Chapter XVII: The Man Amid War

_War, that mad game the world so loves to play._

SWIFT’S “Ode to Sir William Temple.”

_The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory or the grave._

CAMPBELL’S “Hohenlinden.”

_But there is neither East nor West, border, nor breed nor birth,
When two strong men stand face to face, tho’ they come from the
ends of the earth!_

KIPLING’S “Ballad of East and West.”

Everybody is brave out here, but we all pass the biscuit on to the flying-men. If ever men won a V.C. they have: _An Infantry Private_.

“All’s Well”

It’s all “Vive l’Anglais” where we go. The villagers look on us as their saviours. We all feel very cheerful and all have the one idea that we must win, so as long as we are not downhearted. “All’s well” will be the cry: _An Unnamed Private_.

The Beginning

You have a sort of want-to-go-home-to-your-mother feeling at the start, but that soon goes when you get into your stride. When your pal gets wiped out at your side you feel anxious to get your own back: _Private W. A. Cast_.

Holed!

My hat has six holes punctured by shrapnel. One shot carried half of the badge away, another caught the wire rim and doubled it up like a hat-pin to five inches. I have had up to a sovereign offered for it, but I am sticking to it, you bet: _Pte. Cawley, 3rd Coldstream Guards_.

Jammy!

Now about this jam. If you get a big pot you’ll carry it along, and like as not get it smashed. Then your whole kit’s muckered up. Likewise if you get it in a tin you’ll open it and take what you want, but you’ll have no lid to put on, so you’ll leave the rest behind: _Pte. Moss, of the Hussars_.

Next for Shaving

One daring thing I saw on the Aisne was done by a man of the Buffs. He was surprised by the Germans, and the only weapon he had to meet the attack of one who came at him with a rifle was a half-brick. He let fly with it, and caught the “sausage” on the head, bowling him clean over. Then he picked up his rifle and coolly took his position, calling out, “Next for shaving”: _Pte. G. Barton, Royal Engineers_.

A Strange Meeting

A few years ago I was a delegate for the I.L.P. at the International Socialist Congress at Stuttgart, and stayed at the house of a German, Hans Woesschhoeft by name. After the battle of the Marne I was with a force pursuing the Germans, and one day engaged in bayonet fighting a German cavalryman. Looking at him closer, I recognized my host of happier days. He recognized me, and we had not the heart to fight further. He saved the situation by surrendering: _Corpl. Hayhurst, Shropshire Light Infantry_.

“All We Want”

We are still getting on in the pink of health, and have all we want. My chum, ----, wishes to be remembered to you; he says he doesn’t want to come back again to England. We are amongst some of the finest people I have ever met, and they will give us anything we want. We can get plenty of tobacco here, so will you please send me a pipe? I shall get it some time. Well, dear, I can’t say more now, so will wish you good-bye for the present. Tell the missis I wish to be remembered to her. I will close with heaps of love: _A Sergeant of the 3rd Hussars_.

Dare-Devils

The army is full of dare-devils who are never happy unless they are risking their lives in some extravagant way. Two men of the Leinster Regiment had an argument about each other’s running powers. To settle the dispute they had a hundred yards sprint outside the trenches under German fire all the time. Both had some narrow escapes, but got through without a scratch. They wanted to do it over again, but an officer stopped them: _Pte. R. Collier, Sherwood Foresters_.

An Evil Eye!

You can see that the German hates you by the evil look in his eye. It isn’t safe to go near him unless you have a bayonet in your hand. I was trying to do something for one wounded German, and the next thing I saw was his mate from behind him coming for me with a bayonet. He was wounded, too, but he thought he was going to get a stick at me. But I stuck first, and he did not want more than one, I can tell you. You have got some funny jobs to do in fighting: _A Private of the Coldstream Guards_.

Signed the Pledge!

Wine is offered us instead of water by the French people, but we are refusing it. Some of the hardest drinkers in the regiment have signed the pledge for the war. Some of the French tell of miraculous escapes. One man was holding a glass of water to a wounded comrade when a bullet shattered the glass. In another case a man came out of action with two bullets in his pocket. One had travelled through a neighbour’s body before being spent, and the other had struck a cigarette-case and had been deflected: _A Private of Withington_.

The Balm of Baccy

We are issued tobacco, but those who haven’t pipes find it difficult to get a smoke, as cigarette-papers are very scarce. As much as five francs has been offered for a 1d. packet. Thank goodness I have a pipe. It is really marvellous the amount of comfort and enjoyment one derives from a smoke. During the cold nights, when unable to sleep through being on some duty, sitting round the old camp fire thinking, the old pipe of ’bacca has a very soothing effect. There is something missing when one is without it: _Sergt. Ibbitson, Cyclist Company_.

His Spare Time

In the haste of the retreat the Germans abandoned and we picked up bicycles, gramophones, concertinas, accordions, civilian clothes, and provisions of all kinds, and what not. There were a lot of dead Germans behind them. One officer was sitting quite natural, with his head resting on his hands. Another chap had apparently been a bit of a carver, for he had just finished carving a doll’s house, with furniture complete. He had evidently been doing it in his spare time under fire: _Pte. Trobe, Royal Artillery_.

Wet, But Exciting

I have a month’s growth of whiskers, and I look horrid. We are all the same. I have not had a chance of a wash for a week. The last wash I had was after twenty-four chaps had washed in one bucket. At the time of writing I am soaking wet, and am waiting for the sun to dry me. We are all ready for anything. We have lost thirty of our men. Thank God, I am spared, but I am ready to die for the old country. I have been soaking wet for a week, but we are on the move--too exciting to notice anything: _Pte. T. Percy, Army Veterinary Corps_.

“Nearer, my God, to Thee”

It was raining like blazes and a cold, wretched night. We all knew we were going into action in the morning, and we stood together while shelter was found for us. Suddenly somebody started to sing “Nearer, my God, to Thee,” and the whole battalion took it up, and we sang it right through. Next we had the “Glory Song,” and it was impressive. We went into action the next day, and on the following night twenty-five or thirty of our men who had sung those hymns were buried, and an officer who read the service was in tears: _Pte. Baker, Coldstream Guards_.

Happy all the Day

It’s a fine sight to see us on the march, swinging along the roads as happy as schoolboys and singing all the old songs we can think of. The tunes are sometimes a bit out, but nobody minds so long as we’re happy. As we pass through the villages the French come out to cheer us and bring us food and fruit. Cigarettes we get more of than we know what to do with. Some of them are rotten, so we save them for the German prisoners, who would smoke anything they can lay hands on. Flowers also we get plenty of, and we are having the time of our lives: _Corporal J. Bailey_.

“Supreme Beings”

The roads are simply cruel. But the worst is we cannot get a decent smoke. I am in the best of health, what with the feeding and the open-air life, the stars being our covering for the last few weeks. We have seen some of the most lovely country imaginable. Some of the hills were four miles long, with about eight S-bends in them. The people over here go half mad when we go through the villages and towns. They throw fruit and flowers at us, give us wine, and goodness knows what. If we happen to stop they run out to shake hands and hang round us as if we were supreme beings: _Driver L. Finch_.

“Who Goes There?”

I was posted on guard, and after about an hour I began to feel sleepy, so I went to stand beside a wagon, when suddenly I heard a noise. Then I shouted, “Halt! who goes there?” But there was no reply. Again I shouted. Still there was no response. Then I saw a figure move about five yards away from me, but as it was so very dark I could not tell whether it was one of our own men or not, so I shouted for the last time, and as there was no reply I fired. The guard turned out and ran to the place, bringing back the victim, shot through the shoulder. He was a German spy: _Driver Renniberg, Army Service Corps_.

“Mum’s the Word”

Wish I could describe all I have seen to you; but have not the time, for one thing, and not allowed to give anything of importance in our letters, of course. The French are fine, generous people. Have seen and conversed as well as possible with their wounded, as we have passed some quantity on our way in trains, and German prisoners with them. From what I have seen of them so far, especially those returning from the front, they are fine fellows. Taking them all round, I believe they are bigger than our fellows. The Germans appear similar to ours, although I could only see them by lantern light for a few seconds as they were lying down in railway goods wagons--they may have been wounded. The French appear to be treating them well. This is a beautiful country--rather flat what I have seen, but well-cultivated soil similar to round Cambridge: _Private H. J. Charity_.

The Impossible Order

We enjoy the hard life all right because it’s full up with excitement, and we are doing our little bit towards squaring off that big account with the Germans. They’re not doing the fine things they promised to do, and it must make them sick to think of their failure to wipe out our army, for you can take it from me that they had their orders direct from the Kaiser that the British force was to be punished at any cost for daring to come over here without his orders. There’s been punishment enough, God knows, but it hasn’t all been on the one side. There’s many a German could tell of being punished for all he was worth, and they won’t be in a hurry to deal out punishment to us again: _Private E. Wood_.

The Valiant Spirit

After marching and fighting nearly every day we are all feeling like veterans now, and we are ready to keep the ball rolling for just as long as it takes to give the Kaiser’s lads a lesson in soldiering that is likely to be remembered in their precious Fatherland so long as there are Germans alive. We are not kidding ourselves about what we have before us, but we are bracing ourselves for it, and we will certainly put our best foot forward and get our backs into the work as you would expect British soldiers to do. This is going to be the biggest thing we’ve ever taken on, and there’ll be many an English home in mourning before it’s through; but you simply must make up your minds to face it as bravely as we are facing it, because that’s the only way to win, and we’re out to win at any price. We can’t and we won’t allow the Germans to get the best of us in this fight, and they will have to trample on our dead bodies first before they get a chance of trampling on our flag, as they say they will. The dead won’t all be Britons, and we have no doubt about who’s going to win, if it takes us a century to do it: _Private S. Hobson_.

Spared!

In the hospital there were twenty wounded, including three Germans, in charge of an English doctor. After our troops had retired to their base, some distance in the rear, the hospital was raided by a party of fifty Germans. They were all more or less under the influence of drink, and they demanded that we should tell them where our regiment was. Not one of us would give the game away, and they thereupon said they would shoot us all. They commenced flourishing their revolvers and shouting, and I can tell you that I began to shake. I was really afraid then, and I thought our numbers were up. But the unexpected happened. The three wounded Germans implored their comrades to spare us, pointing out that they had been most kindly treated by the English doctor: _A Private of the Hussars_.

Jolly Boys are We!

I am sitting on the grass in a huge encampment of some thousands of men who, despite all kinds of adverse circumstances, are still as jolly as the proverbial skylark. It is quite remarkable to see the philosophical way in which Tommy takes everything. Here is a little example which may, perhaps, be amusing to some of the Merrie Villagers next Sunday. A huge field, inches thick in mud, nice clay soil, which hangs on to you like grim death; wet shirts, due to a steady downpour all night; no tea for breakfast, owing to the rain having put all fires out; and the troops sitting as best they can on their waterproof sheets on wet earth, doing what? Why, singing, at the top of their voices, “It’s a long, long way to Tipperary!”: _Bombdr. Barron, of Finsbury Park_.

The “Born Grousers”

Just now we suffer more from the plague of spies than we did from flies in South Africa. “Kill that spy” is a cry as necessary as “Kill that fly” at home. Scarcely a day passes without the arrest of Germans or Austrians engaged in their low trade. They get short shrift. A chap can’t be sorry for them; they are such dirty dogs. They are going about circulating lies of all kinds. One of their yarns is to tell of whole regiments wiped out. Sometimes it is a French regiment and sometimes a British one. One of the kidney tried it on in a café here to-night. He made free with the name of a regiment actually quartered here. When we had done with him he had practical proof that this scurvy German method of killing off your enemies is only satisfactory so long as you can avoid a meeting with the “killed and wounded.” We are all comfortable here, and there is no shortage of any kind, so if you hear from the born “grousers” of hardships don’t believe them: _Corporal G. Robbins_.

Well Tended

I was about the last man that got hit, and I got a proper one too. An explosive bullet got me behind the knee, and blew away my knee and part of thigh and shin. I lay there for a time in the forest with no one but the Germans, who were not at all unkind to me; they gave me water and wine to drink, and two of their Red Cross bandaged my leg up temporarily until the ambulance came along about ten hours later. Well, dad, if I ever prayed I prayed during that time; I was in sheer agony the whole time. Eventually the ambulance came along and brought me back (a prisoner, of course) to a Roman Catholic chapel, which was converted into a temporary hospital, and I lay there till I was brought out to a château, where two German doctors amputated my leg. They did their best for me, but in a rough way. I was there for about ten days with hardly any food, as they hadn’t it for themselves, only dry bread and black coffee. Our own people released us, and took all the Germans who were there prisoners: _Sergt. O’Dwyer, Irish Guards_.

“Archibald” a Drawback

The Germans have a topsides gun we call “Archibald.” He shoots extraordinarily well on some days and damn badly on others. They always get our height correct, but so far have brought nobody down. Several machines have been hit by his shrapnel bullets and bits of his shell. He also flies a sort of parachute which he uses to range on. The other day we pulled his leg properly by getting between him and a bright sun so that he could not see us properly. He sent up his parachute, height exactly correct, fuse well timed, and proceeded to pepper it no end, all about half a mile away from us. Once I heard his beastly shells whistling above the noise of the engine when we came out of the clouds, so he must have been jolly near. He has a twin brother named “Cuthbert,” who is a large howitzer. His first shot is good, but the remainder always miles behind. “Archibald” certainly is a drawback, as one has to be rather careful to circumvent him, as the blighter’s shooting has improved wonderfully: _An Army Airman_.

“Here Comes the Last”

It is amusing to hear some soldiers speak when they come down the line, and it is becoming quite a joke to say, “Here comes the last of such-and-such a regiment,” for invariably they claim to be the last--all the others are cut up. It is no doubt the case that some battalions have been severely handled. I met one of the Dorsets--but here hangs a tale. You will know the old bookshop in Churchwallgate. On the day I left Macclesfield I called in to wish the bookseller good-bye. It was mentioned incidentally that he had a relative who had been called up; I had met him on one occasion, and would I be likely to see him again? Of course this was highly improbable, but I did meet him. After we had retired from ---- I jumped up on a truck-load of biscuits along with others, and said not a word, being too busy admiring the magnificent beauty of the country in this district. At last we talked of things in general, of the inferior rifle-shooting of the Germans, but with respect of his shrapnel, and I mentioned Macclesfield, hoping to be back at Christmas. A man of the Dorsets cocked his ears. “Macclesfield! Put it there, Corporal,” he said, holding out his hand. “Put it there. I have been weighing you up for the last ten minutes, wondering where I had seen you before. Now I know.” This was the man whom I never expected to see, and we met under difficult conditions on a truck racing hell for leather through a country which a few days later was the grave of many a German soldier: _Pte. Dickenson, Army Service Corps_.

Saved by a Curé

A smart young corporal accompanied me to reconnoitre, and we went too far ahead, and were cut off in a part of the country thick with Uhlans. As we rode in the direction of ---- two wounded men were limping along, both with legs damaged, one from the Middlesex and the other Lancashire Fusiliers, and so we took them up. The men were hungry and tattered to shreds with fighting, but in fine spirits. We soon came across a small village, and I found the curé a grand sportsman and full of pluck and hospitality. He seemed charmed to find a friend who was English, and told me that the Germans were dressed in the uniforms of British soldiers, which they took from the dead and from prisoners in order to deceive French villagers, who in many places in that district had welcomed these wolves in sheep’s clothing. We were warned that the enemy would be sure to track us up to the village. The curé said he could hide the two wounded men in the crypt of his church, and put up beds for them. It has a secret trapdoor, and was an ancient treasure-house of a feudal lord, whose castle we saw in ruins at the top of the hill close by. Then he hid away our saddlery and uniforms in the roof of a barn, and insisted upon our making a rest-chamber of the tower of his church, which was approached by a ladder, which we were to pull up to the belfry as soon as we got there. He smuggled in wine and meat and bread and cakes, fruit and cigarettes, with plenty of bedding pulled up by a rope. We slept soundly, and the owls seemed the only other tenants, who resented our intrusion. No troops passed through the village that night. In the morning the curé came round at six o’clock, and we heard him say Mass. After that we let down the ladder, and he came up with delicious hot chocolate and a basket of rolls and butter. Our horses he had placed in different stables a mile apart, and put French “fittings” on them, so as to deceive the enemy: _A Non-Commissioned Officer in the Dragoons_.

After the Battle

We, whose work commences only after the battle, have learned to know things that baffle description. Waiting all day long in more or less sheltered positions is sad enough: with the noise of rifle fire and the roaring of the guns we cannot but constantly think of the poor fellows who are being hit. The din of the battle grows less, the night draws on, the moment has now come for us to do our task. With acetylene lamps to light us, we cross the battlefield in all directions and pick up the wounded. As to the dead, alas! how numerous they are! We find them petrified in their last attitude in their last _élan_. And the crying and moaning of the wounded scattered in the cornfields and among the damp meadows! I know of nothing more poignant than that. The bullets nearly always go right through; wounds in the chest or in the abdomen are almost certainly mortal. Fortunately, such wounds are comparatively few in number. German shells are more noisy than efficient, and their splinters generally only cause small wounds. I must add that the bullets of our rifles are as deadly as those of the Germans, while our shells are far more dangerous than theirs. The poor devils who are hit by them are to be pitied. A good many Germans allow themselves to be made prisoners; they know we will treat them humanely: _A Member of the Ambulance Corps_.