A REMEMBRANCE OF THE DARK YEARS
Nightmares of the Morning--The Civilian Reserve--The
Volunteers--Domestic Life in War Time--German Prisoners--Cipher to our
Prisoners--Sir John French--Empress Eugenie--Miracle Town--Armour--Our
Tragedy.
I can never forget, and our descendants can never imagine, the strange
effect upon the mind which was produced by seeing the whole European
fabric drifting to the edge of the chasm with absolute uncertainty
as to what would happen when it toppled over. Military surprises,
starvation, revolution, bankruptcy--no one knew what so unprecedented
an episode would produce. It was all so evidently preventable, and yet
it was so madly impossible to prevent it, for the Prussians had stuck
their monkey-wrench into the machinery and it would no longer work. As
a rule one has wild dreams and wakes to sanity, but on those mornings I
left sanity when I woke and found myself in a world of nightmare dreams.
On August 4, when war seemed assured, I had a note from Mr. Goldsmith,
a plumber in the village: “There is a feeling in Crowborough that
something should be done.” This made me laugh at first, but presently
I thought more seriously of it. After all, Crowborough was one of
a thousand villages, and we might be planning and acting for all.
Therefore I had notices rapidly printed. I distributed them and put
them at road corners, and the same evening (August 4) we held a village
meeting and started the Volunteers, a force which soon grew to 200,000
men.
The old Volunteers had become extinct when the Territorials had been
organized some ten or twelve years before. But this new force which
I conceived was to be a universal one, where every citizen, young
and old, should be trained to arms--a great stockpot into which the
nation could dip and draw its needs. We named ourselves the Civilian
Reserve. No one, I reflected, could be the worse in such days for
being able to drill and to shoot, or for being assembled in organized
units. Government was too preoccupied to do anything, and we must show
initiative for ourselves. After I had propounded my scheme, I signed
the roll myself, and 120 men did the same. Those were the first men in
the Volunteer Force. Next evening we assembled at the drill-hall, found
out who could drill us, chose our non-commissioned officers and set to
work to form ourselves into an efficient company. Gillette, my American
actor friend, had got stranded in England, and he was an interested
spectator on this occasion. For the time being I took command.
I had notified the War Office what we had done and asked for official
sanction. We were careful not to stand in the way of recruiting and
determined to admit none who could reasonably join up at once. When the
plan began to work I wrote a description of our methods to “The Times.”
As a consequence I received requests for our rules and methods from
1,200 towns and villages. My secretary and I worked all day getting
these off, and in many cases the inquiries led to the formation of
similar companies.
For about a fortnight all went well. We drilled every day, though we
had no weapons. At the end of that time there came a peremptory order
from the War Office: “All unauthorized bodies to be at once disbanded.”
Unquestioning and cheerful obedience is the first law in time of war.
The company was on parade. I read out the telegram and then said:
“Right turn! Dismiss!” With this laconic order the Civilian Reserve
dissolved for ever.
But it had a speedy and glorious resurrection. There was a central body
in London with some remote connection with the old Volunteer Force.
Lord Desborough was chairman of this, and there could not have been a
better man. The Government put the formation of a Volunteer Force into
the charge of this committee, to which I was elected. Mr. Percy Harris
was the secretary and showed great energy. I wrote to all the 1,200
applicants referring them to this new centre, and we, the Crowborough
body, now became the Crowborough Company of the Sixth Royal Sussex
Volunteer Regiment. That we were the first company in the country was
shown by the “Volunteer Gazette” when a prize was awarded for this
distinction. Under its new shape Captain St. Quintin, who had been a
soldier, became our leader, and Mr. Gresson and Mr. Druce, both of them
famous cricketers, our lieutenants. Goldsmith was one of the sergeants,
and I remained a full private for four years of war, and an extra
half-year before we were demobilized. Our ranks fluctuated, for as the
age limit of service gradually rose we passed many men into the regular
Army, but we filled up with new recruits, and we were always about a
hundred strong. Our drill and discipline were excellent, and when we
received our rifles and bayonets we soon learned to use them, nor were
our marching powers contemptible when one remembers that many of the
men were in the fifties and even in the sixties. It was quite usual for
us to march from Crowborough to Frant, with our rifles and equipment,
to drill for a long hour in a heavy marshy field, and then to march
back, singing all the way. It would be a good fourteen miles, apart
from the drill.
I have very pleasant recollections of that long period of service. I
learned to know my neighbours who stood in the same ranks, and I hope
that they also learned to know me as they could not otherwise. We had
frequent camps, field days and inspections. On one occasion 8,000 of us
were assembled, and I am bound to say that I have never seen a finer
body of men, though they were rather of the police-constable than of
the purely military type. The spirit was excellent, and I am sure that
if we had had our chance we should have done well in action. But it
was hard to know how to get the chance save in case of invasion. We
were the remaining pivots of national life, and could only be spared
for short periods or chaos would follow. But a week or two in case
of invasion was well within our powers, and such a chance would have
been eagerly hailed. No doubt our presence enabled the Government to
strip the country of regular troops far more than they would have
dared otherwise to do. Twice, as Repington’s “Memoirs” show, there was
a question of embodying us for active service, but in each case the
emergency passed.
I found the life of a private soldier a delightful one. To be led
and not to lead was most restful, and so long as one’s thoughts were
bounded by the polishing of one’s buttons and buckles, or the cleansing
of one’s rifle, one was quietly happy. In that long period I shared
every phase of my companions’ life. I have stood in the queue with
my pannikin to get a welcome drink of beer, and I have slept in a
bell-tent on a summer night with a Sussex yokel blissfully snoring upon
each of my shoulders. Sometimes amusing situations arose. I remember
a new adjutant arriving and reviewing us. When he got opposite to me
in his inspection, his eyes were caught by my South African medal.
“You have seen service, my man,” said he. “Yes, sir,” I answered.
He was a little cocky fellow who might well have been my son so far
as age went. When he had passed down the line, he said to our C.O.,
St. Quintin: “Who is that big fellow on the right of the rear rank?”
“That’s Sherlock Holmes,” said C.O. “Good Lord!” said the adjutant, “I
hope he does not mind my ‘My manning’ him!” “He just loves it,” said
St. Quintin, which showed that he knew me.
The other big factor which covered the whole period of the war,
and some time after it, was my writing the History of the European
campaign, which I published volume by volume under the name of
“The British Campaign in France and Flanders.” My information was
particularly good, for I had organized a very extensive correspondence
with the generals, who were by no means anxious for self-advertisement,
but were, on the other hand, very keen that the deeds of their
particular troops should have full justice done them. In this way I was
able to be the first to describe in print the full battle-line with
all the divisions, and even brigades in their correct places from Mons
onwards to the last fight before the Armistice. When I think what a
fuss was made in the old days when any Correspondent got the account of
a single Colonial battle before his comrades, it is amazing to me that
hardly a single paper ever commented, in reviewing these six successive
volumes, upon the fact that I was really the only public source of
supply of accurate and detailed information. I can only suppose that
they could not believe it to be true. I had no help but only hindrance
from the War Office, and everything I got was by means which were
equally open to anyone else who took the trouble to organize them. Of
course, I was bowdlerized and blue-pencilled by censors, but still the
fact remains that a dozen great battle-lines were first charted by me.
I have since read the official account so far as it has gone, and find
little to change in my own, though the German and French records are
now available to broaden the picture. For the moment war literature is
out of fashion, and my war history, which reflects all the passion and
pain of those hard days, has never come into its own. I would reckon
it the greatest and most undeserved literary disappointment of my life
if I did not know that the end is not yet and that it may mirror those
great times to those who are to come.
For the rest I had a great deal of literary propaganda work to do. Once
it was the “To Arms!” pamphlet written in conjunction with Mr. Smith,
soon to become Lord Birkenhead. Once again it was an appeal for our
ill-used prisoners. Sometimes Norway, sometimes South America, always
the United States, needed treatment. As to my special missions, those I
treat in separate chapters.
There are many small but very important details of domestic life during
the war which have never been properly described, and could indeed
best be described by a woman, for they were usually an invasion of
her department. Our descendants will never realize how we were all
registered and docketed and rationed, so that the State could give the
least to and take the most from each of us. One had food-cards for
practically everything, and the card only entitled you to get your
meagre portion if it was to be had. Often it wasn’t. I have been at a
great lunch with half the grandees of the land, and the Prime Minister
to speak. The fare was Irish stew and rice-pudding.
What could man ask for more, but it will need another war to bring it
round again. There was a pleasing uncertainty about all meals. There
was always a sense of adventure and a wonder whether you would really
get something. It all made for appetite. Then there were the darkened
windows, the sharp knocking of the police if the blind emitted any
light, the vexatious summons for very small offences, the pulling down
of every blind on the railway trains. At night one never knew what
evil bird was flying overhead or what foul egg would be dropped. Once,
as we sat in the theatre at Eastbourne, the whirr of a Zeppelin was
heard above us. Half the audience slipped out, the lights were put
out, and the play was finished with candles on the stage. When I was
lecturing in London the same thing happened, and I finished my lecture
in the dark.
Every one found themselves doing strange things. I was not only a
private in the Volunteers, but I was a signaller and I was for a
time number one of a machine gun. My wife started a home for Belgian
refugees in Crowborough. My son was a soldier, first, last, and all
the time. My daughter Mary gave herself up altogether to public work,
making shells at Vickers and afterwards serving in a canteen. If I may
quote a passage from my history: “Grotesque combinations resulted from
the eagerness of all classes to lend a hand. An observer has described
how a peer and a prize-fighter worked on the same bench at Woolwich,
while titled ladies and young girls from cultured homes earned sixteen
shillings a week at Erith and boasted in the morning of the number
of shell-cases which they had turned, and finished in their hours of
night-shift. Truly it had become a national war. Of all its memories
none will be stranger than those of the peaceful middle-aged civilians
who were seen eagerly reading books of elementary drill in order to
prepare themselves to meet the most famous soldiers in Europe, or of
the schoolgirls and matrons who donned blue blouses and by their united
work surpassed the output of the great death factories of Essen.”
Every house had its vegetable garden and every poor man his allotment,
that we might at the worst exist until we could win our peace. The want
of sugar and the limitation of tea were the worst privations. My wife,
greatly helped by a faithful servant, Jakeman, did wonders in saving
food, and we always lived well within our legal rations. This did not
save us once from a police raid, because some tea, sent us as a present
from India, had arrived. We had already distributed a good deal of it,
however, to our less fortunate neighbours, so we came well out of the
matter.
I have one singular memory in having to guard German prisoners at
work. The Volunteers had a turn at this work, and we spent the night at
Lewes Prison. In the early morning, dark and misty, we were mustered,
and five prisoners handed over to each of us. Mine worked on a farm
some four miles from the town, and thither I had to march them, walking
behind them with my rifle on my shoulder. When I had reached the lonely
country road, I thought I would get into human touch with these poor
slouching wretches, who were still in their stained grey uniforms,
and wearing their service caps with the bright red bands which formed
a wonderful advertisement of the excellence of German dyes. I halted
them, drew them up, and asked them their nationality. Three were from
Wurtemburg and two from Prussia. I asked the Wurtemburgers how long
they had been prisoners. They said, “Fourteen months.” “Then,” said I,
“you were taken by the Canadians at Ypres upon such and such a date.”
They were considerably astonished, since I was simply a second-line
Tommy from their point of view. Of course, I had the details of the
war very clearly in my mind, and I knew that our one big haul of
Wurtemburgers had been on that occasion. To this day they must wonder
how I knew. I shall not forget that day, for I stood for eight hours
leaning on a rifle, amid drizzling rain, while in a little gap of the
mist I watched those men loading carts with manure. I can answer for
it that they were excellent workers, and they seemed civil, tractable
fellows as well.
It was in 1915 that I managed to establish a secret correspondence
with the British prisoners at Magdeburg. It was not very difficult
to do, and I dare say others managed it as well as I, but it had the
effect of cheering them by a little authentic news, for at that time
they were only permitted to see German newspapers. It came about in
this way. A dear friend of my wife’s, Miss Lily Loder Symonds, had a
brother, Captain Willie Loder Symonds, of the Wiltshires, who had been
wounded and taken in the stand of the 7th Brigade on the evening before
Le Cateau. He was an ingenious fellow and had written home a letter
which passed the German censor, because it seemed to consist in the
description of a farm, but when read carefully it was clear that it was
the conditions of himself and his comrades which he was discussing. It
seemed to me that if a man used such an artifice he would be prepared
for a similar one in a letter from home. I took one of my books,
therefore, and beginning with the third chapter--I guessed the censor
would examine the first--I put little needle-pricks under the various
printed letters until I had spelled out all the news. I then sent the
book and also a letter. In the letter I said that the book was, I
feared, rather slow in the opening, but that from Chapter III onwards
he might find it more interesting. That was as plain as I dared to make
it. Loder Symonds missed the allusion altogether, but by good luck he
showed the letter to Captain the Hon. Rupert Keppel, of the Guards, who
had been taken at Landrecies. He smelled a rat, borrowed the book, and
found my cipher. A message came back to his father, Lord Albemarle,
to the effect that he hoped Conan Doyle would send some more books.
This was sent on to me, and of course showed me that it was all right.
From that time onwards every month or two I pricked off my bulletin,
and a long job it was. Finally, I learned that the British papers were
allowed for the prisoners, so that my budget was superfluous. However,
for a year or two I think it was some solace to them, for I always made
it as optimistic as truth would allow--or perhaps a little more so,
just to get the average right.
I had some dealings with General French, but only one interview with
him. No one can help feeling a deep respect for the soldier who
relieved Kimberley and headed off Cronje, or for the man who bore the
first hard thrust of the German spear.
My only interview with the General was at the Horse Guards, when he
talked very clearly about the military position, though most of what
he said as to the changes which modern tactics and heavy guns had
caused was rather self-evident. “Your problem always is how to pass
the wire and the machine guns. There is no way round. What is the good
of talking of invading Austria from the south? You will find the same
wire and the same machine guns. We may as well face it in Flanders as
anywhere else.” This talk was shortly after Loos, when he had returned
from the Army and was at the head of Home Defence. “If you want any
point looked up for your history, mind you let me know and I will see
that it is done.” This sounded very nice to me, who was in a perpetual
state of wanting to know; but as a matter of fact I took it as a mere
empty phrase, and so it proved when a week or two later I put it to the
test. It was a simple question, but I never got any clear answer.
One pleasing incident occurred in 1917, when a Hull steam trawler
which had been named after me, under the able handling of Skipper
Addy and Lieutenant McCabe of the Naval Reserve, had an action with a
heavily armed modern submarine, the fight lasting for some hours. The
_Conan Doyle_ was acting as flagship of a little group of trawlers,
and though their guns were popguns compared with that of the German,
they so peppered him that he was either sunk or took flight--anyhow,
he vanished under the water. The little boat sent me its ship’s bell
as a souvenir of the exploit, and I sent some small remembrances in
exchange. It was a fine exploit, and I was proud to be connected with
it, even in so remote a way.
I have in my war chapters expressed my admiration for General Haig. On
one occasion I called upon Lady Haig, when she was administering some
private hospital at Farnborough. It was, so far as I could understand,
one wing of the Empress Eugenie’s house, and the Empress invited me to
lunch. There were present also Prince Victor Napoleon and his wife,
who was, I think, a daughter of my old aversion, Leopold, King of the
Belgians and Overlord of the Congo. The Empress interested me deeply--a
historical relic whom one would expect to study in old pictures and
memoirs, yet there she was moving and talking before me. If Helen
launched a thousand ships, Eugenie, by all accounts, did far more.
Indeed, if the first German War was really from her inspiration, as
Zola insists, she was at the root of all modern history. In spite of
her great age, her face and figure preserved the lines of elegance
and breed, the features clearly cut, the head set proudly upon the
long neck. I glanced into her sitting-room as I passed the open door
and noticed that she was engaged upon an enormous jig-saw puzzle, a
thousand pieces if there were one. Children’s toys engaged the mind
which once played with Empires. There is surely something fatal in
that Spanish blood with its narrow fanatical religion and its masterful
intolerance, magnificent but mediæval like the Church which inspires it.
She talked very freely with me and in the most interesting manner.
It was surprising to see how fresh her mind was, and what curious
information she had at her command. She told me, for example, that
tetanus in France depended very much upon what soil had got into the
wound, while that in turn depended upon what manures had been used for
the soil--thus the percentage of tetanus cases would be quite different
in a vine-growing district and in one where ordinary crops were
cultivated. She spoke seriously about the war, but was confident as
to the ultimate result. This graceful, withered flower in its strange
setting was one of the outstanding memories of those days.
All sorts of queer odd jobs came to me as to many others in the war.
I was, of course, prepared always to do absolutely anything which was
suggested, though the suggestions were sometimes not very reasonable.
One must not argue, but simply put one’s whole weight, for what it
is worth, into the scrum. Once I was directed to go up to Scotland
and write up the great new munition works at Gretna, as the public
needed reassurance upon the point. Pearson, the younger brother of
Lord Cowdray, had built them, and they certainly deserved the name of
“Miracle Town,” which I gave them in my article. The great difficulty
always was to give our own people what they wanted and yet not to give
the Germans that which they wanted also. Winston Churchill’s remarkable
memoirs--the best, in my opinion, of all the war books--have shown
how heavily this pressed in high quarters. His volume is certainly a
wonderful vindication of his term of office, and it was a loss to the
country when he left it.
Churchill was very open to ideas and sympathetic to those who were
trying for some ideal. I had pondered much over armour for the troops,
and he commented on it in an inspiring letter, in which he said that
the bullet-proof man and the torpedo-proof ship were our two great
objects. I worked a good deal upon the question of shields, and wrote
several articles about it in “The Times” and other papers, but the
forces against us were strong. When I saw Mr. Montague on the subject
at the Ministry of Munitions, he said: “Sir Arthur, there is no use
your arguing here, for there is no one in the building who does not
know that you are right. The whole difficulty lies in making the
soldiers accept your views.”
One has, of course, to be reasonable on the point, and to admit that
there is a limit to what a man can carry, and that greater weight
means slower movement, and therefore longer exposure. That is fully
granted. But when the helmet in actual practice was found so useful,
why should it not be supplemented by steel shoulder-guards, since the
helmet might actually guide the bullets down on to the shoulders? And
why not a plastron over the heart? The vital points in a man’s anatomy
are not really so numerous. If many a life was saved by a buckle or a
cigarette-case, why should such protection not be systematized? And
why in trench warfare should not strong breastplates be kept for the
temporary use of any troops in the front line? I experimented with my
own service rifle upon steel plates, and I was surprised to find how
easy it was at twenty paces to turn a bullet. I am convinced that very
many lives would have been saved had my views been adopted, and that
the men in the hour of danger would have been only too glad to carry
that part of their equipment.
The Tank, however, was a device which carried the armour and the men
also, so that it was an extension of these ideas. We can never be
grateful enough to the men who thought out the Tank, for I have no
doubt at all that this product of British brains and British labour
won the war, which would otherwise have ended in a peace of mutual
exhaustion. Churchill, D’Eyncourt, Tritton, Swinton and Bertie
Stern,--these were in sober fact, divide the credit as you may, the men
who played a very essential part in bringing down the giant.
Our household suffered terribly in the war. The first to fall was my
wife’s brother, Malcolm Leckie, of the Army Medical Service, whose
gallantry was so conspicuous that he was awarded a posthumous D.S.O.
While he was actually dying himself, with shrapnel in his chest, he
had the wounded to his bedside and bandaged them. Then came the turn
of Miss Loder Symonds, who lived with us and was a beloved member of
the family. Three of her brothers were killed and the fourth wounded.
Finally, on an evil day for us, she also passed on. Then two brave
nephews, Alec Forbes and Oscar Hornung, went down with bullets through
the brain. My gallant brother-in-law, Major Oldham, was killed by a
sniper during his first days in the trenches. And then finally, just
as all seemed over, I had a double blow. First it was my Kingsley, my
only son by the first marriage, one of the grandest boys in body and
soul that ever a father was blessed with. He had started the war as a
private, worked up to an acting captaincy in the 1st Hampshires, and
been very badly wounded on the Somme. It was pneumonia which slew him
in London, and the same cursed plague carried off my soldier brother
Innes, he who had shared my humble strivings at Southsea so many
years ago. A career lay before him, for he was only forty and already
Adjutant-General of a corps, with the Legion of Honour, and a great
record of service. But he was called and he went like the hero he was.
“You do not complain at all, sir,” said the orderly. “I am a soldier,”
said the dying General. Thank God that I have since found that the
gates are not shut, but only ajar, if one does show earnestness in the
quest. Of all these that I have mentioned, there is but one from whom I
have been unable to obtain clear proof of posthumous existence.