THE NOISE OF WAR.

The best way to understand war is to grasp the thoughts and the feelings of the soldier in action. Our newspaper correspondents have attempted to interpret the soldier’s feelings for us, but have failed, mainly because they are not soldiers, and their stuff is written in comparative comfort. It is fashionable to ‘write up’ the soldier advancing to the cannon’s mouth as if he were going to Brighton for a week-end. This is ridiculous, for this reason, that the soldier is just human, and when facing death he experiences all the symptoms of an invalid who is about to undergo a serious operation. But to make the whole thing clear to you, let me reproduce a little discussion we had in our hut one night.

It was Beefy who broached the subject by a casual remark to the effect that when he went over the top at Loos he felt as if he wanted to go home—quick.

‘That’s just how I felt,’ said Billy Greens.

We gathered round the last speaker and asked him to go on.

‘Oh, well, let me be frank, and say I was never in such a funk in all my life. I am sure many more felt the same; but, of course, we never said so. What heartened me to go on was the remark our colonel made as he went over the top. He said, “Look here, men; the Boche is just as frightened as we are, so come on.” This idea gave me comfort. Still, my knees were groggy, and I believe if I had met a Hun then it would have been a bad show for me.’

‘What made you go forward?’ I asked him.

‘Discipline, and the knowledge that if I funked, my name would stick in the mud for ever. I am not a hero, and I believe thousands feel like that. We are really a race of pacifists; but, for all that, I hold that a pacifist nation in arms is much more deadly than a nation nurtured on the themes of Bernhardi. None of us is in this business because he likes it. Personally, I loathe the whole scheme. It is ghastly. Still we, apparently, can only end it by fighting, and that is why I and many others are in.’

‘What frightened you most, Billy?’

‘Oh, the noise—the terrible noise. If it weren’t for the high explosives I believe war wouldn’t be half bad. But it is the noise which has a demoralising effect on the educated brain. It stuns, unnerves, and creates a thousand fears. Mind you, I don’t think it has the same effect on a navvy, a miner, or any sort of manual labourer. These men have no nerves, and for that reason I think they are the best private soldiers. The duller the brain, the less the suffering. But modern war is a terrible thing for the highly sensitive and highly skilled.’

‘Did you reach your objective all right?’ asked Ginger.

‘Yes. I saw the C.O. ahead, waving us on, and I went. The man seemed so brave that one really couldn’t let him down, so we just followed. But I was still nervous. Then I saw the C.O. fall. He was shot through the stomach. I went mad. I wanted to kill some one. When I got to the first line of the Huns I saw a big fellow skulking away. I shot him—dead. After that I wanted more. God forgive me for the feeling, but I’m sure it was the primitive lust to kill. It’s in us all. Education seemed but a veneer. When it was all over I went into a corner and prayed. Ugh! it’s a horrible business,’ concluded Billy.

‘Yes, we all have much the same experience,’ added Nobby Clarke. ‘Personally, it wasn’t the thought of death that worried me, but the secret fear of getting a stomach-wound, and being left out in No Man’s Land. And I believe almost every officer and man has the same secret dread. The reason, I think, is that an abdominal wound is usually fatal or crippling, and a man does not like to picture a bayonet or a lump of shrapnel in his tummy. If a scientist could devise a light bullet-proof abdominal belt, I believe that men would go forward much quicker and more confidently.’

‘Do you think the Hun has the same fear?’ I asked.

‘I think the Hun is even more afraid of a stomach-wound than we are. Man to man, he is not our equal in bayonet-fighting. It may be lack of training, but I imagine it really is due to the fact that he is flabby and no sportsman. For example, in the one bayonet-fight which I was in, not one of the Huns stood up to us. They flung their rifles away and squealed like pigs. Cold steel to a German is worse than gas or shells. The Hun is terror-stricken when he sees the knife of the Gurkha.’

‘Who do you think are really best with the bayonet, Nobby?’ asked Billy.

‘I imagine the Russians are really top-dog. You see, they are primitive, and educated to the knife. Like all semi-civilised peoples, the Russians can stand the most awful punishment. The Bulgarians are also good. Still, it is a fact that the Irish can beat them. In that little scrap between some Irishmen and Bulgarians during the retirement in Macedonia, the Irishmen won. The Irish, like the Scots, are fiery, almost mad, in action. Once they are roused, nothing will stop them.’

‘What was your experience, Ginger?’ I asked, switching the discussion back to its original point.

‘The five minutes before going over were worse than the whole day’s fighting. We had too much time to think, and my imagination was running riot. I didn’t feel like a soldier. I felt like a lamb going to the slaughter. What really impressed me was how men could live in such a barrage. Worse, the thousands of bullets which were whistling, cracking, and splashing over and against the parapet seemed to whisper death was near. Of course, I had forgotten that it takes about a thousand rounds to secure one dead man. However, it is wonderful what example and training will do. I believe that, no matter how funky a man may feel, if he has been to a good school he immediately thinks, “What will they say in school if I make a bad show?” Training is also useful. Months of discipline tell. But the greatest asset is the bearing of the officer and the N.C.O. Fortunately, we had a splendid company commander. He could mask his feelings. While I believe the man was suffering just as we were suffering, he walked down the line smiling, cheering, and inspiring. When the time came to go, he was first over, and we followed like deer.

‘Once we were over, I seemed to be too excited to suffer from nervous troubles. The noise, the shouting, the running, and the sight of the Huns bolting, somehow, carried us along. The plight of the enemy also raised the sporting instinct, and we followed as if out shooting hares. Again, I did feel a true hate of the Hun. Belgium and Serbia seemed to flash through my brain, with the result that I was out for results. One Hun fired at me point-blank, but missed. I shoved my bayonet into him. To me it was the most awful physical sensation. I felt sick, but I withdrew automatically, as if I had been at bayonet-drill. There was no more time to moralise, for I was fighting for my life. It isn’t a healthy business. I believe we, as a nation, abhor it; none the less I feel, without bragging, that, once at close quarters, we can always beat the Hun.’

‘Yes, Ginger; and the war has proved that we are not the decadent nation many thought we were,’ I remarked.

‘By no means, John. Trafalgar, Waterloo, Inkermann, and Tel-el-kebir are mere skirmishes compared to Ypres, Loos, and Cambrai. Nelson’s or Wellington’s men never endured the sufferings of the men to-day. It is really wonderful how this city-bred, over-civilised nation has stuck it out. But another war of this kind would send the world insane. It’s the noise—the awful noise—that is playing the devil with the nerves of all.’

What Ginger said about the noise was true. Noise is the worst feature of war, and in military hospitals you find patients reverting again and again to this theme. And seldom do our men profess a liking for war. The experiences of Billy, Nobby, and Ginger are characteristic of thousands. They carry on out of a sense of duty, a love of country, and an innate conviction that the only way to end this horrible scourge is to punish its authors and apostles. The world will never be clean and joyful until we absolutely crush the horrible mentality of the ruling German. The sword is not a good investment. He who lives by it, perishes by it. And it does seem awful that this bloodshed, misery, madness, and sorrow should have been thrust on a happy world by men whose real aim is power, wealth, loot, and lust. This war ought to end war. Ordeal by battle may suit our pagan philosophers. But there is no doubt that once we have settled this matter with Germany, the nations of the earth will refuse to resort to arms again. To ensure this honourable aim, Germany ought to compel her kings, princes, ambassadors, and statesmen to serve as privates in the present war.

The noise—the terrible noise—would convince them of the madness of it all.