[2] All numerals relate to stories herein told--not to chapters in
original sources.
[3] From the line "_Lieb Vaterland magst ruhig sein_" ("Be undismayed,
dear Fatherland"), in _Die Wacht am Rhein_.
"THE FIRST HUNDRED THOUSAND"--WITH KITCHENER'S ARMY IN FRANCE
_Stories Straight from the Trenches_
_Told by Captain Ian Hay Beith, Famous Scotch Novelist with the Argyil
and Sutherland Highlanders_
Ian Hay's collection of War stories is pronounced in England "the
greatest book of the War." This Scotch novelist went to the trenches
to fight with the Highlanders. He sends "back home" graphic and
absorbing stories of a thousand heroes. They are full of humor, with
bits of superb character drawing that make the men at the front seem
like old friends. His division has been badly cut up and seriously
reduced in numbers during the War; he has risen from a sub-lieutenant
to the rank of Captain, finally to be transferred to the machine
gun division and recommended for a military cross. The story of the
first hundred thousand was originally contributed in the form of an
anonymous narrative to _Blackwood's Magazine_. In a letter to his
publishers, Capt. Beith describes the circumstances under which he
is writing: "I write this from the stone floor of an outhouse, where
the pigmeal is first accumulated and then boiled up at a particularly
smelly French farm, which is saying a good deal. It is a most
interesting life and if I come through the present unpleasantness
I shall have enough copy to last me twenty years." His pictures of
the Great Struggle, uniquely rich in graphic human detail, have been
collected into a volume, "The First Hundred Thousand," by _Houghton,
Mifflin and Company_, of Boston and New York, which is creating wide
attention. One of the stories entitled, "The Front of the Front," is
here retold by permission of his publishers.
[4] I--THE FRONT OF THE FRONT
We took over these trenches a few days ago; and as the Germans are
barely two hundred yards away, this chapter seems to justify its
title.... We find that we are committed to an indefinite period of
trench life, like every one else.
Certainly we are starting at the bottom of the ladder. These trenches
are badly sited, badly constructed, difficult of access from the rear,
and swarming with large, fat, unpleasant flies, of the bluebottle
variety. They go to sleep, chiefly upon the ceiling of one's dugout,
during the short hours of darkness, but for twenty hours out of
twenty-four they are very busy indeed. They divide their attentions
between stray carrion--there is a good deal hereabout--and our rations.
If you sit still for five minutes they also settle upon _you_, like
pins in a pincushion. Then, when face, hands, and knees can endure
no more, and the inevitable convulsive wriggle occurs, they rise in
a vociferous swarm, only to settle again when the victim becomes
quiescent. To these, high-explosives are a welcome relief.
The trenches themselves are no garden city, like those at Armentières.
They were sited and dug in the dark, not many weeks ago, to secure two
hundred yards of French territory recovered from the Boche by bomb and
bayonet. (The captured trench lies behind us now, and serves as our
second line.) They are muddy--you come to water at three feet--and at
one end, owing to their concave formation, are open to enfilade. The
parapet in many places is too low. If you make it higher with sandbags
you offer the enemy a comfortable target: if you deepen the trench you
turn it into a running stream. Therefore long-legged subalterns crawl
painfully past these danger-spots on all-fours, envying Little Tich.