THE NIGHT SIDE OF SOLDIERING
There are three things in military life which make a great appeal to
me; the rifle's reply to the pull of the trigger-finger, the gossip of
soldiers in the crowded canteen, and the onward movement of a thousand
men in full marching order with arms at the trail. And at no time is
this so impressive as at night when with rifles held in a horizontal
position by the side, the arm hanging easily from the shoulder, we
march at attention in complete silence. Not a word is spoken by anyone
save officers, little is heard but the dull crunch of boots on the
gravel and the rustle of trenching-tool handles as they rub against
trousers or haversack. Seen from a flank at the rear, the moving
battalion, bending round the curve or straining to a hill, looks
like the plesiosaur of the picture shown in the act of dragging its
cumbrous length along. The silence is full of mystery, the gigantic
mass, of which you form so minute a unit, is entirely voiceless, a
dumb thing without a tongue, brooding, as it were, over some eternal
sorrow or ancient wrong to which it cannot give expression. Marching
thus at night, a battalion is doubly impressive. The silent monster is
full of restrained power; resolute in its onward sweep, impervious to
danger, it looks a menacing engine of destruction, steady to its goal,
and certain of its mission.
A march like this fell to our lot once every fortnight. At seven in
the evening, loaded with full pack, bayonet, haversack, ground-sheet,
water-bottle, overcoat, and rifle, we would take our way from the town
out into the open country. The night varied in temper--sometimes it
rained; again, it froze and chilled the ears and finger-tips; and
once we marched with the full moon over us, lighting up the whole
county--the fields, the woods, the lighted villages, the snug
farmhouses, and the grey roads by which the long line of khaki-clad
soldiers went on their way. That night was one to be remembered.
We went off from the parade ground, a thousand strong, along the
sloping road that sweeps down the hill on which our town is built.
Giggling girls watched us depart--they are ever there when the
soldiers are on the move--old gentlemen and ladies wished us luck as
we passed, but never a head of a thousand heads turned to the left
or right, never a tongue replied to the cheery greetings; we were
marching at attention, with arms at the trail.
The sky stood high, splashed with stars, and the moon, pinched and
anæmic, hung above like a whitish speck of smoke that had curled into
a ball. Marching at the rear, I could see the long brown line
curving round a corner ahead, the butt-plates of the rifles sparkling
brightly, the white trenching-tool handles shaking backward and
forward at every move of the men.
"March easy!"
Half an hour had passed, and we were now in the open country. At
the word of command rifles were slung over the shoulders, and the
battalion found voice, first in brisk conversation and exchange
of witticisms, then in shouting and song. We have escaped from the
tyranny of "Tipperary," none of us sing it now, but that doggerel is
replaced by other music-hall abominations which are at present in the
full glory of their rocket-reign. A parody of a hymn, "Toiling on," is
also popular, and my Jersey mate gave it full vent on the left.
"Lager beer! lager beer!
There's a lager beer saloon across the way.
Lager bee-ee-eer!
Is there any lager beer to give away."
Although the goddess of music forgot me in the making, I found myself
roaring out the chorus for all I was worth along with my Jersey
friend.
"You're singing some!" he remarked, sarcastically, when the chorus
came to an end. "But, no wonder! This night would make a brass monkey
sing. It's grand to be alive!"
Every battalion has its marching songs. One of the favourites with us
was written by a certain rifleman in "C" Company, sung to the air of
"Off to Philadelphia in the Morning." It runs:
"It is said by our commanders that in trenches out by Flanders
There is work to do both trying and exciting,
And the men who man the trenches, they are England's men and
French's
Where the legions of the khaki-clad are fighting.
Though bearing up so gaily they are waiting for us daily,
For the fury of the foemen makes them nervous,
But the foe may look for trouble when we charge them at the double,
We, the London Irish out on active service.
_Chorus._
"With our rifles on our shoulder, sure there's no one could be
bolder,
And we'll double out to France when we get warnin'
And we'll not stop long for trifles, we're the London Irish
Rifles,
When we go to fight the Germans in the mornin'.
"An' the girls: oh it will grieve them when we take the train and
leave them,
Oh! what tears the dears will weep when we are moving,
But it's just the old, old story, on the path that leads to Glory,
Sure we cannot halt for long to do our loving.
They'll see us with emotion all departing o'er the ocean,
And every maid a-weepin' for her lover;
'Good-bye' we'll hear them callin', while so many tears are fallin'
That they'd almost swamp the boat that takes us over.
_Chorus._
"With our rifles," etc.
Our colonel sang this song at a concert, thus showing the democratic
nature of the New Army, where a colonel sings the songs written in the
ranks of his own battalion.
At the ten minutes' halt which succeeded the first hour's march,
my Jersey friend spoke to me again. "Aren't there stars!" he said,
turning his face to the heavens and gripping his rifle tightly as if
for support. His wide open eyes seemed to have grown in size, and were
full of an expression I had never seen in them before. "I like the
stars," he remarked, "they're so wonderful. And to think that men are
killing each other now, this very minute!" He clanked the butt of his
gun on the ground and toyed with the handle of his sword.
Hour after hour passed by; under the light of the moon the country
looked beautiful; every pond showed a brilliant face to the heavens,
light mists seemed to hover over every farmhouse and cottage; light
winds swept through the telegraph wires; only the woods looked dark,
and there the trees seemed to be hugging the darkness around them.
On our way back a sharp shower, charged with a penetrating cold, fell.
The waterproof ground-sheets were unrolled, and we tied them over our
shoulders. When the rain passed, the water falling in drops from our
equipment glittered so brightly that it put the polished swords and
brilliant rifle butt-plates to shame.
We stole into the town at midnight, when nearly all the inhabitants
were abed. With arms at the trail, we marched along, throwing off
company after company, at the streets where they billeted. The
battalion dwindled down slowly; my party came to a halt, and the order
"Dismiss!" was given, and we went to our billets. The Jersey youth
came with me to my doorstep.
"'Twas a grand march!" he remarked.
"Fine," I replied.
"I can't help looking at the stars!" he said as he moved off. "There
are a lot to-night. And to think--" He hesitated, with the words
trembling on his tongue, realising that he was going to repeat
himself. "Anyway, there's some stars," he said in a low voice. "Good
night!"
There is a peculiar glamour about all night work. The importance of
night manoeuvring was emphasised in the South African War, and we had
ample opportunities of becoming accustomed to the darkness. On one
occasion at about nine o'clock we swung out from the town with our
regimental pipe-band playing to pursue some night operations. So far
the men did not know what task had been assigned to them.
"We've got to do to-night's work as quiet as a growing mushroom,"
someone whispered to me, as we took our way off the road and lined up
in the field that, stretching out in front and flanks, lost itself in
formless mistiness under the loom of the encircling hedgerows. Here
and there in the distance trees stand up gaunt and bare, holding
out their leafless branches as if in supplication to the grey sky; a
slight whisper of wind moaned along the ground and died away in the
darkness.
Our officer, speaking in a low voice, gave instructions. "The enemy is
advancing to attack us in great force," he explained, "and our scouts
have located him some six miles away from here. We have now found that
it is inadvisable to march on any farther, as our reinforcements
are not very strong and have been delayed to rear. Therefore we have
decided to take up our present position as a suitable ground for
operations and entrenching ourselves in--ready to give battle.
Everything now must be done very quickly. Our lives will, perhaps,
depend at some early date on the quickness with which we can hide
ourselves from the foe. So; dig your trench as quickly as possible, as
quickly, in fact, as if your life depended on it. Work must be done
in absolute silence; no smoking is allowed, no lighting of matches, no
talk.
"A word about orders. Commands are not to be shouted, but will be
passed along from man to man, and none must speak above his breath.
The passing of messages along in this manner is very difficult; words
get lost, and unnecessary words are added in transit. But I hope
you'll make a success of the job. Now we'll see how quickly we can get
hidden!"
A "screen" of scouts (one man to every fifty yards of frontage) took
up its place in line a furlong ahead. A hundred paces to rear of the
"screen" the officers marked out the position of the trenches, placing
soldiers as markers on the imaginary alignment. In front lay a clear
field of fire, a deadly area for an enemy advancing to the attack.
We took off our equipment, hafted the entrenching tools which we
always carry, and bent to our work in the wet clay. The night was
close and foggy, the smell of the damp earth and the awakening spring
verdure filled our nostrils. In the distance was heard the rumbling of
trains, the jolting of wagons along the country road, the barking of
dogs, and clear and musical through all these sounds came the song of
a mavis or merle from the near hedgerows.
In the course of ten minutes we were sweating at our work, and several
units of the party took off their tunics. One hapless individual got
into trouble immediately. His shirt was not regulation colour, it was
spotlessly white and visible at a hundred yards. A whispered order
from the officer on the left faltered along the line of diggers.
"Man with white shirt, put on his tunic!"
The order was obeyed in haste, the white disappeared rapidly as the
arms of the culprit slid into sleeves, and the covering tunic hid his
wrong from the eyes of man.
The night wore on. Now and again a clock in the town struck out the
time with a dull, weary clang that died away in the darkness. On both
sides I could see stretching out, like some gigantic and knotted
rope, the row of bent workers, the voiceless toilers, busy with their
labours. Picks rose into the air, remained poised a moment, then sank
to tear the sluggish earth and pull it apart. The clay was thrown out
to front and rear, and scattered evenly, so that the natural contour
of the ground might show no signs of man's interference. And even as
we worked the section commanders stole up and down behind us, urging
the men to make as little sound as possible--our safety depended on
our silence. But pick and shovel, like the rifle, will sing at their
toil, and insistent and continuous, as if in threat, they rasped out
the almost incoherent song of labour.
A man beside me suddenly laid down his shovel and battled with a cough
that strove to break free and riot in the darkness. I could see his
face go purple, his eyes stare out as if endeavouring to burst from
their sockets. Presently he was victor, and as he bent to his shovel
again I heard him whisper huskily, "'Twas a stiff go, that; it almost
floored me."
Thrown from tongue to tongue as a ball is thrown in play, a message
from the captain on the flank hurried along the living line. "Close in
on the left," was the order, and we hastened to obey. Trenching tools
were unhafted and returned to their carriers, equipments were donned
again, belts tightened, and shoulder-straps buttoned. Singly, in
pairs, and in files we hurried back to the point of assembly, to find
a very angry captain awaiting us.
"I am very disappointed with to-night's work," he said. "I sent
five messages out; two of them died on the way; a third reached its
destination, but in such a muddled condition that it was impossible to
recognise it as the one sent off. The order to cease work was the only
one that seemed to hurry along. Out at the front, where all orders
are passed along the trenches in this manner, it is of the utmost
importance that every word is repeated distinctly, and that no
order miscarries. Even out there, it is found very difficult to send
messages along."
The captain paused for a moment; then told a story. "It is said that
an officer at the front gave out the following message to the men in
the trenches: 'In the wood on the right a party of German cavalry,'
and when the message travelled half a mile it had changed to: 'German
Navy defeated in the North Sea.' We don't know how much truth there
is in the story, but I hope we will not make a mistake like that out
there."
Lagging men were still stealing in as we took up our places in columns
of fours. A clock struck out the hour of twelve, and the bird in
the hedgerow was still singing as we marched out to the roadway, and
followed our merry pipers home to town.