CHAPTER IVToC

A CHAPTER OF INCIDENTS

Life at the Front cannot fail to be full of stirring incidents; indeed, I very much question whether any experience comes up to it for interest and excitement. I am not speaking of the ding-dong trench warfare which has characterized the campaign on the Western front for so many months past, but refer more particularly to those early days when both armies were exceedingly active; and the operations very much resembled a game of chess, with not too long an interval between the moves.

In the early days of the war in Flanders, the times were wondrously stirring; one never knew where an attack would be launched, and what would happen next. With such huge and mobile opposing forces in front of us, every day had some fresh surprise in store. 'From early morning till dewy eve' we lived on the tiptoe of expectation; for, indeed, the early morning carried its message, but generally of discomfort, for not the least discomfort of a campaign is the very early hour at which reveille is sounded, usually at five, but sometimes at four; or, in the case of emergency, at any hour of the night. But generally it comes just as the attitude necessary to comfort has been discovered, and the somnolent individual is ready for the luxury of what I may call a half and half snooze. It is at that moment, in that mysterious borderland of sleeping and waking, that the strident and compelling sound of the bugle falls upon the unwilling ear. There is no turning over for another spell. One comfort is, there is always very little toilet to perform; and in a few minutes the place is alive with dishevelled and half-awake men. Where water can be easily procured, cleanliness is the order of the day; and with all our faults, one essential feature stands to the credit of the British soldier: he is a clean man. Never does Tommy miss his wash and shave if there is half a chance of gratifying this admirable instinct.

All visitors to the Front are struck with the glorious health and fitness of our lads. In fact, I have never seen such a collection of healthy manhood in my life. This is attributable in the first place to the natural open-air life which the men lead, but in the next place to the excellent sanitary arrangements and precautions adopted and insisted upon by the authorities, which very largely account for the remarkable immunity from disease enjoyed by the troops.

Behind all this, comes the most important question of 'grub.' The commissariat of the British Expeditionary Force is a marvel of organization. During the last six months of my military service I enjoyed the advantage of travelling up and down the lines from Ypres to Bethune, and everywhere I was most profoundly impressed by the marvel of supply. Scattered over the whole front are units, large and small, each of which has to be fed daily; and woe to the unlucky A.S.C. officer who is responsible for delay in forwarding or conveying rations. 'Tommy' is nothing without a good 'grouse,' but in this respect he is not always logical; bread which is stale will give him cause to grumble for hours; but he will rush into the most desperate and bloody work, and suffer untold misery, without a murmur.

Alluding to the masterpiece of organization, which enables our army to be fed while in the battle front, Mr. Philip Gibbs, writing in the Daily Chronicle, says: 'The British soldier has at least this in his favour, in spite of all the horrors of war which has put his manhood to the test, he gets his "grub" with unfailing regularity, if there is any possible means of approach to him, and he gets enough and a bit more. It is impossible for him to "grouse" about that element of his life on the field. The French soldier envies him and says,—as I have heard one of them say—"Ma foi! our comrades feed like princes! they have even jam with their tea! The smell of bacon comes from their trenches and touches our nostrils with the most excellent fragrance, more beautiful than the perfume of flowers. The English eat as well as they fight, which is furiously."'

It may interest my readers to see what a man's daily ration consists of. This table refers to officers and men alike, for there is no difference in this respect:—

This ration is more scientifically arranged than its recipient imagines; as a matter of fact, it comprises all the essentials which go to build up the stamina of the fighting man; and thus, well provided with fresh air, good food, to say nothing of hard exercise, the animal side of Mr. Thomas Atkins is kept in the pink of condition, and he is able to face the burdens of life which are incidental to his calling, and which are not a few, with remarkable ease and success.Life at the Front is a strange compound of the grave and the gay. One of the most appealing features is witnessed in the sad lot of the Belgian refugees, who, often at a moment's notice, have fled from their homes, leaving all their property to the devastation of war. I have frequently seen mournful processions on the road, consisting of old and young. It is heartrending to witness the pitiable look of an aged couple, who through a long life have lived in some happy homestead, taking their last gaze at the house with its trim garden, which one knows in a few hours will be shattered past recognition; women, sometimes in a most delicate condition, struggling bravely on; children crying; and the men with set teeth and despairing faces striding on, carrying the few articles which they have hurriedly snatched up, as the whole family has escaped from the hell which has so suddenly befallen them. Where are they to go to? God only knows what becomes of them. I have seen them lining the road on a pouring wet night, outside a town already full to overflowing with like unhappy sufferers; the while Belgian soldiers, with fixed bayonets, have prohibited any further entrance to that which promised a lodging place. Soldiers are not proverbially given to overmuch sensitiveness where human suffering is concerned, for a daily intercourse with terrible scenes cannot fail to harden a man, but I declare that I have seen strong men burst into tears as they have gazed at one of these processions of great mental and bodily agony.

One serious aspect of life at the Front is found in the remarkable system of espionage which unfortunately abounds. One lives in a constant state of suspicion, for in this respect the enemy is as daring as he is resourceful.

The first time I passed through Hooge we suddenly saw a homing pigeon let out of the loft of a cottage; immediately the house was surrounded and entered. I speedily made for the back of the premises, hoping to intercept any one who had been responsible for a most suspicious act. A boy of some eighteen years was discovered in the loft, with a large number of carrier pigeons, which were immediately confiscated, and the boy was arrested. I rode off to Head-quarters, some mile and a half away, and reported the occurrence, with the result that the boy was marched off for close examination. The pigeons, however, formed a very agreeable addition to the men's menu that night. I believe the boy was released; but whilst he was under arrest, a very personable and well-dressed individual approached, and introduced himself as Count ——, stating that he had known the boy for years, and that the keeping of pigeons formed his hobby. Something in the manner of the man aroused our suspicion, and after careful examination it was found that he himself was a spy; and in due course he was shot.

Another somewhat remarkable instance of the ramifications of this aspect of warfare occurred in a certain well-known town; one of the high officials of which—whom I knew well—a most courteous gentleman—proved to be in close touch with the enemy. He, too, was shot. Daily there are men, and sometimes women, who risk their lives in securing items of information as to the disposition of troops, guns, etc., which are likely to prove of value to the enemy. Notwithstanding the strictest orders, I am afraid our men are not always wise in their intercourse with strangers. On one occasion, very stringent orders from Head-quarters had been read out to the men, prior to moving off in the early morning, informing them that on no account were they to disclose any information whatsoever as to the movements or disposition of troops; and yet, during a ten minutes' halt later in the day, as I rode by a transport wagon, I heard the driver gassing on with refreshing innocence, as he retailed to a civilian where we had come from; where we were going to; where our Brigade was situated, etc. I am afraid I raised my voice in hot anger, and riding round to the other side of the wagon was just in time to see the eager listener disappearing across country. It was impossible to arrest him, and the incident closed; not altogether to the satisfaction of the thoughtless purveyor of news I imagine.

Amid men so full of such animal life as our brave lads, it will be readily imagined that existence is not wholly composed of shadow; indeed, few careers are so full of brightness and geniality as those of our fighting men. 'Tommy Atkins' is a unique creation. I know not from whence he springs. There is something in his environment which evolves him, I suppose; it is not a question of years of association with men of his like, for the New Army which has only been in being for a few months produces precisely the same type; and men whom this time last year were far removed from the very thought of soldiering, are now found to possess all the attributes and qualities—good, bad and indifferent—which formed the traditional soldier in the ranks. His cheeriness is unbounded. For some time the pronunciation of Ypres bothered him seriously, but he soon settled the difficulty by calling it 'Wypers.' Étaples was also another stumbling block, but 'Eatables' soon revealed Tommy's way out of another difficulty. Ploegstreete, which for centuries has been an insignificant hamlet, is now known throughout the British Army as 'Plug Street'; well known for possessing some of the finest trenches along the line.One afternoon I had ridden back into Ypres to purchase a note-book, and had procured what I wanted, when two privates who stood by my side in the little stationer's shop determined on the purchase of some small article; the difficulty at the moment was to find out its cost. One of them, who acted as spokesman, held up his selection, and astonished the woman at the other side of the counter by saying, 'How mooch monnee?' Naturally enough the woman gazed at him with a bewildered air, when 'Tommy' turned to the pal by his side and said, 'Silly swine, they don't know their own language.'

A remarkable feature which I frequently encountered in connexion with what I may call the soldier's social life, is the great facility with which he introduces himself to the native inhabitants. In a very few minutes he seems to be thoroughly at home with them, girls and all, and is in some mysterious way holding conversation, or at all events conveying his meaning, to the satisfaction of both parties. In the gloaming you will see him strolling about with the girls of the village, as much at home as in the lanes of his own countryside. What they talk about I can't tell, but talk they do; and as far as one can determine, to their mutual pleasure.

Even in the deadliest moments, the wit of the man is to the front. At the battle of Neuve Chapelle, at the beginning of March, a bomb-thrower, rushing through the village, came upon a cellar full of Germans in hiding. Putting his head in at the door, at the risk of his life he cried: 'How many of yer are there in there?' The answer came, 'Ve vos twelve.' Then said Tommy, throwing in a bomb, 'Divide that amongst yer,' with the result too ghastly for words.

Such humour, coarse though it may be, is not by any means confined to terra firma. On the first of April, a British aeroplane sailed over the German lines, and when over the first line of trenches, dropped a football. The Huns were simply terrified, as they saw this new kind of bomb slowly descending, and fled right and left. With amazement they saw it strike the ground, and then bounce high up, until it gradually settled down; then very cautiously the bolder elements amongst them crept up and found a football, on which was written, 'The first of April, you blighters.'

It is strange to see this remarkable spirit evinced in the most hazardous moments of life. Right out in front of the trenches one night a man was badly hit, and his chum, at the risk of his life, rushed out to his help, saying, 'Get on my back, mate, and I will carry you in,' only to be met with, 'Not darned likely; I shall be shot in the back, and you will get the V.C.'

A further illustration of this most remarkable military production occurs in the following incident. A friend of mine, who has himself been twice wounded, on the last occasion of injury was in the trenches, when suddenly a man by his side was hit in the wrist; clapping his hand upon the wound he exclaimed, 'Got it! I've been waiting for this since last August.' Then, putting his left hand into his pocket, he pulled out a mouth-organ and played 'Home, Sweet Home.' Who but an English 'Tommy' could, or would, do that. No wonder that the French are puzzled by this strange composition of humanity with which they are fighting as allies.

The enemy, too, wonders, as he comes across a foe so remarkable in his words and methods. A German officer—a most charming man—lying in the next bed but one to me, on the hospital ship which brought me home from France, was asked what he thought of the comparative fighting values of the allies, and he remarked, 'Well! we can manage the Belgians, and we understand the French, but we cannot comprehend you English, for by every known law of war you are beaten again and again, but you never seem to know it!' This is, of course, not an original utterance, but derived from one of Napoleon's great Generals; but at all events it shows the estimate placed upon our fighting capacity by an enemy who at one time styled us as 'that contemptible little army.' There is sometimes a weird sense of disproportion revealed, as in the case of a Highlander who was visited by a brother chaplain at a Base hospital some two or three months ago, and who remarked to the patient, 'Well, Jock, what do you think of Jack Johnsons? They put the fear of God into your heart, don't they?' 'Aye, sir, they do, but let's hope it will soon wear off.'

My readers will see that we are a strange compound of grave and gay at the Front, as I have already said. There is, however, a deeper side of the soldier's life, which after all is even more correctly characteristic of the man than that which only appears upon the surface.