGILL, Author of "Children of the Dead
End," "The Rat Pit," "The Great Push," etc. Crown 8vo. 6/- net.
In his new book Mr. MacGill gives a complete picture of Irish peasant
life in his native county of Donegal. Doalty Gallagher, becoming
tired of journalism and Fleet Street, returns to the peace and quiet
of his old home. Here he sets himself to work on the land, and to
renew his acquaintance with the people whom he had known in his
childhood--Grania Coolin, the lone widow woman, Dennys, the drover
and man of the world, Owen Briney, the close-fisted farmer, Oidny
Leahys, the peasant philosopher, and Sheila Dermod, the fairest
girl in all the barony. Doalty finds however, that the years spent
in the land of the Sassenach have changed him. He has lost the
simple and trusting faith of his fathers, and when, desperately in
love with Sheila, he asks her to marry him, the priest intervenes
and Doalty is forced to leave the country, an object of universal
suspicion. The peasantry of Glenmornan, turf-diggers, creel-makers,
potheen-distillers, cattle-drovers and knitters of stockings are
presented with insight, freshness and sympathy. The petty vices of
the villagers of Greenanore, the gombeen men, the rent-collectors
and the priests are laid bare by Mr. MacGill, who knows them as few
other writers know them. He is not an artist from without, looking in
and describing what he sees, but one who tells of what he himself has
felt and known.
THE BROWN BRETHREN
By PATRICK MACGILL. Second printing. Price 6/- net.
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* * * * *
SIXTH EDITION.
THE RAT-PIT
By PATRICK MACGILL, Author of "Children of the Dead End." Crown 8vo.
Price 6/- net. Inland Postage 6_d._ extra.
"Children of the Dead End" came upon the literary world as something
of a surprise; it dealt with a phase of life about which nothing
was known. It was compared with the work of Borrow and Kipling.
Incidentally three editions, aggregating 10,000 copies, were called
for within fifteen days. In his new book Mr. MacGill still deals with
the underworld he knows so well. He tells of a life woven of darkest
threads, full of pity and pathos, lighted up by that rare and quaint
humour that made his first book so attractive. "The Rat-Pit" tells
the story of an Irish peasant girl brought up in an atmosphere of
poverty, where the purity of the poor and the innocence of maidenhood
stand out in simple relief against a grim and sombre background.
Norah Ryan leaves her home at an early age, and is plunged into a
new world where dissolute and heedless men drag her down to their
own miry level. Mr. MacGill's lot has been cast in strange places,
and every incident of his book is pregnant with a vivid realism that
carries the conviction that it is a literal transcript from life, as
in fact it is. Only last summer, just before he enlisted, Mr. MacGill
spent some time in Glasgow reviving old memories of its underworld.
His characters are mostly real persons, and their sufferings, the
sufferings of women burdened and oppressed with wrongs which women
alone bear, are a strong indictment against a dubious civilisation.
HERBERT JENKINS LD., 3 YORK STREET, LONDON, S.W.
* * * * *
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An Episode of the Great War. By Rifleman PATRICK MACGILL, Author of
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The London Irish distinguished themselves at Loos and Rifleman
Patrick MacGill was present during the whole operation. His story is
a series of vivid pictures of battle and the horrors left behind the
charging troops. Humour and tragedy go hand in hand in this latest
work of realism from the pen of the author of "Children of the Dead
End."
A NEW BOOK OF POEMS
SOLDIER SONGS
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Rat-Pit," and "The Amateur Army." Crown 8vo. 3/6 net.
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* * * * *
BOOKS BY MRS. PATRICK MACGILL
THE ROSE OF GLENCONNEL
Small 8vo. 1/9 net.
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_THIRD EDITION_
AN ANZAC'S BRIDE
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BOOKMAN.--"Mrs. Patrick MacGill has given us here a most exciting
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GLASGOW HERALD.--"Mrs. MacGill has the gift of vivid
characterization."
LIVERPOOL COURIER.--"Mrs. MacGill writes entertainingly, and any
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OUTLOOK.--"The things that happened to the Anzac's blooming bride
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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within
the text and consultation of external sources.
All misspellings in the text, and inconsistent or archaic usage,
have been retained. For example, spinney; loth; machine gun,
machine-gun; home-coming, homecoming.