By way of a sidelight on what happens on the Western front, a wounded
officer sends a characteristic account of his experiences after "going over
the top" at 3 A.M. "The first remark, as distinct from a shout that I heard
after leaving our parapet, came from Private Henry, my most notorious
malefactor. As the first attempt at a wire entanglement in our new position
went heavenward ten seconds after its emplacement, and a big tree just to
our right collapsed suddenly like a dying pig, he turned round with a grin,
observing: 'Well, sir, we _do_ see a bit of life, if we _don't_
make money.' I never saw a man all day who hadn't a grin ready when you
passed, and a bit of a _riposte_ if you passed the time of day with
him." Our officers only think of their men, and the men of their officers.
In Gallipoli our soldiers have discovered a new method of annoying the
Turk:
We go and bathe, in shameless scores
Beneath his baleful een,
Disrobe, unscathed, on sacred shores
And wallow in between;
Nor does a soldier then assume
His university costume,
And though it makes the Faithful fume,
It makes the Faithless clean.
The return of the wounded to England is marked by strange incidents,
pathetic and humorous. Thus it has been reserved for an officer, reported
dead in the casualty list, to ring up his people on the telephone and
correct "this silly story about my being killed." And the cheerfulness of
the limbless men in blue is something wonderful. They "jest at scars," but
not because they "never felt a wound." It is a high privilege to entertain
these light-hearted heroes, one of whom recently presented his partner in a
lawn tennis match with a fragment of shell taken direct from his
"stummick." And the recipient rightly treasures it as a love-token.
Parliament has reassembled, the inquisitors returning (unhappily) like
giants refreshed after their holiday. But they sometimes contribute to our
amusement, as when one relentless and complacent critic declared that, on
the matter of conscription, he should himself "prefer to be guided--very
largely--by Lord Kitchener." The concession is something. Most of the
importunate questionists are on the other side:
"Take from us any joys you like," they cry;
"We'd bear the loss, however much we missed 'em;
Let truth and justice, fame and honour die,
But spare, O spare, our Voluntary System!"
Amongst other signs of the times the increase of girl gardeners and the
sacrifice of flower beds to vegetables are to be noted. But War changes are
sometimes disconcerting, even when they are most salutary. For example,
there is the _cri de coeur_ of a passenger on a Clydebank tramcar in
Glasgow on Saturday night, with a lady conductor: "I canna jist bottom
this, Tam. It's Seterday nicht an' this is the Clydebank caur, an' there's
naebody singin' an' naebody fechtin' wi' the conductor." Liquor control
evidently does mean something.
[Illustration: A HANDY MAN
MARINE;(somewhat late for parade): "At six o'clock I was a bloomin'
'ousemaid: at seven o'clock I was a bloomin' valet; at eight o'clock I was
a bloomin' waiter; an' _now_ I'm a bloomin' soldier!"]
The War vocabulary grows and grows. "Pipsqueaks," "crumps" and "Jack
Johnsons," picturesque equivalents for unpleasant things, have long been
familiar even to arm-chair experts. The strangely named "Archie," and
"Pacifist," the dismay of scholars--a word "mean as what it's meant to
mean"--now come to be added to the list. A new and admirable explanation of
the R.F.A., "Ready for anyfink," is attributed to a street Arab. Our
children are mostly lapped in blissful ignorance, but their comments are
often illuminating. As, for instance, the suggestion of a small child asked
to give her idea of a suitable future for Germany and the Kaiser: "After
the war I wouldn't let Heligoland belong to anybody. I would put the
Germans there, and they should dig and dig and dig until it was all dug
into the sea. The Kaiser should be sent to America, and they should be as
rude as they liked to him. If he went in a train no one was to offer him a
seat; he was to hang on to a strap, and he is to be called Mr. Smith."
Cooks are being bribed to stay by the gift of War Bonds. Smart fashionables
are flocking to munition works, and some of them sometimes are not
unnaturally growing almost frightened at the organising talents they are
developing. So are other people.
A vigorous campaign against flies has been initiated by the journal which
describes itself as "that paper which gets things done." Nothing is too
small for it. Meanwhile it is announced that "Lord Northcliffe is
travelling and will be beyond the reach of correspondence until the end of
next week." Even he must have an occasional rest from his daily mail.
We have to apologise for any suggestion to the effect that the Huns are
devoid of humour. The German Society for the Protection and Preservation of
Monuments has held a meeting in Brussels and expressed its thanks to the
German Military Authorities for the care they had taken of the Monuments in
Belgium. The function ended with an excursion to Louvain, where the
delegates, no doubt, enjoyed a happy hour in the Library.
_October, 1915_.
September ended with the Western front once more ablaze, with bitter
fighting at Loos and a great French offensive in Champagne. With October
the focus of interest and anxiety shifts to the Balkans. Austrian armies,
stiffened with Germans, have again invaded Serbia and again occupied
Belgrade. The Allies have landed at Salonika, and Ferdinand of Bulgaria has
declared war on Serbia. Thus a new theatre of war has been opened, and
though it is well to be rid of a treacherous neutral, the conflict enters
on a fresh and formidable phase. When Ferdinand went to Bulgaria he is said
to have resolved that if ever there were to be any assassinations he would
be on the side of the assassins. He has been true to his word ever since
the removal of Stamboloff:
Here stands the Moslem with his brutal sword
Still red and reeking with Armenia's slaughter;
Here, fresh from Belgium's wastes, the Christian Lord,
His heart unsated by the wrong he wrought her;
And you between them, on your brother's track,
Sworn, for a bribe, to stick him in the back.
France and England have declared their intention of rendering all possible
help to Serbia in her new ordeal, but Greece, false to her treaty with
Serbia, and dominated by a pro-German Court and Government, hampers us at
every turn. "'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more." So Byron sang, and a
Byron _de nos jours_ adds a new stanza to his appeal:
Lo, a new curse--the Teuton bane!
Again rings out the trumpet call;
France, England, Russia, joined again,
For freedom fight, for Greece, for all;
And Greece--shall she that call ignore?
Then is she living Greece no more!
Life in the trenches grows more strenuous as the output of high explosive
increases, and the daily toll of our best and bravest makes grievous
reading for the elders at home, "who linger here and droop beneath the
heavy burden of our years," though many of them cheerfully undertake the
thankless fatigues of guarding the King's highway as specials. But letters
from the front still show the same genius for making light of hardship and
deadly peril, the same happy gift of extracting amusement from trivial
incidents. So those who spend their days and nights under heavy shell fire
and heavy rain write to tell you that "tea is the dominating factor of
war," or that "the mushrooming and ratting in their latest quarters" are
satisfactory. And even the wounded, in comparing the hazards of London with
those at the front, only indulge in mild irony at the expense of the
"staunch dare-devil souls who stay at home."
In Parliament Sir Edward Carson has explained the reasons of his
resignation of office--his difference from his colleagues in the
difficulties arising in the Eastern theatre of war; and a resolution has
been placed on the order-book proposing the appointment of a Committee of
Inquiry on the Dardanelles campaign. No abatement of the plague of
questions is yet noticeable, but some slight excuse may be found for the
"ragging" of the Censor. This anonymous worthy, it appears, recently
excised the words "and the Kings" from the well-known line in Mr. Kipling's
"Recessional":
The Captains and the Kings depart.
Apparently the Censor cannot admit any reference to the movements of
royalty.
[Illustration: REALISATION
("When I went to Bulgaria I resolved that if there were to be any
assassinations I would be on the side of the assassins."
STATEMENT BY FERDINAND.)]
When the Kaiser was at Windsor in 1891 he told the Eton College Volunteers
he was glad to see so many of them taking an interest in the study of arms,
and hoped that if ever they had to draw their swords in earnest they would
use them to some purpose for their country. Now that there are three
thousand Etonians at the front he is beginning to be sorry he spoke. The
Kaiser, by his own confession, is sorry in another way. He has told a
Socialist deputy, "with tears in his eyes," that he was sincerely sorry for
France, which was "the greatest disappointment of his life." Even
crocodiles sometimes speak the truth unwittingly. Meanwhile the Hamburg
_Fremdenblatt_ asserts that, "We Germans would gladly follow the
Kaiser's lead through the very gates of hell, were it necessary." The
qualification is surely superfluous, in the light of the murder of the
heroic English hospital matron, Edith Cavell, at Brussels on October 12.
Her life was one long act of mercy. She died with unshaken fortitude after
the mockery of a trial on a charge of having assisted fugitive British and
Belgian prisoners to escape. But her great offence was that she was
English. The names of her chief assassins are General Baron von Biasing,
the Governor of Brussels, General von Sauberschweig, the Military Governor,
and the Baron von der Lancken, the Head of the Political Department. Many
years will pass before the echoes of that volley fired at dawn in a
Brussels prison yard will die away.
[Illustration: LANDLADY; "'Ere's the Zeppelins, sir!" LODGER: "Right-o! Put
'em down outside."]
A new phase has been reached in the Conscription controversy, and the
burning question appears to be whether the necessary men are to be
compelled to volunteer or persuaded to be compulsorily enrolled. One of our
novelist military experts, who is not always lucky with figures, though he
thoroughly enjoys them, is alleged to have discovered that there are no
more men than can be raised by conscription, but that the same does not, of
course, apply to the voluntary system.
The _Daily Mail_ asks, "Have we a Foreign Office?" We understand that
a search-party is going carefully through Carmelite House. We have
certainly got a Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, so efficient in the
discharge of his duties that he has made himself an accomplished landscape
painter in three months.
A visitor to a remote East Anglian village in search of rest has found
recreation in discussing with the inhabitants the Great War, of which he
found some of them had heard. "Them there Zett'lins," said one old woman,
"I almost shruk as I heerd the mucky varmints a-shovellin' on the
coals--dare, dare! How my pore heart did beat!" And an onlooker, who had
seen a bomb drop near a church, informed the visitor that it "fared to him
like the body of the chach a-floatin' away--that it did and all! It made a
clangin' like a covey of lorries with their innards broke loose." Another
inhabitant said that he had two boys fighting. "One on 'em is in France,
wherever that might be, and Jimmy's in that hare old Dardelles." He
couldn't rightly say when the elder had gone out, "but it might be a yare
ago come muck-spreadin'."
_November_, 1915.
More money and more men is still the cry. The war is now costing five
millions a day, and the new vote of credit for £400,000,000 will only carry
us on till the middle of February. This is "Derby's Day," and the new
Director of Recruiting inspires confidence in his ability to make good, in
spite of the Jeremiads of Lord Courtney and Lord Loreburn. The lot of a
Coalition Government is never easy, and public opinion clamours not for
Jeremiahs but for Jonahs to lighten the Ship of State. Mr. Winston
Churchill, wearying of his sinecure at the Duchy of Lancaster, has resigned
office, explained himself in a long speech, and rejoined his regiment at
the Western front. Lord Fisher, whose doubts and hesitations about the
Dardanelles expedition were referred to by the late First Lord, has been
content to leave his record of sixty-one years' service in the hands of his
countrymen. In the briefest maiden speech ever delivered in either House he
stated that it was "unfitting to make personal explanations affecting the
national interest when my country is in the midst of a great war." Here at
least the traditions of the "Silent Service" have been worthily maintained,
just as they are maintained by the Port Officer R.N.R. at an Oriental
seaport, a thousand miles from the front, out of the limelight, with no
chance of glory, with fever from morn till night, who "worries along by the
grace of God and the blessing of cheap cheroots."
In Flanders the rain has begun its winter session, and, as a military
humorist put it, trench warfare is becoming a constant drain. The problem
of parapet mending has been reduced to arithmetical form _à la_
Colenso, as follows: "If two inches of rain per diem brings down one
quarter of a company's parapet, and one company, working about twenty-six
hours per diem, can revet one-eighth of a company's parapet, how long will
your trenches last--given the additional premisses that no revetments to
speak of are to be had, and that two inches of rain is only a minimum
ration?" The infantryman finds the men of the R.F.C. interesting and
stimulating companions. "These airy fellows talk of war as if it were a
day's shooting, and they the cock pheasants with the best of the fun up
aloft. Upon my word, the hen who hatched such birds should be a proud, if
anxious, mother." The same correspondent sends a pleasant account of the
mutual estimates of French and English, prompted by their experiences as
brothers in arms. "Our idea of our Ally as a soldier is that his
_élan_ and gay courage are very much more remarkable even than
supposed; but for the dull, heavy work of continued warfare there is
wanted, if we may say so without offence, the more stolid qualities of the
English. On the other hand, the French opinion of their Ally as a soldier
is that his dash and devilment are really astonishing, even to the most
expectant critic; but for the sordid, monotonous strain of this trench
business it needs (a thousand pardons!) the duller persistence of the
French."
[Illustration: THE PERSUADING OF TINO]
In Greece the quick change of Premiers proceeds with kaleidoscopic
rapidity. The attitude of the successive Prime Ministers has been described
as (1) Tender and affectionate neutrality toward the Entente Powers; (2)
Malevolent impartiality toward the Central Powers; (3) Inert cupidity
toward all the belligerent Powers; (4) Genial inability; (5) Strict
pusillanimity.
Lord Milner has gone so far in the House of Lords as to say that "such war
news as is published has from first to last been seriously misleading." The
Balkan intelligence that is allowed to reach us does not exactly deserve
this censure. To call it misleading would be too high praise; it seldom
rises beyond a level of blameless irrelevance. It is hardly a burlesque of
the facts to say that a cable from Amsterdam informs us that the Copenhagen
correspondent of the _Echo de Paris_ learns from Salonika, _viâ_
Lemnos and Nijni Novgorod, that in high official circles in Bukarest it is
rumoured that in Constantinople the situation is considered grave; and then
we are warned that too much credence must not be given to this report. The
number of Censors at the Press Bureau being exactly forty, and their minute
knowledge of English literature having been displayed on several occasions,
it is said that Sir John Simon contemplates their incorporation as an
Academy of "Immortals--for the duration of the War."
[Illustration: PADDY (who has had his periscope smashed by a bullet): "Sure
there's seven years' bad luck for the poor devil that broke that, anyhow."]
Mr. Punch's Correspondent "Blanche" sends distressing details of some of
the new complaints contracted by smart war workers. These include
munition-wrists, shell-makers' crouch, neuro-committee-itis, and
Zeppelin-eye through looking up into the sky too long with a telescope.
A great deal depends on what you look at and what you look through. Thus
Mr. Walter Long says that when he reads carping criticisms upon the conduct
of the War he looks through his window at the people in the street and is
always surprised to see the quiet steadfast manner in which they are going
about their business. It is a good plan, but not always successful. The
Kaiser got his view of the Irish people through a Casement, and it was
entirely erroneous.
The _Cologne Gazette_ has stated that "there is in England no real
soldiers' humour such as we have." Certainly we have nothing like it,
though we confess to preferring the home-grown brand.
_December, 1915_
Kut and Ctesiphon, Ctesiphon and Kut. Thus may the events of the last month
in Mesopotamia, no longer a "blessed word," be expressed in a bald formula,
which takes no account of the unavailing heroism of General Townshend's
small but splendid force. Things have not been going well in the East. The
Allies have been unable to save Serbia, Monastir has fallen, and our lines
have been withdrawn to Salonika. The experts are now divided into two
camps, the Westerners and the Easterners, and the former, pointing to the
evacuation of Gallipoli, are loud in their denunciations of costly
"side-shows," and the folly of strengthening Germany's hold on Turkey by
killing out the Turks, instead of concentrating all our forces on killing
the Germans on the Western front. The time is not yet come to decide which
is right. But all are agreed with the British officer who described the
Australian soldier at Gallipoli as "the bravest thing God ever made," and
so prompted these lines:
Bravest, where half a world of men
Are brave beyond all earth's rewards,
So stoutly none shall charge again
Till the last breaking of the swords;
Wounded or hale, won home from war,
Or yonder by the Lone Pine laid;
Give him his due for evermore--
"The bravest thing God ever made!"
Though the wings of the angel of Peace cannot be heard, peace kite-flying
has already begun in Vienna, but Germany is anxious to represent it as
unauthorised and improper. Mr. Henry Ford's voyage to Europe on the
_Oscar II_ with a strangely assorted group of Pacificists does more
credit to his heart than his head, and the conflicting elements in his
party have earned for his ship the name of "The Tug of Peace." Anyhow,
England is taking no risks on the strength of these irregular "overtures."
A vote has been passed for a further increase of our "contemptible little
Army" to four millions; and the manufacture of high explosive goes on in an
ever-increasing ratio. Sir Douglas Haig has succeeded Sir John French as
Commander-in-Chief of our Armies in France; Sir William Robertson is the
new Chief of Staff--Scotsmen both of the finest type--and the appointments
are universally approved, even by the _Daily Mail_. The temper of the
men in France is well hit off by an officer when he says that "Atkins is
really best when an ordinary mortal might be contemplating suicide or
desertion." And officers arriving on leave at Victoria at 2 A.M. are driven
to the conclusion that they are sent back to England from time to time to
check their optimism, which at the front survives even being sent to
so-called rest camps in the middle of a malodorous marsh for nine hours'
military training _per diem_. The "philosophy of Thomas" is
inscrutable, but no doubt he derives satisfaction from comparisons:
If we're standin' in two foot o' water, you see
Quite likely the Boches are standin' in three;
An' though the keen frost may be ticklin' our toes,
'Oo doubts that the Boches' 'ole bodies is froze?
So 'ere's our philosophy, simple an' plain:
Wotever we 'ates in the bloomin' campaign,
'Tis balm to our souls, as we grumble an' cuss,
To feel that the Boches are 'atin' it wuss.
Hardest of all is the lot of the trooper in the trenches, who "thinks all
day and dreams all night of a slap-bang, tally-ho! open fight," but for the
time being "like a blinded mole toils in a furrow and lives in a hole."
[Illustration: AN UNAUTHORISED FLIRTATION
THE KAISER (to Austrian Emperor): "Franz! Franz! I'm surprised and
pained."]
The National Thrift campaign is carried on with great earnestness in
Parliament. Luxury, waste, unnecessary banquets, high legal salaries have
all come under the lash of the economy hunters. Of the maxim that "Charity
begins, at home," they have, however, so far shown no appreciation beyond
abstaining from voting any addition to their salary of £400 a year. Mr.
Asquith's announcement that he takes his salary, and is going to continue
taking it, has naturally lifted a great weight from the minds of these
vicarious champions of economy.
[Illustration: TOMMY (finding a German prisoner who speaks English): "Look
what you done to me, you blighters! 'Ere--'ave a cigarette?"]
Evidence of the chastened condition of the enemy is to be found in the
statement on the official notepaper of Wolff's Telegraphic Bureau "that it
assumes no responsibility of any kind for the accuracy of the news which it
circulates." But there is no confirmation of the report that its dispatches
will in future be known as "Lamb's Tales." The German Imperial Chancellor
has replied to an appeal from a deputation of German Roman Catholics on
behalf of the Armenians that "The German Government, in friendly
communication with the Turkish Government, has been at constant pains to
better the situation of Turkey's Christian subjects." Thanks to this
friendly intervention, more than half a million Armenians will never suffer
again from Turkish misrule.
Mr. Roosevelt has added to the picturesqueness of political invective by
describing Mr. Wilson's last Presidential message as "worthy of a Byzantine
logothete." It is not often that one finds a rough-rider and ex-cowboy who
is able to tackle a don in his own lingo. But Tommy at the front manages to
converse with the _poilu_ without any vocabulary at all:
I met a chap the other day a-roostin' in a trench,
'E didn't know a word of ours nor me a word of French,
An' 'ow it was we managed--well, I cannot understand,
But I never used the phrase-book, though I 'ad it in my hand.
I winked at 'im to start with; 'e grinned from ear to ear;
An' 'e says "Tipperary," an' I says "Sooveneer";
'E 'ad my only Woodbine, I 'ad 'is thin cigar,
Which set the ball a-rollin', an' so--well, there you are!
I showed 'im next my wife an' kids, 'e up an' showed me 'is,
Them funny little Frenchy kids with 'air all in a frizz;
"Annette," 'e says, "Louise," 'e says, an' 'is tears began to fall;
We was comrades when we parted, but we'd 'ardly spoke at all.
_January, 1916_.
The New Year brings us a mixed bag of tricks, good and bad. Our armies grow
in numbers and efficiency, in men and munitions. The new Commander-in-Chief
on the Western front, and his new Chief of Staff, inspire confidence in all
ranks, combatant and non-combatant. John Ward, the Labour Member, hitherto
a strong opponent of conscription, and now a full-blown Colonel, has
hurried over from the front to defend the Compulsory Service Bill in a
manly and animated speech, and the Bill, despite the "Pringling" and
pacificism of a small but local minority, has passed through Committee.
Against these encouraging omens we have to set the complete evacuation of
Gallipoli, the scene of unparalleled heroism and unavailing sacrifice, the
fall of Monastir, the overrunning of Serbia, labour troubles on the Clyde,
and the ignominious exemption of Ireland from the Military Service Bill.
General Townshend, _rebus angustis animosus_--"in a tight place but
full of beans"--is besieged in Kut, and the relieving forces have not been
able to dislodge the Turks. Climate and weather and _terrain_ are all
against us.
Humanitarian Pacificists are much impressed by Germany's piteous
lamentations over the brutality of the blockade. In these appeals to
America optimists detect signs of cracking. Cooler observers explain them
as evidence of her policy of shamming dead.
English mothers who have lost their only sons cannot be expected to show
sympathy for an Emperor who combines the professions of a Jekyll with the
ferocity of a Hyde. Yet few of them would rewrite the record of these short
lives; their pride is greater than their pain.
While the daily toll of life is heavy, War, shorn of its pomp and
pageantry, drags wearily in the trenches. The Lovelace of to-day is a
troglodyte, biding his time patiently, but often a prey to _ennui_.
This is how he writes to Lucasta to correct the portrait painted by her
fancy:
Above, the sky is very grey, the world is very damp.
His light the sun denies by day, the moon by night her lamp;
Across the landscape, soaked and sad, the dull guns answer back,
And through the twilight's futile hush spasmodic rifles crack.
The papers haven't come to-day to show how England feels;
The hours go lame and languidly between our Spartan meals;
We've written letters till we're tired, with not a thing to tell
Except that nothing's doing, weather beastly, writer well.
So when you feel for us out here--as well I know you will--
Then sympathise with thousands for their country sitting still;
Don't picture battle-pieces by the lurid Press adored,
But miles and miles of Britishers, in burrows, badly bored.
[Illustration: