"I was afraid--that is, I thought you might be at the front," Bob
stammered at length. "You told me, the day I enlisted, that you
expected to go in a week."
"Yes, I know, but fresh orders came from headquarters. However, it
can't be long now, thank Heaven! You were surprised at not seeing or
hearing from me, I expect."
"I was a bit."
"Yes--well, that was by order."
Bob looked up inquiringly.
"You don't know Colonel Sapsworth," went on Captain Pringle. "He's
what some of us call a holy terror. A fine officer, but has methods of
his own. He's jolly good to us all, but he's determined to have no
mugs about him. When I first brought you to him, I thought he didn't
like you, but I found I was mistaken. All the same, he wanted to see
the stuff you were made of. The truth is, he hasn't much of an opinion
of O.T.C. men. He says that a lot of whipper-snappers from the public
schools pass their exams, in the O.T.C., who are no more fit for
officers than girls from a boarding-school. So, seeing you were
willing to enlist as a private, he took you at your word. In fact, if
Sapsworth had his way, he would have every officer in the Army rise
from the ranks. No man, he maintains, can be a good officer unless he
knows what it is to be a private. That was why you were sent here. He
gave special instructions about you, however, and told the drill
sergeant to keep his eye on you. He wanted to see what sort of stuff
you were made of."
"I satisfied him, I hope?"
"You've got your Lieutenancy. That's the answer. Here we are."
Bob felt very uncomfortable during the next half-hour. As Pringle
said, the Colonel was not a man who would stand any nonsense. He gave
Bob some wholesome advice in no honeyed terms; he asked him many
searching questions, after which he shook hands with him, and wished
him good luck.
If Bob had worked hard as a private, he worked still harder as an
officer. The work was, of course, different, yet it was essentially
the same. Every day he expected orders to go to the front, but day
followed day without the order being given. Meanwhile it seemed as
though he were doing three days' work in one.
Of course the circumstances were somewhat more pleasant than they had
been, the society was more congenial, and, instead of sleeping twelve
in a tent, there were only two. Still the life was rough and hard.
"I wonder when we shall be off!" thought Bob, after what seemed to him
an interminable number of days. "Pringle said we were to start
immediately, and yet we are still hanging around here."
At length the orders arrived, and one night Bob found himself in a
closely packed train bound for the South Coast. He wondered at what he
called his good fortune in being allowed to start so soon, but
reflected that he owed it to Captain Pringle's good offices and to what
were called the Colonel's eccentricities. He rejoiced now, although he
had been very reluctant at the time, that he had joined the O.T.C.
This, of course, had made it possible for him to get to the front so
soon.
Eager as he was to be in action, he could not help being saddened as he
watched the men making their way to the trains. Splendid young fellows
most of them were. The cream of England's manhood. They were almost
without exception ruddy with health, and as hard as nails: straight,
muscular men, who laughed at hardships, and who seemed to look at the
whole business as a joke. They might have been going to a picnic, so
merry were they. And yet, as Bob looked more closely, it was easy to
see by the compressed lips, and the steely looks in their eyes, that
they realised what they were doing.
"Good-bye, Piccadilly,
Farewell Leicester Square,
It's a long, long way to Tipperary,
But my heart's right there."
They sang, and perhaps as they sang they pictured the homes to which
they would never again return; they saw, as in a vision, the girls to
whom they had said "Good-bye," perhaps for ever.
In a few days, perhaps, many of those light-hearted boys would be lying
in the trenches, or in some ditch, stark and dead, or in some hospital
maimed and crippled for life.
Yes, war was a ghastly, hellish business, and it should never be
possible in Christian countries. This war, Bob felt, was one of the
greatest crimes ever known, and all through which he had been passing
ought only to be able to exist in troublous dreams.
Still he had no doubts about his duty. England's hands were clean, and
England's path was clearly marked out. We were not fighting for gain
or territory. With us it was a war of sacrifice, a war of duty. We
were going in order to keep our word with a small state, to crush
tyranny and slavery. But more, we were going to overthrow the war
devil which the Germans had set up as a god. That was the thought that
stirred Bob's heart and hardened his muscles. It was a war against
war; he was really taking his part in a great mission on behalf of
peace. Yes, it must be a fight to the finish. The sword must never be
sheathed until this military god, which had turned all Europe into an
armed camp, and which had made Germany a menace to the world, should
never be able to lift its ghastly head again.
"I say, Nancarrow, you look mighty grim."
"I'm in for grim work, Pringle."
"By gad, yes. How many of these chaps will be singing 'It's a long way
to Tipperary' in a month from now? How many aching hearts are there
because of this business? Yes, Nancarrow, you were right, war was born
in hell, but we must see it through."
When they landed on French soil, they were received with great
jubilation.
"_Vive les anglais!_" was the cry on every hand. Old men with tears in
their eyes welcomed them; old women vied with each other in showering
blessings upon them; young girls followed them with shouts of laughter,
yet with sobs in their laughter, and wished them every blessing.
"Yes, monsieur," cried an old dame to Bob, as he entered a fruit-shop,
"take what you will. You English are our friends, our saviours. We
French did not want to fight, but the Germans forced us. And then,
voilà! You came forward like the friends you are, and you say, 'Down
with the German eagle. France shall have fair play.' No, no, I will
take no payment. Take what you will."
"But you are, perhaps, poor, madame!" urged Bob. "This war has made it
hard for you."
"Hard! Ah, you say the truth. We have a garden near by. My husband
and sons worked in it--now they are all gone. My husband and four sons
went, but two of my sons are dead--killed."
"Perhaps they are only taken prisoners."
"And is not that death? What is life in a German prison but death?
But, never mind, I have my husband and two sons still alive--but no, I
will not take your money. Perhaps you have a mother, young monsieur?"
"Yes," replied Bob, and the picture of his mother sitting alone in the
old home at St. Ia flashed before his eyes.
"Ah, yes, I see," said the old woman. "I see. But perhaps you have
brothers, sisters?"
"No, I am her only son."
"And she grieves to part with you?"
"Yes, but she wanted me to go. She was angry with me for keeping back
so long."
"Ah, that is the true woman. She hates the Germans?"
"No, we have friends there. But she wanted me to be here for duty's
sake, and for England's honour."
"Ah, yes--England's honour. You promised Belgium, didn't you? And
then there is the _Entente Cordiale_. _Vive l'Entente Cordiale_,
monsieur! Ah, must you go? There is nothing else you will take?"
"Nothing, madame. Good-bye. God be with you."
"If you meet my husband, Alphonse Renaud is his name, or my two sons,
Jean and Albert, you will tell them you saw me, spoke to me."
"But certainly, madame."
"And when the war is over, and if you return this way, you will call
and see me, won't you? Adieu, monsieur, and the good God be with you."
Bob felt all the better for the old woman's simple talk. She was only
a commonplace old dame, but a kindly heart beat in her bosom. After
all, this war, ghastly as it was, was bringing a thousand noble
qualities to light, and it was certainly bringing the French and the
English more closely together. There was a bond of sympathy, of
brotherhood, existing, which was never felt before.
When they left the town, they were followed by shouts of thanks and
good fellowship. Laughter and merry words were heard too. France was
being baptized with molten iron and blood, but she was still light of
heart. She was still true to her characteristics.
"Here, Nancarrow," said Captain Pringle, as they watched the men board
a train. "You can talk this blessed lingo like a native. I can't get
my tongue around the words, and they talk so fast that I can't
understand them. Here's an old chap wants to say something," and he
turned towards an old military-looking man, who saluted Bob, and then
bowed profoundly.
"Monsieur," said the old man, "I only wanted to bid you God speed.
Yes, yes, you English have saved us. But for you they, the German
pigs, bah! would have been in Paris before now. They would have
repeated 1870. I was in that _débâcle_, monsieur, and I know what I
felt. If we had been willing to violate our treaty and had fallen back
on Belgian territory, we might have saved ourselves. But no, a treaty
was a treaty, and our word was given. Death rather than dishonour,
monsieur! But they haven't had another Sedan this time. And why? It
was because you English turned the scales. Ah, but you English can
fight, and you are good comrades. Monsieur, I salute you! We shall
win, _mon capitaine_."
"We'll give them a run for their money, anyhow," said Bob, dropping
into colloquial French.
"Good, monsieur; that's it. And you are doing it for honour's sake.
We lost in 1870, because we would not violate what those German pigs
called a 'scrap of paper,' and now you are going to save us for the
same thing. All for 'a scrap of paper.' They do not know what honour
is! They cannot understand. But we shall win. We are driving them
back. They are nearly at Mézières now. They will soon be over the
border. And then!"
"And then---- Yes, then we shall see what we shall see. But thank you
for your good wishes, monsieur."
Train after train moved slowly out, while old women waved their
handkerchiefs and young girls threw kisses, and all poured out their
blessings. The thing that seemed to impress them was that England, who
had nothing to gain, and who needed not have taken any part in the war,
was throwing all her great weight on their side for the sake of the
_Entente Cordiale_, and for the sake of our honour.
A few hours later Bob found himself in Paris. Several of the trains
had gone by another route, but both Bob and Captain Pringle, with many
others, were ordered to Paris. Here they stayed one day, and then went
on to the front.
Although he had often heard how the British soldier was loved in Paris,
Bob had no conception of the truth until he got there. The attention
which he and Captain Pringle received was embarrassing. Wherever they
went they were watched and followed, while remarks of the most
complimentary nature were made about them. Even in the restaurant
where they went for dinner a number of Frenchmen entered with them, and
insisted on paying for their repast.
"No, no, messieurs," they exclaimed, when Bob protested; "but you are
our guests. You come as our friends, you come to help us to fight our
battles. Your visit must cost you nothing. _Vive l'Angleterre!_"
Both men and women vied with each other in courteous acts. They
insisted on shaking hands again and again, they plied them with
cigarettes, while Bob was very much confused by two elderly dames, both
of whom insisted on kissing him on both cheeks.
"What would you?" they cried. "We are each old enough to be your
mother. Besides--ah, the good God knows what is in our hearts; have we
not sons fifty miles away, fighting for France? We shall win,
monsieur! Do you not think so? With such gallant men as you to help
us we cannot fail. The Germans are pigs, devils; but we have driven
them back, back! Soon they will be out of France."
In the streets it was sometimes difficult for them to get along. On
every hand people came up and insisted on shaking hands. But few of
them could speak English, and they imagined that Bob was just as
ignorant of French.
Again and again they received slaps on the back, while cries of "Good
old Sport!" reached them.
Indeed, this was the popular form of salutation. It was nearly all the
English many of them knew, and appearing to believe that this was the
British form of salutation, they indulged in it freely.
At length their duties in Paris were at an end, and then Bob, with a
strange feeling at heart, mounted a train which was to take him to
within a short distance of the line of battle.
They had not long left the French capital, before Bob realised that he
was passing through country which not long before had been the scene of
carnage. The train passed slowly along, and was often held up owing to
the terrible exigencies of war.
"Do you see that, Nancarrow?" said Pringle, pointing to a field in
which wheat had been planted, but which had never been garnered.
Indeed it would be impossible to garner it. It had been trampled under
foot by tens of thousands of hurrying feet.
Here and there they saw trenches that had been hastily dug, and then
discarded when they were no longer of use. Repeatedly they saw the
ruins of villages, some of which had been wantonly, barbarously
destroyed by the invading foe.
It was a warm day, windless and clear, and as the train stopped at
roadside stations or drew up at sidings, they could not help being
impressed by the peace which seemed to reign. The birds still sang on
the tree branches, cattle still lowed in the fields, and peasants still
worked on their little farms.
"If one closed one's eyes, it would seem as though war were
impossible," said Bob.
"Yes, but you'd be quickly undeceived when you opened them," replied
Pringle. "Look at those trees!" and he pointed to a small wood, where
charred trunks of trees, splintered branches, and blackened leaves told
their story.
"I expect some of our men were there, or the Germans thought they
were," said Pringle, "and so they----" and he shrugged his shoulders
significantly.
"Perhaps some poor beggars may be lying wounded around there even yet,"
suggested Bob.
"I don't think so. As far as I can learn, the whole line has been
carefully searched, and every man that could be saved has been. But,
by God, the thought of it is awful!"
"Yes, no one knows what may have happened in a firing-line hundreds of
miles long. It must have been hell."
What struck them forcibly, however, was the cheerfulness of the
peasantry. At the little roadside stations the people crowded around
the trains and cheered the soldiers.
"Yes, monsieur," said one old farmer, "my little house was
destroyed--burnt to the ground. I had lived there ever since I was
married, and all my children were born there. Two of them, _grace à
Dieu_, are at the front now. Where do we live? Ah, monsieur, they
spared a barn, and we are there now. It's not so bad as it might be,
and we are cheerful."
"And your harvest?" asked Bob.
"Ah, that was saved. It was in the fields in small stacks, and not yet
brought to the yard. Had it been, it would have been burnt with the
house. The turnips and the mangolds are still in the field, badly
trampled, but not destroyed. Oh yes, it might have been worse, much
worse--with us. Thank God, we had no daughter at the house."
"Why do you thank God for that?"
"Need you ask, monsieur? Those Germans are devils, devils! Ah, here
is Jules Viney; let him tell you what he has had to suffer."
And then an elderly man told a story which I will not here set down.
It was too horrible, too heart-rending. Bob's heart sickened as he
heard it, and he found his teeth becoming set as he vowed to fight long
as God gave him breath.
"She was but little more than a child, either," cried the man, who was
trembling with passion, "and had only a year or two ago made her First
Communion. As fair and as pure a child as ever God made. But, thank
God, she is dead!"
"Dead?"
"Dead, yes! How could she live after those devils from the deepest
hell---- But she took her own life, and she is with the saints."
"And this is the fruits of the German culture, when it is overruled by
the War God," thought Bob. "Great God, I did not believe that these
stories could be true!"
About two o'clock the train stopped at a siding, where an official told
them they must remain for at least an hour.
"Things have been terrible here," said the man; "a terrible battle was
fought all around," and he waved his arms significantly.
"Let's get out," said Bob. "I see some trenches over yonder. I
remember reading about an engagement here."
A few minutes later they were face to face with evidences of battle.
The whole country-side was devastated. Everything had been swept away
by the hordes who breathed out death. Sickening _débris_ was seen on
every hand. Swarms of flies and insects had fastened upon heaps of
filthy garbage. Nothing was seen of comfortable homesteads but
charred, smoke-begrimed walls. Exploded shells lay around. Great
excavations, the work of huge bombs, were seen on every hand. All
around, too, they could see the carcases of horses, killed in battle,
the bones of which were beginning to appear. The smells were horrible.
"Let's get away from this!" said Pringle; "it's worse than any hell I
ever dreamed of."
But Bob refused to move. He seemed to be fascinated by what he saw.
He loathed the sickening sights which met his gaze, but he could not
tear himself away.
"See the hundreds of little mounds!" he cried. "They will be the
graves of the fellows who fell here. Don't you remember what we read
in the papers? When the Germans retreated, a number of men were left
behind to dig little graves, and throw the dead into them."
"Come away, I tell you!" shouted Pringle.
"This is the beginning of war's aftermath, only the beginning--but,
great God, think of it! What is that?"
"What?"
"Surely that's some one alive over there! Don't you see? In the ditch
yonder."
As if by a magnet the two men were drawn to the spot to which Bob had
pointed.
"It's a man, anyhow," said Pringle.
"No, there are two."
"They are alive."
"No, they are dead."
A few seconds later they reached the spot, and saw what they will never
forget, if they live twice the years allotted to man.
In a dry ditch, locked in each other's embrace, were two dead soldiers,
one a Frenchman, the other a German. Both had evidently been wounded,
but they had engaged in a death struggle. They had fought to the
deaths without either conquering the other, and they had died in each
other's arms.
There was no look of fury or hatred in the face of either. The hand of
death had smoothed away all traces of this. Nevertheless, it had been
a duel to the death.
They were little more than boys, perhaps about twenty-four, and both
were privates. Their faces proclaimed their nationalities even more
plainly than their uniforms.
"I expect they had never seen each other before," said Bob, like one
thinking aloud; "they bore no enmity towards each other."
"Except that one was French and the other German," said Pringle. "That
was enough for them. Somehow they found themselves together, and
fought it out. I expect it was at night time. By God, it's ghastly,
isn't it? And this is war!"
"No, it's only the shadow of it, the aftermath. There are no groans
here, no suffering. It's peace, but it's the peace of horrible,
unnatural death. We shall see real war presently."
"Come, let's get away. It's sickening."
"The Prime Minister was right. It's hell let loose. All the same, I'm
aching to be at it. I never hated it as I hated it now. God helping
us, this shall be Europe's last war."
They slowly returned towards the railway siding when in the distance
they saw the train standing still.
"Look," said Pringle, "there's been a fire here. It looks as though
they had a meal. Here's an empty wine bottle, and a crust of bread."
"Yes, and here's a pipe half full of tobacco. It might have been
thrown down in a hurry, as though some chap were having a quiet smoke,
and was suddenly called to duty. Look, it's an English-made pipe. It
must have belonged to one of our men. I wonder where he is now. I'll
take it as a souvenir."
As they drew near to the siding they heard the soldiers singing lustily:
"It's a long way to Tipperary."
Both of them were strangely silent as the train crawled slowly towards
its destination. Their visit to one little corner of the stricken
field had made them realise the meaning of war as they had never
realised it before. Before the afternoon was over their eyes were
still more widely opened by a passing train to the meaning of the work
that lay before them.
It was going slowly, more slowly than their own, and Bob saw that it
was full of wounded soldiers. How many there were he could not
estimate, but it seemed to him that there must be hundreds. Some were
laughing and talking cheerfully, while others lay with their eyes
closed. More than one brave fellow held a wounded comrade's head on
his knees.
It was only a minute, and the train had passed them. One trainload
going to the front full of strong, stalwart men, hale and hearty,
another returning full of the wounded. And this was war!
And why?
It was all because a war devil reigned in Germany, which the military
caste worshipped as a kind of Deity.
Presently the train stopped. They had reached their destination. They
were close to the front.
"Listen," said some one, and all the men were strangely silent.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
It was the great iron-mouthed messengers of death which sent molten
lead into great masses of flesh and blood. It was the voice of the
great guns--the contributions of science to the ghastly crime of war.