[16] All numerals relate to stories told herein--not to chapters in the
book.
"THE RED HORIZON"--STORIES OF THE LONDON IRISH
_The Man With the Rosary_
_Told by Patrick MacGill, Rifleman Number 3008, London Irish_
Patrick MacGill is the genius of the battlefield. The War has given
his great Irish heart its opportunity to express itself, and his
stories from the front have become little classics in the War's
literature. He dedicates his stories: "To the London Irish, to
the Spirit of Those Who Fight and to the Memory of Those Who Have
Passed Away." A letter to him by the President of the County of
London Territorial Association reads: "When I recruited you into
the London Irish--one of those splendid regiments that London has
sent to Sir John French, himself an Irishman--it was with gratitude
and pride. You had much to give us. The rare experiences of your
boyhood, your talents, your brilliant hopes for the future. Upon all
these the Western hills and loughs of your native Donegal seemed to
have the prior claim. But you gave them to London and to our London
Territorials. The London Irish will be proud of their young artist in
words and he will forever be proud of the London Irish Regiment, its
deeds and valour, to which he has dedicated such great gifts. May God
preserve you." Patrick MacGill, shoulder to shoulder with the Tommies
as a private soldier, is writing many great books. The following
stories are taken from his volume entitled "The Red Horizon," by
permission of his publishers, _George H. Doran Company_: Copyright
1916.
[17] I--THE SOLDIER TELLS HIS TALE
Sometimes when our spell in the trenches comes to an end we go back for
a rest in some village or town. Here the _estaminet_ or _debitant_
(French, as far as I am aware, for a beer shop), is open to the British
soldier for three hours daily, from twelve to one and from six to
eight o'clock. For some strange reason we often find ourselves busy
on parade at these hours, and when not on parade we generally find
ourselves without money. I have been here for four months; looking at
my pay book I find that I've been paid 25 fr. (or in plain English, one
pound) since I have come to France, a country where the weather grows
hotter daily, where the water is seldom drinkable, and where wine and
beer is so cheap. Once we were paid five francs at five o'clock in the
afternoon after five penniless days of rest in a village, and ordered
as we were paid, to pack up our all and get ready to set off at six
o'clock for the trenches. From noon we had been playing cards, and some
of the boys gambled all their pay in advance and lost it. Bill's five
francs had to be distributed amongst several members of the platoon.
"It's only five francs, anyway," he said. "Wot matter whether I
spend it on cards, wine, or women? I don't care for soldierin' as a
profession."
"What is your profession, Bill?" Pryor asked; we never really knew what
Bill's civil occupation was, he seemed to know a little of many crafts,
but was master of none.
"I've been everything," he replied, employing his little finger in the
removal of cigarette ash. "My ole man apprenticed me to a marker of 'ot
cross buns, but I 'ad a 'abit of makin' the long end of the cross on
the short side, an' got chucked out. Then I learned 'ow to jump through
tin plates in order to make them nutmeg graters, but left that job
after sticking plump in the middle of a plate. I had to stop there for
three days without food or drink. They were thinnin' me out, see! Then
I was a draughts manager at a bank, and shut the ventilators; after
that I was an electric mechanic; I switched the lights on and off at
night and mornin'; now I'm a professional gambler, I lose all my tin."
"You're also a soldier," I said.
"Course, I am," Bill replied. "I can present hipes by numbers, and
knock the guts out of sandbags at five hundred yards."