THE STORY OF PRIVATE BIGGS
"La Nature fait peu de gens vaillants; c'est la bonne institution
et la discipline."--Charron.
The new padre was a stout, artless man with a kind face. He was only
just out from England, and delighted the general with his air of
innocent surprise.
"What's making all that noise?" he asked.
"Our guns," said Colonel Parker.
"Really?" replied the padre, in mild astonishment. As he walked into
the camp, he was stopped by a sentry.
"Who goes there?"
"Friend," he answered. Then he went up to the man and added
anxiously, "I suppose that was the right thing to answer, wasn't
it?"
The general was delighted at these stories, and asked the Rev. Mr.
Jeffries to take his meals at his own table.
"Padre," he said, "don't you think our mess is a happy family?"
"Padre," chimed in the doctor approvingly, "don't you think that this
mess has all the characteristics of a family? It is just a group of
people thrown together by chance, who never understand each other in
the least, who criticize one another severely, and are compelled by
circumstances to put up with each other."
"There's nothing to joke about," said Colonel Parker. "It's these
compulsory associations that often give rise to the finest devotion."
And being in a lively mood that evening, he related the story of
Private Biggs:
"You remember Biggs, who used to be my orderly? He was a shy,
refined little fellow, who used to sell neckties in peace-time. He
loathed war, shells, blood and danger.
"Well, at the end of 1916, the powers that be sent the battalion to
Gamaches training camp. A training camp, padre, is a plot of ground
traversed by imitation trenches, where officers who have never been
near the line teach war-worn veterans their business.
"The officers in charge of these camps, having a _clientele_ to
satisfy, start some new fashion every season. This spring I
understand that 'open file' is to be the order of the day; last
autumn 'massed formation' was the watchword of the best firms.
There's a lot of talk been going on for some time, too, about 'firing
from the hip'; that's one of my friend Lamb's absolutely original
creations--a clever fellow that; he ought to do very well.
"At Gamaches the officer in command was Major Macleod, a bloodthirsty
Scot whose hobby was bayonet work. He was very successful at showing
that, when all's said and done, it's the bayonet that wins battles.
Others before him have sworn that it is only hand-grenades, heavy
guns, or even cavalry that can give a decisive victory. But Macleod's
doctrine was original in one respect: he favoured moral suggestion
rather than actual practice for the manufacture of his soldiers. For
the somewhat repulsive slaughter of bayonet fighting he found it
necessary to inspire the men with a fierce hatred of the enemy.
"For this purpose he had bags of straw stuffed to the shape of German
soldiers, adorned with a sort of German helmet and painted
field-grey, and these were given as targets to our Highlanders.
"'Blood is flowing,' he used to repeat as the training proceeded,
'blood is flowing, and you must rejoice at the sight of it. Don't
get tender-hearted; just think only of stabbing in the right place.
To withdraw the bayonet from the corpse, place your foot on the
stomach.'
"You can imagine how Biggs's soul revolted at these speeches. In vain
did Sergeant-Major Fairbanks of the Guards deliver himself of his
most bloodthirsty _repertoire_; Biggs's tender heart was
horror-struck at the idea of bowels and brains exposed, and it was
always owing to him that the most carefully-prepared charges were
deprived of the warlike frenzy demanded by Major Macleod.
"'_As_ you were!' Sergeant-Major Fairbanks used to yell. '_As_ you
were! Now then, Private Biggs.' And after twenty attempts had failed,
he would conclude sadly, 'Well, boys, mark my words, come Judgment
Day, when we're all p'radin' for the final review an' the Lord comes
along, no sooner will the Archangel give the order, "'Tention!" than
'e'll 'ave to shout, "As you were! Now then, Private Biggs!"'
"When the period of training was over, Macleod assembled all our men
in a large shed and gave 'em his celebrated lecture on 'hatred of the
enemy.'
"I was really curious to hear him, because people at G.H.Q. were
always talking about the extraordinary influence he had over the
troops' _moral_. 'One of Macleod's speeches,' said the Chief of
Staff, 'does the Huns as much harm as ten batteries of heavy
howitzers.'
"The lecturer began with a ghastly description of the shooting of
prisoners, and went on to a nauseating account of the effects of gas
and a terrible story about the crucifixion of a Canadian sergeant;
and then, when our flesh was creeping and our throats were dry, came
a really eloquent hymn of hate, ending with an appeal to the avenging
bayonet.
"Macleod was silent for a few minutes, enjoying the sight of our
haggard faces; then, considering we were sufficiently worked up, he
went on:
"'Now, if there is any one of you who wants anything explained, let
him speak up; I'm ready to answer any questions.'
"Out of the silence came the still, small voice of Private Biggs.
"'Please, sir?'
"'Yes, my man,' said Major Macleod kindly.
"'Please, sir, can you tell me how I can transfer to the Army Service
Corps?'
"That evening, in the kitchen, our orderlies discussed the incident,
and discovered in course of conversation that Biggs had never killed
a man. All the others were tough old warriors, and they were much
astonished.
"Kemble, the general's orderly, a giant with a dozen or so to his
account, was full of pity for the poor little Cockney. 'Mon, mon,'
he said, 'I can hardly believe ye. Why, never a single one? Not
even wounded?'
"'No,' said Biggs, 'honest Injun. I run so slowly, I'm always the
last to get there--I never get a chance.'
"Well, a few days later, the battalion was up in the line again, and
was sent into a little stunt opposite Fleurbaix, to straighten out a
salient. You remember, sir? It's one of the best things the Division
has ever done.
"Artillery preparation, low barrage, cutting
communications--everything came off like clockwork, and we caught the
Boches in their holes like rabbits.
"While the men were busy with their rifles, grenades and bayonets,
cleaning up the conquered trenches, suddenly a voice was heard
shouting:
"'Harry, Harry, where are you?... Just send Biggs along here, will
you?... Pass the word along to Private Biggs.'
"It was the voice of the Highlander, Kemble. Some giant grasped Biggs
by the seat of his trousers and swung him and his rifle up to the
parapet. Then two strong hands seized the little man, and he was
swung in mid-air from man to man right up the file till he was
finally handed over to Kemble, who seized him affectionately with his
left hand, and, full of joy at the dainty treat he had in store for
his friend, cried, 'Mon, mon, look in this wee hole: I've got twa of
'em at the end of my rifle, but I've kept 'em for you.'
"This is a true story," added Colonel Parker, "and it shows once more
that the British soldier has a kind heart."
The Rev. Mr. Jeffries had turned very pale.