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diff --git a/old/7515-h.htm.2021-01-26 b/old/7515-h.htm.2021-01-26 new file mode 100644 index 0000000..89dd15e --- /dev/null +++ b/old/7515-h.htm.2021-01-26 @@ -0,0 +1,3553 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + The Glory of the Trenches, by Coningsby Dawson + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Glory of the Trenches, by Coningsby Dawson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Glory of the Trenches + +Author: Coningsby Dawson + +Commentator: W. J. Dawson + + +Release Date: February, 2005 [EBook #7515] +This file was first posted on May 13, 2003 +Last Updated: March 12, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GLORY OF THE TRENCHES *** + + + + +Text file produced by Tiffany Vergon, Brendan Lane, Edward Johnson, +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THE GLORY OF THE TRENCHES + </h1> + <h3> + AN INTERPRETATION + </h3> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Coningsby Dawson + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h4> + Author of “Carry On: Letters In Wartime,” Etc. <br /> <br /> With An + Introduction By His Father, W. J. Dawson <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> “The + glory is all in the souls of the men—<br /> it's nothing external.” + —From “Carry On” <br /> <br /> 1917 + </h4> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO YOU AT HOME + </h2> + + <pre xml:space="preserve"> + Each night we panted till the runners came, + Bearing your letters through the battle-smoke. + Their path lay up Death Valley spouting flame, + Across the ridge where the Hun's anger spoke + In bursting shells and cataracts of pain; + Then down the road where no one goes by day, + And so into the tortured, pockmarked plain + Where dead men clasp their wounds and point the way. + Here gas lurks treacherously and the wire + Of old defences tangles up the feet; + Faces and hands strain upward through the mire, + Speaking the anguish of the Hun's retreat. + Sometimes no letters came; the evening hate + Dragged on till dawn. The ridge in flying spray + Of hissing shrapnel told the runners' fate; + We knew we should not hear from you that day— + From you, who from the trenches of the mind + Hurl back despair, smiling with sobbing breath, + Writing your souls on paper to be kind, + That you for us may take the sting from Death. + </pre> + + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> TO YOU AT HOME </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> HOW THIS BOOK WAS WRITTEN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> IN HOSPITAL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> I. THE ROAD TO BLIGHTY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> THE LADS AWAY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> II. THE GROWING OF THE VISION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> THE GLORY OF THE TRENCHES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> III. GOD AS WE SEE HIM </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HOW THIS BOOK WAS WRITTEN + </h2> + <p> + In my book, <i>The Father of a Soldier</i>, I have already stated the + conditions under which this book of my son's was produced. + </p> + <p> + He was wounded in the end of June, 1917, in the fierce struggle before + Lens. He was at once removed to a base-hospital, and later on to a + military hospital in London. There was grave danger of amputation of the + right arm, but this was happily avoided. As soon as he could use his hand + he was commandeered by the Lord High Commissioner of Canada to write an + important paper, detailing the history of the Canadian forces in France + and Flanders. This task kept him busy until the end of August, when he + obtained a leave of two months to come home. He arrived in New York in + September, and returned again to London in the end of October. + </p> + <p> + The plan of the book grew out of his conversations with us and the three + public addresses which he made. The idea had already been suggested to him + by his London publisher, Mr. John Lane. He had written a few hundred + words, but had no very keen sense of the value of the experiences he had + been invited to relate. He had not even read his own published letters in + <i>Carry On</i>. He said he had begun to read them when the book reached + him in the trenches, but they made him homesick, and he was also afraid + that his own estimate of their value might not coincide with ours, or with + the verdict which the public has since passed upon them. He regarded his + own experiences, which we found so thrilling, in the same spirit of modest + depreciation. They were the commonplaces of the life which he had led, and + he was sensitive lest they should be regarded as improperly heroic. No one + was more astonished than he when he found great throngs eager to hear him + speak. The people assembled an hour before the advertised time, they + stormed the building as soon as the doors were open, and when every inch + of room was packed they found a way in by the windows and a fire-escape. + This public appreciation of his message indicated a value in it which he + had not suspected, and led him to recognise that what he had to say was + worthy of more than a fugitive utterance on a public platform. He at once + took up the task of writing this book, with a genuine and delighted + surprise that he had not lost his love of authorship. He had but a month + to devote to it, but by dint of daily diligence, amid many interruptions + of a social nature, he finished his task before he left. The concluding + lines were actually written on the last night before he sailed for + England. + </p> + <p> + We discussed several titles for the book. <i>The Religion of Heroism</i> + was the title suggested by Mr. John Lane, but this appeared too didactic + and restrictive. I suggested <i>Souls in Khaki</i>, but this admirable + title had already been appropriated. Lastly, we decided on <i>The Glory of + the Trenches</i>, as the most expressive of his aim. He felt that a great + deal too much had been said about the squalor, filth, discomfort and + suffering of the trenches. He pointed out that a very popular war-book + which we were then reading had six paragraphs in the first sixty pages + which described in unpleasant detail the verminous condition of the men, + as if this were the chief thing to be remarked concerning them. He held + that it was a mistake for a writer to lay too much stress on the horrors + of war. The effect was bad physiologically—it frightened the parents + of soldiers; it was equally bad for the enlisted man himself, for it + created a false impression in his mind. We all knew that war was horrible, + but as a rule the soldier thought little of this feature in his lot. It + bulked large to the civilian who resented inconvenience and discomfort, + because he had only known their opposites; but the soldier's real thoughts + were concerned with other things. He was engaged in spiritual acts. He was + accomplishing spiritual purposes as truly as the martyr of faith and + religion. He was moved by spiritual impulses, the evocation of duty, the + loyal dependence of comradeship, the spirit of sacrifice, the complete + surrender of the body to the will of the soul. This was the side of war + which men needed most to recognise. They needed it not only because it was + the true side, but because nothing else could kindle and sustain the + enduring flame of heroism in men's hearts. + </p> + <p> + While some erred in exhibiting nothing but the brutalities of war, others + erred by sentimentalising war. He admitted that it was perfectly possible + to paint a portrait of a soldier with the aureole of a saint, but it would + not be a representative portrait. It would be eclectic, the result of + selection elimination. It would be as unlike the common average as Rupert + Brooke, with his poet's face and poet's heart, was unlike the ordinary + naval officers with whom he sailed to the AEgean. + </p> + <p> + The ordinary soldier is an intensely human creature, with an “endearing + blend of faults and virtues.” The romantic method of portraying him not + only misrepresented him, but its result is far less impressive than a + portrait painted in the firm lines of reality. There is an austere + grandeur in the reality of what he is and does which needs no fine gilding + from the sentimentalist. To depict him as a Sir Galahad in holy armour is + as serious an offence as to exhibit him as a Caliban of marred clay; each + method fails of truth, and all that the soldier needs to be known about + him, that men should honour him, is the truth. + </p> + <p> + What my son aimed at in writing this book was to tell the truth about the + men who were his comrades, in so far as it was given him to see it. He was + in haste to write while the impression was fresh in his mind, for he knew + how soon the fine edge of these impressions grew dull as they receded from + the immediate area of vision. “If I wait till the war is over, I shan't be + able to write of it at all,” he said. “You've noticed that old soldiers + are very often silent men. They've had their crowded hours of glorious + life, but they rarely tell you much about them. I remember you used to + tell me that you once knew a man who sailed with Napoleon to St Helena, + but all he could tell you was that Napoleon had a fine leg and wore white + silk stockings. If he'd written down his impressions of Napoleon day by + day as he watched him walking the deck of the <i>Bellerophon</i>, he'd + have told you a great deal more about him than that he wore white silk + stockings. If I wait till the war is over before I write about it, it's + very likely I shall recollect only trivial details, and the big heroic + spirit of the thing will escape me. There's only one way of recording an + impression—catch it while it's fresh, vivid, vital; shoot it on the + wing. If you wait too long it will vanish.” It was because he felt in this + way that he wrote in red-hot haste, sacrificing his brief leave to the + task, and concentrating all his mind upon it. + </p> + <p> + There was one impression that he was particularly anxious to record,—his + sense of the spiritual processes which worked behind the grim offence of + war, the new birth of religious ideas, which was one of its most wonderful + results. He had both witnessed and shared this renascence. It was too + indefinite, too immature to be chronicled with scientific accuracy, but it + was authentic and indubitable. It was atmospheric, a new air which men + breathed, producing new energies and forms of thought. Men were + rediscovering themselves, their own forgotten nobilities, the latent + nobilities in all men. Bound together in the daily obedience of + self-surrender, urged by the conditions of their task to regard duty as + inexorable, confronted by the pitiless destruction of the body, they were + forced into a new recognition of the spiritual values of life. In the + common conventional use of the term these men were not religious. There + was much in their speech and in their conduct which would outrage the + standards of a narrow pietism. Traditional creeds and forms of faith had + scant authority for them. But they had made their own a surer faith than + lives in creeds. It was expressed not in words but acts. They had freed + their souls from the tyrannies of time and the fear of death. They had + accomplished indeed that very emancipation of the soul which is the + essential evangel of all religions, which all religions urge on men, but + which few men really achieve, however earnestly they profess the forms of + pious faith. + </p> + <p> + This was the true Glory of the Trenches. They were the Calvaries of a new + redemption being wrought out for men by soiled unconscious Christs. And, + as from that ancient Calvary, with all its agony of shame, torture and + dereliction, there flowed a flood of light which made a new dawn for the + world, so from these obscure crucifixions there would come to men a new + revelation of the splendour of the human soul, the true divinity that + dwells in man, the God made manifest in the flesh by acts of valour, + heroism, and self-sacrifice which transcend the instincts and promptings + of the flesh, and bear witness to the indestructible life of the spirit. + </p> + <p> + It is to express these thoughts and convictions that this book was + written. It is a record of things deeply felt, seen and experienced—this, + first of all and chiefly. The lesson of what is recorded is incidental and + implicit. It is left to the discovery of the reader, and yet is so plainly + indicated that he cannot fail to discover it. We shall all see this war + quite wrongly, and shall interpret it by imperfect and base equivalents, + if we see it only as a human struggle for human ends. We shall err yet + more miserably if all our thoughts and sensations about it are drawn from + its physical horror, “the deformations of our common manhood” on the + battlefield, the hopeless waste and havoc of it all. We shall only view it + in its real perspective when we recognise the spiritual impulses which + direct it, and the strange spiritual efficacy that is in it to burn out + the deep-fibred cancer of doubt and decadence which has long threatened + civilisation with a slow corrupt death. Seventy-five years ago Mrs. + Browning, writing on <i>The Greek Christian Poets</i>, used a striking + sentence to which the condition of human thought to-day lends a new + emphasis. “We want,” she said, “the touch of Christ's hand upon our + literature, as it touched other dead things—we want the sense of the + saturation of Christ's blood upon the souls of our poets that it may cry + through them in answer to the ceaseless wail of the Sphinx of our + humanity, expounding agony into renovation. Something of this has been + perceived in art when its glory was at the fullest.” It is this glory of + divine sacrifice which is the Glory of the Trenches. It is because the + writer recognises this that he is able to walk undismayed among things + terrible and dismaying, and to expound agony into renovation. + </p> + <h3> + W. J. DAWSON. + </h3> + <p> + February, 1918. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IN HOSPITAL + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hushed and happy whiteness, + Miles on miles of cots, + The glad contented brightness + Where sunlight falls in spots. + + Sisters swift and saintly + Seem to tread on grass; + Like flowers stirring faintly, + Heads turn to watch them pass. + + Beauty, blood, and sorrow, + Blending in a trance— + Eternity's to-morrow + In this half-way house of France. + + Sounds of whispered talking, + Laboured indrawn breath; + Then like a young girl walking + The dear familiar Death. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I. THE ROAD TO BLIGHTY + </h2> + <p> + I am in hospital in London, lying between clean white sheets and feeling, + for the first time in months, clean all over. At the end of the ward there + is a swinging door; if I listen intently in the intervals when the + gramophone isn't playing, I can hear the sound of bath-water running—running + in a reckless kind of fashion as if it didn't care how much was wasted. To + me, so recently out of the fighting and so short a time in Blighty, it + seems the finest music in the world. For the sheer luxury of the contrast + I close my eyes against the July sunlight and imagine myself back in one + of those narrow dug-outs where it isn't the thing to undress because the + row may start at any minute. + </p> + <p> + Out there in France we used to tell one another fairy-tales of how we + would spend the first year of life when war was ended. One man had a baby + whom he'd never seen; another a girl whom he was anxious to marry. My + dream was more prosaic, but no less ecstatic—it began and ended with + a large white bed and a large white bath. For the first three hundred and + sixty-five mornings after peace had been declared I was to be wakened by + the sound of my bath being filled; water was to be so plentiful that I + could tumble off to sleep again without even troubling to turn off the + tap. In France one has to go dirty so often that the dream of being always + clean seems as unrealisable as romance. Our drinking-water is frequently + brought up to us at the risk of men's lives, carried through the mud in + petrol-cans strapped on to packhorses. To use it carelessly would be like + washing in men's blood—— + </p> + <p> + And here, most marvellously, with my dream come true, I lie in the whitest + of white beds. The sunlight filters through trees outside the window and + weaves patterns on the floor. Most wonderful of all is the sound of the + water so luxuriously running. Some one hops out of bed and re-starts the + gramophone. The music of the bath-room tap is lost. + </p> + <p> + Up and down the ward, with swift precision, nurses move softly. They have + the unanxious eyes of those whose days are mapped out with duties. They + rarely notice us as individuals. They ask no questions, show no curiosity. + Their deeds of persistent kindness are all performed impersonally. It's + the same with the doctors. This is a military hospital where discipline is + firmly enforced; any natural recognition of common fineness is + discouraged. These women who have pledged themselves to live among + suffering, never allow themselves for a moment to guess what the sight of + them means to us chaps in the cots. Perhaps that also is a part of their + sacrifice. But we follow them with our eyes, and we wish that they would + allow themselves to guess. For so many months we have not seen a woman; + there have been so many hours when we expected never again to see a woman. + We're Lazaruses exhumed and restored to normal ways of life by the fluke + of having collected a bit of shrapnel—we haven't yet got used to + normal ways. The mere rustle of a woman's skirt fills us with unreasonable + delight and makes the eyes smart with memories of old longings. Those + childish longings of the trenches! No one can understand them who has not + been there, where all personal aims are a wash-out and the courage to + endure remains one's sole possession. + </p> + <p> + The sisters at the Casualty Clearing Station—they understood. The + Casualty Clearing Station is the first hospital behind the line to which + the wounded are brought down straight from the Dressing-Stations. All day + and all night ambulances come lurching along shell-torn roads to their + doors. The men on the stretchers are still in their bloody tunics, + rain-soaked, pain-silent, splashed with the corruption of fighting—their + bodies so obviously smashed and their spirits so obviously unbroken. The + nurses at the Casualty Clearing Station can scarcely help but understand. + They can afford to be feminine to men who are so weak. Moreover, they are + near enough the Front to share in the sublime exaltation of those who + march out to die. They know when a big offensive is expected, and prepare + for it. They are warned the moment it has commenced by the distant thunder + of the guns. Then comes the ceaseless stream of lorries and ambulances + bringing that which has been broken so quickly to them to be patched up in + months. They work day and night with a forgetfulness of self which equals + the devotion of the soldiers they are tending. Despite their orderliness + they seem almost fanatical in their desire to spend themselves. They are + always doing, but they can never do enough. It's the same with the + surgeons. I know of one who during a great attack operated for forty-eight + hours on end and finally went to sleep where he stood from utter + weariness. The picture that forms in my mind of these women is absurd, + Arthurian and exact; I see them as great ladies, mediaeval in their + saintliness, sharing the pollution of the battle with their champions. + </p> + <p> + Lying here with nothing to worry about in the green serenity of an English + summer, I realize that no man can grasp the splendour of this war until he + has made the trip to Blighty on a stretcher. What I mean is this: so long + as a fighting man keeps well, his experience of the war consists of muddy + roads leading up through a desolated country to holes in the ground, in + which he spends most of his time watching other holes in the ground, which + people tell him are the Hun front-line. This experience is punctuated by + periods during which the earth shoots up about him like corn popping in a + pan, and he experiences the insanest fear, if he's made that way, or the + most satisfying kind of joy. About once a year something happens which, + when it's over, he scarcely believes has happened: he's told that he can + run away to England and pretend that there isn't any war on for ten days. + For those ten days, so far as he's concerned, hostilities are suspended. + He rides post-haste through ravaged villages to the point from which the + train starts. Up to the very last moment until the engine pulls out, he's + quite panicky lest some one shall come and snatch his warrant from him, + telling him that leave has been cancelled. He makes his journey in a + carriage in which all the windows are smashed. Probably it either snows or + rains. During the night while he stamps his feet to keep warm, he + remembers that in his hurry to escape he's left all his Hun souvenirs + behind. During his time in London he visits his tailor at least twice a + day, buys a vast amount of unnecessary kit, sleeps late, does most of his + resting in taxi-cabs, eats innumerable meals at restaurants, laughs at a + great many plays in which life at the Front is depicted as a joke. He + feels dazed and half suspects that he isn't in London at all, but only + dreaming in his dug-out. Some days later he does actually wake up in his + dug-out; the only proof he has that he's been on leave is that he can't + pay his mess-bill and is minus a hundred pounds. Until a man is wounded he + only sees the war from the point of view of the front-line and + consequently, as I say, misses half its splendour, for he is ignorant of + the greatness of the heart that beats behind him all along the lines of + communication. Here in brief is how I found this out. + </p> + <p> + The dressing-station to which I went was underneath a ruined house, under + full observation of the Hun and in an area which was heavily shelled. On + account of the shelling and the fact that any movement about the place + would attract attention, the wounded were only carried out by night. + Moreover, to get back from the dressing-station to the collecting point in + rear of the lines, the ambulances had to traverse a white road over a + ridge full in view of the enemy. The Huns kept guns trained on this road + and opened fire at the least sign of traffic. When I presented myself I + didn't think that there was anything seriously the matter; my arm had + swelled and was painful from a wound of three days' standing. The doctor, + however, recognised that septic poisoning had set in and that to save the + arm an operation was necessary without loss of time. He called a sergeant + and sent him out to consult with an ambulance-driver. “This officer ought + to go out at once. Are you willing to take a chance?” asked the sergeant. + The ambulance-driver took a look at the chalk road gleaming white in the + sun where it climbed the ridge. “Sure, Mike,” he said, and ran off to + crank his engine and back his car out of its place of concealment. “Sure, + Mike,”—that was all. He'd have said the same if he'd been asked + whether he'd care to take a chance at Hell. + </p> + <p> + I have three vivid memories of that drive. The first, my own uneasy sense + that I was deserting. Frankly I didn't want to go out; few men do when it + comes to the point. The Front has its own peculiar exhilaration, like big + game-hunting, discovering the North Pole, or anything that's dangerous; + and it has its own peculiar reward—the peace of mind that comes of + doing something beyond dispute unselfish and superlatively worth while. + It's odd, but it's true that in the front-line many a man experiences + peace of mind for the first time and grows a little afraid of a return to + normal ways of life. My second memory is of the wistful faces of the chaps + whom we passed along the road. At the unaccustomed sound of a car + travelling in broad daylight the Tommies poked their heads out of + hiding-places like rabbits. Such dirty Tommies! How could they be + otherwise living forever on old battlefields? If they were given time for + reflection they wouldn't want to go out; they'd choose to stay with the + game till the war was ended. But we caught them unaware, and as they gazed + after us down the first part of the long trail that leads back from the + trenches to Blighty, there was hunger in their eyes. My third memory is of + kindness. + </p> + <p> + You wouldn't think that men would go to war to learn how to be kind—but + they do. There's no kinder creature in the whole wide world than the + average Tommy. He makes a friend of any stray animal he can find. He + shares his last franc with a chap who isn't his pal. He risks his life + quite inconsequently to rescue any one who's wounded. When he's gone over + the top with bomb and bayonet for the express purpose of “doing in” the + Hun, he makes a comrade of the Fritzie he captures. You'll see him coming + down the battered trenches with some scared lad of a German at his side. + He's gabbling away making throat-noises and signs, smiling and doing his + inarticulate best to be intelligible. He pats the Hun on the back, hands + him chocolate and cigarettes, exchanges souvenirs and shares with him his + last luxury. If any one interferes with his Fritzie he's willing to fight. + When they come to the cage where the prisoner has to be handed over, the + farewells of these companions whose acquaintance has been made at the + bayonet-point are often as absurd as they are affecting. I suppose one + only learns the value of kindness when he feels the need of it himself. + The men out there have said “Good-bye” to everything they loved, but + they've got to love some one—so they give their affections to + captured Fritzies, stray dogs, fellows who've collected a piece of a shell—in + fact to any one who's a little worse off than themselves. My + ambulance-driver was like that with his “Sure, Mike.” He was like it + during the entire drive. When he came to the white road which climbs the + ridge with all the enemy country staring at it, it would have been + excusable in him to have hurried. The Hun barrage might descend at any + minute. All the way, in the ditches on either side, dead pack animals lay; + in the dug-outs there were other unseen dead making the air foul. But he + drove slowly and gently, skirting the shell-holes with diligent care so as + to spare us every unnecessary jolting. I don't know his name, shouldn't + recognise his face, but I shall always remember the almost womanly + tenderness of his driving. + </p> + <p> + After two changes into other ambulances at different distributing points, + I arrived about nine on a summer's evening at the Casualty Clearing + Station. In something less than an hour I was undressed and on the + operating table. + </p> + <p> + You might suppose that when for three interminable years such a stream of + tragedy has flowed through a hospital, it would be easy for surgeons and + nurses to treat mutilation and death perfunctorily. They don't. They show + no emotion. They are even cheerful; but their strained faces tell the + story and their hands have an immense compassion. + </p> + <p> + Two faces especially loom out. I can always see them by lamp-light, when + the rest of the ward is hushed and shrouded, stooping over some silent + bed. One face is that of the Colonel of the hospital, grey, concerned, + pitiful, stern. His eyes seem to have photographed all the suffering which + in three years they have witnessed. He's a tall man, but he moves softly. + Over his uniform he wears a long white operating smock—he never + seems to remove it. And he never seems to sleep, for he comes wandering + through his Gethsemane all hours of the night to bend over the more + serious cases. He seems haunted by a vision of the wives, mothers, + sweethearts, whose happiness is in his hands. I think of him as a Christ + in khaki. + </p> + <p> + The other face is of a girl—a sister I ought to call her. She's the + nearest approach to a sculptured Greek goddess I've seen in a living + woman. She's very tall, very pale and golden, with wide brows and big grey + eyes like Trilby. I wonder what she did before she went to war—for + she's gone to war just as truly as any soldier. I'm sure in the peaceful + years she must have spent a lot of time in being loved. Perhaps her man + was killed out here. Now she's ivory-white with over-service and spends + all her days in loving. Her eyes have the old frank, innocent look, but + they're ringed with being weary. Only her lips hold a touch of colour; + they have a childish trick of trembling when any one's wound is hurting + too much. She's the first touch of home that the stretcher-cases see when + they've said good-bye to the trenches. She moves down the ward; eyes + follow her. When she is absent, though others take her place, she leaves a + loneliness. If she meant much to men in days gone by, to-day she means + more than ever. Over many dying boys she stoops as the incarnation of the + woman whom, had they lived, they would have loved. To all of us, with the + blasphemy of destroying still upon us, she stands for the divinity of + womanhood. + </p> + <p> + What sights she sees and what words she hears; yet the pity she brings to + her work preserves her sweetness. In the silence of the night those who + are delirious re-fight their recent battles. You're half-asleep, when in + the darkened ward some one jumps up in bed, shouting, “Hold your bloody + hands up.” He thinks he's capturing a Hun trench, taking prisoners in a + bombed in dug-out. In an instant, like a mother with a frightened child, + she's bending over him; soon she has coaxed his head back on the pillow. + Men do not die in vain when they evoke such women. And the men—the + chaps in the cots! As a patient the first sight you have of them is a + muddy stretcher. The care with which the bearers advance is only equalled + by the waiters in old-established London Clubs when they bring in one of + their choicest wines. The thing on the stretcher looks horribly like some + of the forever silent people you have seen in No Man's Land. A pair of + boots you see, a British Warm flung across the body and an arm dragging. A + screen is put round a bed; the next sight you have of him is a weary face + lying on a white pillow. Soon the chap in the bed next to him is + questioning. + </p> + <p> + “What's yours?” + </p> + <p> + “Machine-gun caught me in both legs.” + </p> + <p> + “Going to lose 'em?” + </p> + <p> + “Don't know. Can't feel much at present. Hope not.” + </p> + <p> + Then the questioner raises himself on his elbow. “How's it going?” + </p> + <p> + <i>It</i> is the attack. The conversation that follows is always how we're + hanging on to such and such an objective and have pushed forward three + hundred yards here or have been bent back there. One thing you notice: + every man forgets his own catastrophe in his keenness for the success of + the offensive. Never in all my fortnight's journey to Blighty did I hear a + word of self-pity or complaining. On the contrary, the most severely + wounded men would profess themselves grateful that they had got off so + lightly. Since the war started the term “lightly” has become exceedingly + comparative. I suppose a man is justified in saying he's got off lightly + when what he expected was death. + </p> + <p> + I remember a big Highland officer who had been shot in the knee-cap. He + had been operated on and the knee-cap had been found to be so splintered + that it had had to be removed; of this he was unaware. For the first day + as he lay in bed he kept wondering aloud how long it would be before he + could re-join his battalion. Perhaps he suspected his condition and was + trying to find out. All his heart seemed set on once again getting into + the fighting. Next morning he plucked up courage to ask the doctor, and + received the answer he had dreaded. + </p> + <p> + “Never. You won't be going back, old chap.” + </p> + <p> + Next time he spoke his voice was a bit throaty. “Will it stiffen?” + </p> + <p> + “You've lost the knee-joint,” the doctor said, “but with luck we'll save + the leg.” + </p> + <p> + His voice sank to a whisper. “If you do, it won't be much good, will it?” + </p> + <p> + “Not much.” + </p> + <p> + He lay for a couple of hours silent, readjusting his mind to meet the new + conditions. Then he commenced talking with cheerfulness about returning to + his family. The habit of courage had conquered—the habit of courage + which grows out of the knowledge that you let your pals down by showing + cowardice. + </p> + <p> + The next step on the road to Blighty is from the Casualty Station to a + Base Hospital in France. You go on a hospital train and are only allowed + to go when you are safe to travel. There is always great excitement as to + when this event will happen; its precise date usually depends on what's + going on up front and the number of fresh casualties which are expected. + One morning you awake to find that a tag has been prepared, containing the + entire medical history of your injury. The stretcher-bearers come in with + grins on their faces, your tag is tied to the top button of your pyjamas, + jocular appointments are made by the fellows you leave behind—many + of whom you know are dying—to meet you in London, and you are + carried out. The train is thoroughly equipped with doctors and nurses; the + lying cases travel in little white bunks. No one who has not seen it can + have any idea of the high good spirits which prevail. You're going off to + Blighty, to Piccadilly, to dry boots and clean beds. The revolving wheels + underneath you seem to sing the words, “Off to Blighty—to Blighty.” + It begins to dawn on you what it will be like to be again your own master + and to sleep as long as you like. + </p> + <p> + Kindness again—always kindness! The sisters on the train can't do + enough; they seem to be trying to exceed the self-sacrifice of the sisters + you have left behind. You twist yourself so that you can get a glimpse of + the flying country. It's green, undisturbed, unmarred by shells—there + are even cows! + </p> + <p> + At the Base Hospital to which I went there was a man who performed + miracles. He was a naturalised American citizen, but an Armenian by birth. + He gave people new faces. + </p> + <p> + The first morning an officer came in to visit a friend; his face was + entirely swathed in bandages, with gaps left for his breathing and his + eyes. He had been like that for two years, and looked like a leper. When + he spoke he made hollow noises. His nose and lower jaw had been torn away + by an exploding shell. Little by little, with infinite skill, by the + grafting of bone and flesh, his face was being built up. Could any surgery + be more merciful? + </p> + <p> + In the days that followed I saw several of these masked men. The worst + cases were not allowed to walk about. The ones I saw were invariably + dressed with the most scrupulous care in the smartest uniforms, Sam Browns + polished and buttons shining. They had hope, and took a pride in + themselves—a splendid sign! Perhaps you ask why the face-cases + should be kept in France. I was not told, but I can guess—because + they dread going back to England to their girls until they've got rid of + their disfigurements. So for two years through their bandages they watch + the train pull out for Blighty, while the damage which was done them in + the fragment of a second is repaired. + </p> + <p> + At a Base Hospital you see something which you don't see at a Casualty + Station—sisters, mothers, sweethearts and wives sitting beside the + beds. They're allowed to come over from England when their man is dying. + One of the wonderful things to me was to observe how these women in the + hour of their tragedy catch the soldier spirit. They're very quiet, very + cheerful, very helpful. With passing through the ward they get to know + some of the other patients and remember them when they bring their own man + flowers. Sometimes when their own man is asleep, they slip over to other + bedsides and do something kind for the solitary fellows. That's the army + all over; military discipline is based on unselfishness. These women who + have been sent for to see their men die, catch from them the spirit of + undistressed sacrifice and enrol themselves as soldiers. + </p> + <p> + Next to my bed there was a Colonel of a north country regiment, a gallant + gentleman who positively refused to die. His wife had been with him for + two weeks, a little toy woman with nerves worn to a frazzle, who masked + her terror with a brave, set smile. The Colonel had had his leg smashed by + a whizz-bang when leading his troops into action. Septic poisoning had set + in and the leg had been amputated. It had been found necessary to operate + several times owing to the poison spreading, with the result that, being + far from a young man, his strength was exhausted. Men forgot their own + wounds in watching this one man's fight for life. He became symbolic of + what, in varying degrees, we were all doing. When he was passing through a + crisis the whole ward waited breathless. There was the finest kind of + rivalry between the night and day sisters to hand him over at the end of + each twelve hours with his pulse stronger and temperature lower than when + they received him. Each was sure she had the secret of keeping him alive. + </p> + <p> + You discovered the spirit of the man when you heard him wandering in + delirium. All night in the shadowy ward with its hooded lamps, he would be + giving orders for the comfort of his men. Sometimes he'd be proposing to + go forward himself to a place where a company was having a hot time; + apparently one of his officers was trying to dissuade him. “Danger be + damned,” he'd exclaim in a wonderfully strong voice. “It'll buck 'em up to + see me. Splendid chaps—splendid chaps!” + </p> + <p> + About dawn he was usually supposed to be sinking, but he'd rallied again + by the time the day-sister arrived. “Still here,” he'd smile in a + triumphant kind of whisper, as though bluffing death was a pastime. + </p> + <p> + One afternoon a padre came to visit him. As he was leaving he bent above + the pillow. We learnt afterwards that this was what he had said, “If the + good Lord lets you, I hope you'll get better.” + </p> + <p> + We saw the Colonel raise himself up on his elbow. His weak voice shook + with anger. “Neither God nor the Devil has anything to do with it. I'm + going to get well.” Then, as the nurse came hurrying to him, he sank back. + </p> + <p> + When I left the Base Hospital for Blighty he was still holding his own. I + have never heard what happened to him, but should not be at all surprised + to meet him one day in the trenches with a wooden leg, still leading his + splendid chaps. Death can't kill men of such heroic courage. + </p> + <p> + At the Base Hospital they talk a good deal of “the Blighty Smile.” It's + supposed to be the kind of look a chap wears when he's been told that + within twenty-four hours he'll be in England. When this information has + been imparted to him, he's served out with warm socks, woollen cap and a + little linen bag into which to put his valuables. Hours and hours before + there's any chance of starting you'll see the lucky ones lying very still, + with a happy vacant look in their eyes and their absurd woollen caps stuck + ready on their heads. Sometime, perhaps in the small hours of the morning, + the stretcher-bearers, arrive—the stretcher-bearers who all down the + lines of communication are forever carrying others towards blessedness and + never going themselves. “At last,” you whisper to yourself. You feel a + glorious anticipation that you have not known since childhood when, after + three hundred and sixty-four days of waiting, it was truly going to be + Christmas. + </p> + <p> + On the train and on the passage there is the same skillful attention—the + same ungrudging kindness. You see new faces in the bunks beside you. After + the tedium of the narrow confines of a ward that in itself is exciting. + You fall into talk. + </p> + <p> + “What's yours?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing much—just a hand off and a splinter or two in the + shoulder.” + </p> + <p> + You laugh. “That's not so dusty. How much did you expect for your money?” + </p> + <p> + Probably you meet some one from the part of the line where you were + wounded—with luck even from your own brigade, battery or battalion. + Then the talk becomes all about how things are going, whether we're still + holding on to our objectives, who's got a blighty and who's gone west. One + discussion you don't often hear—as to when the war will end. To + these civilians in khaki it seems that the war has always been and that + they will never cease to be soldiers. For them both past and future are + utterly obliterated. They would not have it otherwise. Because they are + doing their duty they are contented. The only time the subject is ever + touched on is when some one expresses the hope that it'll last long enough + for him to recover from his wounds and get back into the line. That + usually starts another man, who will never be any more good for the + trenches, wondering whether he can get into the flying corps. The one + ultimate hope of all these shattered wrecks who are being hurried to the + Blighty they have dreamt of, is that they may again see service. + </p> + <p> + The tang of salt in the air, the beat of waves and then, incredible even + when it has been realised, England. I think they ought to make the + hospital trains which run to London all of glass, then instead of watching + little triangles of flying country by leaning uncomfortably far out of + their bunks, the wounded would be able to drink their full of the + greenness which they have longed for so many months. The trees aren't + charred and blackened stumps; they're harps between the knees of the + hills, played on by the wind and sun. The villages have their roofs on and + children romping in their streets. The church spires haven't been knocked + down; they stand up tall and stately. The roadsides aren't littered with + empty shell-cases and dead horses. The fields are absolutely fields, with + green crops, all wavy, like hair growing. After the tonsured filth we've + been accustomed to call a world, all this strikes one as unnatural and + extraordinary. There's a sweet fragrance over everything and one's throat + feels lumpy. Perhaps it isn't good for people's health to have lumpy + throats, and that's why they don't run glass trains to London. + </p> + <p> + Then, after such excited waiting, you feel that the engine is slowing + down. There's a hollow rumbling; you're crossing the dear old wrinkled + Thames. If you looked out you'd see the dome of St. Paul's like a bubble + on the sky-line and smoking chimneys sticking up like thumbs—things + quite ugly and things of surpassing beauty, all of which you have never + hoped to see again and which in dreams you have loved. But if you could + look out, you wouldn't have the time. You're getting your things together, + so you won't waste a moment when they come to carry you out. Very probably + you're secreting a souvenir or two about your person: something you've + smuggled down from the front which will really prove to your people that + you've made the acquaintance of the Hun. As though your wounds didn't + prove that sufficiently. Men are childish. + </p> + <p> + The engine comes to a halt. You can smell the cab-stands. You're really + there. An officer comes through the train enquiring whether you have any + preference as to hospitals. Your girl lives in Liverpool or Glasgow or + Birmingham. Good heavens, the fellow holds your destiny in his hands! He + can send you to Whitechapel if he likes. So, even though he has the same + rank as yourself, you address him as, “Sir.” + </p> + <p> + Perhaps it's because I've practised this diplomacy—I don't know. + Anyway, he's granted my request. I'm to stay in London. I was particularly + anxious to stay in London, because one of my young brothers from the Navy + is there on leave at present. In fact he wired me to France that the + Admiralty had allowed him a three-days' special extension of leave in + order that he might see me. It was on the strength of this message that + the doctors at the Base Hospital permitted me to take the journey several + days before I was really in a condition to travel. + </p> + <p> + I'm wondering whether he's gained admission to the platform. I lie there + in my bunk all eyes, expecting any minute to see him enter. Time and again + I mistake the blue serge uniform of the St. John's Ambulance for that of a + naval lieutenant. They come to carry me out. What an extraordinarily funny + way to enter London—on a stretcher! I've arrived on boat-trains from + America, troop trains from Canada, and come back from romantic romps in + Italy, but never in my wildest imaginings did I picture myself arriving as + a wounded soldier on a Red Cross train. + </p> + <p> + Still clutching my absurd linen bag, which contains my valuables, I lift + my head from the pillow gazing round for any glimpse of that much-desired + brother. Now they've popped me onto the upper-shelf of a waiting + ambulance; I can see nothing except what lies out at the back. I at once + start explaining to the nurse who accompanies us that I've lost a very + valuable brother—that he's probably looking for me somewhere on the + station. She's extremely sympathetic and asks the chauffeur to drive very + slowly so that we may watch for him as we go through the station gates + into the Strand. + </p> + <p> + We're delayed for some minutes while particulars are checked up of our + injuries and destinations. The lying cases are placed four in an + ambulance, with the flap raised at the back so we can see out. The sitting + cases travel in automobiles, buses and various kinds of vehicles. In my + ambulance there are two leg-cases with most theatrical bandages, and one + case of trench-fever. We're immensely merry—all except the + trench-fever case who has conceived an immense sorrow for himself. We get + impatient with waiting. There's an awful lot of cheering going on + somewhere; we suppose troops are marching and can't make it out. + </p> + <p> + Ah, we've started! At a slow crawl to prevent jarring we pass through the + gates. We discover the meaning of the cheering. On either side the people + are lined in dense crowds, waving and shouting. It's Saturday evening when + they should be in the country. It's jolly decent of them to come here to + give us such a welcome. Flower-girls are here with their baskets full of + flowers—just poor girls with a living to earn. They run after us as + we pass and strew us with roses. Roses! We stretch out our hands, pressing + them to our lips. How long is it since we held roses in our hands? How did + these girls of the London streets know that above all things we longed for + flowers? It was worth it all, the mud and stench and beastliness, when it + was to this that the road led back. And the girls—they're even + better than the flowers; so many pretty faces made kind by compassion. + Somewhere inside ourselves we're laughing; we're so happy. We don't need + any one's pity; time enough for that when we start to pity ourselves. We + feel mean, as though we were part of a big deception. We aren't half so + ill as we look; if you put sufficient bandages on a wound you can make the + healthiest man appear tragic. We're laughing—and then all of a + sudden we're crying. We press our faces against the pillow ashamed of + ourselves. We won't see the crowds; we're angry with them for having + unmanned us. And then we can't help looking; their love reaches us almost + as though it were the touch of hands. We won't hide ourselves if we mean + so much to them. We're not angry any more, but grateful. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly the ambulance-nurse shouts to the driver. The ambulance stops. + She's quite excited. Clutching me with one hand, she points with the + other, “There he is.” + </p> + <p> + “Who?” + </p> + <p> + I raise myself. A naval lieutenant is standing against the pavement, + gazing anxiously at the passing traffic. + </p> + <p> + “Your brother, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + I shook my head. “Not half handsome enough.” + </p> + <p> + For the rest of the journey she's convinced I have a headache. It's no + good telling her that I haven't; much to my annoyance and amusement she + swabs my forehead with eau-de-Cologne, telling me that I shall soon feel + better. + </p> + <p> + The streets through which we pass are on the south side of the Thames. + It's Saturday evening. Hawkers' barrows line the kerb; women with draggled + skirts and once gay hats are doing their Sunday shopping. We're having a + kind of triumphant procession; with these people to feel is to express. We + catch some of their remarks: “'Oo! Look at 'is poor leg!” “My, but ain't + 'e done in shockin'!” + </p> + <p> + Dear old London—so kind, so brave, so frankly human! You're just + like the chaps at the Front—you laugh when you suffer and give when + you're starving; you never know when not to be generous. You wear your + heart in your eyes and your lips are always ready for kissing, I think of + you as one of your own flower-girls—hoarse of voice, slatternly as + to corsets, with a big tumbled fringe over your forehead, and a heart so + big that you can chuck away your roses to a wounded Tommy and go away + yourself with an empty basket to sleep under an archway. Do you wonder + that to us you spell Blighty? We love you. + </p> + <p> + We come to a neighbourhood more respectable and less demonstrative, skirt + a common, are stopped at a porter's lodge and turn into a parkland. The + glow of sunset is ended; the blue-grey of twilight is settling down. + Between flowered borders we pick our way, pause here and there for + directions and at last halt. Again the stretcher-bearers! As I am carried + in I catch a glimpse of a low bungalow-building, with others like it + dotted about beneath trees. There are red shaded lamps. Every one tiptoes + in silence. Only the lips move when people speak; there is scarcely any + sound. As the stretchers are borne down the ward men shift their heads to + gaze after them. It's past ten o'clock and patients are supposed to be + sleeping now. I'm put to bed. There's no news of my brother; he hasn't + 'phoned and hasn't called. I persuade one of the orderlies to ring up the + hotel at which I know he was staying. The man is a long while gone. + Through the dim length of the ward I watch the door into the garden, + momentarily expecting the familiar figure in the blue uniform and gold + buttons to enter. He doesn't. Then at length the orderly returns to tell + me that the naval lieutenant who was staying at the hotel, had to set out + for his ship that evening, as there was no train that he could catch on + Sunday. So he was steaming out of London for the North at the moment I was + entering. Disappointed? Yes. One shrugs his shoulders. <i>C'est la guerre</i>, + as we say in the trenches. You can't have everything when Europe's at war. + </p> + <p> + I can hardly keep awake long enough for the sister to dress my arm. The + roses that the flower-girls had thrown me are in water and within + handstretch. They seem almost persons and curiously sacred—symbols + of all the heroism and kindness that has ministered to me every step of + the journey. It's a good little war I think to myself. Then, with the + green smell of England in my nostrils and the rumbling of London in my + ears, like conversation below stairs, I drowse off into the utter + contentment of the first deep sleep I have had since I was wounded. + </p> + <p> + I am roused all too soon by some one sticking a thermometer into my mouth. + Rubbing my eyes, I consult my watch. Half-past five! Rather early! Raising + myself stealthily, I catch a glimpse of a neat little sister darting down + the ward from bed to bed, tent-pegging every sleeping face with a fresh + thermometer. Having made the round, back she comes to take possession of + my hand while she counts my pulse. I try to speak, but she won't let me + remove the accursed thermometer; when she has removed it herself, off she + goes to the next bed. I notice that she has auburn hair, merry blue eyes + and a ripping Irish accent. I learn later that she's a Sinn Feiner, a + sworn enemy to England who sings “Dark Rosaleen” and other rebel songs in + the secret watches of the night. It seems to me that in taking care of + England's wounded she's solving the Irish problem pretty well. + </p> + <p> + Heavens, she's back again, this time with a bowl of water and a towel! + Very severely and thoroughly, as though I were a dirty urchin, she scrubs + my face and hands. She even brushes my hair. I watch her do the same for + other patients, some of whom are Colonels and old enough to be her father. + She's evidently in no mood for proposals of marriage at this early hour, + for her technique is impartially severe to everybody, though her blue eyes + are unfailingly laughing. + </p> + <p> + It is at this point that somebody crawls out of bed, slips into a + dressing-gown, passes through the swing door at the end of the ward and + sets the bath-water running. The sound of it is ecstatic. + </p> + <p> + Very soon others follow his example. They're chaps without legs, with an + arm gone, a hand gone, back wounds, stomach wounds, holes in the head. + They start chaffing one another. There's no hint of tragedy. A gale of + laughter sweeps the ward from end to end. An Anzac captain is called on + for a speech. I discover that he is our professional comic man and is + called on to make speeches twenty times a day. They always start with, + “Gentlemen, I will say this—” and end with a flourish in praise of + Australia. Soon the ward is made perilous by wheel-chairs, in which + unskilful pilots steer themselves out into the green adventure of the + garden. Birds are singing out there; the guns had done for the birds in + the places where we came from. Through open doors we can see the glow of + flowers, dew-laden and sparkling, lazily unfolding their petals in the + early sun. + </p> + <p> + When the sister's back is turned, a one-legged officer nips out of bed and + hops like a crow to the gramophone. The song that follows is a favourite. + Curious that it should be, for it paints a dream which to many of these + mutilated men—Canadians, Australians, South Africans, Imperials—will + have to remain only a dream, so long as life lasts. Girls don't marry + fellows without arms and legs—at least they didn't in peace days + before the world became heroic. As the gramophone commences to sing, heads + on pillows hum the air and fingers tap in time on the sheets. It's a + peculiarly childish song for men who have seen what they have seen and + done what they have done, to be so fond of. Here's the way it runs:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“We'll have a little cottage in a little town + And well have a little mistress in a dainty gown, + A little doggie, a little cat, + A little doorstep with WELCOME on the mat; + And we'll have a little trouble and a little strife, + But none of these things matter when you've got a little wife. + We shall be as happy as the angels up above + With a little patience and a lot of love.” + </pre> + <p> + A little patience and a lot of love! I suppose that's the line that's + caught the chaps. Behind all their smiling and their boyish gaiety they + know that they'll need both patience and love to meet the balance of + existence with sweetness and soldierly courage. It won't be so easy to be + soldiers when they get back into mufti and go out into the world cripples. + Here in their pyjamas in the summer sun, they're making a first class + effort. I take another look at them. No, there'll never be any whining + from men such as these. + </p> + <p> + Some of us will soon be back in the fighting—and jolly glad of it. + Others are doomed to remain in the trenches for the rest of their lives—not + the trenches of the front-line where they've been strafed by the Hun, but + the trenches of physical curtailment where self-pity will launch wave + after wave of attack against them. It won't be easy not to get the “wind + up.” It'll be difficult to maintain normal cheerfulness. But they're not + the men they were before they went to war—out there they've learnt + something. They're game. They'll remain soldiers, whatever happens. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LADS AWAY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + All the lads have gone out to play + At being soldiers, far away; + They won't be back for many a day, + And some won't be back any morning. + + All the lassies who laughing were + When hearts were light and lads were here, + Go sad-eyed, wandering hither and there— + They pray and they watch for the morning. + + Every house has its vacant bed + And every night, when sounds are dead, + Some woman yearns for the pillowed head + Of him who marched out in the morning. + + Of all the lads who've gone out to play + There's some'll return and some who'll stay; + There's some will be back 'most any day— + But some won't wake up in the morning. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II. THE GROWING OF THE VISION + </h2> + <p> + I'm continuing in America the book which I thought out during the golden + July and August days when I lay in the hospital in London. I've been here + a fortnight; everything that's happened seems unbelievably wonderful, as + though it had happened to some one other than myself. It'll seem still + more wonderful in a few weeks' time when I'm where I hope I shall be—back + in the mud at the Front. + </p> + <p> + Here's how this miraculous turn of events occurred. When I went before my + medical board I was declared unfit for active service for at least two + months. A few days later I went in to General Headquarters to see what + were the chances of a trip to New York. The officer whom I consulted + pulled out his watch, “It's noon now. There's a boat-train leaving Euston + in two and a half hours. Do you think you can pack up and make it?” + </p> + <p> + <i>Did I think</i>! + </p> + <p> + “You watch me,” I cried. + </p> + <p> + Dashing out into Regent Street I rounded up a taxi and raced about London + like one possessed, collecting kit, visiting tailors, withdrawing money, + telephoning friends with whom I had dinner and theatre engagements. It's + an extraordinary characteristic of the Army, but however hurried an + officer may be, he can always spare time to visit his tailor. The fare I + paid my taxi-driver was too monstrous for words; but then he'd missed his + lunch, and one has to miss so many things in war-times that when a new + straw of inconvenience is piled on the camel, the camel expects to be + compensated. Anyway, I was on that boat-train when it pulled out of + London. + </p> + <p> + I was in uniform when I arrived in New York, for I didn't possess any + mufti. You can't guess what a difference that made to one's home-coming—not + the being in uniform, but the knowing that it wasn't an offence to wear + it. On my last leave, some time ago before I went overseas, if I'd tried + to cross the border from Canada in uniform I'd have been turned back; if + by any chance I'd got across and worn regimentals I'd have been arrested + by the first Irish policeman. A place isn't home where you get turned back + or locked up for wearing the things of which you're proudest. If America + hadn't come into the war none of us who have loved her and since been to + the trenches, would ever have wanted to return. + </p> + <p> + But she's home now as she never was before and never could have been under + any other circumstances—now that khaki strides unabashed down + Broadway and the skirl of the pipers has been heard on Fifth Avenue. We + men “over there” will have to find a new name for America. It won't be + exactly Blighty, but a kind of very wealthy first cousin to Blighty—a + word meaning something generous and affectionate and steam-heated, waiting + for us on the other side of the Atlantic. + </p> + <p> + Two weeks here already—two weeks more to go; then back to the glory + of the trenches! + </p> + <p> + There's one person I've missed since my return to New York. I've caught + glimpses of him disappearing around corners, but he dodges. I think he's a + bit ashamed to meet me. That person is my old civilian self. What a + full-blown egoist he used to be! How full of golden plans for his own + advancement! How terrified of failure, of disease, of money losses, of + death—of all the temporary, external, non-essential things that have + nothing to do with the spirit! War is in itself damnable—a + profligate misuse of the accumulated brain-stuff of centuries. + Nevertheless, there's many a man who has no love of war, who previous to + the war had cramped his soul with littleness and was chased by the bayonet + of duty into the blood-stained largeness of the trenches, who has learnt + to say, “Thank God for this war.” He thanks God not because of the + carnage, but because when the wine-press of new ideals was being trodden, + he was born in an age when he could do his share. + </p> + <p> + America's going through just about the same experience as myself. She's + feeling broader in the chest, bigger in the heart and her eyes are + clearer. When she catches sight of the America that she was, she's filled + with doubt—she can't believe that that person with the Stars and + Stripes wrapped round her and a money-bag in either hand ever was herself. + Home, clean and honourable for every man who ever loved her and has + pledged his life for an ideal with the Allies—that's what she's + become now. + </p> + <p> + I read again the words that I wrote about those chaps in the London + hospital, men who had journeyed to their Calvary glad-hearted from the + farthest corners of the world. From this distance I see them in truer + perspective than when we lay companions side by side in that long line of + neat, white cots. I used to grope after ways to explain them—to + explain the courage which in their utter heroism they did not realise they + possessed. They had grown so accustomed to a brave way of living that they + sincerely believed they were quite ordinary persons. That's courage at its + finest—when it becomes unconscious and instinctive. + </p> + <p> + At first I said, “I know why they're so cheerful—it's because + they're all here in one ward together. They're all mutilated more or less, + so they don't feel that they're exceptional. It's as though the whole + world woke up with toothache one morning. At breakfast every one would be + feeling very sorry for himself; by lunch-time, when it had become common + knowledge that the entire world had the same kind of ache, toothache would + have ceased to exist. It's the loneliness of being abnormal in your + suffering that hurts.” + </p> + <p> + But it wasn't that. Even while I was confined to the hospital, in hourly + contact with the chaps, I felt that it wasn't that. When I was allowed to + dress and go down West for a few hours everyday, I knew that I was wrong + most certainly. In Piccadilly, Hyde Park, theatres, restaurants, + river-places on the Thames you'd see them, these men who were maimed for + life, climbing up and down buses, hobbling on their crutches independently + through crowds, hailing one another cheerily from taxis, drinking life + joyously in big gulps without complaint or sense of martyrdom, and getting + none of the dregs. A part of their secret was that through their + experience in the trenches they had learnt to be self-forgetful. The only + time I ever saw a wounded man lose his temper was when some one out of + kindness made him remember himself. A sudden down-pour of rain had + commenced; it was towards evening and all the employees of the West End + shopping centre were making haste to get home to the suburbs. A young + Highland officer who had lost a leg scrambled into a bus going to + Wandsworth. The inside of the bus was jammed, so he had to stand up + clutching on to a strap. A middle-aged gentleman rose from his seat and + offered it to the Highlander. The Highlander smiled his thanks and shook + his head. The middle-aged gentleman in his sympathy became pressing, + attracting attention to the officer's infirmity. It was then that the + officer lost his temper. I saw him flush. + </p> + <p> + “I don't want it,” he said sharply. “There's nothing the matter with me. + Thanks all the same. I'll stand.” + </p> + <p> + This habit of being self-forgetful gives one time to be remindful of + others. Last January, during a brief and glorious ten days' leave, I went + to a matinée at the Coliseum. Vesta Tilley was doing an extraordinarily + funny impersonation of a Tommy just home from the comfort of the trenches; + her sketch depicted the terrible discomforts of a fighting man on leave in + Blighty. If I remember rightly the refrain of her song ran somewhat in + this fashion: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“Next time they want to give me six days' leave + Let 'em make it six months' 'ard.” + </pre> + <p> + There were two officers, a major and a captain, behind us; judging by the + sounds they made, they were getting their full money's worth of enjoyment. + In the interval, when the lights went up, I turned and saw the captain + putting a cigarette between the major's lips; then, having gripped a + match-box between his knees so that he might strike the match, he lit the + cigarette for his friend very awkwardly. I looked closer and discovered + that the laughing captain had only one hand and the equally happy major + had none at all. + </p> + <p> + Men forget their own infirmities in their endeavour to help each other. + Before the war we had a phrase which has taken on a new meaning now; we + used to talk about “lending a hand.” To-day we lend not only hands, but + arms and eyes and legs. The wonderful comradeship learnt in the trenches + has taught men to lend their bodies to each other—out of two maimed + bodies to make up one which is whole, and sound, and shared. You saw this + all the time in hospital. A man who had only one leg would pal up with a + man who had only one arm. The one-armed man would wheel the one-legged man + about the garden in a chair; at meal-times the one-legged man would cut up + the one-armed man's food for him. They had both lost something, but by + pooling what was left they managed to own a complete body. By the time the + war is ended there'll be great hosts of helpless men who by combining will + have learnt how to become helpful. They'll establish a new standard of + very simple and cheerful socialism. + </p> + <p> + There's a point I want to make clear before I forget it. All these men, + whether they're capturing Hun dug-outs at the Front or taking prisoner + their own despair in English hospitals, are perfectly ordinary and normal. + Before the war they were shop-assistants, cab-drivers, plumbers, lawyers, + vaudeville artists. They were men of no heroic training. Their civilian + callings and their previous social status were too various for any one to + suppose that they were heroes ready-made at birth. Something has happened + to them since they marched away in khaki—something that has changed + them. They're as completely re-made as St. Paul was after he had had his + vision of the opening heavens on the road to Damascus. They've brought + their vision back with them to civilian life, despite the lost arms and + legs which they scarcely seem to regret; their souls still triumph over + the body and the temporal. As they hobble through the streets of London, + they display the same gay courage that was theirs when at zero hour, with + a fifty-fifty chance of death, they hopped over the top for the attack. + </p> + <p> + Often at the Front I have thought of Christ's explanation of his own + unassailable peace—an explanation given to his disciples at the Last + Supper, immediately before the walk to Gethsemane: “Be of good cheer, I + have overcome the world.” Overcoming the world, as I understand it, is + overcoming self. Fear, in its final analysis, is nothing but selfishness. + A man who is afraid in an attack, isn't thinking of his pals and how + quickly terror spreads; he isn't thinking of the glory which will accrue + to his regiment or division if the attack is a success; he isn't thinking + of what he can do to contribute to that success; he isn't thinking of the + splendour of forcing his spirit to triumph over weariness and nerves and + the abominations that the Huns are chucking at him. He's thinking merely + of how he can save his worthless skin and conduct his entirely unimportant + body to a place where there aren't any shells. + </p> + <p> + In London as I saw the work-a-day, unconscious nobility of the maimed and + wounded, the words, “I have overcome the world,” took an added depth. All + these men have an “I-have-overcome-the-world” look in their faces. It's + comparatively easy for a soldier with traditions and ideals at his back to + face death calmly; to be calm in the face of life, as these chaps are, + takes a graver courage. + </p> + <p> + What has happened to change them? These disabilities, had they happened + before the war, would have crushed and embittered them. They would have + been woes utterly and inconsolably unbearable. Intrinsically their + physical disablements spell the same loss to-day that they would have in + 1912. The attitude of mind in which they are accepted alone makes them + seem less. This attitude of mind or greatness of soul—whatever you + like to call it—was learnt in the trenches where everything outward + is polluted and damnable. Their experience at the Front has given them + what in the Army language is known as “guts.” “Guts” or courage is an + attitude of mind towards calamity—an attitude of mind which makes + the honourable accomplishing of duty more permanently satisfying than the + preservation of self. But how did this vision come to these men? How did + they rid themselves of their civilian flabbiness and acquire it? These + questions are best answered autobiographically. Here briefly, is the story + of the growth of the vision within myself. + </p> + <p> + In August, 1914, three days after war had been declared, I sailed from + Quebec for England on the first ship that put out from Canada. The trip + had been long planned—it was not undertaken from any patriotic + motive. My family, which included my father, mother, sister and brother, + had been living in America for eight years and had never returned to + England together. It was the accomplishing of a dream long cherished, + which favourable circumstances and a sudden influx of money had at last + made possible. We had travelled three thousand miles from our ranch in the + Rockies before the war-cloud burst; obstinacy and curiosity combined made + us go on, plus an entirely British feeling that by crossing the Atlantic + during the crisis we'd be showing our contempt for the Germans. + </p> + <p> + We were only informed that the ship was going to sail at the very last + moment, and went aboard in the evening. The word spread quickly among the + crews of other vessels lying in harbour; their firemen, keen to get back + to England and have a whack at the Huns, tried to board our ship, + sometimes by a ruse, more often by fighting. One saw some very pretty fist + work that night as he leant across the rail, wondering whether he'd ever + reach the other side. There were rumours of German warships waiting to + catch us in mid-ocean. Somewhere towards midnight the would-be stowaways + gave up their attempt to force a passage; they squatted with their backs + against the sheds along the quayside, singing patriotic songs to the + accompaniment of mouth-organs, confidently asserting that they were sons + of the bull-dog breed and never, never would be slaves. It was all very + amusing; war seemed to be the finest of excuses for an outburst of high + spirits. + </p> + <p> + Next morning, when we came on deck for a breath of air the vessel was + under way; all hands were hard at work disguising her with paint of a + sombre colour. Here and there you saw an officer in uniform, who had not + yet had time to unpack his mufti. The next night, and for the rest of the + voyage, all port-holes were darkened and we ran without lights. An + atmosphere of suspense became omnipresent. Rumours spread like wild-fire + of sinkings, victories, defeats, marching and countermarchings, + engagements on land and water. With the uncanny and unaccustomed sense of + danger we began to realise that we, as individuals, were involved in a + European war. + </p> + <p> + As we got about among the passengers we found that the usual spirit of + comradeship which marks an Atlantic voyage, was noticeably lacking. Every + person regarded every other person with distrust, as though he might be a + spy. People were secretive as to their calling and the purpose of their + voyage; little by little we discovered that many of them were government + officials, but that most were professional soldiers rushing back in the + hope that they might be in time to join the British Expeditionary Force. + Long before we had guessed that a world tragedy was impending, they had + judged war's advent certain from its shadow, and had come from the most + distant parts of Canada that they might be ready to embark the moment the + cloud burst. Some of them were travelling with their wives and children. + What struck me as wholly unreasonable was that these professional soldiers + and their families were the least disturbed people on board. I used to + watch them as one might watch condemned prisoners in their cells. Their + apparent indifference was unintelligible to me. They lived their daily + present, contented and unruffled, just as if it were going to be their + present always. I accused them of being lacking in imagination. I saw them + lying dead on battlefields. I saw them dragging on into old age, with the + spine of life broken, mutilated and mauled. I saw them in desperately + tight corners, fighting in ruined villages with sword and bayonet. But + they joked, laughed, played with their kiddies and seemed to have no + realisation of the horrors to which they were going. There was a + world-famous aviator, who had gone back on his marriage promise that he + would abandon his aerial adventures. He was hurrying to join the French + Flying Corps. He and his young wife used to play deck-tennis every morning + as lightheartedly as if they were travelling to Europe for a lark. In my + many accusations of these men's indifference I never accused them of + courage. Courage, as I had thought of it up to that time, was a grim + affair of teeth set, sad eyes and clenched hands—the kind of “My + head is bloody but unbowed” determination described in Henley's poem. + </p> + <p> + When we had arrived safe in port we were held up for some time. A tug came + out, bringing a lot of artificers who at once set to work tearing out the + fittings of the ship that she might be converted into a transport. Here + again I witnessed a contrast between the soldierly and the civilian + attitude. The civilians, with their easily postponed engagements, fumed + and fretted at the delay in getting ashore. The officers took the + inconvenience with philosophical good-humour. While the panelling and + electric-light fittings were being ripped out, they sat among the debris + and played cards. There was heaps of time for their appointment—it + was only with wounds and Death. To me, as a civilian, their coolness was + almost irritating and totally incomprehensible. I found a new explanation + by saying that, after all, war was their professional chance—in + fact, exactly what a shortage in the flour-market was to a man who had + quantities of wheat on hand. + </p> + <p> + That night we travelled to London, arriving about two o'clock in the + morning. There was little to denote that a European war was on, except + that people were a trifle more animated and cheerful. The next day was + Sunday, and we motored round Hampstead Heath. The Heath was as usual, gay + with pleasure-seekers and the streets sedate with church-goers. On Monday, + when we tried to transact business and exchange money, we found that there + were hitches and difficulties; it was more as though a window had been + left open and a certain untidiness had resulted. “It will be all right + tomorrow,” everybody said. “Business as usual,” and they nodded. + </p> + <p> + But as the days passed it wasn't all right. Kitchener began to call for + his army. Belgium was invaded. We began to hear about atrocities. There + were rumours of defeat, which ceased to be rumours, and of grey hordes + pressing towards Paris. It began to dawn on the most optimistic of us that + the little British Army—the Old Contemptibles—hadn't gone to + France on a holiday jaunt. + </p> + <p> + The sternness of the hour was brought home to me by one obscure incident. + Straggling across Trafalgar Square in mufti and commanded by a sergeant + came a little procession of recruits. They were roughly dressed men of the + navy and the coster class. All save one carried under his arm his worldly + possessions, wrapped in cloth, brown-paper or anything that had come + handy. The sergeant kept on giving them the step and angrily imploring + them to pick it up. At the tail of the procession followed a woman; she + also carried a package. + </p> + <p> + They turned into the Strand, passed by Charing Cross and branched off to + the right down a lane to the Embankment. At the point where they left the + Strand, the man without a parcel spoke to the sergeant and fell out of the + ranks. He laid his clumsy hand on the woman's arm; she set down on the + pavement the parcel she had been carrying. There they stood for a full + minute gazing at each other dumbly, oblivious to the passing crowds. She + wasn't pleasing to look at—just a slum woman with draggled skirts, a + shawl gathered tightly round her and a mildewed kind of bonnet. He was no + more attractive—a hulking Samson, perhaps a day-labourer, who whilst + he had loved her, had probably beaten her. They had come to the hour of + parting, and there they stood in the London sunshine inarticulate after + life together. He glanced after the procession; it was two hundred yards + away by now. Stooping awkwardly for the burden which she had carried for + him, in a shame-faced kind of way he kissed her; then broke from her to + follow his companions. She watched him forlornly, her hands hanging empty. + Never once did he look back as he departed. Catching up, he took his place + in the ranks; they rounded a corner and were lost. Her eyes were quite + dry; her jaw sagged stupidly. For some seconds she stared after the way he + had gone—<i>her man</i>! Then she wandered off as one who had no + purpose. + </p> + <p> + Wounded men commenced to appear in the streets. You saw them in + restaurants, looking happy and embarrassed, being paraded by proud + families. One day I met two in my tailor's shop—one had an arm in a + sling, the other's head had been seared by a bullet. It was whispered that + they were officers who had “got it” at Mons. A thrill ran through me—a + thrill of hero-worship. + </p> + <p> + At the Empire Music Hall in Leicester Square, tragedy bared its broken + teeth and mouthed at me. We had reached the stage at which we had become + intensely patriotic by the singing of songs. A beautiful actress, who had + no thought of doing “her bit” herself, attired as Britannia, with a + colossal Union Jack for background, came before the footlights and sang + the recruiting song of the moment, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“We don't want to lose you + But we think you ought to go.” + </pre> + <p> + Some one else recited a poem calculated to shame men into immediate + enlistment, two lines of which I remember: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“I wasn't among the first to go + But I went, thank God, I went.” + </pre> + <p> + The effect of such urging was to make me angry. I wasn't going to be + rushed into khaki on the spur of an emotion picked up in a music-hall. I + pictured the comfortable gentlemen, beyond the military age, who had + written these heroic taunts, had gained reputation by so doing, and all + the time sat at home in suburban security. The people who recited or sung + their effusions, made me equally angry; they were making sham-patriotism a + means of livelihood and had no intention of doing their part. All the + world that by reason of age or sex was exempt from the ordeal of battle, + was shoving behind all the rest of the world that was not exempt, using + the younger men as a shield against his own terror and at the same time + calling them cowards. That was how I felt. I told myself that if I went—and + the <i>if</i> seemed very remote—I should go on a conviction and not + because of shoving. They could hand me as many white feathers as they + liked, I wasn't going to be swept away by the general hysteria. Besides, + where would be the sense in joining? Everybody said that our fellows would + be home for Christmas. Our chaps who were out there ought to know; in + writing home they promised it themselves. + </p> + <p> + The next part of the music-hall performance was moving pictures of the + Germans' march into Brussels. I was in the Promenade and had noticed a + Belgian soldier being made much of by a group of Tommies. He was a queer + looking fellow, with a dazed expression and eyes that seemed to focus on + some distant horror; his uniform was faded and torn—evidently it had + seen active service. I wondered by what strange fortune he had been + conveyed from the brutalities of invasion to this gilded, plush-seated + sensation-palace in Leicester Square. + </p> + <p> + I watched the screen. Through ghastly photographic boulevards the spectre + conquerors marched. They came on endlessly, as though somewhere out of + sight a human dam had burst, whose deluge would never be stopped. I tried + to catch the expressions of the men, wondering whether this or that or the + next had contributed his toll of violated women and butchered children to + the list of Hun atrocities. Suddenly the silence of the theatre was + startled by a low, infuriated growl, followed by a shriek which was hardly + human. I have since heard the same kind of sounds when the stumps of the + mutilated are being dressed and the pain has become intolerable. Everybody + turned in their seats—gazing through the dimness to a point in the + Promenade near to where I was. The ghosts on the screen were forgotten. + The faked patriotism of the songs we had listened to had become a thing of + naught. Through the welter of bombast, excitement and emotion we had + grounded on reality. + </p> + <p> + The Belgian soldier, in his tattered uniform, was leaning out, as though + to bridge the space that divided him from his ghostly tormentors. The + dazed look was gone from his expression and his eyes were focussed in the + fixity of a cruel purpose—to kill, and kill, and kill the smoke-grey + hordes of tyrants so long as his life should last. He shrieked + imprecations at them, calling upon God and snatching epithets from the + gutter in his furious endeavour to curse them. He was dragged away by + friends in khaki, overpowered, struggling, smothered but still cursing. + </p> + <p> + I learnt afterwards that he, with his mother and two brothers, had been + the proprietors of one of the best hotels in Brussels. Both his brothers + had been called to arms and were dead. Anything might have happened to his + mother—he had not heard from her. He himself had escaped in the + general retreat and was going back to France as interpreter with an + English regiment. He had lost everything; it was the sight of his ruined + hotel, flung by chance on the screen, that had provoked his demonstration. + He was dead to every emotion except revenge—to accomplish which he + was returning. + </p> + <p> + The moving-pictures still went on; nobody had the heart to see more of + them. The house rose, fumbling for its coats and hats; the place was soon + empty. + </p> + <p> + Just as I was leaving a recruiting sergeant touched my elbow, “Going to + enlist, sonny?” + </p> + <p> + I shook my head. “Not to-night. Want to think it over.” + </p> + <p> + “You will,” he said. “Don't wait too long. We can make a man of you. If I + get you in my squad I'll give you hell.” + </p> + <p> + I didn't doubt it. + </p> + <p> + I don't know that I'm telling these events in their proper sequence as + they led up to the growing of the vision. That doesn't matter—the + point is that the conviction was daily strengthening that I was needed out + there. The thought was grotesque that I could ever make a soldier—I + whose life from the day of leaving college had been almost wholly + sedentary. In fights at school I could never hurt the other boy until by + pain he had stung me into madness. Moreover, my idea of war was grimly + graphic; I thought it consisted of a choice between inserting a bayonet + into some one else's stomach or being yourself the recipient. I had no + conception of the long-distance, anonymous killing that marks our modern + methods, and is in many respects more truly awful. It's a fact that there + are hosts of combatants who have never once identified the bodies of those + for whose death they are personally responsible. My ideas of fighting were + all of hand-to-hand encounters—the kind of bloody fighting that + rejoiced the hearts of pirates. I considered that it took a brutal kind of + man to do such work. For myself I felt certain that, though I got the + upper-hand of a fellow who had tried to murder me, I should never have the + callousness to return the compliment. The thought of shedding blood was + nauseating. + </p> + <p> + It was partly to escape from this atmosphere of tension that we left + London, and set out on a motor-trip through England. This trip had figured + largely in our original plans before there had been any thought of war. We + wanted to re-visit the old places that had been the scenes of our + family-life and childhood. Months before sailing out of Quebec we had + studied guidebooks, mapping out routes and hotels. With about half a ton + of gasolene on the roof to guard against contingencies, we started. + </p> + <p> + Everywhere we went, from Cornwall to the North, men were training and + marching. All the bridges and reservoirs were guarded. Every tiniest + village had its recruiting posters for Kitchener's Army. It was a trip + utterly different from the one we had expected. + </p> + <p> + At Stratford in the tap-room of Shakespeare's favourite tavern I met an + exceptional person—a man who was afraid, and had the courage to + speak the truth as millions at that time felt it. An American was present—a + vast and fleshy man: a transatlantic version of Falstaff. He had just + escaped from Paris and was giving us an account of how he had hired a car, + had driven as near the fighting-line as he could get and had seen the + wounded coming out. He had risked the driver's life and expended large + sums of money merely to gratify his curiosity. He mopped his brow and told + us that he had aged ten years—folks in Philadelphia would hardly + know him; but it was all worth it. The details which he embroidered and + dwelt upon were ghastly. He was particularly impressed with having seen a + man with his nose off. His description held us horrified and spell-bound. + </p> + <p> + In the midst of his oratory an officer entered, bringing with him five + nervous young fellows. They were self-conscious, excited, over-wrought and + belonged to the class of the lawyer's clerk. The officer had evidently + been working them up to the point of enlistment, and hoped to complete the + job that evening over a sociable glass. As his audience swelled, the fat + man from Philadelphia grew exceedingly vivid. When appealed to by the + recruiting officer, he confirmed the opinion that every Englishman of + fighting age should be in France; that's where the boys of America would + be if their country were in the same predicament. Four out of the five + intended victims applauded this sentiment—they applauded too + boisterously for complete sincerity, because they felt that they could do + no less. The fifth, a scholarly, pale-faced fellow, drew attention to + himself by his silence. + </p> + <p> + “You're going to join, too, aren't you?” the recruiting officer asked. + </p> + <p> + The pale-faced man swallowed. There was no doubt that he was scared. The + American's morbid details had been enough to frighten anybody. He was so + frightened that he had the pluck to tell the truth. + </p> + <p> + “I'd like to,” he hesitated, “but——. I've got an imagination. + I should see things as twice as horrible. I should live through every + beastliness before it occurred. When it did happen, I should turn coward. + I should run away, and you'd shoot me as a deserter. I'd like—not + yet, I can't.” + </p> + <p> + He was the bravest man in the tap-room that night. If he's still alive, he + probably wears decorations. He was afraid, just as every one else was + afraid; but he wasn't sufficiently a coward to lie about his terror. His + voice was the voice of millions at that hour. + </p> + <p> + A day came when England's jeopardy was brought home to her. I don't + remember the date, but I remember it was a Sabbath. We had pulled up + before a village post office to get the news; it was pasted behind the + window against the glass. We read, “<i>Boulogne has fallen</i>.” The news + was false; but it wasn't contradicted till next day. Meanwhile, in that + quiet village, over and above the purring of the engine, we heard the beat + of Death's wings across the Channel—a gigantic vulture approaching + which would pick clean of vileness the bones of both the actually and the + spiritually dead. I knew then for certain that it was only a matter of + time till I, too, should be out there among the carnage, “somewhere in + France.” I felt like a rabbit in the last of the standing corn, when a + field is in the harvesting. There was no escape—I could hear the + scythes of an inexorable duty cutting closer. + </p> + <p> + After about six weeks in England, I travelled back to New York with my + family to complete certain financial obligations and to set about the + winding up of my affairs. I said nothing to any one as to my purpose. The + reason for my silence is now obvious: I didn't want to commit myself to + other people and wished to leave myself a loop-hole for retracting the + promises I had made my conscience. There were times when my heart seemed + to stop beating, appalled by the future which I was rapidly approaching. + My vivid imagination—which from childhood has been as much a + hindrance as a help—made me foresee myself in every situation of + horror—gassed, broken, distributed over the landscape. Luckily it + made me foresee the worst horror—the ignominy of living perhaps + fifty years with a self who was dishonoured and had sunk beneath his own + best standards. Of course there were also moments of exaltation when the + boy-spirit of adventure loomed large; it seemed splendidly absurd that I + was going to be a soldier, a companion-in-arms of those lordly chaps who + had fought at Senlac, sailed with Drake and saved the day for freedom at + Mons. Whether I was exalted or depressed, a power stronger than myself + urged me to work feverishly to the end that, at the first opportunity, I + might lay aside my occupation, with all my civilian obligations + discharged. + </p> + <p> + When that time came, my first difficulty was in communicating my decision + to my family; my second, in getting accepted in Canada. I was perhaps more + ignorant than most people about things military. I had not the slightest + knowledge as to the functions of the different arms of the service; + infantry, artillery, engineers, A.S.C.—they all connoted just as + much and as little. I had no qualifications. I had never handled + fire-arms. My solitary useful accomplishment was that I could ride a + horse. It seemed to me that no man ever was less fitted for the profession + of killing. I was painfully conscious of self-ridicule whenever I offered + myself for the job. I offered myself several times and in different + quarters; when at last I was granted a commission in the Canadian Field + Artillery it was by pure good-fortune. I didn't even know what guns were + used and, if informed, shouldn't have had the least idea what an + eighteen-pounder was. Nevertheless, within seven months I was out in + France, taking part in an offensive which, up to that time, was the most + ambitious of the entire war. + </p> + <p> + From New York I went to Kingston in Ontario to present myself for + training; an officers' class had just started, in which I had been ordered + to enrol myself. It was the depth of winter—an unusually hard winter + even for that part of Canada. My first glimpse of the Tête du Pont + Barracks was of a square of low buildings, very much like the square of a + Hudson Bay Fort. The parade ground was ankle-deep in trampled snow and + mud. A bleak wind was blowing from off the river. Squads of embryo + officers were being drilled by hoarse-voiced sergeants. The officers + looked cold, and cowed, and foolish; the sergeants employed ruthlessly the + age-old army sarcasms and made no effort to disguise their disgust for + these officers and “temporary gentlemen.” + </p> + <p> + I was directed to an office where a captain sat writing at a desk, while + an orderly waited rigidly at attention. The captain looked up as I + entered, took in my spats and velour hat with an impatient glance, and + continued with his writing. When I got an opportunity I presented my + letter; he read it through irritably. + </p> + <p> + “Any previous military experience?” + </p> + <p> + “None at all.” + </p> + <p> + “Then how d'you expect to pass out with this class? It's been going for + nearly two weeks already?” + </p> + <p> + Again, as though he had dismissed me from his mind, he returned to his + writing. From a military standpoint I knew that I was justly a figure of + naught; but I also felt that he was rubbing it in a trifle hard. I was too + recent a recruit to have lost my civilian self-respect. At last, after a + period of embarrassed silence, I asked, “What am I to do? To whom do I + report?” + </p> + <p> + Without looking up he told me to report on the parade ground at six + o'clock the following morning. When I got back to my hotel, I reflected on + the chilliness of my reception. I had taken no credit to myself for + enlisting—I knew that I ought to have joined months before. But six + o'clock! I glanced across at the station, where trains were pulling out + for New York; for a moment I was tempted. But not for long; I couldn't + trust the hotel people to wake me, so I went out and purchased an alarm + clock. + </p> + <p> + That night I didn't sleep much. I was up and dressed by five-thirty. I hid + beneath the shadow of a wall near the barracks and struck matches to look + at my watch. At ten minutes to six the street was full of unseen, hurrying + feet which sounded ghostly in the darkness. I followed them into the + parade-ground. The parade was falling in, rolls were being called by the + aid of flash-lamps. I caught hold of an officer; for all I knew he might + have been a General or Colonel. I asked his advice, when I had blundered + out my story. He laughed and said I had better return to my hotel; the + class was going to stables and there was no one at that hour to whom I + could report. + </p> + <p> + The words of the sergeant at the Empire came back to me, “And I'll give + you hell if I get you in my squad.” I understood then: this was the first + attempt of the Army to break my heart—an attempt often repeated and + an attempt for which, from my present point of vantage, I am intensely + grateful. In those days the Canadian Overseas Forces were comprised of + volunteers; it wasn't sufficient to express a tepid willingness to die for + your country—you had to prove yourself determined and eligible for + death through your power to endure hardship. + </p> + <p> + When I had been medically examined, passed as fit, had donned a uniform + and commenced my training, I learnt what the enduring of hardship was. No + experience on active service has equalled the humiliation and severity of + those first months of soldiering. We were sneered at, cleaned stables, + groomed horses, rode stripped saddle for twelve miles at the trot, + attended lectures, studied till past midnight and were up on first parade + at six o'clock. No previous civilian efficiency or prominence stood us in + any stead. We started robbed of all importance, and only gained a new + importance by our power to hang on and to develop a new efficiency as + soldiers. When men “went sick” they were labelled scrimshankers and struck + off the course. It was an offence to let your body interfere with your + duty; if it tried to, you must ignore it. If a man caught cold in + Kingston, what would he not catch in the trenches? Very many went down + under the physical ordeal; of the class that started, I don't think more + than a third passed. The lukewarm soldier and the pink-tea hero, who + simply wanted to swank in a uniform, were effectually choked off. It was a + test of pluck, even more than of strength or intelligence—the same + test that a man would be subjected to all the time at the Front. In a word + it sorted out the fellows who had “guts.” + </p> + <p> + “Guts” isn't a particularly polite word, but I have come increasingly to + appreciate its splendid significance. The possessor of this much coveted + quality is the kind of idiot who, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “When his legs are smitten off + Will fight upon his stumps.” + </pre> + <p> + The Tommies, whom we were going to command, would be like that; if we + weren't like it, we wouldn't be any good as officers. This Artillery + School had a violent way of sifting out a man's moral worth; you hadn't + much conceit left by the end of it. I had not felt myself so paltry since + the day when I was left at my first boarding-school in knickerbockers. + </p> + <p> + After one had qualified and been appointed to a battery, there was still + difficulty in getting to England. I was lucky, and went over early with a + draft of officers who had been cabled for as reinforcements. I had been in + England a bare three weeks when my name was posted as due to go to France. + </p> + <p> + How did I feel? Nervous, of course, but also intensely eager. I may have + been afraid of wounds and death—I don't remember; I was certainly + nothing like as afraid as I had been before I wore uniform. My chief fear + was that I would be afraid and might show it. Like the pale-faced chap in + the tap-room at Stratford, I had fleeting glimpses of myself being shot as + a deserter. + </p> + <p> + At this point something happened which at least proved to me that I had + made moral progress. I'd finished my packing and was doing a last rush + round, when I caught in large lettering on a newsboard the heading, “PEACE + RUMOURED.” Before I realised what had happened I was crying. I was furious + with disappointment. If the war should end before I got there—! On + buying a paper I assured myself that such a disaster was quite improbable. + I breathed again. Then the reproachful memory came of another occasion + when I had been scared by a headline, <i>“Boulogne Has Fallen.”</i> I had + been scared lest I might be needed at that time; now I was panic-stricken + lest I might arrive too late. There was a change in me; something + deep-rooted had happened. I got to thinking about it. On that motor-trip + through England I had considered myself in the light of a philanthropist, + who might come to the help of the Allies and might not. Now all I asked + was to be considered worthy to do my infinitesimal “bit.” I had lost all + my old conceits and hallucinations, and had come to respect myself in a + very humble fashion not for what I was, but for the cause in which I was + prepared to fight. The knowledge that I belonged to the physically fit + contributed to this saner sense of pride; before I wore a uniform I had + had the morbid fear that I might not be up to standard. And then the + uniform! It was the outward symbol of the lost selfishness and the cleaner + honour. It hadn't been paid for; it wouldn't be paid for till I had lived + in the trenches. I was childishly anxious to earn my right to wear it. I + had said “Good-bye” to myself, and had been re-born into willing + sacrifice. I think that was the reason for the difference of spirit in + which I read the two headlines. We've all gone through the same spiritual + gradations, we men who have got to the Front. None of us know how to + express our conversion. All we know is that from being little + circumscribed egoists, we have swamped our identities in a magnanimous + crusade. The venture looked fatal at first; but in losing the whole world + we have gained our own souls. + </p> + <p> + On a beautiful day in late summer I sailed for France. England faded out + like a dream behind. Through the haze in mid-Channel a hospital ship came + racing; on her sides were blazoned the scarlet cross. The next time I came + to England I might travel on that racing ship. The truth sounded like a + lie. It seemed far more true that I was going on my annual pleasure trip + to the lazy cities of romance. + </p> + <p> + The port at which we disembarked was cheery and almost normal. One saw a + lot of khaki mingling with sky-blue tiger-men of France. Apart from that + one would scarcely have guessed that the greatest war in the world's + history was raging not more than fifty miles away. I slept the night at a + comfortable hotel on the quayside. There was no apparent shortage; I got + everything that I required. Next day I boarded a train which, I was told, + would carry me to the Front. We puffed along in a leisurely sort of way. + The engineer seemed to halt whenever he had a mind; no matter where he + halted, grubby children miraculously appeared and ran along the bank, + demanding from Monsieur Engleeshman “ceegarettes” and “beescuits.” Towards + evening we pulled up at a little town where we had a most excellent meal. + No hint of war yet. Night came down and we found that our carriage had no + lights. It must have been nearing dawn, when I was wakened by the distant + thunder of guns. I crouched in my corner, cold and cramped, trying to + visualise the terror of it. I asked myself whether I was afraid. “Not of + Death,” I told myself. “But of being afraid—yes, most horribly.” + </p> + <p> + At five o'clock we halted at a junction, where a troop-train from the + Front was already at a standstill. Tommies in steel helmets and muddied to + the eyes were swarming out onto the tracks. They looked terrible men with + their tanned cheeks and haggard eyes. I felt how impractical I was as I + watched them—how ill-suited for campaigning. They were making the + most of their respite from travelling. Some were building little fires + between the ties to do their cooking—their utensils were bayonets + and old tomato cans; others were collecting water from the exhaust of an + engine and shaving. I had already tried to purchase food and had failed, + so I copied their example and set about shaving. + </p> + <p> + Later in the day we passed gangs of Hun prisoners—clumsy looking + fellows, with flaxen hair and blue eyes, who seemed to be thanking God + every minute with smiles that they were out of danger and on our side of + the line. Late in the afternoon the engine jumped the rails; we were + advised to wander off to a rest-camp, the direction of which was sketchily + indicated. We found some Australians with a transport-wagon and persuaded + them to help us with our baggage. It had been pouring heavily, but the + clouds had dispersed and a rainbow spanned the sky. I took it for a sign. + </p> + <p> + After trudging about six miles, we arrived at the camp and found that it + was out of food and that all the tents were occupied. We stretched our + sleeping-bags on the ground and went to bed supperless. We had had no food + all day. Next morning we were told that we ought to jump an + ammunition-lorry, if we wanted to get any further on our journey. Nobody + seemed to want us particularly, and no one could give us the least + information as to where our division was. It was another lesson, if that + were needed, of our total unimportance. While we were waiting on the + roadside, an Australian brigade of artillery passed by. The men's faces + were dreary with fatigue; the gunners were dismounted and marched as in a + trance. The harness was muddy, the steel rusty, the horses lean and + discouraged. We understood that they were pulling out from an offensive in + which they had received a bad cutting up. To my overstrained imagination + it seemed that the men had the vision of death in their eyes. + </p> + <p> + Presently we spotted a lorry-driver who had, what George Robey would call, + “a kind and generous face.” We took advantage of him, for once having + persuaded him to give us a lift, we froze onto him and made him cart us + about the country all day. We kept him kind and generous, I regret to say, + by buying him wine at far too many estaminets. + </p> + <p> + Towards evening the thunder of the guns had swelled into an ominous roar. + We passed through villages disfigured by shell-fire. Civilians became more + rare and more aged. Cattle disappeared utterly from the landscape; fields + were furrowed with abandoned trenches, in front of which hung + entanglements of wire. Mounted orderlies splashed along sullen roads at an + impatient trot. Here and there we came across improvised bivouacs of + infantry. Far away against the horizon towards which we travelled, Hun + flares and rockets were going up. Hopeless stoicism, unutterable + desolation—that was my first impression. + </p> + <p> + The landscape was getting increasingly muddy—it became a sea of mud. + Despatch-riders on motor-bikes travelled warily, with their feet dragging + to save themselves from falling. Everything was splashed with filth and + corruption; one marvelled at the cleanness of the sky. Trees were blasted, + and seemed to be sinking out of sight in this war-created Slough of + Despond. We came to the brow of a hill; in the valley was something that I + recognised. The last time I had seen it was in an etching in a shop window + in Newark, New Jersey. It was a town, from the midst of whose battered + ruins a splintered tower soared against the sky. Leaning far out from the + tower, so that it seemed she must drop, was a statue of the Virgin with + the Christ in her arms. It was a superstition with the French, I + remembered, that so long as she did not fall, things would go well with + the Allies. As we watched, a shell screamed over the gaping roofs and a + column of smoke went up. Gehenna, being blessed by the infant Jesus—that + was what I saw. + </p> + <p> + As we entered the streets, Tommies more polluted than miners crept out + from the skeletons of houses. They leant listlessly against sagging + doorways to watch us pass. If we asked for information as to where our + division was, they shook their heads stupidly, too indifferent with + weariness to reply. We found the Town Mayor; all that he could tell us was + that our division wasn't here yet, but was expected any day—probably + it was still on the line of march. Our lorry-driver was growing impatient. + We wrote him out a note which would explain his wanderings, got him to + deposit us near a Y. M. C. A. tent, and bade him an uncordial “Good-bye.” + For the next three nights we slept by our wits and got our food by + foraging. + </p> + <p> + There was a Headquarters near by whose battalion was in the line. I struck + up a liaison with its officers, and at times went into the crowded tent, + which was their mess, to get warm. Runners would come there at all hours + of the day and night, bringing messages from the Front. They were usually + well spent. Sometimes they had been gassed; but they all had the + invincible determination to carry on. After they had delivered their + message, they would lie down in the mud and go to sleep like dogs. The + moment the reply was ready, they would lurch to their feet, throwing off + their weariness, as though it were a thing to be conquered and despised. I + appreciated now, as never before, the lesson of “guts” that I had been + taught at Kingston. + </p> + <p> + There was one officer at Battalion Headquarters who, whenever I entered, + was always writing, writing, writing. What he was writing I never enquired—perhaps + letters to his sweetheart or wife. It didn't matter how long I stayed, he + never seemed to have the time to look up. He was a Highlander—a big + man with a look of fate in his eyes. His hair was black; his face stern, + and set, and extremely white. I remember once seeing him long after + midnight through the raised flap of the tent. All his brother officers + were asleep, huddled like sacks impersonally on the floor. At the table in + the centre he sat, his head bowed in his hands, the light from the lamp + spilling over his neck and forehead. He may have been praying. He recalled + to my mind the famous picture of The Last Sleep of Argyle. From that + moment I had the premonition that he would not live long. A month later I + learnt that he had been killed on his next trip into the trenches. + </p> + <p> + After three days of waiting my division arrived and I was attached to a + battery. I had scarcely had time to make the acquaintance of my new + companions, when we pulled into my first attack. + </p> + <p> + We hooked in at dawn and set out through a dense white mist. The mist was + wet and miserable, but excellent for our purpose; it prevented us from + being spotted by enemy balloons and aeroplanes. We made all the haste that + was possible; but in places the roads were blocked by other batteries + moving into new positions. We passed through the town above which the + Virgin floated with the infant Jesus in her arms. One wondered whether she + was really holding him out to bless; her attitude might equally have been + that of one who was flinging him down into the shambles, disgusted with + this travesty on religion. + </p> + <p> + The other side of the town the ravages of war were far more marked. All + the way along the roadside were clumps of little crosses, French, English, + German, planted above the hurried graves of the brave fellows who had + fallen. Ambulances were picking their way warily, returning with the last + night's toll of wounded. We saw newly dead men and horses, pulled to one + side, who had been caught in the darkness by the enemy's harassing fire. + In places the country had holes the size of quarries, where mines had + exploded and shells from large calibre guns had detonated. Bedlam was + raging up front; shells went screaming over us, seeking out victims in the + back-country. To have been there by oneself would have been most + disturbing, but the men about me seemed to regard it as perfectly ordinary + and normal. I steadied myself by their example. + </p> + <p> + We came to a point where our Major was waiting for us, turned out of the + road, followed him down a grass slope and so into a valley. Here gun-pits + were in the process of construction. Guns were unhooked and man-handled + into their positions, and the teams sent back to the wagon-lines. All day + we worked, both officers and men, with pick and shovel. Towards evening we + had completed the gun-platforms and made a beginning on the overhead + cover. We had had no time to prepare sleeping-quarters, so spread our + sleeping-bags and blankets in the caved-in trenches. About seven o'clock, + as we were resting, the evening “hate” commenced. In those days the + evening “hate” was a regular habit with the Hun. He knew our country + better than we did, for he had retired from it. Every evening he used to + search out all communication trenches and likely battery-positions with + any quantity of shells. His idea was to rob us of our <i>morale</i>. I + wish he might have seen how abysmally he failed to do it. Down our narrow + valley, like a flight of arrows, the shells screamed and whistled. Where + they struck, the ground looked like Resurrection Day with the dead + elbowing their way into daylight and forcing back the earth from their + eyes. There were actually many dead just beneath the surface and, as the + ground was ploughed up, the smell of corruption became distinctly + unpleasant. Presently the shells began to go dud; we realised that they + were gas-shells. A thin, bluish vapour spread throughout the valley and + breathing became oppressive. Then like stallions, kicking in their stalls, + the heavy guns on the ridge above us opened. It was fine to hear them + stamping their defiance; it made one want to get to grips with his + aggressors. In the brief silences one could hear our chaps laughing. The + danger seemed to fill them with a wild excitement. Every time a shell came + near and missed them, they would taunt the unseen Huns for their poor + gunnery, giving what they considered the necessary corrections: “Five + minutes more left, old Cock. If you'd only drop fifty, you'd get us.” + These men didn't know what fear was—or, if they did, they kept it to + themselves. And these were the chaps whom I was to order. + </p> + <p> + A few days later my Major told me that I was to be ready at 3:30 next + morning to accompany him up front to register the guns. In registering + guns you take a telephonist and linesmen with you. They lay in a line from + the battery to any point you may select as the best from which to observe + the enemy's country. This point may be two miles or more in advance of + your battery. Your battery is always hidden and out of sight, for fear the + enemy should see the flash of the firing; consequently the officer in + charge of the battery lays the guns mathematically, but cannot observe the + effect of his shots. The officer who goes forward can see the target; by + telephoning back his corrections, he makes himself the eyes of the officer + at the guns. + </p> + <p> + It had been raining when we crept out of our kennels to go forward. It + seems unnecessary to state that it had been raining, for it always has + been raining at the Front. I don't remember what degree of mud we had + attained. We have a variety of adjectives, and none of them polite, to + describe each stage. The worst of all is what we call “God-Awful Mud.” I + don't think it was as bad as that, but it was bad enough. Everything was + dim, and clammy, and spectral. At the hour of dawn one isn't at his + bravest. It was like walking at the bottom of the sea, only things that + were thrown at you travelled faster. We struck a sloppy road, along which + ghostly figures passed, with ground sheets flung across their head and + shoulders, like hooded monks. At a point where scarlet bundles were being + lifted into ambulances, we branched overland. Here and there from all + directions, infantry were converging, picking their way in single file to + reduce their casualties if a shell burst near them. The landscape, the + people, the early morning—everything was stealthy and walked with + muted steps. + </p> + <p> + We entered a trench. Holes were scooped out in the side of it just large + enough to shelter a man crouching. Each hole contained a sleeping soldier + who looked as dead as the occupant of a catacomb. Some of the holes had + been blown in; all you saw of the late occupant was a protruding arm or + leg. At best there was a horrid similarity between the dead and the + living. It seemed that the walls of the trenches had been built out of + corpses, for one recognised the uniforms of French men and Huns. They <i>were</i> + built out of them, though whether by design or accident it was impossible + to tell. We came to a group of men, doing some repairing; that part of the + trench had evidently been strafed last night. They didn't know where they + were, or how far it was to the front-line. We wandered on, still laying in + our wire. The Colonel of our Brigade joined us and we waded on together. + </p> + <p> + The enemy shelling was growing more intense, as was always the way on the + Somme when we were bringing out our wounded. A good many of our trenches + were directly enfilade; shells burst just behind the parapet, when they + didn't burst on it. It was at about this point in my breaking-in that I + received a blow on the head—and thanked God for the man who invented + the steel helmet. + </p> + <p> + Things were getting distinctly curious. We hadn't passed any infantry for + some time. The trenches were becoming each minute more shallow and + neglected. Suddenly we found ourselves in a narrow furrow which was packed + with our own dead. They had been there for some time and were partly + buried. They were sitting up or lying forward in every attitude of agony. + Some of them clasped their wounds; some of them pointed with their hands. + Their faces had changed to every colour and glared at us like swollen + bruises. Their helmets were off; with a pitiful, derisive neatness the + rain had parted their hair. + </p> + <p> + We had to crouch low because the trench was so shallow. It was difficult + not to disturb them; the long skirts of our trench-coats brushed against + their faces. + </p> + <p> + All of a sudden we halted, making ourselves as small as could be. In the + rapidly thinning mist ahead of us, men were moving. They were + stretcher-bearers. The odd thing was that they were carrying their wounded + away from, instead of towards us. Then it flashed on us that they were + Huns. We had wandered into No Man's Land. Almost at that moment we must + have been spotted, for shells commenced falling at the end of the trench + by which we had entered. Spreading out, so as not to attract attention, we + commenced to crawl towards the other end. Instantly that also was closed + to us and a curtain of shells started dropping behind us. We were trapped. + With perfect coolness—a coolness which, whatever I looked, I did not + share—we went down on our hands and knees, wriggling our way through + the corpses and shell-holes in the direction of where our front-line ought + to be. After what seemed an age, we got back. Later we registered the + guns, and one of our officers who had been laying in wire, was killed in + the process. His death, like everything else, was regarded without emotion + as being quite ordinary. + </p> + <p> + On the way out, when we had come to a part of our journey where the + tension was relaxed and we could be less cautious, I saw a signalling + officer lying asleep under a blackened tree. I called my Major's attention + to him, saying, “Look at that silly ass, sir. He'll get something that he + doesn't want if he lies there much longer.” + </p> + <p> + My Major turned his head, and said briefly, “Poor chap, he's got it.” + </p> + <p> + Then I saw that his shoulder-blade had burst through his tunic and was + protruding. He'd been coming out, walking freely and feeling that the + danger was over, just as we were, when the unlucky shell had caught him. + “His name must have been written on it,” our men say when that happens. I + noticed that he had black boots; since then nothing would persuade me to + wear black boots in the trenches. + </p> + <p> + This first experience in No Man's Land did away with my last flabby fear—that, + if I was afraid, I would show it. One is often afraid. Any soldier who + asserts the contrary may not be a liar, but he certainly does not speak + the truth. Physical fear is too deeply rooted to be overcome by any amount + of training; it remains, then, to train a man in spiritual pride, so that + when he fears, nobody knows it. Cowardice is contagious. It has been said + that no battalion is braver than its least brave member. Military courage + is, therefore, a form of unselfishness; it is practised that it may save + weaker men's lives and uphold their honour. The worst thing you can say of + a man at the Front is, “He doesn't play the game.” That doesn't of + necessity mean that he fails to do his duty; what it means is that he + fails to do a little bit more than his duty. + </p> + <p> + When a man plays the game, he does things which it requires a braver man + than himself to accomplish; he never knows when he's done; he acknowledges + no limit to his cheerfulness and strength; whatever his rank, he holds his + life less valuable than that of the humblest; he laughs at danger not + because he does not dread it, but because he has learnt that there are + ailments more terrible and less curable than death. + </p> + <p> + The men in the ranks taught me whatever I know about playing the game. I + learnt from their example. In acknowledging this, I own up to the new + equality, based on heroic values, which this war has established. The only + man who counts “out there” is the man who is sufficiently self-effacing to + show courage. The chaps who haven't done it are the exceptions. + </p> + <p> + At the start of the war there were a good many persons whom we were apt to + think of as common and unclean. But social distinctions are a wash-out in + the trenches. We have seen St. Peter's vision, and have heard the voice, + “What God hath cleansed, that call not thou common.” + </p> + <p> + Until I became a part of the war, I was a doubter of nobility in others + and a sceptic as regards myself. The growth of my personal vision was + complete when I recognised that the capacity of heroism is latent in + everybody, and only awaits the bigness of the opportunity to call it out. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE GLORY OF THE TRENCHES + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We were too proud to live for years + When our poor death could dry the tears + Of little children yet unborn. + It scarcely mattered that at morn, + When manhood's hope was at its height, + We stopped a bullet in mid-flight. + It did not trouble us to lie + Forgotten 'neath the forgetting sky. + So long Sleep was our only cure + That when Death piped of rest made sure, + We cast our fleshly crutches down, + Laughing like boys in Hamelin Town. + And this we did while loving life, + Yet loving more than home or wife + The kindness of a world set free + For countless children yet to be. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III. GOD AS WE SEE HIM + </h2> + <p> + For some time before I was wounded, we had been in very hot places. We + could scarcely expect them to be otherwise, for we had put on show after + show. A “show” in our language, I should explain, has nothing in common + with a theatrical performance, though it does not lack drama. We make the + term apply to any method of irritating the Hun, from a trench-raid to a + big offensive. The Hun was decidedly annoyed. He had very good reason. We + were occupying the dug-outs which he had spent two years in building with + French civilian labour. His U-boat threats had failed. He had offered us + the olive-branch, and his peace terms had been rejected with a peal of + guns all along the Western Front. He had shown his disapproval of us by + paying particular attention to our batteries; as a consequence our + shell-dressings were all used up, having gone out with the gentlemen on + stretchers who were contemplating a vacation in Blighty. We couldn't get + enough to re-place them. There was a hitch somewhere. The demand for + shell-dressings exceeded the supply. So I got on my horse one Sunday and, + with my groom accompanying me, rode into the back-country to see if I + couldn't pick some up at various Field Dressing Stations and Collecting + Points. + </p> + <p> + In the course of my wanderings I came to a cathedral city. It was a city + which was and still is beautiful, despite the constant bombardments. The + Huns had just finished hurling a few more tons of explosives into it as I + and my groom entered. The streets were deserted; it might have been a city + of the dead. There was no sound, except the ringing iron of our horses' + shoes on the cobble pavement. Here and there we came to what looked like a + barricade which barred our progress; actually it was the piled-up walls + and rubbish of buildings which had collapsed. From cellars, now and then, + faces of women, children and ancient men peered out—they were sharp + and pointed like rats. One's imagination went back five hundred years—everything + seemed mediaeval, short-lived and brutal. This might have been Limoges + after the Black Prince had finished massacring its citizens; or it might + have been Paris, when the wolves came down and François Villon tried to + find a lodging for the night. + </p> + <p> + I turned up through narrow alleys where grass was growing and found + myself, almost by accident, in a garden. It was a green and spacious + garden, with fifteen-foot walls about it and flowers which scattered + themselves broadcast in neglected riot. We dismounted and tied our horses. + Wandering along its paths, we came across little summer-houses, statues, + fountains and then, without any hindrance, found ourselves in the nave of + a fine cathedral which was roofed only by the sky. Two years of the Huns + had made it as much a ruin as Tintern Abbey. Here, too, the flowers had + intruded. They grew between graves in the pavement and scrambled up the + walls, wherever they could find a foothold. At the far end of this stretch + of destruction stood the high altar, totally untouched by the hurricane of + shell-fire. The saints were perched in their niches, composed and stately. + The Christ looked down from His cross, as he had done for centuries, + sweeping the length of splendid architecture with sad eyes. It seemed a + miracle that the altar had been spared, when everything else had fallen. A + reason is given for its escape. Every Sabbath since the start of the war, + no matter how severe the bombardment, service has been held there. The + thin-faced women, rat-faced children and ancient men have crept out from + their cellars and gathered about the priest; the lamp has been lit, the + Host uplifted. The Hun is aware of this; with malice aforethought he lands + shells into the cathedral every Sunday in an effort to smash the altar. So + far he has failed. One finds in this a symbol—that in the heart of + the maelstrom of horror, which this war has created, there is a quiet + place where the lamp of gentleness and honour is kept burning. The Hun + will have to do a lot more shelling before he puts the lamp of kindness + out. From the polluted trenches of Vimy the poppies spring up, blazoning + abroad in vivid scarlet the heroism of our lads' willing sacrifice. All + this April, high above the shouting of our guns, the larks sang joyously. + The scarlet of the poppies, the song of the larks, the lamp shining on the + altar are only external signs of the unconquerable, happy religion which + lies hidden in the hearts of our men. Their religion is the religion of + heroism, which they have learnt in the glory of the trenches. + </p> + <p> + There was a line from William Morris's <i>Earthly Paradise</i> which used + to haunt me, especially in the early days when I was first experiencing + what war really meant. Since returning for a brief space to where books + are accessible, I have looked up the quotation. It reads as follows:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing, + I cannot ease the burden of your fears + Or make quick-coming death a little thing.” + </pre> + <p> + It is the last line that makes me smile rather quietly, “Or make + quick-coming death a little thing.” I smile because the souls who wear + khaki have learnt to do just that. Morris goes on to say that all he can + do to make people happy is to tell them deathless stories about heroes who + have passed into the world of the imagination, and, because of that, are + immune from death. He calls himself “the idle singer of an empty day.” How + typical he is of the days before the war when people had only pin-pricks + to endure, and, consequently, didn't exert themselves to be brave! A big + sacrifice, which bankrupts one's life, is always more bearable than the + little inevitable annoyances of sickness, disappointment and dying in a + bed. It's easier for Christ to go to Calvary than for an on-looker to lose + a night's sleep in the garden. When the world went well with us before the + war, we were doubters. Nearly all the fiction of the past fifteen years is + a proof of that—it records our fear of failure, sex, old age and + particularly of a God who refuses to explain Himself. Now, when we have + thrust the world, affections, life itself behind us and gaze hourly into + the eyes of Death, belief comes as simply and clearly as it did when we + were children. Curious and extraordinary! The burden of our fears has + slipped from our shoulders in our attempt to do something for others; the + unbelievable and long coveted miracle has happened—at last to every + soul who has grasped his chance of heroism quick-coming death has become a + fifth-rate calamity. + </p> + <p> + In saying this I do not mean to glorify war; war can never be anything but + beastly and damnable. It dates back to the jungle. But there are two kinds + of war. There's the kind that a highwayman wages, when he pounces from the + bushes and assaults a defenceless woman; there's the kind you wage when + you go to her rescue. The highwayman can't expect to come out of the fight + with a loftier morality—you can. Our chaps never wanted to fight. + They hate fighting; it's that hatred of the thing they are compelled to do + that makes them so terrible. The last thought to enter their heads four + years ago was that to-day they would be in khaki. They had never been + trained to the use of arms; a good many of them conceived of themselves as + cowards. They entered the war to defend rather than to destroy. They + literally put behind them houses, brethren, sisters, father, mother, wife, + children, lands for the Kingdom of Heaven's sake, though they would be the + last to express themselves in that fashion. + </p> + <p> + At a cross-road at the bottom of a hill, on the way to a gun-position we + once had, stood a Calvary—one of those wayside altars, so frequently + met in France, with pollarded trees surrounding it and an image of Christ + in His agony. Pious peasants on their journey to market or as they worked + in the fields, had been accustomed to raise their eyes to it and cross + themselves. It had comforted them with the knowledge of protection. The + road leading back from it and up the hill was gleaming white—a + direct enfilade for the Hun, and always under observation. He kept guns + trained on it; at odd intervals, any hour during the day or night, he + would sweep it with shell-fire. The woods in the vicinity were blasted and + blackened. It was the season for leaves and flowers, but there was no + greenness. Whatever of vegetation had not been uprooted and buried, had + been poisoned by gas. The atmosphere was vile with the odour of decaying + flesh. In the early morning, if you passed by the Calvary, there was + always some fresh tragedy. The newly dead lay sprawled out against its + steps, as though they had dragged themselves there in their last moments. + If you looked along the road, all the glazed eyes seemed to stare towards + it. “Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy Kingdom,” they seemed to + say. The wooden Christ gazed down on them from His cross, with a suffering + which two thousand years ago he had shared. The terrible pity of His + silence seemed to be telling them that they had become one with Him in + their final sacrifice. They hadn't lived His life—far from it; + unknowingly they had died His death. That's a part of the glory of the + trenches, that a man who has not been good, can crucify himself and hang + beside Christ in the end. One wonders in what pleasant places those weary + souls find rest. + </p> + <p> + There was a second Calvary—a heap of ruins. Nothing of the altar or + trees, by which it had been surrounded, was left. The first time I passed + it, I saw a foot protruding. The man might be wounded; I climbed up to + examine and pulled aside the debris. Beneath it I found, like that of one + three weeks dead, the naked body of the Christ. The exploding shell had + wrenched it from its cross. Aslant the face, with gratuitous blasphemy, + the crown of thorns was tilted. + </p> + <p> + These two Calvaries picture for me the part that Christ is playing in the + present war. He survives in the noble self-effacement of the men. He is + re-crucified in the defilements that are wrought upon their bodies. + </p> + <p> + God as we see Him! And do we see Him? I think so, but not always + consciously. He moves among us in the forms of our brother men. We see him + most evidently when danger is most threatening and courage is at its + highest. We don't often recognise Him out loud. Our chaps don't assert + that they're His fellow-campaigners. They're too humble-minded and + inarticulate for that. They're where they are because they want to do + their “bit”—their duty. A carefully disguised instinct of honour + brought them there. “Doing their bit” in Bible language means, laying down + their lives for their friends. After all they're not so far from Nazareth. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Doing their bit</i>!” That covers everything. Here's an example of how + God walks among us. In one of our attacks on the Somme, all the observers + up forward were uncertain as to what had happened. We didn't know whether + our infantry had captured their objective, failed, or gone beyond it. The + battlefield, as far as eye could reach, was a bath of mud. It is extremely + easy in the excitement of an offensive, when all landmarks are blotted + out, for our storming parties to lose their direction. If this happens, a + number of dangers may result. A battalion may find itself “up in the air,” + which means that it has failed to connect with the battalions on its right + and left; its flanks are then exposed to the enemy. It may advance too + far, and start digging itself in at a point where it was previously + arranged that our artillery should place their protective wall of fire. + We, being up forward as artillery observers, are the eyes of the army. It + is our business to watch for such contingencies, to keep in touch with the + situation as it progresses and to send our information back as quickly as + possible. We were peering through our glasses from our point of vantage + when, far away in the thickest of the battle-smoke, we saw a white flag + wagging, sending back messages. The flag-wagging was repeated desperately; + it was evident that no one had replied, and probable that no one had + picked up the messages. A signaller who was with us, read the language for + us. A company of infantry had advanced too far; they were most of them + wounded, very many of them dead, and they were in danger of being + surrounded. They asked for our artillery to place a curtain of fire in + front of them, and for reinforcements to be sent up. + </p> + <p> + We at once 'phoned the orders through to our artillery and notified the + infantry headquarters of the division that was holding that front. But it + was necessary to let those chaps know that we were aware of their + predicament. They'd hang on if they knew that; otherwise——. + </p> + <p> + Without orders our signaller was getting his flags ready. If he hopped out + of the trench onto the parapet, he didn't stand a fifty-fifty chance. The + Hun was familiar with our observation station and strafed it with + persistent regularity. + </p> + <p> + The signaller turned to the senior officer present, “What will I send + them, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Tell them their messages have been received and that help is coming.” + </p> + <p> + Out the chap scrambled, a flag in either hand—he was nothing but a + boy. He ran crouching like a rabbit to a hump of mud where his figure + would show up against the sky. His flags commenced wagging, “Messages + received. Help coming.” They didn't see him at first. He had to repeat the + words. We watched him breathlessly. We knew what would happen; at last it + happened. A Hun observer had spotted him and flashed the target back to + his guns. All about him the mud commenced to leap and bubble. He went on + signalling the good word to those stranded men up front, “Messages + received. Help coming.” At last they'd seen him. They were signaling, “O. + K.” It was at that moment that a whizz-bang lifted him off his feet and + landed him all of a huddle. <i>His “bit!”</i> It was what he'd volunteered + to do, when he came from Canada. The signalled “O. K.” in the battlesmoke + was like a testimony to his character. + </p> + <p> + That's the kind of peep at God we get on the Western Front. It isn't a sad + peep, either. When men die for something worth while death loses all its + terror. It's petering out in bed from sickness or old age that's so + horrifying. Many a man, whose cowardice is at loggerheads with his sense + of duty, comes to the Front as a non-combatant; he compromises with his + conscience and takes a bomb-proof job in some service whose place is well + behind the lines. He doesn't stop there long, if he's a decent sort. + Having learnt more than ever he guessed before about the brutal things + that shell-fire can do to you, he transfers into a fighting unit. Why? + Because danger doesn't appal; it allures. It holds a challenge. It stings + one's pride. It urges one to seek out ascending scales of risk, just to + prove to himself that he isn't flabby. The safe job is the only job for + which there's no competition in fighting units. You have to persuade men + to be grooms, or cooks, or batmen. If you're seeking volunteers for a + chance at annihilation, you have to cast lots to avoid the offence of + rejecting. All of this is inexplicable to civilians. I've heard them call + the men at the Front “spiritual geniuses”—which sounds splendid, but + means nothing. + </p> + <p> + If civilian philosophers fail to explain us, we can explain them. In their + world they are the centre of their universe. They look inward, instead of + outward. The sun rises and sets to minister to their particular happiness. + If they should die, the stars would vanish. We understand; a few months + ago we, too, were like that. What makes us reckless of death is our + intense gratitude that we have altered. We want to prove to ourselves in + excess how utterly we are changed from what we were. In his secret heart + the egotist is a self-despiser. Can you imagine what a difference it works + in a man after years of self-contempt, at least for one brief moment to + approve of himself? Ever since we can remember, we were chained to the + prison-house of our bodies; we lived to feed our bodies, to clothe our + bodies, to preserve our bodies, to minister to their passions. Now we know + that our bodies are mere flimsy shells, in which our souls are paramount. + We can fling them aside any minute; they become ignoble the moment the + soul has departed. We have proof. Often at zero hour we have seen whole + populations of cities go over the top and vanish, leaving behind them + their bloody rags. We should go mad if we did not believe in immortality. + We know that the physical is not the essential part. How better can a man + shake off his flesh than at the hour when his spirit is most shining? The + exact day when he dies does not matter—to-morrow or fifty years + hence. The vital concern is not <i>when</i>, but <i>how</i>. The civilian + philosopher considers what we've lost. He forgets that it could never have + been ours for long. In many cases it was misused and scarcely worth having + while it lasted. Some of us were too weak to use it well. We might use it + better now. We turn from such thoughts and reckon up our gains. On the + debit side we place ourselves as we were. We probably caught a train every + morning—the same train, we went to a business where we sat at a + desk. Neither the business nor the desk ever altered. We received the same + strafing from the same employer; or, if we were the employer, we + administered the same strafing. We only did these things that we might eat + bread; our dreams were all selfish—of more clothes, more respect, + more food, bigger houses. The least part of the day we devoted to the + people and the things we really cared for. And the people we loved—we + weren't always nice to them. On the credit side we place ourselves as we + are—doing a man's job, doing it for some one else, and unafraid to + meet God. + </p> + <p> + Before the war the word “ideals” had grown out-of-date and priggish—we + had substituted for it the more robust word “ambitions.” Today ideals have + come back to their place in our vocabulary. We have forgotten that we ever + had ambitions, but at this moment men are drowning for ideals in the mud + of Flanders. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, it is true; it isn't natural to be brave. How, then, have + multitudes of men acquired this sudden knack of courage? They have been + educated by the greatness of the occasion; when big sacrifices have been + demanded, men have never been found lacking. And they have acquired it + through discipline and training. + </p> + <p> + When you have subjected yourself to discipline, you cease to think of + yourself; <i>you</i> are not <i>you</i>, but a part of a company of men. + If you don't do your duty, you throw the whole machine out. You soon learn + the hard lesson that every man's life and every man's service belong to + other people. Of this the organisation of an army is a vivid illustration. + Take the infantry, for instance. They can't fight by themselves; they're + dependent on the support of the artillery. The artillery, in their turn, + would be terribly crippled, were it not for the gallantry of the air + service. If the infantry collapse, the guns have to go back; if the + infantry advance, the guns have to be pulled forward. This close + interdependence of service on service, division on division, battalion on + battery, follows right down through the army till it reaches the + individual, so that each man feels that the day will be lost if he fails. + His imagination becomes intrigued by the immensity of the stakes for which + he plays. Any physical calamity which may happen to himself becomes + trifling when compared with the disgrace he would bring upon his regiment + if he were not courageous. + </p> + <p> + A few months ago I was handing over a battery-position in a fairly warm + place. The major, who came up to take over from me, brought with him a + subaltern and just enough men to run the guns. Within half-an-hour of + their arrival, a stray shell came over and caught the subaltern and five + of the gun-detachment. It was plain at once that the subaltern was dying—his + name must have been written on the shell, as we say in France. We got a + stretcher and made all haste to rush him out to a dressing-station. Just + as he was leaving, he asked to speak with his major. “I'm so sorry, sir; I + didn't mean to get wounded,” he whispered. The last word he sent back from + the dressing-station where he died, was, “Tell the major, I didn't mean to + do it.” That's discipline. He didn't think of himself; all he thought of + was that his major would be left short-handed. + </p> + <p> + Here's another story, illustrating how mercilessly discipline can restore + a man to his higher self. Last spring, the night before an attack, a man + was brought into a battalion headquarters dug-out, under arrest. The + adjutant and Colonel were busy attending to the last details of their + preparations. The adjutant looked up irritably, + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + The N. C. O. of the guard answered, “We found this man, sir, in a + communication trench. His company has been in the front-line two hours. He + was sitting down, with his equipment thrown away, and evidently had no + intention of going up.” + </p> + <p> + The adjutant glanced coldly at the prisoner. “What have you to say for + yourself?” + </p> + <p> + The man was ghastly white and shaking like an aspen. “Sir, I'm not the man + I was since I saw my best friend, Jimmie, with his head blown off and + lying in his hands. It's kind of got me. I can't face up to it.” + </p> + <p> + The adjutant was silent for a few seconds; then he said, “You know you + have a double choice. You can either be shot up there, doing your duty, or + behind the lines as a coward. It's for you to choose. I don't care.” + </p> + <p> + The interview was ended. He turned again to the Colonel. The man slowly + straightened himself, saluted like a soldier and marched out alone to the + Front. That's what discipline does for a man who's going back on himself. + </p> + <p> + One of the big influences that helps to keep a soldier's soul sanitary is + what is known in the British Army as “spit and polish.” Directly we pull + out for a rest, we start to work burnishing and washing. The chaps may + have shown the most brilliant courage and self-sacrificing endurance, it + counts for nothing if they're untidy. The first morning, no matter what + are the weather conditions, we hold an inspection; every man has to show + up with his chin shaved, hair cut, leather polished and buttons shining. + If he doesn't he gets hell. + </p> + <p> + There's a lot in it. You bring a man out from a tight corner where he's + been in hourly contact with death; he's apt to think, “What's the use of + taking pride in myself. I'm likely to be 'done in' any day. It'll be all + the same when I'm dead.” But if he doesn't keep clean in his body, he + won't keep clean in his mind. The man who has his buttons shining brightly + and his leather polished, is usually the man who is brightly polished + inside. Spit and polish teaches a man to come out of the trenches from + seeing his pals killed, and to carry on as though nothing abnormal had + happened. It educates him in an impersonal attitude towards calamity which + makes it bearable. It forces him not to regard anything too tragically. If + you can stand aside from yourself and poke fun at your own tragedy—and + tragedy always has its humorous aspect—that helps. The songs which + have been inspired by the trenches are examples of this tendency. + </p> + <p> + The last thing you find anybody singing “out there” is something + patriotic; the last thing you find anybody reading is Rupert Brooke's + poems. When men sing among the shell-holes they prefer a song which + belittles their own heroism. Please picture to yourself a company of + mud-stained scarecrows in steel-helmets, plodding their way under + intermittent shelling through a battered trench, whistling and humming the + following splendid sentiments from <i>The Plea of The Conscientious + Objector</i>:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“Send us the Army and the Navy. Send us the rank and file. + Send us the grand old Territorials—they'll face the danger with a smile. + Where are the boys of the Old Brigade who made old England free? + You may send my mother, my sister or my brother, + But for Gawd's sake don't send me.” + </pre> + <p> + They leave off whistling and humming to shout the last line. A shell falls + near them—then another, then another. They crouch for a minute + against the sticky walls to escape the flying spray of death. Then they + plod onward again through the mud whistling and humming, “But for Gawd's + sake don't send me.” They're probably a carrying party, taking up the + rations to their pals. It's quite likely they'll have a bad time to-night—there's + the smell of gas in the air. Good luck to them. They disappear round the + next traverse. + </p> + <p> + Our men sing many mad burlesques on their own splendour—parodies on + their daily fineness. Here's a last example—a take-off on <i>“A + Little Bit of Heaven</i>:” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Oh a little bit of shrapnel fell from out the sky one day + And it landed on a soldier in a field not far away; + But when they went to find him he was bust beyond repair, + So they pulled his legs and arms off and they left him lying there. + Then they buried him in Flanders just to make the new crops grow. + He'll make the best manure, they say, and sure they ought to know. + And they put a little cross up which bore his name so grand, + On the day he took his farewell for a better Promised Land.” + </pre> + <p> + One learns to laugh—one has to—just as he has to learn to + believe in immortality. The Front affords plenty of occasions for humour + if a man has only learnt to laugh at himself. I had been sent forward to + report at a battalion headquarters as liaison officer for an attack. The + headquarters were in a captured dug-out somewhere under a ruined house. + Just as I got there and was searching among the fallen walls for an + entrance, the Hun barrage came down. It was like the Yellowstone Park when + all the geysers are angry at the same time. Roofs, beams, chips of stone + commenced to fly in every direction. In the middle of the hubbub a small + dump of bombs was struck by a shell and started to explode behind me. The + blast of the explosion caught me up and hurled me down fifteen stairs of + the dug-out I had been trying to discover. I landed on all fours in a + place full of darkness; a door banged behind me. I don't know how long I + lay there. Something was squirming under me. A voice said plaintively, “I + don't know who you are, but I wish you'd get off. I'm the adjutant.” + </p> + <p> + It's a queer country, that place we call “out there.” You approach our + front-line, as it is to-day, across anywhere from five to twenty miles of + battlefields. Nothing in the way of habitation is left. Everything has + been beaten into pulp by hurricanes of shell-fire. First you come to a + metropolis of horse-lines, which makes you think that a mammoth circus has + arrived. Then you come to plank roads and little light railways, running + out like veins across the mud. Far away there's a ridge and a row of + charred trees, which stand out gloomily etched against the sky. The sky is + grey and damp and sickly; fleecy balls of smoke burst against it—shrapnel. + You wonder whether they've caught anybody. Overhead you hear the purr of + engines—a flight of aeroplanes breasting the clouds. Behind you + observation balloons hang stationary, like gigantic tethered sausages. + </p> + <p> + If you're riding, you dismount before you reach the ridge and send your + horse back; the Hun country is in sight on the other side. You creep up + cautiously, taking careful note of where the shells are falling. There's + nothing to be gained by walking into a barrage; you make up your mind to + wait. The rate of fire has slackened; you make a dash for it. From the + ridge there's a pathway which runs down through the blackened wood; two + men going alone are not likely to be spotted. Not likely, but—. + There's an old cement Hun gun-pit to the right; you take cover in it. + “Pretty wide awake,” you say to your companion, “to have picked us out as + quickly as that.” + </p> + <p> + From this sheltered hiding you have time to gaze about you. The roof of + the gun-pit is smashed in at one corner. Our heavies did that when the Hun + held the ridge. It was good shooting. A perfect warren of tunnels and + dug-outs leads off in every direction. They were built by the forced + labour of captive French civilians. We have found requests from them + scrawled in pencil on the boards: “I, Jean Ribeau, was alive and well on + May 12th, 1915. If this meets the eye of a friend, I beg that he will + inform my wife,” etc.; after which follows the wife's address. These + underground fortifications proved as much a snare as a protection to our + enemies. I smile to remember how after our infantry had advanced three + miles, they captured a Hun major busily shaving himself in his dug-out, + quite unaware that anything unusual was happening. He was very angry + because he had been calling in vain for his man to bring his hot water. + When he heard the footsteps of our infantry on the stairs, he thought it + was his servant and started strafing. He got the surprise of his venerable + life when he saw the khaki. + </p> + <p> + From the gun-pit the hill slants steeply to the plain. It was once finely + wooded. Now the trees lie thick as corpses where an attack has failed, + scythed down by bursting shells. From the foot of the hill the plain + spreads out, a sea of furrowed slime and craters. It's difficult to pick + out trenches. Nothing is moving. It's hard to believe that anything can + live down there. Suddenly, as though a gigantic egg-beater were at work, + the mud is thrashed and tormented. Smoke drifts across the area that is + being strafed; through the smoke the stakes and wire hurtle. If you hadn't + been in flurries of that sort yourself, you'd think that no one could + exist through it. It's ended now; once again the country lies dead and + breathless in a kind of horrible suspense. Suspense! Yes, that's the word. + </p> + <p> + Beyond the mud, in the far cool distance is a green untroubled country. + The Huns live there. That's the worst of doing all the attacking; we live + on the recent battlefields we have won, whereas the enemy retreats into + untouched cleanness. One can see church steeples peeping above woods, + chateaus gleaming, and stretches of shining river. It looks innocent and + kindly, but from the depth of its greenness invisible eyes peer out. Do + you make one unwary movement, and over comes a flock of shells. + </p> + <p> + At night from out this swamp of vileness a phantom city floats up; it is + composed of the white Very lights and multi-coloured flares which the Hun + employs to protect his front-line from our patrols. For brief spells No + Man's Land becomes brilliant as day. Many of his flares are prearranged + signals, meaning that his artillery is shooting short or calling for an + S.O.S. The combination of lights which mean these things are changed with + great frequency, lest we should guess. The on-looker, with a long night of + observing before him, becomes imaginative and weaves out for the dancing + lights a kind of Shell-Hole Nights' Entertainment. The phantom city over + there is London, New York, Paris, according to his fancy. He's going out + to dinner with his girl. All those flares are arc-lamps along boulevards; + that last white rocket that went flaming across the sky, was the faery + taxi which is to speed him on his happy errand. It isn't so, one has only + to remember. + </p> + <p> + We were in the Somme for several months. The mud was up to our knees + almost all the time. We were perishingly cold and very rarely dry. There + was no natural cover. When we went up forward to observe, we would stand + in water to our knees for twenty-four hours rather than go into the + dug-outs; they were so full of vermin and battened flies. Wounded and + strayed men often drowned on their journey back from the front-line. Many + of the dead never got buried; lives couldn't be risked in carrying them + out. We were so weary that the sight of those who rested for ever, only + stirred in us a quiet envy. Our emotions were too exhausted for hatred—they + usually are, unless some new Hunnishness has roused them. When we're + having a bad time, we glance across No Man's Land and say, “Poor old + Fritzie, he's getting the worst of it.” That thought helps. + </p> + <p> + An attack is a relaxation from the interminable monotony. It means that we + shall exchange the old mud, in which we have been living, for new mud + which may be better. Months of work and preparation have led up to it; + then one morning at dawn, in an intense silence we wait with our eyes + glued on our watches for the exact second which is zero hour. All of a + sudden our guns open up, joyously as a peal of bells. It's like Judgment + Day. A wild excitement quickens the heart. Every privation was worth this + moment. You wonder where you'll be by night-fall—over there, in the + Hun support trenches, or in a green world which you used to sing about on + Sundays. You don't much care, so long as you've completed your job. “We're + well away,” you laugh to the chap next you. The show has commenced. + </p> + <p> + When you have given people every reason you can think of which explains + the spirit of our men, they still shake their heads in a bewildered + manner, murmuring, “I don't know how you stand it.” I'm going to make one + last attempt at explanation. + </p> + <p> + We stick it out by believing that we're in the right—to believe + you're in the right makes a lot of difference. You glance across No Man's + Land and say, “Those blighters are wrong; I'm right.” If you believe that + with all the strength of your soul and mind, you can stand anything. To + allow yourself to be beaten would be to own that you weren't. + </p> + <p> + To still hold that you're right in the face of armed assertions from the + Hun that you're wrong, requires pride in your regiment, your division, + your corps and, most of all, in your own integrity. No one who has not + worn a uniform can understand what pride in a regiment can do for a man. + For instance, in France every man wears his divisional patch, which marks + him. He's jolly proud of his division and wouldn't consciously do anything + to let it down. If he hears anything said to its credit, he treasures the + saying up; it's as if he himself had been mentioned in despatches. It was + rumoured this year that the night before an attack, a certain Imperial + General called his battalion commanders together. When they were + assembled, he said, “Gentlemen, I have called you together to tell you + that tomorrow morning you will be confronted by one of the most difficult + tasks that has ever been allotted to you; you will have to measure up to + the traditions of the division on our left—the First Canadian + Division, which is in my opinion the finest fighting division in France.” + I don't know whether the story is true or not. If the Imperial General + didn't say it, he ought to have. But because I belong to the First + Canadian Division, I believe the report true and set store by it. Every + new man who joins our division hears that story. He feels that he, too, + has got to be worthy of it. When he's tempted to get the “wind-up,” he + glances down at the patch on his arm. It means as much to him as a V. C.; + so he steadies his nerves, squares his jaws and plays the man. + </p> + <p> + There's believing you're right. There's your sense of pride, and then + there's something else, without which neither of the other two would help + you. It seems a mad thing to say with reference to fighting men, but that + other thing which enables you to meet sacrifice gladly is love. There's a + song we sing in England, a great favourite which, when it has recounted + all the things we need to make us good and happy, tops the list with these + final requisites, “A little patience and a lot of love.” We need the + patience—that goes without saying; but it's the love that helps us + to die gladly—love for our cause, our pals, our family, our country. + Under the disguise of duty one has to do an awful lot of loving at the + Front. One of the finest examples of the thing I'm driving at, happened + comparatively recently. + </p> + <p> + In a recent attack the Hun set to work to knock out our artillery. He + commenced with a heavy shelling of our batteries—this lasted for + some hours. He followed it up by clapping down on them a gas-barrage. The + gunners' only chance of protecting themselves from the deadly fumes was to + wear their gas-helmets. All of a sudden, just as the gassing of our + batteries was at its worst, all along our front-line S.O.S. rockets + commenced to go up. Our infantry, if they weren't actually being attacked, + were expecting a heavy Hun counter-attack, and were calling on us by the + quickest means possible to help them. + </p> + <p> + Of a gun-detachment there are two men who cannot do their work accurately + in gas-helmets—one of these is the layer and the other is the + fuse-setter. If the infantry were to be saved, two men out of the + detachment of each protecting gun must sacrifice themselves. Instantly, + without waiting for orders, the fuse-setters and layers flung aside their + helmets. Our guns opened up. The unmasked men lasted about twenty minutes; + when they had been dragged out of the gun-pits choking or in convulsions, + two more took their places without a second's hesitation. This went on for + upwards of two hours. The reason given by the gunners for their splendid, + calculated devotion to duty was that they weren't going to let their pals + in the trenches down. You may call their heroism devotion to duty or + anything you like; the motive that inspired it was love. + </p> + <p> + When men, having done their “bit” get safely home from the Front and have + the chance to live among the old affections and enjoyments, the memory of + the splendid sharing of the trenches calls them back. That memory blots + out all the tragedy and squalor; they think of their willing comrades in + sacrifice and cannot rest. + </p> + <p> + I was with a young officer who was probably the most wounded man who ever + came out of France alive. He had lain for months in hospital between + sandbags, never allowed to move, he was so fragile. He had had great + shell-wounds in his legs and stomach; the artery behind his left ear had + been all but severed. When he was at last well enough to be discharged, + the doctors had warned him never to play golf or polo, or to take any + violent form of exercise lest he should do himself a damage. He had + returned to Canada for a rest and was back in London, trying to get sent + over again to the Front. + </p> + <p> + We had just come out from the Alhambra. Whistles were being blown shrilly + for taxis. London theatre-crowds were slipping cosily through the muffled + darkness—a man and girl, always a man and a girl. They walked very + closely; usually the girl was laughing. Suddenly the contrast flashed + across my mind between this bubbling joy of living and the poignant + silence of huddled forms beneath the same starlight, not a hundred miles + away in No Man's Land. He must have been seeing the same vision and making + the same contrast. He pulled on my arm. “I've got to go back.” + </p> + <p> + “But you've done your 'bit,'” I expostulated. “If you do go back and don't + get hit, you may burst a blood vessel or something, if what the doctors + told you is true.” + </p> + <p> + He halted me beneath an arc-light. I could see the earnestness in his + face. “I feel about it this way,” he said, “If I'm out there, I'm just one + more. A lot of chaps out there are jolly tired; if I was there, I'd be + able to give some chap a rest.” + </p> + <p> + That was love; for a man, if he told the truth, would say, “I hate the + Front.” Yet most of us, if you ask us, “Do you want to go back?” would + answer, “Yes, as fast as I can.” Why? Partly because it's difficult to go + back, and in difficulty lies a challenge; but mostly because we love the + chaps. Not any particular chap, but all the fellows out there who are + laughing and enduring. + </p> + <p> + Last time I met the most wounded man who ever came out of France alive, it + was my turn to be in hospital. He came to visit me there, and told me that + he'd been all through the Vimy racket and was again going back. + </p> + <p> + “But how did you manage to get into the game again?” I asked. “I thought + the doctors wouldn't pass you.” + </p> + <p> + He laughed slily. “I didn't ask the doctors. If you know the right people, + these things can always be worked.” + </p> + <p> + More than half of the bravery at the Front is due to our love of the folks + we have left behind. We're proud of them; we want to give them reason to + be proud of us. We want them to share our spirit, and we don't want to let + them down. The finest reward I've had since I became a soldier was when my + father, who'd come over from America to spend my ten days' leave with me + in London, saw me off on my journey back to France. I recalled his despair + when I had first enlisted, and compared it with what happened now. We were + at the pier-gates, where we had to part. I said to him, “If you knew that + I was going to die in the next month, would you rather I stayed or went?” + “Much rather you went,” he answered. Those words made me feel that I was + the son of a soldier, even if he did wear mufti. One would have to play + the game pretty low to let a father like that down. + </p> + <p> + When you come to consider it, a quitter is always a selfish man. It's + selfishness that makes a man a coward or a deserter. If he's in a + dangerous place and runs away, all he's doing is thinking of himself. + </p> + <p> + I've been supposed to be talking about God As We See Him. I don't know + whether I have. As a matter of fact if you had asked me, when I was out + there, whether there was any religion in the trenches, I should have + replied, “Certainly not.” Now that I've been out of the fighting for a + while, I see that there is religion there; a religion which will dominate + the world when the war is ended—the religion of heroism. It's a + religion in which men don't pray much. With me, before I went to the + Front, prayer was a habit. Out there I lost the habit; what one was doing + seemed sufficient. I got the feeling that I might be meeting God at any + moment, so I didn't need to be worrying Him all the time, hanging on to a + spiritual telephone and feeling slighted if He didn't answer me directly I + rang Him up. If God was really interested in me, He didn't need constant + reminding. When He had a world to manage, it seemed best not to interrupt + Him with frivolous petitions, but to put my prayers into my work. That's + how we all feel out there. + </p> + <p> + God as we see Him! I couldn't have told you how I saw Him before I went to + France. It's funny—you go away to the most damnable undertaking ever + invented, and you come back cleaner in spirit. The one thing that redeems + the horror is that it does make a man momentarily big enough to be in + sympathy with his Creator—he gets such glimpses of Him in his + fellows. + </p> + <p> + There was a time when I thought it was rather up to God to explain Himself + to the creatures He had fashioned—since then I've acquired the point + of view of a soldier. I've learnt discipline and my own total + unimportance. In the Army discipline gets possession of your soul; you + learn to suppress yourself, to obey implicitly, to think of others before + yourself. You learn to jump at an order, to forsake your own convenience + at any hour of the day or night, to go forward on the most lonely and + dangerous errands without complaining. You learn to feel that there is + only one thing that counts in life and only one thing you can make out of + it—the spirit you have developed in encountering its difficulties. + Your body is nothing; it can be smashed in a minute. How frail it is you + never realise until you have seen men smashed. So you learn to tolerate + the body, to despise Death and to place all your reliance on courage—which + when it is found at its best is the power to endure for the sake of + others. + </p> + <p> + When we think of God, we think of Him in just about the same way that a + Tommy in the front-line thinks of Sir Douglas Haig. Heaven is a kind of + General Headquarters. All that the Tommy in the front-line knows of an + offensive is that orders have reached him, through the appointed + authorities, that at zero hour he will climb out of his trench and go over + the top to meet a reasonable chance of wounds and death. He doesn't say, + “I don't know whether I will climb out. I never saw Sir Douglas Haig—there + mayn't be any such person. I want to have a chat with him first. If I + agree with him, after that I may go over the top—and, then again, I + may not. We'll see about it.” + </p> + <p> + Instead, he attributes to his Commander-in-Chief the same patriotism, love + of duty, and courage which he himself tries to practice. He believes that + if he and Sir Douglas Haig were to change places, Sir Douglas Haig would + be quite as willing to sacrifice himself. He obeys; he doesn't question. + </p> + <p> + That's the way every Tommy and officer comes to think of God—as a + Commander-in-Chief whom he has never seen, but whose orders he blindly + carries out. + </p> + <p> + The religion of the trenches is not a religion which analyses God with + impertinent speculation. It isn't a religion which takes up much of His + time. It's a religion which teaches men to carry on stoutly and to say, + “I've tried to do my bit as best I know how. I guess God knows it. If I + 'go west' to-day, He'll remember that I played the game. So I guess He'll + forget about my sins and take me to Himself.” + </p> + <p> + That is the simple religion of the trenches as I have learnt it—a + religion not without glory; to carry on as bravely as you know how, and to + trust God without worrying Him. + </p> + <h3> + THE END + </h3> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Glory of the Trenches, by Coningsby Dawson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GLORY OF THE TRENCHES *** + +***** This file should be named 7515-h.htm or 7515-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/7/5/1/7515/ + + +Text file produced by Tiffany Vergon, Brendan Lane, Edward Johnson, +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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