BACK TO REST
Every morning for a week or two I was in the little church where I had
said Mass on Christmas Day, and every evening while I was there men
came to confession. Then one morning the young soldier who had been so
attentive to my wants, and whose name I had learned was George, came
into the burlap room in a state of evident excitement and said: “We’re
going back to rest, sir.”
I did not know exactly what “back to rest” really meant, but I judged
from George’s sparkling eyes that it was something very good. “That’s
good news,” I said. But one had to be a soldier of the line to realize
what good news it really was. One must be actually in the trenches when
the word comes to comprehend fully what those words “back to rest” mean.
“We’re going back to rest, chummy,” somebody says, and the word is
relayed quickly down the front line trench. And tired-faced lads, many
of them with faint, dark rings around their eyes, smile broadly as
they stand half-crouching in the muddy trench. Onward the glad tidings
go, whispered or uttered in low voices: “Out to rest, Bo; the relief’s
coming in tonight at half-past ten. Hooray!” But the “hooray” does not
express adequately the feelings of the speaker. It must do, however, as
a loud cheer is not permitted in the front line trench.
When it is dark, the relief comes in very quietly and takes over
the different posts; then, as quietly, the lads go down the support
trenches till they slope up to the great wide road that seems so
spacious and airy after the deep, narrow trench they have been standing
in for days. On they go, past long rows of broken trees that once were
majestic, full-leafed elms, then through masses of ruined buildings and
broken stone walls, with here and there a small corrugated iron hut or
shack, built just lately. At times, not very far away, a long yellow
flash, followed by a thundering report, tells them that our heavies are
at work.
Somebody begins to whistle, “There’s a long, long trail a-winding,” or
“Over There,” then others catch the lilt, and in a few seconds hundreds
are whistling to the swinging, sweeping thud of marching feet. When
they get a little farther on their way, the whistling ceases and a
song is struck up, though not too loudly. Above them are the silent
stars peacefully shining. Away behind them shrapnel bursts savagely and
sprinkles its death-bearing message. But that is far behind, and now
they are going out--out to rest!
Perhaps they march all through the night, carrying their equipment and
their heavy packs on their backs, and as the dawn comes, they notice at
every cross-road a great cross, and nailed to the cross the figure of
the Crucified--white, blood-streaked, the thorn-crowned head bent in
the agony of suffering, the face livid with pain and misery. And many
a lad under his weight looks up. He understands it all much better now
than when he first came to the front. Some breathe a little prayer.
They are going out to rest--but they will be coming back again!
They continue their march till the morning sunlight begins to brighten
all the land and the roar of the guns has become but a faint distant
rumble, then, perhaps, they sit on the roadside, or along the edge of a
field, the grass of which looks so fresh and green after the rolling,
shell-torn No Man’s Land they have been looking over for days, where
never a blade of grass could be seen; only the grey shell-pitted earth,
with here and there a line of white chalk which made one think of a
white-capped, angry sea. Birds begin to sing in field and green wood,
and from many field kitchens and little red fires built on the roadside
comes the odor of frying bacon.
Some of the lads take off their packs and go to sleep on the roadside,
their faces grey with the dust from marching feet. Much traffic goes
by--khaki motor lorries, general service wagons, dispatch riders on
motorcycles. Then from the distance come the strains of a military
march played by a brass band that is approaching; it may be “Colonel
Bogey” that they play, or “Sons of the Brave,” etc. It is the band of
the battalion coming to meet the lads and play them back to rest.
When every one has eaten his bread and bacon and has finished his
pint of hot tea, they fall in, feeling much refreshed. Then there is
a rumble from the big drum and a rattle from the smaller ones and
the inspiring music of a military march breaks on the air. The lads
straighten momentarily under their packs, and there is a new swing
to their tired feet. Perhaps they pass through many fields lined with
tall elms. Perhaps they pass many French peasants, old and young, going
to work in the fields, who smile pleasantly. They may go through a
quiet little village or two till they come to a more flourishing one
in which is a large chateau. Then the band, which for the last fifteen
minutes has given place to a few buglers and drums, strikes up the
battalion’s own march and the order comes ringing down the line, “March
to attention.” Then the tired lads know that they are coming into rest
billets.
The organization in “rest” is done very quickly. One battalion takes
over from another, and in a very short time enamel signs are hung out
of billets which tell where are the different officers and orderly
rooms. If there is a curé in the village, and if it so happens that
the Catholic chaplain of the brigade is quartered with the battalion
that has come to rest here, a little sign hangs from the curé’s gate,
bearing the words “R. C. Chaplain,” for the soldiers’ priest is nearly
always billeted with the parish priest of the village; and on the
church door a paper is tacked giving the hours of Mass, confession, etc.
Sometimes there is no curé in the village; perhaps he has been called
to join the soldiers of France; perhaps at one time the village has
been heavily shelled and he has followed his people. In this case,
often it is necessary to renovate the little shell-torn church, but
this is quickly done. And in the morning, after Mass has been said, a
tiny lamp burns in the church which tells the soldiers that the Master
has come and is calling them.
At twelve o’clock the soldiers’ work for the day, when they are out
in rest, usually finishes, and they receive any papers and magazines
that may have come to them from friends across the sea. These are very
welcome arrivals, and so are the boxes of good things that sometimes
come from home. Then, as the lads sit under trees, or in front of
tents, or in low hay lofts to eat their dinner, papers are opened and
those who have received boxes or parcels from home pass around candies,
cake, etc., to those who have not, and so a very pleasant hour passes.
The afternoon is usually given over to games and athletic sports. If
different troops happen to be quartered together in the same village
the competition between the two becomes very interesting. Perhaps a
baseball game is arranged between American and Canadian lads, while
English lads look on, it must be admitted, with irritation. They cannot
understand why one side should shout such things at the other; why they
should try to rattle the pitcher. To them it seems quite abusive, and
judging from their talk, they are disgusted. “Call that a gaime,” one
will say, “when one side keeps on ’ollerin’ at the blighter bowlin’
that ball, so’s ’e caunt throw well?” “Call that sport?” “Call that
fair ply?” “I carn’t see where the fair ply comes hin when they tike
such bloomin’ hunderanded wys o’ tryin’ to win.” His mate agrees with
him, and presently they move off to some other scene of amusement.
Meanwhile, little French boys who have come to watch the baseball game
go racing about the field, imitating some of the plays in the game
which is so strange to them, and as they go sliding to some imaginary
home-plate, one can hear such expressions as “Safe!” and “Hat a-boy.”
It was early in the morning when we left Chateau de la Haie, for we
were not under observation and it was not necessary to move by night.
We assembled on one of the squares near a long, tree-fringed avenue
which was one of the approaches to the chateau. For some time before
we fell in I heard from all quarters strange, unearthly noises, and
in every direction I turned I saw, at quite a distance from each
other, kilted figures walking up and down bearing their wide-branched
bag-pipes, each one emitting the weirdest wails imaginable; they
were the pipers of the Sixteenth pipe band tuning up. However, when
we started off the sound was quite different, for the pipes and
kettle-drums make merry marching music. I know of no other music that
can make tired men march so briskly and with such a swing as that of
the pipes. I had never before marched with any unit which seemed to
draw such universal attention as did the Sixteenth Canadian Scottish
Battalion, and I think it was owing chiefly to the strange music of
the pipes and the uncommon uniform of the kilted laddies. For as we
entered village after village, doors and windows began to open, and old
and young and middle-aged French peasants quickly filled them, smiling
their admiration as the pipers played and the soldiers marched. Little
“gamins,” not content with regarding us, followed along at a trot,
singing and cheering; the more enterprising among them, picking up a
block of wood and an old ration sack and, tucking them under their left
arm while they spread out three or four pieces of sapling or old laths,
gave an imitation of our brave pipers who played so valiantly. I began
to think, after all, there might be some truth in the story of the Pied
Piper of Hamlin.