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Kitchener's Mob
The Adventures of an American in the British Army
By
James Norman Hall
Boston and New York
Houghton Mifflin Company
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1916
COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY JAMES NORMAN HALL
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published May 1916_
TO
TOMMY
OF THE GREAT WAR
WHO IS ADDING IMMORTAL LUSTER
TO THE NAME OF
ATKINS
Note
This brief narrative is by no means a complete record of life in a
battalion of one of Lord Kitchener's first armies. It is, rather, a
story in outline, a mere suggestion of that life as it is lived in the
British lines along the western front. If those who read gain thereby
a more intimate view of trench warfare, and of the men who are so
gallantly and cheerfully laying down their lives for England, the
purpose of the writer will have been accomplished.
The diagram which appears on the front and rear covers of the book is a
partially conventionalized design illustrating some features of trench
construction mentioned in Chapter VI. For obvious reasons it is not
drawn to scale, and although it is a truthful representation of a
typical segment of the British line, it is not an exact sketch of any
existing sector.
_April_, 1916.
Contents
I. Joining Up 1
II. Rookies 9
III. The Mob in Training 17
IV. Ordered Abroad 39
V. The Parapet-etic School 55
VI. Private Holloway, Professor of Hygiene 69
VII. Midsummer Calm 92
VIII. Under Cover 108
IX. Billets 129
X. New Lodgings 144
XI. "Sitting Tight" 177
Kitchener's Mob
CHAPTER I
JOINING UP
"Kitchener's Mob" they were called in the early days of August, 1914,
when London hoardings were clamorous with the first calls for volunteers.
The seasoned regulars of the first British expeditionary force said it
patronizingly, the great British public hopefully, the world at large
doubtfully. "Kitchener's Mob," when there was but a scant sixty thousand
under arms with millions yet to come. "Kitchener's Mob" it remains
to-day, fighting in hundreds of thousands in France, Belgium, Africa,
the Balkans. And to-morrow, when the war is ended, who will come
marching home again, old campaigners, war-worn remnants of once mighty
armies? "Kitchener's Mob."
It is not a pleasing name for the greatest volunteer army in the history
of the world; for more than three millions of toughened, disciplined
fighting men, united under one flag, all parts of one magnificent
military organization. And yet Kitchener's own Tommies are responsible
for it, the rank and file, with their inherent love of ridicule even at
their own expense, and their intense dislike of "swank." They fastened
the name upon themselves, lest the world at large should think they
regarded themselves too highly. There it hangs. There it will hang for
all time.
It was on the 18th of August, 1914, that the mob spirit gained its
mastery over me. After three weeks of solitary tramping in the mountains
of North Wales, I walked suddenly into news of the great war, and went
at once to London, with a longing for home which seemed strong enough to
carry me through the week of idleness until my boat should sail. But, in
a spirit of adventure, I suppose, I tempted myself with the possibility
of assuming the increasingly popular _alias_, Atkins. On two successive
mornings I joined the long line of prospective recruits before the
offices at Great Scotland Yard, withdrawing each time, after moving
a convenient distance toward the desk of the recruiting sergeant.
Disregarding the proven fatality of third times, I joined it on another
morning, dangerously near to the head of the procession.
"Now, then, you! Step along!"
There is something compelling about a military command, given by a
military officer accustomed to being obeyed. While the doctors were
thumping me, measuring me, and making an inventory of "physical
peculiarities, if any," I tried to analyze my unhesitating, almost
instinctive reaction to that stern, confident "Step along!" Was it an
act of weakness, a want of character, evidenced by my inability to say
no? Or was it the blood of military forebears asserting itself after
many years of inanition? The latter conclusion being the more pleasing,
I decided that I was the grandson of my Civil War grandfather, and the
worthy descendant of stalwart warriors of a yet earlier period.
I was frank with the recruiting officers. I admitted, rather boasted, of
my American citizenship, but expressed my entire willingness to serve in
the British army in case this should not expatriate me. I had, in fact,
delayed, hoping that an American legion would be formed in London as had
been done in Paris. The announcement was received with some surprise. A
brief conference was held, during which there was much vigorous shaking
of heads. While I awaited the decision I thought of the steamship ticket
in my pocket. I remembered that my boat was to sail on Friday. I thought
of my plans for the future and anticipated the joy of an early
home-coming. Set against this was the prospect of an indefinite period
of soldiering among strangers. "Three years or the duration of the war"
were the terms of the enlistment contract. I had visions of bloody
engagements, of feverish nights in hospital, of endless years in a home
for disabled soldiers. The conference was over, and the recruiting
officer returned to his desk, smiling broadly.
"We'll take you, my lad, if you want to join. You'll just say you are an
Englishman, won't you, as a matter of formality?" Here was an avenue of
escape, beckoning me like an alluring country road winding over the
hills of home. I refused it with the same instinctive swiftness of
decision that had brought me to the medical inspection room. And a few
moments later, I took "the King's shilling," and promised, upon my oath
as a loyal British subject, to bear true allegiance to the Union Jack.
During the completion of other, less important formalities, I was taken
in charge by a sergeant who might have stepped out of any of the
"Barrack-Room Ballads." He was true to type to the last twist in
the _s_ of Atkins. He told me of service in India, Egypt, South
Africa. He showed me both scars and medals with that air of
"Now-I-would-n't-do-this-for-any-one-but-you" which is so flattering to
the novice. He gave me advice as to my best method of procedure when I
should go to Hounslow Barracks to join my unit.
"'An 'ere! Wotever you do an' wotever you s'y, don't forget to myke the
lads think you're an out-an'-outer, if you understand my meaning,--a
Britisher, you know. They'll tyke to you. Strike me blind! Be free an'
easy with 'em,--no swank, mind you!--an' they'll be downright pals with
you. You're different, you know. But don't put on no airs. Wot I mean
is, don't let 'em think that you think you're different. See wot I
mean?"
I said that I did.
"An' another thing; talk like 'em."
I confessed that this might prove to be rather a large contract.
"'Ard? S'y! 'Ere! If I 'ad you fer a d'y, I'd 'ave you talkin' like a
born Lunnoner! All you got to do is forget all them aitches. An' you
don't want to s'y 'can't,' like that. S'y 'cawrn't.'"
I said it.
"Now s'y, 'Gor blimy, 'Arry, 'ow's the missus?'"
I did.
"That's right! Oh, you'll soon get the swing of it."
There was much more instruction of the same nature. By the time I was
ready to leave the recruiting offices I felt that I had made great
progress in the vernacular. I said good-bye to the sergeant warmly. As I
was about to leave he made the most peculiar and amusing gesture of a
man drinking.
"A pint o' mild an' bitter," he said confidentially. "The boys always
gives me the price of a pint."
"Right you are, sergeant!" I used the expression like a born Englishman.
And with the liberality of a true soldier, I gave him my shilling, my
first day's wage as a British fighting man.
The remainder of the week I spent mingling with the crowds of enlisted
men at the Horse Guards Parade, watching the bulletin boards for the
appearance of my name which would mean that I was to report at the
regimental depot at Hounslow. My first impression of the men with whom I
was to live for three years, or the duration of the war, was anything
but favorable. The newspapers had been asserting that the new army was
being recruited from the flower of England's young manhood. The throng
at the Horse Guards Parade resembled an army of the unemployed, and I
thought it likely that most of them were misfits, out-of-works, the kind
of men who join the army because they can do nothing else. There were,
in fact, a good many of these. I soon learned, however, that the general
out-at-elbows appearance was due to another cause. A genial Cockney gave
me the hint.
"'Ave you joined up, matey?" he asked.
I told him that I had.
"Well, 'ere's a friendly tip for you. Don't wear them good clo'es w'en
you goes to the depot. You won't see 'em again likely, an' if you gets
through the war you might be a-wantin' of 'em. Wear the worst rags you
got."
I profited by the advice, and when I fell in, with the other recruits
for the Royal Fusiliers, I felt much more at my ease.