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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Mud and Khaki, by Vernon Bartlett
+
+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: Mud and Khaki
+       Sketches from Flanders and France
+
+Author: Vernon Bartlett
+
+Release Date: May 14, 2008 [EBook #25470]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MUD AND KHAKI ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Graeme Mackreth and The Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+MUD AND KHAKI
+
+
+
+
+MUD AND KHAKI
+
+SKETCHES FROM FLANDERS
+AND FRANCE
+
+BY
+
+VERNON BARTLETT
+
+
+SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON,
+KENT & CO. LTD., 4 STATIONERS'
+HALL COURT : : LONDON, E.C.
+
+
+_Copyright_
+_First published April 1917_
+
+
+TO
+
+R.V.K.C.
+
+AND MY OTHER FRIENDS
+
+IN THE REGIMENT
+
+
+
+
+APOLOGIA
+
+
+There has been so much written about the trenches, there are so many war
+photographs, so many cinema films, that one might well hesitate before
+even mentioning the war--to try to write a book about it is, I fear, to
+incur the censure of the many who are tired of hearing about bombs and
+bullets, and who prefer to read of peace, and games, and flirtations.
+
+But, for that very reason, I venture to think that even so indifferent a
+war book as mine will not come entirely amiss. When the Lean Years are
+over, when the rifle becomes rusty, and the khaki is pushed away in some
+remote cupboard, there is great danger that the hardships of the men in
+the trenches will too soon be forgotten. If, to a minute extent,
+anything in these pages should help to bring home to people what war
+really is, and to remind them of their debt of gratitude, then these
+little sketches will have justified their existence.
+
+Besides, I am not entirely responsible for this little book. Not long
+ago, I met a man--fit, single, and young--who began to grumble to me of
+the hardships of his "funkhole" in England, and, incidentally, to
+belittle the hardships of the man at the front. After I had told him
+exactly what I thought of him, I was still so indignant that I came home
+and began to write a book about the trenches. Hence _Mud and Khaki_. To
+him, then, the blame for this minor horror of war. I wash my hands of
+it.
+
+And I try to push the blame off on to him, for I realise that I have
+undertaken an impossible task--the most practised pen cannot convey a
+real notion of the life at the front, as the words to describe war do
+not exist. Even you who have lost your husbands and brothers, your
+fathers and sons, can have but the vaguest impression of the cruel,
+thirsty claws that claimed them as victims. First must you see the
+shattered cottages of France and Belgium, the way in which the women
+clung to their homes in burning Ypres, the long streams of refugees
+wheeling their poor little _lares et penates_, their meagre treasures,
+on trucks and handcarts; first must you listen to the cheery joke that
+the Angel of Death finds on the lips of the soldier, to the songs that
+encourage you in the dogged marches through the dark and the mud, to the
+talk during the long nights when the men collect round the brazier fire
+and think of their wives and kiddies at home, of murky streets in the
+East End, of quiet country inns where the farmers gather of an evening.
+
+No words, then, can give an exact picture of these things, but they may
+help to give colour to your impressions. Heaven forbid that, by telling
+the horrors of war, the writers of books should make pessimists of those
+at home! Heaven forbid that they should belittle the dangers and
+hardships, and so take away some of the glory due to "Tommy" for all he
+has suffered for the Motherland! There is a happy mean--the men at the
+front have found it; they know that death is near, but they can still
+laugh and sing.
+
+In these sketches and stories I have tried, with but little success, to
+keep that happy mean in view. If the pictures are very feeble in design
+when compared to the many other, and far better, works on the same
+subject, remember, reader, that the intention is good, and accept this
+apology for wasting your time.
+
+A few of these sketches and articles have already appeared elsewhere. My
+best thanks are due to the Editors of the _Daily Mail_ and the _Daily
+Mirror_ for their kind permission to include several sketches which
+appeared, in condensed forms, in their papers. I am also grateful to the
+Editor of Cassell's _Storyteller_ for his permission to reproduce "The
+Knut," which first saw print in that periodical.
+
+VERNON BARTLETT.
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+                                                     PAGE
+       APOLOGIA                               11
+
+    I. IN HOSPITAL                            19
+
+   II. A RECIPE FOR GENERALS                  31
+
+  III. MUD                                    37
+
+   IV. THE SURPRISE ATTACK                    43
+
+    V. "PONGO" SIMPSON ON BOMBS               51
+
+   VI. THE SCHOOLMASTER OF PONT SAVERNE       57
+
+  VII. THE ODD JOBS                           67
+
+ VIII. THE "KNUT"                             71
+
+   IX. SHOPPING                               79
+
+    X. THE LIAR                               87
+
+   XI. THE CITY OF TRAGEDY                    93
+
+  XII. "PONGO" SIMPSON ON GRUMBLER           105
+
+ XIII. THE CONVERT                           110
+
+  XIV. DAVID AND JONATHAN                    114
+
+   XV. THE RUM JAR                           122
+
+  XVI. THE TEA SHOP                          128
+
+ XVII. "HERE COMES THE GENERAL"              133
+
+XVIII. THE RASCAL IN WAR                     137
+
+  XIX. "PONGO" SIMPSON ON OFFICERS           141
+
+   XX. THE HAND OF SHADOW                    146
+
+  XXI. THE VETERAN                           152
+
+ XXII. THE SING-SONG                         156
+
+XXIII. THE "STRAFE" THAT FAILED              161
+
+ XXIV. THE NIGHTLY ROUND                     166
+
+  XXV. JOHN WILLIAMS, TRAMP AND SOLDIER      171
+
+ XXVI. THE CLEARING HOUSE                    178
+
+
+
+
+MUD AND KHAKI
+
+
+
+
+I
+
+IN HOSPITAL
+
+
+Close behind the trenches on the Ypres salient stands part of "Chapel
+Farm"--the rest of it has long been trampled down into the mud by the
+many hundreds of men who have passed by there. Enough of the ruin still
+stands for you to trace out the original plan of the place--a house and
+two barns running round three sides of the farmyard that is foetid and
+foul and horrible.
+
+It is an uninviting spot, for, close by, are the remains of a dead cow,
+superficially buried long ago by some working party that was in a hurry
+to get home; but the farm is notable for the fact that passing round the
+north side of the building you are out of view, and safe, and that
+passing round the south side you can be seen by the enemy, and are
+certain to be sniped.
+
+If you must be sniped, however, you might choose a worse place, for the
+bullets generally fly low there, and there is a cellar to which you can
+be carried--a filthy spot, abounding in rats, and damp straw, and
+stained rags, for the place once acted as a dressing-station. But still,
+it is under cover, and intact, with six little steps leading up into the
+farmyard.
+
+And one day, as I led a party of men down to the "dumping ground" to
+fetch ammunition, I was astonished to hear the familiar strains of
+"Gilbert the Filbert" coming from this desolate ruin. The singer had a
+fine voice, and he gave forth his chant as happily as though he were
+safe at home in England, with no cares or troubles in the world. With a
+sergeant, I set out to explore; as our boots clattered on the
+cobble-stones of the farmyard, there was a noise in the cellar, a head
+poked up in the entrance, and I was greeted with a cheery "Good morning,
+sir."
+
+We crawled down the steps into the hovel to learn the singer's story. He
+was a man from another regiment, who had come down from his support
+dug-out to "nose around after a spud or two." The German sniper had
+"bagged" him in the ankle and he had crawled into the cellar--still with
+his sandbag of "spuds"--to wait until someone came by. "I 'adn't got
+nothing to do but wait," he concluded, "and if I'd got to wait, I might
+jest as well play at bein' a bloomin' canary as 'owl like a kid what's
+'ad it put acrost 'im."
+
+We got a little water from the creaky old pump and took off his "first
+field dressing" that he had wound anyhow round his leg. To my
+surprise--for he was so cheerful that I thought he had only a scratch--I
+found that his ankle was badly smashed, and that part of his boot and
+sock had been driven right into the wound.
+
+"Yes, it did 'urt a bit when I tried to walk," he said, as I expressed
+surprise. "That's jest the best part of it. I don't care if it 'urts
+like 'ell, for it's sure to mean 'Blighty' and comfort for me."
+
+And that is just the spirit of the hospitals--the joy of comfort and
+rest overbalances the pain and the operation. To think that there are
+still people who imagine that hospitals are of necessity sad and
+depressing! Why, even the children's wards of the London Hospital are
+not that, for, as you look down the rows of beds, you see surprise and
+happiness on the poor little pinched faces--surprise that everything is
+clean and white, and that they are lying between proper sheets;
+happiness that they are treated kindly, and that there are no harsh
+words. As for a military hospital, while war lays waste the world, there
+is no place where there is more peace and contentment.
+
+Hospital, for example, is the happiest place to spend Christmas. About a
+week before the day there are mysterious whispers in the corners, and
+furtive writing in a notebook, and the clinking of coppers. Then, next
+day, a cart comes to the door and deposits a load of ivy and holly and
+mistletoe. The men have all subscribed to buy decorations for their
+temporary home, and they set about their work like children--for where
+will you find children who are younger than the "Tommies"? Even the
+wards where there are only "cot cases" are decorated, and the men lie in
+bed and watch the invaders from other wards who come in and smother the
+place with evergreens. There is one ward where a man lies dying of
+cancer--here, too, they come, making clumsy attempts to walk on tip-toe,
+and smiling encouragement as they hang the mistletoe from the electric
+light over his bed.
+
+And at last the great day comes. There are presents for everyone, and a
+bran pie from which, one by one, they extract mysterious parcels wrapped
+up in brown paper. And the joy as they undo them! There are table games
+and packets of tobacco, writing pads and boxes of cigarettes, cheap
+fountain pens which will nearly turn the Matron's hair grey, and bags of
+chocolates. They collect in their wards and turn their presents over,
+their eyes damp with joy; they pack up their games or their chocolate to
+send home to their wives who are spending Christmas in lonely cottage
+kitchens; they write letters to imaginary people just for the joy of
+using their writing blocks; they admire each others' treasures, and,
+sometimes, make exchanges, for the man who does not smoke has drawn a
+pipe, and the man in the corner over there, who has lost both legs, has
+drawn a pair of felt slippers!
+
+Before they know where they are, the lunch is ready, and, children
+again, they eat far more than is good for them, until the nurses have to
+forbid them to have any more. "No, Jones," they say, "you can't have a
+third helping of pudding; you're supposed to be on a milk diet."
+
+Oh, the happiness of it all! All day they sing and eat and talk, until
+you forget that there is war and misery in the world; when the evening
+comes they go, flushed and happy, back to their beds to dream that great
+black Germans are sitting on them, eating Christmas puddings by the
+dozen, and growing heavier with each one.
+
+But upstairs in the little ward the mother sits with her son, and she
+tries with all her force to keep back the tears. They have had the door
+open all day to hear the laughter and fun, and on the table by the bed
+lie his presents and the choicest fruit and sweets. Until quite late at
+night she stays there, holding her son's hand, and telling of
+Christmases when he was a little boy. Then, when she gets up to go, the
+man in bed turns his head towards the poor little pile of presents.
+"You'd better take those, mother," he says. "They won't be much use to
+me. But it's the happiest Christmas I've ever had." And all the poor
+woman's courage leaves her, and she stoops forward under the mistletoe
+and kisses him, kisses him, with tears streaming down her face.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Most stirring of all are the clearing hospitals near the firing line.
+They are crowded, and all night long fresh wounded stumble in, the mud
+caked on their uniforms, and their bandages soiled by dark stains. In
+one corner a man groans unceasingly: "Oh, my head ... God! Oh, my poor
+head!" and you hear the mutterings and laughter of the delirious.
+
+But if the pain here is at its height, the relief is keenest. For months
+they have lived in hell, these men, and now they have been brought out
+of it all. A man who has been rescued from suffocation in a coal mine
+does not grumble if he has the toothache; a man who has come from the
+trenches and death does not complain of the agony of his wound--he
+smiles because he is in comfortable surroundings for once.
+
+Besides, there is a great feeling of expectation and hope, for there is
+to be a convoy in the morning and they are all to be sent down to the
+base--all except the men who are too ill to be moved and the two men who
+have died in the night, whose beds are shut off by red screens. The "cot
+cases" are lifted carefully on to stretchers, their belongings are
+packed under their pillows, and they are carried down to the ambulances,
+while the walking cases wander about the wards, waiting for their turn
+to come. They look into their packs for the fiftieth time to make sure
+they have left nothing; they lean out of the windows to watch the
+ambulance roll away to the station; they stop every orderly who comes
+along to ask if they have not been forgotten, or if there will be room
+for them on the train; they make new acquaintances, or discover old
+ones. One man meets a long-lost friend with a huge white bandage round
+his neck. "Hullo, you poor devil," he says, "how did you get it in the
+neck like that? was it a bullet or a bit of a shell?" The other swears,
+and confesses that he has not been hit at all, but is suffering from
+boils.
+
+For, going down to the base are wounded and sick of every sort--men who
+have lost a limb, and men who have only the tiniest graze; men who are
+mad with pain, and men who are going down for a new set of false teeth;
+men with pneumonia, and men with scabies. It is only when the boat
+leaves for England that the cases can be sorted out. It is only then
+that there are signs of envy, and the men whose wounds are not bad
+enough to take them back to "Blighty" curse because the bullet did not
+go deeper, or the bit of shrapnel did not touch the bone.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+It is a wonderful moment for the "Tommies" when they reach their
+convalescent hospital in England. Less than a week ago many of them were
+stamping up and down in a slushy trench wondering "why the 'ell there's
+a bloomin' war on at all." Less than a week ago many of them never
+thought to see England again, and now they are being driven up to the
+old Elizabethan mansion that is to be their hospital.
+
+As the ambulance draws up outside the porch, the men can see, where the
+hostess used to welcome her guests of old, the matron waiting with the
+medical officer to welcome them in. One by one they are brought into the
+oak-panelled hall, and a nurse stoops over them to read their names,
+regiments, and complaints off the little labels that are fastened to
+their tunic buttons. As they await their turns, they snuff the air and
+sigh happily, they talk, and wink, and smile at the great carved
+ceiling, and forget all they have gone through in the joy of that
+splendid moment.
+
+Away in one of the wards a gramophone is playing "Mother Machree," and
+the little nurse, who hums the tune to herself as she leans over each
+man to see his label, sees a tear crawling through the grey stubble on
+one's cheek. He is old and Irish, and had not hoped to hear Irish tunes
+and to see fair women again. But he is ashamed of his emotion, and he
+tells a little lie. "Sure, an' it's rainin' outside, nurse," he says.
+
+And the nurse, who knows the difference between a raindrop and a
+tear--for was she not standing on the step five minutes ago, admiring
+the stars and the moon?--knows her part well, and plays it. "I thought I
+heard the rain dripping down on the porch just now," she says, "I hope
+you poor men did not get wet," and she goes on to her next patient.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+How they love those days in hospital! How the great rough men love to be
+treated like babies, to be petted and scolded, ordered about and
+praised! How grand it is to see the flowers, to feel one's strength
+returning, to go for drives and walks, to find a field that is not
+pitted by shell holes! And how cheerful they all are, these grown-up
+babies!
+
+The other day I opened the door of the hospital and discovered a
+"convoy" consisting of three legless and two armless men, trying to help
+each other up the six low steps, and shouting with laughter at their
+efforts. And one of them saw the pity on my face, for he grinned.
+
+"Don't you worry about us," he said. "I wouldn't care if I 'ad no arms
+nor eyes nor legs, so long as I was 'ome in Blighty again. Why"--and his
+voice dropped as he let me into the secret--"I've 'ad a li'l boy born
+since I went out to the front, an' I never even seed the li'l beggar
+yet. Gawd, we in 'orspital is the lucky ones, an' any bloke what ain't
+killed ought to be 'appy and bright like what we is."
+
+And it is the happiness of all these men that makes hospital a very
+beautiful place, for nowhere can you find more courage and cheerfulness
+than among these fellows with their crutches and their bandages.
+
+There was only one man--Bill Stevens--who seemed despondent and
+miserable, and we scarcely wondered--he was blind, and lay in bed day
+after day, with a bandage round his head, the only blind man in the
+hospital. He was silent and morbid, and would scarcely mutter a word of
+thanks when some man came right across the ward on his crutches to do
+him a trifling service, but he had begged to be allowed to stay in the
+big ward until the time came for him to go off to a special hostel for
+the men who have lost their sight. And the men who saw him groping about
+helplessly in broad daylight forgave him his surliness, and ceased to
+wonder at his despondency.
+
+But even Bill Stevens was to change, for there came a day when he
+received a letter.
+
+"What's the postmark?" he demanded.
+
+"Oxford," said the nurse. "Shall I read it to you?"
+
+But Bill Stevens clutched his letter tight and shook his head, and it
+was not until lunch-time that anything more was heard of it. Then he
+called the Sister to him, and she read the precious document almost in
+a whisper, so secret was it. Private Bill Stevens plucked nervously at
+the bedclothes as the Sister recited the little love sentences:--How was
+dear Bill? Why hadn't he told his Emily what was wrong with him? That
+she, Emily, would come to see him at four o'clock that afternoon, and
+how nice it would be.
+
+"Now you keep quiet and don't worry," said the Sister, "or you'll be too
+ill to see her. Why, I declare that you're quite feverish. What have you
+got to worry about?"
+
+"You see, it's like this 'ere," confided Bill Stevens. "I ain't dared to
+tell 'er as 'ow I was blind, and it ain't fair to ask 'er to marry a
+bloke what's 'elpless. She only thinks I've got it slightly, and she
+won't care for me any more now."
+
+"You needn't be frightened," said the Sister. "If she's worth anything
+at all, she'll love you all the more now." And she tucked him up and
+told him to go to sleep.
+
+Then, when Emily arrived, the Sister met her, and broke the news. "You
+love him, don't you?" she asked, and Emily blushed, and smiled assent
+through her tears.
+
+"Then," said the Sister, "do your best to cheer him up. Don't let him
+think you're distressed at his blindness," and she took the girl along
+to the ward where Bill Stevens lay waiting, restless and feverish.
+
+"Bill darling," said Emily. "It's me. How are you? Why have you got
+that bandage on?" But long before poor Bill could find words to break
+the news to her she stooped over him and whispered: "Bill dear, I could
+almost wish you were blind, so that you'd have to depend on me, like. If
+it wasn't for your own pain, I'd wish you was blind, I would really."
+
+For a long time Bill stuttered and fumbled for words, for his joy was
+too great. "I am blind, Em'ly," he murmured at last.
+
+And the whole ward looked the other way as Emily kissed away his fears.
+As for Bill Stevens, he sang and laughed and talked so much that evening
+that the Matron had to come down to stop him.
+
+For, as my legless friend remarked, "We in 'orspital is the lucky ones,
+an' any bloke what ain't killed ought to be 'appy and bright like we
+is."
+
+
+
+
+II
+
+A RECIPE FOR GENERALS
+
+
+Everyone is always anxious to get on the right side of his General; I
+have chanced upon a recipe which I believe to be infallible for anyone
+who wears spurs, and who can, somehow or other, get himself in the
+presence of that venerated gentleman.
+
+I sat one day in a trench outside my dug-out, eating a stew made of
+bully beef, ration biscuits, and foul water. Inside my dug-out, the
+smell of buried men was not conducive to a good appetite; outside, some
+horrible Hun was amusing himself by firing at the sandbag just above me,
+and sending showers of earth down my neck and into my food. It is an
+aggravating fact that the German always makes himself particularly
+objectionable about lunch-time, and that, whenever you go in the trench,
+his bullets seem to follow you--an unerring instinct brings them towards
+food. A larger piece of earth than usual in my stew routed the last
+vestige of my good-humour. Prudence warning me of the futility of
+losing my temper with a Hun seventy yards away, I called loudly for my
+servant.
+
+"Jones," I said, when he came up, "take away this stuff. It's as bad as
+a gas attack. I'm fed up with it. I'm fed up with Maconochie, I'm fed up
+with the so-called 'fresh' meat that sometimes makes its appearance. Try
+to get hold of something new; give me a jugged hare, or a pheasant, or
+something of that kind."
+
+"Yessir," said Jones, and he hurried off round the traverse to finish my
+stew himself.
+
+It never does to speak without first weighing one's words. This is an
+old maxim--I can remember something about it in one of my first
+copy-books; but, like most other maxims, it is never learnt in real
+life. My thoughtless allusion to "jugged hare" set my servant's brain
+working, for hares and rabbits have, before now, been caught behind the
+firing line. The primary difficulty, that of getting to the country
+haunted by these animals, was easily solved, for, though an officer
+ought not to allow a man to leave a trench without a very important
+reason, the thought of new potatoes at a ruined farm some way back, or
+cherries in the orchard, generally seems a sufficiently important reason
+to send one's servant back on an errand of pillage. Thus it was that,
+unknown to me, my servant spent part of the next three days big-game
+hunting behind the firing line.
+
+My first intimation of trouble came to me the day after we had gone back
+to billets for a rest, when an orderly brought me a message from Brigade
+Headquarters. It ran as follows:--
+
+   "Lieut. Newcombe is to report at Brigade Headquarters this afternoon
+   at 2 p.m. to furnish facts with reference to his servant, No. 6789,
+   Pte. Jones W., who, on the 7th inst., discharged a rifle behind the
+   firing line, to the great personal danger of the Brigadier, Pte.
+   Jones's Company being at the time in the trenches.
+
+     "(_Signed_) G. MACKINNON,
+     "_Brigade Major_."
+
+"Jones," I cried, "come and explain this to me," and I read him the
+incriminating document.
+
+My servant's English always suffers when he is nervous.
+
+"Well, sir," he began, "it 'appened like this 'ere. After what you said
+the other day abaht bully beef, I went orf ter try ter git a rebbit or
+an 'are. I seen sev'ral, sir, but I never 'it one nor wired one. Then,
+on Friday, jest as I was shootin' at an 'ole 'are what I see, up kime an
+orficer, one o' thim Staff gints. 'Who are you?' 'e asks. I told 'im as
+I was a servant, and was jest tryin' ter git an 'are fer my
+bloke--beggin' yer pardon, sir, I mean my orficer. Then, after a lot
+more talk, 'e says, 'Do yer know that yer gone and nearly 'it the
+Gen'ril?' That's all as I knows abaht it, sir. I never wanted ter 'it no
+Gen'ril."
+
+"All this, and not even a rabbit!" I sighed. "It's a serious business,
+and you ought to have known better than to go letting off ammunition
+behind the firing line. However, I'll see what can be done," and my
+servant went away, rather crestfallen, to drown his sorrows in a glass
+of very mild, very unpleasant Belgian beer.
+
+An hour or two later, I strolled across to a neighbouring billet to see
+a friend, and to tell him of my coming interview.
+
+"You'll get hell," was his only comfort. Then, as an afterthought, he
+said, "You'd better wear my spurs; they'll help to impress him. A clink
+of spurs will make even your salute seem smart."
+
+Thus it was that I, who am no horseman, rode over to Brigade
+Headquarters, a mile away, with my toes turned in, and a pair of bright
+and shining spurs turned away as far as possible from my horse's flanks.
+
+Unhappy and ill at ease, I was shown into the General's room.
+
+"Mr. Newcombe," he began, after a preliminary glance at a paper in front
+of him, "this is a very serious matter. It is a serious offence on the
+part of Private Jones, who, I understand, is your servant."
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"It is also an example of gross carelessness on your part."
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"I was returning from the trenches on your right on Friday last, when a
+bullet flew past my head, coming from the direction opposed to the
+Germans. I have a strong objection to being shot at by my own men, right
+behind the fire trenches, so I sent Captain Neville to find out who had
+fired, and he found your servant."
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"Well, can you give any explanation of this extraordinary event?"
+
+I explained to the best of my ability.
+
+"It is a very unusual case," said the General, when I had finished. "I
+do not wish to pursue the matter further, as you are obviously the real
+person to blame."
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"I am very dissatisfied about it, and you must please see that better
+discipline is kept. I do not like to proceed against officers under my
+command, so the matter drops here. You must reprimand your servant very
+severely, and, I repeat, I am very dissatisfied. You may go, Mr."--here
+another glance at the paper before him--"Newcombe. Good afternoon."
+
+I brought my heels together for a very smart salute ... and locked my
+spurs! For some seconds I stood swaying helplessly in front of him, then
+I toppled forward, and, supporting myself with both hands upon his
+table, I at length managed to separate my feet. When I ventured to look
+at him again to apologise, I saw that his frown had gone, and his mouth
+was twitching in a strong inclination to laugh.
+
+"You are not, I take it, Mr. Newcombe, quite accustomed to wearing
+spurs?" he said presently.
+
+I blushed horribly, and, in my confusion, blurted out my reason for
+putting them on. This time he laughed unrestrainedly. "Well, you have
+certainly impressed me with them." Then, just as I was preparing to go,
+he said, "Will you have a glass of whisky, Newcombe, before you go?
+Neville," he called to the Staff Captain in the next room, "you might
+ask Andrews to bring the whisky and some glasses."
+
+"Good afternoon," said the General, very affably, when, after a careful
+salute, I finally took my leave.
+
+Let anyone who will try this recipe for making friends with a General. I
+do not venture to guarantee its infallibility, however, for that depends
+entirely on the General himself, and, to such, rules and instruction do
+not apply.
+
+
+
+
+III
+
+"MUD!"
+
+
+Those at home in England, with their experience of war books and
+photographs, of Zeppelin raids and crowded hospitals, are beginning to
+imagine they know all there is to know about war. The truth is that they
+still have but little idea of the life in the trenches, and, as far as
+mud is concerned, they are delightfully ignorant. They do not know what
+mud is.
+
+They have read of Napoleon's "Fourth Element," they have listened to
+long descriptions of mud in Flanders and France, they have raised
+incredulous eyebrows at tales of men being drowned in the trenches, they
+have given a fleeting thought of pity for the soldiers "out there" as
+they have slushed home through the streets on rainy nights; but they
+have never realised what mud means, for no photograph can tell its slimy
+depth, and even the pen of a Zola or a Victor Hugo could give no
+adequate idea of it.
+
+And so, till the end of the war, the old story will be continued--while
+the soldier flounders and staggers about in that awful, sucking swamp,
+the pessimist at home will lean back in his arm-chair and wonder, as he
+watches the smoke from his cigar wind up towards the ceiling, why we do
+not advance at the rate of one mile an hour, why we are not in Berlin,
+and whether our army is any good at all. If such a man would know why we
+are not in German territory, let him walk, on a dark night, through the
+village duck-pond, and then sleep in his wet clothes in the middle of
+the farmyard. He would still be ignorant of mud and wet, but he would
+cease to wonder and grumble.
+
+It is the infantryman who suffers most, for he has to live, eat, sleep,
+and work in the mud. The plain of dragging slime that stretches from
+Switzerland to the sea is far worse to face than the fire of machine
+guns or the great black trench-mortar bombs that come twisting down
+through the air. It is more terrible than the frost and the rain--you
+cannot even stamp your feet to drive away the insidious chill that mud
+always brings. Nothing can keep it from your hands and face and clothes;
+there is no taking off your boots to dry in the trenches--you must lie
+down just as you are, and often you are lucky if you have two empty
+sandbags under you to save you from the cold embrace of the swamp.
+
+But if the mud stretch is desolate by day, it is shocking by night.
+Imagine a battalion going up to the trenches to relieve another
+regiment. The rain comes beating pitilessly down on the long trail of
+men who stumble along in the blackness over the _pavé_. They are all
+well loaded, for besides his pack, rifle, and equipment, each man
+carries a pick or a bag of rations or a bundle of firewood. At every
+moment comes down the line the cry to "keep to the right," and the whole
+column stumbles off the _pavé_ into the deep mud by the roadside to
+allow the passage of an ambulance or a transport waggon. There is no
+smoking, for they are too close to the enemy, and there is the thought
+of six days and six nights of watchfulness and wetness in the trenches.
+
+Presently the winding line strikes off the road across the mud. This is
+not mud such as we know it in England--it is incredibly slippery and
+impossibly tenacious, and each dragging footstep calls for a tremendous
+effort. The men straggle, or close up together so that they have hardly
+the room to move; they slip, and knock into each other, and curse; they
+are hindered by little ditches, and by telephone wires that run, now a
+few inches, now four or five feet from the ground. One man trips over an
+old haversack that is lying in his path--God alone knows how many
+haversacks and how many sets of equipment have been swallowed up by the
+mud on the plain of Flanders, part of the equipment of the wounded that
+has been thrown aside to lighten the burden--and when he scrambles to
+his feet again he is a mass of mud, his rifle barrel is choked with it,
+it is in his hair, down his neck, everywhere. He staggers on, thankful
+only that he did not fall into a shell hole, when matters would have
+been much worse.
+
+Just when the men are waiting in the open for the leading platoon to
+file down into the communication trench, a German star shell goes up,
+and a machine gun opens fire a little farther down the line. As the
+flare sinks down behind the British trench it lights up the white faces
+of the men, all crouching down in the swamp, while the bullets swish by,
+"like a lot of bloomin' swallers," above their heads.
+
+And now comes the odd quarter of a mile of communication trench. It is
+very narrow, for the enemy can enfilade it, and it is paved with
+brushwood and broken bricks, and a little drain, that is meant to keep
+the floor dry, runs along one side of it. In one place a man steps off
+the brushwood into the drain, and he falls headlong. The others behind
+have no time to stop themselves, and a grotesque pile of men heaps
+itself up in the narrow, black trench. One man laughing, the rest
+swearing, they pick themselves up again, and tramp on to the firing
+line.
+
+Here the mud is even worse than on the plain they have crossed. All the
+engineers and all the trench pumps in the world will not keep a trench
+decently dry when it rains for nine hours in ten and when the trench is
+the lowest bit of country for miles around. The men can do nothing but
+"carry on"--the parapet must be kept in repair whatever the weather; the
+sandbags must be filled however wet and sticky the earth. The mud may
+nearly drag a man's boot off at his every step--indeed, it often does;
+but the man must go on digging, shovelling, lining the trench with tins,
+logs, bricks, and planks in the hope that one day he may have put enough
+flooring into the trench to reach solid ground beneath the mud.
+
+All this, of course, is only the infantryman's idea of things. From a
+tactical point of view mud has a far greater importance--it is the most
+relentless enemy that an army can be called upon to face. Even without
+mud and without Germans it would be a very difficult task to feed and
+look after a million men on the move; with these two discomforts
+movement becomes almost impossible.
+
+It is only after you have seen a battery of field artillery on the move
+in winter that you can realise at all the enormous importance of good
+weather when an advance is to be made. You must watch the horses
+labouring and plunging in mud that reaches nearly to their girths; you
+must see the sweating, half-naked men striving, with outstanding veins,
+to force the wheels round; you must hear the sucking cry of the mud
+when it slackens its grip; and you must remember that this is only a
+battery of light guns that is being moved.
+
+It is mud, then, that is the great enemy. It is the mud, then, and not
+faulty organisation or German prowess that you must blame if we do not
+advance as fast as you would like. Even if we were not to advance
+another yard in another year, people in England should not be
+disheartened. "Out there" we are facing one of the worst of foes. If we
+do not advance, or if we advance too slowly, remember that it is mud
+that is the cause--not the German guns.
+
+
+
+
+IV
+
+THE SURPRISE ATTACK
+
+
+"Do you really feel quite fit for active service again?" asked the
+President of the Medical Board.
+
+It was not without reason that Roger Dymond hesitated before he gave his
+answer, for nerves are difficult things to deal with. It is surprising,
+but it is true, that you never find a man who is afraid the first time
+he goes under fire. There are thousands who are frightened
+beforehand--frightened that they will "funk it" when the time comes, but
+when they see men who have been out for months "ducking" as each shell
+passes overhead they begin to think what brave fellows they are, and
+they wonder what fear is. But after they have been in the trenches for
+weeks, when they realise what a shell can do, their nerve begins to go;
+they start when they hear a rifle fired, and they crouch down close to
+the ground at the whistle of a passing shell.
+
+Thus had it been with Roger Dymond. At the beginning of the war he had
+enjoyed himself--if anyone could enjoy that awful retreat and awful
+advance. He had been one of the first officers to receive the Military
+Cross, for brilliant work by the canal at Givenchy; he had laughed and
+joked as he lay all day in the open and listened to the bullets that
+went "pht" against the few clods of earth he had erected with his
+entrenching tool, and which went by the high-sounding name of "head
+cover."
+
+And then, one day a howitzer shell had landed in the dug-out where he
+was lunching with his three particular friends. When the men of his
+company cleared the sandbags away from him, he was a gibbering wreck,
+unwounded but paralysed, and splashed with the blood of three dead men.
+
+Now, after months of battle dreams and mad terror, of massage and
+electrical treatment, he was faced with the question--"Do you feel quite
+fit for active service again?"
+
+He was tired to death of staying at home with no apparent complaint, he
+was sick of light duty with his reserve battalion, he wanted to be out
+at the front again with the men and officers he knew ... and yet,
+supposing his nerve went again, supposing he lost his self-control....
+
+Finally, however, he looked up. "Yes, sir," he said, "I feel fit for
+anything now--quite fit."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Three months later the Medical Officer sat talking to the C.O. in the
+Headquarter dug-out.
+
+"As for old Dymond," he said, "he ought never to have been sent out here
+again. He's done his bit already, and they ought to have given him a
+'cushy' job at home, instead of one of those young staff blighters"--for
+the M.O. was no respecter of persons, and even a "brass hat" failed to
+awe him.
+
+"Can't you send him down the line?" said the C.O. "This is no place for
+a man with neurasthenia. God! did you see the way his hand shook when he
+was in here just now?"
+
+"And he's a total abstainer now, poor devil," sighed the Doctor with
+pity, for he was, himself, fond of his drop of whisky. "I'll send him
+down to the dressing station to-morrow with a note telling the R.A.M.C.
+people there that he wants a thorough change."
+
+"Good," said the C.O. "I'm very sorry he's got to go, for he's a jolly
+good officer. However, it can't be helped. Have another drink, Doc."
+
+It is bad policy to refuse the offer of a senior officer, and the M.O.
+was a man with a thirst, so he helped himself with liberality. Before
+he had raised the glass to his lips, the sudden roar of many bursting
+shells caused him to jump to his feet. "Hell!" he growled. "Another
+hate. More dirty work at the cross roads." And he hurried off to the
+little dug-out that served him as a dressing station, his beloved drink
+standing untouched on the table.
+
+Meanwhile, Roger Dymond crouched up against the parapet, and listened to
+the explosions all around him. "Oil cans" and "Minnewerfer" bombs came
+hurtling through the air, "Crumps" burst with great clouds of black
+smoke, bits of "Whizz-bangs" went buzzing past and buried themselves
+deep in the ground. Roger Dymond tried to light his cigarette, but his
+hand shook so that he could hardly hold the match, and he threw it away
+in fear that the men would see how he trembled.
+
+Thousands of people have tried to describe the noise of a shell, but no
+man can know what it is like unless he can put himself into a trench to
+hear the original thing. There is the metallic roar of waves breaking
+just before the rain, there is the whistle of wind through the trees,
+there is the rumble of a huge traction engine, and there is the sharp
+back-fire of a motor car. With each different sinister noise, Roger
+Dymond felt his hold over himself gradually going ... going....
+
+Next to him in the trench crouched Newman, a soldier who had been in
+his platoon in the old days when they tramped, sweating and half-dead,
+along the broiling roads towards Paris.
+
+"They'm a blasted lot too free with their iron crosses and other
+souvenirs," growled that excellent fellow. "I'd rather be fighting them
+'and to 'and like we did in that there churchyard near Le Cateau,
+wouldn't you, sir?"
+
+Dymond smiled sickly assent, and Newman, being an old soldier, knew what
+was the matter with his captain. He watched him as, bit by bit, his
+nerve gave way, but he dared not suggest that Dymond should "go sick,"
+and he did the only thing that could be done under the circumstances--he
+talked as he had never talked before.
+
+"Gawd!" he said after a long monologue that was meant to bring
+distraction from the noise of the inferno. "I wish as 'ow we was a bit
+closer to the devils so that they couldn't shell us. I'd like to get me
+'and round some blighter's ugly neck, too."
+
+A second later a trench-mortar bomb came hurtling down through the air,
+and fell on the parados near the two men. There was a pause, then an
+awful explosion, which hurled Dymond to the ground, and, as he fell,
+Newman's words seemed to run through his head: "I wish as 'ow we was a
+bit closer to the devils so that they couldn't shell us." He was aware
+of a moment's acute terror, then something in his brain seemed to snap
+and everything that followed was vague, for Captain Roger Dymond went
+mad.
+
+He remembered clambering out of the trench to get so close to the Huns
+that they could not shell him; he remembered running--everybody running,
+his own men running with him, and the Germans running from him; he had a
+vague recollection of making his way down a long bit of strange trench,
+brandishing an entrenching tool that he had picked up somewhere; then
+there was a great flash and an awful pain, and all was over--the
+shelling was over at last.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+It was not until Roger Dymond was in hospital in London that he worried
+about things again. One evening, however, the Sister brought in a paper,
+and pointed out his own name in a list of nine others who had won the
+V.C. He read the little paragraph underneath in the deepest
+astonishment.
+
+   "For conspicuous gallantry," it ran, "under very heavy shell fire on
+   August 26th, 1916. Seeing that his men were becoming demoralised by
+   the bombardment, Captain Dymond, on his own initiative, led a
+   surprise attack against the enemy trenches. He found the Germans
+   unprepared, and at the head of his men captured two lines of trenches
+   along a front of two hundred and fifty yards. Captain Dymond lost
+   both legs owing to shell fire, but his men were able to make good
+   almost all their ground and to hold it against all counter-attacks.
+
+   "This officer was awarded the Military Cross earlier in the war for
+   great bravery near La Bassée."
+
+He finished the amazing article, and wrote a letter, in a wavering hand
+that he could not recognise as his own, to the War Office to tell them
+of their mistake--that he was really running away from the enemy's
+shells--and received a reply visit from a general.
+
+"My dear fellow," he said, "the V.C. is never awarded to a man who has
+not deserved it. The only pity is that so many fellows deserve it and
+don't get it. You deserved it and got it. Stick to it, and think
+yourself damned lucky to be alive to wear it. There's nothing more to be
+said."
+
+And this is the story of Captain Roger Dymond, V.C., M.C. Of the few of
+us who were there at the time, there is not one who would grudge him the
+right to put those most coveted letters of all after his name, for we
+were all in the shelling ourselves, and we all saw him charge, and
+heard him shout and laugh as he made his way across to the enemy. The
+V.C., as the general said, is never given to a man who has not deserved
+it.
+
+
+
+
+V
+
+"PONGO" SIMPSON ON BOMBS
+
+
+"Pongo" Simpson was sitting before a brazier fire boiling some tea for
+his captain, when the warning click sounded from the German trenches.
+Instinctively he clapped the cover on the canteen and dived for shelter,
+while the great, black trench-mortar bomb came twisting and turning down
+through the air. It fell to ground with a dull thud, there was a
+second's silence, then an appalling explosion. The roof of the dug-out
+in which "Pongo" had found refuge sagged ominously, the supporting beam
+cracked, and the heavy layer of earth and bricks and branches subsided
+on the crouching man.
+
+It took five minutes to dig him out, and he was near to suffocation when
+they dragged him into the trench. For a moment he looked wonderingly
+about him, and then a smile came to his face. "That's what I likes about
+this 'ere life, there ain't no need to get bored. No need for pictcher
+shows or pubs, there's amusements for you for nothing." And as he got to
+his feet, a scowl replaced the smile. "I bet I knows the blighter what
+sent that there bomb," he growled. "I guess it's old Fritz what used to
+'ang out in that old shop in Walworth Road--'im what I palmed off a bad
+'arf-crown on. 'E always said as 'ow 'e'd get 'is own back."
+
+Five minutes later he had exchanged the battered wreck of his canteen
+for a new one belonging to Private Adams, who was asleep farther down
+the trench, and had set to boiling a fresh lot of tea for his captain.
+
+"Darned funny things, bombs and things like that," he began presently.
+"You can't trust them no'ow. Look at ole Sergeant Allen f'r example. 'E
+went 'ome on leave after a year out 'ere, and 'e took an ornary time
+fuse from a shell with 'im to put on 'is mantelpiece. And the very first
+night as 'e was 'ome, the blamed thing fell down when 'e wasn't lookin',
+and bit 'im in the leg, so that 'e 'ad to spend all 'is time in
+'orspital. They're always explodin' when they didn't ought to. Did I
+ever tell you about me brother Bert?"
+
+A chorus in the negative from the other men who stood round the brazier
+encouraged him to continue.
+
+"Well, Bert was always a bit silly like, and I thought as 'ow 'e'd do
+somethin' foolish when 'e got to the front. Sure 'nough, the very first
+bloomin' night 'e went into a trench, 'e was filin' along it when 'e
+slipped and sat right on a box of bombs. It's gorspel what I'm tellin'
+you--nine of the blighters went off, and 'e wasn't killed. 'E's 'ome in
+England now in some 'orspital, and 'e's as fit as a lord. The only thing
+wrong about 'im now is that 'e's always the first bloke what stands and
+gives 'is place to a lady when a tram's full--still a bit painful like."
+
+Joe Bates expectorated with much precision and care over the parapet in
+the direction of the Germans. "It ain't bombs wot I mind," he said,
+"it's them there mines. When I first kime aht ter fight the 'Uns, I was
+up at St. Eloi, an' they blew the 'ole lot of us up one night. Gawd, it
+ain't like nothin' on earth, an' the worst of it was I'd jest 'ad a box
+of fags sent out by some ole gal in 'Blighty,' an' when I got back to
+earth agen there weren't a bloomin' fag to be found. If thet ain't
+enough to mike a bloke swear, I dunno wot is. 'As any sport 'ere got a
+fag to gi' me? I ain't 'ad a smoke fer two days," he finished, "cept a
+li'l bit of a fag as the Keptin threw away."
+
+Private Parkes hesitated for a minute, and then, seeing Joe Bates's eyes
+fixed expectantly on him, he produced a broken "Woodbine" from
+somewhere inside his cap.
+
+"Yes," resumed "Pongo," while Joe Bates was lighting his cigarette,
+"this ain't what you'd call war. I wouldn't mind goin' for ole Fritz
+with an 'ammer, but, what with 'owitzers and 'crumps,' and 'Black
+Marias,' and 'pip-squeaks' and 'whizz-bangs,' the infantry bloke ain't
+got a chanst. 'Ere 'ave I been in a bloomin' trench for six months, and
+what 'ave I used my bay'nit for? To chop wood, and to wake ole Sandy
+when 'e snores. Down the line our blokes run over and give it to the
+Alleymans like 'ell, and up 'ere we sits jest like a lot of dolls while
+they send over those darned bombs. I'll give 'em what for. I'll put it
+acrost 'em." And he disappeared round the traverse with the canteen of
+tea for his officer.
+
+Ten minutes later he turned up again with a jam tin bomb in his hand. "I
+bet I can reach their bloomin' listening post with this," he said, and
+he deliberately lit a piece of paper at the brazier fire and put it to
+the odd inch of fuse that protruded from the bomb. The average jam tin
+bomb is fused to burn for three or four seconds before it explodes, so
+that, once the fuse is lit, you do not keep the bomb near you for long,
+but send it across with your best wishes to Fritz over the way. "Pongo"
+drew his arm back to throw his bomb, and had begun the forward swing,
+when his fingers seemed to slip, and the weapon dropped down into the
+trench.
+
+There was a terrific rush, and everyone disappeared helter-skelter round
+the traverse.
+
+Just as Corporal Bateman rounded the corner into safety he glanced back,
+to see "Pongo" sprawling on his bomb in the most approved style, to
+prevent the bits from spreading. There was a long pause, during which
+the men crouched close to the parapet waiting, waiting ... but nothing
+happened.
+
+At length someone poked his head round the traverse--to discover "Pongo"
+sitting on the sandbag recently vacated by Corporal Bateman, trying to
+balance the bomb on the point of a bayonet.
+
+"'Ullo!" said that individual. "I thought as 'ow you'd gone 'ome for the
+week-end. 'E wouldn't 'urt me, not this little bloke," and he fondled
+the jam tin.
+
+"Well," said Joe Bates when, one by one, the men had crept back to the
+fire, "if that ain't a bloomin' miracle! I ain't never seen nuffin' like
+it. Ain't you 'arf 'ad an escape, Pongo?"
+
+"Pongo" rose to his feet, and edged towards the traverse. "It ain't such
+an escape as what you blokes think, because, you see, the bomb ain't
+nothin' more nor an ornary jam tin with a bit of fuse what I stuck in
+it."
+
+And he disappeared down the trench as rapidly as had his comrades a few
+minutes before.
+
+
+
+
+VI
+
+THE SCHOOLMASTER OF PONT SAVERNE
+
+I
+
+
+"So, you see, Schoolmaster," said Oberleutnant von Scheldmann, "you
+French are a race of dogs. We are the real masters here, and, by Heaven,
+we have come to make you realise it. Your beloved defenders are running
+for their lives from the nation they ventured to defy a month ago. They
+are beaten, routed. What is it they say in your Latin books? 'Væ
+Victis.' Woe to the conquered!"
+
+Gaston Baudel, schoolmaster in the little village of Pont Saverne,
+looked out of the window along the white road to Châlons-sur-Marne, four
+miles away. Between the poplar trees he could catch glimpses of it, and
+the river wound by its side, a broad ribbon of polished silver. From the
+road there rose, here and there, clouds of dust, telling of some battery
+or column on the move. The square of the little village, where he had
+lived for close on forty years, was crowded with German troops; the
+river was dirtied by hundreds of Germans, washing off the dust and
+blood; the inns echoed to German laughter and German songs, and, even as
+he looked, someone hurled a tray of glasses out of the window of the
+Lion d'Or into the street. His blood boiled with hate of the invading
+hosts that had so rudely aroused the sleepy, peaceful village, and he
+felt his self-control slipping, slipping....
+
+"Get me some food," said the German suddenly. "We have hardly had one
+decent meal since your dogs of soldiers began running. Bring food and
+wine at once, so that I may go on and help to wipe the French and
+British scum from off the earth."
+
+The insult was too much for Gaston Baudel. "May I be cursed," he
+shouted, "if I lift hand or foot to feed you and your like. I hate you
+all, for did you not kill my own father, when your soldiers overran
+France forty-four years ago! Go and find food elsewhere."
+
+Von Scheldmann laughed to himself, amused at the Frenchman's rage. He
+leant out of the window, and called to his servant and another man, who
+were seated on the doorstep outside.
+
+"Tie this fighting cock up with something," he ordered, "and go to see
+if there is anyone else in the house."
+
+An unarmed schoolmaster is no even match for two armed and burly
+Germans. Gaston Baudel kicked and struggled as he had never done
+before, but he was old and weak, his eyes were watery through much
+reading, and his arm had none of the strength of youth left in it. In a
+few seconds he lay gasping on the floor, while a German, kneeling on
+him, tied his hands behind his back with strips of his own bedsheets.
+
+"Now, you pig," said von Scheldmann when the soldiers had gone off to
+search the house, "remember that you are the conquered dog of a
+conquered race, and that my sword thirsts for French blood," and he
+added meaning to his words by drawing his weapon and pricking the
+schoolmaster's thin legs with it. "If I don't get food in a few minutes,
+I shall have to run this through your body."
+
+Gaston Baudel had heard too much of war to put any trust in what we call
+"civilisation," which is, at best, merely a cloak that hides the savage
+beneath. He knew that the command to kill and pillage was more than
+enough to bring forth all the latent passions which man has tried to
+conceal since the days when he first clothed himself in skins; that it
+was no idle threat on the part of the German officer. He lay, then, in
+silence, on the floor of his own schoolroom, until the two soldiers
+returned, dragging between them the terrified Rosine, his old
+housekeeper.
+
+"Are you the schoolmaster's servant?" asked von Scheldmann, in French.
+
+Rosine nodded, for no words would come to her.
+
+"Well, bring me the best food and wine in the house at once, or your
+master will suffer for it."
+
+Rosine glanced at Gaston Baudel, who nodded to her as well as his
+position would allow him to. With tears in her eyes, the old servant
+hurried off to her kitchen to prepare the meal.
+
+"Tie the schoolmaster down to that chair," ordered the German officer,
+"and place him opposite me, so that he may see how much his guest enjoys
+his lunch."
+
+Thus they sat, the host and the guest, face to face across the little
+deal table near the window. The sun shone down on the clean cloth and
+the blood-coloured wine, and on the schoolmaster's grey hair. In the
+shade cast by the apple tree outside, sat the German, now drinking, now
+glancing mockingly at his unwilling host. The meal was interrupted by an
+orderly, who came in with a note.
+
+Von Scheldmann read it, and swore. "In five minutes we parade," he said,
+"to follow on after your cowardly dogs of _poilus_. Here's a health to
+the new rulers of France! Here's to the German Empire!" and he leant
+across the table towards the schoolmaster. "Drink, you dog," he said,
+"drink to my toast," and he held his glass close to the other's lips.
+
+Gaston Baudel hesitated for a moment. Then he suddenly jerked his head
+forward, and, with his chin, knocked the glass out of the German's hand.
+As the wine splashed over the floor, von Scheldmann leaped to his feet.
+
+"Swine!" he shouted. "It is lucky for you that your wine was good and
+has left me in a kind mood, otherwise you would certainly die for that
+insult. As it is, you shall but lose your ears, and I shall benefit the
+world by cutting them off. If you move an inch I shall have to run my
+sword through your heart."
+
+He lifted his sword, and brought it down twice. Then he called to his
+servant and hastened out into the sunlit street, leaving Gaston Baudel
+tied to his chair, with the warm blood running down each side of his
+face.
+
+
+II
+
+Six days later, shortly before the middle of September, an unwonted
+noise in the street brought the old schoolmaster from his breakfast. He
+walked down the little flagged path of the garden to the gate, and
+looked up and down the road. By the green, in the square, a group of
+villagers were talking and gesticulating, and from the direction of
+Ecury came the deep rumble of traffic and the sound of heavy firing.
+
+The schoolmaster called to one of the peasants. "Hé, Jeanne," he cried.
+"What is the news?"
+
+"The Boches are coming back, M. Baudel," said Jeanne Legrand. "They are
+fleeing from our troops, and will be passing through here, many of them.
+Pray God they may be in too much of a hurry to stop!" And her face grew
+anxious and frightened.
+
+Old Gaston Baudel stepped out of his garden, and joined the group in the
+square. "Courage, mes amies," he said. "Even if they do stay awhile,
+even if our homes are shelled, what does it matter? France is winning,
+and driving the Germans back. That at any rate, is good news."
+
+"All the same," said fat Madame Roland, landlady of the Lion d'Or, "if
+they break any more of my glasses, I shall want to break my last bottle
+of wine over their dirty heads." And she went off to hide what remained
+of her liqueurs and champagne under the sacking in the cellar.
+
+"Let us all go back to our homes," counselled Gaston Baudel, "to hide
+anything of value. Even I, with this bandage round my head, can hear how
+swiftly they are retiring. There will, alas! be no school to-day. May
+our brave soldiers drive the devils from off our fair land of France."
+
+Even as he spoke, the first transport waggons came tearing down the
+road, and swung northward over the river. Away in the morning haze, the
+infantry could be seen--dark masses stumbling along the white
+road--till a convoy of motor lorries hid them from view.
+
+Gaston Baudel sat down in his stone-paved schoolroom to await the
+passing of the Germans, and to correct the tasks of his little pupils.
+He had given them a _devoir de style_ to write on the glory of France,
+and, as he read the childish, ill-spelt prophecies of his country's
+greatness, he laughed, for the Germans were in retreat, the worst of the
+anxiety was over, and Paris was saved. And, hour by hour, he listened to
+the rumble of cannon, the rattle of transport waggons and ambulances,
+and the heavy tramp of tired-out soldiers on the dusty road.
+
+Suddenly he heard the clank of boots coming up his little garden path,
+and a large figure loomed in the doorway. A German officer, covered with
+dirt, entered the room, and threw himself down in a chair.
+
+"You still here, earless dog?" he said, and the schoolmaster recognised
+his tormentor of a week ago. "Give me something to take with me, and at
+once. I have no time to stop, but I shall certainly kill you this time
+if you don't bring me food, and more of that red wine."
+
+Gaston Baudel glanced towards the drawer where he kept his
+revolver--though he would have never used it against any number of
+burglars--but a sudden idea came to him, and he checked his movement.
+With a few muttered words, he hastened off to the kitchen to get food
+for the German.
+
+"Rosine," he said, "cut a sandwich for that German dog, and then run
+into my room and fetch the black sealing wax from my desk."
+
+When she had gone off to obey him, Gaston Baudel opened a bottle of red
+wine and poured a little away. Then, fetching a small glass-stoppered
+bottle from his room, he emptied the contents--pure morphia--into the
+wine and recorked the bottle.
+
+"So much," he said to himself, "for the doctor and his drugs. He may
+have told me how much to dilute it to deaden the pain of my ears, but he
+gave me no instructions about dosing Germans. They have strong stomachs;
+let them have strong drink."
+
+But as he sealed the cork and mouth of the bottle, to allay any
+suspicions the German might have, a thought came to him. Was he not
+committing murder? Was he not taking away God's gift of life from a
+fellow creature? Unconsciously he touched the bandage that covered his
+mutilated ears. Surely, though, it could not be wrong to kill one of
+these hated oppressors? Should not an enemy of France be destroyed at
+any cost?
+
+As he hesitated, the impatient voice of von Scheldmann sounded from the
+schoolroom. "You swine!" he shouted, "are you bringing me food, or must
+I come and fetch it?"
+
+The schoolmaster seized a scrap of paper, and scribbled a few words on
+it. Then, slipping it between the cheese and bread of the sandwich, he
+made a little packet of the food, and hastened from the room. God, or
+Fate, must decide.
+
+He handed the food and wine to the German, and watched him as he tramped
+down the garden path, to join in the unending stream of grey-coated
+soldiers who straggled towards the north.
+
+
+III
+
+Oberleutnant von Scheldmann sat on a bank by the roadside, to lunch in
+haste. Behind him, parallel to him, in front of him, went the German
+army; and the thunder of the guns, down by the Marne, told of the
+rearguard fight. As they tramped past, the soldiers gazed enviously at
+the bread and cheese and wine, for the country was clear of food, and,
+even had it not been, the rapid advance and rapid retreat left but
+little time for plundering.
+
+Von Scheldmann knocked the top off the wine bottle with a blow from a
+stone, and, with care to avoid the sharp edges of the glass, he drank
+long and deep. As he bit greedily into the sandwich, his teeth met on
+something thin and tenuous, and he pulled the two bits of bread apart.
+Inside was a scrap of paper. With a curse, he was about to throw the
+paper away, when some pencilled words caught his eye.
+
+"I leave it to God," he read, "to decide whether you live or die. If you
+have not drunk any wine, do not, for it is poisoned. If you have, you
+are lost, and nothing can save you. The victorious French will find your
+corpse, and will rejoice. Væ victis! Woe to the conquered!"
+
+And even as he read the hurriedly written words, von Scheldmann felt the
+first awful sense of numbness that presaged the end.
+
+
+
+
+VII
+
+THE ODD JOBS
+
+
+We sat in a railway carriage and told each other, as civilians love to
+do, what was the quickest way to end the war. "You ought to be able to
+hold nearly 400 yards of trench with a company," my friend was saying.
+"You see, a company nowadays gives you 250 fighting men to man the
+trenches."
+
+And then the muddy figure in the corner, the only other occupant of the
+carriage, woke up. "You don't know what you're talking about," he
+snorted as he tossed his cap up on to the rack, and put his feet on the
+opposite seat.
+
+"You don't know what you're talking about," he repeated. "You're lucky
+if your company can produce more than 150 men to man the trenches; you
+forget altogether about the odd jobs. Take the company I'm in at the
+front, for instance. Do you imagine we've got 250 men to man the
+trenches? First of all there are always men being hit and going sick, or
+men who are sent off to guard lines of communication, and their places
+aren't filled up by fresh drafts for weeks. As for the odd jobs, there's
+no end to them. My own particular pal is a telephone orderly--he sits
+all day in a dug-out and wakes up at stated hours to telephone 'No
+change in the situation' to battalion headquarters. It's true that he
+does jolly good work when the Huns 'strafe' his wire and he has to go
+out and mend it, but he doesn't go forward in an attack; he sits in his
+dug-out and telephones like blazes for reinforcements while the Germans
+pepper his roof for him with 'whizz-bangs.'
+
+"Then there's old Joe White, the man like a walrus, who left us months
+ago to go and guard divisional headquarters; there are five officers'
+servants who are far too busy to man a trench; there is a post corporal,
+who goes down to meet the transport every night to fetch the company's
+letters, and who generally brings up a sack of bread by mistake or drops
+the parcels into shell holes that are full of water; there's a black,
+greasy fellow who calls himself a cook, and who looks after a big 'tank'
+called a 'cooker,' from which he extracts oily tea, and meat covered
+with tea-leaves. Besides all these fellows there are sixteen sanitary
+men who wander about with tins of chloride of lime and keep the trench
+clean--they don't man the trenches; then there are three battalion
+orderlies, who run about with messages from headquarters and who wake
+the captain up, as soon as he gets to sleep, to ask him to state in
+writing how much cheese was issued to his men yesterday or why Private X
+has not had his hair cut.
+
+"Do you imagine this finishes the list? Not a bit of it. There are half
+a dozen machine gunners who have nothing to do with company work; half a
+dozen men and a quartermaster-sergeant attached to the transport to look
+after the horses and to flirt with girls in farms; two mess waiters
+whose job it is to feed the officers; and there are four men who have
+the rottenest time of anyone--they're the miners who burrow and dig, dig
+and burrow day and night towards the German lines; poor half-naked
+fellows who wheel little trucks of earth to the pit shaft or who lie on
+their stomachs working away with picks. And it's always an awful race to
+see if they'll blow up the Germans, or if it will be the other way
+about.
+
+"There are still more odd jobs, and new ones turn up every day. Mind
+you, I'm not grumbling, for many of these fellows work harder than we
+do, and we must have someone to feed us and to keep the place clean. But
+the difficulty is nowadays to find a man who's got time to stand in the
+trench and wait for the Hun to attack, and that's what you people don't
+seem to realise."
+
+"And what do you do?" asked my friend as the other stopped to yawn.
+
+"What do I do? What do you think I've been talking for all this time?"
+said the man in khaki. "I'm the fellow who stands in the trench and
+waits for the Hun to attack. That's a jolly long job, and I've got some
+sleep owing to me for it, too."
+
+Whereupon he stretched himself out on the seat, pillowed his head on his
+pack, and proceeded to extract noisy payment of his debt.
+
+"That rather complicates matters, doesn't it?" said my friend, when the
+muddy figure had safely reached the land of dreams. "If you've only got
+150 fighting men in a company, your division has a strength of ..." and
+he proceeded to count away on his fingers as hard as he could. Presently
+he gave it up in despair, and a brilliant idea seemed to strike him.
+
+"Those generals and staff fellows," he said, "must have a lot of brains
+after all." And we have come to the conclusion that we will not
+criticise them any more, for they must know as well as we do, if not
+still better, how to win the war.
+
+
+
+
+VIII
+
+THE "KNUT"
+
+
+We were sitting round the fire in the club, discussing that individual
+colloquially known as the "knut."
+
+"The 'knut,'" said Green, "is now virtually extinct, he is killed by
+war. As soon as he gets anywhere near a trench, he drops his cloak of
+affectation, and becomes a reasonable human being--always excepting, of
+course, certain young subalterns on the staff."
+
+Rawlinson leant forward in his chair. "I'm not sure," he said, "that I
+agree with you. It all depends upon how you define a 'knut.'"
+
+"A 'knut' is a fellow with a drawl and an eyeglass," said someone.
+
+"That just fits my man. I know of an exception to your rule. I know of a
+'knut' who did not disappear at the front."
+
+"Tell us about him," suggested Jepson.
+
+Rawlinson hesitated, and glanced round at each of us in turn. "It's not
+much of a story," he said at length, "but it stirred me up a bit at the
+time--I don't mind telling it you if you think it sufficiently
+interesting."
+
+We filled up our glasses, and lay back in our chairs to listen to the
+following tale:
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"When I was at Trinity I kept rooms just above a fellow called Jimmy
+Wynter. He wasn't a pal of mine at all, as he had far too much money to
+chuck about--one of these rich young wastrels, he was. He could drop
+more than my annual allowance on one horse, and not seem to notice it at
+all. In the end he got sent down for some rotten affair, and I was
+rather glad to see the last of him, as the row from his rooms was
+appalling. He always had an eyeglass and wonderfully cut clothes, and
+his hair was brushed back till it was as shiny as a billiard ball. I put
+him down, as did everyone else, as an out-and-out rotter, and held him
+up as an example of our decadent aristocracy.
+
+"When I went out to the front, our Regular battalion was full up, and I
+was sent to a Welsh regiment instead. The first man I met there was none
+other than this fellow Wynter, still with his eyeglass and his drawl. In
+time, one got quite accustomed to him, and he was always fairly
+amusing--which, of course, is a great thing out there--so that in the
+end I began to like him in a sort of way.
+
+"All this seems rot, but it helps to give you an idea of my man, and it
+all leads up to my story, such as it is.
+
+"We came in for that Loos show last year. After months and months of
+stagnation in the trenches, we were suddenly called to Headquarters and
+told that we were to make an attack in about two hours' time.
+
+"I don't know if any of you fellows came in for a bayonet charge when
+you were out at the Front. Frankly, I felt in a hell of a funk, for it's
+not the same thing to leave your trench and charge as it is to rush an
+enemy after you've been lying in an open field for an hour or two. The
+first hour and a half went all right, what with fusing bombs, arranging
+signals, and all that sort of thing, but the last half-hour was the very
+devil.
+
+"Most of us felt a bit jumpy, and the double rum ration went in two
+shakes. We knew that we shouldn't worry when the whistles went for the
+charge, but the waiting was rather trying. Personally I drank more neat
+brandy than I have ever done before or since, and then sat down and
+tried to write one or two letters. But it wasn't a brilliant success,
+and I soon left my dug-out and strolled along to C Company.
+
+"The idea was for A and C Companies to attack first, followed by B and
+D companies. A battalion of the Westshires was in support to us.
+
+"C Company Officer's dug-out was not a mental haven of rest. With one
+exception, everyone was a bit nervy, everyone was trying not to show it,
+and everyone was failing dismally. The exception was Jimmy Wynter. He
+was sitting on a pile of sandbags in the corner, his eyeglass in his
+eye, looking at an old copy of _La Vie Parisienne_, with evident relish.
+His hand was as steady as a rock, and he hadn't had a drop of rum or
+brandy to give him Dutch courage. While everyone else was fighting with
+excitement, Jimmy Wynter was sitting there, studying the jokes of his
+paper, as calmly as though he were sitting here in this old club. It was
+only then that it occurred to me that there was something in the fellow
+after all.
+
+"At last the time drew near for our push, and we waited, crouching under
+the parapet, listening to our artillery plunking away like blazes. At
+last the whistles blew, a lot of fellows cheered, yelled all sorts of
+idiotic things, and A and C Companies were over the parapet on the way
+to the Huns.
+
+"I am no hand at a description of a charge, but it really was wonderful
+to watch those fellows; the sight of them sent every vestige of funk
+from me, and the men could hardly wait for their turn to come. Just
+before we went, I had one clear vision of Jimmy Wynter. He was well
+ahead of his platoon, for he was over six foot and long-legged at that.
+I could see his eyeglass swinging on the end of its black cord, and in
+his hand he carried a pickaxe. Such ordinary weapons as revolvers,
+rifles, and bayonets had no apparent attraction for him.
+
+"What happened next I had no time to see, for our turn came to hop over
+the parapet, and there wasn't much time to think of other people. Allan,
+his servant, told me later all that occurred, for he was next to Jimmy
+all the time. They got to the Hun trenches and lost a lot of men on the
+wire. Away to the left the enemy had concealed a crowd of machine guns
+in one of the slag heaps, and they played awful havoc among our chaps.
+According to Allan, Jimmy chose a place where the wire had almost all
+gone, took a huge leap over the few remaining strands, and was the first
+of C Company to get into the trench.
+
+"Somehow he didn't get touched--I'll bet Allan had something to do with
+that; for he loved his master. With his pick he cracked the skull of the
+first Boche who showed signs of fight, and, losing his hold of his
+weapon, he seized the man's rifle as he fell. No wonder the poor
+blighters fled, for Jimmy Wynter must have looked like Beelzebub as he
+charged down on them. His hat had gone, and his hair stuck out from his
+head like some modern Struwwelpeter. With the rifle swinging above his
+head, he did as much to clear the trench as did the rest of the platoon
+all put together.
+
+"When we arrived on the scene the few who remained of A and C Companies
+were well on their way to the second line of trenches. Here again Jimmy
+Wynter behaved like a demon with his rifle and bayonet, and in five
+minutes' time we were in complete possession of two lines of trenches
+along a front of two hundred yards. I do not even mention the number of
+Germans that Allan swore his master had disposed of, but the name of
+Wynter will long be a by-word in the regiment. The funny part of it is
+that, up to that time, he hadn't had a single scratch. However, Fate may
+overlook a man for a short time, but he is generally remembered in the
+end. So it was with poor old Jimmy.
+
+"He was leading a party down a communicating trench, bombing the Huns
+back yard by yard, when a hand grenade landed almost at his feet. He
+jumped forward, in the hope that he would have time to throw it away
+before it went off, but it was fused too well. Just as he picked it up,
+the damned thing exploded, and Jimmy Wynter crumpled up like a piece of
+paper.
+
+"I was coming along the trench a few minutes later, seeing that our
+position was being made as secure as possible before the counter-attack
+came, when I found him. He was lying in one of the few dug-outs that had
+not been hit, and Allan and another man were doing what they could for
+him.
+
+"You could see he was very nearly done for, but, after a few seconds, he
+opened his eyes and recognised me.
+
+"'Hullo, Rawlinson,' he whispered; 'some damned fool has hit me. Hurts
+like the very devil.'
+
+"I muttered some banal words of comfort, and continued to tie him
+up--though God knows it was a pretty hopeless task. I hadn't even any
+morphia I could give him to make things better.
+
+"Suddenly he raised his arm and fumbled about in search of something.
+
+"'What do you want?' I asked.
+
+"'Where the deuce is my eyeglass?' And the drawl seemed to catch
+horribly in his throat.
+
+"I put the rim of the eyeglass into his hand; the glass itself had gone.
+
+"'Must wear the damned thing,' he murmured, and he tried to raise it to
+his face--but his hand suddenly stopped half-way and fell, and he died."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+There was silence in the club room for a minute or so, and the ticking
+of the clock was oppressively loud. Then Jepson raised his glass.
+
+"Gentlemen," he said. "Here's to the 'Knut,'" and gravely we drank to
+the toast.
+
+
+
+
+IX
+
+SHOPPING
+
+
+As the Captain sat down to breakfast, he turned to speak to me: "I
+propose ..." he began, but Lawson interrupted him. "Oh, John dear," he
+said, "this is so sudden."
+
+The Captain took no notice of the interruption. "... that you and I go
+shopping this afternoon."
+
+"Jane," I called to an imaginary maid, "please tell Parkes to bring the
+car round at eleven o'clock; we are going shopping in Bond Street, and
+lunching at the Ritz."
+
+"You all seem to think you're deucedly funny this morning," growled the
+Captain as he pushed aside a piece of cold bacon with the end of his
+knife. "The pure air of the billets seems to have gone to your heads so
+that I think a parade would suit you this afternoon."
+
+We sobered down at the threat. "No, seriously," I said, "I'd love to go
+if I can get anything to ride."
+
+"You can have the Company's pack horse. I'll order both beasts for two
+o'clock."
+
+Now the Captain's horse stands far more hands than any really
+respectable horse should, and the Captain is well over six feet in his
+socks; I, on the other hand, am nearer five feet than six, and the pack
+pony is none too big for me. Again, the Captain is thin and I am fat, so
+that even the sentry could scarcely repress his smile as we set forth on
+our quest--a modern Don Quixote, and a Sancho Panza with a hole in the
+back of his tunic.
+
+But we had little time to think of our personal appearances, for our way
+lay over the Mont Noir, and there are few places from which you can get
+a more wonderful view, for you can follow the firing line right away
+towards the sea, and your field glasses will show you the smoke rising
+from the steamers off Dunkirk. We paused a moment, and gazed over the
+level miles where Poperinghe and Dixmude and the distant Furnes lay
+sleepy and peaceful, but, even as we looked, a "heavy" burst in Ypres,
+and a long column of smoke rose languidly from the centre of the town.
+
+"We shan't do much more shopping in that old spot," said the Captain as
+he turned his horse off the road, and set forth across country to
+Bailleul.
+
+The Captain has hunted with nearly every pack of hounds in England,
+while I have hunted with none, so that I was hot and thirsty and
+uncommonly sore when we clattered into the town. Leaving the Captain to
+see the horses stabled at the Hôtel du Faucon, I slipped off to get a
+drink.
+
+"Here," said the Captain when he tracked me down, "don't try that game
+on again or you'll have to take the early parade to-morrow. Besides,
+you're supposed to be Company Interpreter, and you've no right to leave
+me to the mercy of two savage grooms like that. I advise you to take
+care, young man."
+
+My qualifications for the post of Company Interpreter lie in the fact
+that I once, in company of various other youths of my age, spent a
+fortnight in and around the Casino at Trouville. Peters of our company
+knows a long list of nouns taking "x" instead of "s" in the plural, but
+my knowledge is considered more practical--more French.
+
+And now comes a confession. To retain a reputation requires a lot of
+care, and to keep my position as Company Interpreter and outdo my rival
+Peters I always carried about with me a small pocket dictionary--if
+anyone ever noticed it, he probably mistook it for a Service Bible--in
+which I searched for words when occasion offered. I had carefully
+committed to memory the French equivalents for all the articles on our
+shopping list--a pot of honey, a bottle of Benedictine, a pair of
+unmentionable garments for Lawson, and a toothbrush--so that I walked
+across the main square with a proud mien and an easy conscience.
+
+Pride, they tell us, comes before a fall. We had successfully fought our
+way through the crowds of officers and mess waiters who swarm in
+Bailleul, we had completed our purchases, we were refreshing ourselves
+in a diminutive tea shop, when the Captain suddenly slapped his thigh.
+
+"By Jove," he said, "I promised to buy a new saucepan for the Company
+cook. Good job I remembered."
+
+What on earth was the French for a saucepan? I had no opportunity of
+looking in my dictionary, for it would look too suspicious if I were to
+consult my Service Bible during tea.
+
+"I don't think we shall have time to look for an ironmonger's," I said.
+
+"You blithering ass," said the Captain, "there's one just across the
+road. Besides, we don't have dinner before eight as a rule."
+
+The fates were working against me. I made one more effort to save my
+reputation. "We should look so funny, sir, riding through Bailleul with
+a great saucepan. We might send the Company cook to buy one to-morrow."
+
+I remained in suspense for a few moments as the Captain chose another
+cake. He looked up suddenly. "We'll get it home all right," he said,
+"but I believe the fact of the matter is that you don't know what to ask
+for."
+
+"We'll go and get the beastly thing directly after tea," I said stiffly,
+for it is always offensive to have doubts cast on one's capabilities,
+the more so when those doubts are founded on fact. Besides, I knew the
+Captain would love to see me at a loss, as French has been his touchy
+point ever since the day when, having a sore throat, he set out to buy a
+cure for it himself. The chemist, mistaking his French and his gestures,
+had politely led him to the door and pointed out a clothier's across the
+way, expressing his regret the while that chemists in France do not sell
+collars.
+
+When we entered the ironmonger's shop I could see nothing in the shape
+of a saucepan that I could point out to the man, so I made a shot in the
+dark. "Je désire," I said, "une soucoupe."
+
+"Parfaitement, m'sieu," said the shopman, and he produced a host of
+saucers of every description--saucers in tin, saucers in china, saucers
+big and little.
+
+"What in the name of all that's wonderful are you getting those things
+for?" asked the Captain irritably. "We want a saucepan."
+
+I feigned surprise at my carelessness and turned to the shopman again.
+"Non, je désire quelque chose pour bouillir les oeufs."
+
+The poor man scratched his head for a minute, then an idea suddenly
+struck him. "Ah, une casserole?" he questioned.
+
+I nodded encouragingly, and, to my intense relief, he produced a huge
+saucepan from under the counter, so that we trotted out of Bailleul with
+our saddle bags full, and the saucepan dangling from a piece of string
+round the Captain's neck.
+
+Misfortunes never come singly. We were not more than a hundred yards
+from the town when the Captain handed the saucepan to me. "You might
+take it," he said, "while I shorten my stirrups."
+
+The pack horse becomes accustomed to an enormous variety of loads, but
+apparently the saucepan was something in the shape of a disagreeable
+novelty to him. He began to trot, and that utensil rattled noisily
+against the bottle of liqueur protruding from my saddle bag. The more
+the saucepan rattled the faster went the horse, and the more precarious
+became my seat. In a few seconds I was going across country at a furious
+gallop.
+
+If I let go my hold of the saucepan it rattled violently, and spurred
+the pack horse on to even greater pace; if I held on to the saucepan I
+could not pull up my horse and I stood but little chance of remaining
+on its back at all, for I am a horseman of but very little skill.
+
+Suddenly I saw a gate barring my way ahead. I let go the saucepan and
+something cracked in my saddle bag. I seized the reins and dragged at
+the horse's mouth. Then, just as I was wondering how one stuck on a
+horse's back when it tried to jump, someone rode up from the other side
+and opened the gate.
+
+But it was only when I was right in the gateway that I saw what lay
+ahead. Just before me was a major at the head of a squadron of cavalry.
+The next second I was amongst them.
+
+A fleeting glimpse of the Major's horse pawing the air with its
+forelegs, a scattering of a hundred and fifty men before me, and I had
+passed them all and was galloping up the steep slope of the hill.
+
+When at last the Captain came up with me, I was standing at the top of
+the Mont Noir, wiping Benedictine from my breeches and puttees. I made
+an attempt at jocularity. "I shall have to speak to Parkes about this
+engine," I said. "The controls don't work properly, and she accelerates
+much too quickly."
+
+But the Captain saw the ruin of the liqueur bottle lying by the
+roadside, and was not in the mood for amusement. So we rode in silence
+down the hill, while the flames of Ypres gleamed and flickered in the
+distance.
+
+Of a sudden, however, the Captain burst into a roar of laughter.
+
+"It was worth it," he panted as he rolled in his saddle, "to see the
+poor blighters scatter. Lord! but it was lovely to hear that Major
+curse."
+
+
+
+
+X
+
+THE LIAR
+
+
+For an hour and a half we had been crumped and whizz-banged and
+trench-mortared as never before, but it was not until the shelling
+slackened that one could really see the damage done. The sudden
+explosions of whizz-bangs, the increasing whine and fearful bursts of
+crumps, and, worst of all, the black trench-mortar bombs that came
+hurtling and twisting down from the skies, kept the nerves at a pitch
+which allowed of no clear vision of the smashed trench and the wounded
+men.
+
+However, as the intervals between the explosions grew longer and longer
+the men gradually pulled themselves together and began to look round.
+The havoc was appalling. Where the telephone dug-out had been was now a
+huge hole--a mortar bomb had landed there, and had blown the telephone
+orderly almost on to the German wire, fifty yards away; great gaps, on
+which the German machine guns played at intervals, were made all along
+our parapet; the casualties were being sorted out as well as
+possible--the dead to be carried into an old support trench, and there
+to await burial, the wounded to be hurried down to the overcrowded
+dressing station as quickly as the bearers could get the stretchers
+away; the unhurt--scarcely half the company--were, for the most part,
+still gazing up into the sky in the expectation of that twisting, all
+too familiar, black bomb that has such a terrific devastating power.
+Gradually quiet came again, and the men set about their interrupted
+business--their sleep to be snatched, their work to be finished before
+the long night with its monotonous watching and digging began.
+
+With the Sergeant-major I went down the trench to discuss repairs, for
+much must be done as soon as night fell. Then, leaving him to make out a
+complete list of the casualties, I returned to my dug-out to share the
+rations of rum with Bennett, the only subaltern who remained in the
+company.
+
+"Where's the rum?" I asked. "Being shelled makes one thirsty."
+
+He handed me a cup, at the bottom of which a very little rum was to be
+seen. "I divided it as well as I could," he said rather apologetically.
+
+"If you were thinking of yourself at the time, you certainly did," I
+answered as I prepared myself for battle, for nothing sets your nerves
+right again as quickly as a "scrap."
+
+We were interrupted, however, in the preliminaries by the
+Sergeant-major, who brought with him a handful of letters and pay books,
+the effects of the poor fellows who were now lying under waterproof
+sheets in the support trench.
+
+"Total killed forty-one, sir, and I'm afraid Sergeant Wall didn't get
+down to the dressing station in time. It's a bad day for us to-day. Oh,
+and by the way, sir, that fellow Spiller has just been found dead at the
+end of the communicating trench."
+
+"Which end, Sergeant-major?" I asked.
+
+"The further end, sir. He left the trench without leave. He told Jones,
+who was next to him, that he was not going to have any more damned
+shelling, and he appears to have made off immediately after."
+
+Bennett whistled. "Is that the blighter whom poor old Hayes had to
+threaten with his revolver the day before we were gassed?"
+
+The Sergeant-major nodded.
+
+"It's just the sort of thing he would do," said Bennett, whose hand was
+still unsteady from the strain of an hour ago, "to bunk when Brother
+Boche is giving us a little crumping to keep us amused."
+
+I turned to the Sergeant-major. "Let me have these fellows' effects," I
+said. "As to Spiller, I don't expect he could have really been bunking.
+At all events, let the other fellows think I sent him to Headquarters
+and he got hit on the way. I expect he was going down with a stretcher
+party." But, in my heart, I knew better. I knew Spiller for a coward.
+
+It is not for me to judge such a man. God knows it is no man's fault if
+he is made so that his nerves may fail him at a critical moment.
+Besides, many a man who is capable of heroism that would win him the
+Victoria Cross fails when called upon to stand more than a few weeks of
+trench warfare, for a few minutes of heroism are very different to
+months of unrelieved strain. However, Spiller and his like let a
+regiment down, and one is bound to despise them for that.
+
+Thoughts of our "scrap" had entirely left us, for Bennett and I had
+before us one of the most uncongenial tasks that an officer can have.
+The news has to be broken by someone when a wife is suddenly made a
+widow, and the task is generally taken on by the dead man's platoon
+commander, who sends back home his letters and papers. There were many
+men who had died that afternoon, and letters of condolence and bad news
+are always difficult to write, so that there was silence in our dug-out
+for the next two hours.
+
+The last pay book I examined had belonged to Private E. Spiller. His
+other belongings were scanty--a few coppers, a much-chewed pencil, and
+two letters. I looked at the latter for a clue as to whom I ought to
+write; one was in his own handwriting and unfinished, the other was from
+a girl with whom he had been "walking out," apparently his only friend
+in the world, as she alone was mentioned in the little will written at
+the end of his pay book. But her love was enough. Her letter was
+ill-spelt and badly written, but it expressed more love than is given to
+most men.
+
+"Take care of yourself, Erny dear, for my sake," she wrote. "I am so
+proud of you doing so well in them horrid trenches.... Dear Erny, you
+can't have no idear how pleased I am that you are so brave, but be quick
+and come back to me what loves you so...."
+
+So brave! I tried to laugh at the unconscious irony of it all, but my
+laugh would not come, for something in my throat held it back--perhaps I
+was a little overwrought by the recent shelling.
+
+I turned to the other letter, which I have thought fit to transcribe in
+full:
+
+   "DEAREST LIZ,
+
+   "I hope this finds you as it leaves me at present in the pink. Dear
+   Liz, i am doing very well and i will tell you a secret--i am going to
+   be rekermended for the V.C. becos i done so well in the trenches. i
+   don't feel a bit fritened wich is nice, and, dear Liz, i hope to be
+   made Lance Corpril soon as my officer is so ..."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+And here it ended, this letter from a liar. I balanced it on my knee and
+wondered what to do with it. Should I tear it up and write to the girl
+to tell her the truth--that her lover was a liar and a coward? Should I
+tear his letter up and just announce his death? For some minutes I
+hesitated, and then I put his half-finished letter in an envelope and
+added a note to tell her.
+
+"He died like a soldier," I finished. "His letter will tell you better
+than any words of mine how utterly without fear he was."
+
+And I wish no other lie were heavier on my conscience than is the lie I
+told to her.
+
+
+
+
+XI
+
+THE CITY OF TRAGEDY
+
+
+What does it matter that the Cloth Hall and the Cathedral are in ruins,
+that the homes and churches are but rubble in the streets? What do we
+care if great shells have torn gaping holes in the Grande Place, and if
+the station is a battered wreck where the rails are bent and twisted as
+bits of wire? We do not mourn for Ypres, for it is a thousand times
+grander in its downfall than it was ever in the days of its splendour.
+
+In the town, the houses are but piles of stone, the streets are but
+pitted stretches of desolation, the whole place is one huge monument to
+the memory of those who have suffered, simply and grandly, for a great
+cause. Round the town run the green ramparts where, a few years ago, the
+townspeople would stroll of an evening, where the blonde Flemish girls
+would glance shyly and covertly at the menfolk. The ramparts now are
+torn, the poplars are broken, the moat is foul and sullied, and facing
+out over the wide plain are rows of little crosses that mark the
+resting-places of the dead.
+
+For herein lies thy glory, Ypres. To capture thee there have fallen
+thousands of the German invaders; in thy defence there have died
+Belgians and French and English, Canadians and Indians and Algerians.
+Three miles away, on Hill 60, are the bodies of hundreds of men who have
+fought for thee--the Cockney buried close to the Scotchman, the Prussian
+lying within a yard of the Prussian who fell there a year before, and
+along the Cutting are French bayonets and rifles, and an occasional
+unfinished letter from some long-dead _poilu_ to his lover in the sunny
+plains of the Midi or the orchards of Normandy.
+
+And all these men have died to save thee, Ypres. Why, then, should we
+mourn for thee in thy ruin? Even thy great sister, Verdun, cannot boast
+so proud a record as thine.
+
+But the awful tragedy of it all! That the famous old town, quietly
+asleep in its plain, should be shattered and ruined; that so many hopes
+and ambitions can be blasted in so few hours; that young bodies can be
+crushed, in a fraction of a second, to masses of lifeless, bleeding
+pulp! The glorious tragedy of Ypres will never be written, for so many
+who could have spoken are dead, and so many who live will never
+speak--you can but guess their stories from the dull pain in their
+eyes, and from the lips that they close tightly to stop the sobs.
+
+God, how they have suffered, these Belgians! Day after day for over a
+year the inhabitants of Ypres lived in the hell of war; day after day
+they crouched in their cellars and wondered if it would be their little
+home that would be ruined by the next shell. How many lived for months
+in poky little basements, or crowded together in the one room that was
+left of their home--anything, even death, rather than leave the place
+where they were born and where they had passed all their quiet, happy
+years.
+
+I knew one woman who lived with her little daughter near the Porte de
+Menin, and one day, when the next cottage to hers had been blown to
+bits, I tried to persuade her to leave. For a long time she shook her
+head, and then she took me to show me her bedroom--such a poor little
+bedroom, with a crucifix hanging over the bed and a dingy rosebush
+growing up outside the window. "It was here that my husband died, five
+years ago," she said. "He would not like me to go away and leave the
+house to strangers."
+
+"But think of the little one," I pleaded. "She is only a girl of five,
+and you cannot endanger her life like this."
+
+For a long time she was silent, and a tear crept down her cheek as she
+tried to decide. "I will go, monsieur," she said at last, "for the sake
+of the little one."
+
+And that night she set off into the unknown, fearful to look back at her
+little home lest her courage should desert her. She was dressed in her
+best clothes--for why leave anything of value for the Germans, should
+they ever come?--and she wheeled her few household treasures before her
+in the perambulator, while her little daughter ran beside her.
+
+But next morning I saw her again coming back up the street to her
+cottage. This time she was alone, and she still trundled the
+perambulator in front of her.
+
+I went out, and knocked at her door. "So you have come back," I said.
+"And where have you left the little one?"
+
+She gazed at me dully for a minute, and a great fear gripped me, for I
+saw that her best clothes were torn and dust stained.
+
+"It was near the big hospital on the Poperinghe road," she said in a
+horribly even voice. "The little one had lingered behind to pick up some
+bits of coloured glass on the roadside when the shell came. It was a big
+shell ... and I could find nothing but this," and she held up part of a
+little torn dress, bloody and terrible.
+
+I tried to utter a few words of comfort, but my horror was too great.
+
+"It is the will of God," she said, as she began to unpack the treasures
+in the perambulator, but, as I closed the door, I heard her burst into
+the most awful fit of weeping I have ever known.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+And, day by day as the war goes on, the tragedy of Ypres grows greater.
+Each shell wrecks a little more of what was once a home, each crash and
+falling of bricks brings a little more pain to a breaking heart. The
+ruins of Ypres are glorious and noble, and we are proud to defend them,
+but the quiet, simple people of Ypres cannot even find one brick on
+another of their homes.
+
+Somewhere in England, they tell me, is a little old lady who was once a
+great figure in Brussels society. She is nearly eighty now, and alone,
+but she clings on tenaciously to life till the day shall come when she
+can go back to her Château at Ypres, where she has lived for forty
+years. One can picture her--feeble, wizened, and small, her eyes bright
+with the determination to live until she has seen her home again.
+
+I, who have seen her Château, pray that death may come to close those
+bright eyes, so that they may never look upon the destruction of her
+home, for it is a desolate sight, even though the sky was blue and the
+leaves glistened in the sun on the morning when, two years ago, I
+tramped up the winding drive.
+
+The lodge was nothing more than a tumbled pile of broken bricks, but, by
+some odd chance, the Château itself had never suffered a direct hit. In
+front of the big white house there had once been an asphalt tennis
+court--there was now a plain pitted at every few yards by huge shell
+holes. The summer-house at the edge of the wood--once the scene of
+delightful little flirtations in between the games of tennis--was now a
+weird wreck, consisting of three tottering walls and a broken seat.
+Oddest of all, there lay near the white marble steps an old, tyreless De
+Dion motor-car.
+
+I have often wondered what the history of that battered thing could be.
+One can almost see the owner packing herself in it with her most
+precious belongings, to flee from the oncoming Germans. The engine
+refuses to start, there is no time for repairs, there is the hurried
+flight on foot, and the car is left to the mercy of the invading troops.
+Perhaps, again, it belonged to the staff of some army, and was left at
+the Château when it had run its last possible mile. At all events, there
+it stood, half-way between Ypres and the Germans, with everything of any
+possible value stripped off it as thoroughly as though it had been left
+to the white ants.
+
+By the side of the tennis court, where had once been flower beds, there
+was now a row of little, rough wooden crosses, and here and there the
+narcissi and daffodils had sprung up. What a strange little cemetery!
+Here a khaki cap and a bunch of dead flowers, there a cross erected to
+"An unknown British hero, found near Verbrandenmolen and buried here on
+March 3rd, 1915," there an empty shell case balanced at a comical angle
+on a grave, and everywhere between the mounds waved the flowers in the
+fresh breeze of the morning, while away in the distance loomed the tower
+of the Cloth Hall of Ypres, like a gigantic arm pointing one finger up
+to heaven.
+
+The Château itself, I have said, had never had a direct hit; but do you
+think the hand of war had passed it by, and that the little old lady
+would find in it something of home?
+
+Every window on the ground floor had been choked by sandbags, and no
+glass remained in those upstairs. In a room that had once been a kitchen
+and was now labelled in chalk "Officers' Mess" were an old bedstead, two
+mattresses, a wooden table, and three rickety chairs; but for these, and
+a piano in the dining-room upstairs, the house was absolutely devoid of
+furniture. Even the piano, which must have twanged out the tunes of at
+least three nations since the war began, had sacrificed its cover for
+firewood.
+
+Rooms where once ladies had powdered and perfumed themselves to attract
+the fickle male were now bare and empty, and pungent with the smell of
+chloride of lime. In the dining-hall, where fine old wines had
+circulated, were a hundred weary, dirty men. In the kitchen, where the
+fat _cuisinière_ had prepared her dinners, were now a dozen officers,
+some sprawling asleep on the floor, some squatting round the table
+playing "vingt-et-un."
+
+For this is war.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+There is one more memory of Ypres--a very different one--that comes back
+to me. It is the recollection of our regimental dinner.
+
+The first thing that I heard of it came from Lytton's servant.
+
+"Please, sir," he said one morning, "Mr. Lytton sends his compliments,
+and can you tell 'im where the Hôtel Delepiroyle is?"
+
+"The Hôtel de what?"
+
+"The Hôtel Delepiroyle, sir. That's what 'e said."
+
+"Ask Mr. Lytton to write it down--no, wait a minute. Tell him I'm coming
+over to see him about it." So I strolled across to the other side of the
+infantry barracks to find him.
+
+"What, haven't you heard about it?" asked Lytton. "The new C.O., Major
+Eadie, is giving a dinner to-night to all the officers of the regiment
+as a farewell to Major Barton before he goes off to take command of his
+new crowd. It's at the Hôtel de l'Epée Royale, wherever that may be.
+Let's go and track it down."
+
+So we wandered down the Rue de Lille, as yet relatively free from the
+ravages of war, for the shops were open and the inhabitants stood
+talking and gossiping at the doors of their houses. Here and there
+rubble lay across the pavement, and what had once been a home was now an
+amorphous pile of bricks and beams. Just by the church was a ruined
+restaurant, and a host of little children played hide and seek behind
+the remnants of its walls.
+
+On our way down the street we came across Reynolds, who had only joined
+the regiment the night before, while we, who had been nearly three weeks
+at the front, felt ourselves war-beaten veterans compared to him. He was
+standing on the pavement, gazing excitedly up at an aeroplane, around
+which were bursting little white puffs of smoke.
+
+"Come along with us," said Lytton. "You'll get sick to death of seeing
+aeroplanes shelled when you've been out here as long as we have. Come
+and discover the scene of to-night's orgy."
+
+In the Grande Place, at the side of the Cloth Hall, we discovered the
+Hôtel de l'Epée Royale. A "Jack Johnson" had made an enormous hole in
+the pavement just in front of it, and a large corner of the building had
+gone.
+
+"By Jove," said Reynolds in an awed voice. "What a hole! It must have
+taken some shell to do that."
+
+Lytton smiled patronisingly. "My dear fellow," he said, "that's nothing
+at all. It's hardly any bigger than the hole that a spent bullet makes.
+Let's go inside and get some lunch to see what sort of a place it is."
+
+But Reynolds and I were firm. "Rot!" we said. "Let's go home and fast.
+Otherwise we shall be no good for this evening; we've got our duty to do
+to the dinner."
+
+So we went back to the Company Mess in the infantry barracks, past a
+house that had been destroyed that morning. Hunting in and out of the
+ruins were a man and a woman, and another woman, very old, with eyes
+swollen by weeping, sat on what was left of the wall of her house, a
+broken photograph frame in her hands.
+
+There are many fellows who have laid down their lives since that little
+dinner in the Hôtel de l'Epée Royale; he who gave it died of wounds six
+weeks later, as gallant a commanding officer as one could wish to have.
+If the dinner were to take place again, there would be many gaps round
+the table, and even the building must long since have been pounded to
+dust.
+
+If this should meet the eyes of any of you that were there, let your
+minds run back for a moment, and smile at your recollections. Do you
+remember how we dosed Wilson's glass so that he left us before the
+sweets were on the table? Do you remember how we found him later sitting
+on the stairs, poor fellow, clasping his head in a vain effort to stop
+the world from whirling round? Do you remember the toasts that we drank,
+and the plans we made for that dim period, "after the war"? I confess
+that I have completely forgotten everything that we ate--beyond the
+whisky, I forget even what we drank; but I know that the daintiest
+little dinner in London could not have pleased us nearly so much. And
+then, when it was all over and we broke up to go home to bed, do you
+remember how young Carter stood in the middle of the Grande Place and
+made rhapsodies to the moon--though, to the rest of us, it seemed much
+like any other moon--until we took him up and carried him home by force?
+
+It does you good to look back sometimes. You may find it sad because so
+many are gone that were our companions then. But this is the way of war;
+they must die sooner or later, and they could not have chosen better
+graves. If one must die, why not die fighting for England and Ypres?
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+There is one street in Ypres that I knew in peace time. It wound in and
+out between the stiff, white houses, and the little Flemish children
+would make it echo to their shouts and laughter, until you could
+scarcely hear the rumble and the rattle of the carts on the cobbles of
+the main street, near by. And I passed along the same winding way during
+the second battle of Ypres. The shattered houses stretched jagged edges
+of brickwork towards the sky, the road was torn up, and the paving
+stones were piled up grotesquely against each other. Outside the
+convent, where I seemed to catch the dim echo of children's laughter,
+lay a smashed limber--the horse was on its back, with its legs stuck up
+stiffly; and, just touching the broken stone cross that had fallen from
+above the convent door, lay the figure of the dead driver.
+
+And, of all that I remember of Ypres, it is of this that I think most
+often, for it is a symbol of the place itself--the dead man lying by the
+cross, sign of suffering that leads to another life. The agony of Ypres
+will render it immortal; for if ever a town deserved immortality, it is
+surely this old, ruined city on the plains of Flanders.
+
+
+
+
+XII
+
+"PONGO" SIMPSON ON GRUMBLERS
+
+
+I was in my dug-out, trying to write a letter by the intermittent light
+of a candle which was extinguished from time to time by the rain drops
+that came through the roof, when I suddenly heard the squelching of mud,
+the sound of slipping, and an appalling splash. Someone had fallen into
+the shell hole just outside.
+
+I waited a moment, and I heard the well-known voice of "Pongo" Simpson.
+"Strike me pink!" he spluttered, as he scrambled up the steep bank out
+of the water. "An' I gone an' forgot me soap. The first bath as I've 'ad
+for six weeks, too." And he blundered into my dug-out, a terrible object
+covered in slimy mud from head to foot, and when he breathed little
+showers of mud flew off his moustache.
+
+"Hullo," I said, "you seem to be wet."
+
+"Sorry, sir," said "Pongo," "I thought as 'ow this was my dug-out. Wet,
+sir? Gawd! Yes, I should think I was wet," and he doubled up to show
+me, while a thin stream of muddy water trickled from his hair on to my
+letter. "'Owever, it ain't no good to grumble, an' it's better to fall
+in a shell hole than to 'ave a shell fall on me. I've got some 'ot tea
+in me own dug-out, too."
+
+When he had gone, I crumpled up my muddy letter, and I confess that I
+purposely listened to his conversation, for his dug-out was only
+separated from mine by a few horizontal logs piled up on each other.
+
+"Well, you see, it ain't no good to grouse," he was saying to someone.
+"I've got mud up me nose an' in me eyes, and all down me neck, but it
+won't go away 'owever much I grumbles. Now, there's some blokes as
+grouses all the time--'ere, Bert, you might 'and over your knife a
+moment to scrape the mud off me face, it all cracks, like, when I
+talk--if they've got a Maconochie ration they wants bully beef, an' if
+they've got bully beef they carn't abear nothink but Maconochie. If you
+told 'em as 'ow the war was goin' to end to-morrow they'd either call
+you a bloomin' liar, or grouse like 'ell becos they 'adn't 'ad the time
+to win the V.C.
+
+"There was young Alf Cobb. 'E wasn't arf a grouser, an' 'e 'ad good luck
+all the bloomin' time. When 'e came to the front they put 'im along o'
+the transport becos 'e'd been a jockey before the war, an' 'e groused
+all the time that 'e didn't 'ave none of the fun of the fightin'. Fun of
+the fightin', indeed, when 'e'd got that little gal what we used to
+call Gertie less than ten minutes from the stables! She was a nice
+little bit of stuff, was Gertie, an', if only she'd spoke English
+instead of this bloomin' lingo what sounds like swearin' ..." and here
+"Pongo" wandered off into a series of reminiscences of Gertie that have
+little to do with war and nothing to do with grumbling.
+
+"'Owever, as I was sayin'," he continued at last, "that there Alf Cobb
+used to fair aggryvate me with 'is grousin'. When 'e got sent up for a
+spell in the trenches, and 'ad all 'the fun of the fightin',' 'e groused
+because 'e couldn't go off to some ole estaminet an' order 'is glass o'
+bitters like a dook. 'E groused becos 'e 'adn't got a feather bed, 'e
+groused becos 'e 'ad to cook 'is own food, an' 'e groused becos 'e
+didn't like the 'Uns. An' then when a whizz-bang landed on the parapet
+an' gave 'im a nice Blighty one in the arm, 'e groused becos 'e was
+afraid the sea'd be rough when 'e crossed over, an' 'e groused becos 'e
+couldn't light 'is own pipe. 'E's the sort of bloke what I don't like.
+
+"What I like is a bloke like ole Lewis, who was always chirpy. 'E 'ad
+the rheumatics something fearful, but 'e never grumbled. Then 'e'd jest
+gone an' got spliced afore the war, an' 'is missis got 'im into debt an'
+then ran off with a fellow what works in the munitions. 'No good
+grousin',' says ole Joe Lewis, an' 'e still stayed cheerful, an' the
+night 'e 'eard as 'ow 'is young woman 'ad gone off 'e played away on 'is
+ole mouth-organ as 'appily as a fellow what's on 'is way to the Green
+Dragon with five bob in 'is pocket. The other blokes what knew about it
+thought as 'ow Joe didn't care at all, but I was 'is mate an' I knew as
+'ow it 'urt a lot. When 'e got knocked over in that attack down Lee
+Bassey way, I jest stopped by 'im for a minute. 'Don't you worry about
+me, Pongo,' says 'e, 'I couldn't stand 'ome without 'er'--meanin' 'is
+missis, you see--'an' I'd rather 'op it like this. If I 'ad me ole
+mouth-organ 'ere, I'd give you chaps a tune to 'elp you on like.' That's
+the sort of bloke 'e was, chirpy up to the end. I 'ad to go on to the
+'Un trenches, an' I never saw 'im again, for a big shell came along an'
+buried 'im.
+
+"After all," continued "Pongo" after a pause, "it's a life what 'as its
+advantages. I ain't got to put on a 'ard collar o' Sundays out 'ere like
+me ole woman makes me do at 'ome. Then, I might 'ave stuck in that shell
+'ole and 'ave been drowned; I might not 'ave 'ad a clean shirt to dry
+meself with; I might 'ave been 'it by a 'crump' yesterday. Yes, it might
+be worse, an' I ain't never a one to grouse."
+
+Then someone who knew "Pongo" well made an apparently irrelevant remark.
+"There's plum and apple jam for rations again," he said.
+
+"Pongo" rose to the fly at once. "Gawd!" he said, "if that ain't the
+bloomin' limit. I'd like to get me 'and round the neck of the bloke what
+gets all the raspberry an' apricot an' marmalade. 'Ere 'ave I been two
+years in the trenches, an' what 'ave I seen but plum an' apple? If it
+ain't plum an' apple, it's damson an' apple, which is jest the same only
+there's more stones in it. It do make me fair wild...."
+
+"Pongo," insinuated someone at this moment, "I thought as 'ow you never
+grumbled."
+
+"Pongo's" voice sank to its ordinary level. "That ain't grumblin'," he
+said. "I ain't a one to grumble."
+
+But for the better part of an hour I heard him growling away to himself,
+and "plum and apple" was the burden of his growl. For even "Pongo"
+Simpson cannot always practise what he preaches.
+
+
+
+
+XIII
+
+THE CONVERT
+
+
+John North, of the Non-Combatant Corps, leaned over the counter and
+smiled lovingly up into the shop girl's face. By an apparent accident,
+his hand slid across between the apple basket and the tins of biscuits,
+and came into gentle contact with hers. Knowing no French, his
+conversation was strictly limited, and he had to make amends for this by
+talking with his hand--by gently stroking her palm with his
+earth-stained thumb.
+
+Mademoiselle Thérèse smiled shyly at him and her hand remained on the
+counter.
+
+Private John North, thus encouraged, grew still bolder. He clasped her
+fingers in his fist, and was just wondering if he dared kiss them, when
+a gruff voice behind him caused him to stiffen, and to pretend he wanted
+nothing but a penny bar of chocolate.
+
+"Now then, come orf it," said the newcomer, a private with the trench
+mud still caked on his clothes. "She's my young laidy, ain't yer,
+Thérèse?"
+
+Thérèse smiled rather vaguely, for she knew no more Cockney than John
+North knew French.
+
+"You clear out of 'ere," continued the linesman. "I don't want none o'
+you objector blokes 'anging around this shop, and if you come 'ere again
+I won't arf biff you one."
+
+Unfortunately, it is the nature of woman to enjoy the sight of two men
+quarrelling for her favours, and Thérèse, guessing what was happening,
+was so unwise as to smile sweet encouragement at John North.
+
+Even a Conscientious Objector loses his conscience when there is a woman
+in the case. John North turned up his sleeves as though he had been a
+boxer all his life, and proceeded to trounce his opponent with such
+vigour that the biscuit tins were hurled to the ground and the contents
+of a box of chocolates were scattered all over the floor.
+
+As far as we are concerned, Mademoiselle Thérèse passes out of existence
+from this moment, but the little incident in her shop was not without
+consequences. In the first place, the Military Police cast the two
+miscreants into the same guard room, where, from bitter rivals, they
+became the best of friends. In the second place, John North, having once
+drawn blood, was no longer content with his former life, and wanted to
+draw more.
+
+In the end he joined the Westfords, and fired his first shot over the
+parapet under direct tuition from his new friend. It matters little
+that his first shot flew several yards above the German parapet; the
+intention was good, and it is always possible that the bullet may have
+stung into activity some corpulent Hun whose duty called on him to lead
+pack horses about behind the firing line.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+For weeks Holy John, as his company called him, passed out of my life.
+There were many other things to think of--bombs and grenades, attacks
+and counter-attacks, "barrages" and trench mortars, and all the other
+things about which we love to discourse learnedly when we come home on
+leave. John North was, for the time, completely forgotten.
+
+But one day when the Great Push was in full swing, I met him again. From
+his former point of view he had sadly degenerated; from ours he had
+become a useful fellow with a useful conscience that told him England
+wanted him to "do in" as many Huns as he could.
+
+I was supervising some work on a trench that had been German, but was
+now ours--the red stains on the white chalk told of the fight for
+it--when a voice I knew sounded from farther up the trench.
+
+"If you don't bloomin' well march better, I won't arf biff you one, I
+won't," I heard, as the head of a strange little procession came round
+the traverse. At the rear of six burly but downcast Germans, came
+Private John North, late Conscientious Objector, driving his prisoners
+along with resounding oaths and the blood-chilling manoeuvres of a
+bayonet that he brandished in his left hand.
+
+"They'll all mine, sir, the beauties," he said as he passed me. "Got 'em
+all meself, and paid me little finger for 'em, too," and he held up a
+bandaged right arm for my inspection.
+
+And, far down the trench, I heard him encouraging his prisoners with
+threats that would delight a pirate or a Chinaman.
+
+How he, single-handed, captured six of the enemy I do not know, but he
+was the first man to reach the German wire, they tell me, and he brought
+in two wounded men from No Man's Land.
+
+Personally, then, it hardly seems to me that six Germans are enough to
+pay for the little finger of Holy John, erstwhile Conscientious
+Objector.
+
+
+
+
+XIV
+
+DAVID AND JONATHAN
+
+
+I
+
+Strangely different though they were, they had been friends ever since
+they first met at school, eleven years before. Jonathan--for what other
+names are necessary than the obvious David and Jonathan?--was then a
+fat, sandy-haired boy, with a deep love of the country, and hands that,
+however often he washed them, always seemed to be stained with ink. He
+had a deep admiration, an adoration almost, for his dark-haired,
+dark-eyed David, wild and musical.
+
+The love of the country it was that first made them friends, and David
+became, so to speak, Jonathan's means of expression, for David could put
+into words, and, later on, into music, what Jonathan could only feel
+dimly and vaguely. Jonathan was the typical British public-schoolboy
+with a twist of artistic sense hidden away in him, while David was
+possessed of a soul, and knew it. A soul is an awkward thing to possess
+at school in England, for it brings much "ragging" and no little
+contempt on its owner, and Jonathan fought many battles in defence of
+his less-understood friend.
+
+Eleven years had wrought but little material change in them. Jonathan,
+after a few minor rebellions, had settled down in his father's office
+and was learning to forget the call of the open road and the half-formed
+dreams of his youth. David, on the other hand, was wandering over the
+Continent nominally studying languages for the Consular Service, really
+picking up a smattering of poetry, a number of friends, and a deep
+knowledge of music. From Jonathan, he had learned to hide his sentiments
+in the presence of those who would not understand, and to make his
+reason conquer the wilder of the whims that ran through his brain.
+Jonathan, in turn, had gained a power, which he scarcely realised, of
+appreciating music and scenery, and which no amount of office life would
+ever diminish.
+
+Then the war broke out, and brought them together again.
+
+At the beginning of it, David, who had been amusing himself in Madrid by
+teaching the elements of grammar and a large vocabulary of English slang
+to any Spaniard who would pay for it, came home and enlisted with
+Jonathan in a line regiment. For two months they drilled and exercised
+themselves in the so-called "arts of war." Then, chiefly on account of
+a soulless section commander, they applied for, and obtained,
+commissions in the same regiment.
+
+In the same billet, they re-lived their schooldays, and over the fire in
+the evenings would call up old memories, or David would tell of his
+adventures abroad, until late in the night.
+
+When the time came for them to go to the front, the Fates still favoured
+them; they went out together to the same regiment in France, and were
+drafted to the same company. Together they went up to the trenches for
+the first time, together they worked, together they crouched under the
+parapet when the German shells came unpleasantly close, and, all the
+time, Jonathan, calm and stolid, unconsciously helped the other, who,
+being cursed with a vivid imagination, secretly envied his friend's
+calm.
+
+Now, nothing has more power to cement or break friendships than war. The
+enforced company, the sharing of danger, the common bearing of all
+imaginable discomforts combine to make comrades or enemies. There are so
+many things to tax one's patience, that a real friend in whom one may
+confide becomes doubly dear, while you end by hating a man who has the
+misfortune to irritate you day after day. War made David and Jonathan
+realise how much their friendship meant, and how necessary each was to
+the other, the one because of his continued calm, the other because of
+the relief his love of music and of Nature brought with it.
+
+
+II
+
+Near the end of April 1915 they came back to billets near Ypres. To the
+north a terrific battle was in progress, the last inhabitants were
+fleeing from the town, and huge shells screamed on their way, and burst
+with appalling clouds of smoke among the already shattered houses.
+Occasionally a motor cyclist would come racing down the road, and, once
+or twice, an ambulance came by with its load of gassed and wounded from
+the fighting to the north.
+
+One morning, when the Germans seemed fairly quiet, David and Jonathan
+set out arm in arm towards Ypres, to explore. An occasional shell--a
+hum, increasing until it became a roar, followed, a moment after, by a
+fearful explosion--warned them not to proceed beyond the outskirts of
+the town, and here it was that they came upon a large villa, with lilac
+budding in the garden. By mutual consent, they turned in at the tall
+iron gate, and entered the half-ruined house.
+
+The part of the house giving on the road had been destroyed by a large
+shell. Over a gaping hole in the ceiling was a bed, its iron legs
+weirdly twisted, which threatened to overbalance at any minute and to
+come hurtling down into the hall beneath. Shattered picture frames
+still hung on the walls, and on the floor near at hand lay a rosary, the
+Crucifix crushed by some heedless boot. The furniture lay in heaps, and
+the front door was lying grotesquely across a broken mirror. Everywhere
+was wreckage.
+
+The other half of the house was still almost intact. In what had once
+been the salon they found comfortable chairs and an excellent Pleyel
+piano, while a copy of the _Daily Mirror_ gave the clue that the room
+had until recently been occupied by British troops.
+
+David seated himself at the piano and began to play, and Jonathan threw
+himself in an arm-chair near the window to listen, and to watch the
+alternate cloud and sunshine outside. It was one of those perfect
+mornings of April, bright-coloured and windy, and the breeze in the
+lilacs combined with the notes of the piano until they could hardly be
+told apart. The rare whirr and explosion of a shell only had the effect
+of accentuating the intervening peace. Jonathan had never felt so at one
+with Nature and with his friend, and more than once, stolid and calm
+though he generally was, he felt a tear in his eye at an extra beautiful
+little bit of music or the glory of the world outside.
+
+
+III
+
+"Coming up to the villa this morning?" asked David of his friend a day
+or two later.
+
+"I've got a confounded rifle inspection at half-past ten. You go on and
+I'll get up there as soon as I can," answered Jonathan, and he went off
+to talk to his platoon sergeant while his friend strolled off to the
+villa.
+
+When he was going up the road to Ypres an hour later, he met an orderly
+on horseback. "Excuse me, sir, I don't think the road's extry nice now,"
+he said. "They're dropping some heavy stuff into Yips again."
+
+Jonathan smiled. "Oh, that's all right," he said. "Thanks, all the same,
+for warning me. I'll take care." And he hurried on up the road.
+
+It was not until he was inside the villa that he noticed anything out of
+the ordinary. Suddenly, however, he stopped aghast. The door by which
+they entered the salon was gone, and in its place was a huge gap in the
+wall. The furniture was buried under a mass of debris, and instead of
+the gilded ceiling above him was only the blue sky. The piano was still
+untouched, but on the keys, and on the wall behind, were splashes of
+blood. Lying on the ground near it, half covered in plaster, was David.
+He forced himself to approach, and looked again. His friend's head was
+completely smashed, and one arm was missing.
+
+For some minutes he stood still, staring. Then, with a sudden quiver, he
+turned and ran. In the garden he tripped over something, and fell, but
+he felt no hurt, for mad terror was upon him, and all sense had gone.
+He must get away from the dreadful thing in there; he must put miles
+between himself and the vision; he must run ... run ... run....
+
+
+IV
+
+Two privates found him, wild-eyed and trembling, and brought him to a
+medical officer. "Nerves, poor devil, and badly too!" was the diagnosis;
+and before Jonathan really knew what had happened, he was in hospital in
+Rouen.
+
+Everyone gets "nervy" after a certain amount of modern warfare; even the
+nerves of the least imaginative may snap before a sudden shock.
+
+So with stolid Jonathan. After a year, he is still in England. "Why
+doesn't he go out again?" people ask. "He looks well enough. He must be
+slacking." But they realise nothing of the waiting at night for the
+dreaded, oft-repeated dreams; they cannot tell of the horrible visions
+that war can bring, they do not know what it means, that neurasthenia,
+that hell on earth.
+
+It is difficult to forget what must be forgotten. If you have "nerves"
+you must do all you can to forget the things that caused them, but when
+everything you do or say, think or hear, reminds you in some remote way
+of all you must forget, then recovery is hard indeed.
+
+That is why Jonathan is still in England. If he hears or reads of the
+war he thinks of his dead friend: if he hears music--even a street
+organ--the result is worse; if he tries to escape from it all, and hides
+himself away in the country, the birds and the lilac blossom take him
+back to that morning near Ypres, when he first realised how much his
+friendship meant to him. And whenever he thinks of his friend, that
+horrible corpse near the piano comes back before his tight-closed eyes,
+and his hands tremble again in fear.
+
+
+
+
+XV
+
+THE RUM JAR
+
+AND OTHER SOLDIER SUPERSTITIONS
+
+
+The most notable feature in the famous history of the "Angels of Mons"
+was the fact that hundreds of practical, unpoetical, and stolid English
+soldiers came forward and testified to having seen the vision. Whether
+the story were fact or fancy, it is an excellent example of a change in
+our national character.
+
+Before the war, the unromantic Englishman who thought he saw a vision
+would have blamed in turn his eyesight, his digestion, his sobriety, and
+his sanity before he allowed that he had anything to do with the
+supernatural. He now tells, without the least semblance of a blush, that
+he puts his faith in superstitions, and charms, and mascots, and that
+his lucky sign has saved his life on half a dozen occasions.
+
+Of all the many and weird superstitions that exist in the British Army
+of to-day, the most popular has to do with the jar that contains the
+ration of rum. Rumour has it that once, long ago, a party that was
+bringing up rations for a company in the trenches was tempted by the
+thought of a good drink, and fell. When all the rum had been consumed
+the question arose as to how to explain matters, and the genius of the
+party suggested breaking the jar and pretending that it had been hit by
+a bullet. When the party filed into the trench, the waiting company was
+shown the handle of the jar, and had to listen to a vivid tale of how a
+German bullet that had just missed Private Hawkes had wasted all the
+company's rum. Rumour also has it that the unsteady gait of one member
+of the party gave the lie to the story--but this is beside the point.
+
+From this little incident there has sprung up a far-reaching
+superstition--German bullets, the men have it, swerve instinctively
+towards the nearest rum jar. A few stray shots have helped to strengthen
+the belief, and the conviction holds firm down nearly the whole length
+of the British line that the man who carries the rum jar runs a double
+risk of being hit.
+
+Mascots and talismans hold an important place in the soldier's life. I
+know of one man who used to carry in his pack a rosary that he had
+picked up in one of the streets of Ypres. One day his leg was fractured
+in two places by a large piece of a trench-mortar bomb, but, in spite of
+his pain, he refused to be taken down to the dressing station until we
+had hunted through his pack and found him his rosary. "If I don't take
+it with me," he said, "I'll get 'it again on the way down."
+
+And this is by no means an isolated example. Nearly every man at the
+front has a mascot of some sort--a rosary, a black cat, a German button,
+or a weird sign--which is supposed to keep him safe.
+
+Their superstitions, too, are many in number. One man is convinced that
+he will be killed on a Friday; another man would rather waste a dry--and
+therefore valuable--match than light three cigarettes with it; another
+will think himself lucky if he can see a cow on his way up to the
+trenches; a fourth will face any danger, volunteer for any patrol, go
+through the worst attack without a qualm, simply because he "has got a
+feeling he will come through unhurt." And he generally does, too.
+
+I once had a servant who used to wear a shoe button on a piece of string
+round his neck. At some village billet in France a tiny girl had given
+it him as a present, and he treasured it as carefully as a diamond
+merchant would treasure the great Koh-i-noor stone--in fact, I am
+convinced that he often went without washing just to avoid the risk of
+loss in taking it off and putting it on again. To you in England it
+seems ridiculous that a man should hope to preserve his life by wearing
+a shoe button on a piece of string. But then, you have not seen the
+strange tricks that Fate will play with lives. You have not watched how
+often a shell will burst in a group of men, kill one outright, and leave
+the others untouched; you have not joked with a friend one moment and
+knelt by him to catch his dying words the next; you have not stood at
+night by a hastily dug grave and wondered, as you mumbled a few
+half-remembered prayers, why the comrade who is lying there on a
+waterproof sheet should have been killed while you are left unhurt.
+
+Besides, there are so many things which tend to make a man superstitious
+and to confirm him in his trust in mascots and charms. Many a man has
+had a premonition of his death, many a man has come through long months
+of war, and then has been killed on the day on which he lost his mascot.
+
+The thought of superstition recalls to me Joe Williams, the
+ex-policeman. Joe Williams was a fatalist, and believed every word he
+read in his little book of prophecies, so that the dawn of September 4th
+found him glum and depressed.
+
+"It ain't no bloomin' good," he grumbled. "It says in my book as 'ow
+September 4th is a disastrous day for England, so it will be. There
+ain't no way of stopping Fate." And when his section laughed at him for
+his fears he merely shrugged his shoulders, and sat gazing into the
+brazier's glow.
+
+The day wore quietly on, and I had forgotten all about Williams and his
+gloomy prophecies when a corporal came along to my dug-out. "Williams
+has been hit by a bomb, sir," he said, "and is nearly done for."
+
+At the other end of the trench lay Joe Williams, near to death, while
+his comrades tied up his wounds. The glumness had gone from his face,
+and when he saw me he signed for me to stoop down. "What did I tell you,
+sir, about the disaster for England?" he whispered. "Ain't this a
+bloomin' disaster?" and he tried to laugh at his little joke, but the
+flow of blood choked him, and he died.
+
+Perhaps, though, he was nearer the mark than he imagined, for it is a
+rash thing to say that the death of a man who can joke with his dying
+breath is not a disaster to England.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+It may all seem intensely foolish to you, and childish; it may strike
+you that our men at the front are attempting to bribe Fate, or that we
+are returning to the days of witches and sorcerers. But it is not
+without its good points, this growth of superstition. Man is such a
+little, helpless pawn in the ruthless game of war, and death is so
+sudden and so strange, that the soul gropes instinctively in search of
+some sign of a shielding arm and a watchful power. The Bible, the
+Crucifix, a cheap little charm--any of these may bring comfort to the
+man in the trench, and give him the illusion that he is not one of
+those marked for the sickle of Death.
+
+A man who is confident that he will come through a battle unhurt
+generally does so, or, if Death comes, he meets it with a smile on his
+lips. The man who expects to be killed, who has no belief in some
+shielding power--though it be but symbolised by a common shoe button--is
+taken by Death very soon, but, even then, not before he has gone through
+those long, morbid hours of waiting that breed the germs of fear.
+
+The penny lucky charm that can bring comfort to a man in danger is not a
+thing to be ridiculed. It may be a proof of ignorance, but to the man it
+is symbolical of his God, and is therefore worthy of all respect and
+reverence from others.
+
+
+
+
+XVI
+
+THE TEA SHOP
+
+
+Baker came to me directly after lunch. "Look here," he said, "I'm not
+satisfied."
+
+"What's the matter now?"
+
+"I want something respectable to eat. Let's go into Poperinghe and get a
+properly cooked tea."
+
+"It's six miles," I objected, "and a confoundedly hot day."
+
+"All the better for an omelette appetite."
+
+I thought of the omelettes in the tea shop of Poperinghe, and I knew
+that I was lost. "Can't you get horses?" I asked.
+
+"No luck. The transport has to shift to-day and there's nothing doing in
+that line. I asked just before lunch."
+
+The omelettes danced up and down before my eyes until the intervening
+miles over hard cobble stones dwindled to nothing. "All right," I said.
+"Will you go and get leave for us? I'll be ready in a minute." And I
+went off to borrow some money from Jackson with which to pay for my
+omelettes.
+
+The church tower of Poperinghe shimmered in the heat and seemed to
+beckon us on along the straight road that led through the miles of flat
+country, relieved here and there by stretches of great hop poles or by
+little red-roofed farms where lounged figures in khaki.
+
+In every field grazed dozens of horses and in every lane were
+interminable lines of motor lorries, with greasy-uniformed men crawling
+about underneath them or sleeping on the seats. In one place, a
+perspiring "Tommy" hurried round a farmyard on his hands and knees, and
+barked viciously for the benefit of a tiny fair-haired girl and a filthy
+fox-terrier puppy; and right above him swung a "sausage" gleaming in the
+sunlight. Just outside Poperinghe we met company after company of men,
+armed with towels, waiting by the roadside for baths in the brewery,
+and, as we passed, one old fellow, who declared that his "rheumatics was
+that bad he couldn't wash," was trying to sell a brand-new cake of soap
+for the promise of a drink.
+
+The sun was hot in the sky, and the paving, than which nothing on earth
+is more tiring, seemed rougher and harder than usual; motor lorries, or
+cars containing generals, seemed, at every moment, to compel us to take
+to the ditch, and we were hot and footsore when we tramped through the
+Grande Place to the tea shop.
+
+But here we were doomed to disappointment, for not a chair was
+vacant--"Not room for a flea," as Madame explained to us, and we had to
+curb our appetites as best we could.
+
+The tea shop at Poperinghe! Where could you hope to find a more popular
+spot than was the tea shop in the early part of 1915? Where could you
+get better omelettes served by a more charming little waitress?--was she
+really charming, I wonder, or did she merely seem so _faute de mieux_?
+Where could you find a nicer place to meet your friends from other
+regiments, to drink coffee, to eat quantities of dainty French cakes? It
+is not surprising that the shop at Poperinghe was always crowded by four
+in the afternoon in those old days before the second battle of Ypres.
+
+As patiently as might be, Baker and I waited, lynx-eyed, until two
+chairs were vacated.
+
+"Mademoiselle," we called, "deux omelettes, s'il vous plait."
+
+"Bien, messieurs, tout de suite."
+
+But we were far too hungry to wait, and before the omelettes arrived we
+had cleared a great plate of cakes. After weeks of indifferent trench
+cooking the first well-done omelette is a great joy, and, as I put down
+my fork, I glanced inquiry at Baker.
+
+"Rather," he answered to my unspoken question.
+
+"Mademoiselle, encore deux omelettes, s'il vous plait," I ordered. "Nous
+avons une faim de loup."
+
+"Je m'en aperçois, messieurs les officiers," answered our fair
+enchantress, as she hurried off to repeat our order in the kitchen,
+while a crowd of predatory officers glared murder at us when they found
+we did not intend to leave our places so soon. "Some fellows are pigs,"
+murmured one.
+
+"That was splendid," said Baker when we started off on our homeward
+walk. "But six miles is a hell of a long way."
+
+Personally, though, I enjoyed those six miles through the dusk, for we
+seemed to hear the hum of the traffic and the shouts of newsboys. Our
+tea brought back souvenirs of England, and we talked of London and of
+home, of theatres, and of coast patrol on the southern cliffs, until the
+little low huts of our camp showed up ahead.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+It is nearly two years now since Baker was killed. He was found gassed
+in a dug-out on Hill 60, and by his side lay his servant, who had died
+in the attempt to drag him out to the comparative safety of the open
+trench. Nearly two years since another friend gave up his life for his
+country; nearly two years since another mother in England learned that
+her son had been killed in a "slight diversion on the Ypres salient"!
+
+But it was thus that he would have wished to die.
+
+
+
+
+XVII
+
+"HERE COMES THE GENERAL"
+
+
+A servant brought me a note to my dug-out:
+
+"Come down and have some lunch in trench 35D," it ran, "in C Company
+officers' dug-out. Guests are requested to bring their own plates and
+cutlery; and, if it is decent, their own food. Menu attached. R.S.V.P."
+
+The menu was as follows:
+
+   MENU OF LUNCHEON GIVEN BY C COMPANY AT THEIR COUNTRY RESIDENCE, "THE
+   RETREAT," 15/5/15.
+
+   SOUPS
+
+   Soup à la Bully Beef. Soup à l'Oxo.
+
+   FISH
+
+   Salmon (and Shrimp Paste) without Mayonnaise Sauce.
+   Sardines à l'Huile (if anyone provides them).
+
+   ENTREES
+
+   Maconochie, very old.
+   Bully beef and boiled potatoes.
+
+   SWEETS
+
+   Pineapple Chunks, fresh from the tin.
+   English Currant Cake.
+
+   SAVOURY
+
+   Welsh Rarebit.
+
+I read through the menu, and decided to risk it, and, procuring the
+necessary crockery, I clanked through fully half a mile of trenches to C
+Company. The officers' dug-out was in the cellar of an old cottage which
+just came in our line of trenches. The only access to it was by means of
+a very narrow stairway which led down from the trench. The interior,
+when I arrived, was lit by three candles stuck in bottles, which showed
+officers in almost every vacant spot, with the exception of one corner,
+where a telephone orderly was situated with his apparatus. I occupied
+the only untenanted piece of ground I could find, and awaited events.
+
+The soup was upset, as the moment when the servant was about to bring it
+down from the outer air was the moment chosen for a rehearsal of that
+famous game, "Here comes the General." The rules of this game are
+simple. The moment anyone utters the magic phrase there is an immediate
+rush for the steps, the winner of the game being he who manages to
+arrive at the top first and thus impress the imaginary general with his
+smartness.
+
+The soup stood but a poor chance in a stampede of eleven officers, the
+candles were kicked out, and a long argument ensued as to whose plate
+was which, and why Martin's spoon should have gone down Fenton's neck,
+and if the latter should be made to forfeit his own spoon to make up for
+his unintentional theft.
+
+Order was at length restored, and the meal was proceeding in comparative
+peace, when, suddenly, Jones, who had not been invited to the luncheon,
+appeared at the top of the steps.
+
+"I say, you fellows," he cried excitedly. "Here comes the General."
+
+"Liar!" shouted someone. But the magic words could not be allowed to
+pass unnoticed, even though we were eating pineapple chunks at the time,
+and they are very sticky if you upset them over your clothes.
+
+A fearful scramble took place, in which everyone--with the exception of
+Walters, who placed himself in the further corner with the tin of
+pineapple--tried to go together up steps which were just broad enough to
+allow the passage of one man at a time.
+
+A conglomerate mass of officers, all clinging convulsively to each
+other, suddenly burst into the open trench--almost at the feet of the
+General, who came round the traverse into view of them at that moment.
+
+When I returned to C Company's dug-out, an hour or so later, to try to
+recover my plate and anything else that had not been smashed, I found
+three officers reading a message that had just come by telephone from
+Battalion Headquarters. It was prefixed by the usual number of
+mysterious letters and figures and ran:
+
+"The Brigadier has noticed with regret the tendency of several officers
+to crowd into one dug-out. This practice must cease. An officer should
+have his dug-out as near those of his own men as possible, and should
+not pass his time in the dug-outs belonging to officers of other
+companies."
+
+"Here comes the General!" whispered somebody.
+
+I got first up the steps and hurried, a battered plate in my hand, along
+the trenches to my dug-out.
+
+
+
+
+XVIII
+
+THE RASCAL IN WAR
+
+
+Even the most apathetic of us has been changed by war--he who in times
+of peace was content with his ledgers and daily office round is now in
+the ranks of men who clamber over the parapet and rush, cheering, to the
+German lines; she who lived for golf, dances, and theatres is now caring
+for the wounded through the long nights in hospital. Everyone in every
+class of life has altered--the "slacker" has turned soldier, and the
+burglar has become a sound, honest man.
+
+Strange it is that war, which might be expected to arouse all the animal
+passions in us, has done us so much good! There are among the men in the
+trenches many hundreds who were, before the war, vastly more at home in
+the police courts and prisons than is the average Londoner at a public
+dinner. That they should be brave is not astonishing, for adventure is
+in their bones, but they are also as faithful, as trustworthy, as
+amenable to discipline as any soldiers we possess.
+
+There was "Nobby" Clarke, for instance. "Nobby" was a weedy little
+Cockney who became my "batman," or servant. He had complete control of
+my privy purse, did all my shopping, and haggled over my every halfpenny
+as carefully as though it were his own. Then, when he had served me for
+over six months, I overheard him one day recounting his prison
+experiences, and I discovered that he had been a pilferer and pickpocket
+well known in all the London police courts. In his odd moments out of
+jail, he would hover outside the larger stations, touch a bedraggled cap
+with a filthy finger, and say, "Kerry yer beg, sir?" in a threatening
+tone to all passers-by; his main income, however, appeared to come from
+far less respectable sources.
+
+And yet he served me more faithfully than I have ever been served before
+or since, and I have seldom been more sorry than I was when "Nobby"
+Clarke was hit. As we were tying him up--he had been wounded in eight
+places by a rifle grenade--he signed to me and I stooped over him.
+
+"I ain't got no one at 'ome as cares fer me," he said, "so yer might
+'and me things round to the blokes 'ere. I've got a photograph of me ole
+woman wot died five years ago. It's in me pay book, sir, an' I'd like
+yer to keep it jest to remind yer of me." Then, his voice getting weaker
+every moment, "I ain't been such a bad servant to yer, 'as I, sir?" he
+whispered, his eyes looking appealingly into mine. And when "Nobby"
+Clarke, onetime loafer and pickpocket, passed away, I am not ashamed to
+own that there was a queer sort of lump in my throat.
+
+And he was only one of many, was "Nobby" Clarke. There was Bennett, the
+tramp, who was always ready with a song to cheer up the weary on the
+march; there was a Jewish money-lender who was killed while trying to
+save a man who was lying wounded in No Man's Land; there was Phillips,
+who had been convicted of manslaughter--he became a stretcher-bearer,
+and was known all over the battalion for his care of the wounded.
+
+In every regiment in every army you will find a little group of men who
+were tramps and beggars and thieves, and, almost without exception, they
+have "made good." For the first time in their lives they have been
+accepted as members of great society, and not driven away as outcasts.
+The Army has welcomed them, disciplined them, and taught them the
+elements of self-respect--a quality whose very existence they ignored
+before the war.
+
+There is an Italian proverb--"Tutto il mondo è paese"--which means, in
+its broadest sense, "All the world is ruled by the same passion and
+qualities." In the old days it needed a Dickens, and, later, a Neil
+Lyons to discover the qualities of the criminal classes; now war has
+brought us all together--the erstwhile city merchant warms himself
+before the same brazier as the man who would have picked his pocket
+three years before--and we suddenly find that we are no better than the
+beggar, and that a man who stole apples from a stall is no worse at
+heart than the inhabitant of Mayfair.
+
+It is not that our ideas of greatness have degenerated when we call
+these men heroes; it is not that war is entirely a thing of evil, so
+that the criminal shines as a warrior--it is that these "outcasts" have
+changed. Statistics prove that crime has decreased since the war began,
+and crime will continue to decrease, for that indefinable instinct we
+call patriotism has seized on all classes alike, so that the criminal
+can make the supreme sacrifice just as magnificently as the man who has
+"kept straight" all his life.
+
+And the best of it is that this reform among burglars and beggars is not
+for the "duration of the war only." War has lost us our sons and our
+fathers, it has brought appalling sorrow and suffering into the world,
+but it has given the very poor a chance they have never had before. No
+more are they outcasts; they are members of society, and such they will
+remain. If this were all the good that war could do, it would still be
+our ultimate gain that the great scourge is passing over the world.
+
+
+
+
+XIX
+
+"PONGO" SIMPSON ON OFFICERS
+
+
+"Orficers," said "Pongo" Simpson, "is rum blokes. I've got a fam'ly of
+six kids back at 'ome, not counting Emma what's in service, an' I reckon
+my orficer's more trouble to look after nor all the lot of 'em put
+together. It's always: 'Simpson, where the dooce is my puttees?' or
+'Simpson, you've sewed this 'ere button on in the wrong place,' or
+'Simpson, the soup tastes like cocoa and the cocoa tastes like
+soup'--does 'e expect me to kerry a bloomin' collection of canteens?
+Don't 'e think it better to 'ave cocoa what's got a bit o' soup in it
+than to 'ave a canteen what's been washed in a shell 'ole along of a
+dead 'Un? Why, if we was goin' to charge to Berlin to-morrer I'd 'ave to
+spend 'arf the night cleanin' 'is boots and buttons.
+
+"Yes, 'e's a funny sort o' bloke, my orficer, but, my Gawd!"--and here
+Simpson expectorated to give emphasis to his statement--"I'd foller 'im
+against a crowd of 'Uns, or a lot of wimmen what's waiting for their
+'usbands what ain't come 'ome at three in the morning, or anythink else
+you like. 'E's an 'elpless sort of chap, an' 'e's got funny ideas about
+shavin' and washin'--sort of disease, you know--but 'e's a good sort
+when you knows 'is little ways.
+
+"Do you remember that young Mr. Wilkinson?" asked "Pongo," and a few of
+the "old hands" in the dug-out nodded affirmatively. "'E was a one, 'e
+was," resumed "Pongo." "Do you remember the day we was gassed on 'Ill
+60? 'E used to be my bloke then, and I was with 'im all the time. 'E was
+a proper lad! When the gas 'ad gone over there was only five of A
+Company left, with 'im in charge, and we knew as 'ow the 'Uns would
+attack as soon as they thought we was properly wiped out. And Mr.
+Wilkinson was fine. All down the trench 'e put blokes' rifles on the
+parapet, and the 'ole bloomin' six of us ran up an' down the trench like
+a lot of rabbits, firin' off rifle after rifle till the Alleymans must
+'ave thought we was an 'ole battalion. The only times when Mr. Wilkinson
+wasn't firin' rifles, 'e was fusin' bombs, jest as busy as that little
+girl be'ind the counter of the Nag's 'Ead of a Saturday night. 'E must
+'ave sent a good number of 'Uns 'ome that day with bits of bombs inside
+of them.
+
+"And you should 'a' seen Mr. Wilkinson when the Sergeant wos for givin'
+in and goin' back to the second line! We'd all the gas in us more or
+less, and 'e could 'ardly talk, 'e was that bad, but when 'e 'eard the
+Sergeant say as 'ow 'e was goin' back, 'e shouted like the Colonel on a
+battalion parade. 'Curse you, Sergeant!' 'e yelled, 'what's the good of
+goin' back? We've got to 'old this trench or 'op it. If you don't like
+the air down there, come up on the parapet with me.' And up 'e jumps on
+to the parapet with the gas clearin' away, and the Fritzes only 30 or 40
+yards off.
+
+"'It? Why, of course 'e was 'it. 'E was laughin' like a kid what's
+stealin' apples--all excited like--when they got 'im right through the
+'ead, and 'e fell down on the other side of the parapet. But 'e'd done
+what 'e wanted to, for the Sergeant wasn't talkin' any more about goin'
+back. 'E crawled out over the parapet and brought poor Mr. Wilkinson
+back, and got 'it in the leg while 'e was doin' it, too. But that didn't
+matter to 'im, for 'e was out to 'ave 'is own back, was the Sergeant,
+and we 'eld that bloomin' trench for another hour until the blokes got
+up the communication trench to 'elp us. There's a lot of medals what
+ought to go to blokes as don't get them, and it might 'ave 'elped Mr.
+Wilkinson's mother if they'd given 'im the V.C., but there weren't no
+other orficers about, and they didn't take any notice of us chaps."
+
+"Talkin' of 'Ill 60," said Bert Potter, "there was that Captain--I
+misremember 'is name--you know, that bloke what got into trouble at the
+ole farm for giving a cow a tin o' bully beef, and the cow died next
+day. I was in 'is trench with a machine gun when 'e got 'is little bit.
+A chunk out of an 'and grenade 'it 'im in the thigh, and 'e laughed like
+'ell becos 'e'd got a 'cushy' wound. Why, 'e even said as 'ow 'e could
+walk down to the dressing station, and we envied 'im like 'ell and
+thought it was only a flesh wound. I got 'it the next day and went to
+the same 'orspital where 'e was. 'E'd 'ad 'is thigh bone smashed all to
+bits, and they'd jest taken 'is leg off when I saw 'im. 'E was weak as a
+kid and chirpy as a sparrer, and only cursin' becos 'e was out of things
+for the rest of the war. I never 'eard what 'appened to 'im, but the
+nurse told me as 'ow they was afraid 'e wouldn't recover becos of
+emmyridge, or something with a name like that. And 'e wasn't more nor
+twenty-one years old neither, pore bloke."
+
+"But you won't beat the Medical Orficer anywhere," said Jones, one of
+the stretcher-bearers who was on duty in the trenches. "'E don't 'ave to
+fight, but you should see 'im when things is busy up 'ere. Coat off an'
+sleeves up, workin' for 'ours on end till any man what wasn't an 'orse
+would drop dead. 'E's 'ard on the shirkers and scrimshankers--e's the
+sort of bloke what would give you a dose o' castor oil for earache or
+frost-bitten feet, but 'e's like a mother with the wounded. I've seen
+'im, too, goin' along the cutting when the whizz-bangs was burstin' all
+the way down it, carryin' some wounded fellow in 'is arms as calmly as
+if 'e were an ole girl carryin' a parcel along Regent Street. And then,"
+said Jones, as he named the greatest point in the M.O.'s favour, "'e's
+the best forward on a wet day as ever I seed."
+
+Just at that moment a voice sounded from farther up the trench.
+"Simpson," it said, "where the deuce is my toothbrush?"
+
+"Jest comin', sir. I've got 'un," answered "Pongo" Simpson as he
+produced a greasy-looking toothbrush from his pocket. "'Ere, give us
+that canteen of 'ot water," he said quietly, "I used 'is toothbrush to
+grease 'is boots with yesterday--didn't think 'e'd miss it, for you
+don't come out 'ere to wash your teeth. They 'ave got funny ways, these
+'ere orficers. 'Owever," he continued as he wiped the brush dry on the
+sleeve of his tunic, "what the eye don't see, the 'eart don't grieve
+over. 'E'll only think as 'ow it's the water what's greasy."
+
+"Simpson," came the voice from farther along the trench, a moment or so
+later, "this is the greasiest water I've ever tasted. What the deuce
+you've done to it I don't know."
+
+
+
+
+XX
+
+THE HAND OF SHADOW
+
+
+"Come in," said Margery Debenham, as she opened her eyes lazily to the
+sunlight. "Put my tea on the table, please, Mary. I'm too sleepy to
+drink it yet.
+
+"There's a letter from the front, miss," said Mary with emphasis, as she
+went out of the room.
+
+Margery was awake in a second. She jumped out of bed, slipped on a
+dressing-gown, and, letter in hand, ran over to the window to read it in
+the morning sunshine. As she tore open the envelope and found only a
+small sheet of paper inside, she made a little _moue_ of disappointment,
+but the first words of the letter changed it into a sigh of joy. It was
+dated September 13th and ran:
+
+"MY DARLING,
+
+"At last I have got my leave, and am coming home to be married. Our
+months of waiting are over. I leave here to-morrow afternoon, shall
+spend the night on the way somewhere, and shall arrive in London late
+on the 15th, or during the morning of the 16th. I must spend the day in
+town to do a little shopping (I couldn't be seen at my own wedding very
+well in the clothes I have on now) and expect to get down to Silton at
+3.20 on the 17th. I have to be back in this hole on the 24th, so that if
+we get married on Saturday we shall have quite a nice little honeymoon.
+Darling little one! Isn't it too good to be true? I can hardly realise
+that within a week I shall be
+
+"Your devoted and hen-pecked husband
+
+RONALD."
+
+"P.S.--I have written to father, and he will make all arrangements for
+Saturday.
+
+"P.P.S.--Shall I be allowed to smoke in the drawing-room?"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Margery Debenham leant out of the window and gazed at the garden and the
+orchard beyond. The light flickered through the trees of the old flagged
+path along which she and Ronald had so often wandered, and she could
+just see the tall grass waving down at the bottom of the orchard, where
+they used to sit and discuss the future. Everything reminded her of her
+lover who was coming back to her, who would be with her again to-morrow
+afternoon. At the thought of the five long, weary months of waiting that
+were passed, and of the eight days of happiness that were coming, two
+little tears crept out of her eyes and down her cheeks. She brushed them
+impatiently away, for she was too busy to cry. She must run and tell her
+parents; she must hurry over to talk to Ronald's father; she must write
+to her friends; she must run down to the bottom of the orchard and watch
+for a while the trout that lay in the little stream; she must laugh and
+sing until the whole village of Silton knew that her waiting was over,
+and that Ronald was in England again.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Captain Ronald Carr hoisted his pack on his shoulder, and turned to
+three officers who were looking at him enviously. "Cheer oh, you
+fellows," he said, "think of me in two days' time, while you are being
+'strafed' by the Hun, rushing about town in a taxi," and, with a wave of
+his hand, he marched off to battalion headquarters, followed by Butler,
+his servant. From battalion headquarters he had a distance of two miles
+to walk to the cross roads where he was to meet his groom with his
+horse, but the day was hot and progress was rather slow. His first
+quarter of a mile was along a narrow and winding communicating trench;
+after that the way was along a hidden road, but huge shell craters all
+along told that the German artillery had it well marked.
+
+Away to the right a bombardment was in progress, and the dull thuds of
+the guns came sleepily through the September haze; above him, a skylark
+sang lustily; the long grass by the roadside smelt sweet and lush. As
+Ronald Carr strode down the road, he laughed to himself at the fairness
+of the world.
+
+Of a sudden, a shell burst over some trees a few hundred yards away,
+and, as the white smoke rolled away, he felt aware of a change.
+
+Supposing he were to get wounded on the way down! With the next warning
+whine of a coming shell he found himself ducking as never before, for
+Captain Carr was not a man who often crouched for nothing.
+
+Another shell came, and another, and with each his feeling grew. Just so
+must a mouse feel, he thought, when a cat plays with it. He felt as
+though he were at the mercy of an enormous giant, and that, each time he
+thought to escape, the shadow of a huge hand fell on the ground around
+him, and he knew that the hand above was waiting to crush him. At the
+thought, the hair on his forehead grew damp; time after time he checked
+his mad impulse to quicken his pace, and caught himself glancing
+covertly at his servant to see if he noticed his captain's strange
+behaviour. Suppose the hand should crush him before he could get back to
+England, to his home, to his marriage!
+
+Suddenly there were four short, loud hisses, and four shells burst along
+the road close in front of them.
+
+"They're searching the road. Quick, into the ditch," shouted Carr to
+his servant, as he jumped into an old trench that ran along the
+roadside. Butler turned to do the same, slipped on the _pavé_, and fell
+heavily, his ankle badly sprained. Those hateful hisses would come again
+before the man could crawl into safety, and this time they would
+probably be nearer, and escape almost miraculous. Captain Carr leaped
+out of the trench again and helped his servant to his feet.
+
+"Cling on to me, man!" and, a moment after, he shouted, "down, here they
+come again!" and they flung themselves on their faces scarce two feet
+from the ditch and probable safety.
+
+When Butler raised his head again after the four explosions, Captain
+Ronald Carr lay at his side, dead. The hand had grasped its prey.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Margery Debenham was standing in front of her mirror, getting ready to
+go to meet Ronald by the 3.20 train, when Mr. Carr came to announce the
+receipt of the War Office telegram.
+
+She could find no tears when she heard the news; she felt stunned, and
+vaguely bored by the platitudes of consolation people uttered. When she
+could escape, she went slowly down the flagged path, where they used to
+walk to the orchard, where the future had been planned by two people
+full of the happy confidence of the young. She flung herself down in
+the long grass by the stream, and buried her hot face in her hands.
+
+"What does it all mean?" she said to herself. Then, a minute later, she
+thought of all the other women who had to bear the same pain, and all
+for no reason. "There is no God," she cried passionately. "No one can
+help me, for there is no God." Day after day, night after night of
+waiting, and all for nothing. All those hours of agony, when the papers
+talked of "diversions" on the British front, rewarded by the supreme
+agony, by the sudden loss of all hope. No more need to hunt for a loved
+but dreaded name through the casualty lists every morning; all that was
+finished now.
+
+The splash of a jumping trout in the pool under the willow tree took her
+thoughts away from her pain for the fraction of a second--just
+sufficient time to allow the soothing tears to come.
+
+"O God," she murmured, "help me to see why. Help me, God, help me!" and
+she burst into sobs, her face pressed down into the cool, long grass.
+
+
+
+
+XXI
+
+THE VETERAN
+
+
+Old Jules Lemaire, ex-sergeant in the 3rd regiment of the line, raised
+his wine glass.
+
+"Bonne chance," he said, "and may you fight the devils as we did in 1870
+and 1871, and with more success too."
+
+"Enough of you and your 1870," said someone roughly. "We go out to win
+where you lost; there will be no Woerth or Sedan in this war. We will
+drive the Prussians back to Berlin; you let them march to Paris. We are
+going to act, whereas you can only talk--you are much too old, you see,
+Père Lemaire."
+
+The ex-sergeant put down his glass with a jerk as though he had been
+struck. He looked around on the company that filled the front room of
+the Faisan d'Or, and on the faces of the men who had looked up to him
+for years as the hero of 1870 he now saw only the keenness to fight. He
+was old, forgotten, and no longer respected, and the blow was a hard one
+to bear.
+
+The cloud of war was drifting up from the east, and the French Army was
+mobilising for the Great War. The peasants of the village had just been
+called up, and within half an hour they would be on their way to the
+depots of their different regiments, while Jules Lemaire, sergeant of
+the line, would be left at home with the cripples and the women and the
+children.
+
+"I will serve France as well as any of you," he said defiantly. "I will
+find a way." But his voice was unheeded in the general bustle and noise,
+and Madame Nolan, the only person who appeared to hear him, sniffed with
+contempt.
+
+Men destined for different regiments were saying good-bye to each other;
+Georges Simon, the blacksmith, with his arm round his fiancée's waist,
+was joking with Madame Nolan, who hurried about behind her little zinc
+counter; the door slammed noisily at each departure--and Jules Lemaire
+sat unheeded in the corner by the old clock.
+
+And presently, when the front room was quiet and Madame Nolan was using
+her dirty apron to wipe away her tears, the ex-sergeant crept out
+quietly into the street and hobbled along to his cottage. He reached up
+and took his old Chassepot rifle down from the wall where it had hung
+these many years, and, while the other inhabitants thronged the road,
+cheering, weeping, laughing, Jules Lemaire sat before his little wooden
+table, with his rifle in his hands and a pile of cartridges before him.
+
+"There will be a way," he murmured. "I will help my country; there will
+be a way."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The grey invaders swept on through the village, and Jules Lemaire, from
+his hiding-place on the church tower, watched them come with tears of
+impotent rage on his cheeks. Battalion after battalion they passed
+by--big, confident Germans who jeered at the peasants, and who sang as
+they plodded over the _pavé_. Once, when a company was halted beneath
+him, while the officers went in to the Faisan d'Or across the road, to
+see what they could loot in the way of drinks, the ex-sergeant aimed
+carefully at the captain, but he put down his rifle without firing.
+
+At last, late in the afternoon when the dusk was beginning to hide the
+southern hills, Jules Lemaire's waiting came to an end. A large motor
+car drew up outside the inn, and a general with three officers of his
+staff got out into the road. One of the officers spread a map on the old
+door bench--where Jules Lemaire had so often sat of an evening and told
+of his adventures in the war--and, while an orderly went to procure wine
+for them, the four Germans bent over the plan of the country they
+thought to conquer.
+
+Suddenly a shot rang out from the church tower above them. The general
+fell forward on to the bench, while his blood and his wine mingled in a
+staining stream that ran across the map of invincible France, and
+dripped down on to the dust below.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+They met Jules Lemaire coming down the spiral steps of the church tower,
+his rifle still in his hand. They hit him with their rifle butts, they
+tied him up with part of the bell rope, and propped him up against the
+church wall.
+
+Just before they fired, Jules Lemaire caught sight of Madame Nolan, who
+stood, terrified and weeping, at the doorway of the inn.
+
+"You see," he shouted to her, "I also, I have helped my country. I was
+not too old after all."
+
+And he died with a smile on his face.
+
+
+
+
+XXII
+
+THE SING-SONG
+
+
+As soon as the battalion marches back from the trenches to the village
+in the first light of the morning, everyone turns his mind to methods
+which will help the few days of rest to pass as pleasantly as war and
+the limited amusements afforded by two estaminets and a row of cottages
+will permit.
+
+"Chacun son goût." As he tramps along the street, B Company
+Sergeant-Major challenges Corporal Rogers to a boxing match on the
+morrow; Second Lieutenant White, who is new to war, sits in his billet
+and, by the light of a candle stuck in a bottle, traces the distance to
+the nearest town on the off chance that he will get leave to visit it;
+the doctor demands of his new landlady, in the most execrable French,
+where he can find a field suitable for "le football"; and Private
+Wilson, as he "dosses down" on the floor, suggests sleepily to Private
+Jones that he will be thirsty in the afternoon and that Private Jones
+has been owing him a drink since that day in Ouderdom three weeks ago.
+
+Besides such methods of passing the time, there are baths to be had in
+the great brewery vats of the village, there is an inter-company hockey
+tournament to be played with a Tickler's jam tin in lieu of a ball, and,
+best of all, there is the "sing-song."
+
+Be it in a trench, or in a barn, or out in the open fields where the
+battalion lies bivouacked under rows of waterproof sheets strung up as
+inadequate tents, the sing-song is sure of success, and a man with a
+voice like a mowing machine will receive as good a reception as would
+Caruso or Melba at Covent Garden. There is a French Territorial regiment
+which has a notice up at the entrance of its "music hall"--"Entrée pour
+Messieurs les Poilus. Prix un sourire." Admission a smile! There is
+never a man turned away from its doors, for where is the "poilu" or
+where is the "Tommy" who is not always ready with a smile and a laugh
+and a song?
+
+There are little incidents in life that engrave themselves deep in the
+memory. Of all the sing-songs I have attended, there is one that is
+still vivid--the brush of time has washed away the outlines and edges of
+the others.
+
+We were billeted, I remember, in Eliza's farm--Eliza, for the benefit of
+those who do not know her, is fair, fat, fifty, and Flemish; a lady who
+shakes everyone in the farm into wakefulness at five o'clock each
+morning by the simple process of stepping out of bed--when the Captain
+decided that we wanted "taking out of ourselves." "We'll have a
+sing-song," he announced.
+
+So the Company Sergeant-Major was called in to make arrangements, and at
+eight o'clock that evening we wandered into the Orchestra Stalls. The
+concert hall was a large barn with a double door in the middle which had
+been opened wide to allow the admittance of a cart, which was placed in
+the entrance to act as a stage. All around the high barn, and perched
+precariously on the beams, were the men, while we of the Orchestra
+Stalls were accommodated on chairs placed near the stage. Behind the
+cart was a background consisting of Eliza and her numerous gentlemen
+friends, her daughter, an old lady aged roughly a hundred, and a cow
+that had no right to be there at all, but had wandered in from the
+nearest field to see the show. An orchestral accompaniment was kept up,
+even during the saddest recitation, by dozens of little pigs that
+scrambled about in the farmyard and under the stage. And beyond the farm
+swayed the tall poplars that stood along the road which led straight
+away into the distance, whence came sudden flashes of light and the
+long, dull rumble of the guns.
+
+Of the programme itself, I have but the vaguest recollection, for the
+programmes are the least interesting part of these performances. The
+first item, I remember, was a dreadful sentimental song by Private
+Higgs which accident converted from comparative failure into howling
+success. Just as he was rendering the most affecting passage, Private
+Higgs stepped back too far, the cart--of the two-wheeled
+variety--overbalanced, and the sad singer was dropped down amongst the
+little pigs below, to the great joy of the crowd.
+
+Then came a Cockney humorist, who, in times of peace, was the owner of a
+fried fish and chip barrow in that home of low comedians--the East End.
+After him appeared Sergeant Andrews, disguised in one of Eliza's
+discarded skirts, with a wisp of straw on his head to represent a lady's
+hair. Some vulgar song he sang in a shrill, falsetto voice that caused
+great dismay among the pigs, as yet unused to the vagaries of the
+British soldier.
+
+After the interval, during which the audience _en masse_ made a
+pilgrimage to Eliza's back door to buy beer at a penny a glass, there
+came the usual mixture of the vulgar and the sentimental, for nothing on
+earth is more sentimental than a soldier. There was the inevitable
+"Beautiful Picture in a Beautiful Golden Frame," and a recitation in
+Yiddish which was well applauded simply because no man had any idea what
+it was about. The Sergeant-Major gave a very creditable rendering of
+"Loch Lomond" in a voice that would terrify a recruit, and we finished
+up the evening with a song requesting a certain naughty boy to hold out
+his hand, which was shouted by everyone with so much vigour that one
+wondered how it was the men could still sing "God save the King" when
+the time came.
+
+And far into the night, when the farmyard lay still and ghostly, and the
+pigs had gone off to bed, we still sat and talked in the "Officers'
+Mess," and recalled jokes of George Robey and Harry Tate, or hummed over
+the tunes we had heard at the last Queen's Hall concert. As the Captain
+had said, we wanted "taking out of ourselves," and it had just needed an
+impromptu concert in an old Flemish barn to do it.
+
+
+
+
+XXIII
+
+THE "STRAFE" THAT FAILED
+
+
+There is a certain battery in France where the name of Archibald Smith
+brings a scowl to every brow and an oath to every lip. The Battery Major
+still crimsons with wrath at the thought of him, and the Observing
+Officer remembers bitterly the long, uncomfortable hours he spent,
+perched up in a tree a hundred yards or so from the German lines. And
+this is how Archibald Smith was the unwitting cause of so much anger to
+the battery, and the saver of many a German life.
+
+One morning shortly before dawn the Commanding Officer of an infantry
+regiment was wading down a communicating trench, when he met an
+artillery officer, accompanied by three men with a big roll of telephone
+wire.
+
+"Hullo, what are you doing at this hour?" he asked.
+
+"We hope to do some good 'strafing,' sir," said the subaltern. "I'm
+coming up to observe. Some aeroplane fellow has found out that Brother
+Boche does his relieving by day in the trenches opposite. We hope to
+catch the relief to-day at ten."
+
+"Where are you going to observe from?"
+
+"There's an old sniper's post in one of the trees just behind your
+trenches. If I get up there before light I shall get a topping view, and
+am not likely to get spotted. That's why I'm going up there now, before
+it gets light."
+
+"Well, are you going to stick up on that confounded perch until ten
+o'clock?" asked the C.O. "You'd better come and have some breakfast with
+us first."
+
+But the Observing Officer knew the necessity of getting to his post as
+soon as possible and, reluctantly refusing the Colonel's invitation, he
+went on his way. Ten minutes later, he was lying full length on a
+platform constructed in one of the trees just behind the firing line.
+With the aid of his glasses, he scanned the German sandbags and, in the
+growing light, picked out a broad communicating trench winding towards
+the rear. "Once they are in that gutter," he muttered, "we shall get
+lots of them," and he allowed this thought to fortify him during his
+long wait.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"Quite sure the telephone's all right?" asked the Observing Officer for
+the fiftieth time. "If that wire were to go wrong we should have no
+means of getting on to the battery, for the infantry can only get on by
+'phoning to Brigade Headquarters first, and you know what that means."
+
+The telephone orderly, situated in a trench almost underneath the
+observer's tree, smiled consolingly, "That's all right, sir," he said.
+"I can ring up the battery in a second when the 'Uns come, as they ought
+to in a minute."
+
+He had hardly spoken when they came. The subaltern could see them quite
+distinctly at the turnings of the trench, and at other times an
+occasional head or rifle showed itself. "God!" said the subaltern, "if
+we search that trench with shrapnel, we must get heaps of them," and he
+issued a hurried order. Trembling in his excitement, he awaited the
+report "Just fired, sir," but nothing happened. The orderly called and
+called the battery, but there was no reply. The wire was cut!
+
+Half an hour later, the Battery Major came across his Observing Officer
+and a sergeant gazing dismally at two ends of cut wire.
+
+"I was just coming down to see what was the matter. I hear from the
+Brigade that some doddering idiot has cut our wire. Who in the hell was
+it?"
+
+"I don't know, sir. All I know is that I have seen a wonderful target,
+and couldn't fire a round at it. The relief's over by now, and, as we
+leave this sector to-night, we've lost a priceless chance."
+
+"It must be some wretched infantry blighter," said the Major. "I'll just
+go and have a talk to their C.O.," and he hurried off to the Colonel's
+dug-out, leaving the Observer to lament his lost target.
+
+The C.O. smiled soothingly. "My dear Wilson," he said to the Major, "I
+don't think it could have been one of our men. They have been warned so
+often. What do you say, Richards?" he asked the Adjutant.
+
+"Well, sir, I'm not sure. I saw that young fellow Smith with some wire
+about half an hour ago, but I don't expect he did it. I'll send for him
+to make sure."
+
+Second Lieutenant Archibald Smith certainly looked harmless enough. He
+was thin and freckled, and his big blue eyes gazed appealingly through
+his glasses.
+
+"Where did you get that wire you had just now?" asked the Adjutant.
+
+Smith beamed. "I got it just behind the wood, sir. There's a lot of old
+wi ..." but the Major interrupted him. "That's the place," he cried
+excitedly. "Well, what the devil did you go cutting my wire for?"
+
+Archibald Smith looked at him in alarmed fascination. "I didn't think it
+was any good, sir. I wa-wanted some string, and...."
+
+"What did you want string for? Were you going to hang yourself to the
+roof of your dug-out?"
+
+"No, sir. I wanted to wrap up a p-parcel to send home, sir. I wa-anted
+to send back some socks and underclothes to be darned. I'm very sorry,
+sir."
+
+"Sorry? Sorry be damned, and your underclothes too!" And the Battery
+Major, who had more bad language at his disposal than most men in the
+Army, for once forgot he was in the presence of a senior officer.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+While the Major, his subaltern, and three men with a roll of wire wended
+their sorry way back to the battery, Archibald Smith, surprised and
+hurt, sat in his dug-out, amusing himself by making fierce bayonet
+thrusts at his parcel, and alternately wishing it were the Major or
+himself.
+
+
+
+
+XXIV
+
+THE NIGHTLY ROUND
+
+
+I swear, and rub my eyes.
+
+"Dusk, sir," says the Sergeant-Major with a smile of comprehension, and
+he lets fall the waterproof sheet which acts as a door to my dug-out. I
+yawn prodigiously, get up slowly from my bed--one of two banks of earth
+that run parallel down each side of my muddy hovel, rather after the
+fashion of seats down each side of an omnibus--and go out into the
+trench, along which the command "Stand to arms" has just been passed.
+The men leave their letters and their newspapers; Private Webb, who
+earned his living in times of peace by drawing thin, elongated ladies in
+varying stages of undress for fashion catalogues, puts aside his
+portrait of the Sergeant, who is still smiling with ecstasy at a tin of
+chloride of lime; the obstinate sleepers are roused, to a great flow of
+bad language, and all stand to their arms in the possibility of an
+attack.
+
+It is a monotonous time, that hour of waiting until darkness falls, for
+gossip is scarce in the trenches, and the display of fireworks in the
+shape of German star shells has long since ceased to interest us--always
+excepting those moments when we are in front of our trench on some
+patrol. Away to the left, where the artillery have been busy all day,
+the shelling slackens as the light fades, and the rifle shots grow more
+and more frequent. Presently the extra sentries are posted--one man in
+every three--the disgusted working parties are told off to their work of
+filling sandbags or improving the communication trenches, and the long,
+trying night begins.
+
+All down the line the German bullets spin overhead or crack like whips
+against our sandbags, sending little clods of earth down into the
+trench; all down the line we stand on our firing platforms, and answer
+back to the little spurts of flame which mark the enemy trench; sudden
+flashes and explosions tell of bombs or grenades, and star shells from
+both sides sweep high into the air to silhouette the unwary and to give
+one something to fire at, for firing into the darkness with the
+probability of hitting nothing more dangerous than a tree or a sandbag
+is work of but little interest.
+
+I wander on my rounds to see that all the sentries are on the alert,
+and, suddenly, nearly fall over a man lying face downwards along the
+bottom of the trench. "Here, you can't sleep here, you know; you give no
+one a chance to pass," I say, and, for answer, I am told to "shut up,"
+while a suppressed but still audible giggle from Private Harris warns me
+that the situation is not as I had imagined. The figure in the mud gets
+up and proves to be an officer of the Engineers, listening for sounds of
+mining underneath us. "I think they're at it again, but I'm not certain
+yet," he says cheerfully as he goes off to his own dug-out. I, in turn,
+lie down in the mud with my ear pressed to the ground, and I seem to
+hear, far beneath me, the rumble of the trolleys and the sound of the
+pick, so that I am left for the rest of the night in the uncomfortable
+expectation of flying heavenwards at any moment.
+
+A buzz of voices which reaches me as I return from a visit to a working
+party informs me that the one great event of the night has taken
+place--the rations and the mail have arrived and have been "dumped" by
+the carrying party in a little side trench. Before I reach the spot a
+man comes hurrying up to me, "Please, sir," he says, "young Denham has
+been hit by a rifle grenade. 'E's got it very bad." Just as I pass the
+side trench, I hear the sergeant who is issuing the letters call:
+"Denham. A letter for young Denham," and someone says, "I'll take it to
+him, Sergeant, 'e's in my section."
+
+But the letter has arrived too late, for when I reach the other end of
+the trench Denham is dead, and a corporal, is carefully searching his
+pockets for his letters and money to hand over to the platoon commander.
+They have carried him close to the brazier for light, and the flames
+find reflection on the white skin of his throat where his tunic has been
+torn open, and there is an ugly black stain on the bandage that has been
+roughly tied round him. Only one man in millions, it is true, but one
+more letter sent home with that awful "Killed" written across it, and
+one more mother mourning for her only child.
+
+And so the night draws on. Now there is a lull, and the sentries,
+standing on the fire platforms, allow their heavy lids to fall in a
+moment's sleep; now a sudden burst of intense fire runs along the line,
+and everyone springs to his rifle, while star shells go up by dozens;
+now a huge rumble from the distance tells that a mine has been fired,
+and we wonder dully who fired it, and how many have been killed--dully
+only, for death has long since ceased to mean anything to us, and our
+powers of realisation and pity, thank God! have been blunted until the
+only things that matter are food and sleep.
+
+At last the order to stand to arms is given again, and the new day comes
+creeping sadly over the plain of Flanders. What looked like a great hand
+stretched up appealingly to heaven becomes a shattered, broken tree; the
+uniform veil of grey gives place to grass and empty tins, dead bodies
+lying huddled up grotesquely, and winding lines of German trenches. The
+sky goes faintly blue, and the sun peeps out, gleaming on the drops of
+rain that still hang from our barbed wire, and on the long row of
+bayonets along the trench.
+
+The new day is here, but what will it bring? The monotony may be broken
+by an attack, the battalion may be relieved. Who knows? Who cares?
+Enough that daylight is here and the sun is shining, that periscopes and
+sleep are once more permitted, that breakfast is at hand, and that some
+day we shall get back to billets.
+
+
+
+
+XXV
+
+JOHN WILLIAMS, TRAMP AND SOLDIER
+
+
+On a wet and cheerless evening in September 1914, John Williams, tramp,
+sat in the bar of the Golden Lion and gazed regretfully at the tankard
+before him, which must of necessity remain empty, seeing that he had
+just spent his last penny. To him came a recruiting sergeant.
+
+"Would you like a drink, mate?" he asked.
+
+John Williams did not hesitate.
+
+"You ought to be in the Army," said the sergeant, as he put down his
+empty tankard, "a fine great body of a man like you. It's the best life
+there is."
+
+"I bean't so sartain as I want to be a sojer. I be a hindependent man."
+
+"It's a good life for a healthy man," went on the sergeant. "We'll talk
+it over," and he ordered another drink apiece.
+
+John Williams, who had had more than enough before the sergeant had
+spoken to him, gazed mistily at his new acquaintance. "Thee do seem to
+have a main lot o' money to spend."
+
+The sergeant laughed. "It's Army pay, mate, as does it. I get a fine,
+easy life, good clothes and food, and plenty of money for my glass of
+beer. Where did you sleep last night?" he asked suddenly.
+
+"If I do mind me right," said John Williams, "it were in a leaky barn,
+over Newton way."
+
+"Where are you going to sleep to-night?" asked the sergeant again.
+
+Williams remembered his empty pocket. "I doan't know," he said with
+regret. "Most likely on some seat in the park."
+
+"Well, you come along o' me, and you'll get a comfortable barricks to
+sleep in, a life as you likes, and a bob a day to spend on yourself."
+
+John Williams listened to the dripping of the rain outside. To his
+bemused brain the thought of a "comfortable barricks" was very, very
+tempting. "Blame me if I doan't come along o' thee," he said at length.
+
+In wartime a medical examination is soon over and an attestation paper
+filled up. "There's nothing wrong with you, my man," said the Medical
+Officer, "except that you're half drunk."
+
+"I bean't drunk, mister," protested Williams sleepily.
+
+"We'll take you at your word, anyhow," said the doctor. "You're too
+good a man physically to lose for the Army."
+
+Thus it was that John Williams took the King's Shilling, and swore to
+serve his country as a soldier should.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+One of the most wonderful things about the British Army is the way that
+recruits are gradually fashioned into soldiers. There are thousands of
+men fighting on our different fronts who, a year ago, hated the thought
+of discipline and order; they are now amongst the best soldiers we have.
+But there are exceptions--Private John Williams was one. In a little
+over a year of military service, he had absented himself without leave
+no fewer than eleven times, and the various punishments meted out to him
+failed signally in their object to break him of his habit. In every
+respect save one he was a good soldier, but, do what it would, the Army
+could not bring him to see the folly of repeated desertion; the life in
+the Army is not the life for a man with the wander thirst of centuries
+in his blood. Williams had all the gipsy's love of wandering and
+solitude, and not even a threatened punishment of death will cure a man
+of that.
+
+So it came about that John Williams sat outside his billet one September
+evening, and watched the white chalk road that ran over the hill towards
+Amiens. After the flat and cultivated country of Flanders, the rolling
+hills called with an unparalleled insistence, and the idea of spending
+the two remaining days before the battalion went back to the trenches in
+company with sixty other men in a barn grew more and more odious. If he
+were to go off even for twenty-four hours, he would receive, on return,
+probably nothing more than a few days Field Punishment, which, after
+all, was not so bad when one grew used to it. He was sick of the life of
+a soldier, sick of obeying officers half his age, sick of being ordered
+to do things that seemed senseless to him; he would be quit of it all
+for twenty-four hours.
+
+John Williams went to the only shop in the village to buy food, with the
+aid of fifty centimes and a wonderful Lingua Franca of his own, and when
+his companions collected in their billet that night he was already far
+away on the open road. He walked fast through the still September
+evening, and as he walked he sang, and the woods echoed to the strange
+songs that gipsies sing to themselves as they squat round their fires at
+night. When at last he came to a halt he soon found sleep, and lay
+huddled up in his greatcoat at the foot of a poplar tree, until the dawn
+awoke him.
+
+All through the summer day he walked, his Romany blood singing in his
+veins at the feel of the turf beneath his feet, and evening found him
+strolling contentedly through the village to his billet. Suddenly a
+sentry challenged: "'Alt! who goes there?"
+
+"Downshires," came the reply.
+
+"Well, what the 'ell are you doin' of 'ere?"
+
+"I be going back to my regiment."
+
+"Well, your regiment's in the trenches. They relieved us sudden like
+last night, owing to us getting cut up. You see, they Germans attacked
+us and killed a good few of our chaps before we drove 'em out again, so
+the Downshires 'ad to come up and relieve us late; somewhere about
+eleven o'clock they must 'ave left 'ere. What are you doing of, any'ow?"
+he asked jokingly. "Are you a bloomin' deserter what's come to be
+arrested?" But he posed the question to empty air, for Williams was
+retracing his steps at a steady double.
+
+"Seems to me that bloke 'll get hisself inter trouble," said the sentry
+of the Westfords as he spat in disgust. Then he forgot all about it, and
+fell to wondering what the bar of the Horse and Plough must be looking
+like at the moment.
+
+John Williams knew that he had burnt his boats, and he became a deserter
+in real earnest. For several weeks he remained at large, and each day
+made the idea of giving himself up of his own accord more difficult to
+entertain; but at last he was singled out from among the many men who
+wander about behind the firing line, and was placed under a guard that
+put hope of escape out of the question. Not even the wander thirst in
+his gipsy blood could set his feet on the wide chalk road again, or give
+him one more night of freedom.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"He might have a long term of imprisonment, mightn't he, sir?" asked the
+junior member of the Court Martial. "He could have no idea that his
+regiment was suddenly warned for the trenches when he deserted. Besides,
+the man used to be a tramp, and it must be exceptionally hard for a man
+who has led a wandering life to accustom himself to discipline. It must
+be in his blood to desert." And he blushed slightly, for he sounded
+sentimental, and there is little room for sentiment in an army on active
+service.
+
+The President of the Court was a Major who liked his warm fire and his
+linen sheets, which, with the elements of discipline and warfare,
+occupied most of his thoughts. "I fear you forget," he said rather
+testily, "that this is the twelfth occasion on which this man has made
+off. I have never heard of such a case in my life. Besides, on this
+occasion he was warned that the Downshires were in the trenches by the
+sentry of the Westfords, and, instead of giving himself up, he
+deliberately turned round and ran off, so that the excuse of ignorance
+does not hold water. That the man was a tramp is, to my mind, no excuse
+either--the army is not a rest home for tired tramps. The man is an
+out-and-out scoundrel."
+
+So the junior member, fearful of seeming sentimental and unmilitary,
+timidly suggested the sentence of death, to which the other two agreed.
+
+"We must make an example of these fellows. There are far too many cases
+of desertion," said the Major, as he lit his pipe and hurried off to his
+tea.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Thus ended the career of No. 1234 Pte. John Williams, formerly a tramp
+in the west of England, unmourned and despised.
+
+On the morning after he had been shot, his platoon sergeant sat before a
+brazier and talked to a corporal. "'E ain't no bloomin' loss, 'e ain't.
+'E gave me too much trouble, and I got fair sick of 'aving to report 'im
+absent. It serves 'im blamed well right, that's what I say."
+
+The corporal sipped his tea out of an extremely dirty canteen. "Well,"
+he said at length, "I 'ope as the poor devil don't find it so warm where
+'e's gone as what it is 'ere. I quite liked un, though 'e were a bit
+free with 'is fists, and always dreamin' like," which was probably the
+only appreciation ever uttered in memory of John Williams, tramp and
+soldier.
+
+
+
+
+XXVI
+
+THE CLEARING HOUSE
+
+
+You collect your belongings, you stretch and yawn, you rub your eyes to
+rid them of sleep--and incidentally you leave great black marks all down
+your face--you struggle to get on your equipment in a filthy
+second-class carriage where are three other officers struggling to get
+on their equipment, and waving their arms about like the sails of
+windmills. Then you obtain a half share of the window and gaze out as
+the train crawls round the outskirts of the town, that lies still and
+quiet in the dusk of the morning. You have arrived at your
+destination--you are at the base.
+
+This quaint old town, with its streets running up the hill from the
+river, with its beautiful spires and queer old houses, is the great
+clearing house of the British Army. Here the new troops arrive; here
+they leave for the front; here, muddy and wounded, they are driven in
+motor chars-à-bancs and ambulances from the station to the hospitals;
+here they are driven down to the river-side and carried on to the
+hospital ships that are bound for England.
+
+And this gigantic clearing house buzzes with soldiers in khaki. There
+are the hotels where the generals and staff officers take their tea;
+there are the cafés haunted by subalterns; there are little "Débits de
+Vins" where "Tommies" go and explain, in "pidgin" English, that they are
+dying for glasses of beer. In all the streets, great motor lorries
+lumber by, laden with blackened soldiers who have been down on the quay,
+unloading shells, food, hay, oil, anything and everything that can be
+needed for the British Expeditionary Force. And, in the two main
+thoroughfares of an afternoon, there flows an unceasing crowd--generals
+and privates, French men and women, officers hunting through the shops
+for comforts to take up the line, people winding their busy way through
+the throng, and people strolling along with the tide, intent on
+snatching all they can of pleasure and amusement while they have the
+opportunity.
+
+And a few years ago these same streets would lie sleepily in the sun,
+dreaming of the days of splendour long by. In the square before the
+wonderful cathedral there would be stillness--here and there, perhaps, a
+pigeon would come fluttering down from the ledges and cornices of the
+Gothic façade; sometimes a nondescript dog would raise a lazy head to
+snap at the flies; occasionally the streets would send back a nasal echo
+as a group of American tourists, with their Baedekers and maps, came
+hurrying along to "do" the town before the next train left for
+Paris--beyond that ... nothing.
+
+Now, in the early morning, the Base seems almost to have relapsed into
+its slumber of yore. As yet, the work of the day has not begun, and the
+whole town seems to stir sleepily as the screeching brakes bring your
+train to a standstill. As you stumble out of the carriage, the only
+living person in the place appears to be a sentry, who tramps up and
+down in the distance, on guard over a few empty trucks and a huge pile
+of bundles of straw.
+
+It is a little disappointing, this arrival at the Base, for there is not
+even a proper station in sight; you have been brought, like so many
+sheep or cows, into the dismal goods station, and you look in vain for
+the people who should be there to welcome you, to throw flowers, and to
+cheer as you arrive at the first halt of your great Odyssey. However,
+you shake yourself, you bundle your valise out of the carriage on to the
+railway line, and, with your late carriage companions, you go across to
+the sentry and his bundles of straw.
+
+"Can you tell us where the Railway Transport Officer is to be found?"
+you ask. "We've got orders to report to him as soon as we can."
+
+"Yes, sir, they's always got those orders, but you won't find 'im not
+before 'alf-past nine. 'Is office is over there in them buildings." And
+a subaltern in the office gives you the same information--it is now five
+o'clock, and the R.T.O. who has your movement orders will not be here
+for four and a half hours. "Go and have a look round the town," suggests
+the subaltern.
+
+The idea of "looking round a town" at five in the morning! You slouch
+over the bridge, and wander up and down the empty streets until an hotel
+shows up before you. You are very tired and very dirty and very
+unshaven. Instinctively you halt and feel your chins. "Dunno when we'll
+get another bath," suggests one of the party, and he goes to ring the
+bell. For ten minutes you ring the bell, and then the door is opened by
+a half-clothed porter who is also very tired and very dirty and very
+unshaven. He glares at you, and then signs to you to enter, after which
+he runs away and leaves you in a hall in the company of a dust pan and
+brush and a pile of chairs pushed up in the corner--no welcome and no
+flowers.
+
+But in a moment there is a shuffle on the stairs, and a fat, buxom
+woman, with a cheerful face and a blouse undone down the back, makes
+her appearance. Oh yes, Messieurs les Officiers can have a bath--for two
+francs, including a towel; and they can have breakfast--for three and a
+half francs, including "ze English marmalade" and "un oeuf à la coque"
+(which sets you to wondering whether she means a cock's egg, and, if so,
+what sort of a thing it may be). "It is a nice bath," she tells you,
+"and always full of Messieurs les Anglais, who forget all about the war
+and only think of baths and of football. No, zere is only one bath, but
+ze ozer officiers can wait," and she leads one of the party away into
+the dim corridors and up dim staircases.
+
+Breakfast and a wash work wonders, and you still keep cheerful when the
+R.T.O. tells you at half-past nine that your camp is three miles away,
+that you may not see your valise for days unless you take a "taxi," and
+that there are only three "taxis" in the town. You wander about in
+search of one during the whole morning, you find the three all hiding
+away together in a side street, you bundle your valises into one, and
+arrive at the camp just in time for lunch.
+
+It is a strange life, that life at the Base--it is like life on an
+"island" in a London thoroughfare, with the traffic streaming by on
+either side. All day long there are men arriving to go to the front, all
+day long there are men coming back on their way to England. For a week
+you live on this "island," equipping men for drafts all the morning--for
+most of them seem to have dropped part of their equipment into the sea
+on the way across--and sitting in cafés in the evenings, drinking
+strange mixtures of wines and syrups and soda water.
+
+Then, one day, the Colonel sends for you. Your turn has come to set out
+on that journey which may have no return. "You will proceed to the front
+by the four o'clock train this afternoon," he says. "You are instructed
+to conduct a party of 100 Northshire Highlanders, who are in 'S' Camp,
+which is over there," and he waves his hand vaguely in the direction of
+the typewriter in the corner of the room.
+
+These are your instructions, and, after a prolonged hunt for "S" Camp,
+you march off to the station at the head of a hundred Scotchmen, not one
+of whom you can understand. At the station you make a great show of
+nominal rolls and movement orders, and finally get your Highlanders
+packed safely in their compartments under strict injunctions not to
+leave the train without your orders.
+
+Now comes the time to look after your own comfort. If you have "been up"
+before you have learnt that it is wise to stroll into the town for your
+last proper tea, and not to come back much before six o'clock, by which
+time the train is thinking of reluctantly crawling out of the station.
+If, in your absence, someone has else has tried to settle in your
+compartment, providing his rank is not superior to your own, you get rid
+of him either by lying strenuously or by using a little force. Thus, if
+you are lucky, a good liar, or a muscular man, you can keep the carriage
+for yourself, your particular friend, your kits, and your provisions
+(which last, in the form of bottles, require no small space).
+
+All along the line are children, waving their grubby hands and shouting
+in monotonous reiteration, "Souvenir biskeet, souvenir bully biff," and
+you throw them their souvenirs without delay, for no man sets out for
+war without a plentiful stock of more interesting provisions to keep his
+spirits up. All along the train, in disobedience of orders, the carriage
+doors are open, and "Tommies" and "Jocks," and "Pats" are seated on the
+footboards, singing, shouting, laughing.
+
+This, until night falls. Then, one by one, the carriage doors are shut,
+and the men set about the business of sleeping. Here and there, perhaps,
+is a man who stays awake, wondering what the future will bring him, how
+his wife and children will get on if he is killed, and how many of these
+men, who are lolling in grotesque attitudes all round him, will ever
+come back down the line. In the daylight, the excitement drives away
+these thoughts--there are songs to sing and sights to see--but as the
+train jolts on through the night, there seems to be an undefinable
+feeling of fear. What will it be like to be shelled, to fight, to die?
+
+Morning brings cheerfulness again. There are halts at Boulogne and
+Calais; news must be obtained from English sentries and French railway
+officials; there is, in one place, a train of German prisoners; there
+are long halts at tiny stations where you can procure hot water while
+the O.C. Train discusses life with the R.T.O.; there are the
+thousand-and-one things which serve to remind you that you are in the
+war zone, although the country is peaceful, and you look in vain for
+shell holes and ruined houses.
+
+At length the railhead is reached--from here the rumble of the guns can
+be heard--and the detrainment takes place. You fall your Highlanders in
+by the side of the train, you jerk your pack about in a vain effort to
+make it hang comfortably, a whistle blows, and you start off on your
+long march to your regiment, to those dull, mumbling guns, to your first
+peep of war.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+A "cushy" wound, a long and aching journey in a motor ambulance, a
+nerve-racking night in a clearing hospital, where the groans of the
+dying, the hurrying of the orderlies, and your own pain all combine in a
+nightmare of horror, and next morning you are in the train once
+more--you are going back to the Base. But how different is this from the
+journey up to the front! The sound of distant firing has none of the
+interest of novelty; the shelling of an aeroplane, which would have
+filled you with excitement a short time ago, does not now even cause you
+to raise your eyes to watch; you are old in warfare, and _blasé_.
+
+There is no room for fear on this train; it is crowded out by pain, by
+apathy, by hope. The man next you cannot live a week, but he seems
+content; at all events, it is not fear that one sees in his face. There
+is no fear--there is hope.
+
+The train is bright with flowers; there are nurses, and books, and
+well-cooked food--there is even champagne for the select few. There is
+no longer the shattered country of the firing line, but there are hills
+and rivers, there is the sea near Wimereux, and the hope of being sent
+home to England. There are shattered wrecks that were men, there is the
+knowledge of hovering death, but, above all, there is hope.
+
+So the train hastens on--no crawling this time--to the clearing house,
+the Base. Past the little sun-washed villages it runs, and the gleaming
+Seine brings smiles to wan faces. There, look, over there in the
+distance, are the wonderful spires and the quaint houses and the river,
+all fresh and laughing in the sun, and the trees up on the hill above
+the town are all tender green. Even if one is to die, one may get back
+home first; at all events, one has been spared to see God's clean
+country, and to breathe untainted air again.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+_Printed in Great Britain by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and
+Aylesbury, for Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent & Co., Ltd._
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Mud and Khaki, by Vernon Bartlett
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+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Mud and Khaki, by Vernon Bartlett
+
+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: Mud and Khaki
+       Sketches from Flanders and France
+
+Author: Vernon Bartlett
+
+Release Date: May 14, 2008 [EBook #25470]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MUD AND KHAKI ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Graeme Mackreth and The Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
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+
+</pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+<h1>MUD AND KHAKI</h1>
+
+
+
+
+
+<h2>SKETCHES FROM FLANDERS
+AND FRANCE</h2>
+
+<h4>BY</h4>
+
+<h3>VERNON BARTLETT</h3>
+
+<p class='center' style="margin-top: 10em;"><small>
+SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON,<br />
+KENT &amp; CO. LTD., 4 STATIONERS'<br />
+HALL COURT : : LONDON, E.C.</small>
+</p>
+
+<p class='center' style="margin-top: 5em;"><small>
+<i>Copyright</i><br />
+<i>First published April 1917</i></small>
+</p>
+
+<h3 style="margin-top: 5em;">
+TO<br />
+
+R.V.K.C.<br />
+
+AND MY OTHER FRIENDS<br />
+
+IN THE REGIMENT<br />
+</h3>
+
+
+
+<h2 style="margin-top: 5em;"><a name="aplogia" id="aplogia"></a>APOLOGIA</h2>
+
+
+<p>There has been so much written about the trenches, there are so many war
+photographs, so many cinema films, that one might well hesitate before
+even mentioning the war&mdash;to try to write a book about it is, I fear, to
+incur the censure of the many who are tired of hearing about bombs and
+bullets, and who prefer to read of peace, and games, and flirtations.</p>
+
+<p>But, for that very reason, I venture to think that even so indifferent a
+war book as mine will not come entirely amiss. When the Lean Years are
+over, when the rifle becomes rusty, and the khaki is pushed away in some
+remote cupboard, there is great danger that the hardships of the men in
+the trenches will too soon be forgotten. If, to a minute extent,
+anything in these pages should help to bring home to people what war
+really is, and to remind them of their debt of gratitude, then these
+little sketches will have justified their existence.</p>
+
+<p>Besides, I am not entirely responsible for this little book. Not long
+ago, I met a man&mdash;fit, single, and young&mdash;who began to grumble to me of
+the hardships of his "funkhole" in England, and, incidentally, to
+belittle the hardships of the man at the front. After I had told him
+exactly what I thought of him, I was still so indignant that I came home
+and began to write a book about the trenches. Hence <i>Mud and Khaki</i>. To
+him, then, the blame for this minor horror of war. I wash my hands of
+it.</p>
+
+<p>And I try to push the blame off on to him, for I realise that I have
+undertaken an impossible task&mdash;the most practised pen cannot convey a
+real notion of the life at the front, as the words to describe war do
+not exist. Even you who have lost your husbands and brothers, your
+fathers and sons, can have but the vaguest impression of the cruel,
+thirsty claws that claimed them as victims. First must you see the
+shattered cottages of France and Belgium, the way in which the women
+clung to their homes in burning Ypres, the long streams of refugees
+wheeling their poor little <i>lares et penates</i>, their meagre treasures,
+on trucks and handcarts; first must you listen to the cheery joke that
+the Angel of Death finds on the lips of the soldier, to the songs that
+encourage you in the dogged marches through the dark and the mud, to the
+talk during the long nights when the men collect round the brazier fire
+and think of their wives and kiddies at home, of murky streets in the
+East End, of quiet country inns where the farmers gather of an evening.</p>
+
+<p>No words, then, can give an exact picture of these things, but they may
+help to give colour to your impressions. Heaven forbid that, by telling
+the horrors of war, the writers of books should make pessimists of those
+at home! Heaven forbid that they should belittle the dangers and
+hardships, and so take away some of the glory due to "Tommy" for all he
+has suffered for the Motherland! There is a happy mean&mdash;the men at the
+front have found it; they know that death is near, but they can still
+laugh and sing.</p>
+
+<p>In these sketches and stories I have tried, with but little success, to
+keep that happy mean in view. If the pictures are very feeble in design
+when compared to the many other, and far better, works on the same
+subject, remember, reader, that the intention is good, and accept this
+apology for wasting your time.</p>
+
+<p>A few of these sketches and articles have already appeared elsewhere. My
+best thanks are due to the Editors of the <i>Daily Mail</i> and the <i>Daily
+Mirror</i> for their kind permission to include several sketches which
+appeared, in condensed forms, in their papers. I am also grateful to the
+Editor of Cassell's <i>Storyteller</i> for his permission to reproduce "The
+Knut," which first saw print in that periodical.</p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 30em;">
+<span class="smcap">Vernon Bartlett.</span><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>CONTENTS</h2>
+
+
+<p style="margin-left: 6em;">
+
+<a href="#aplogia"><span class="smcap">Apologia</span></a></p>
+<ul class="TOC">
+<li>
+<a href="#I"><b><span class="smcap">In Hospital</span> </b></a>
+</li>
+<li>
+<a href="#II"><b> <span class="smcap">A Recipe for Generals</span></b></a>
+</li>
+<li>
+<a href="#III"><b> <span class="smcap">Mud</span></b></a>
+</li>
+<li>
+<a href="#IV"><b> <span class="smcap">The Surprise Attack</span></b></a>
+</li>
+<li>
+<a href="#V"><b> <span class="smcap">"Pongo" Simpson on Bombs</span></b></a>
+</li>
+<li>
+<a href="#VI"><b> <span class="smcap">The Schoolmaster of Pont Saverne</span></b></a>
+</li>
+<li>
+<a href="#VII"><b> <span class="smcap">The Odd Jobs</span></b></a>
+</li>
+<li>
+<a href="#VIII"><b><span class="smcap">The "Knut"</span></b></a>
+</li>
+<li>
+<a href="#IX"><b> <span class="smcap">Shopping</span> </b></a>
+</li>
+<li>
+<a href="#X"><b> <span class="smcap">The Liar</span></b></a>
+</li>
+<li>
+<a href="#XI"><b> <span class="smcap">The City of Tragedy</span></b></a>
+</li>
+<li>
+<a href="#XII"><b><span class="smcap">"Pongo" Simpson on Grumblers</span></b></a>
+</li>
+<li>
+<a href="#XIII"><b><span class="smcap">The Convert</span></b></a>
+</li>
+<li>
+<a href="#XIV"><b> <span class="smcap">David and Jonathan</span></b></a>
+</li>
+<li>
+<a href="#XV"><b> <span class="smcap">The Rum Jar</span></b></a>
+</li>
+<li>
+<a href="#XVI"><b> <span class="smcap">The Tea Shop</span></b></a>
+</li>
+<li>
+<a href="#XVII"><b> <span class="smcap">"Here Comes the General"</span></b></a>
+</li>
+<li>
+<a href="#XVIII"><b> <span class="smcap">The Rascal in War</span> </b></a>
+</li>
+<li>
+<a href="#XIX"><b> <span class="smcap">"Pongo" Simpson on Officers</span></b></a>
+</li>
+<li>
+<a href="#XX"> <b><span class="smcap">The Hand of Shadow</span></b></a>
+</li>
+<li>
+<a href="#XXI"><b><span class="smcap">The Veteran</span></b></a>
+</li>
+<li>
+<a href="#XXII"><b> <span class="smcap">The Sing-Song</span></b></a>
+</li>
+<li>
+<a href="#XXIII"><b> <span class="smcap">The "Strafe" that Failed</span> </b></a>
+</li>
+<li>
+<a href="#XXIV"><b> <span class="smcap">The Nightly Round</span></b></a>
+</li>
+<li>
+<a href="#XXV"><b> <span class="smcap">John Williams, Tramp and Soldier</span></b></a>
+</li>
+<li>
+<a href="#XXVI"><b> <span class="smcap">The Clearing House</span></b></a>
+</li>
+</ul>
+
+
+
+<h1>MUD AND KHAKI</h1>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="I" id="I"></a>I</h2>
+
+<h3>IN HOSPITAL</h3>
+
+
+<p>Close behind the trenches on the Ypres salient stands part of "Chapel
+Farm"&mdash;the rest of it has long been trampled down into the mud by the
+many hundreds of men who have passed by there. Enough of the ruin still
+stands for you to trace out the original plan of the place&mdash;a house and
+two barns running round three sides of the farmyard that is f&oelig;tid and
+foul and horrible.</p>
+
+<p>It is an uninviting spot, for, close by, are the remains of a dead cow,
+superficially buried long ago by some working party that was in a hurry
+to get home; but the farm is notable for the fact that passing round the
+north side of the building you are out of view, and safe, and that
+passing round the south side you can be seen by the enemy, and are
+certain to be sniped.</p>
+
+<p>If you must be sniped, however, you might choose a worse place, for the
+bullets generally fly low there, and there is a cellar to which you can
+be carried&mdash;a filthy spot, abounding in rats, and damp straw, and
+stained rags, for the place once acted as a dressing-station. But still,
+it is under cover, and intact, with six little steps leading up into the
+farmyard.</p>
+
+<p>And one day, as I led a party of men down to the "dumping ground" to
+fetch ammunition, I was astonished to hear the familiar strains of
+"Gilbert the Filbert" coming from this desolate ruin. The singer had a
+fine voice, and he gave forth his chant as happily as though he were
+safe at home in England, with no cares or troubles in the world. With a
+sergeant, I set out to explore; as our boots clattered on the
+cobble-stones of the farmyard, there was a noise in the cellar, a head
+poked up in the entrance, and I was greeted with a cheery "Good morning,
+sir."</p>
+
+<p>We crawled down the steps into the hovel to learn the singer's story. He
+was a man from another regiment, who had come down from his support
+dug-out to "nose around after a spud or two." The German sniper had
+"bagged" him in the ankle and he had crawled into the cellar&mdash;still with
+his sandbag of "spuds"&mdash;to wait until someone came by. "I 'adn't got
+nothing to do but wait," he concluded, "and if I'd got to wait, I might
+jest as well play at bein' a bloomin' canary as 'owl like a kid what's
+'ad it put acrost 'im."</p>
+
+<p>We got a little water from the creaky old pump and took off his "first
+field dressing" that he had wound anyhow round his leg. To my
+surprise&mdash;for he was so cheerful that I thought he had only a scratch&mdash;I
+found that his ankle was badly smashed, and that part of his boot and
+sock had been driven right into the wound.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, it did 'urt a bit when I tried to walk," he said, as I expressed
+surprise. "That's jest the best part of it. I don't care if it 'urts
+like 'ell, for it's sure to mean 'Blighty' and comfort for me."</p>
+
+<p>And that is just the spirit of the hospitals&mdash;the joy of comfort and
+rest overbalances the pain and the operation. To think that there are
+still people who imagine that hospitals are of necessity sad and
+depressing! Why, even the children's wards of the London Hospital are
+not that, for, as you look down the rows of beds, you see surprise and
+happiness on the poor little pinched faces&mdash;surprise that everything is
+clean and white, and that they are lying between proper sheets;
+happiness that they are treated kindly, and that there are no harsh
+words. As for a military hospital, while war lays waste the world, there
+is no place where there is more peace and contentment.</p>
+
+<p>Hospital, for example, is the happiest place to spend Christmas. About a
+week before the day there are mysterious whispers in the corners, and
+furtive writing in a notebook, and the clinking of coppers. Then, next
+day, a cart comes to the door and deposits a load of ivy and holly and
+mistletoe. The men have all subscribed to buy decorations for their
+temporary home, and they set about their work like children&mdash;for where
+will you find children who are younger than the "Tommies"? Even the
+wards where there are only "cot cases" are decorated, and the men lie in
+bed and watch the invaders from other wards who come in and smother the
+place with evergreens. There is one ward where a man lies dying of
+cancer&mdash;here, too, they come, making clumsy attempts to walk on tip-toe,
+and smiling encouragement as they hang the mistletoe from the electric
+light over his bed.</p>
+
+<p>And at last the great day comes. There are presents for everyone, and a
+bran pie from which, one by one, they extract mysterious parcels wrapped
+up in brown paper. And the joy as they undo them! There are table games
+and packets of tobacco, writing pads and boxes of cigarettes, cheap
+fountain pens which will nearly turn the Matron's hair grey, and bags of
+chocolates. They collect in their wards and turn their presents over,
+their eyes damp with joy; they pack up their games or their chocolate to
+send home to their wives who are spending Christmas in lonely cottage
+kitchens; they write letters to imaginary people just for the joy of
+using their writing blocks; they admire each others' treasures, and,
+sometimes, make exchanges, for the man who does not smoke has drawn a
+pipe, and the man in the corner over there, who has lost both legs, has
+drawn a pair of felt slippers!</p>
+
+<p>Before they know where they are, the lunch is ready, and, children
+again, they eat far more than is good for them, until the nurses have to
+forbid them to have any more. "No, Jones," they say, "you can't have a
+third helping of pudding; you're supposed to be on a milk diet."</p>
+
+<p>Oh, the happiness of it all! All day they sing and eat and talk, until
+you forget that there is war and misery in the world; when the evening
+comes they go, flushed and happy, back to their beds to dream that great
+black Germans are sitting on them, eating Christmas puddings by the
+dozen, and growing heavier with each one.</p>
+
+<p>But upstairs in the little ward the mother sits with her son, and she
+tries with all her force to keep back the tears. They have had the door
+open all day to hear the laughter and fun, and on the table by the bed
+lie his presents and the choicest fruit and sweets. Until quite late at
+night she stays there, holding her son's hand, and telling of
+Christmases when he was a little boy. Then, when she gets up to go, the
+man in bed turns his head towards the poor little pile of presents.
+"You'd better take those, mother," he says. "They won't be much use to
+me. But it's the happiest Christmas I've ever had." And all the poor
+woman's courage leaves her, and she stoops forward under the mistletoe
+and kisses him, kisses him, with tears streaming down her face.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p>Most stirring of all are the clearing hospitals near the firing line.
+They are crowded, and all night long fresh wounded stumble in, the mud
+caked on their uniforms, and their bandages soiled by dark stains. In
+one corner a man groans unceasingly: "Oh, my head ... God! Oh, my poor
+head!" and you hear the mutterings and laughter of the delirious.</p>
+
+<p>But if the pain here is at its height, the relief is keenest. For months
+they have lived in hell, these men, and now they have been brought out
+of it all. A man who has been rescued from suffocation in a coal mine
+does not grumble if he has the toothache; a man who has come from the
+trenches and death does not complain of the agony of his wound&mdash;he
+smiles because he is in comfortable surroundings for once.</p>
+
+<p>Besides, there is a great feeling of expectation and hope, for there is
+to be a convoy in the morning and they are all to be sent down to the
+base&mdash;all except the men who are too ill to be moved and the two men who
+have died in the night, whose beds are shut off by red screens. The "cot
+cases" are lifted carefully on to stretchers, their belongings are
+packed under their pillows, and they are carried down to the ambulances,
+while the walking cases wander about the wards, waiting for their turn
+to come. They look into their packs for the fiftieth time to make sure
+they have left nothing; they lean out of the windows to watch the
+ambulance roll away to the station; they stop every orderly who comes
+along to ask if they have not been forgotten, or if there will be room
+for them on the train; they make new acquaintances, or discover old
+ones. One man meets a long-lost friend with a huge white bandage round
+his neck. "Hullo, you poor devil," he says, "how did you get it in the
+neck like that? was it a bullet or a bit of a shell?" The other swears,
+and confesses that he has not been hit at all, but is suffering from
+boils.</p>
+
+<p>For, going down to the base are wounded and sick of every sort&mdash;men who
+have lost a limb, and men who have only the tiniest graze; men who are
+mad with pain, and men who are going down for a new set of false teeth;
+men with pneumonia, and men with scabies. It is only when the boat
+leaves for England that the cases can be sorted out. It is only then
+that there are signs of envy, and the men whose wounds are not bad
+enough to take them back to "Blighty" curse because the bullet did not
+go deeper, or the bit of shrapnel did not touch the bone.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p>It is a wonderful moment for the "Tommies" when they reach their
+convalescent hospital in England. Less than a week ago many of them were
+stamping up and down in a slushy trench wondering "why the 'ell there's
+a bloomin' war on at all." Less than a week ago many of them never
+thought to see England again, and now they are being driven up to the
+old Elizabethan mansion that is to be their hospital.</p>
+
+<p>As the ambulance draws up outside the porch, the men can see, where the
+hostess used to welcome her guests of old, the matron waiting with the
+medical officer to welcome them in. One by one they are brought into the
+oak-panelled hall, and a nurse stoops over them to read their names,
+regiments, and complaints off the little labels that are fastened to
+their tunic buttons. As they await their turns, they snuff the air and
+sigh happily, they talk, and wink, and smile at the great carved
+ceiling, and forget all they have gone through in the joy of that
+splendid moment.</p>
+
+<p>Away in one of the wards a gramophone is playing "Mother Machree," and
+the little nurse, who hums the tune to herself as she leans over each
+man to see his label, sees a tear crawling through the grey stubble on
+one's cheek. He is old and Irish, and had not hoped to hear Irish tunes
+and to see fair women again. But he is ashamed of his emotion, and he
+tells a little lie. "Sure, an' it's rainin' outside, nurse," he says.</p>
+
+<p>And the nurse, who knows the difference between a raindrop and a
+tear&mdash;for was she not standing on the step five minutes ago, admiring
+the stars and the moon?&mdash;knows her part well, and plays it. "I thought I
+heard the rain dripping down on the porch just now," she says, "I hope
+you poor men did not get wet," and she goes on to her next patient.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p>How they love those days in hospital! How the great rough men love to be
+treated like babies, to be petted and scolded, ordered about and
+praised! How grand it is to see the flowers, to feel one's strength
+returning, to go for drives and walks, to find a field that is not
+pitted by shell holes! And how cheerful they all are, these grown-up
+babies!</p>
+
+<p>The other day I opened the door of the hospital and discovered a
+"convoy" consisting of three legless and two armless men, trying to help
+each other up the six low steps, and shouting with laughter at their
+efforts. And one of them saw the pity on my face, for he grinned.</p>
+
+<p>"Don't you worry about us," he said. "I wouldn't care if I 'ad no arms
+nor eyes nor legs, so long as I was 'ome in Blighty again. Why"&mdash;and his
+voice dropped as he let me into the secret&mdash;"I've 'ad a li'l boy born
+since I went out to the front, an' I never even seed the li'l beggar
+yet. Gawd, we in 'orspital is the lucky ones, an' any bloke what ain't
+killed ought to be 'appy and bright like what we is."</p>
+
+<p>And it is the happiness of all these men that makes hospital a very
+beautiful place, for nowhere can you find more courage and cheerfulness
+than among these fellows with their crutches and their bandages.</p>
+
+<p>There was only one man&mdash;Bill Stevens&mdash;who seemed despondent and
+miserable, and we scarcely wondered&mdash;he was blind, and lay in bed day
+after day, with a bandage round his head, the only blind man in the
+hospital. He was silent and morbid, and would scarcely mutter a word of
+thanks when some man came right across the ward on his crutches to do
+him a trifling service, but he had begged to be allowed to stay in the
+big ward until the time came for him to go off to a special hostel for
+the men who have lost their sight. And the men who saw him groping about
+helplessly in broad daylight forgave him his surliness, and ceased to
+wonder at his despondency.</p>
+
+<p>But even Bill Stevens was to change, for there came a day when he
+received a letter.</p>
+
+<p>"What's the postmark?" he demanded.</p>
+
+<p>"Oxford," said the nurse. "Shall I read it to you?"</p>
+
+<p>But Bill Stevens clutched his letter tight and shook his head, and it
+was not until lunch-time that anything more was heard of it. Then he
+called the Sister to him, and she read the precious document almost in
+a whisper, so secret was it. Private Bill Stevens plucked nervously at
+the bedclothes as the Sister recited the little love sentences:&mdash;How was
+dear Bill? Why hadn't he told his Emily what was wrong with him? That
+she, Emily, would come to see him at four o'clock that afternoon, and
+how nice it would be.</p>
+
+<p>"Now you keep quiet and don't worry," said the Sister, "or you'll be too
+ill to see her. Why, I declare that you're quite feverish. What have you
+got to worry about?"</p>
+
+<p>"You see, it's like this 'ere," confided Bill Stevens. "I ain't dared to
+tell 'er as 'ow I was blind, and it ain't fair to ask 'er to marry a
+bloke what's 'elpless. She only thinks I've got it slightly, and she
+won't care for me any more now."</p>
+
+<p>"You needn't be frightened," said the Sister. "If she's worth anything
+at all, she'll love you all the more now." And she tucked him up and
+told him to go to sleep.</p>
+
+<p>Then, when Emily arrived, the Sister met her, and broke the news. "You
+love him, don't you?" she asked, and Emily blushed, and smiled assent
+through her tears.</p>
+
+<p>"Then," said the Sister, "do your best to cheer him up. Don't let him
+think you're distressed at his blindness," and she took the girl along
+to the ward where Bill Stevens lay waiting, restless and feverish.</p>
+
+<p>"Bill darling," said Emily. "It's me. How are you? Why have you got
+that bandage on?" But long before poor Bill could find words to break
+the news to her she stooped over him and whispered: "Bill dear, I could
+almost wish you were blind, so that you'd have to depend on me, like. If
+it wasn't for your own pain, I'd wish you was blind, I would really."</p>
+
+<p>For a long time Bill stuttered and fumbled for words, for his joy was
+too great. "I am blind, Em'ly," he murmured at last.</p>
+
+<p>And the whole ward looked the other way as Emily kissed away his fears.
+As for Bill Stevens, he sang and laughed and talked so much that evening
+that the Matron had to come down to stop him.</p>
+
+<p>For, as my legless friend remarked, "We in 'orspital is the lucky ones,
+an' any bloke what ain't killed ought to be 'appy and bright like we
+is."</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="II" id="II"></a>II</h2>
+
+<h3>A RECIPE FOR GENERALS</h3>
+
+
+<p>Everyone is always anxious to get on the right side of his General; I
+have chanced upon a recipe which I believe to be infallible for anyone
+who wears spurs, and who can, somehow or other, get himself in the
+presence of that venerated gentleman.</p>
+
+<p>I sat one day in a trench outside my dug-out, eating a stew made of
+bully beef, ration biscuits, and foul water. Inside my dug-out, the
+smell of buried men was not conducive to a good appetite; outside, some
+horrible Hun was amusing himself by firing at the sandbag just above me,
+and sending showers of earth down my neck and into my food. It is an
+aggravating fact that the German always makes himself particularly
+objectionable about lunch-time, and that, whenever you go in the trench,
+his bullets seem to follow you&mdash;an unerring instinct brings them towards
+food. A larger piece of earth than usual in my stew routed the last
+vestige of my good-humour. Prudence warning me of the futility of
+losing my temper with a Hun seventy yards away, I called loudly for my
+servant.</p>
+
+<p>"Jones," I said, when he came up, "take away this stuff. It's as bad as
+a gas attack. I'm fed up with it. I'm fed up with Maconochie, I'm fed up
+with the so-called 'fresh' meat that sometimes makes its appearance. Try
+to get hold of something new; give me a jugged hare, or a pheasant, or
+something of that kind."</p>
+
+<p>"Yessir," said Jones, and he hurried off round the traverse to finish my
+stew himself.</p>
+
+<p>It never does to speak without first weighing one's words. This is an
+old maxim&mdash;I can remember something about it in one of my first
+copy-books; but, like most other maxims, it is never learnt in real
+life. My thoughtless allusion to "jugged hare" set my servant's brain
+working, for hares and rabbits have, before now, been caught behind the
+firing line. The primary difficulty, that of getting to the country
+haunted by these animals, was easily solved, for, though an officer
+ought not to allow a man to leave a trench without a very important
+reason, the thought of new potatoes at a ruined farm some way back, or
+cherries in the orchard, generally seems a sufficiently important reason
+to send one's servant back on an errand of pillage. Thus it was that,
+unknown to me, my servant spent part of the next three days big-game
+hunting behind the firing line.</p>
+
+<p>My first intimation of trouble came to me the day after we had gone back
+to billets for a rest, when an orderly brought me a message from Brigade
+Headquarters. It ran as follows:&mdash;</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot"><p>"Lieut. Newcombe is to report at Brigade Headquarters this afternoon
+at 2 p.m. to furnish facts with reference to his servant, No. 6789,
+Pte. Jones W., who, on the 7th inst., discharged a rifle behind the
+firing line, to the great personal danger of the Brigadier, Pte.
+Jones's Company being at the time in the trenches.</p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 15em;">
+"(<i>Signed</i>) <span class="smcap">G. Mackinnon</span>,<br />
+"<i>Brigade Major</i>."<br />
+</p></div>
+
+<p>"Jones," I cried, "come and explain this to me," and I read him the
+incriminating document.</p>
+
+<p>My servant's English always suffers when he is nervous.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, sir," he began, "it 'appened like this 'ere. After what you said
+the other day abaht bully beef, I went orf ter try ter git a rebbit or
+an 'are. I seen sev'ral, sir, but I never 'it one nor wired one. Then,
+on Friday, jest as I was shootin' at an 'ole 'are what I see, up kime an
+orficer, one o' thim Staff gints. 'Who are you?' 'e asks. I told 'im as
+I was a servant, and was jest tryin' ter git an 'are fer my
+bloke&mdash;beggin' yer pardon, sir, I mean my orficer. Then, after a lot
+more talk, 'e says, 'Do yer know that yer gone and nearly 'it the
+Gen'ril?' That's all as I knows abaht it, sir. I never wanted ter 'it no
+Gen'ril."</p>
+
+<p>"All this, and not even a rabbit!" I sighed. "It's a serious business,
+and you ought to have known better than to go letting off ammunition
+behind the firing line. However, I'll see what can be done," and my
+servant went away, rather crestfallen, to drown his sorrows in a glass
+of very mild, very unpleasant Belgian beer.</p>
+
+<p>An hour or two later, I strolled across to a neighbouring billet to see
+a friend, and to tell him of my coming interview.</p>
+
+<p>"You'll get hell," was his only comfort. Then, as an afterthought, he
+said, "You'd better wear my spurs; they'll help to impress him. A clink
+of spurs will make even your salute seem smart."</p>
+
+<p>Thus it was that I, who am no horseman, rode over to Brigade
+Headquarters, a mile away, with my toes turned in, and a pair of bright
+and shining spurs turned away as far as possible from my horse's flanks.</p>
+
+<p>Unhappy and ill at ease, I was shown into the General's room.</p>
+
+<p>"Mr. Newcombe," he began, after a preliminary glance at a paper in front
+of him, "this is a very serious matter. It is a serious offence on the
+part of Private Jones, who, I understand, is your servant."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, sir."</p>
+
+<p>"It is also an example of gross carelessness on your part."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, sir."</p>
+
+<p>"I was returning from the trenches on your right on Friday last, when a
+bullet flew past my head, coming from the direction opposed to the
+Germans. I have a strong objection to being shot at by my own men, right
+behind the fire trenches, so I sent Captain Neville to find out who had
+fired, and he found your servant."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, sir."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, can you give any explanation of this extraordinary event?"</p>
+
+<p>I explained to the best of my ability.</p>
+
+<p>"It is a very unusual case," said the General, when I had finished. "I
+do not wish to pursue the matter further, as you are obviously the real
+person to blame."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, sir."</p>
+
+<p>"I am very dissatisfied about it, and you must please see that better
+discipline is kept. I do not like to proceed against officers under my
+command, so the matter drops here. You must reprimand your servant very
+severely, and, I repeat, I am very dissatisfied. You may go, Mr."&mdash;here
+another glance at the paper before him&mdash;"Newcombe. Good afternoon."</p>
+
+<p>I brought my heels together for a very smart salute ... and locked my
+spurs! For some seconds I stood swaying helplessly in front of him, then
+I toppled forward, and, supporting myself with both hands upon his
+table, I at length managed to separate my feet. When I ventured to look
+at him again to apologise, I saw that his frown had gone, and his mouth
+was twitching in a strong inclination to laugh.</p>
+
+<p>"You are not, I take it, Mr. Newcombe, quite accustomed to wearing
+spurs?" he said presently.</p>
+
+<p>I blushed horribly, and, in my confusion, blurted out my reason for
+putting them on. This time he laughed unrestrainedly. "Well, you have
+certainly impressed me with them." Then, just as I was preparing to go,
+he said, "Will you have a glass of whisky, Newcombe, before you go?
+Neville," he called to the Staff Captain in the next room, "you might
+ask Andrews to bring the whisky and some glasses."</p>
+
+<p>"Good afternoon," said the General, very affably, when, after a careful
+salute, I finally took my leave.</p>
+
+<p>Let anyone who will try this recipe for making friends with a General. I
+do not venture to guarantee its infallibility, however, for that depends
+entirely on the General himself, and, to such, rules and instruction do
+not apply.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="III" id="III"></a>III</h2>
+
+<h3>"MUD!"</h3>
+
+
+<p>Those at home in England, with their experience of war books and
+photographs, of Zeppelin raids and crowded hospitals, are beginning to
+imagine they know all there is to know about war. The truth is that they
+still have but little idea of the life in the trenches, and, as far as
+mud is concerned, they are delightfully ignorant. They do not know what
+mud is.</p>
+
+<p>They have read of Napoleon's "Fourth Element," they have listened to
+long descriptions of mud in Flanders and France, they have raised
+incredulous eyebrows at tales of men being drowned in the trenches, they
+have given a fleeting thought of pity for the soldiers "out there" as
+they have slushed home through the streets on rainy nights; but they
+have never realised what mud means, for no photograph can tell its slimy
+depth, and even the pen of a Zola or a Victor Hugo could give no
+adequate idea of it.</p>
+
+<p>And so, till the end of the war, the old story will be continued&mdash;while
+the soldier flounders and staggers about in that awful, sucking swamp,
+the pessimist at home will lean back in his arm-chair and wonder, as he
+watches the smoke from his cigar wind up towards the ceiling, why we do
+not advance at the rate of one mile an hour, why we are not in Berlin,
+and whether our army is any good at all. If such a man would know why we
+are not in German territory, let him walk, on a dark night, through the
+village duck-pond, and then sleep in his wet clothes in the middle of
+the farmyard. He would still be ignorant of mud and wet, but he would
+cease to wonder and grumble.</p>
+
+<p>It is the infantryman who suffers most, for he has to live, eat, sleep,
+and work in the mud. The plain of dragging slime that stretches from
+Switzerland to the sea is far worse to face than the fire of machine
+guns or the great black trench-mortar bombs that come twisting down
+through the air. It is more terrible than the frost and the rain&mdash;you
+cannot even stamp your feet to drive away the insidious chill that mud
+always brings. Nothing can keep it from your hands and face and clothes;
+there is no taking off your boots to dry in the trenches&mdash;you must lie
+down just as you are, and often you are lucky if you have two empty
+sandbags under you to save you from the cold embrace of the swamp.</p>
+
+<p>But if the mud stretch is desolate by day, it is shocking by night.
+Imagine a battalion going up to the trenches to relieve another
+regiment. The rain comes beating pitilessly down on the long trail of
+men who stumble along in the blackness over the <i>pav&eacute;</i>. They are all
+well loaded, for besides his pack, rifle, and equipment, each man
+carries a pick or a bag of rations or a bundle of firewood. At every
+moment comes down the line the cry to "keep to the right," and the whole
+column stumbles off the <i>pav&eacute;</i> into the deep mud by the roadside to
+allow the passage of an ambulance or a transport waggon. There is no
+smoking, for they are too close to the enemy, and there is the thought
+of six days and six nights of watchfulness and wetness in the trenches.</p>
+
+<p>Presently the winding line strikes off the road across the mud. This is
+not mud such as we know it in England&mdash;it is incredibly slippery and
+impossibly tenacious, and each dragging footstep calls for a tremendous
+effort. The men straggle, or close up together so that they have hardly
+the room to move; they slip, and knock into each other, and curse; they
+are hindered by little ditches, and by telephone wires that run, now a
+few inches, now four or five feet from the ground. One man trips over an
+old haversack that is lying in his path&mdash;God alone knows how many
+haversacks and how many sets of equipment have been swallowed up by the
+mud on the plain of Flanders, part of the equipment of the wounded that
+has been thrown aside to lighten the burden&mdash;and when he scrambles to
+his feet again he is a mass of mud, his rifle barrel is choked with it,
+it is in his hair, down his neck, everywhere. He staggers on, thankful
+only that he did not fall into a shell hole, when matters would have
+been much worse.</p>
+
+<p>Just when the men are waiting in the open for the leading platoon to
+file down into the communication trench, a German star shell goes up,
+and a machine gun opens fire a little farther down the line. As the
+flare sinks down behind the British trench it lights up the white faces
+of the men, all crouching down in the swamp, while the bullets swish by,
+"like a lot of bloomin' swallers," above their heads.</p>
+
+<p>And now comes the odd quarter of a mile of communication trench. It is
+very narrow, for the enemy can enfilade it, and it is paved with
+brushwood and broken bricks, and a little drain, that is meant to keep
+the floor dry, runs along one side of it. In one place a man steps off
+the brushwood into the drain, and he falls headlong. The others behind
+have no time to stop themselves, and a grotesque pile of men heaps
+itself up in the narrow, black trench. One man laughing, the rest
+swearing, they pick themselves up again, and tramp on to the firing
+line.</p>
+
+<p>Here the mud is even worse than on the plain they have crossed. All the
+engineers and all the trench pumps in the world will not keep a trench
+decently dry when it rains for nine hours in ten and when the trench is
+the lowest bit of country for miles around. The men can do nothing but
+"carry on"&mdash;the parapet must be kept in repair whatever the weather; the
+sandbags must be filled however wet and sticky the earth. The mud may
+nearly drag a man's boot off at his every step&mdash;indeed, it often does;
+but the man must go on digging, shovelling, lining the trench with tins,
+logs, bricks, and planks in the hope that one day he may have put enough
+flooring into the trench to reach solid ground beneath the mud.</p>
+
+<p>All this, of course, is only the infantryman's idea of things. From a
+tactical point of view mud has a far greater importance&mdash;it is the most
+relentless enemy that an army can be called upon to face. Even without
+mud and without Germans it would be a very difficult task to feed and
+look after a million men on the move; with these two discomforts
+movement becomes almost impossible.</p>
+
+<p>It is only after you have seen a battery of field artillery on the move
+in winter that you can realise at all the enormous importance of good
+weather when an advance is to be made. You must watch the horses
+labouring and plunging in mud that reaches nearly to their girths; you
+must see the sweating, half-naked men striving, with outstanding veins,
+to force the wheels round; you must hear the sucking cry of the mud
+when it slackens its grip; and you must remember that this is only a
+battery of light guns that is being moved.</p>
+
+<p>It is mud, then, that is the great enemy. It is the mud, then, and not
+faulty organisation or German prowess that you must blame if we do not
+advance as fast as you would like. Even if we were not to advance
+another yard in another year, people in England should not be
+disheartened. "Out there" we are facing one of the worst of foes. If we
+do not advance, or if we advance too slowly, remember that it is mud
+that is the cause&mdash;not the German guns.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="IV" id="IV"></a>IV</h2>
+
+<h3>THE SURPRISE ATTACK</h3>
+
+
+<p>"Do you really feel quite fit for active service again?" asked the
+President of the Medical Board.</p>
+
+<p>It was not without reason that Roger Dymond hesitated before he gave his
+answer, for nerves are difficult things to deal with. It is surprising,
+but it is true, that you never find a man who is afraid the first time
+he goes under fire. There are thousands who are frightened
+beforehand&mdash;frightened that they will "funk it" when the time comes, but
+when they see men who have been out for months "ducking" as each shell
+passes overhead they begin to think what brave fellows they are, and
+they wonder what fear is. But after they have been in the trenches for
+weeks, when they realise what a shell can do, their nerve begins to go;
+they start when they hear a rifle fired, and they crouch down close to
+the ground at the whistle of a passing shell.</p>
+
+<p>Thus had it been with Roger Dymond. At the beginning of the war he had
+enjoyed himself&mdash;if anyone could enjoy that awful retreat and awful
+advance. He had been one of the first officers to receive the Military
+Cross, for brilliant work by the canal at Givenchy; he had laughed and
+joked as he lay all day in the open and listened to the bullets that
+went "pht" against the few clods of earth he had erected with his
+entrenching tool, and which went by the high-sounding name of "head
+cover."</p>
+
+<p>And then, one day a howitzer shell had landed in the dug-out where he
+was lunching with his three particular friends. When the men of his
+company cleared the sandbags away from him, he was a gibbering wreck,
+unwounded but paralysed, and splashed with the blood of three dead men.</p>
+
+<p>Now, after months of battle dreams and mad terror, of massage and
+electrical treatment, he was faced with the question&mdash;"Do you feel quite
+fit for active service again?"</p>
+
+<p>He was tired to death of staying at home with no apparent complaint, he
+was sick of light duty with his reserve battalion, he wanted to be out
+at the front again with the men and officers he knew ... and yet,
+supposing his nerve went again, supposing he lost his self-control....</p>
+
+<p>Finally, however, he looked up. "Yes, sir," he said, "I feel fit for
+anything now&mdash;quite fit."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p>Three months later the Medical Officer sat talking to the C.O. in the
+Headquarter dug-out.</p>
+
+<p>"As for old Dymond," he said, "he ought never to have been sent out here
+again. He's done his bit already, and they ought to have given him a
+'cushy' job at home, instead of one of those young staff blighters"&mdash;for
+the M.O. was no respecter of persons, and even a "brass hat" failed to
+awe him.</p>
+
+<p>"Can't you send him down the line?" said the C.O. "This is no place for
+a man with neurasthenia. God! did you see the way his hand shook when he
+was in here just now?"</p>
+
+<p>"And he's a total abstainer now, poor devil," sighed the Doctor with
+pity, for he was, himself, fond of his drop of whisky. "I'll send him
+down to the dressing station to-morrow with a note telling the R.A.M.C.
+people there that he wants a thorough change."</p>
+
+<p>"Good," said the C.O. "I'm very sorry he's got to go, for he's a jolly
+good officer. However, it can't be helped. Have another drink, Doc."</p>
+
+<p>It is bad policy to refuse the offer of a senior officer, and the M.O.
+was a man with a thirst, so he helped himself with liberality. Before
+he had raised the glass to his lips, the sudden roar of many bursting
+shells caused him to jump to his feet. "Hell!" he growled. "Another
+hate. More dirty work at the cross roads." And he hurried off to the
+little dug-out that served him as a dressing station, his beloved drink
+standing untouched on the table.</p>
+
+<p>Meanwhile, Roger Dymond crouched up against the parapet, and listened to
+the explosions all around him. "Oil cans" and "Minnewerfer" bombs came
+hurtling through the air, "Crumps" burst with great clouds of black
+smoke, bits of "Whizz-bangs" went buzzing past and buried themselves
+deep in the ground. Roger Dymond tried to light his cigarette, but his
+hand shook so that he could hardly hold the match, and he threw it away
+in fear that the men would see how he trembled.</p>
+
+<p>Thousands of people have tried to describe the noise of a shell, but no
+man can know what it is like unless he can put himself into a trench to
+hear the original thing. There is the metallic roar of waves breaking
+just before the rain, there is the whistle of wind through the trees,
+there is the rumble of a huge traction engine, and there is the sharp
+back-fire of a motor car. With each different sinister noise, Roger
+Dymond felt his hold over himself gradually going ... going....</p>
+
+<p>Next to him in the trench crouched Newman, a soldier who had been in
+his platoon in the old days when they tramped, sweating and half-dead,
+along the broiling roads towards Paris.</p>
+
+<p>"They'm a blasted lot too free with their iron crosses and other
+souvenirs," growled that excellent fellow. "I'd rather be fighting them
+'and to 'and like we did in that there churchyard near Le Cateau,
+wouldn't you, sir?"</p>
+
+<p>Dymond smiled sickly assent, and Newman, being an old soldier, knew what
+was the matter with his captain. He watched him as, bit by bit, his
+nerve gave way, but he dared not suggest that Dymond should "go sick,"
+and he did the only thing that could be done under the circumstances&mdash;he
+talked as he had never talked before.</p>
+
+<p>"Gawd!" he said after a long monologue that was meant to bring
+distraction from the noise of the inferno. "I wish as 'ow we was a bit
+closer to the devils so that they couldn't shell us. I'd like to get me
+'and round some blighter's ugly neck, too."</p>
+
+<p>A second later a trench-mortar bomb came hurtling down through the air,
+and fell on the parados near the two men. There was a pause, then an
+awful explosion, which hurled Dymond to the ground, and, as he fell,
+Newman's words seemed to run through his head: "I wish as 'ow we was a
+bit closer to the devils so that they couldn't shell us." He was aware
+of a moment's acute terror, then something in his brain seemed to snap
+and everything that followed was vague, for Captain Roger Dymond went
+mad.</p>
+
+<p>He remembered clambering out of the trench to get so close to the Huns
+that they could not shell him; he remembered running&mdash;everybody running,
+his own men running with him, and the Germans running from him; he had a
+vague recollection of making his way down a long bit of strange trench,
+brandishing an entrenching tool that he had picked up somewhere; then
+there was a great flash and an awful pain, and all was over&mdash;the
+shelling was over at last.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p>It was not until Roger Dymond was in hospital in London that he worried
+about things again. One evening, however, the Sister brought in a paper,
+and pointed out his own name in a list of nine others who had won the
+V.C. He read the little paragraph underneath in the deepest
+astonishment.</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot"><p>"For conspicuous gallantry," it ran, "under very heavy shell fire on
+August 26th, 1916. Seeing that his men were becoming demoralised by
+the bombardment, Captain Dymond, on his own initiative, led a
+surprise attack against the enemy trenches. He found the Germans
+unprepared, and at the head of his men captured two lines of trenches
+along a front of two hundred and fifty yards. Captain Dymond lost
+both legs owing to shell fire, but his men were able to make good
+almost all their ground and to hold it against all counter-attacks.</p>
+
+<p>"This officer was awarded the Military Cross earlier in the war for
+great bravery near La Bass&eacute;e."</p></div>
+
+<p>He finished the amazing article, and wrote a letter, in a wavering hand
+that he could not recognise as his own, to the War Office to tell them
+of their mistake&mdash;that he was really running away from the enemy's
+shells&mdash;and received a reply visit from a general.</p>
+
+<p>"My dear fellow," he said, "the V.C. is never awarded to a man who has
+not deserved it. The only pity is that so many fellows deserve it and
+don't get it. You deserved it and got it. Stick to it, and think
+yourself damned lucky to be alive to wear it. There's nothing more to be
+said."</p>
+
+<p>And this is the story of Captain Roger Dymond, V.C., M.C. Of the few of
+us who were there at the time, there is not one who would grudge him the
+right to put those most coveted letters of all after his name, for we
+were all in the shelling ourselves, and we all saw him charge, and
+heard him shout and laugh as he made his way across to the enemy. The
+V.C., as the general said, is never given to a man who has not deserved
+it.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="V" id="V"></a>V</h2>
+
+<h3>"PONGO" SIMPSON ON BOMBS</h3>
+
+
+<p>"Pongo" Simpson was sitting before a brazier fire boiling some tea for
+his captain, when the warning click sounded from the German trenches.
+Instinctively he clapped the cover on the canteen and dived for shelter,
+while the great, black trench-mortar bomb came twisting and turning down
+through the air. It fell to ground with a dull thud, there was a
+second's silence, then an appalling explosion. The roof of the dug-out
+in which "Pongo" had found refuge sagged ominously, the supporting beam
+cracked, and the heavy layer of earth and bricks and branches subsided
+on the crouching man.</p>
+
+<p>It took five minutes to dig him out, and he was near to suffocation when
+they dragged him into the trench. For a moment he looked wonderingly
+about him, and then a smile came to his face. "That's what I likes about
+this 'ere life, there ain't no need to get bored. No need for pictcher
+shows or pubs, there's amusements for you for nothing." And as he got to
+his feet, a scowl replaced the smile. "I bet I knows the blighter what
+sent that there bomb," he growled. "I guess it's old Fritz what used to
+'ang out in that old shop in Walworth Road&mdash;'im what I palmed off a bad
+'arf-crown on. 'E always said as 'ow 'e'd get 'is own back."</p>
+
+<p>Five minutes later he had exchanged the battered wreck of his canteen
+for a new one belonging to Private Adams, who was asleep farther down
+the trench, and had set to boiling a fresh lot of tea for his captain.</p>
+
+<p>"Darned funny things, bombs and things like that," he began presently.
+"You can't trust them no'ow. Look at ole Sergeant Allen f'r example. 'E
+went 'ome on leave after a year out 'ere, and 'e took an ornary time
+fuse from a shell with 'im to put on 'is mantelpiece. And the very first
+night as 'e was 'ome, the blamed thing fell down when 'e wasn't lookin',
+and bit 'im in the leg, so that 'e 'ad to spend all 'is time in
+'orspital. They're always explodin' when they didn't ought to. Did I
+ever tell you about me brother Bert?"</p>
+
+<p>A chorus in the negative from the other men who stood round the brazier
+encouraged him to continue.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, Bert was always a bit silly like, and I thought as 'ow 'e'd do
+somethin' foolish when 'e got to the front. Sure 'nough, the very first
+bloomin' night 'e went into a trench, 'e was filin' along it when 'e
+slipped and sat right on a box of bombs. It's gorspel what I'm tellin'
+you&mdash;nine of the blighters went off, and 'e wasn't killed. 'E's 'ome in
+England now in some 'orspital, and 'e's as fit as a lord. The only thing
+wrong about 'im now is that 'e's always the first bloke what stands and
+gives 'is place to a lady when a tram's full&mdash;still a bit painful like."</p>
+
+<p>Joe Bates expectorated with much precision and care over the parapet in
+the direction of the Germans. "It ain't bombs wot I mind," he said,
+"it's them there mines. When I first kime aht ter fight the 'Uns, I was
+up at St. Eloi, an' they blew the 'ole lot of us up one night. Gawd, it
+ain't like nothin' on earth, an' the worst of it was I'd jest 'ad a box
+of fags sent out by some ole gal in 'Blighty,' an' when I got back to
+earth agen there weren't a bloomin' fag to be found. If thet ain't
+enough to mike a bloke swear, I dunno wot is. 'As any sport 'ere got a
+fag to gi' me? I ain't 'ad a smoke fer two days," he finished, "cept a
+li'l bit of a fag as the Keptin threw away."</p>
+
+<p>Private Parkes hesitated for a minute, and then, seeing Joe Bates's eyes
+fixed expectantly on him, he produced a broken "Woodbine" from
+somewhere inside his cap.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes," resumed "Pongo," while Joe Bates was lighting his cigarette,
+"this ain't what you'd call war. I wouldn't mind goin' for ole Fritz
+with an 'ammer, but, what with 'owitzers and 'crumps,' and 'Black
+Marias,' and 'pip-squeaks' and 'whizz-bangs,' the infantry bloke ain't
+got a chanst. 'Ere 'ave I been in a bloomin' trench for six months, and
+what 'ave I used my bay'nit for? To chop wood, and to wake ole Sandy
+when 'e snores. Down the line our blokes run over and give it to the
+Alleymans like 'ell, and up 'ere we sits jest like a lot of dolls while
+they send over those darned bombs. I'll give 'em what for. I'll put it
+acrost 'em." And he disappeared round the traverse with the canteen of
+tea for his officer.</p>
+
+<p>Ten minutes later he turned up again with a jam tin bomb in his hand. "I
+bet I can reach their bloomin' listening post with this," he said, and
+he deliberately lit a piece of paper at the brazier fire and put it to
+the odd inch of fuse that protruded from the bomb. The average jam tin
+bomb is fused to burn for three or four seconds before it explodes, so
+that, once the fuse is lit, you do not keep the bomb near you for long,
+but send it across with your best wishes to Fritz over the way. "Pongo"
+drew his arm back to throw his bomb, and had begun the forward swing,
+when his fingers seemed to slip, and the weapon dropped down into the
+trench.</p>
+
+<p>There was a terrific rush, and everyone disappeared helter-skelter round
+the traverse.</p>
+
+<p>Just as Corporal Bateman rounded the corner into safety he glanced back,
+to see "Pongo" sprawling on his bomb in the most approved style, to
+prevent the bits from spreading. There was a long pause, during which
+the men crouched close to the parapet waiting, waiting ... but nothing
+happened.</p>
+
+<p>At length someone poked his head round the traverse&mdash;to discover "Pongo"
+sitting on the sandbag recently vacated by Corporal Bateman, trying to
+balance the bomb on the point of a bayonet.</p>
+
+<p>"'Ullo!" said that individual. "I thought as 'ow you'd gone 'ome for the
+week-end. 'E wouldn't 'urt me, not this little bloke," and he fondled
+the jam tin.</p>
+
+<p>"Well," said Joe Bates when, one by one, the men had crept back to the
+fire, "if that ain't a bloomin' miracle! I ain't never seen nuffin' like
+it. Ain't you 'arf 'ad an escape, Pongo?"</p>
+
+<p>"Pongo" rose to his feet, and edged towards the traverse. "It ain't such
+an escape as what you blokes think, because, you see, the bomb ain't
+nothin' more nor an ornary jam tin with a bit of fuse what I stuck in
+it."</p>
+
+<p>And he disappeared down the trench as rapidly as had his comrades a few
+minutes before.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="VI" id="VI"></a>VI</h2>
+
+<h3>THE SCHOOLMASTER OF PONT SAVERNE</h3>
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+
+<p>"So, you see, Schoolmaster," said Oberleutnant von Scheldmann, "you
+French are a race of dogs. We are the real masters here, and, by Heaven,
+we have come to make you realise it. Your beloved defenders are running
+for their lives from the nation they ventured to defy a month ago. They
+are beaten, routed. What is it they say in your Latin books? 'V&aelig;
+Victis.' Woe to the conquered!"</p>
+
+<p>Gaston Baudel, schoolmaster in the little village of Pont Saverne,
+looked out of the window along the white road to Ch&acirc;lons-sur-Marne, four
+miles away. Between the poplar trees he could catch glimpses of it, and
+the river wound by its side, a broad ribbon of polished silver. From the
+road there rose, here and there, clouds of dust, telling of some battery
+or column on the move. The square of the little village, where he had
+lived for close on forty years, was crowded with German troops; the
+river was dirtied by hundreds of Germans, washing off the dust and
+blood; the inns echoed to German laughter and German songs, and, even as
+he looked, someone hurled a tray of glasses out of the window of the
+Lion d'Or into the street. His blood boiled with hate of the invading
+hosts that had so rudely aroused the sleepy, peaceful village, and he
+felt his self-control slipping, slipping....</p>
+
+<p>"Get me some food," said the German suddenly. "We have hardly had one
+decent meal since your dogs of soldiers began running. Bring food and
+wine at once, so that I may go on and help to wipe the French and
+British scum from off the earth."</p>
+
+<p>The insult was too much for Gaston Baudel. "May I be cursed," he
+shouted, "if I lift hand or foot to feed you and your like. I hate you
+all, for did you not kill my own father, when your soldiers overran
+France forty-four years ago! Go and find food elsewhere."</p>
+
+<p>Von Scheldmann laughed to himself, amused at the Frenchman's rage. He
+leant out of the window, and called to his servant and another man, who
+were seated on the doorstep outside.</p>
+
+<p>"Tie this fighting cock up with something," he ordered, "and go to see
+if there is anyone else in the house."</p>
+
+<p>An unarmed schoolmaster is no even match for two armed and burly
+Germans. Gaston Baudel kicked and struggled as he had never done
+before, but he was old and weak, his eyes were watery through much
+reading, and his arm had none of the strength of youth left in it. In a
+few seconds he lay gasping on the floor, while a German, kneeling on
+him, tied his hands behind his back with strips of his own bedsheets.</p>
+
+<p>"Now, you pig," said von Scheldmann when the soldiers had gone off to
+search the house, "remember that you are the conquered dog of a
+conquered race, and that my sword thirsts for French blood," and he
+added meaning to his words by drawing his weapon and pricking the
+schoolmaster's thin legs with it. "If I don't get food in a few minutes,
+I shall have to run this through your body."</p>
+
+<p>Gaston Baudel had heard too much of war to put any trust in what we call
+"civilisation," which is, at best, merely a cloak that hides the savage
+beneath. He knew that the command to kill and pillage was more than
+enough to bring forth all the latent passions which man has tried to
+conceal since the days when he first clothed himself in skins; that it
+was no idle threat on the part of the German officer. He lay, then, in
+silence, on the floor of his own schoolroom, until the two soldiers
+returned, dragging between them the terrified Rosine, his old
+housekeeper.</p>
+
+<p>"Are you the schoolmaster's servant?" asked von Scheldmann, in French.</p>
+
+<p>Rosine nodded, for no words would come to her.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, bring me the best food and wine in the house at once, or your
+master will suffer for it."</p>
+
+<p>Rosine glanced at Gaston Baudel, who nodded to her as well as his
+position would allow him to. With tears in her eyes, the old servant
+hurried off to her kitchen to prepare the meal.</p>
+
+<p>"Tie the schoolmaster down to that chair," ordered the German officer,
+"and place him opposite me, so that he may see how much his guest enjoys
+his lunch."</p>
+
+<p>Thus they sat, the host and the guest, face to face across the little
+deal table near the window. The sun shone down on the clean cloth and
+the blood-coloured wine, and on the schoolmaster's grey hair. In the
+shade cast by the apple tree outside, sat the German, now drinking, now
+glancing mockingly at his unwilling host. The meal was interrupted by an
+orderly, who came in with a note.</p>
+
+<p>Von Scheldmann read it, and swore. "In five minutes we parade," he said,
+"to follow on after your cowardly dogs of <i>poilus</i>. Here's a health to
+the new rulers of France! Here's to the German Empire!" and he leant
+across the table towards the schoolmaster. "Drink, you dog," he said,
+"drink to my toast," and he held his glass close to the other's lips.</p>
+
+<p>Gaston Baudel hesitated for a moment. Then he suddenly jerked his head
+forward, and, with his chin, knocked the glass out of the German's hand.
+As the wine splashed over the floor, von Scheldmann leaped to his feet.</p>
+
+<p>"Swine!" he shouted. "It is lucky for you that your wine was good and
+has left me in a kind mood, otherwise you would certainly die for that
+insult. As it is, you shall but lose your ears, and I shall benefit the
+world by cutting them off. If you move an inch I shall have to run my
+sword through your heart."</p>
+
+<p>He lifted his sword, and brought it down twice. Then he called to his
+servant and hastened out into the sunlit street, leaving Gaston Baudel
+tied to his chair, with the warm blood running down each side of his
+face.</p>
+
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<p>Six days later, shortly before the middle of September, an unwonted
+noise in the street brought the old schoolmaster from his breakfast. He
+walked down the little flagged path of the garden to the gate, and
+looked up and down the road. By the green, in the square, a group of
+villagers were talking and gesticulating, and from the direction of
+Ecury came the deep rumble of traffic and the sound of heavy firing.</p>
+
+<p>The schoolmaster called to one of the peasants. "H&eacute;, Jeanne," he cried.
+"What is the news?"</p>
+
+<p>"The Boches are coming back, M. Baudel," said Jeanne Legrand. "They are
+fleeing from our troops, and will be passing through here, many of them.
+Pray God they may be in too much of a hurry to stop!" And her face grew
+anxious and frightened.</p>
+
+<p>Old Gaston Baudel stepped out of his garden, and joined the group in the
+square. "Courage, mes amies," he said. "Even if they do stay awhile,
+even if our homes are shelled, what does it matter? France is winning,
+and driving the Germans back. That at any rate, is good news."</p>
+
+<p>"All the same," said fat Madame Roland, landlady of the Lion d'Or, "if
+they break any more of my glasses, I shall want to break my last bottle
+of wine over their dirty heads." And she went off to hide what remained
+of her liqueurs and champagne under the sacking in the cellar.</p>
+
+<p>"Let us all go back to our homes," counselled Gaston Baudel, "to hide
+anything of value. Even I, with this bandage round my head, can hear how
+swiftly they are retiring. There will, alas! be no school to-day. May
+our brave soldiers drive the devils from off our fair land of France."</p>
+
+<p>Even as he spoke, the first transport waggons came tearing down the
+road, and swung northward over the river. Away in the morning haze, the
+infantry could be seen&mdash;dark masses stumbling along the white
+road&mdash;till a convoy of motor lorries hid them from view.</p>
+
+<p>Gaston Baudel sat down in his stone-paved schoolroom to await the
+passing of the Germans, and to correct the tasks of his little pupils.
+He had given them a <i>devoir de style</i> to write on the glory of France,
+and, as he read the childish, ill-spelt prophecies of his country's
+greatness, he laughed, for the Germans were in retreat, the worst of the
+anxiety was over, and Paris was saved. And, hour by hour, he listened to
+the rumble of cannon, the rattle of transport waggons and ambulances,
+and the heavy tramp of tired-out soldiers on the dusty road.</p>
+
+<p>Suddenly he heard the clank of boots coming up his little garden path,
+and a large figure loomed in the doorway. A German officer, covered with
+dirt, entered the room, and threw himself down in a chair.</p>
+
+<p>"You still here, earless dog?" he said, and the schoolmaster recognised
+his tormentor of a week ago. "Give me something to take with me, and at
+once. I have no time to stop, but I shall certainly kill you this time
+if you don't bring me food, and more of that red wine."</p>
+
+<p>Gaston Baudel glanced towards the drawer where he kept his
+revolver&mdash;though he would have never used it against any number of
+burglars&mdash;but a sudden idea came to him, and he checked his movement.
+With a few muttered words, he hastened off to the kitchen to get food
+for the German.</p>
+
+<p>"Rosine," he said, "cut a sandwich for that German dog, and then run
+into my room and fetch the black sealing wax from my desk."</p>
+
+<p>When she had gone off to obey him, Gaston Baudel opened a bottle of red
+wine and poured a little away. Then, fetching a small glass-stoppered
+bottle from his room, he emptied the contents&mdash;pure morphia&mdash;into the
+wine and recorked the bottle.</p>
+
+<p>"So much," he said to himself, "for the doctor and his drugs. He may
+have told me how much to dilute it to deaden the pain of my ears, but he
+gave me no instructions about dosing Germans. They have strong stomachs;
+let them have strong drink."</p>
+
+<p>But as he sealed the cork and mouth of the bottle, to allay any
+suspicions the German might have, a thought came to him. Was he not
+committing murder? Was he not taking away God's gift of life from a
+fellow creature? Unconsciously he touched the bandage that covered his
+mutilated ears. Surely, though, it could not be wrong to kill one of
+these hated oppressors? Should not an enemy of France be destroyed at
+any cost?</p>
+
+<p>As he hesitated, the impatient voice of von Scheldmann sounded from the
+schoolroom. "You swine!" he shouted, "are you bringing me food, or must
+I come and fetch it?"</p>
+
+<p>The schoolmaster seized a scrap of paper, and scribbled a few words on
+it. Then, slipping it between the cheese and bread of the sandwich, he
+made a little packet of the food, and hastened from the room. God, or
+Fate, must decide.</p>
+
+<p>He handed the food and wine to the German, and watched him as he tramped
+down the garden path, to join in the unending stream of grey-coated
+soldiers who straggled towards the north.</p>
+
+
+<h4>III</h4>
+
+<p>Oberleutnant von Scheldmann sat on a bank by the roadside, to lunch in
+haste. Behind him, parallel to him, in front of him, went the German
+army; and the thunder of the guns, down by the Marne, told of the
+rearguard fight. As they tramped past, the soldiers gazed enviously at
+the bread and cheese and wine, for the country was clear of food, and,
+even had it not been, the rapid advance and rapid retreat left but
+little time for plundering.</p>
+
+<p>Von Scheldmann knocked the top off the wine bottle with a blow from a
+stone, and, with care to avoid the sharp edges of the glass, he drank
+long and deep. As he bit greedily into the sandwich, his teeth met on
+something thin and tenuous, and he pulled the two bits of bread apart.
+Inside was a scrap of paper. With a curse, he was about to throw the
+paper away, when some pencilled words caught his eye.</p>
+
+<p>"I leave it to God," he read, "to decide whether you live or die. If you
+have not drunk any wine, do not, for it is poisoned. If you have, you
+are lost, and nothing can save you. The victorious French will find your
+corpse, and will rejoice. V&aelig; victis! Woe to the conquered!"</p>
+
+<p>And even as he read the hurriedly written words, von Scheldmann felt the
+first awful sense of numbness that presaged the end.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="VII" id="VII"></a>VII</h2>
+
+<h3>THE ODD JOBS</h3>
+
+
+<p>We sat in a railway carriage and told each other, as civilians love to
+do, what was the quickest way to end the war. "You ought to be able to
+hold nearly 400 yards of trench with a company," my friend was saying.
+"You see, a company nowadays gives you 250 fighting men to man the
+trenches."</p>
+
+<p>And then the muddy figure in the corner, the only other occupant of the
+carriage, woke up. "You don't know what you're talking about," he
+snorted as he tossed his cap up on to the rack, and put his feet on the
+opposite seat.</p>
+
+<p>"You don't know what you're talking about," he repeated. "You're lucky
+if your company can produce more than 150 men to man the trenches; you
+forget altogether about the odd jobs. Take the company I'm in at the
+front, for instance. Do you imagine we've got 250 men to man the
+trenches? First of all there are always men being hit and going sick, or
+men who are sent off to guard lines of communication, and their places
+aren't filled up by fresh drafts for weeks. As for the odd jobs, there's
+no end to them. My own particular pal is a telephone orderly&mdash;he sits
+all day in a dug-out and wakes up at stated hours to telephone 'No
+change in the situation' to battalion headquarters. It's true that he
+does jolly good work when the Huns 'strafe' his wire and he has to go
+out and mend it, but he doesn't go forward in an attack; he sits in his
+dug-out and telephones like blazes for reinforcements while the Germans
+pepper his roof for him with 'whizz-bangs.'</p>
+
+<p>"Then there's old Joe White, the man like a walrus, who left us months
+ago to go and guard divisional headquarters; there are five officers'
+servants who are far too busy to man a trench; there is a post corporal,
+who goes down to meet the transport every night to fetch the company's
+letters, and who generally brings up a sack of bread by mistake or drops
+the parcels into shell holes that are full of water; there's a black,
+greasy fellow who calls himself a cook, and who looks after a big 'tank'
+called a 'cooker,' from which he extracts oily tea, and meat covered
+with tea-leaves. Besides all these fellows there are sixteen sanitary
+men who wander about with tins of chloride of lime and keep the trench
+clean&mdash;they don't man the trenches; then there are three battalion
+orderlies, who run about with messages from headquarters and who wake
+the captain up, as soon as he gets to sleep, to ask him to state in
+writing how much cheese was issued to his men yesterday or why Private X
+has not had his hair cut.</p>
+
+<p>"Do you imagine this finishes the list? Not a bit of it. There are half
+a dozen machine gunners who have nothing to do with company work; half a
+dozen men and a quartermaster-sergeant attached to the transport to look
+after the horses and to flirt with girls in farms; two mess waiters
+whose job it is to feed the officers; and there are four men who have
+the rottenest time of anyone&mdash;they're the miners who burrow and dig, dig
+and burrow day and night towards the German lines; poor half-naked
+fellows who wheel little trucks of earth to the pit shaft or who lie on
+their stomachs working away with picks. And it's always an awful race to
+see if they'll blow up the Germans, or if it will be the other way
+about.</p>
+
+<p>"There are still more odd jobs, and new ones turn up every day. Mind
+you, I'm not grumbling, for many of these fellows work harder than we
+do, and we must have someone to feed us and to keep the place clean. But
+the difficulty is nowadays to find a man who's got time to stand in the
+trench and wait for the Hun to attack, and that's what you people don't
+seem to realise."</p>
+
+<p>"And what do you do?" asked my friend as the other stopped to yawn.</p>
+
+<p>"What do I do? What do you think I've been talking for all this time?"
+said the man in khaki. "I'm the fellow who stands in the trench and
+waits for the Hun to attack. That's a jolly long job, and I've got some
+sleep owing to me for it, too."</p>
+
+<p>Whereupon he stretched himself out on the seat, pillowed his head on his
+pack, and proceeded to extract noisy payment of his debt.</p>
+
+<p>"That rather complicates matters, doesn't it?" said my friend, when the
+muddy figure had safely reached the land of dreams. "If you've only got
+150 fighting men in a company, your division has a strength of ..." and
+he proceeded to count away on his fingers as hard as he could. Presently
+he gave it up in despair, and a brilliant idea seemed to strike him.</p>
+
+<p>"Those generals and staff fellows," he said, "must have a lot of brains
+after all." And we have come to the conclusion that we will not
+criticise them any more, for they must know as well as we do, if not
+still better, how to win the war.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="VIII" id="VIII"></a>VIII</h2>
+
+<h3>THE "KNUT"</h3>
+
+
+<p>We were sitting round the fire in the club, discussing that individual
+colloquially known as the "knut."</p>
+
+<p>"The 'knut,'" said Green, "is now virtually extinct, he is killed by
+war. As soon as he gets anywhere near a trench, he drops his cloak of
+affectation, and becomes a reasonable human being&mdash;always excepting, of
+course, certain young subalterns on the staff."</p>
+
+<p>Rawlinson leant forward in his chair. "I'm not sure," he said, "that I
+agree with you. It all depends upon how you define a 'knut.'"</p>
+
+<p>"A 'knut' is a fellow with a drawl and an eyeglass," said someone.</p>
+
+<p>"That just fits my man. I know of an exception to your rule. I know of a
+'knut' who did not disappear at the front."</p>
+
+<p>"Tell us about him," suggested Jepson.</p>
+
+<p>Rawlinson hesitated, and glanced round at each of us in turn. "It's not
+much of a story," he said at length, "but it stirred me up a bit at the
+time&mdash;I don't mind telling it you if you think it sufficiently
+interesting."</p>
+
+<p>We filled up our glasses, and lay back in our chairs to listen to the
+following tale:</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p>"When I was at Trinity I kept rooms just above a fellow called Jimmy
+Wynter. He wasn't a pal of mine at all, as he had far too much money to
+chuck about&mdash;one of these rich young wastrels, he was. He could drop
+more than my annual allowance on one horse, and not seem to notice it at
+all. In the end he got sent down for some rotten affair, and I was
+rather glad to see the last of him, as the row from his rooms was
+appalling. He always had an eyeglass and wonderfully cut clothes, and
+his hair was brushed back till it was as shiny as a billiard ball. I put
+him down, as did everyone else, as an out-and-out rotter, and held him
+up as an example of our decadent aristocracy.</p>
+
+<p>"When I went out to the front, our Regular battalion was full up, and I
+was sent to a Welsh regiment instead. The first man I met there was none
+other than this fellow Wynter, still with his eyeglass and his drawl. In
+time, one got quite accustomed to him, and he was always fairly
+amusing&mdash;which, of course, is a great thing out there&mdash;so that in the
+end I began to like him in a sort of way.</p>
+
+<p>"All this seems rot, but it helps to give you an idea of my man, and it
+all leads up to my story, such as it is.</p>
+
+<p>"We came in for that Loos show last year. After months and months of
+stagnation in the trenches, we were suddenly called to Headquarters and
+told that we were to make an attack in about two hours' time.</p>
+
+<p>"I don't know if any of you fellows came in for a bayonet charge when
+you were out at the Front. Frankly, I felt in a hell of a funk, for it's
+not the same thing to leave your trench and charge as it is to rush an
+enemy after you've been lying in an open field for an hour or two. The
+first hour and a half went all right, what with fusing bombs, arranging
+signals, and all that sort of thing, but the last half-hour was the very
+devil.</p>
+
+<p>"Most of us felt a bit jumpy, and the double rum ration went in two
+shakes. We knew that we shouldn't worry when the whistles went for the
+charge, but the waiting was rather trying. Personally I drank more neat
+brandy than I have ever done before or since, and then sat down and
+tried to write one or two letters. But it wasn't a brilliant success,
+and I soon left my dug-out and strolled along to C Company.</p>
+
+<p>"The idea was for A and C Companies to attack first, followed by B and
+D companies. A battalion of the Westshires was in support to us.</p>
+
+<p>"C Company Officer's dug-out was not a mental haven of rest. With one
+exception, everyone was a bit nervy, everyone was trying not to show it,
+and everyone was failing dismally. The exception was Jimmy Wynter. He
+was sitting on a pile of sandbags in the corner, his eyeglass in his
+eye, looking at an old copy of <i>La Vie Parisienne</i>, with evident relish.
+His hand was as steady as a rock, and he hadn't had a drop of rum or
+brandy to give him Dutch courage. While everyone else was fighting with
+excitement, Jimmy Wynter was sitting there, studying the jokes of his
+paper, as calmly as though he were sitting here in this old club. It was
+only then that it occurred to me that there was something in the fellow
+after all.</p>
+
+<p>"At last the time drew near for our push, and we waited, crouching under
+the parapet, listening to our artillery plunking away like blazes. At
+last the whistles blew, a lot of fellows cheered, yelled all sorts of
+idiotic things, and A and C Companies were over the parapet on the way
+to the Huns.</p>
+
+<p>"I am no hand at a description of a charge, but it really was wonderful
+to watch those fellows; the sight of them sent every vestige of funk
+from me, and the men could hardly wait for their turn to come. Just
+before we went, I had one clear vision of Jimmy Wynter. He was well
+ahead of his platoon, for he was over six foot and long-legged at that.
+I could see his eyeglass swinging on the end of its black cord, and in
+his hand he carried a pickaxe. Such ordinary weapons as revolvers,
+rifles, and bayonets had no apparent attraction for him.</p>
+
+<p>"What happened next I had no time to see, for our turn came to hop over
+the parapet, and there wasn't much time to think of other people. Allan,
+his servant, told me later all that occurred, for he was next to Jimmy
+all the time. They got to the Hun trenches and lost a lot of men on the
+wire. Away to the left the enemy had concealed a crowd of machine guns
+in one of the slag heaps, and they played awful havoc among our chaps.
+According to Allan, Jimmy chose a place where the wire had almost all
+gone, took a huge leap over the few remaining strands, and was the first
+of C Company to get into the trench.</p>
+
+<p>"Somehow he didn't get touched&mdash;I'll bet Allan had something to do with
+that; for he loved his master. With his pick he cracked the skull of the
+first Boche who showed signs of fight, and, losing his hold of his
+weapon, he seized the man's rifle as he fell. No wonder the poor
+blighters fled, for Jimmy Wynter must have looked like Beelzebub as he
+charged down on them. His hat had gone, and his hair stuck out from his
+head like some modern Struwwelpeter. With the rifle swinging above his
+head, he did as much to clear the trench as did the rest of the platoon
+all put together.</p>
+
+<p>"When we arrived on the scene the few who remained of A and C Companies
+were well on their way to the second line of trenches. Here again Jimmy
+Wynter behaved like a demon with his rifle and bayonet, and in five
+minutes' time we were in complete possession of two lines of trenches
+along a front of two hundred yards. I do not even mention the number of
+Germans that Allan swore his master had disposed of, but the name of
+Wynter will long be a by-word in the regiment. The funny part of it is
+that, up to that time, he hadn't had a single scratch. However, Fate may
+overlook a man for a short time, but he is generally remembered in the
+end. So it was with poor old Jimmy.</p>
+
+<p>"He was leading a party down a communicating trench, bombing the Huns
+back yard by yard, when a hand grenade landed almost at his feet. He
+jumped forward, in the hope that he would have time to throw it away
+before it went off, but it was fused too well. Just as he picked it up,
+the damned thing exploded, and Jimmy Wynter crumpled up like a piece of
+paper.</p>
+
+<p>"I was coming along the trench a few minutes later, seeing that our
+position was being made as secure as possible before the counter-attack
+came, when I found him. He was lying in one of the few dug-outs that had
+not been hit, and Allan and another man were doing what they could for
+him.</p>
+
+<p>"You could see he was very nearly done for, but, after a few seconds, he
+opened his eyes and recognised me.</p>
+
+<p>"'Hullo, Rawlinson,' he whispered; 'some damned fool has hit me. Hurts
+like the very devil.'</p>
+
+<p>"I muttered some banal words of comfort, and continued to tie him
+up&mdash;though God knows it was a pretty hopeless task. I hadn't even any
+morphia I could give him to make things better.</p>
+
+<p>"Suddenly he raised his arm and fumbled about in search of something.</p>
+
+<p>"'What do you want?' I asked.</p>
+
+<p>"'Where the deuce is my eyeglass?' And the drawl seemed to catch
+horribly in his throat.</p>
+
+<p>"I put the rim of the eyeglass into his hand; the glass itself had gone.</p>
+
+<p>"'Must wear the damned thing,' he murmured, and he tried to raise it to
+his face&mdash;but his hand suddenly stopped half-way and fell, and he died."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p>There was silence in the club room for a minute or so, and the ticking
+of the clock was oppressively loud. Then Jepson raised his glass.</p>
+
+<p>"Gentlemen," he said. "Here's to the 'Knut,'" and gravely we drank to
+the toast.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="IX" id="IX"></a>IX</h2>
+
+<h3>SHOPPING</h3>
+
+
+<p>As the Captain sat down to breakfast, he turned to speak to me: "I
+propose ..." he began, but Lawson interrupted him. "Oh, John dear," he
+said, "this is so sudden."</p>
+
+<p>The Captain took no notice of the interruption. "... that you and I go
+shopping this afternoon."</p>
+
+<p>"Jane," I called to an imaginary maid, "please tell Parkes to bring the
+car round at eleven o'clock; we are going shopping in Bond Street, and
+lunching at the Ritz."</p>
+
+<p>"You all seem to think you're deucedly funny this morning," growled the
+Captain as he pushed aside a piece of cold bacon with the end of his
+knife. "The pure air of the billets seems to have gone to your heads so
+that I think a parade would suit you this afternoon."</p>
+
+<p>We sobered down at the threat. "No, seriously," I said, "I'd love to go
+if I can get anything to ride."</p>
+
+<p>"You can have the Company's pack horse. I'll order both beasts for two
+o'clock."</p>
+
+<p>Now the Captain's horse stands far more hands than any really
+respectable horse should, and the Captain is well over six feet in his
+socks; I, on the other hand, am nearer five feet than six, and the pack
+pony is none too big for me. Again, the Captain is thin and I am fat, so
+that even the sentry could scarcely repress his smile as we set forth on
+our quest&mdash;a modern Don Quixote, and a Sancho Panza with a hole in the
+back of his tunic.</p>
+
+<p>But we had little time to think of our personal appearances, for our way
+lay over the Mont Noir, and there are few places from which you can get
+a more wonderful view, for you can follow the firing line right away
+towards the sea, and your field glasses will show you the smoke rising
+from the steamers off Dunkirk. We paused a moment, and gazed over the
+level miles where Poperinghe and Dixmude and the distant Furnes lay
+sleepy and peaceful, but, even as we looked, a "heavy" burst in Ypres,
+and a long column of smoke rose languidly from the centre of the town.</p>
+
+<p>"We shan't do much more shopping in that old spot," said the Captain as
+he turned his horse off the road, and set forth across country to
+Bailleul.</p>
+
+<p>The Captain has hunted with nearly every pack of hounds in England,
+while I have hunted with none, so that I was hot and thirsty and
+uncommonly sore when we clattered into the town. Leaving the Captain to
+see the horses stabled at the H&ocirc;tel du Faucon, I slipped off to get a
+drink.</p>
+
+<p>"Here," said the Captain when he tracked me down, "don't try that game
+on again or you'll have to take the early parade to-morrow. Besides,
+you're supposed to be Company Interpreter, and you've no right to leave
+me to the mercy of two savage grooms like that. I advise you to take
+care, young man."</p>
+
+<p>My qualifications for the post of Company Interpreter lie in the fact
+that I once, in company of various other youths of my age, spent a
+fortnight in and around the Casino at Trouville. Peters of our company
+knows a long list of nouns taking "x" instead of "s" in the plural, but
+my knowledge is considered more practical&mdash;more French.</p>
+
+<p>And now comes a confession. To retain a reputation requires a lot of
+care, and to keep my position as Company Interpreter and outdo my rival
+Peters I always carried about with me a small pocket dictionary&mdash;if
+anyone ever noticed it, he probably mistook it for a Service Bible&mdash;in
+which I searched for words when occasion offered. I had carefully
+committed to memory the French equivalents for all the articles on our
+shopping list&mdash;a pot of honey, a bottle of Benedictine, a pair of
+unmentionable garments for Lawson, and a toothbrush&mdash;so that I walked
+across the main square with a proud mien and an easy conscience.</p>
+
+<p>Pride, they tell us, comes before a fall. We had successfully fought our
+way through the crowds of officers and mess waiters who swarm in
+Bailleul, we had completed our purchases, we were refreshing ourselves
+in a diminutive tea shop, when the Captain suddenly slapped his thigh.</p>
+
+<p>"By Jove," he said, "I promised to buy a new saucepan for the Company
+cook. Good job I remembered."</p>
+
+<p>What on earth was the French for a saucepan? I had no opportunity of
+looking in my dictionary, for it would look too suspicious if I were to
+consult my Service Bible during tea.</p>
+
+<p>"I don't think we shall have time to look for an ironmonger's," I said.</p>
+
+<p>"You blithering ass," said the Captain, "there's one just across the
+road. Besides, we don't have dinner before eight as a rule."</p>
+
+<p>The fates were working against me. I made one more effort to save my
+reputation. "We should look so funny, sir, riding through Bailleul with
+a great saucepan. We might send the Company cook to buy one to-morrow."</p>
+
+<p>I remained in suspense for a few moments as the Captain chose another
+cake. He looked up suddenly. "We'll get it home all right," he said,
+"but I believe the fact of the matter is that you don't know what to ask
+for."</p>
+
+<p>"We'll go and get the beastly thing directly after tea," I said stiffly,
+for it is always offensive to have doubts cast on one's capabilities,
+the more so when those doubts are founded on fact. Besides, I knew the
+Captain would love to see me at a loss, as French has been his touchy
+point ever since the day when, having a sore throat, he set out to buy a
+cure for it himself. The chemist, mistaking his French and his gestures,
+had politely led him to the door and pointed out a clothier's across the
+way, expressing his regret the while that chemists in France do not sell
+collars.</p>
+
+<p>When we entered the ironmonger's shop I could see nothing in the shape
+of a saucepan that I could point out to the man, so I made a shot in the
+dark. "Je d&eacute;sire," I said, "une soucoupe."</p>
+
+<p>"Parfaitement, m'sieu," said the shopman, and he produced a host of
+saucers of every description&mdash;saucers in tin, saucers in china, saucers
+big and little.</p>
+
+<p>"What in the name of all that's wonderful are you getting those things
+for?" asked the Captain irritably. "We want a saucepan."</p>
+
+<p>I feigned surprise at my carelessness and turned to the shopman again.
+"Non, je d&eacute;sire quelque chose pour bouillir les &oelig;ufs."</p>
+
+<p>The poor man scratched his head for a minute, then an idea suddenly
+struck him. "Ah, une casserole?" he questioned.</p>
+
+<p>I nodded encouragingly, and, to my intense relief, he produced a huge
+saucepan from under the counter, so that we trotted out of Bailleul with
+our saddle bags full, and the saucepan dangling from a piece of string
+round the Captain's neck.</p>
+
+<p>Misfortunes never come singly. We were not more than a hundred yards
+from the town when the Captain handed the saucepan to me. "You might
+take it," he said, "while I shorten my stirrups."</p>
+
+<p>The pack horse becomes accustomed to an enormous variety of loads, but
+apparently the saucepan was something in the shape of a disagreeable
+novelty to him. He began to trot, and that utensil rattled noisily
+against the bottle of liqueur protruding from my saddle bag. The more
+the saucepan rattled the faster went the horse, and the more precarious
+became my seat. In a few seconds I was going across country at a furious
+gallop.</p>
+
+<p>If I let go my hold of the saucepan it rattled violently, and spurred
+the pack horse on to even greater pace; if I held on to the saucepan I
+could not pull up my horse and I stood but little chance of remaining
+on its back at all, for I am a horseman of but very little skill.</p>
+
+<p>Suddenly I saw a gate barring my way ahead. I let go the saucepan and
+something cracked in my saddle bag. I seized the reins and dragged at
+the horse's mouth. Then, just as I was wondering how one stuck on a
+horse's back when it tried to jump, someone rode up from the other side
+and opened the gate.</p>
+
+<p>But it was only when I was right in the gateway that I saw what lay
+ahead. Just before me was a major at the head of a squadron of cavalry.
+The next second I was amongst them.</p>
+
+<p>A fleeting glimpse of the Major's horse pawing the air with its
+forelegs, a scattering of a hundred and fifty men before me, and I had
+passed them all and was galloping up the steep slope of the hill.</p>
+
+<p>When at last the Captain came up with me, I was standing at the top of
+the Mont Noir, wiping Benedictine from my breeches and puttees. I made
+an attempt at jocularity. "I shall have to speak to Parkes about this
+engine," I said. "The controls don't work properly, and she accelerates
+much too quickly."</p>
+
+<p>But the Captain saw the ruin of the liqueur bottle lying by the
+roadside, and was not in the mood for amusement. So we rode in silence
+down the hill, while the flames of Ypres gleamed and flickered in the
+distance.</p>
+
+<p>Of a sudden, however, the Captain burst into a roar of laughter.</p>
+
+<p>"It was worth it," he panted as he rolled in his saddle, "to see the
+poor blighters scatter. Lord! but it was lovely to hear that Major
+curse."</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="X" id="X"></a>X</h2>
+
+<h3>THE LIAR</h3>
+
+
+<p>For an hour and a half we had been crumped and whizz-banged and
+trench-mortared as never before, but it was not until the shelling
+slackened that one could really see the damage done. The sudden
+explosions of whizz-bangs, the increasing whine and fearful bursts of
+crumps, and, worst of all, the black trench-mortar bombs that came
+hurtling and twisting down from the skies, kept the nerves at a pitch
+which allowed of no clear vision of the smashed trench and the wounded
+men.</p>
+
+<p>However, as the intervals between the explosions grew longer and longer
+the men gradually pulled themselves together and began to look round.
+The havoc was appalling. Where the telephone dug-out had been was now a
+huge hole&mdash;a mortar bomb had landed there, and had blown the telephone
+orderly almost on to the German wire, fifty yards away; great gaps, on
+which the German machine guns played at intervals, were made all along
+our parapet; the casualties were being sorted out as well as
+possible&mdash;the dead to be carried into an old support trench, and there
+to await burial, the wounded to be hurried down to the overcrowded
+dressing station as quickly as the bearers could get the stretchers
+away; the unhurt&mdash;scarcely half the company&mdash;were, for the most part,
+still gazing up into the sky in the expectation of that twisting, all
+too familiar, black bomb that has such a terrific devastating power.
+Gradually quiet came again, and the men set about their interrupted
+business&mdash;their sleep to be snatched, their work to be finished before
+the long night with its monotonous watching and digging began.</p>
+
+<p>With the Sergeant-major I went down the trench to discuss repairs, for
+much must be done as soon as night fell. Then, leaving him to make out a
+complete list of the casualties, I returned to my dug-out to share the
+rations of rum with Bennett, the only subaltern who remained in the
+company.</p>
+
+<p>"Where's the rum?" I asked. "Being shelled makes one thirsty."</p>
+
+<p>He handed me a cup, at the bottom of which a very little rum was to be
+seen. "I divided it as well as I could," he said rather apologetically.</p>
+
+<p>"If you were thinking of yourself at the time, you certainly did," I
+answered as I prepared myself for battle, for nothing sets your nerves
+right again as quickly as a "scrap."</p>
+
+<p>We were interrupted, however, in the preliminaries by the
+Sergeant-major, who brought with him a handful of letters and pay books,
+the effects of the poor fellows who were now lying under waterproof
+sheets in the support trench.</p>
+
+<p>"Total killed forty-one, sir, and I'm afraid Sergeant Wall didn't get
+down to the dressing station in time. It's a bad day for us to-day. Oh,
+and by the way, sir, that fellow Spiller has just been found dead at the
+end of the communicating trench."</p>
+
+<p>"Which end, Sergeant-major?" I asked.</p>
+
+<p>"The further end, sir. He left the trench without leave. He told Jones,
+who was next to him, that he was not going to have any more damned
+shelling, and he appears to have made off immediately after."</p>
+
+<p>Bennett whistled. "Is that the blighter whom poor old Hayes had to
+threaten with his revolver the day before we were gassed?"</p>
+
+<p>The Sergeant-major nodded.</p>
+
+<p>"It's just the sort of thing he would do," said Bennett, whose hand was
+still unsteady from the strain of an hour ago, "to bunk when Brother
+Boche is giving us a little crumping to keep us amused."</p>
+
+<p>I turned to the Sergeant-major. "Let me have these fellows' effects," I
+said. "As to Spiller, I don't expect he could have really been bunking.
+At all events, let the other fellows think I sent him to Headquarters
+and he got hit on the way. I expect he was going down with a stretcher
+party." But, in my heart, I knew better. I knew Spiller for a coward.</p>
+
+<p>It is not for me to judge such a man. God knows it is no man's fault if
+he is made so that his nerves may fail him at a critical moment.
+Besides, many a man who is capable of heroism that would win him the
+Victoria Cross fails when called upon to stand more than a few weeks of
+trench warfare, for a few minutes of heroism are very different to
+months of unrelieved strain. However, Spiller and his like let a
+regiment down, and one is bound to despise them for that.</p>
+
+<p>Thoughts of our "scrap" had entirely left us, for Bennett and I had
+before us one of the most uncongenial tasks that an officer can have.
+The news has to be broken by someone when a wife is suddenly made a
+widow, and the task is generally taken on by the dead man's platoon
+commander, who sends back home his letters and papers. There were many
+men who had died that afternoon, and letters of condolence and bad news
+are always difficult to write, so that there was silence in our dug-out
+for the next two hours.</p>
+
+<p>The last pay book I examined had belonged to Private E. Spiller. His
+other belongings were scanty&mdash;a few coppers, a much-chewed pencil, and
+two letters. I looked at the latter for a clue as to whom I ought to
+write; one was in his own handwriting and unfinished, the other was from
+a girl with whom he had been "walking out," apparently his only friend
+in the world, as she alone was mentioned in the little will written at
+the end of his pay book. But her love was enough. Her letter was
+ill-spelt and badly written, but it expressed more love than is given to
+most men.</p>
+
+<p>"Take care of yourself, Erny dear, for my sake," she wrote. "I am so
+proud of you doing so well in them horrid trenches.... Dear Erny, you
+can't have no idear how pleased I am that you are so brave, but be quick
+and come back to me what loves you so...."</p>
+
+<p>So brave! I tried to laugh at the unconscious irony of it all, but my
+laugh would not come, for something in my throat held it back&mdash;perhaps I
+was a little overwrought by the recent shelling.</p>
+
+<p>I turned to the other letter, which I have thought fit to transcribe in
+full:</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot"><p>"<span class="smcap">Dearest Liz</span>,</p>
+
+<p>"I hope this finds you as it leaves me at present in the pink. Dear
+Liz, i am doing very well and i will tell you a secret&mdash;i am going to
+be rekermended for the V.C. becos i done so well in the trenches. i
+don't feel a bit fritened wich is nice, and, dear Liz, i hope to be
+made Lance Corpril soon as my officer is so ..."</p></div>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p>And here it ended, this letter from a liar. I balanced it on my knee and
+wondered what to do with it. Should I tear it up and write to the girl
+to tell her the truth&mdash;that her lover was a liar and a coward? Should I
+tear his letter up and just announce his death? For some minutes I
+hesitated, and then I put his half-finished letter in an envelope and
+added a note to tell her.</p>
+
+<p>"He died like a soldier," I finished. "His letter will tell you better
+than any words of mine how utterly without fear he was."</p>
+
+<p>And I wish no other lie were heavier on my conscience than is the lie I
+told to her.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="XI" id="XI"></a>XI</h2>
+
+<h3>THE CITY OF TRAGEDY</h3>
+
+
+<p>What does it matter that the Cloth Hall and the Cathedral are in ruins,
+that the homes and churches are but rubble in the streets? What do we
+care if great shells have torn gaping holes in the Grande Place, and if
+the station is a battered wreck where the rails are bent and twisted as
+bits of wire? We do not mourn for Ypres, for it is a thousand times
+grander in its downfall than it was ever in the days of its splendour.</p>
+
+<p>In the town, the houses are but piles of stone, the streets are but
+pitted stretches of desolation, the whole place is one huge monument to
+the memory of those who have suffered, simply and grandly, for a great
+cause. Round the town run the green ramparts where, a few years ago, the
+townspeople would stroll of an evening, where the blonde Flemish girls
+would glance shyly and covertly at the menfolk. The ramparts now are
+torn, the poplars are broken, the moat is foul and sullied, and facing
+out over the wide plain are rows of little crosses that mark the
+resting-places of the dead.</p>
+
+<p>For herein lies thy glory, Ypres. To capture thee there have fallen
+thousands of the German invaders; in thy defence there have died
+Belgians and French and English, Canadians and Indians and Algerians.
+Three miles away, on Hill 60, are the bodies of hundreds of men who have
+fought for thee&mdash;the Cockney buried close to the Scotchman, the Prussian
+lying within a yard of the Prussian who fell there a year before, and
+along the Cutting are French bayonets and rifles, and an occasional
+unfinished letter from some long-dead <i>poilu</i> to his lover in the sunny
+plains of the Midi or the orchards of Normandy.</p>
+
+<p>And all these men have died to save thee, Ypres. Why, then, should we
+mourn for thee in thy ruin? Even thy great sister, Verdun, cannot boast
+so proud a record as thine.</p>
+
+<p>But the awful tragedy of it all! That the famous old town, quietly
+asleep in its plain, should be shattered and ruined; that so many hopes
+and ambitions can be blasted in so few hours; that young bodies can be
+crushed, in a fraction of a second, to masses of lifeless, bleeding
+pulp! The glorious tragedy of Ypres will never be written, for so many
+who could have spoken are dead, and so many who live will never
+speak&mdash;you can but guess their stories from the dull pain in their
+eyes, and from the lips that they close tightly to stop the sobs.</p>
+
+<p>God, how they have suffered, these Belgians! Day after day for over a
+year the inhabitants of Ypres lived in the hell of war; day after day
+they crouched in their cellars and wondered if it would be their little
+home that would be ruined by the next shell. How many lived for months
+in poky little basements, or crowded together in the one room that was
+left of their home&mdash;anything, even death, rather than leave the place
+where they were born and where they had passed all their quiet, happy
+years.</p>
+
+<p>I knew one woman who lived with her little daughter near the Porte de
+Menin, and one day, when the next cottage to hers had been blown to
+bits, I tried to persuade her to leave. For a long time she shook her
+head, and then she took me to show me her bedroom&mdash;such a poor little
+bedroom, with a crucifix hanging over the bed and a dingy rosebush
+growing up outside the window. "It was here that my husband died, five
+years ago," she said. "He would not like me to go away and leave the
+house to strangers."</p>
+
+<p>"But think of the little one," I pleaded. "She is only a girl of five,
+and you cannot endanger her life like this."</p>
+
+<p>For a long time she was silent, and a tear crept down her cheek as she
+tried to decide. "I will go, monsieur," she said at last, "for the sake
+of the little one."</p>
+
+<p>And that night she set off into the unknown, fearful to look back at her
+little home lest her courage should desert her. She was dressed in her
+best clothes&mdash;for why leave anything of value for the Germans, should
+they ever come?&mdash;and she wheeled her few household treasures before her
+in the perambulator, while her little daughter ran beside her.</p>
+
+<p>But next morning I saw her again coming back up the street to her
+cottage. This time she was alone, and she still trundled the
+perambulator in front of her.</p>
+
+<p>I went out, and knocked at her door. "So you have come back," I said.
+"And where have you left the little one?"</p>
+
+<p>She gazed at me dully for a minute, and a great fear gripped me, for I
+saw that her best clothes were torn and dust stained.</p>
+
+<p>"It was near the big hospital on the Poperinghe road," she said in a
+horribly even voice. "The little one had lingered behind to pick up some
+bits of coloured glass on the roadside when the shell came. It was a big
+shell ... and I could find nothing but this," and she held up part of a
+little torn dress, bloody and terrible.</p>
+
+<p>I tried to utter a few words of comfort, but my horror was too great.</p>
+
+<p>"It is the will of God," she said, as she began to unpack the treasures
+in the perambulator, but, as I closed the door, I heard her burst into
+the most awful fit of weeping I have ever known.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p>And, day by day as the war goes on, the tragedy of Ypres grows greater.
+Each shell wrecks a little more of what was once a home, each crash and
+falling of bricks brings a little more pain to a breaking heart. The
+ruins of Ypres are glorious and noble, and we are proud to defend them,
+but the quiet, simple people of Ypres cannot even find one brick on
+another of their homes.</p>
+
+<p>Somewhere in England, they tell me, is a little old lady who was once a
+great figure in Brussels society. She is nearly eighty now, and alone,
+but she clings on tenaciously to life till the day shall come when she
+can go back to her Ch&acirc;teau at Ypres, where she has lived for forty
+years. One can picture her&mdash;feeble, wizened, and small, her eyes bright
+with the determination to live until she has seen her home again.</p>
+
+<p>I, who have seen her Ch&acirc;teau, pray that death may come to close those
+bright eyes, so that they may never look upon the destruction of her
+home, for it is a desolate sight, even though the sky was blue and the
+leaves glistened in the sun on the morning when, two years ago, I
+tramped up the winding drive.</p>
+
+<p>The lodge was nothing more than a tumbled pile of broken bricks, but, by
+some odd chance, the Ch&acirc;teau itself had never suffered a direct hit. In
+front of the big white house there had once been an asphalt tennis
+court&mdash;there was now a plain pitted at every few yards by huge shell
+holes. The summer-house at the edge of the wood&mdash;once the scene of
+delightful little flirtations in between the games of tennis&mdash;was now a
+weird wreck, consisting of three tottering walls and a broken seat.
+Oddest of all, there lay near the white marble steps an old, tyreless De
+Dion motor-car.</p>
+
+<p>I have often wondered what the history of that battered thing could be.
+One can almost see the owner packing herself in it with her most
+precious belongings, to flee from the oncoming Germans. The engine
+refuses to start, there is no time for repairs, there is the hurried
+flight on foot, and the car is left to the mercy of the invading troops.
+Perhaps, again, it belonged to the staff of some army, and was left at
+the Ch&acirc;teau when it had run its last possible mile. At all events, there
+it stood, half-way between Ypres and the Germans, with everything of any
+possible value stripped off it as thoroughly as though it had been left
+to the white ants.</p>
+
+<p>By the side of the tennis court, where had once been flower beds, there
+was now a row of little, rough wooden crosses, and here and there the
+narcissi and daffodils had sprung up. What a strange little cemetery!
+Here a khaki cap and a bunch of dead flowers, there a cross erected to
+"An unknown British hero, found near Verbrandenmolen and buried here on
+March 3rd, 1915," there an empty shell case balanced at a comical angle
+on a grave, and everywhere between the mounds waved the flowers in the
+fresh breeze of the morning, while away in the distance loomed the tower
+of the Cloth Hall of Ypres, like a gigantic arm pointing one finger up
+to heaven.</p>
+
+<p>The Ch&acirc;teau itself, I have said, had never had a direct hit; but do you
+think the hand of war had passed it by, and that the little old lady
+would find in it something of home?</p>
+
+<p>Every window on the ground floor had been choked by sandbags, and no
+glass remained in those upstairs. In a room that had once been a kitchen
+and was now labelled in chalk "Officers' Mess" were an old bedstead, two
+mattresses, a wooden table, and three rickety chairs; but for these, and
+a piano in the dining-room upstairs, the house was absolutely devoid of
+furniture. Even the piano, which must have twanged out the tunes of at
+least three nations since the war began, had sacrificed its cover for
+firewood.</p>
+
+<p>Rooms where once ladies had powdered and perfumed themselves to attract
+the fickle male were now bare and empty, and pungent with the smell of
+chloride of lime. In the dining-hall, where fine old wines had
+circulated, were a hundred weary, dirty men. In the kitchen, where the
+fat <i>cuisini&egrave;re</i> had prepared her dinners, were now a dozen officers,
+some sprawling asleep on the floor, some squatting round the table
+playing "vingt-et-un."</p>
+
+<p>For this is war.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p>There is one more memory of Ypres&mdash;a very different one&mdash;that comes back
+to me. It is the recollection of our regimental dinner.</p>
+
+<p>The first thing that I heard of it came from Lytton's servant.</p>
+
+<p>"Please, sir," he said one morning, "Mr. Lytton sends his compliments,
+and can you tell 'im where the H&ocirc;tel Delepiroyle is?"</p>
+
+<p>"The H&ocirc;tel de what?"</p>
+
+<p>"The H&ocirc;tel Delepiroyle, sir. That's what 'e said."</p>
+
+<p>"Ask Mr. Lytton to write it down&mdash;no, wait a minute. Tell him I'm coming
+over to see him about it." So I strolled across to the other side of the
+infantry barracks to find him.</p>
+
+<p>"What, haven't you heard about it?" asked Lytton. "The new C.O., Major
+Eadie, is giving a dinner to-night to all the officers of the regiment
+as a farewell to Major Barton before he goes off to take command of his
+new crowd. It's at the H&ocirc;tel de l'Ep&eacute;e Royale, wherever that may be.
+Let's go and track it down."</p>
+
+<p>So we wandered down the Rue de Lille, as yet relatively free from the
+ravages of war, for the shops were open and the inhabitants stood
+talking and gossiping at the doors of their houses. Here and there
+rubble lay across the pavement, and what had once been a home was now an
+amorphous pile of bricks and beams. Just by the church was a ruined
+restaurant, and a host of little children played hide and seek behind
+the remnants of its walls.</p>
+
+<p>On our way down the street we came across Reynolds, who had only joined
+the regiment the night before, while we, who had been nearly three weeks
+at the front, felt ourselves war-beaten veterans compared to him. He was
+standing on the pavement, gazing excitedly up at an aeroplane, around
+which were bursting little white puffs of smoke.</p>
+
+<p>"Come along with us," said Lytton. "You'll get sick to death of seeing
+aeroplanes shelled when you've been out here as long as we have. Come
+and discover the scene of to-night's orgy."</p>
+
+<p>In the Grande Place, at the side of the Cloth Hall, we discovered the
+H&ocirc;tel de l'Ep&eacute;e Royale. A "Jack Johnson" had made an enormous hole in
+the pavement just in front of it, and a large corner of the building had
+gone.</p>
+
+<p>"By Jove," said Reynolds in an awed voice. "What a hole! It must have
+taken some shell to do that."</p>
+
+<p>Lytton smiled patronisingly. "My dear fellow," he said, "that's nothing
+at all. It's hardly any bigger than the hole that a spent bullet makes.
+Let's go inside and get some lunch to see what sort of a place it is."</p>
+
+<p>But Reynolds and I were firm. "Rot!" we said. "Let's go home and fast.
+Otherwise we shall be no good for this evening; we've got our duty to do
+to the dinner."</p>
+
+<p>So we went back to the Company Mess in the infantry barracks, past a
+house that had been destroyed that morning. Hunting in and out of the
+ruins were a man and a woman, and another woman, very old, with eyes
+swollen by weeping, sat on what was left of the wall of her house, a
+broken photograph frame in her hands.</p>
+
+<p>There are many fellows who have laid down their lives since that little
+dinner in the H&ocirc;tel de l'Ep&eacute;e Royale; he who gave it died of wounds six
+weeks later, as gallant a commanding officer as one could wish to have.
+If the dinner were to take place again, there would be many gaps round
+the table, and even the building must long since have been pounded to
+dust.</p>
+
+<p>If this should meet the eyes of any of you that were there, let your
+minds run back for a moment, and smile at your recollections. Do you
+remember how we dosed Wilson's glass so that he left us before the
+sweets were on the table? Do you remember how we found him later sitting
+on the stairs, poor fellow, clasping his head in a vain effort to stop
+the world from whirling round? Do you remember the toasts that we drank,
+and the plans we made for that dim period, "after the war"? I confess
+that I have completely forgotten everything that we ate&mdash;beyond the
+whisky, I forget even what we drank; but I know that the daintiest
+little dinner in London could not have pleased us nearly so much. And
+then, when it was all over and we broke up to go home to bed, do you
+remember how young Carter stood in the middle of the Grande Place and
+made rhapsodies to the moon&mdash;though, to the rest of us, it seemed much
+like any other moon&mdash;until we took him up and carried him home by force?</p>
+
+<p>It does you good to look back sometimes. You may find it sad because so
+many are gone that were our companions then. But this is the way of war;
+they must die sooner or later, and they could not have chosen better
+graves. If one must die, why not die fighting for England and Ypres?</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p>There is one street in Ypres that I knew in peace time. It wound in and
+out between the stiff, white houses, and the little Flemish children
+would make it echo to their shouts and laughter, until you could
+scarcely hear the rumble and the rattle of the carts on the cobbles of
+the main street, near by. And I passed along the same winding way during
+the second battle of Ypres. The shattered houses stretched jagged edges
+of brickwork towards the sky, the road was torn up, and the paving
+stones were piled up grotesquely against each other. Outside the
+convent, where I seemed to catch the dim echo of children's laughter,
+lay a smashed limber&mdash;the horse was on its back, with its legs stuck up
+stiffly; and, just touching the broken stone cross that had fallen from
+above the convent door, lay the figure of the dead driver.</p>
+
+<p>And, of all that I remember of Ypres, it is of this that I think most
+often, for it is a symbol of the place itself&mdash;the dead man lying by the
+cross, sign of suffering that leads to another life. The agony of Ypres
+will render it immortal; for if ever a town deserved immortality, it is
+surely this old, ruined city on the plains of Flanders.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="XII" id="XII"></a>XII</h2>
+
+<h3>"PONGO" SIMPSON ON GRUMBLERS</h3>
+
+
+<p>I was in my dug-out, trying to write a letter by the intermittent light
+of a candle which was extinguished from time to time by the rain drops
+that came through the roof, when I suddenly heard the squelching of mud,
+the sound of slipping, and an appalling splash. Someone had fallen into
+the shell hole just outside.</p>
+
+<p>I waited a moment, and I heard the well-known voice of "Pongo" Simpson.
+"Strike me pink!" he spluttered, as he scrambled up the steep bank out
+of the water. "An' I gone an' forgot me soap. The first bath as I've 'ad
+for six weeks, too." And he blundered into my dug-out, a terrible object
+covered in slimy mud from head to foot, and when he breathed little
+showers of mud flew off his moustache.</p>
+
+<p>"Hullo," I said, "you seem to be wet."</p>
+
+<p>"Sorry, sir," said "Pongo," "I thought as 'ow this was my dug-out. Wet,
+sir? Gawd! Yes, I should think I was wet," and he doubled up to show
+me, while a thin stream of muddy water trickled from his hair on to my
+letter. "'Owever, it ain't no good to grumble, an' it's better to fall
+in a shell hole than to 'ave a shell fall on me. I've got some 'ot tea
+in me own dug-out, too."</p>
+
+<p>When he had gone, I crumpled up my muddy letter, and I confess that I
+purposely listened to his conversation, for his dug-out was only
+separated from mine by a few horizontal logs piled up on each other.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, you see, it ain't no good to grouse," he was saying to someone.
+"I've got mud up me nose an' in me eyes, and all down me neck, but it
+won't go away 'owever much I grumbles. Now, there's some blokes as
+grouses all the time&mdash;'ere, Bert, you might 'and over your knife a
+moment to scrape the mud off me face, it all cracks, like, when I
+talk&mdash;if they've got a Maconochie ration they wants bully beef, an' if
+they've got bully beef they carn't abear nothink but Maconochie. If you
+told 'em as 'ow the war was goin' to end to-morrow they'd either call
+you a bloomin' liar, or grouse like 'ell becos they 'adn't 'ad the time
+to win the V.C.</p>
+
+<p>"There was young Alf Cobb. 'E wasn't arf a grouser, an' 'e 'ad good luck
+all the bloomin' time. When 'e came to the front they put 'im along o'
+the transport becos 'e'd been a jockey before the war, an' 'e groused
+all the time that 'e didn't 'ave none of the fun of the fightin'. Fun of
+the fightin', indeed, when 'e'd got that little gal what we used to
+call Gertie less than ten minutes from the stables! She was a nice
+little bit of stuff, was Gertie, an', if only she'd spoke English
+instead of this bloomin' lingo what sounds like swearin' ..." and here
+"Pongo" wandered off into a series of reminiscences of Gertie that have
+little to do with war and nothing to do with grumbling.</p>
+
+<p>"'Owever, as I was sayin'," he continued at last, "that there Alf Cobb
+used to fair aggryvate me with 'is grousin'. When 'e got sent up for a
+spell in the trenches, and 'ad all 'the fun of the fightin',' 'e groused
+because 'e couldn't go off to some ole estaminet an' order 'is glass o'
+bitters like a dook. 'E groused becos 'e 'adn't got a feather bed, 'e
+groused becos 'e 'ad to cook 'is own food, an' 'e groused becos 'e
+didn't like the 'Uns. An' then when a whizz-bang landed on the parapet
+an' gave 'im a nice Blighty one in the arm, 'e groused becos 'e was
+afraid the sea'd be rough when 'e crossed over, an' 'e groused becos 'e
+couldn't light 'is own pipe. 'E's the sort of bloke what I don't like.</p>
+
+<p>"What I like is a bloke like ole Lewis, who was always chirpy. 'E 'ad
+the rheumatics something fearful, but 'e never grumbled. Then 'e'd jest
+gone an' got spliced afore the war, an' 'is missis got 'im into debt an'
+then ran off with a fellow what works in the munitions. 'No good
+grousin',' says ole Joe Lewis, an' 'e still stayed cheerful, an' the
+night 'e 'eard as 'ow 'is young woman 'ad gone off 'e played away on 'is
+ole mouth-organ as 'appily as a fellow what's on 'is way to the Green
+Dragon with five bob in 'is pocket. The other blokes what knew about it
+thought as 'ow Joe didn't care at all, but I was 'is mate an' I knew as
+'ow it 'urt a lot. When 'e got knocked over in that attack down Lee
+Bassey way, I jest stopped by 'im for a minute. 'Don't you worry about
+me, Pongo,' says 'e, 'I couldn't stand 'ome without 'er'&mdash;meanin' 'is
+missis, you see&mdash;'an' I'd rather 'op it like this. If I 'ad me ole
+mouth-organ 'ere, I'd give you chaps a tune to 'elp you on like.' That's
+the sort of bloke 'e was, chirpy up to the end. I 'ad to go on to the
+'Un trenches, an' I never saw 'im again, for a big shell came along an'
+buried 'im.</p>
+
+<p>"After all," continued "Pongo" after a pause, "it's a life what 'as its
+advantages. I ain't got to put on a 'ard collar o' Sundays out 'ere like
+me ole woman makes me do at 'ome. Then, I might 'ave stuck in that shell
+'ole and 'ave been drowned; I might not 'ave 'ad a clean shirt to dry
+meself with; I might 'ave been 'it by a 'crump' yesterday. Yes, it might
+be worse, an' I ain't never a one to grouse."</p>
+
+<p>Then someone who knew "Pongo" well made an apparently irrelevant remark.
+"There's plum and apple jam for rations again," he said.</p>
+
+<p>"Pongo" rose to the fly at once. "Gawd!" he said, "if that ain't the
+bloomin' limit. I'd like to get me 'and round the neck of the bloke what
+gets all the raspberry an' apricot an' marmalade. 'Ere 'ave I been two
+years in the trenches, an' what 'ave I seen but plum an' apple? If it
+ain't plum an' apple, it's damson an' apple, which is jest the same only
+there's more stones in it. It do make me fair wild...."</p>
+
+<p>"Pongo," insinuated someone at this moment, "I thought as 'ow you never
+grumbled."</p>
+
+<p>"Pongo's" voice sank to its ordinary level. "That ain't grumblin'," he
+said. "I ain't a one to grumble."</p>
+
+<p>But for the better part of an hour I heard him growling away to himself,
+and "plum and apple" was the burden of his growl. For even "Pongo"
+Simpson cannot always practise what he preaches.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="XIII" id="XIII"></a>XIII</h2>
+
+<h3>THE CONVERT</h3>
+
+
+<p>John North, of the Non-Combatant Corps, leaned over the counter and
+smiled lovingly up into the shop girl's face. By an apparent accident,
+his hand slid across between the apple basket and the tins of biscuits,
+and came into gentle contact with hers. Knowing no French, his
+conversation was strictly limited, and he had to make amends for this by
+talking with his hand&mdash;by gently stroking her palm with his
+earth-stained thumb.</p>
+
+<p>Mademoiselle Th&eacute;r&egrave;se smiled shyly at him and her hand remained on the
+counter.</p>
+
+<p>Private John North, thus encouraged, grew still bolder. He clasped her
+fingers in his fist, and was just wondering if he dared kiss them, when
+a gruff voice behind him caused him to stiffen, and to pretend he wanted
+nothing but a penny bar of chocolate.</p>
+
+<p>"Now then, come orf it," said the newcomer, a private with the trench
+mud still caked on his clothes. "She's my young laidy, ain't yer,
+Th&eacute;r&egrave;se?"</p>
+
+<p>Th&eacute;r&egrave;se smiled rather vaguely, for she knew no more Cockney than John
+North knew French.</p>
+
+<p>"You clear out of 'ere," continued the linesman. "I don't want none o'
+you objector blokes 'anging around this shop, and if you come 'ere again
+I won't arf biff you one."</p>
+
+<p>Unfortunately, it is the nature of woman to enjoy the sight of two men
+quarrelling for her favours, and Th&eacute;r&egrave;se, guessing what was happening,
+was so unwise as to smile sweet encouragement at John North.</p>
+
+<p>Even a Conscientious Objector loses his conscience when there is a woman
+in the case. John North turned up his sleeves as though he had been a
+boxer all his life, and proceeded to trounce his opponent with such
+vigour that the biscuit tins were hurled to the ground and the contents
+of a box of chocolates were scattered all over the floor.</p>
+
+<p>As far as we are concerned, Mademoiselle Th&eacute;r&egrave;se passes out of existence
+from this moment, but the little incident in her shop was not without
+consequences. In the first place, the Military Police cast the two
+miscreants into the same guard room, where, from bitter rivals, they
+became the best of friends. In the second place, John North, having once
+drawn blood, was no longer content with his former life, and wanted to
+draw more.</p>
+
+<p>In the end he joined the Westfords, and fired his first shot over the
+parapet under direct tuition from his new friend. It matters little
+that his first shot flew several yards above the German parapet; the
+intention was good, and it is always possible that the bullet may have
+stung into activity some corpulent Hun whose duty called on him to lead
+pack horses about behind the firing line.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p>For weeks Holy John, as his company called him, passed out of my life.
+There were many other things to think of&mdash;bombs and grenades, attacks
+and counter-attacks, "barrages" and trench mortars, and all the other
+things about which we love to discourse learnedly when we come home on
+leave. John North was, for the time, completely forgotten.</p>
+
+<p>But one day when the Great Push was in full swing, I met him again. From
+his former point of view he had sadly degenerated; from ours he had
+become a useful fellow with a useful conscience that told him England
+wanted him to "do in" as many Huns as he could.</p>
+
+<p>I was supervising some work on a trench that had been German, but was
+now ours&mdash;the red stains on the white chalk told of the fight for
+it&mdash;when a voice I knew sounded from farther up the trench.</p>
+
+<p>"If you don't bloomin' well march better, I won't arf biff you one, I
+won't," I heard, as the head of a strange little procession came round
+the traverse. At the rear of six burly but downcast Germans, came
+Private John North, late Conscientious Objector, driving his prisoners
+along with resounding oaths and the blood-chilling man&oelig;uvres of a
+bayonet that he brandished in his left hand.</p>
+
+<p>"They'll all mine, sir, the beauties," he said as he passed me. "Got 'em
+all meself, and paid me little finger for 'em, too," and he held up a
+bandaged right arm for my inspection.</p>
+
+<p>And, far down the trench, I heard him encouraging his prisoners with
+threats that would delight a pirate or a Chinaman.</p>
+
+<p>How he, single-handed, captured six of the enemy I do not know, but he
+was the first man to reach the German wire, they tell me, and he brought
+in two wounded men from No Man's Land.</p>
+
+<p>Personally, then, it hardly seems to me that six Germans are enough to
+pay for the little finger of Holy John, erstwhile Conscientious
+Objector.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="XIV" id="XIV"></a>XIV</h2>
+
+<h3>DAVID AND JONATHAN</h3>
+
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<p>Strangely different though they were, they had been friends ever since
+they first met at school, eleven years before. Jonathan&mdash;for what other
+names are necessary than the obvious David and Jonathan?&mdash;was then a
+fat, sandy-haired boy, with a deep love of the country, and hands that,
+however often he washed them, always seemed to be stained with ink. He
+had a deep admiration, an adoration almost, for his dark-haired,
+dark-eyed David, wild and musical.</p>
+
+<p>The love of the country it was that first made them friends, and David
+became, so to speak, Jonathan's means of expression, for David could put
+into words, and, later on, into music, what Jonathan could only feel
+dimly and vaguely. Jonathan was the typical British public-schoolboy
+with a twist of artistic sense hidden away in him, while David was
+possessed of a soul, and knew it. A soul is an awkward thing to possess
+at school in England, for it brings much "ragging" and no little
+contempt on its owner, and Jonathan fought many battles in defence of
+his less-understood friend.</p>
+
+<p>Eleven years had wrought but little material change in them. Jonathan,
+after a few minor rebellions, had settled down in his father's office
+and was learning to forget the call of the open road and the half-formed
+dreams of his youth. David, on the other hand, was wandering over the
+Continent nominally studying languages for the Consular Service, really
+picking up a smattering of poetry, a number of friends, and a deep
+knowledge of music. From Jonathan, he had learned to hide his sentiments
+in the presence of those who would not understand, and to make his
+reason conquer the wilder of the whims that ran through his brain.
+Jonathan, in turn, had gained a power, which he scarcely realised, of
+appreciating music and scenery, and which no amount of office life would
+ever diminish.</p>
+
+<p>Then the war broke out, and brought them together again.</p>
+
+<p>At the beginning of it, David, who had been amusing himself in Madrid by
+teaching the elements of grammar and a large vocabulary of English slang
+to any Spaniard who would pay for it, came home and enlisted with
+Jonathan in a line regiment. For two months they drilled and exercised
+themselves in the so-called "arts of war." Then, chiefly on account of
+a soulless section commander, they applied for, and obtained,
+commissions in the same regiment.</p>
+
+<p>In the same billet, they re-lived their schooldays, and over the fire in
+the evenings would call up old memories, or David would tell of his
+adventures abroad, until late in the night.</p>
+
+<p>When the time came for them to go to the front, the Fates still favoured
+them; they went out together to the same regiment in France, and were
+drafted to the same company. Together they went up to the trenches for
+the first time, together they worked, together they crouched under the
+parapet when the German shells came unpleasantly close, and, all the
+time, Jonathan, calm and stolid, unconsciously helped the other, who,
+being cursed with a vivid imagination, secretly envied his friend's
+calm.</p>
+
+<p>Now, nothing has more power to cement or break friendships than war. The
+enforced company, the sharing of danger, the common bearing of all
+imaginable discomforts combine to make comrades or enemies. There are so
+many things to tax one's patience, that a real friend in whom one may
+confide becomes doubly dear, while you end by hating a man who has the
+misfortune to irritate you day after day. War made David and Jonathan
+realise how much their friendship meant, and how necessary each was to
+the other, the one because of his continued calm, the other because of
+the relief his love of music and of Nature brought with it.</p>
+
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<p>Near the end of April 1915 they came back to billets near Ypres. To the
+north a terrific battle was in progress, the last inhabitants were
+fleeing from the town, and huge shells screamed on their way, and burst
+with appalling clouds of smoke among the already shattered houses.
+Occasionally a motor cyclist would come racing down the road, and, once
+or twice, an ambulance came by with its load of gassed and wounded from
+the fighting to the north.</p>
+
+<p>One morning, when the Germans seemed fairly quiet, David and Jonathan
+set out arm in arm towards Ypres, to explore. An occasional shell&mdash;a
+hum, increasing until it became a roar, followed, a moment after, by a
+fearful explosion&mdash;warned them not to proceed beyond the outskirts of
+the town, and here it was that they came upon a large villa, with lilac
+budding in the garden. By mutual consent, they turned in at the tall
+iron gate, and entered the half-ruined house.</p>
+
+<p>The part of the house giving on the road had been destroyed by a large
+shell. Over a gaping hole in the ceiling was a bed, its iron legs
+weirdly twisted, which threatened to overbalance at any minute and to
+come hurtling down into the hall beneath. Shattered picture frames
+still hung on the walls, and on the floor near at hand lay a rosary, the
+Crucifix crushed by some heedless boot. The furniture lay in heaps, and
+the front door was lying grotesquely across a broken mirror. Everywhere
+was wreckage.</p>
+
+<p>The other half of the house was still almost intact. In what had once
+been the salon they found comfortable chairs and an excellent Pleyel
+piano, while a copy of the <i>Daily Mirror</i> gave the clue that the room
+had until recently been occupied by British troops.</p>
+
+<p>David seated himself at the piano and began to play, and Jonathan threw
+himself in an arm-chair near the window to listen, and to watch the
+alternate cloud and sunshine outside. It was one of those perfect
+mornings of April, bright-coloured and windy, and the breeze in the
+lilacs combined with the notes of the piano until they could hardly be
+told apart. The rare whirr and explosion of a shell only had the effect
+of accentuating the intervening peace. Jonathan had never felt so at one
+with Nature and with his friend, and more than once, stolid and calm
+though he generally was, he felt a tear in his eye at an extra beautiful
+little bit of music or the glory of the world outside.</p>
+
+
+<h4>III</h4>
+
+<p>"Coming up to the villa this morning?" asked David of his friend a day
+or two later.</p>
+
+<p>"I've got a confounded rifle inspection at half-past ten. You go on and
+I'll get up there as soon as I can," answered Jonathan, and he went off
+to talk to his platoon sergeant while his friend strolled off to the
+villa.</p>
+
+<p>When he was going up the road to Ypres an hour later, he met an orderly
+on horseback. "Excuse me, sir, I don't think the road's extry nice now,"
+he said. "They're dropping some heavy stuff into Yips again."</p>
+
+<p>Jonathan smiled. "Oh, that's all right," he said. "Thanks, all the same,
+for warning me. I'll take care." And he hurried on up the road.</p>
+
+<p>It was not until he was inside the villa that he noticed anything out of
+the ordinary. Suddenly, however, he stopped aghast. The door by which
+they entered the salon was gone, and in its place was a huge gap in the
+wall. The furniture was buried under a mass of debris, and instead of
+the gilded ceiling above him was only the blue sky. The piano was still
+untouched, but on the keys, and on the wall behind, were splashes of
+blood. Lying on the ground near it, half covered in plaster, was David.
+He forced himself to approach, and looked again. His friend's head was
+completely smashed, and one arm was missing.</p>
+
+<p>For some minutes he stood still, staring. Then, with a sudden quiver, he
+turned and ran. In the garden he tripped over something, and fell, but
+he felt no hurt, for mad terror was upon him, and all sense had gone.
+He must get away from the dreadful thing in there; he must put miles
+between himself and the vision; he must run ... run ... run....</p>
+
+
+<h4>IV</h4>
+
+<p>Two privates found him, wild-eyed and trembling, and brought him to a
+medical officer. "Nerves, poor devil, and badly too!" was the diagnosis;
+and before Jonathan really knew what had happened, he was in hospital in
+Rouen.</p>
+
+<p>Everyone gets "nervy" after a certain amount of modern warfare; even the
+nerves of the least imaginative may snap before a sudden shock.</p>
+
+<p>So with stolid Jonathan. After a year, he is still in England. "Why
+doesn't he go out again?" people ask. "He looks well enough. He must be
+slacking." But they realise nothing of the waiting at night for the
+dreaded, oft-repeated dreams; they cannot tell of the horrible visions
+that war can bring, they do not know what it means, that neurasthenia,
+that hell on earth.</p>
+
+<p>It is difficult to forget what must be forgotten. If you have "nerves"
+you must do all you can to forget the things that caused them, but when
+everything you do or say, think or hear, reminds you in some remote way
+of all you must forget, then recovery is hard indeed.</p>
+
+<p>That is why Jonathan is still in England. If he hears or reads of the
+war he thinks of his dead friend: if he hears music&mdash;even a street
+organ&mdash;the result is worse; if he tries to escape from it all, and hides
+himself away in the country, the birds and the lilac blossom take him
+back to that morning near Ypres, when he first realised how much his
+friendship meant to him. And whenever he thinks of his friend, that
+horrible corpse near the piano comes back before his tight-closed eyes,
+and his hands tremble again in fear.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="XV" id="XV"></a>XV</h2>
+
+<h3>THE RUM JAR</h3>
+
+<h4>AND OTHER SOLDIER SUPERSTITIONS</h4>
+
+
+<p>The most notable feature in the famous history of the "Angels of Mons"
+was the fact that hundreds of practical, unpoetical, and stolid English
+soldiers came forward and testified to having seen the vision. Whether
+the story were fact or fancy, it is an excellent example of a change in
+our national character.</p>
+
+<p>Before the war, the unromantic Englishman who thought he saw a vision
+would have blamed in turn his eyesight, his digestion, his sobriety, and
+his sanity before he allowed that he had anything to do with the
+supernatural. He now tells, without the least semblance of a blush, that
+he puts his faith in superstitions, and charms, and mascots, and that
+his lucky sign has saved his life on half a dozen occasions.</p>
+
+<p>Of all the many and weird superstitions that exist in the British Army
+of to-day, the most popular has to do with the jar that contains the
+ration of rum. Rumour has it that once, long ago, a party that was
+bringing up rations for a company in the trenches was tempted by the
+thought of a good drink, and fell. When all the rum had been consumed
+the question arose as to how to explain matters, and the genius of the
+party suggested breaking the jar and pretending that it had been hit by
+a bullet. When the party filed into the trench, the waiting company was
+shown the handle of the jar, and had to listen to a vivid tale of how a
+German bullet that had just missed Private Hawkes had wasted all the
+company's rum. Rumour also has it that the unsteady gait of one member
+of the party gave the lie to the story&mdash;but this is beside the point.</p>
+
+<p>From this little incident there has sprung up a far-reaching
+superstition&mdash;German bullets, the men have it, swerve instinctively
+towards the nearest rum jar. A few stray shots have helped to strengthen
+the belief, and the conviction holds firm down nearly the whole length
+of the British line that the man who carries the rum jar runs a double
+risk of being hit.</p>
+
+<p>Mascots and talismans hold an important place in the soldier's life. I
+know of one man who used to carry in his pack a rosary that he had
+picked up in one of the streets of Ypres. One day his leg was fractured
+in two places by a large piece of a trench-mortar bomb, but, in spite of
+his pain, he refused to be taken down to the dressing station until we
+had hunted through his pack and found him his rosary. "If I don't take
+it with me," he said, "I'll get 'it again on the way down."</p>
+
+<p>And this is by no means an isolated example. Nearly every man at the
+front has a mascot of some sort&mdash;a rosary, a black cat, a German button,
+or a weird sign&mdash;which is supposed to keep him safe.</p>
+
+<p>Their superstitions, too, are many in number. One man is convinced that
+he will be killed on a Friday; another man would rather waste a dry&mdash;and
+therefore valuable&mdash;match than light three cigarettes with it; another
+will think himself lucky if he can see a cow on his way up to the
+trenches; a fourth will face any danger, volunteer for any patrol, go
+through the worst attack without a qualm, simply because he "has got a
+feeling he will come through unhurt." And he generally does, too.</p>
+
+<p>I once had a servant who used to wear a shoe button on a piece of string
+round his neck. At some village billet in France a tiny girl had given
+it him as a present, and he treasured it as carefully as a diamond
+merchant would treasure the great Koh-i-noor stone&mdash;in fact, I am
+convinced that he often went without washing just to avoid the risk of
+loss in taking it off and putting it on again. To you in England it
+seems ridiculous that a man should hope to preserve his life by wearing
+a shoe button on a piece of string. But then, you have not seen the
+strange tricks that Fate will play with lives. You have not watched how
+often a shell will burst in a group of men, kill one outright, and leave
+the others untouched; you have not joked with a friend one moment and
+knelt by him to catch his dying words the next; you have not stood at
+night by a hastily dug grave and wondered, as you mumbled a few
+half-remembered prayers, why the comrade who is lying there on a
+waterproof sheet should have been killed while you are left unhurt.</p>
+
+<p>Besides, there are so many things which tend to make a man superstitious
+and to confirm him in his trust in mascots and charms. Many a man has
+had a premonition of his death, many a man has come through long months
+of war, and then has been killed on the day on which he lost his mascot.</p>
+
+<p>The thought of superstition recalls to me Joe Williams, the
+ex-policeman. Joe Williams was a fatalist, and believed every word he
+read in his little book of prophecies, so that the dawn of September 4th
+found him glum and depressed.</p>
+
+<p>"It ain't no bloomin' good," he grumbled. "It says in my book as 'ow
+September 4th is a disastrous day for England, so it will be. There
+ain't no way of stopping Fate." And when his section laughed at him for
+his fears he merely shrugged his shoulders, and sat gazing into the
+brazier's glow.</p>
+
+<p>The day wore quietly on, and I had forgotten all about Williams and his
+gloomy prophecies when a corporal came along to my dug-out. "Williams
+has been hit by a bomb, sir," he said, "and is nearly done for."</p>
+
+<p>At the other end of the trench lay Joe Williams, near to death, while
+his comrades tied up his wounds. The glumness had gone from his face,
+and when he saw me he signed for me to stoop down. "What did I tell you,
+sir, about the disaster for England?" he whispered. "Ain't this a
+bloomin' disaster?" and he tried to laugh at his little joke, but the
+flow of blood choked him, and he died.</p>
+
+<p>Perhaps, though, he was nearer the mark than he imagined, for it is a
+rash thing to say that the death of a man who can joke with his dying
+breath is not a disaster to England.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p>It may all seem intensely foolish to you, and childish; it may strike
+you that our men at the front are attempting to bribe Fate, or that we
+are returning to the days of witches and sorcerers. But it is not
+without its good points, this growth of superstition. Man is such a
+little, helpless pawn in the ruthless game of war, and death is so
+sudden and so strange, that the soul gropes instinctively in search of
+some sign of a shielding arm and a watchful power. The Bible, the
+Crucifix, a cheap little charm&mdash;any of these may bring comfort to the
+man in the trench, and give him the illusion that he is not one of
+those marked for the sickle of Death.</p>
+
+<p>A man who is confident that he will come through a battle unhurt
+generally does so, or, if Death comes, he meets it with a smile on his
+lips. The man who expects to be killed, who has no belief in some
+shielding power&mdash;though it be but symbolised by a common shoe button&mdash;is
+taken by Death very soon, but, even then, not before he has gone through
+those long, morbid hours of waiting that breed the germs of fear.</p>
+
+<p>The penny lucky charm that can bring comfort to a man in danger is not a
+thing to be ridiculed. It may be a proof of ignorance, but to the man it
+is symbolical of his God, and is therefore worthy of all respect and
+reverence from others.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="XVI" id="XVI"></a>XVI</h2>
+
+<h3>THE TEA SHOP</h3>
+
+
+<p>Baker came to me directly after lunch. "Look here," he said, "I'm not
+satisfied."</p>
+
+<p>"What's the matter now?"</p>
+
+<p>"I want something respectable to eat. Let's go into Poperinghe and get a
+properly cooked tea."</p>
+
+<p>"It's six miles," I objected, "and a confoundedly hot day."</p>
+
+<p>"All the better for an omelette appetite."</p>
+
+<p>I thought of the omelettes in the tea shop of Poperinghe, and I knew
+that I was lost. "Can't you get horses?" I asked.</p>
+
+<p>"No luck. The transport has to shift to-day and there's nothing doing in
+that line. I asked just before lunch."</p>
+
+<p>The omelettes danced up and down before my eyes until the intervening
+miles over hard cobble stones dwindled to nothing. "All right," I said.
+"Will you go and get leave for us? I'll be ready in a minute." And I
+went off to borrow some money from Jackson with which to pay for my
+omelettes.</p>
+
+<p>The church tower of Poperinghe shimmered in the heat and seemed to
+beckon us on along the straight road that led through the miles of flat
+country, relieved here and there by stretches of great hop poles or by
+little red-roofed farms where lounged figures in khaki.</p>
+
+<p>In every field grazed dozens of horses and in every lane were
+interminable lines of motor lorries, with greasy-uniformed men crawling
+about underneath them or sleeping on the seats. In one place, a
+perspiring "Tommy" hurried round a farmyard on his hands and knees, and
+barked viciously for the benefit of a tiny fair-haired girl and a filthy
+fox-terrier puppy; and right above him swung a "sausage" gleaming in the
+sunlight. Just outside Poperinghe we met company after company of men,
+armed with towels, waiting by the roadside for baths in the brewery,
+and, as we passed, one old fellow, who declared that his "rheumatics was
+that bad he couldn't wash," was trying to sell a brand-new cake of soap
+for the promise of a drink.</p>
+
+<p>The sun was hot in the sky, and the paving, than which nothing on earth
+is more tiring, seemed rougher and harder than usual; motor lorries, or
+cars containing generals, seemed, at every moment, to compel us to take
+to the ditch, and we were hot and footsore when we tramped through the
+Grande Place to the tea shop.</p>
+
+<p>But here we were doomed to disappointment, for not a chair was
+vacant&mdash;"Not room for a flea," as Madame explained to us, and we had to
+curb our appetites as best we could.</p>
+
+<p>The tea shop at Poperinghe! Where could you hope to find a more popular
+spot than was the tea shop in the early part of 1915? Where could you
+get better omelettes served by a more charming little waitress?&mdash;was she
+really charming, I wonder, or did she merely seem so <i>faute de mieux</i>?
+Where could you find a nicer place to meet your friends from other
+regiments, to drink coffee, to eat quantities of dainty French cakes? It
+is not surprising that the shop at Poperinghe was always crowded by four
+in the afternoon in those old days before the second battle of Ypres.</p>
+
+<p>As patiently as might be, Baker and I waited, lynx-eyed, until two
+chairs were vacated.</p>
+
+<p>"Mademoiselle," we called, "deux omelettes, s'il vous plait."</p>
+
+<p>"Bien, messieurs, tout de suite."</p>
+
+<p>But we were far too hungry to wait, and before the omelettes arrived we
+had cleared a great plate of cakes. After weeks of indifferent trench
+cooking the first well-done omelette is a great joy, and, as I put down
+my fork, I glanced inquiry at Baker.</p>
+
+<p>"Rather," he answered to my unspoken question.</p>
+
+<p>"Mademoiselle, encore deux omelettes, s'il vous plait," I ordered. "Nous
+avons une faim de loup."</p>
+
+<p>"Je m'en aper&ccedil;ois, messieurs les officiers," answered our fair
+enchantress, as she hurried off to repeat our order in the kitchen,
+while a crowd of predatory officers glared murder at us when they found
+we did not intend to leave our places so soon. "Some fellows are pigs,"
+murmured one.</p>
+
+<p>"That was splendid," said Baker when we started off on our homeward
+walk. "But six miles is a hell of a long way."</p>
+
+<p>Personally, though, I enjoyed those six miles through the dusk, for we
+seemed to hear the hum of the traffic and the shouts of newsboys. Our
+tea brought back souvenirs of England, and we talked of London and of
+home, of theatres, and of coast patrol on the southern cliffs, until the
+little low huts of our camp showed up ahead.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p>It is nearly two years now since Baker was killed. He was found gassed
+in a dug-out on Hill 60, and by his side lay his servant, who had died
+in the attempt to drag him out to the comparative safety of the open
+trench. Nearly two years since another friend gave up his life for his
+country; nearly two years since another mother in England learned that
+her son had been killed in a "slight diversion on the Ypres salient"!</p>
+
+<p>But it was thus that he would have wished to die.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="XVII" id="XVII"></a>XVII</h2>
+
+<h3>"HERE COMES THE GENERAL"</h3>
+
+
+<p>A servant brought me a note to my dug-out:</p>
+
+<p>"Come down and have some lunch in trench 35D," it ran, "in C Company
+officers' dug-out. Guests are requested to bring their own plates and
+cutlery; and, if it is decent, their own food. Menu attached. R.S.V.P."</p>
+
+<p>The menu was as follows:</p>
+
+<p>MENU OF LUNCHEON GIVEN BY C COMPANY AT THEIR COUNTRY RESIDENCE, "THE
+RETREAT," 15/5/15.</p>
+
+<p class='center'>
+<span class="smcap">Soups</span><br />
+<br />
+Soup &agrave; la Bully Beef.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Soup &agrave; l'Oxo.<br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Fish</span><br />
+<br />
+Salmon (and Shrimp Paste) without Mayonnaise Sauce.<br />
+Sardines &agrave; l'Huile (if anyone provides them).<br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Entrees</span><br />
+<br />
+Maconochie, very old.<br />
+Bully beef and boiled potatoes.<br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Sweets</span><br />
+<br />
+Pineapple Chunks, fresh from the tin.<br />
+English Currant Cake.<br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">Savoury</span><br />
+<br />
+Welsh Rarebit.<br />
+</p>
+
+<p>I read through the menu, and decided to risk it, and, procuring the
+necessary crockery, I clanked through fully half a mile of trenches to C
+Company. The officers' dug-out was in the cellar of an old cottage which
+just came in our line of trenches. The only access to it was by means of
+a very narrow stairway which led down from the trench. The interior,
+when I arrived, was lit by three candles stuck in bottles, which showed
+officers in almost every vacant spot, with the exception of one corner,
+where a telephone orderly was situated with his apparatus. I occupied
+the only untenanted piece of ground I could find, and awaited events.</p>
+
+<p>The soup was upset, as the moment when the servant was about to bring it
+down from the outer air was the moment chosen for a rehearsal of that
+famous game, "Here comes the General." The rules of this game are
+simple. The moment anyone utters the magic phrase there is an immediate
+rush for the steps, the winner of the game being he who manages to
+arrive at the top first and thus impress the imaginary general with his
+smartness.</p>
+
+<p>The soup stood but a poor chance in a stampede of eleven officers, the
+candles were kicked out, and a long argument ensued as to whose plate
+was which, and why Martin's spoon should have gone down Fenton's neck,
+and if the latter should be made to forfeit his own spoon to make up for
+his unintentional theft.</p>
+
+<p>Order was at length restored, and the meal was proceeding in comparative
+peace, when, suddenly, Jones, who had not been invited to the luncheon,
+appeared at the top of the steps.</p>
+
+<p>"I say, you fellows," he cried excitedly. "Here comes the General."</p>
+
+<p>"Liar!" shouted someone. But the magic words could not be allowed to
+pass unnoticed, even though we were eating pineapple chunks at the time,
+and they are very sticky if you upset them over your clothes.</p>
+
+<p>A fearful scramble took place, in which everyone&mdash;with the exception of
+Walters, who placed himself in the further corner with the tin of
+pineapple&mdash;tried to go together up steps which were just broad enough to
+allow the passage of one man at a time.</p>
+
+<p>A conglomerate mass of officers, all clinging convulsively to each
+other, suddenly burst into the open trench&mdash;almost at the feet of the
+General, who came round the traverse into view of them at that moment.</p>
+
+<p>When I returned to C Company's dug-out, an hour or so later, to try to
+recover my plate and anything else that had not been smashed, I found
+three officers reading a message that had just come by telephone from
+Battalion Headquarters. It was prefixed by the usual number of
+mysterious letters and figures and ran:</p>
+
+<p>"The Brigadier has noticed with regret the tendency of several officers
+to crowd into one dug-out. This practice must cease. An officer should
+have his dug-out as near those of his own men as possible, and should
+not pass his time in the dug-outs belonging to officers of other
+companies."</p>
+
+<p>"Here comes the General!" whispered somebody.</p>
+
+<p>I got first up the steps and hurried, a battered plate in my hand, along
+the trenches to my dug-out.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="XVIII" id="XVIII"></a>XVIII</h2>
+
+<h3>THE RASCAL IN WAR</h3>
+
+
+<p>Even the most apathetic of us has been changed by war&mdash;he who in times
+of peace was content with his ledgers and daily office round is now in
+the ranks of men who clamber over the parapet and rush, cheering, to the
+German lines; she who lived for golf, dances, and theatres is now caring
+for the wounded through the long nights in hospital. Everyone in every
+class of life has altered&mdash;the "slacker" has turned soldier, and the
+burglar has become a sound, honest man.</p>
+
+<p>Strange it is that war, which might be expected to arouse all the animal
+passions in us, has done us so much good! There are among the men in the
+trenches many hundreds who were, before the war, vastly more at home in
+the police courts and prisons than is the average Londoner at a public
+dinner. That they should be brave is not astonishing, for adventure is
+in their bones, but they are also as faithful, as trustworthy, as
+amenable to discipline as any soldiers we possess.</p>
+
+<p>There was "Nobby" Clarke, for instance. "Nobby" was a weedy little
+Cockney who became my "batman," or servant. He had complete control of
+my privy purse, did all my shopping, and haggled over my every halfpenny
+as carefully as though it were his own. Then, when he had served me for
+over six months, I overheard him one day recounting his prison
+experiences, and I discovered that he had been a pilferer and pickpocket
+well known in all the London police courts. In his odd moments out of
+jail, he would hover outside the larger stations, touch a bedraggled cap
+with a filthy finger, and say, "Kerry yer beg, sir?" in a threatening
+tone to all passers-by; his main income, however, appeared to come from
+far less respectable sources.</p>
+
+<p>And yet he served me more faithfully than I have ever been served before
+or since, and I have seldom been more sorry than I was when "Nobby"
+Clarke was hit. As we were tying him up&mdash;he had been wounded in eight
+places by a rifle grenade&mdash;he signed to me and I stooped over him.</p>
+
+<p>"I ain't got no one at 'ome as cares fer me," he said, "so yer might
+'and me things round to the blokes 'ere. I've got a photograph of me ole
+woman wot died five years ago. It's in me pay book, sir, an' I'd like
+yer to keep it jest to remind yer of me." Then, his voice getting weaker
+every moment, "I ain't been such a bad servant to yer, 'as I, sir?" he
+whispered, his eyes looking appealingly into mine. And when "Nobby"
+Clarke, onetime loafer and pickpocket, passed away, I am not ashamed to
+own that there was a queer sort of lump in my throat.</p>
+
+<p>And he was only one of many, was "Nobby" Clarke. There was Bennett, the
+tramp, who was always ready with a song to cheer up the weary on the
+march; there was a Jewish money-lender who was killed while trying to
+save a man who was lying wounded in No Man's Land; there was Phillips,
+who had been convicted of manslaughter&mdash;he became a stretcher-bearer,
+and was known all over the battalion for his care of the wounded.</p>
+
+<p>In every regiment in every army you will find a little group of men who
+were tramps and beggars and thieves, and, almost without exception, they
+have "made good." For the first time in their lives they have been
+accepted as members of great society, and not driven away as outcasts.
+The Army has welcomed them, disciplined them, and taught them the
+elements of self-respect&mdash;a quality whose very existence they ignored
+before the war.</p>
+
+<p>There is an Italian proverb&mdash;"Tutto il mondo &egrave; paese"&mdash;which means, in
+its broadest sense, "All the world is ruled by the same passion and
+qualities." In the old days it needed a Dickens, and, later, a Neil
+Lyons to discover the qualities of the criminal classes; now war has
+brought us all together&mdash;the erstwhile city merchant warms himself
+before the same brazier as the man who would have picked his pocket
+three years before&mdash;and we suddenly find that we are no better than the
+beggar, and that a man who stole apples from a stall is no worse at
+heart than the inhabitant of Mayfair.</p>
+
+<p>It is not that our ideas of greatness have degenerated when we call
+these men heroes; it is not that war is entirely a thing of evil, so
+that the criminal shines as a warrior&mdash;it is that these "outcasts" have
+changed. Statistics prove that crime has decreased since the war began,
+and crime will continue to decrease, for that indefinable instinct we
+call patriotism has seized on all classes alike, so that the criminal
+can make the supreme sacrifice just as magnificently as the man who has
+"kept straight" all his life.</p>
+
+<p>And the best of it is that this reform among burglars and beggars is not
+for the "duration of the war only." War has lost us our sons and our
+fathers, it has brought appalling sorrow and suffering into the world,
+but it has given the very poor a chance they have never had before. No
+more are they outcasts; they are members of society, and such they will
+remain. If this were all the good that war could do, it would still be
+our ultimate gain that the great scourge is passing over the world.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="XIX" id="XIX"></a>XIX</h2>
+
+<h3>"PONGO" SIMPSON ON OFFICERS</h3>
+
+
+<p>"Orficers," said "Pongo" Simpson, "is rum blokes. I've got a fam'ly of
+six kids back at 'ome, not counting Emma what's in service, an' I reckon
+my orficer's more trouble to look after nor all the lot of 'em put
+together. It's always: 'Simpson, where the dooce is my puttees?' or
+'Simpson, you've sewed this 'ere button on in the wrong place,' or
+'Simpson, the soup tastes like cocoa and the cocoa tastes like
+soup'&mdash;does 'e expect me to kerry a bloomin' collection of canteens?
+Don't 'e think it better to 'ave cocoa what's got a bit o' soup in it
+than to 'ave a canteen what's been washed in a shell 'ole along of a
+dead 'Un? Why, if we was goin' to charge to Berlin to-morrer I'd 'ave to
+spend 'arf the night cleanin' 'is boots and buttons.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, 'e's a funny sort o' bloke, my orficer, but, my Gawd!"&mdash;and here
+Simpson expectorated to give emphasis to his statement&mdash;"I'd foller 'im
+against a crowd of 'Uns, or a lot of wimmen what's waiting for their
+'usbands what ain't come 'ome at three in the morning, or anythink else
+you like. 'E's an 'elpless sort of chap, an' 'e's got funny ideas about
+shavin' and washin'&mdash;sort of disease, you know&mdash;but 'e's a good sort
+when you knows 'is little ways.</p>
+
+<p>"Do you remember that young Mr. Wilkinson?" asked "Pongo," and a few of
+the "old hands" in the dug-out nodded affirmatively. "'E was a one, 'e
+was," resumed "Pongo." "Do you remember the day we was gassed on 'Ill
+60? 'E used to be my bloke then, and I was with 'im all the time. 'E was
+a proper lad! When the gas 'ad gone over there was only five of A
+Company left, with 'im in charge, and we knew as 'ow the 'Uns would
+attack as soon as they thought we was properly wiped out. And Mr.
+Wilkinson was fine. All down the trench 'e put blokes' rifles on the
+parapet, and the 'ole bloomin' six of us ran up an' down the trench like
+a lot of rabbits, firin' off rifle after rifle till the Alleymans must
+'ave thought we was an 'ole battalion. The only times when Mr. Wilkinson
+wasn't firin' rifles, 'e was fusin' bombs, jest as busy as that little
+girl be'ind the counter of the Nag's 'Ead of a Saturday night. 'E must
+'ave sent a good number of 'Uns 'ome that day with bits of bombs inside
+of them.</p>
+
+<p>"And you should 'a' seen Mr. Wilkinson when the Sergeant wos for givin'
+in and goin' back to the second line! We'd all the gas in us more or
+less, and 'e could 'ardly talk, 'e was that bad, but when 'e 'eard the
+Sergeant say as 'ow 'e was goin' back, 'e shouted like the Colonel on a
+battalion parade. 'Curse you, Sergeant!' 'e yelled, 'what's the good of
+goin' back? We've got to 'old this trench or 'op it. If you don't like
+the air down there, come up on the parapet with me.' And up 'e jumps on
+to the parapet with the gas clearin' away, and the Fritzes only 30 or 40
+yards off.</p>
+
+<p>"'It? Why, of course 'e was 'it. 'E was laughin' like a kid what's
+stealin' apples&mdash;all excited like&mdash;when they got 'im right through the
+'ead, and 'e fell down on the other side of the parapet. But 'e'd done
+what 'e wanted to, for the Sergeant wasn't talkin' any more about goin'
+back. 'E crawled out over the parapet and brought poor Mr. Wilkinson
+back, and got 'it in the leg while 'e was doin' it, too. But that didn't
+matter to 'im, for 'e was out to 'ave 'is own back, was the Sergeant,
+and we 'eld that bloomin' trench for another hour until the blokes got
+up the communication trench to 'elp us. There's a lot of medals what
+ought to go to blokes as don't get them, and it might 'ave 'elped Mr.
+Wilkinson's mother if they'd given 'im the V.C., but there weren't no
+other orficers about, and they didn't take any notice of us chaps."</p>
+
+<p>"Talkin' of 'Ill 60," said Bert Potter, "there was that Captain&mdash;I
+misremember 'is name&mdash;you know, that bloke what got into trouble at the
+ole farm for giving a cow a tin o' bully beef, and the cow died next
+day. I was in 'is trench with a machine gun when 'e got 'is little bit.
+A chunk out of an 'and grenade 'it 'im in the thigh, and 'e laughed like
+'ell becos 'e'd got a 'cushy' wound. Why, 'e even said as 'ow 'e could
+walk down to the dressing station, and we envied 'im like 'ell and
+thought it was only a flesh wound. I got 'it the next day and went to
+the same 'orspital where 'e was. 'E'd 'ad 'is thigh bone smashed all to
+bits, and they'd jest taken 'is leg off when I saw 'im. 'E was weak as a
+kid and chirpy as a sparrer, and only cursin' becos 'e was out of things
+for the rest of the war. I never 'eard what 'appened to 'im, but the
+nurse told me as 'ow they was afraid 'e wouldn't recover becos of
+emmyridge, or something with a name like that. And 'e wasn't more nor
+twenty-one years old neither, pore bloke."</p>
+
+<p>"But you won't beat the Medical Orficer anywhere," said Jones, one of
+the stretcher-bearers who was on duty in the trenches. "'E don't 'ave to
+fight, but you should see 'im when things is busy up 'ere. Coat off an'
+sleeves up, workin' for 'ours on end till any man what wasn't an 'orse
+would drop dead. 'E's 'ard on the shirkers and scrimshankers&mdash;e's the
+sort of bloke what would give you a dose o' castor oil for earache or
+frost-bitten feet, but 'e's like a mother with the wounded. I've seen
+'im, too, goin' along the cutting when the whizz-bangs was burstin' all
+the way down it, carryin' some wounded fellow in 'is arms as calmly as
+if 'e were an ole girl carryin' a parcel along Regent Street. And then,"
+said Jones, as he named the greatest point in the M.O.'s favour, "'e's
+the best forward on a wet day as ever I seed."</p>
+
+<p>Just at that moment a voice sounded from farther up the trench.
+"Simpson," it said, "where the deuce is my toothbrush?"</p>
+
+<p>"Jest comin', sir. I've got 'un," answered "Pongo" Simpson as he
+produced a greasy-looking toothbrush from his pocket. "'Ere, give us
+that canteen of 'ot water," he said quietly, "I used 'is toothbrush to
+grease 'is boots with yesterday&mdash;didn't think 'e'd miss it, for you
+don't come out 'ere to wash your teeth. They 'ave got funny ways, these
+'ere orficers. 'Owever," he continued as he wiped the brush dry on the
+sleeve of his tunic, "what the eye don't see, the 'eart don't grieve
+over. 'E'll only think as 'ow it's the water what's greasy."</p>
+
+<p>"Simpson," came the voice from farther along the trench, a moment or so
+later, "this is the greasiest water I've ever tasted. What the deuce
+you've done to it I don't know."</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="XX" id="XX"></a>XX</h2>
+
+<h3>THE HAND OF SHADOW</h3>
+
+
+<p>"Come in," said Margery Debenham, as she opened her eyes lazily to the
+sunlight. "Put my tea on the table, please, Mary. I'm too sleepy to
+drink it yet.</p>
+
+<p>"There's a letter from the front, miss," said Mary with emphasis, as she
+went out of the room.</p>
+
+<p>Margery was awake in a second. She jumped out of bed, slipped on a
+dressing-gown, and, letter in hand, ran over to the window to read it in
+the morning sunshine. As she tore open the envelope and found only a
+small sheet of paper inside, she made a little <i>moue</i> of disappointment,
+but the first words of the letter changed it into a sigh of joy. It was
+dated September 13th and ran:</p>
+
+<p>"<span class="smcap">My Darling</span>,</p>
+
+<p>"At last I have got my leave, and am coming home to be married. Our
+months of waiting are over. I leave here to-morrow afternoon, shall
+spend the night on the way somewhere, and shall arrive in London late
+on the 15th, or during the morning of the 16th. I must spend the day in
+town to do a little shopping (I couldn't be seen at my own wedding very
+well in the clothes I have on now) and expect to get down to Silton at
+3.20 on the 17th. I have to be back in this hole on the 24th, so that if
+we get married on Saturday we shall have quite a nice little honeymoon.
+Darling little one! Isn't it too good to be true? I can hardly realise
+that within a week I shall be</p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 5em;">"Your devoted and hen-pecked husband</p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 25em;"><span class="smcap">Ronald</span>."</p>
+
+<p>"P.S.&mdash;I have written to father, and he will make all arrangements for
+Saturday.</p>
+
+<p>"P.P.S.&mdash;Shall I be allowed to smoke in the drawing-room?"</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p>Margery Debenham leant out of the window and gazed at the garden and the
+orchard beyond. The light flickered through the trees of the old flagged
+path along which she and Ronald had so often wandered, and she could
+just see the tall grass waving down at the bottom of the orchard, where
+they used to sit and discuss the future. Everything reminded her of her
+lover who was coming back to her, who would be with her again to-morrow
+afternoon. At the thought of the five long, weary months of waiting that
+were passed, and of the eight days of happiness that were coming, two
+little tears crept out of her eyes and down her cheeks. She brushed them
+impatiently away, for she was too busy to cry. She must run and tell her
+parents; she must hurry over to talk to Ronald's father; she must write
+to her friends; she must run down to the bottom of the orchard and watch
+for a while the trout that lay in the little stream; she must laugh and
+sing until the whole village of Silton knew that her waiting was over,
+and that Ronald was in England again.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p>Captain Ronald Carr hoisted his pack on his shoulder, and turned to
+three officers who were looking at him enviously. "Cheer oh, you
+fellows," he said, "think of me in two days' time, while you are being
+'strafed' by the Hun, rushing about town in a taxi," and, with a wave of
+his hand, he marched off to battalion headquarters, followed by Butler,
+his servant. From battalion headquarters he had a distance of two miles
+to walk to the cross roads where he was to meet his groom with his
+horse, but the day was hot and progress was rather slow. His first
+quarter of a mile was along a narrow and winding communicating trench;
+after that the way was along a hidden road, but huge shell craters all
+along told that the German artillery had it well marked.</p>
+
+<p>Away to the right a bombardment was in progress, and the dull thuds of
+the guns came sleepily through the September haze; above him, a skylark
+sang lustily; the long grass by the roadside smelt sweet and lush. As
+Ronald Carr strode down the road, he laughed to himself at the fairness
+of the world.</p>
+
+<p>Of a sudden, a shell burst over some trees a few hundred yards away,
+and, as the white smoke rolled away, he felt aware of a change.</p>
+
+<p>Supposing he were to get wounded on the way down! With the next warning
+whine of a coming shell he found himself ducking as never before, for
+Captain Carr was not a man who often crouched for nothing.</p>
+
+<p>Another shell came, and another, and with each his feeling grew. Just so
+must a mouse feel, he thought, when a cat plays with it. He felt as
+though he were at the mercy of an enormous giant, and that, each time he
+thought to escape, the shadow of a huge hand fell on the ground around
+him, and he knew that the hand above was waiting to crush him. At the
+thought, the hair on his forehead grew damp; time after time he checked
+his mad impulse to quicken his pace, and caught himself glancing
+covertly at his servant to see if he noticed his captain's strange
+behaviour. Suppose the hand should crush him before he could get back to
+England, to his home, to his marriage!</p>
+
+<p>Suddenly there were four short, loud hisses, and four shells burst along
+the road close in front of them.</p>
+
+<p>"They're searching the road. Quick, into the ditch," shouted Carr to
+his servant, as he jumped into an old trench that ran along the
+roadside. Butler turned to do the same, slipped on the <i>pav&eacute;</i>, and fell
+heavily, his ankle badly sprained. Those hateful hisses would come again
+before the man could crawl into safety, and this time they would
+probably be nearer, and escape almost miraculous. Captain Carr leaped
+out of the trench again and helped his servant to his feet.</p>
+
+<p>"Cling on to me, man!" and, a moment after, he shouted, "down, here they
+come again!" and they flung themselves on their faces scarce two feet
+from the ditch and probable safety.</p>
+
+<p>When Butler raised his head again after the four explosions, Captain
+Ronald Carr lay at his side, dead. The hand had grasped its prey.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p>Margery Debenham was standing in front of her mirror, getting ready to
+go to meet Ronald by the 3.20 train, when Mr. Carr came to announce the
+receipt of the War Office telegram.</p>
+
+<p>She could find no tears when she heard the news; she felt stunned, and
+vaguely bored by the platitudes of consolation people uttered. When she
+could escape, she went slowly down the flagged path, where they used to
+walk to the orchard, where the future had been planned by two people
+full of the happy confidence of the young. She flung herself down in
+the long grass by the stream, and buried her hot face in her hands.</p>
+
+<p>"What does it all mean?" she said to herself. Then, a minute later, she
+thought of all the other women who had to bear the same pain, and all
+for no reason. "There is no God," she cried passionately. "No one can
+help me, for there is no God." Day after day, night after night of
+waiting, and all for nothing. All those hours of agony, when the papers
+talked of "diversions" on the British front, rewarded by the supreme
+agony, by the sudden loss of all hope. No more need to hunt for a loved
+but dreaded name through the casualty lists every morning; all that was
+finished now.</p>
+
+<p>The splash of a jumping trout in the pool under the willow tree took her
+thoughts away from her pain for the fraction of a second&mdash;just
+sufficient time to allow the soothing tears to come.</p>
+
+<p>"O God," she murmured, "help me to see why. Help me, God, help me!" and
+she burst into sobs, her face pressed down into the cool, long grass.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="XXI" id="XXI"></a>XXI</h2>
+
+<h3>THE VETERAN</h3>
+
+
+<p>Old Jules Lemaire, ex-sergeant in the 3rd regiment of the line, raised
+his wine glass.</p>
+
+<p>"Bonne chance," he said, "and may you fight the devils as we did in 1870
+and 1871, and with more success too."</p>
+
+<p>"Enough of you and your 1870," said someone roughly. "We go out to win
+where you lost; there will be no Woerth or Sedan in this war. We will
+drive the Prussians back to Berlin; you let them march to Paris. We are
+going to act, whereas you can only talk&mdash;you are much too old, you see,
+P&egrave;re Lemaire."</p>
+
+<p>The ex-sergeant put down his glass with a jerk as though he had been
+struck. He looked around on the company that filled the front room of
+the Faisan d'Or, and on the faces of the men who had looked up to him
+for years as the hero of 1870 he now saw only the keenness to fight. He
+was old, forgotten, and no longer respected, and the blow was a hard one
+to bear.</p>
+
+<p>The cloud of war was drifting up from the east, and the French Army was
+mobilising for the Great War. The peasants of the village had just been
+called up, and within half an hour they would be on their way to the
+depots of their different regiments, while Jules Lemaire, sergeant of
+the line, would be left at home with the cripples and the women and the
+children.</p>
+
+<p>"I will serve France as well as any of you," he said defiantly. "I will
+find a way." But his voice was unheeded in the general bustle and noise,
+and Madame Nolan, the only person who appeared to hear him, sniffed with
+contempt.</p>
+
+<p>Men destined for different regiments were saying good-bye to each other;
+Georges Simon, the blacksmith, with his arm round his fianc&eacute;e's waist,
+was joking with Madame Nolan, who hurried about behind her little zinc
+counter; the door slammed noisily at each departure&mdash;and Jules Lemaire
+sat unheeded in the corner by the old clock.</p>
+
+<p>And presently, when the front room was quiet and Madame Nolan was using
+her dirty apron to wipe away her tears, the ex-sergeant crept out
+quietly into the street and hobbled along to his cottage. He reached up
+and took his old Chassepot rifle down from the wall where it had hung
+these many years, and, while the other inhabitants thronged the road,
+cheering, weeping, laughing, Jules Lemaire sat before his little wooden
+table, with his rifle in his hands and a pile of cartridges before him.</p>
+
+<p>"There will be a way," he murmured. "I will help my country; there will
+be a way."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p>The grey invaders swept on through the village, and Jules Lemaire, from
+his hiding-place on the church tower, watched them come with tears of
+impotent rage on his cheeks. Battalion after battalion they passed
+by&mdash;big, confident Germans who jeered at the peasants, and who sang as
+they plodded over the <i>pav&eacute;</i>. Once, when a company was halted beneath
+him, while the officers went in to the Faisan d'Or across the road, to
+see what they could loot in the way of drinks, the ex-sergeant aimed
+carefully at the captain, but he put down his rifle without firing.</p>
+
+<p>At last, late in the afternoon when the dusk was beginning to hide the
+southern hills, Jules Lemaire's waiting came to an end. A large motor
+car drew up outside the inn, and a general with three officers of his
+staff got out into the road. One of the officers spread a map on the old
+door bench&mdash;where Jules Lemaire had so often sat of an evening and told
+of his adventures in the war&mdash;and, while an orderly went to procure wine
+for them, the four Germans bent over the plan of the country they
+thought to conquer.</p>
+
+<p>Suddenly a shot rang out from the church tower above them. The general
+fell forward on to the bench, while his blood and his wine mingled in a
+staining stream that ran across the map of invincible France, and
+dripped down on to the dust below.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p>They met Jules Lemaire coming down the spiral steps of the church tower,
+his rifle still in his hand. They hit him with their rifle butts, they
+tied him up with part of the bell rope, and propped him up against the
+church wall.</p>
+
+<p>Just before they fired, Jules Lemaire caught sight of Madame Nolan, who
+stood, terrified and weeping, at the doorway of the inn.</p>
+
+<p>"You see," he shouted to her, "I also, I have helped my country. I was
+not too old after all."</p>
+
+<p>And he died with a smile on his face.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="XXII" id="XXII"></a>XXII</h2>
+
+<h3>THE SING-SONG</h3>
+
+
+<p>As soon as the battalion marches back from the trenches to the village
+in the first light of the morning, everyone turns his mind to methods
+which will help the few days of rest to pass as pleasantly as war and
+the limited amusements afforded by two estaminets and a row of cottages
+will permit.</p>
+
+<p>"Chacun son go&ucirc;t." As he tramps along the street, B Company
+Sergeant-Major challenges Corporal Rogers to a boxing match on the
+morrow; Second Lieutenant White, who is new to war, sits in his billet
+and, by the light of a candle stuck in a bottle, traces the distance to
+the nearest town on the off chance that he will get leave to visit it;
+the doctor demands of his new landlady, in the most execrable French,
+where he can find a field suitable for "le football"; and Private
+Wilson, as he "dosses down" on the floor, suggests sleepily to Private
+Jones that he will be thirsty in the afternoon and that Private Jones
+has been owing him a drink since that day in Ouderdom three weeks ago.</p>
+
+<p>Besides such methods of passing the time, there are baths to be had in
+the great brewery vats of the village, there is an inter-company hockey
+tournament to be played with a Tickler's jam tin in lieu of a ball, and,
+best of all, there is the "sing-song."</p>
+
+<p>Be it in a trench, or in a barn, or out in the open fields where the
+battalion lies bivouacked under rows of waterproof sheets strung up as
+inadequate tents, the sing-song is sure of success, and a man with a
+voice like a mowing machine will receive as good a reception as would
+Caruso or Melba at Covent Garden. There is a French Territorial regiment
+which has a notice up at the entrance of its "music hall"&mdash;"Entr&eacute;e pour
+Messieurs les Poilus. Prix un sourire." Admission a smile! There is
+never a man turned away from its doors, for where is the "poilu" or
+where is the "Tommy" who is not always ready with a smile and a laugh
+and a song?</p>
+
+<p>There are little incidents in life that engrave themselves deep in the
+memory. Of all the sing-songs I have attended, there is one that is
+still vivid&mdash;the brush of time has washed away the outlines and edges of
+the others.</p>
+
+<p>We were billeted, I remember, in Eliza's farm&mdash;Eliza, for the benefit of
+those who do not know her, is fair, fat, fifty, and Flemish; a lady who
+shakes everyone in the farm into wakefulness at five o'clock each
+morning by the simple process of stepping out of bed&mdash;when the Captain
+decided that we wanted "taking out of ourselves." "We'll have a
+sing-song," he announced.</p>
+
+<p>So the Company Sergeant-Major was called in to make arrangements, and at
+eight o'clock that evening we wandered into the Orchestra Stalls. The
+concert hall was a large barn with a double door in the middle which had
+been opened wide to allow the admittance of a cart, which was placed in
+the entrance to act as a stage. All around the high barn, and perched
+precariously on the beams, were the men, while we of the Orchestra
+Stalls were accommodated on chairs placed near the stage. Behind the
+cart was a background consisting of Eliza and her numerous gentlemen
+friends, her daughter, an old lady aged roughly a hundred, and a cow
+that had no right to be there at all, but had wandered in from the
+nearest field to see the show. An orchestral accompaniment was kept up,
+even during the saddest recitation, by dozens of little pigs that
+scrambled about in the farmyard and under the stage. And beyond the farm
+swayed the tall poplars that stood along the road which led straight
+away into the distance, whence came sudden flashes of light and the
+long, dull rumble of the guns.</p>
+
+<p>Of the programme itself, I have but the vaguest recollection, for the
+programmes are the least interesting part of these performances. The
+first item, I remember, was a dreadful sentimental song by Private
+Higgs which accident converted from comparative failure into howling
+success. Just as he was rendering the most affecting passage, Private
+Higgs stepped back too far, the cart&mdash;of the two-wheeled
+variety&mdash;overbalanced, and the sad singer was dropped down amongst the
+little pigs below, to the great joy of the crowd.</p>
+
+<p>Then came a Cockney humorist, who, in times of peace, was the owner of a
+fried fish and chip barrow in that home of low comedians&mdash;the East End.
+After him appeared Sergeant Andrews, disguised in one of Eliza's
+discarded skirts, with a wisp of straw on his head to represent a lady's
+hair. Some vulgar song he sang in a shrill, falsetto voice that caused
+great dismay among the pigs, as yet unused to the vagaries of the
+British soldier.</p>
+
+<p>After the interval, during which the audience <i>en masse</i> made a
+pilgrimage to Eliza's back door to buy beer at a penny a glass, there
+came the usual mixture of the vulgar and the sentimental, for nothing on
+earth is more sentimental than a soldier. There was the inevitable
+"Beautiful Picture in a Beautiful Golden Frame," and a recitation in
+Yiddish which was well applauded simply because no man had any idea what
+it was about. The Sergeant-Major gave a very creditable rendering of
+"Loch Lomond" in a voice that would terrify a recruit, and we finished
+up the evening with a song requesting a certain naughty boy to hold out
+his hand, which was shouted by everyone with so much vigour that one
+wondered how it was the men could still sing "God save the King" when
+the time came.</p>
+
+<p>And far into the night, when the farmyard lay still and ghostly, and the
+pigs had gone off to bed, we still sat and talked in the "Officers'
+Mess," and recalled jokes of George Robey and Harry Tate, or hummed over
+the tunes we had heard at the last Queen's Hall concert. As the Captain
+had said, we wanted "taking out of ourselves," and it had just needed an
+impromptu concert in an old Flemish barn to do it.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="XXIII" id="XXIII"></a>XXIII</h2>
+
+<h3>THE "STRAFE" THAT FAILED</h3>
+
+
+<p>There is a certain battery in France where the name of Archibald Smith
+brings a scowl to every brow and an oath to every lip. The Battery Major
+still crimsons with wrath at the thought of him, and the Observing
+Officer remembers bitterly the long, uncomfortable hours he spent,
+perched up in a tree a hundred yards or so from the German lines. And
+this is how Archibald Smith was the unwitting cause of so much anger to
+the battery, and the saver of many a German life.</p>
+
+<p>One morning shortly before dawn the Commanding Officer of an infantry
+regiment was wading down a communicating trench, when he met an
+artillery officer, accompanied by three men with a big roll of telephone
+wire.</p>
+
+<p>"Hullo, what are you doing at this hour?" he asked.</p>
+
+<p>"We hope to do some good 'strafing,' sir," said the subaltern. "I'm
+coming up to observe. Some aeroplane fellow has found out that Brother
+Boche does his relieving by day in the trenches opposite. We hope to
+catch the relief to-day at ten."</p>
+
+<p>"Where are you going to observe from?"</p>
+
+<p>"There's an old sniper's post in one of the trees just behind your
+trenches. If I get up there before light I shall get a topping view, and
+am not likely to get spotted. That's why I'm going up there now, before
+it gets light."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, are you going to stick up on that confounded perch until ten
+o'clock?" asked the C.O. "You'd better come and have some breakfast with
+us first."</p>
+
+<p>But the Observing Officer knew the necessity of getting to his post as
+soon as possible and, reluctantly refusing the Colonel's invitation, he
+went on his way. Ten minutes later, he was lying full length on a
+platform constructed in one of the trees just behind the firing line.
+With the aid of his glasses, he scanned the German sandbags and, in the
+growing light, picked out a broad communicating trench winding towards
+the rear. "Once they are in that gutter," he muttered, "we shall get
+lots of them," and he allowed this thought to fortify him during his
+long wait.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p>"Quite sure the telephone's all right?" asked the Observing Officer for
+the fiftieth time. "If that wire were to go wrong we should have no
+means of getting on to the battery, for the infantry can only get on by
+'phoning to Brigade Headquarters first, and you know what that means."</p>
+
+<p>The telephone orderly, situated in a trench almost underneath the
+observer's tree, smiled consolingly, "That's all right, sir," he said.
+"I can ring up the battery in a second when the 'Uns come, as they ought
+to in a minute."</p>
+
+<p>He had hardly spoken when they came. The subaltern could see them quite
+distinctly at the turnings of the trench, and at other times an
+occasional head or rifle showed itself. "God!" said the subaltern, "if
+we search that trench with shrapnel, we must get heaps of them," and he
+issued a hurried order. Trembling in his excitement, he awaited the
+report "Just fired, sir," but nothing happened. The orderly called and
+called the battery, but there was no reply. The wire was cut!</p>
+
+<p>Half an hour later, the Battery Major came across his Observing Officer
+and a sergeant gazing dismally at two ends of cut wire.</p>
+
+<p>"I was just coming down to see what was the matter. I hear from the
+Brigade that some doddering idiot has cut our wire. Who in the hell was
+it?"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't know, sir. All I know is that I have seen a wonderful target,
+and couldn't fire a round at it. The relief's over by now, and, as we
+leave this sector to-night, we've lost a priceless chance."</p>
+
+<p>"It must be some wretched infantry blighter," said the Major. "I'll just
+go and have a talk to their C.O.," and he hurried off to the Colonel's
+dug-out, leaving the Observer to lament his lost target.</p>
+
+<p>The C.O. smiled soothingly. "My dear Wilson," he said to the Major, "I
+don't think it could have been one of our men. They have been warned so
+often. What do you say, Richards?" he asked the Adjutant.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, sir, I'm not sure. I saw that young fellow Smith with some wire
+about half an hour ago, but I don't expect he did it. I'll send for him
+to make sure."</p>
+
+<p>Second Lieutenant Archibald Smith certainly looked harmless enough. He
+was thin and freckled, and his big blue eyes gazed appealingly through
+his glasses.</p>
+
+<p>"Where did you get that wire you had just now?" asked the Adjutant.</p>
+
+<p>Smith beamed. "I got it just behind the wood, sir. There's a lot of old
+wi ..." but the Major interrupted him. "That's the place," he cried
+excitedly. "Well, what the devil did you go cutting my wire for?"</p>
+
+<p>Archibald Smith looked at him in alarmed fascination. "I didn't think it
+was any good, sir. I wa-wanted some string, and...."</p>
+
+<p>"What did you want string for? Were you going to hang yourself to the
+roof of your dug-out?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, sir. I wanted to wrap up a p-parcel to send home, sir. I wa-anted
+to send back some socks and underclothes to be darned. I'm very sorry,
+sir."</p>
+
+<p>"Sorry? Sorry be damned, and your underclothes too!" And the Battery
+Major, who had more bad language at his disposal than most men in the
+Army, for once forgot he was in the presence of a senior officer.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p>While the Major, his subaltern, and three men with a roll of wire wended
+their sorry way back to the battery, Archibald Smith, surprised and
+hurt, sat in his dug-out, amusing himself by making fierce bayonet
+thrusts at his parcel, and alternately wishing it were the Major or
+himself.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="XXIV" id="XXIV"></a>XXIV</h2>
+
+<h3>THE NIGHTLY ROUND</h3>
+
+
+<p>I swear, and rub my eyes.</p>
+
+<p>"Dusk, sir," says the Sergeant-Major with a smile of comprehension, and
+he lets fall the waterproof sheet which acts as a door to my dug-out. I
+yawn prodigiously, get up slowly from my bed&mdash;one of two banks of earth
+that run parallel down each side of my muddy hovel, rather after the
+fashion of seats down each side of an omnibus&mdash;and go out into the
+trench, along which the command "Stand to arms" has just been passed.
+The men leave their letters and their newspapers; Private Webb, who
+earned his living in times of peace by drawing thin, elongated ladies in
+varying stages of undress for fashion catalogues, puts aside his
+portrait of the Sergeant, who is still smiling with ecstasy at a tin of
+chloride of lime; the obstinate sleepers are roused, to a great flow of
+bad language, and all stand to their arms in the possibility of an
+attack.</p>
+
+<p>It is a monotonous time, that hour of waiting until darkness falls, for
+gossip is scarce in the trenches, and the display of fireworks in the
+shape of German star shells has long since ceased to interest us&mdash;always
+excepting those moments when we are in front of our trench on some
+patrol. Away to the left, where the artillery have been busy all day,
+the shelling slackens as the light fades, and the rifle shots grow more
+and more frequent. Presently the extra sentries are posted&mdash;one man in
+every three&mdash;the disgusted working parties are told off to their work of
+filling sandbags or improving the communication trenches, and the long,
+trying night begins.</p>
+
+<p>All down the line the German bullets spin overhead or crack like whips
+against our sandbags, sending little clods of earth down into the
+trench; all down the line we stand on our firing platforms, and answer
+back to the little spurts of flame which mark the enemy trench; sudden
+flashes and explosions tell of bombs or grenades, and star shells from
+both sides sweep high into the air to silhouette the unwary and to give
+one something to fire at, for firing into the darkness with the
+probability of hitting nothing more dangerous than a tree or a sandbag
+is work of but little interest.</p>
+
+<p>I wander on my rounds to see that all the sentries are on the alert,
+and, suddenly, nearly fall over a man lying face downwards along the
+bottom of the trench. "Here, you can't sleep here, you know; you give no
+one a chance to pass," I say, and, for answer, I am told to "shut up,"
+while a suppressed but still audible giggle from Private Harris warns me
+that the situation is not as I had imagined. The figure in the mud gets
+up and proves to be an officer of the Engineers, listening for sounds of
+mining underneath us. "I think they're at it again, but I'm not certain
+yet," he says cheerfully as he goes off to his own dug-out. I, in turn,
+lie down in the mud with my ear pressed to the ground, and I seem to
+hear, far beneath me, the rumble of the trolleys and the sound of the
+pick, so that I am left for the rest of the night in the uncomfortable
+expectation of flying heavenwards at any moment.</p>
+
+<p>A buzz of voices which reaches me as I return from a visit to a working
+party informs me that the one great event of the night has taken
+place&mdash;the rations and the mail have arrived and have been "dumped" by
+the carrying party in a little side trench. Before I reach the spot a
+man comes hurrying up to me, "Please, sir," he says, "young Denham has
+been hit by a rifle grenade. 'E's got it very bad." Just as I pass the
+side trench, I hear the sergeant who is issuing the letters call:
+"Denham. A letter for young Denham," and someone says, "I'll take it to
+him, Sergeant, 'e's in my section."</p>
+
+<p>But the letter has arrived too late, for when I reach the other end of
+the trench Denham is dead, and a corporal, is carefully searching his
+pockets for his letters and money to hand over to the platoon commander.
+They have carried him close to the brazier for light, and the flames
+find reflection on the white skin of his throat where his tunic has been
+torn open, and there is an ugly black stain on the bandage that has been
+roughly tied round him. Only one man in millions, it is true, but one
+more letter sent home with that awful "Killed" written across it, and
+one more mother mourning for her only child.</p>
+
+<p>And so the night draws on. Now there is a lull, and the sentries,
+standing on the fire platforms, allow their heavy lids to fall in a
+moment's sleep; now a sudden burst of intense fire runs along the line,
+and everyone springs to his rifle, while star shells go up by dozens;
+now a huge rumble from the distance tells that a mine has been fired,
+and we wonder dully who fired it, and how many have been killed&mdash;dully
+only, for death has long since ceased to mean anything to us, and our
+powers of realisation and pity, thank God! have been blunted until the
+only things that matter are food and sleep.</p>
+
+<p>At last the order to stand to arms is given again, and the new day comes
+creeping sadly over the plain of Flanders. What looked like a great hand
+stretched up appealingly to heaven becomes a shattered, broken tree; the
+uniform veil of grey gives place to grass and empty tins, dead bodies
+lying huddled up grotesquely, and winding lines of German trenches. The
+sky goes faintly blue, and the sun peeps out, gleaming on the drops of
+rain that still hang from our barbed wire, and on the long row of
+bayonets along the trench.</p>
+
+<p>The new day is here, but what will it bring? The monotony may be broken
+by an attack, the battalion may be relieved. Who knows? Who cares?
+Enough that daylight is here and the sun is shining, that periscopes and
+sleep are once more permitted, that breakfast is at hand, and that some
+day we shall get back to billets.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="XXV" id="XXV"></a>XXV</h2>
+
+<h3>JOHN WILLIAMS, TRAMP AND SOLDIER</h3>
+
+
+<p>On a wet and cheerless evening in September 1914, John Williams, tramp,
+sat in the bar of the Golden Lion and gazed regretfully at the tankard
+before him, which must of necessity remain empty, seeing that he had
+just spent his last penny. To him came a recruiting sergeant.</p>
+
+<p>"Would you like a drink, mate?" he asked.</p>
+
+<p>John Williams did not hesitate.</p>
+
+<p>"You ought to be in the Army," said the sergeant, as he put down his
+empty tankard, "a fine great body of a man like you. It's the best life
+there is."</p>
+
+<p>"I bean't so sartain as I want to be a sojer. I be a hindependent man."</p>
+
+<p>"It's a good life for a healthy man," went on the sergeant. "We'll talk
+it over," and he ordered another drink apiece.</p>
+
+<p>John Williams, who had had more than enough before the sergeant had
+spoken to him, gazed mistily at his new acquaintance. "Thee do seem to
+have a main lot o' money to spend."</p>
+
+<p>The sergeant laughed. "It's Army pay, mate, as does it. I get a fine,
+easy life, good clothes and food, and plenty of money for my glass of
+beer. Where did you sleep last night?" he asked suddenly.</p>
+
+<p>"If I do mind me right," said John Williams, "it were in a leaky barn,
+over Newton way."</p>
+
+<p>"Where are you going to sleep to-night?" asked the sergeant again.</p>
+
+<p>Williams remembered his empty pocket. "I doan't know," he said with
+regret. "Most likely on some seat in the park."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, you come along o' me, and you'll get a comfortable barricks to
+sleep in, a life as you likes, and a bob a day to spend on yourself."</p>
+
+<p>John Williams listened to the dripping of the rain outside. To his
+bemused brain the thought of a "comfortable barricks" was very, very
+tempting. "Blame me if I doan't come along o' thee," he said at length.</p>
+
+<p>In wartime a medical examination is soon over and an attestation paper
+filled up. "There's nothing wrong with you, my man," said the Medical
+Officer, "except that you're half drunk."</p>
+
+<p>"I bean't drunk, mister," protested Williams sleepily.</p>
+
+<p>"We'll take you at your word, anyhow," said the doctor. "You're too
+good a man physically to lose for the Army."</p>
+
+<p>Thus it was that John Williams took the King's Shilling, and swore to
+serve his country as a soldier should.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p>One of the most wonderful things about the British Army is the way that
+recruits are gradually fashioned into soldiers. There are thousands of
+men fighting on our different fronts who, a year ago, hated the thought
+of discipline and order; they are now amongst the best soldiers we have.
+But there are exceptions&mdash;Private John Williams was one. In a little
+over a year of military service, he had absented himself without leave
+no fewer than eleven times, and the various punishments meted out to him
+failed signally in their object to break him of his habit. In every
+respect save one he was a good soldier, but, do what it would, the Army
+could not bring him to see the folly of repeated desertion; the life in
+the Army is not the life for a man with the wander thirst of centuries
+in his blood. Williams had all the gipsy's love of wandering and
+solitude, and not even a threatened punishment of death will cure a man
+of that.</p>
+
+<p>So it came about that John Williams sat outside his billet one September
+evening, and watched the white chalk road that ran over the hill towards
+Amiens. After the flat and cultivated country of Flanders, the rolling
+hills called with an unparalleled insistence, and the idea of spending
+the two remaining days before the battalion went back to the trenches in
+company with sixty other men in a barn grew more and more odious. If he
+were to go off even for twenty-four hours, he would receive, on return,
+probably nothing more than a few days Field Punishment, which, after
+all, was not so bad when one grew used to it. He was sick of the life of
+a soldier, sick of obeying officers half his age, sick of being ordered
+to do things that seemed senseless to him; he would be quit of it all
+for twenty-four hours.</p>
+
+<p>John Williams went to the only shop in the village to buy food, with the
+aid of fifty centimes and a wonderful Lingua Franca of his own, and when
+his companions collected in their billet that night he was already far
+away on the open road. He walked fast through the still September
+evening, and as he walked he sang, and the woods echoed to the strange
+songs that gipsies sing to themselves as they squat round their fires at
+night. When at last he came to a halt he soon found sleep, and lay
+huddled up in his greatcoat at the foot of a poplar tree, until the dawn
+awoke him.</p>
+
+<p>All through the summer day he walked, his Romany blood singing in his
+veins at the feel of the turf beneath his feet, and evening found him
+strolling contentedly through the village to his billet. Suddenly a
+sentry challenged: "'Alt! who goes there?"</p>
+
+<p>"Downshires," came the reply.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, what the 'ell are you doin' of 'ere?"</p>
+
+<p>"I be going back to my regiment."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, your regiment's in the trenches. They relieved us sudden like
+last night, owing to us getting cut up. You see, they Germans attacked
+us and killed a good few of our chaps before we drove 'em out again, so
+the Downshires 'ad to come up and relieve us late; somewhere about
+eleven o'clock they must 'ave left 'ere. What are you doing of, any'ow?"
+he asked jokingly. "Are you a bloomin' deserter what's come to be
+arrested?" But he posed the question to empty air, for Williams was
+retracing his steps at a steady double.</p>
+
+<p>"Seems to me that bloke 'll get hisself inter trouble," said the sentry
+of the Westfords as he spat in disgust. Then he forgot all about it, and
+fell to wondering what the bar of the Horse and Plough must be looking
+like at the moment.</p>
+
+<p>John Williams knew that he had burnt his boats, and he became a deserter
+in real earnest. For several weeks he remained at large, and each day
+made the idea of giving himself up of his own accord more difficult to
+entertain; but at last he was singled out from among the many men who
+wander about behind the firing line, and was placed under a guard that
+put hope of escape out of the question. Not even the wander thirst in
+his gipsy blood could set his feet on the wide chalk road again, or give
+him one more night of freedom.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p>"He might have a long term of imprisonment, mightn't he, sir?" asked the
+junior member of the Court Martial. "He could have no idea that his
+regiment was suddenly warned for the trenches when he deserted. Besides,
+the man used to be a tramp, and it must be exceptionally hard for a man
+who has led a wandering life to accustom himself to discipline. It must
+be in his blood to desert." And he blushed slightly, for he sounded
+sentimental, and there is little room for sentiment in an army on active
+service.</p>
+
+<p>The President of the Court was a Major who liked his warm fire and his
+linen sheets, which, with the elements of discipline and warfare,
+occupied most of his thoughts. "I fear you forget," he said rather
+testily, "that this is the twelfth occasion on which this man has made
+off. I have never heard of such a case in my life. Besides, on this
+occasion he was warned that the Downshires were in the trenches by the
+sentry of the Westfords, and, instead of giving himself up, he
+deliberately turned round and ran off, so that the excuse of ignorance
+does not hold water. That the man was a tramp is, to my mind, no excuse
+either&mdash;the army is not a rest home for tired tramps. The man is an
+out-and-out scoundrel."</p>
+
+<p>So the junior member, fearful of seeming sentimental and unmilitary,
+timidly suggested the sentence of death, to which the other two agreed.</p>
+
+<p>"We must make an example of these fellows. There are far too many cases
+of desertion," said the Major, as he lit his pipe and hurried off to his
+tea.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p>Thus ended the career of No. 1234 Pte. John Williams, formerly a tramp
+in the west of England, unmourned and despised.</p>
+
+<p>On the morning after he had been shot, his platoon sergeant sat before a
+brazier and talked to a corporal. "'E ain't no bloomin' loss, 'e ain't.
+'E gave me too much trouble, and I got fair sick of 'aving to report 'im
+absent. It serves 'im blamed well right, that's what I say."</p>
+
+<p>The corporal sipped his tea out of an extremely dirty canteen. "Well,"
+he said at length, "I 'ope as the poor devil don't find it so warm where
+'e's gone as what it is 'ere. I quite liked un, though 'e were a bit
+free with 'is fists, and always dreamin' like," which was probably the
+only appreciation ever uttered in memory of John Williams, tramp and
+soldier.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="XXVI" id="XXVI"></a>XXVI</h2>
+
+<h3>THE CLEARING HOUSE</h3>
+
+
+<p>You collect your belongings, you stretch and yawn, you rub your eyes to
+rid them of sleep&mdash;and incidentally you leave great black marks all down
+your face&mdash;you struggle to get on your equipment in a filthy
+second-class carriage where are three other officers struggling to get
+on their equipment, and waving their arms about like the sails of
+windmills. Then you obtain a half share of the window and gaze out as
+the train crawls round the outskirts of the town, that lies still and
+quiet in the dusk of the morning. You have arrived at your
+destination&mdash;you are at the base.</p>
+
+<p>This quaint old town, with its streets running up the hill from the
+river, with its beautiful spires and queer old houses, is the great
+clearing house of the British Army. Here the new troops arrive; here
+they leave for the front; here, muddy and wounded, they are driven in
+motor chars-&agrave;-bancs and ambulances from the station to the hospitals;
+here they are driven down to the river-side and carried on to the
+hospital ships that are bound for England.</p>
+
+<p>And this gigantic clearing house buzzes with soldiers in khaki. There
+are the hotels where the generals and staff officers take their tea;
+there are the caf&eacute;s haunted by subalterns; there are little "D&eacute;bits de
+Vins" where "Tommies" go and explain, in "pidgin" English, that they are
+dying for glasses of beer. In all the streets, great motor lorries
+lumber by, laden with blackened soldiers who have been down on the quay,
+unloading shells, food, hay, oil, anything and everything that can be
+needed for the British Expeditionary Force. And, in the two main
+thoroughfares of an afternoon, there flows an unceasing crowd&mdash;generals
+and privates, French men and women, officers hunting through the shops
+for comforts to take up the line, people winding their busy way through
+the throng, and people strolling along with the tide, intent on
+snatching all they can of pleasure and amusement while they have the
+opportunity.</p>
+
+<p>And a few years ago these same streets would lie sleepily in the sun,
+dreaming of the days of splendour long by. In the square before the
+wonderful cathedral there would be stillness&mdash;here and there, perhaps, a
+pigeon would come fluttering down from the ledges and cornices of the
+Gothic fa&ccedil;ade; sometimes a nondescript dog would raise a lazy head to
+snap at the flies; occasionally the streets would send back a nasal echo
+as a group of American tourists, with their Baedekers and maps, came
+hurrying along to "do" the town before the next train left for
+Paris&mdash;beyond that ... nothing.</p>
+
+<p>Now, in the early morning, the Base seems almost to have relapsed into
+its slumber of yore. As yet, the work of the day has not begun, and the
+whole town seems to stir sleepily as the screeching brakes bring your
+train to a standstill. As you stumble out of the carriage, the only
+living person in the place appears to be a sentry, who tramps up and
+down in the distance, on guard over a few empty trucks and a huge pile
+of bundles of straw.</p>
+
+<p>It is a little disappointing, this arrival at the Base, for there is not
+even a proper station in sight; you have been brought, like so many
+sheep or cows, into the dismal goods station, and you look in vain for
+the people who should be there to welcome you, to throw flowers, and to
+cheer as you arrive at the first halt of your great Odyssey. However,
+you shake yourself, you bundle your valise out of the carriage on to the
+railway line, and, with your late carriage companions, you go across to
+the sentry and his bundles of straw.</p>
+
+<p>"Can you tell us where the Railway Transport Officer is to be found?"
+you ask. "We've got orders to report to him as soon as we can."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, sir, they's always got those orders, but you won't find 'im not
+before 'alf-past nine. 'Is office is over there in them buildings." And
+a subaltern in the office gives you the same information&mdash;it is now five
+o'clock, and the R.T.O. who has your movement orders will not be here
+for four and a half hours. "Go and have a look round the town," suggests
+the subaltern.</p>
+
+<p>The idea of "looking round a town" at five in the morning! You slouch
+over the bridge, and wander up and down the empty streets until an hotel
+shows up before you. You are very tired and very dirty and very
+unshaven. Instinctively you halt and feel your chins. "Dunno when we'll
+get another bath," suggests one of the party, and he goes to ring the
+bell. For ten minutes you ring the bell, and then the door is opened by
+a half-clothed porter who is also very tired and very dirty and very
+unshaven. He glares at you, and then signs to you to enter, after which
+he runs away and leaves you in a hall in the company of a dust pan and
+brush and a pile of chairs pushed up in the corner&mdash;no welcome and no
+flowers.</p>
+
+<p>But in a moment there is a shuffle on the stairs, and a fat, buxom
+woman, with a cheerful face and a blouse undone down the back, makes
+her appearance. Oh yes, Messieurs les Officiers can have a bath&mdash;for two
+francs, including a towel; and they can have breakfast&mdash;for three and a
+half francs, including "ze English marmalade" and "un &oelig;uf &agrave; la coque"
+(which sets you to wondering whether she means a cock's egg, and, if so,
+what sort of a thing it may be). "It is a nice bath," she tells you,
+"and always full of Messieurs les Anglais, who forget all about the war
+and only think of baths and of football. No, zere is only one bath, but
+ze ozer officiers can wait," and she leads one of the party away into
+the dim corridors and up dim staircases.</p>
+
+<p>Breakfast and a wash work wonders, and you still keep cheerful when the
+R.T.O. tells you at half-past nine that your camp is three miles away,
+that you may not see your valise for days unless you take a "taxi," and
+that there are only three "taxis" in the town. You wander about in
+search of one during the whole morning, you find the three all hiding
+away together in a side street, you bundle your valises into one, and
+arrive at the camp just in time for lunch.</p>
+
+<p>It is a strange life, that life at the Base&mdash;it is like life on an
+"island" in a London thoroughfare, with the traffic streaming by on
+either side. All day long there are men arriving to go to the front, all
+day long there are men coming back on their way to England. For a week
+you live on this "island," equipping men for drafts all the morning&mdash;for
+most of them seem to have dropped part of their equipment into the sea
+on the way across&mdash;and sitting in caf&eacute;s in the evenings, drinking
+strange mixtures of wines and syrups and soda water.</p>
+
+<p>Then, one day, the Colonel sends for you. Your turn has come to set out
+on that journey which may have no return. "You will proceed to the front
+by the four o'clock train this afternoon," he says. "You are instructed
+to conduct a party of 100 Northshire Highlanders, who are in 'S' Camp,
+which is over there," and he waves his hand vaguely in the direction of
+the typewriter in the corner of the room.</p>
+
+<p>These are your instructions, and, after a prolonged hunt for "S" Camp,
+you march off to the station at the head of a hundred Scotchmen, not one
+of whom you can understand. At the station you make a great show of
+nominal rolls and movement orders, and finally get your Highlanders
+packed safely in their compartments under strict injunctions not to
+leave the train without your orders.</p>
+
+<p>Now comes the time to look after your own comfort. If you have "been up"
+before you have learnt that it is wise to stroll into the town for your
+last proper tea, and not to come back much before six o'clock, by which
+time the train is thinking of reluctantly crawling out of the station.
+If, in your absence, someone has else has tried to settle in your
+compartment, providing his rank is not superior to your own, you get rid
+of him either by lying strenuously or by using a little force. Thus, if
+you are lucky, a good liar, or a muscular man, you can keep the carriage
+for yourself, your particular friend, your kits, and your provisions
+(which last, in the form of bottles, require no small space).</p>
+
+<p>All along the line are children, waving their grubby hands and shouting
+in monotonous reiteration, "Souvenir biskeet, souvenir bully biff," and
+you throw them their souvenirs without delay, for no man sets out for
+war without a plentiful stock of more interesting provisions to keep his
+spirits up. All along the train, in disobedience of orders, the carriage
+doors are open, and "Tommies" and "Jocks," and "Pats" are seated on the
+footboards, singing, shouting, laughing.</p>
+
+<p>This, until night falls. Then, one by one, the carriage doors are shut,
+and the men set about the business of sleeping. Here and there, perhaps,
+is a man who stays awake, wondering what the future will bring him, how
+his wife and children will get on if he is killed, and how many of these
+men, who are lolling in grotesque attitudes all round him, will ever
+come back down the line. In the daylight, the excitement drives away
+these thoughts&mdash;there are songs to sing and sights to see&mdash;but as the
+train jolts on through the night, there seems to be an undefinable
+feeling of fear. What will it be like to be shelled, to fight, to die?</p>
+
+<p>Morning brings cheerfulness again. There are halts at Boulogne and
+Calais; news must be obtained from English sentries and French railway
+officials; there is, in one place, a train of German prisoners; there
+are long halts at tiny stations where you can procure hot water while
+the O.C. Train discusses life with the R.T.O.; there are the
+thousand-and-one things which serve to remind you that you are in the
+war zone, although the country is peaceful, and you look in vain for
+shell holes and ruined houses.</p>
+
+<p>At length the railhead is reached&mdash;from here the rumble of the guns can
+be heard&mdash;and the detrainment takes place. You fall your Highlanders in
+by the side of the train, you jerk your pack about in a vain effort to
+make it hang comfortably, a whistle blows, and you start off on your
+long march to your regiment, to those dull, mumbling guns, to your first
+peep of war.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p>A "cushy" wound, a long and aching journey in a motor ambulance, a
+nerve-racking night in a clearing hospital, where the groans of the
+dying, the hurrying of the orderlies, and your own pain all combine in a
+nightmare of horror, and next morning you are in the train once
+more&mdash;you are going back to the Base. But how different is this from the
+journey up to the front! The sound of distant firing has none of the
+interest of novelty; the shelling of an aeroplane, which would have
+filled you with excitement a short time ago, does not now even cause you
+to raise your eyes to watch; you are old in warfare, and <i>blas&eacute;</i>.</p>
+
+<p>There is no room for fear on this train; it is crowded out by pain, by
+apathy, by hope. The man next you cannot live a week, but he seems
+content; at all events, it is not fear that one sees in his face. There
+is no fear&mdash;there is hope.</p>
+
+<p>The train is bright with flowers; there are nurses, and books, and
+well-cooked food&mdash;there is even champagne for the select few. There is
+no longer the shattered country of the firing line, but there are hills
+and rivers, there is the sea near Wimereux, and the hope of being sent
+home to England. There are shattered wrecks that were men, there is the
+knowledge of hovering death, but, above all, there is hope.</p>
+
+<p>So the train hastens on&mdash;no crawling this time&mdash;to the clearing house,
+the Base. Past the little sun-washed villages it runs, and the gleaming
+Seine brings smiles to wan faces. There, look, over there in the
+distance, are the wonderful spires and the quaint houses and the river,
+all fresh and laughing in the sun, and the trees up on the hill above
+the town are all tender green. Even if one is to die, one may get back
+home first; at all events, one has been spared to see God's clean
+country, and to breathe untainted air again.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p><i>Printed in Great Britain by Hazell, Watson &amp; Viney, Ld., London and
+Aylesbury, for Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent &amp; Co., Ltd.</i></p>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Mud and Khaki, by Vernon Bartlett
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@@ -0,0 +1,4473 @@
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Mud and Khaki, by Vernon Bartlett
+
+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: Mud and Khaki
+       Sketches from Flanders and France
+
+Author: Vernon Bartlett
+
+Release Date: May 14, 2008 [EBook #25470]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MUD AND KHAKI ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Graeme Mackreth and The Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+MUD AND KHAKI
+
+
+
+
+MUD AND KHAKI
+
+SKETCHES FROM FLANDERS
+AND FRANCE
+
+BY
+
+VERNON BARTLETT
+
+
+SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON,
+KENT & CO. LTD., 4 STATIONERS'
+HALL COURT : : LONDON, E.C.
+
+
+_Copyright_
+_First published April 1917_
+
+
+TO
+
+R.V.K.C.
+
+AND MY OTHER FRIENDS
+
+IN THE REGIMENT
+
+
+
+
+APOLOGIA
+
+
+There has been so much written about the trenches, there are so many war
+photographs, so many cinema films, that one might well hesitate before
+even mentioning the war--to try to write a book about it is, I fear, to
+incur the censure of the many who are tired of hearing about bombs and
+bullets, and who prefer to read of peace, and games, and flirtations.
+
+But, for that very reason, I venture to think that even so indifferent a
+war book as mine will not come entirely amiss. When the Lean Years are
+over, when the rifle becomes rusty, and the khaki is pushed away in some
+remote cupboard, there is great danger that the hardships of the men in
+the trenches will too soon be forgotten. If, to a minute extent,
+anything in these pages should help to bring home to people what war
+really is, and to remind them of their debt of gratitude, then these
+little sketches will have justified their existence.
+
+Besides, I am not entirely responsible for this little book. Not long
+ago, I met a man--fit, single, and young--who began to grumble to me of
+the hardships of his "funkhole" in England, and, incidentally, to
+belittle the hardships of the man at the front. After I had told him
+exactly what I thought of him, I was still so indignant that I came home
+and began to write a book about the trenches. Hence _Mud and Khaki_. To
+him, then, the blame for this minor horror of war. I wash my hands of
+it.
+
+And I try to push the blame off on to him, for I realise that I have
+undertaken an impossible task--the most practised pen cannot convey a
+real notion of the life at the front, as the words to describe war do
+not exist. Even you who have lost your husbands and brothers, your
+fathers and sons, can have but the vaguest impression of the cruel,
+thirsty claws that claimed them as victims. First must you see the
+shattered cottages of France and Belgium, the way in which the women
+clung to their homes in burning Ypres, the long streams of refugees
+wheeling their poor little _lares et penates_, their meagre treasures,
+on trucks and handcarts; first must you listen to the cheery joke that
+the Angel of Death finds on the lips of the soldier, to the songs that
+encourage you in the dogged marches through the dark and the mud, to the
+talk during the long nights when the men collect round the brazier fire
+and think of their wives and kiddies at home, of murky streets in the
+East End, of quiet country inns where the farmers gather of an evening.
+
+No words, then, can give an exact picture of these things, but they may
+help to give colour to your impressions. Heaven forbid that, by telling
+the horrors of war, the writers of books should make pessimists of those
+at home! Heaven forbid that they should belittle the dangers and
+hardships, and so take away some of the glory due to "Tommy" for all he
+has suffered for the Motherland! There is a happy mean--the men at the
+front have found it; they know that death is near, but they can still
+laugh and sing.
+
+In these sketches and stories I have tried, with but little success, to
+keep that happy mean in view. If the pictures are very feeble in design
+when compared to the many other, and far better, works on the same
+subject, remember, reader, that the intention is good, and accept this
+apology for wasting your time.
+
+A few of these sketches and articles have already appeared elsewhere. My
+best thanks are due to the Editors of the _Daily Mail_ and the _Daily
+Mirror_ for their kind permission to include several sketches which
+appeared, in condensed forms, in their papers. I am also grateful to the
+Editor of Cassell's _Storyteller_ for his permission to reproduce "The
+Knut," which first saw print in that periodical.
+
+VERNON BARTLETT.
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+                                                     PAGE
+       APOLOGIA                               11
+
+    I. IN HOSPITAL                            19
+
+   II. A RECIPE FOR GENERALS                  31
+
+  III. MUD                                    37
+
+   IV. THE SURPRISE ATTACK                    43
+
+    V. "PONGO" SIMPSON ON BOMBS               51
+
+   VI. THE SCHOOLMASTER OF PONT SAVERNE       57
+
+  VII. THE ODD JOBS                           67
+
+ VIII. THE "KNUT"                             71
+
+   IX. SHOPPING                               79
+
+    X. THE LIAR                               87
+
+   XI. THE CITY OF TRAGEDY                    93
+
+  XII. "PONGO" SIMPSON ON GRUMBLER           105
+
+ XIII. THE CONVERT                           110
+
+  XIV. DAVID AND JONATHAN                    114
+
+   XV. THE RUM JAR                           122
+
+  XVI. THE TEA SHOP                          128
+
+ XVII. "HERE COMES THE GENERAL"              133
+
+XVIII. THE RASCAL IN WAR                     137
+
+  XIX. "PONGO" SIMPSON ON OFFICERS           141
+
+   XX. THE HAND OF SHADOW                    146
+
+  XXI. THE VETERAN                           152
+
+ XXII. THE SING-SONG                         156
+
+XXIII. THE "STRAFE" THAT FAILED              161
+
+ XXIV. THE NIGHTLY ROUND                     166
+
+  XXV. JOHN WILLIAMS, TRAMP AND SOLDIER      171
+
+ XXVI. THE CLEARING HOUSE                    178
+
+
+
+
+MUD AND KHAKI
+
+
+
+
+I
+
+IN HOSPITAL
+
+
+Close behind the trenches on the Ypres salient stands part of "Chapel
+Farm"--the rest of it has long been trampled down into the mud by the
+many hundreds of men who have passed by there. Enough of the ruin still
+stands for you to trace out the original plan of the place--a house and
+two barns running round three sides of the farmyard that is foetid and
+foul and horrible.
+
+It is an uninviting spot, for, close by, are the remains of a dead cow,
+superficially buried long ago by some working party that was in a hurry
+to get home; but the farm is notable for the fact that passing round the
+north side of the building you are out of view, and safe, and that
+passing round the south side you can be seen by the enemy, and are
+certain to be sniped.
+
+If you must be sniped, however, you might choose a worse place, for the
+bullets generally fly low there, and there is a cellar to which you can
+be carried--a filthy spot, abounding in rats, and damp straw, and
+stained rags, for the place once acted as a dressing-station. But still,
+it is under cover, and intact, with six little steps leading up into the
+farmyard.
+
+And one day, as I led a party of men down to the "dumping ground" to
+fetch ammunition, I was astonished to hear the familiar strains of
+"Gilbert the Filbert" coming from this desolate ruin. The singer had a
+fine voice, and he gave forth his chant as happily as though he were
+safe at home in England, with no cares or troubles in the world. With a
+sergeant, I set out to explore; as our boots clattered on the
+cobble-stones of the farmyard, there was a noise in the cellar, a head
+poked up in the entrance, and I was greeted with a cheery "Good morning,
+sir."
+
+We crawled down the steps into the hovel to learn the singer's story. He
+was a man from another regiment, who had come down from his support
+dug-out to "nose around after a spud or two." The German sniper had
+"bagged" him in the ankle and he had crawled into the cellar--still with
+his sandbag of "spuds"--to wait until someone came by. "I 'adn't got
+nothing to do but wait," he concluded, "and if I'd got to wait, I might
+jest as well play at bein' a bloomin' canary as 'owl like a kid what's
+'ad it put acrost 'im."
+
+We got a little water from the creaky old pump and took off his "first
+field dressing" that he had wound anyhow round his leg. To my
+surprise--for he was so cheerful that I thought he had only a scratch--I
+found that his ankle was badly smashed, and that part of his boot and
+sock had been driven right into the wound.
+
+"Yes, it did 'urt a bit when I tried to walk," he said, as I expressed
+surprise. "That's jest the best part of it. I don't care if it 'urts
+like 'ell, for it's sure to mean 'Blighty' and comfort for me."
+
+And that is just the spirit of the hospitals--the joy of comfort and
+rest overbalances the pain and the operation. To think that there are
+still people who imagine that hospitals are of necessity sad and
+depressing! Why, even the children's wards of the London Hospital are
+not that, for, as you look down the rows of beds, you see surprise and
+happiness on the poor little pinched faces--surprise that everything is
+clean and white, and that they are lying between proper sheets;
+happiness that they are treated kindly, and that there are no harsh
+words. As for a military hospital, while war lays waste the world, there
+is no place where there is more peace and contentment.
+
+Hospital, for example, is the happiest place to spend Christmas. About a
+week before the day there are mysterious whispers in the corners, and
+furtive writing in a notebook, and the clinking of coppers. Then, next
+day, a cart comes to the door and deposits a load of ivy and holly and
+mistletoe. The men have all subscribed to buy decorations for their
+temporary home, and they set about their work like children--for where
+will you find children who are younger than the "Tommies"? Even the
+wards where there are only "cot cases" are decorated, and the men lie in
+bed and watch the invaders from other wards who come in and smother the
+place with evergreens. There is one ward where a man lies dying of
+cancer--here, too, they come, making clumsy attempts to walk on tip-toe,
+and smiling encouragement as they hang the mistletoe from the electric
+light over his bed.
+
+And at last the great day comes. There are presents for everyone, and a
+bran pie from which, one by one, they extract mysterious parcels wrapped
+up in brown paper. And the joy as they undo them! There are table games
+and packets of tobacco, writing pads and boxes of cigarettes, cheap
+fountain pens which will nearly turn the Matron's hair grey, and bags of
+chocolates. They collect in their wards and turn their presents over,
+their eyes damp with joy; they pack up their games or their chocolate to
+send home to their wives who are spending Christmas in lonely cottage
+kitchens; they write letters to imaginary people just for the joy of
+using their writing blocks; they admire each others' treasures, and,
+sometimes, make exchanges, for the man who does not smoke has drawn a
+pipe, and the man in the corner over there, who has lost both legs, has
+drawn a pair of felt slippers!
+
+Before they know where they are, the lunch is ready, and, children
+again, they eat far more than is good for them, until the nurses have to
+forbid them to have any more. "No, Jones," they say, "you can't have a
+third helping of pudding; you're supposed to be on a milk diet."
+
+Oh, the happiness of it all! All day they sing and eat and talk, until
+you forget that there is war and misery in the world; when the evening
+comes they go, flushed and happy, back to their beds to dream that great
+black Germans are sitting on them, eating Christmas puddings by the
+dozen, and growing heavier with each one.
+
+But upstairs in the little ward the mother sits with her son, and she
+tries with all her force to keep back the tears. They have had the door
+open all day to hear the laughter and fun, and on the table by the bed
+lie his presents and the choicest fruit and sweets. Until quite late at
+night she stays there, holding her son's hand, and telling of
+Christmases when he was a little boy. Then, when she gets up to go, the
+man in bed turns his head towards the poor little pile of presents.
+"You'd better take those, mother," he says. "They won't be much use to
+me. But it's the happiest Christmas I've ever had." And all the poor
+woman's courage leaves her, and she stoops forward under the mistletoe
+and kisses him, kisses him, with tears streaming down her face.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Most stirring of all are the clearing hospitals near the firing line.
+They are crowded, and all night long fresh wounded stumble in, the mud
+caked on their uniforms, and their bandages soiled by dark stains. In
+one corner a man groans unceasingly: "Oh, my head ... God! Oh, my poor
+head!" and you hear the mutterings and laughter of the delirious.
+
+But if the pain here is at its height, the relief is keenest. For months
+they have lived in hell, these men, and now they have been brought out
+of it all. A man who has been rescued from suffocation in a coal mine
+does not grumble if he has the toothache; a man who has come from the
+trenches and death does not complain of the agony of his wound--he
+smiles because he is in comfortable surroundings for once.
+
+Besides, there is a great feeling of expectation and hope, for there is
+to be a convoy in the morning and they are all to be sent down to the
+base--all except the men who are too ill to be moved and the two men who
+have died in the night, whose beds are shut off by red screens. The "cot
+cases" are lifted carefully on to stretchers, their belongings are
+packed under their pillows, and they are carried down to the ambulances,
+while the walking cases wander about the wards, waiting for their turn
+to come. They look into their packs for the fiftieth time to make sure
+they have left nothing; they lean out of the windows to watch the
+ambulance roll away to the station; they stop every orderly who comes
+along to ask if they have not been forgotten, or if there will be room
+for them on the train; they make new acquaintances, or discover old
+ones. One man meets a long-lost friend with a huge white bandage round
+his neck. "Hullo, you poor devil," he says, "how did you get it in the
+neck like that? was it a bullet or a bit of a shell?" The other swears,
+and confesses that he has not been hit at all, but is suffering from
+boils.
+
+For, going down to the base are wounded and sick of every sort--men who
+have lost a limb, and men who have only the tiniest graze; men who are
+mad with pain, and men who are going down for a new set of false teeth;
+men with pneumonia, and men with scabies. It is only when the boat
+leaves for England that the cases can be sorted out. It is only then
+that there are signs of envy, and the men whose wounds are not bad
+enough to take them back to "Blighty" curse because the bullet did not
+go deeper, or the bit of shrapnel did not touch the bone.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+It is a wonderful moment for the "Tommies" when they reach their
+convalescent hospital in England. Less than a week ago many of them were
+stamping up and down in a slushy trench wondering "why the 'ell there's
+a bloomin' war on at all." Less than a week ago many of them never
+thought to see England again, and now they are being driven up to the
+old Elizabethan mansion that is to be their hospital.
+
+As the ambulance draws up outside the porch, the men can see, where the
+hostess used to welcome her guests of old, the matron waiting with the
+medical officer to welcome them in. One by one they are brought into the
+oak-panelled hall, and a nurse stoops over them to read their names,
+regiments, and complaints off the little labels that are fastened to
+their tunic buttons. As they await their turns, they snuff the air and
+sigh happily, they talk, and wink, and smile at the great carved
+ceiling, and forget all they have gone through in the joy of that
+splendid moment.
+
+Away in one of the wards a gramophone is playing "Mother Machree," and
+the little nurse, who hums the tune to herself as she leans over each
+man to see his label, sees a tear crawling through the grey stubble on
+one's cheek. He is old and Irish, and had not hoped to hear Irish tunes
+and to see fair women again. But he is ashamed of his emotion, and he
+tells a little lie. "Sure, an' it's rainin' outside, nurse," he says.
+
+And the nurse, who knows the difference between a raindrop and a
+tear--for was she not standing on the step five minutes ago, admiring
+the stars and the moon?--knows her part well, and plays it. "I thought I
+heard the rain dripping down on the porch just now," she says, "I hope
+you poor men did not get wet," and she goes on to her next patient.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+How they love those days in hospital! How the great rough men love to be
+treated like babies, to be petted and scolded, ordered about and
+praised! How grand it is to see the flowers, to feel one's strength
+returning, to go for drives and walks, to find a field that is not
+pitted by shell holes! And how cheerful they all are, these grown-up
+babies!
+
+The other day I opened the door of the hospital and discovered a
+"convoy" consisting of three legless and two armless men, trying to help
+each other up the six low steps, and shouting with laughter at their
+efforts. And one of them saw the pity on my face, for he grinned.
+
+"Don't you worry about us," he said. "I wouldn't care if I 'ad no arms
+nor eyes nor legs, so long as I was 'ome in Blighty again. Why"--and his
+voice dropped as he let me into the secret--"I've 'ad a li'l boy born
+since I went out to the front, an' I never even seed the li'l beggar
+yet. Gawd, we in 'orspital is the lucky ones, an' any bloke what ain't
+killed ought to be 'appy and bright like what we is."
+
+And it is the happiness of all these men that makes hospital a very
+beautiful place, for nowhere can you find more courage and cheerfulness
+than among these fellows with their crutches and their bandages.
+
+There was only one man--Bill Stevens--who seemed despondent and
+miserable, and we scarcely wondered--he was blind, and lay in bed day
+after day, with a bandage round his head, the only blind man in the
+hospital. He was silent and morbid, and would scarcely mutter a word of
+thanks when some man came right across the ward on his crutches to do
+him a trifling service, but he had begged to be allowed to stay in the
+big ward until the time came for him to go off to a special hostel for
+the men who have lost their sight. And the men who saw him groping about
+helplessly in broad daylight forgave him his surliness, and ceased to
+wonder at his despondency.
+
+But even Bill Stevens was to change, for there came a day when he
+received a letter.
+
+"What's the postmark?" he demanded.
+
+"Oxford," said the nurse. "Shall I read it to you?"
+
+But Bill Stevens clutched his letter tight and shook his head, and it
+was not until lunch-time that anything more was heard of it. Then he
+called the Sister to him, and she read the precious document almost in
+a whisper, so secret was it. Private Bill Stevens plucked nervously at
+the bedclothes as the Sister recited the little love sentences:--How was
+dear Bill? Why hadn't he told his Emily what was wrong with him? That
+she, Emily, would come to see him at four o'clock that afternoon, and
+how nice it would be.
+
+"Now you keep quiet and don't worry," said the Sister, "or you'll be too
+ill to see her. Why, I declare that you're quite feverish. What have you
+got to worry about?"
+
+"You see, it's like this 'ere," confided Bill Stevens. "I ain't dared to
+tell 'er as 'ow I was blind, and it ain't fair to ask 'er to marry a
+bloke what's 'elpless. She only thinks I've got it slightly, and she
+won't care for me any more now."
+
+"You needn't be frightened," said the Sister. "If she's worth anything
+at all, she'll love you all the more now." And she tucked him up and
+told him to go to sleep.
+
+Then, when Emily arrived, the Sister met her, and broke the news. "You
+love him, don't you?" she asked, and Emily blushed, and smiled assent
+through her tears.
+
+"Then," said the Sister, "do your best to cheer him up. Don't let him
+think you're distressed at his blindness," and she took the girl along
+to the ward where Bill Stevens lay waiting, restless and feverish.
+
+"Bill darling," said Emily. "It's me. How are you? Why have you got
+that bandage on?" But long before poor Bill could find words to break
+the news to her she stooped over him and whispered: "Bill dear, I could
+almost wish you were blind, so that you'd have to depend on me, like. If
+it wasn't for your own pain, I'd wish you was blind, I would really."
+
+For a long time Bill stuttered and fumbled for words, for his joy was
+too great. "I am blind, Em'ly," he murmured at last.
+
+And the whole ward looked the other way as Emily kissed away his fears.
+As for Bill Stevens, he sang and laughed and talked so much that evening
+that the Matron had to come down to stop him.
+
+For, as my legless friend remarked, "We in 'orspital is the lucky ones,
+an' any bloke what ain't killed ought to be 'appy and bright like we
+is."
+
+
+
+
+II
+
+A RECIPE FOR GENERALS
+
+
+Everyone is always anxious to get on the right side of his General; I
+have chanced upon a recipe which I believe to be infallible for anyone
+who wears spurs, and who can, somehow or other, get himself in the
+presence of that venerated gentleman.
+
+I sat one day in a trench outside my dug-out, eating a stew made of
+bully beef, ration biscuits, and foul water. Inside my dug-out, the
+smell of buried men was not conducive to a good appetite; outside, some
+horrible Hun was amusing himself by firing at the sandbag just above me,
+and sending showers of earth down my neck and into my food. It is an
+aggravating fact that the German always makes himself particularly
+objectionable about lunch-time, and that, whenever you go in the trench,
+his bullets seem to follow you--an unerring instinct brings them towards
+food. A larger piece of earth than usual in my stew routed the last
+vestige of my good-humour. Prudence warning me of the futility of
+losing my temper with a Hun seventy yards away, I called loudly for my
+servant.
+
+"Jones," I said, when he came up, "take away this stuff. It's as bad as
+a gas attack. I'm fed up with it. I'm fed up with Maconochie, I'm fed up
+with the so-called 'fresh' meat that sometimes makes its appearance. Try
+to get hold of something new; give me a jugged hare, or a pheasant, or
+something of that kind."
+
+"Yessir," said Jones, and he hurried off round the traverse to finish my
+stew himself.
+
+It never does to speak without first weighing one's words. This is an
+old maxim--I can remember something about it in one of my first
+copy-books; but, like most other maxims, it is never learnt in real
+life. My thoughtless allusion to "jugged hare" set my servant's brain
+working, for hares and rabbits have, before now, been caught behind the
+firing line. The primary difficulty, that of getting to the country
+haunted by these animals, was easily solved, for, though an officer
+ought not to allow a man to leave a trench without a very important
+reason, the thought of new potatoes at a ruined farm some way back, or
+cherries in the orchard, generally seems a sufficiently important reason
+to send one's servant back on an errand of pillage. Thus it was that,
+unknown to me, my servant spent part of the next three days big-game
+hunting behind the firing line.
+
+My first intimation of trouble came to me the day after we had gone back
+to billets for a rest, when an orderly brought me a message from Brigade
+Headquarters. It ran as follows:--
+
+   "Lieut. Newcombe is to report at Brigade Headquarters this afternoon
+   at 2 p.m. to furnish facts with reference to his servant, No. 6789,
+   Pte. Jones W., who, on the 7th inst., discharged a rifle behind the
+   firing line, to the great personal danger of the Brigadier, Pte.
+   Jones's Company being at the time in the trenches.
+
+     "(_Signed_) G. MACKINNON,
+     "_Brigade Major_."
+
+"Jones," I cried, "come and explain this to me," and I read him the
+incriminating document.
+
+My servant's English always suffers when he is nervous.
+
+"Well, sir," he began, "it 'appened like this 'ere. After what you said
+the other day abaht bully beef, I went orf ter try ter git a rebbit or
+an 'are. I seen sev'ral, sir, but I never 'it one nor wired one. Then,
+on Friday, jest as I was shootin' at an 'ole 'are what I see, up kime an
+orficer, one o' thim Staff gints. 'Who are you?' 'e asks. I told 'im as
+I was a servant, and was jest tryin' ter git an 'are fer my
+bloke--beggin' yer pardon, sir, I mean my orficer. Then, after a lot
+more talk, 'e says, 'Do yer know that yer gone and nearly 'it the
+Gen'ril?' That's all as I knows abaht it, sir. I never wanted ter 'it no
+Gen'ril."
+
+"All this, and not even a rabbit!" I sighed. "It's a serious business,
+and you ought to have known better than to go letting off ammunition
+behind the firing line. However, I'll see what can be done," and my
+servant went away, rather crestfallen, to drown his sorrows in a glass
+of very mild, very unpleasant Belgian beer.
+
+An hour or two later, I strolled across to a neighbouring billet to see
+a friend, and to tell him of my coming interview.
+
+"You'll get hell," was his only comfort. Then, as an afterthought, he
+said, "You'd better wear my spurs; they'll help to impress him. A clink
+of spurs will make even your salute seem smart."
+
+Thus it was that I, who am no horseman, rode over to Brigade
+Headquarters, a mile away, with my toes turned in, and a pair of bright
+and shining spurs turned away as far as possible from my horse's flanks.
+
+Unhappy and ill at ease, I was shown into the General's room.
+
+"Mr. Newcombe," he began, after a preliminary glance at a paper in front
+of him, "this is a very serious matter. It is a serious offence on the
+part of Private Jones, who, I understand, is your servant."
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"It is also an example of gross carelessness on your part."
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"I was returning from the trenches on your right on Friday last, when a
+bullet flew past my head, coming from the direction opposed to the
+Germans. I have a strong objection to being shot at by my own men, right
+behind the fire trenches, so I sent Captain Neville to find out who had
+fired, and he found your servant."
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"Well, can you give any explanation of this extraordinary event?"
+
+I explained to the best of my ability.
+
+"It is a very unusual case," said the General, when I had finished. "I
+do not wish to pursue the matter further, as you are obviously the real
+person to blame."
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"I am very dissatisfied about it, and you must please see that better
+discipline is kept. I do not like to proceed against officers under my
+command, so the matter drops here. You must reprimand your servant very
+severely, and, I repeat, I am very dissatisfied. You may go, Mr."--here
+another glance at the paper before him--"Newcombe. Good afternoon."
+
+I brought my heels together for a very smart salute ... and locked my
+spurs! For some seconds I stood swaying helplessly in front of him, then
+I toppled forward, and, supporting myself with both hands upon his
+table, I at length managed to separate my feet. When I ventured to look
+at him again to apologise, I saw that his frown had gone, and his mouth
+was twitching in a strong inclination to laugh.
+
+"You are not, I take it, Mr. Newcombe, quite accustomed to wearing
+spurs?" he said presently.
+
+I blushed horribly, and, in my confusion, blurted out my reason for
+putting them on. This time he laughed unrestrainedly. "Well, you have
+certainly impressed me with them." Then, just as I was preparing to go,
+he said, "Will you have a glass of whisky, Newcombe, before you go?
+Neville," he called to the Staff Captain in the next room, "you might
+ask Andrews to bring the whisky and some glasses."
+
+"Good afternoon," said the General, very affably, when, after a careful
+salute, I finally took my leave.
+
+Let anyone who will try this recipe for making friends with a General. I
+do not venture to guarantee its infallibility, however, for that depends
+entirely on the General himself, and, to such, rules and instruction do
+not apply.
+
+
+
+
+III
+
+"MUD!"
+
+
+Those at home in England, with their experience of war books and
+photographs, of Zeppelin raids and crowded hospitals, are beginning to
+imagine they know all there is to know about war. The truth is that they
+still have but little idea of the life in the trenches, and, as far as
+mud is concerned, they are delightfully ignorant. They do not know what
+mud is.
+
+They have read of Napoleon's "Fourth Element," they have listened to
+long descriptions of mud in Flanders and France, they have raised
+incredulous eyebrows at tales of men being drowned in the trenches, they
+have given a fleeting thought of pity for the soldiers "out there" as
+they have slushed home through the streets on rainy nights; but they
+have never realised what mud means, for no photograph can tell its slimy
+depth, and even the pen of a Zola or a Victor Hugo could give no
+adequate idea of it.
+
+And so, till the end of the war, the old story will be continued--while
+the soldier flounders and staggers about in that awful, sucking swamp,
+the pessimist at home will lean back in his arm-chair and wonder, as he
+watches the smoke from his cigar wind up towards the ceiling, why we do
+not advance at the rate of one mile an hour, why we are not in Berlin,
+and whether our army is any good at all. If such a man would know why we
+are not in German territory, let him walk, on a dark night, through the
+village duck-pond, and then sleep in his wet clothes in the middle of
+the farmyard. He would still be ignorant of mud and wet, but he would
+cease to wonder and grumble.
+
+It is the infantryman who suffers most, for he has to live, eat, sleep,
+and work in the mud. The plain of dragging slime that stretches from
+Switzerland to the sea is far worse to face than the fire of machine
+guns or the great black trench-mortar bombs that come twisting down
+through the air. It is more terrible than the frost and the rain--you
+cannot even stamp your feet to drive away the insidious chill that mud
+always brings. Nothing can keep it from your hands and face and clothes;
+there is no taking off your boots to dry in the trenches--you must lie
+down just as you are, and often you are lucky if you have two empty
+sandbags under you to save you from the cold embrace of the swamp.
+
+But if the mud stretch is desolate by day, it is shocking by night.
+Imagine a battalion going up to the trenches to relieve another
+regiment. The rain comes beating pitilessly down on the long trail of
+men who stumble along in the blackness over the _pave_. They are all
+well loaded, for besides his pack, rifle, and equipment, each man
+carries a pick or a bag of rations or a bundle of firewood. At every
+moment comes down the line the cry to "keep to the right," and the whole
+column stumbles off the _pave_ into the deep mud by the roadside to
+allow the passage of an ambulance or a transport waggon. There is no
+smoking, for they are too close to the enemy, and there is the thought
+of six days and six nights of watchfulness and wetness in the trenches.
+
+Presently the winding line strikes off the road across the mud. This is
+not mud such as we know it in England--it is incredibly slippery and
+impossibly tenacious, and each dragging footstep calls for a tremendous
+effort. The men straggle, or close up together so that they have hardly
+the room to move; they slip, and knock into each other, and curse; they
+are hindered by little ditches, and by telephone wires that run, now a
+few inches, now four or five feet from the ground. One man trips over an
+old haversack that is lying in his path--God alone knows how many
+haversacks and how many sets of equipment have been swallowed up by the
+mud on the plain of Flanders, part of the equipment of the wounded that
+has been thrown aside to lighten the burden--and when he scrambles to
+his feet again he is a mass of mud, his rifle barrel is choked with it,
+it is in his hair, down his neck, everywhere. He staggers on, thankful
+only that he did not fall into a shell hole, when matters would have
+been much worse.
+
+Just when the men are waiting in the open for the leading platoon to
+file down into the communication trench, a German star shell goes up,
+and a machine gun opens fire a little farther down the line. As the
+flare sinks down behind the British trench it lights up the white faces
+of the men, all crouching down in the swamp, while the bullets swish by,
+"like a lot of bloomin' swallers," above their heads.
+
+And now comes the odd quarter of a mile of communication trench. It is
+very narrow, for the enemy can enfilade it, and it is paved with
+brushwood and broken bricks, and a little drain, that is meant to keep
+the floor dry, runs along one side of it. In one place a man steps off
+the brushwood into the drain, and he falls headlong. The others behind
+have no time to stop themselves, and a grotesque pile of men heaps
+itself up in the narrow, black trench. One man laughing, the rest
+swearing, they pick themselves up again, and tramp on to the firing
+line.
+
+Here the mud is even worse than on the plain they have crossed. All the
+engineers and all the trench pumps in the world will not keep a trench
+decently dry when it rains for nine hours in ten and when the trench is
+the lowest bit of country for miles around. The men can do nothing but
+"carry on"--the parapet must be kept in repair whatever the weather; the
+sandbags must be filled however wet and sticky the earth. The mud may
+nearly drag a man's boot off at his every step--indeed, it often does;
+but the man must go on digging, shovelling, lining the trench with tins,
+logs, bricks, and planks in the hope that one day he may have put enough
+flooring into the trench to reach solid ground beneath the mud.
+
+All this, of course, is only the infantryman's idea of things. From a
+tactical point of view mud has a far greater importance--it is the most
+relentless enemy that an army can be called upon to face. Even without
+mud and without Germans it would be a very difficult task to feed and
+look after a million men on the move; with these two discomforts
+movement becomes almost impossible.
+
+It is only after you have seen a battery of field artillery on the move
+in winter that you can realise at all the enormous importance of good
+weather when an advance is to be made. You must watch the horses
+labouring and plunging in mud that reaches nearly to their girths; you
+must see the sweating, half-naked men striving, with outstanding veins,
+to force the wheels round; you must hear the sucking cry of the mud
+when it slackens its grip; and you must remember that this is only a
+battery of light guns that is being moved.
+
+It is mud, then, that is the great enemy. It is the mud, then, and not
+faulty organisation or German prowess that you must blame if we do not
+advance as fast as you would like. Even if we were not to advance
+another yard in another year, people in England should not be
+disheartened. "Out there" we are facing one of the worst of foes. If we
+do not advance, or if we advance too slowly, remember that it is mud
+that is the cause--not the German guns.
+
+
+
+
+IV
+
+THE SURPRISE ATTACK
+
+
+"Do you really feel quite fit for active service again?" asked the
+President of the Medical Board.
+
+It was not without reason that Roger Dymond hesitated before he gave his
+answer, for nerves are difficult things to deal with. It is surprising,
+but it is true, that you never find a man who is afraid the first time
+he goes under fire. There are thousands who are frightened
+beforehand--frightened that they will "funk it" when the time comes, but
+when they see men who have been out for months "ducking" as each shell
+passes overhead they begin to think what brave fellows they are, and
+they wonder what fear is. But after they have been in the trenches for
+weeks, when they realise what a shell can do, their nerve begins to go;
+they start when they hear a rifle fired, and they crouch down close to
+the ground at the whistle of a passing shell.
+
+Thus had it been with Roger Dymond. At the beginning of the war he had
+enjoyed himself--if anyone could enjoy that awful retreat and awful
+advance. He had been one of the first officers to receive the Military
+Cross, for brilliant work by the canal at Givenchy; he had laughed and
+joked as he lay all day in the open and listened to the bullets that
+went "pht" against the few clods of earth he had erected with his
+entrenching tool, and which went by the high-sounding name of "head
+cover."
+
+And then, one day a howitzer shell had landed in the dug-out where he
+was lunching with his three particular friends. When the men of his
+company cleared the sandbags away from him, he was a gibbering wreck,
+unwounded but paralysed, and splashed with the blood of three dead men.
+
+Now, after months of battle dreams and mad terror, of massage and
+electrical treatment, he was faced with the question--"Do you feel quite
+fit for active service again?"
+
+He was tired to death of staying at home with no apparent complaint, he
+was sick of light duty with his reserve battalion, he wanted to be out
+at the front again with the men and officers he knew ... and yet,
+supposing his nerve went again, supposing he lost his self-control....
+
+Finally, however, he looked up. "Yes, sir," he said, "I feel fit for
+anything now--quite fit."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Three months later the Medical Officer sat talking to the C.O. in the
+Headquarter dug-out.
+
+"As for old Dymond," he said, "he ought never to have been sent out here
+again. He's done his bit already, and they ought to have given him a
+'cushy' job at home, instead of one of those young staff blighters"--for
+the M.O. was no respecter of persons, and even a "brass hat" failed to
+awe him.
+
+"Can't you send him down the line?" said the C.O. "This is no place for
+a man with neurasthenia. God! did you see the way his hand shook when he
+was in here just now?"
+
+"And he's a total abstainer now, poor devil," sighed the Doctor with
+pity, for he was, himself, fond of his drop of whisky. "I'll send him
+down to the dressing station to-morrow with a note telling the R.A.M.C.
+people there that he wants a thorough change."
+
+"Good," said the C.O. "I'm very sorry he's got to go, for he's a jolly
+good officer. However, it can't be helped. Have another drink, Doc."
+
+It is bad policy to refuse the offer of a senior officer, and the M.O.
+was a man with a thirst, so he helped himself with liberality. Before
+he had raised the glass to his lips, the sudden roar of many bursting
+shells caused him to jump to his feet. "Hell!" he growled. "Another
+hate. More dirty work at the cross roads." And he hurried off to the
+little dug-out that served him as a dressing station, his beloved drink
+standing untouched on the table.
+
+Meanwhile, Roger Dymond crouched up against the parapet, and listened to
+the explosions all around him. "Oil cans" and "Minnewerfer" bombs came
+hurtling through the air, "Crumps" burst with great clouds of black
+smoke, bits of "Whizz-bangs" went buzzing past and buried themselves
+deep in the ground. Roger Dymond tried to light his cigarette, but his
+hand shook so that he could hardly hold the match, and he threw it away
+in fear that the men would see how he trembled.
+
+Thousands of people have tried to describe the noise of a shell, but no
+man can know what it is like unless he can put himself into a trench to
+hear the original thing. There is the metallic roar of waves breaking
+just before the rain, there is the whistle of wind through the trees,
+there is the rumble of a huge traction engine, and there is the sharp
+back-fire of a motor car. With each different sinister noise, Roger
+Dymond felt his hold over himself gradually going ... going....
+
+Next to him in the trench crouched Newman, a soldier who had been in
+his platoon in the old days when they tramped, sweating and half-dead,
+along the broiling roads towards Paris.
+
+"They'm a blasted lot too free with their iron crosses and other
+souvenirs," growled that excellent fellow. "I'd rather be fighting them
+'and to 'and like we did in that there churchyard near Le Cateau,
+wouldn't you, sir?"
+
+Dymond smiled sickly assent, and Newman, being an old soldier, knew what
+was the matter with his captain. He watched him as, bit by bit, his
+nerve gave way, but he dared not suggest that Dymond should "go sick,"
+and he did the only thing that could be done under the circumstances--he
+talked as he had never talked before.
+
+"Gawd!" he said after a long monologue that was meant to bring
+distraction from the noise of the inferno. "I wish as 'ow we was a bit
+closer to the devils so that they couldn't shell us. I'd like to get me
+'and round some blighter's ugly neck, too."
+
+A second later a trench-mortar bomb came hurtling down through the air,
+and fell on the parados near the two men. There was a pause, then an
+awful explosion, which hurled Dymond to the ground, and, as he fell,
+Newman's words seemed to run through his head: "I wish as 'ow we was a
+bit closer to the devils so that they couldn't shell us." He was aware
+of a moment's acute terror, then something in his brain seemed to snap
+and everything that followed was vague, for Captain Roger Dymond went
+mad.
+
+He remembered clambering out of the trench to get so close to the Huns
+that they could not shell him; he remembered running--everybody running,
+his own men running with him, and the Germans running from him; he had a
+vague recollection of making his way down a long bit of strange trench,
+brandishing an entrenching tool that he had picked up somewhere; then
+there was a great flash and an awful pain, and all was over--the
+shelling was over at last.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+It was not until Roger Dymond was in hospital in London that he worried
+about things again. One evening, however, the Sister brought in a paper,
+and pointed out his own name in a list of nine others who had won the
+V.C. He read the little paragraph underneath in the deepest
+astonishment.
+
+   "For conspicuous gallantry," it ran, "under very heavy shell fire on
+   August 26th, 1916. Seeing that his men were becoming demoralised by
+   the bombardment, Captain Dymond, on his own initiative, led a
+   surprise attack against the enemy trenches. He found the Germans
+   unprepared, and at the head of his men captured two lines of trenches
+   along a front of two hundred and fifty yards. Captain Dymond lost
+   both legs owing to shell fire, but his men were able to make good
+   almost all their ground and to hold it against all counter-attacks.
+
+   "This officer was awarded the Military Cross earlier in the war for
+   great bravery near La Bassee."
+
+He finished the amazing article, and wrote a letter, in a wavering hand
+that he could not recognise as his own, to the War Office to tell them
+of their mistake--that he was really running away from the enemy's
+shells--and received a reply visit from a general.
+
+"My dear fellow," he said, "the V.C. is never awarded to a man who has
+not deserved it. The only pity is that so many fellows deserve it and
+don't get it. You deserved it and got it. Stick to it, and think
+yourself damned lucky to be alive to wear it. There's nothing more to be
+said."
+
+And this is the story of Captain Roger Dymond, V.C., M.C. Of the few of
+us who were there at the time, there is not one who would grudge him the
+right to put those most coveted letters of all after his name, for we
+were all in the shelling ourselves, and we all saw him charge, and
+heard him shout and laugh as he made his way across to the enemy. The
+V.C., as the general said, is never given to a man who has not deserved
+it.
+
+
+
+
+V
+
+"PONGO" SIMPSON ON BOMBS
+
+
+"Pongo" Simpson was sitting before a brazier fire boiling some tea for
+his captain, when the warning click sounded from the German trenches.
+Instinctively he clapped the cover on the canteen and dived for shelter,
+while the great, black trench-mortar bomb came twisting and turning down
+through the air. It fell to ground with a dull thud, there was a
+second's silence, then an appalling explosion. The roof of the dug-out
+in which "Pongo" had found refuge sagged ominously, the supporting beam
+cracked, and the heavy layer of earth and bricks and branches subsided
+on the crouching man.
+
+It took five minutes to dig him out, and he was near to suffocation when
+they dragged him into the trench. For a moment he looked wonderingly
+about him, and then a smile came to his face. "That's what I likes about
+this 'ere life, there ain't no need to get bored. No need for pictcher
+shows or pubs, there's amusements for you for nothing." And as he got to
+his feet, a scowl replaced the smile. "I bet I knows the blighter what
+sent that there bomb," he growled. "I guess it's old Fritz what used to
+'ang out in that old shop in Walworth Road--'im what I palmed off a bad
+'arf-crown on. 'E always said as 'ow 'e'd get 'is own back."
+
+Five minutes later he had exchanged the battered wreck of his canteen
+for a new one belonging to Private Adams, who was asleep farther down
+the trench, and had set to boiling a fresh lot of tea for his captain.
+
+"Darned funny things, bombs and things like that," he began presently.
+"You can't trust them no'ow. Look at ole Sergeant Allen f'r example. 'E
+went 'ome on leave after a year out 'ere, and 'e took an ornary time
+fuse from a shell with 'im to put on 'is mantelpiece. And the very first
+night as 'e was 'ome, the blamed thing fell down when 'e wasn't lookin',
+and bit 'im in the leg, so that 'e 'ad to spend all 'is time in
+'orspital. They're always explodin' when they didn't ought to. Did I
+ever tell you about me brother Bert?"
+
+A chorus in the negative from the other men who stood round the brazier
+encouraged him to continue.
+
+"Well, Bert was always a bit silly like, and I thought as 'ow 'e'd do
+somethin' foolish when 'e got to the front. Sure 'nough, the very first
+bloomin' night 'e went into a trench, 'e was filin' along it when 'e
+slipped and sat right on a box of bombs. It's gorspel what I'm tellin'
+you--nine of the blighters went off, and 'e wasn't killed. 'E's 'ome in
+England now in some 'orspital, and 'e's as fit as a lord. The only thing
+wrong about 'im now is that 'e's always the first bloke what stands and
+gives 'is place to a lady when a tram's full--still a bit painful like."
+
+Joe Bates expectorated with much precision and care over the parapet in
+the direction of the Germans. "It ain't bombs wot I mind," he said,
+"it's them there mines. When I first kime aht ter fight the 'Uns, I was
+up at St. Eloi, an' they blew the 'ole lot of us up one night. Gawd, it
+ain't like nothin' on earth, an' the worst of it was I'd jest 'ad a box
+of fags sent out by some ole gal in 'Blighty,' an' when I got back to
+earth agen there weren't a bloomin' fag to be found. If thet ain't
+enough to mike a bloke swear, I dunno wot is. 'As any sport 'ere got a
+fag to gi' me? I ain't 'ad a smoke fer two days," he finished, "cept a
+li'l bit of a fag as the Keptin threw away."
+
+Private Parkes hesitated for a minute, and then, seeing Joe Bates's eyes
+fixed expectantly on him, he produced a broken "Woodbine" from
+somewhere inside his cap.
+
+"Yes," resumed "Pongo," while Joe Bates was lighting his cigarette,
+"this ain't what you'd call war. I wouldn't mind goin' for ole Fritz
+with an 'ammer, but, what with 'owitzers and 'crumps,' and 'Black
+Marias,' and 'pip-squeaks' and 'whizz-bangs,' the infantry bloke ain't
+got a chanst. 'Ere 'ave I been in a bloomin' trench for six months, and
+what 'ave I used my bay'nit for? To chop wood, and to wake ole Sandy
+when 'e snores. Down the line our blokes run over and give it to the
+Alleymans like 'ell, and up 'ere we sits jest like a lot of dolls while
+they send over those darned bombs. I'll give 'em what for. I'll put it
+acrost 'em." And he disappeared round the traverse with the canteen of
+tea for his officer.
+
+Ten minutes later he turned up again with a jam tin bomb in his hand. "I
+bet I can reach their bloomin' listening post with this," he said, and
+he deliberately lit a piece of paper at the brazier fire and put it to
+the odd inch of fuse that protruded from the bomb. The average jam tin
+bomb is fused to burn for three or four seconds before it explodes, so
+that, once the fuse is lit, you do not keep the bomb near you for long,
+but send it across with your best wishes to Fritz over the way. "Pongo"
+drew his arm back to throw his bomb, and had begun the forward swing,
+when his fingers seemed to slip, and the weapon dropped down into the
+trench.
+
+There was a terrific rush, and everyone disappeared helter-skelter round
+the traverse.
+
+Just as Corporal Bateman rounded the corner into safety he glanced back,
+to see "Pongo" sprawling on his bomb in the most approved style, to
+prevent the bits from spreading. There was a long pause, during which
+the men crouched close to the parapet waiting, waiting ... but nothing
+happened.
+
+At length someone poked his head round the traverse--to discover "Pongo"
+sitting on the sandbag recently vacated by Corporal Bateman, trying to
+balance the bomb on the point of a bayonet.
+
+"'Ullo!" said that individual. "I thought as 'ow you'd gone 'ome for the
+week-end. 'E wouldn't 'urt me, not this little bloke," and he fondled
+the jam tin.
+
+"Well," said Joe Bates when, one by one, the men had crept back to the
+fire, "if that ain't a bloomin' miracle! I ain't never seen nuffin' like
+it. Ain't you 'arf 'ad an escape, Pongo?"
+
+"Pongo" rose to his feet, and edged towards the traverse. "It ain't such
+an escape as what you blokes think, because, you see, the bomb ain't
+nothin' more nor an ornary jam tin with a bit of fuse what I stuck in
+it."
+
+And he disappeared down the trench as rapidly as had his comrades a few
+minutes before.
+
+
+
+
+VI
+
+THE SCHOOLMASTER OF PONT SAVERNE
+
+I
+
+
+"So, you see, Schoolmaster," said Oberleutnant von Scheldmann, "you
+French are a race of dogs. We are the real masters here, and, by Heaven,
+we have come to make you realise it. Your beloved defenders are running
+for their lives from the nation they ventured to defy a month ago. They
+are beaten, routed. What is it they say in your Latin books? 'Vae
+Victis.' Woe to the conquered!"
+
+Gaston Baudel, schoolmaster in the little village of Pont Saverne,
+looked out of the window along the white road to Chalons-sur-Marne, four
+miles away. Between the poplar trees he could catch glimpses of it, and
+the river wound by its side, a broad ribbon of polished silver. From the
+road there rose, here and there, clouds of dust, telling of some battery
+or column on the move. The square of the little village, where he had
+lived for close on forty years, was crowded with German troops; the
+river was dirtied by hundreds of Germans, washing off the dust and
+blood; the inns echoed to German laughter and German songs, and, even as
+he looked, someone hurled a tray of glasses out of the window of the
+Lion d'Or into the street. His blood boiled with hate of the invading
+hosts that had so rudely aroused the sleepy, peaceful village, and he
+felt his self-control slipping, slipping....
+
+"Get me some food," said the German suddenly. "We have hardly had one
+decent meal since your dogs of soldiers began running. Bring food and
+wine at once, so that I may go on and help to wipe the French and
+British scum from off the earth."
+
+The insult was too much for Gaston Baudel. "May I be cursed," he
+shouted, "if I lift hand or foot to feed you and your like. I hate you
+all, for did you not kill my own father, when your soldiers overran
+France forty-four years ago! Go and find food elsewhere."
+
+Von Scheldmann laughed to himself, amused at the Frenchman's rage. He
+leant out of the window, and called to his servant and another man, who
+were seated on the doorstep outside.
+
+"Tie this fighting cock up with something," he ordered, "and go to see
+if there is anyone else in the house."
+
+An unarmed schoolmaster is no even match for two armed and burly
+Germans. Gaston Baudel kicked and struggled as he had never done
+before, but he was old and weak, his eyes were watery through much
+reading, and his arm had none of the strength of youth left in it. In a
+few seconds he lay gasping on the floor, while a German, kneeling on
+him, tied his hands behind his back with strips of his own bedsheets.
+
+"Now, you pig," said von Scheldmann when the soldiers had gone off to
+search the house, "remember that you are the conquered dog of a
+conquered race, and that my sword thirsts for French blood," and he
+added meaning to his words by drawing his weapon and pricking the
+schoolmaster's thin legs with it. "If I don't get food in a few minutes,
+I shall have to run this through your body."
+
+Gaston Baudel had heard too much of war to put any trust in what we call
+"civilisation," which is, at best, merely a cloak that hides the savage
+beneath. He knew that the command to kill and pillage was more than
+enough to bring forth all the latent passions which man has tried to
+conceal since the days when he first clothed himself in skins; that it
+was no idle threat on the part of the German officer. He lay, then, in
+silence, on the floor of his own schoolroom, until the two soldiers
+returned, dragging between them the terrified Rosine, his old
+housekeeper.
+
+"Are you the schoolmaster's servant?" asked von Scheldmann, in French.
+
+Rosine nodded, for no words would come to her.
+
+"Well, bring me the best food and wine in the house at once, or your
+master will suffer for it."
+
+Rosine glanced at Gaston Baudel, who nodded to her as well as his
+position would allow him to. With tears in her eyes, the old servant
+hurried off to her kitchen to prepare the meal.
+
+"Tie the schoolmaster down to that chair," ordered the German officer,
+"and place him opposite me, so that he may see how much his guest enjoys
+his lunch."
+
+Thus they sat, the host and the guest, face to face across the little
+deal table near the window. The sun shone down on the clean cloth and
+the blood-coloured wine, and on the schoolmaster's grey hair. In the
+shade cast by the apple tree outside, sat the German, now drinking, now
+glancing mockingly at his unwilling host. The meal was interrupted by an
+orderly, who came in with a note.
+
+Von Scheldmann read it, and swore. "In five minutes we parade," he said,
+"to follow on after your cowardly dogs of _poilus_. Here's a health to
+the new rulers of France! Here's to the German Empire!" and he leant
+across the table towards the schoolmaster. "Drink, you dog," he said,
+"drink to my toast," and he held his glass close to the other's lips.
+
+Gaston Baudel hesitated for a moment. Then he suddenly jerked his head
+forward, and, with his chin, knocked the glass out of the German's hand.
+As the wine splashed over the floor, von Scheldmann leaped to his feet.
+
+"Swine!" he shouted. "It is lucky for you that your wine was good and
+has left me in a kind mood, otherwise you would certainly die for that
+insult. As it is, you shall but lose your ears, and I shall benefit the
+world by cutting them off. If you move an inch I shall have to run my
+sword through your heart."
+
+He lifted his sword, and brought it down twice. Then he called to his
+servant and hastened out into the sunlit street, leaving Gaston Baudel
+tied to his chair, with the warm blood running down each side of his
+face.
+
+
+II
+
+Six days later, shortly before the middle of September, an unwonted
+noise in the street brought the old schoolmaster from his breakfast. He
+walked down the little flagged path of the garden to the gate, and
+looked up and down the road. By the green, in the square, a group of
+villagers were talking and gesticulating, and from the direction of
+Ecury came the deep rumble of traffic and the sound of heavy firing.
+
+The schoolmaster called to one of the peasants. "He, Jeanne," he cried.
+"What is the news?"
+
+"The Boches are coming back, M. Baudel," said Jeanne Legrand. "They are
+fleeing from our troops, and will be passing through here, many of them.
+Pray God they may be in too much of a hurry to stop!" And her face grew
+anxious and frightened.
+
+Old Gaston Baudel stepped out of his garden, and joined the group in the
+square. "Courage, mes amies," he said. "Even if they do stay awhile,
+even if our homes are shelled, what does it matter? France is winning,
+and driving the Germans back. That at any rate, is good news."
+
+"All the same," said fat Madame Roland, landlady of the Lion d'Or, "if
+they break any more of my glasses, I shall want to break my last bottle
+of wine over their dirty heads." And she went off to hide what remained
+of her liqueurs and champagne under the sacking in the cellar.
+
+"Let us all go back to our homes," counselled Gaston Baudel, "to hide
+anything of value. Even I, with this bandage round my head, can hear how
+swiftly they are retiring. There will, alas! be no school to-day. May
+our brave soldiers drive the devils from off our fair land of France."
+
+Even as he spoke, the first transport waggons came tearing down the
+road, and swung northward over the river. Away in the morning haze, the
+infantry could be seen--dark masses stumbling along the white
+road--till a convoy of motor lorries hid them from view.
+
+Gaston Baudel sat down in his stone-paved schoolroom to await the
+passing of the Germans, and to correct the tasks of his little pupils.
+He had given them a _devoir de style_ to write on the glory of France,
+and, as he read the childish, ill-spelt prophecies of his country's
+greatness, he laughed, for the Germans were in retreat, the worst of the
+anxiety was over, and Paris was saved. And, hour by hour, he listened to
+the rumble of cannon, the rattle of transport waggons and ambulances,
+and the heavy tramp of tired-out soldiers on the dusty road.
+
+Suddenly he heard the clank of boots coming up his little garden path,
+and a large figure loomed in the doorway. A German officer, covered with
+dirt, entered the room, and threw himself down in a chair.
+
+"You still here, earless dog?" he said, and the schoolmaster recognised
+his tormentor of a week ago. "Give me something to take with me, and at
+once. I have no time to stop, but I shall certainly kill you this time
+if you don't bring me food, and more of that red wine."
+
+Gaston Baudel glanced towards the drawer where he kept his
+revolver--though he would have never used it against any number of
+burglars--but a sudden idea came to him, and he checked his movement.
+With a few muttered words, he hastened off to the kitchen to get food
+for the German.
+
+"Rosine," he said, "cut a sandwich for that German dog, and then run
+into my room and fetch the black sealing wax from my desk."
+
+When she had gone off to obey him, Gaston Baudel opened a bottle of red
+wine and poured a little away. Then, fetching a small glass-stoppered
+bottle from his room, he emptied the contents--pure morphia--into the
+wine and recorked the bottle.
+
+"So much," he said to himself, "for the doctor and his drugs. He may
+have told me how much to dilute it to deaden the pain of my ears, but he
+gave me no instructions about dosing Germans. They have strong stomachs;
+let them have strong drink."
+
+But as he sealed the cork and mouth of the bottle, to allay any
+suspicions the German might have, a thought came to him. Was he not
+committing murder? Was he not taking away God's gift of life from a
+fellow creature? Unconsciously he touched the bandage that covered his
+mutilated ears. Surely, though, it could not be wrong to kill one of
+these hated oppressors? Should not an enemy of France be destroyed at
+any cost?
+
+As he hesitated, the impatient voice of von Scheldmann sounded from the
+schoolroom. "You swine!" he shouted, "are you bringing me food, or must
+I come and fetch it?"
+
+The schoolmaster seized a scrap of paper, and scribbled a few words on
+it. Then, slipping it between the cheese and bread of the sandwich, he
+made a little packet of the food, and hastened from the room. God, or
+Fate, must decide.
+
+He handed the food and wine to the German, and watched him as he tramped
+down the garden path, to join in the unending stream of grey-coated
+soldiers who straggled towards the north.
+
+
+III
+
+Oberleutnant von Scheldmann sat on a bank by the roadside, to lunch in
+haste. Behind him, parallel to him, in front of him, went the German
+army; and the thunder of the guns, down by the Marne, told of the
+rearguard fight. As they tramped past, the soldiers gazed enviously at
+the bread and cheese and wine, for the country was clear of food, and,
+even had it not been, the rapid advance and rapid retreat left but
+little time for plundering.
+
+Von Scheldmann knocked the top off the wine bottle with a blow from a
+stone, and, with care to avoid the sharp edges of the glass, he drank
+long and deep. As he bit greedily into the sandwich, his teeth met on
+something thin and tenuous, and he pulled the two bits of bread apart.
+Inside was a scrap of paper. With a curse, he was about to throw the
+paper away, when some pencilled words caught his eye.
+
+"I leave it to God," he read, "to decide whether you live or die. If you
+have not drunk any wine, do not, for it is poisoned. If you have, you
+are lost, and nothing can save you. The victorious French will find your
+corpse, and will rejoice. Vae victis! Woe to the conquered!"
+
+And even as he read the hurriedly written words, von Scheldmann felt the
+first awful sense of numbness that presaged the end.
+
+
+
+
+VII
+
+THE ODD JOBS
+
+
+We sat in a railway carriage and told each other, as civilians love to
+do, what was the quickest way to end the war. "You ought to be able to
+hold nearly 400 yards of trench with a company," my friend was saying.
+"You see, a company nowadays gives you 250 fighting men to man the
+trenches."
+
+And then the muddy figure in the corner, the only other occupant of the
+carriage, woke up. "You don't know what you're talking about," he
+snorted as he tossed his cap up on to the rack, and put his feet on the
+opposite seat.
+
+"You don't know what you're talking about," he repeated. "You're lucky
+if your company can produce more than 150 men to man the trenches; you
+forget altogether about the odd jobs. Take the company I'm in at the
+front, for instance. Do you imagine we've got 250 men to man the
+trenches? First of all there are always men being hit and going sick, or
+men who are sent off to guard lines of communication, and their places
+aren't filled up by fresh drafts for weeks. As for the odd jobs, there's
+no end to them. My own particular pal is a telephone orderly--he sits
+all day in a dug-out and wakes up at stated hours to telephone 'No
+change in the situation' to battalion headquarters. It's true that he
+does jolly good work when the Huns 'strafe' his wire and he has to go
+out and mend it, but he doesn't go forward in an attack; he sits in his
+dug-out and telephones like blazes for reinforcements while the Germans
+pepper his roof for him with 'whizz-bangs.'
+
+"Then there's old Joe White, the man like a walrus, who left us months
+ago to go and guard divisional headquarters; there are five officers'
+servants who are far too busy to man a trench; there is a post corporal,
+who goes down to meet the transport every night to fetch the company's
+letters, and who generally brings up a sack of bread by mistake or drops
+the parcels into shell holes that are full of water; there's a black,
+greasy fellow who calls himself a cook, and who looks after a big 'tank'
+called a 'cooker,' from which he extracts oily tea, and meat covered
+with tea-leaves. Besides all these fellows there are sixteen sanitary
+men who wander about with tins of chloride of lime and keep the trench
+clean--they don't man the trenches; then there are three battalion
+orderlies, who run about with messages from headquarters and who wake
+the captain up, as soon as he gets to sleep, to ask him to state in
+writing how much cheese was issued to his men yesterday or why Private X
+has not had his hair cut.
+
+"Do you imagine this finishes the list? Not a bit of it. There are half
+a dozen machine gunners who have nothing to do with company work; half a
+dozen men and a quartermaster-sergeant attached to the transport to look
+after the horses and to flirt with girls in farms; two mess waiters
+whose job it is to feed the officers; and there are four men who have
+the rottenest time of anyone--they're the miners who burrow and dig, dig
+and burrow day and night towards the German lines; poor half-naked
+fellows who wheel little trucks of earth to the pit shaft or who lie on
+their stomachs working away with picks. And it's always an awful race to
+see if they'll blow up the Germans, or if it will be the other way
+about.
+
+"There are still more odd jobs, and new ones turn up every day. Mind
+you, I'm not grumbling, for many of these fellows work harder than we
+do, and we must have someone to feed us and to keep the place clean. But
+the difficulty is nowadays to find a man who's got time to stand in the
+trench and wait for the Hun to attack, and that's what you people don't
+seem to realise."
+
+"And what do you do?" asked my friend as the other stopped to yawn.
+
+"What do I do? What do you think I've been talking for all this time?"
+said the man in khaki. "I'm the fellow who stands in the trench and
+waits for the Hun to attack. That's a jolly long job, and I've got some
+sleep owing to me for it, too."
+
+Whereupon he stretched himself out on the seat, pillowed his head on his
+pack, and proceeded to extract noisy payment of his debt.
+
+"That rather complicates matters, doesn't it?" said my friend, when the
+muddy figure had safely reached the land of dreams. "If you've only got
+150 fighting men in a company, your division has a strength of ..." and
+he proceeded to count away on his fingers as hard as he could. Presently
+he gave it up in despair, and a brilliant idea seemed to strike him.
+
+"Those generals and staff fellows," he said, "must have a lot of brains
+after all." And we have come to the conclusion that we will not
+criticise them any more, for they must know as well as we do, if not
+still better, how to win the war.
+
+
+
+
+VIII
+
+THE "KNUT"
+
+
+We were sitting round the fire in the club, discussing that individual
+colloquially known as the "knut."
+
+"The 'knut,'" said Green, "is now virtually extinct, he is killed by
+war. As soon as he gets anywhere near a trench, he drops his cloak of
+affectation, and becomes a reasonable human being--always excepting, of
+course, certain young subalterns on the staff."
+
+Rawlinson leant forward in his chair. "I'm not sure," he said, "that I
+agree with you. It all depends upon how you define a 'knut.'"
+
+"A 'knut' is a fellow with a drawl and an eyeglass," said someone.
+
+"That just fits my man. I know of an exception to your rule. I know of a
+'knut' who did not disappear at the front."
+
+"Tell us about him," suggested Jepson.
+
+Rawlinson hesitated, and glanced round at each of us in turn. "It's not
+much of a story," he said at length, "but it stirred me up a bit at the
+time--I don't mind telling it you if you think it sufficiently
+interesting."
+
+We filled up our glasses, and lay back in our chairs to listen to the
+following tale:
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"When I was at Trinity I kept rooms just above a fellow called Jimmy
+Wynter. He wasn't a pal of mine at all, as he had far too much money to
+chuck about--one of these rich young wastrels, he was. He could drop
+more than my annual allowance on one horse, and not seem to notice it at
+all. In the end he got sent down for some rotten affair, and I was
+rather glad to see the last of him, as the row from his rooms was
+appalling. He always had an eyeglass and wonderfully cut clothes, and
+his hair was brushed back till it was as shiny as a billiard ball. I put
+him down, as did everyone else, as an out-and-out rotter, and held him
+up as an example of our decadent aristocracy.
+
+"When I went out to the front, our Regular battalion was full up, and I
+was sent to a Welsh regiment instead. The first man I met there was none
+other than this fellow Wynter, still with his eyeglass and his drawl. In
+time, one got quite accustomed to him, and he was always fairly
+amusing--which, of course, is a great thing out there--so that in the
+end I began to like him in a sort of way.
+
+"All this seems rot, but it helps to give you an idea of my man, and it
+all leads up to my story, such as it is.
+
+"We came in for that Loos show last year. After months and months of
+stagnation in the trenches, we were suddenly called to Headquarters and
+told that we were to make an attack in about two hours' time.
+
+"I don't know if any of you fellows came in for a bayonet charge when
+you were out at the Front. Frankly, I felt in a hell of a funk, for it's
+not the same thing to leave your trench and charge as it is to rush an
+enemy after you've been lying in an open field for an hour or two. The
+first hour and a half went all right, what with fusing bombs, arranging
+signals, and all that sort of thing, but the last half-hour was the very
+devil.
+
+"Most of us felt a bit jumpy, and the double rum ration went in two
+shakes. We knew that we shouldn't worry when the whistles went for the
+charge, but the waiting was rather trying. Personally I drank more neat
+brandy than I have ever done before or since, and then sat down and
+tried to write one or two letters. But it wasn't a brilliant success,
+and I soon left my dug-out and strolled along to C Company.
+
+"The idea was for A and C Companies to attack first, followed by B and
+D companies. A battalion of the Westshires was in support to us.
+
+"C Company Officer's dug-out was not a mental haven of rest. With one
+exception, everyone was a bit nervy, everyone was trying not to show it,
+and everyone was failing dismally. The exception was Jimmy Wynter. He
+was sitting on a pile of sandbags in the corner, his eyeglass in his
+eye, looking at an old copy of _La Vie Parisienne_, with evident relish.
+His hand was as steady as a rock, and he hadn't had a drop of rum or
+brandy to give him Dutch courage. While everyone else was fighting with
+excitement, Jimmy Wynter was sitting there, studying the jokes of his
+paper, as calmly as though he were sitting here in this old club. It was
+only then that it occurred to me that there was something in the fellow
+after all.
+
+"At last the time drew near for our push, and we waited, crouching under
+the parapet, listening to our artillery plunking away like blazes. At
+last the whistles blew, a lot of fellows cheered, yelled all sorts of
+idiotic things, and A and C Companies were over the parapet on the way
+to the Huns.
+
+"I am no hand at a description of a charge, but it really was wonderful
+to watch those fellows; the sight of them sent every vestige of funk
+from me, and the men could hardly wait for their turn to come. Just
+before we went, I had one clear vision of Jimmy Wynter. He was well
+ahead of his platoon, for he was over six foot and long-legged at that.
+I could see his eyeglass swinging on the end of its black cord, and in
+his hand he carried a pickaxe. Such ordinary weapons as revolvers,
+rifles, and bayonets had no apparent attraction for him.
+
+"What happened next I had no time to see, for our turn came to hop over
+the parapet, and there wasn't much time to think of other people. Allan,
+his servant, told me later all that occurred, for he was next to Jimmy
+all the time. They got to the Hun trenches and lost a lot of men on the
+wire. Away to the left the enemy had concealed a crowd of machine guns
+in one of the slag heaps, and they played awful havoc among our chaps.
+According to Allan, Jimmy chose a place where the wire had almost all
+gone, took a huge leap over the few remaining strands, and was the first
+of C Company to get into the trench.
+
+"Somehow he didn't get touched--I'll bet Allan had something to do with
+that; for he loved his master. With his pick he cracked the skull of the
+first Boche who showed signs of fight, and, losing his hold of his
+weapon, he seized the man's rifle as he fell. No wonder the poor
+blighters fled, for Jimmy Wynter must have looked like Beelzebub as he
+charged down on them. His hat had gone, and his hair stuck out from his
+head like some modern Struwwelpeter. With the rifle swinging above his
+head, he did as much to clear the trench as did the rest of the platoon
+all put together.
+
+"When we arrived on the scene the few who remained of A and C Companies
+were well on their way to the second line of trenches. Here again Jimmy
+Wynter behaved like a demon with his rifle and bayonet, and in five
+minutes' time we were in complete possession of two lines of trenches
+along a front of two hundred yards. I do not even mention the number of
+Germans that Allan swore his master had disposed of, but the name of
+Wynter will long be a by-word in the regiment. The funny part of it is
+that, up to that time, he hadn't had a single scratch. However, Fate may
+overlook a man for a short time, but he is generally remembered in the
+end. So it was with poor old Jimmy.
+
+"He was leading a party down a communicating trench, bombing the Huns
+back yard by yard, when a hand grenade landed almost at his feet. He
+jumped forward, in the hope that he would have time to throw it away
+before it went off, but it was fused too well. Just as he picked it up,
+the damned thing exploded, and Jimmy Wynter crumpled up like a piece of
+paper.
+
+"I was coming along the trench a few minutes later, seeing that our
+position was being made as secure as possible before the counter-attack
+came, when I found him. He was lying in one of the few dug-outs that had
+not been hit, and Allan and another man were doing what they could for
+him.
+
+"You could see he was very nearly done for, but, after a few seconds, he
+opened his eyes and recognised me.
+
+"'Hullo, Rawlinson,' he whispered; 'some damned fool has hit me. Hurts
+like the very devil.'
+
+"I muttered some banal words of comfort, and continued to tie him
+up--though God knows it was a pretty hopeless task. I hadn't even any
+morphia I could give him to make things better.
+
+"Suddenly he raised his arm and fumbled about in search of something.
+
+"'What do you want?' I asked.
+
+"'Where the deuce is my eyeglass?' And the drawl seemed to catch
+horribly in his throat.
+
+"I put the rim of the eyeglass into his hand; the glass itself had gone.
+
+"'Must wear the damned thing,' he murmured, and he tried to raise it to
+his face--but his hand suddenly stopped half-way and fell, and he died."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+There was silence in the club room for a minute or so, and the ticking
+of the clock was oppressively loud. Then Jepson raised his glass.
+
+"Gentlemen," he said. "Here's to the 'Knut,'" and gravely we drank to
+the toast.
+
+
+
+
+IX
+
+SHOPPING
+
+
+As the Captain sat down to breakfast, he turned to speak to me: "I
+propose ..." he began, but Lawson interrupted him. "Oh, John dear," he
+said, "this is so sudden."
+
+The Captain took no notice of the interruption. "... that you and I go
+shopping this afternoon."
+
+"Jane," I called to an imaginary maid, "please tell Parkes to bring the
+car round at eleven o'clock; we are going shopping in Bond Street, and
+lunching at the Ritz."
+
+"You all seem to think you're deucedly funny this morning," growled the
+Captain as he pushed aside a piece of cold bacon with the end of his
+knife. "The pure air of the billets seems to have gone to your heads so
+that I think a parade would suit you this afternoon."
+
+We sobered down at the threat. "No, seriously," I said, "I'd love to go
+if I can get anything to ride."
+
+"You can have the Company's pack horse. I'll order both beasts for two
+o'clock."
+
+Now the Captain's horse stands far more hands than any really
+respectable horse should, and the Captain is well over six feet in his
+socks; I, on the other hand, am nearer five feet than six, and the pack
+pony is none too big for me. Again, the Captain is thin and I am fat, so
+that even the sentry could scarcely repress his smile as we set forth on
+our quest--a modern Don Quixote, and a Sancho Panza with a hole in the
+back of his tunic.
+
+But we had little time to think of our personal appearances, for our way
+lay over the Mont Noir, and there are few places from which you can get
+a more wonderful view, for you can follow the firing line right away
+towards the sea, and your field glasses will show you the smoke rising
+from the steamers off Dunkirk. We paused a moment, and gazed over the
+level miles where Poperinghe and Dixmude and the distant Furnes lay
+sleepy and peaceful, but, even as we looked, a "heavy" burst in Ypres,
+and a long column of smoke rose languidly from the centre of the town.
+
+"We shan't do much more shopping in that old spot," said the Captain as
+he turned his horse off the road, and set forth across country to
+Bailleul.
+
+The Captain has hunted with nearly every pack of hounds in England,
+while I have hunted with none, so that I was hot and thirsty and
+uncommonly sore when we clattered into the town. Leaving the Captain to
+see the horses stabled at the Hotel du Faucon, I slipped off to get a
+drink.
+
+"Here," said the Captain when he tracked me down, "don't try that game
+on again or you'll have to take the early parade to-morrow. Besides,
+you're supposed to be Company Interpreter, and you've no right to leave
+me to the mercy of two savage grooms like that. I advise you to take
+care, young man."
+
+My qualifications for the post of Company Interpreter lie in the fact
+that I once, in company of various other youths of my age, spent a
+fortnight in and around the Casino at Trouville. Peters of our company
+knows a long list of nouns taking "x" instead of "s" in the plural, but
+my knowledge is considered more practical--more French.
+
+And now comes a confession. To retain a reputation requires a lot of
+care, and to keep my position as Company Interpreter and outdo my rival
+Peters I always carried about with me a small pocket dictionary--if
+anyone ever noticed it, he probably mistook it for a Service Bible--in
+which I searched for words when occasion offered. I had carefully
+committed to memory the French equivalents for all the articles on our
+shopping list--a pot of honey, a bottle of Benedictine, a pair of
+unmentionable garments for Lawson, and a toothbrush--so that I walked
+across the main square with a proud mien and an easy conscience.
+
+Pride, they tell us, comes before a fall. We had successfully fought our
+way through the crowds of officers and mess waiters who swarm in
+Bailleul, we had completed our purchases, we were refreshing ourselves
+in a diminutive tea shop, when the Captain suddenly slapped his thigh.
+
+"By Jove," he said, "I promised to buy a new saucepan for the Company
+cook. Good job I remembered."
+
+What on earth was the French for a saucepan? I had no opportunity of
+looking in my dictionary, for it would look too suspicious if I were to
+consult my Service Bible during tea.
+
+"I don't think we shall have time to look for an ironmonger's," I said.
+
+"You blithering ass," said the Captain, "there's one just across the
+road. Besides, we don't have dinner before eight as a rule."
+
+The fates were working against me. I made one more effort to save my
+reputation. "We should look so funny, sir, riding through Bailleul with
+a great saucepan. We might send the Company cook to buy one to-morrow."
+
+I remained in suspense for a few moments as the Captain chose another
+cake. He looked up suddenly. "We'll get it home all right," he said,
+"but I believe the fact of the matter is that you don't know what to ask
+for."
+
+"We'll go and get the beastly thing directly after tea," I said stiffly,
+for it is always offensive to have doubts cast on one's capabilities,
+the more so when those doubts are founded on fact. Besides, I knew the
+Captain would love to see me at a loss, as French has been his touchy
+point ever since the day when, having a sore throat, he set out to buy a
+cure for it himself. The chemist, mistaking his French and his gestures,
+had politely led him to the door and pointed out a clothier's across the
+way, expressing his regret the while that chemists in France do not sell
+collars.
+
+When we entered the ironmonger's shop I could see nothing in the shape
+of a saucepan that I could point out to the man, so I made a shot in the
+dark. "Je desire," I said, "une soucoupe."
+
+"Parfaitement, m'sieu," said the shopman, and he produced a host of
+saucers of every description--saucers in tin, saucers in china, saucers
+big and little.
+
+"What in the name of all that's wonderful are you getting those things
+for?" asked the Captain irritably. "We want a saucepan."
+
+I feigned surprise at my carelessness and turned to the shopman again.
+"Non, je desire quelque chose pour bouillir les oeufs."
+
+The poor man scratched his head for a minute, then an idea suddenly
+struck him. "Ah, une casserole?" he questioned.
+
+I nodded encouragingly, and, to my intense relief, he produced a huge
+saucepan from under the counter, so that we trotted out of Bailleul with
+our saddle bags full, and the saucepan dangling from a piece of string
+round the Captain's neck.
+
+Misfortunes never come singly. We were not more than a hundred yards
+from the town when the Captain handed the saucepan to me. "You might
+take it," he said, "while I shorten my stirrups."
+
+The pack horse becomes accustomed to an enormous variety of loads, but
+apparently the saucepan was something in the shape of a disagreeable
+novelty to him. He began to trot, and that utensil rattled noisily
+against the bottle of liqueur protruding from my saddle bag. The more
+the saucepan rattled the faster went the horse, and the more precarious
+became my seat. In a few seconds I was going across country at a furious
+gallop.
+
+If I let go my hold of the saucepan it rattled violently, and spurred
+the pack horse on to even greater pace; if I held on to the saucepan I
+could not pull up my horse and I stood but little chance of remaining
+on its back at all, for I am a horseman of but very little skill.
+
+Suddenly I saw a gate barring my way ahead. I let go the saucepan and
+something cracked in my saddle bag. I seized the reins and dragged at
+the horse's mouth. Then, just as I was wondering how one stuck on a
+horse's back when it tried to jump, someone rode up from the other side
+and opened the gate.
+
+But it was only when I was right in the gateway that I saw what lay
+ahead. Just before me was a major at the head of a squadron of cavalry.
+The next second I was amongst them.
+
+A fleeting glimpse of the Major's horse pawing the air with its
+forelegs, a scattering of a hundred and fifty men before me, and I had
+passed them all and was galloping up the steep slope of the hill.
+
+When at last the Captain came up with me, I was standing at the top of
+the Mont Noir, wiping Benedictine from my breeches and puttees. I made
+an attempt at jocularity. "I shall have to speak to Parkes about this
+engine," I said. "The controls don't work properly, and she accelerates
+much too quickly."
+
+But the Captain saw the ruin of the liqueur bottle lying by the
+roadside, and was not in the mood for amusement. So we rode in silence
+down the hill, while the flames of Ypres gleamed and flickered in the
+distance.
+
+Of a sudden, however, the Captain burst into a roar of laughter.
+
+"It was worth it," he panted as he rolled in his saddle, "to see the
+poor blighters scatter. Lord! but it was lovely to hear that Major
+curse."
+
+
+
+
+X
+
+THE LIAR
+
+
+For an hour and a half we had been crumped and whizz-banged and
+trench-mortared as never before, but it was not until the shelling
+slackened that one could really see the damage done. The sudden
+explosions of whizz-bangs, the increasing whine and fearful bursts of
+crumps, and, worst of all, the black trench-mortar bombs that came
+hurtling and twisting down from the skies, kept the nerves at a pitch
+which allowed of no clear vision of the smashed trench and the wounded
+men.
+
+However, as the intervals between the explosions grew longer and longer
+the men gradually pulled themselves together and began to look round.
+The havoc was appalling. Where the telephone dug-out had been was now a
+huge hole--a mortar bomb had landed there, and had blown the telephone
+orderly almost on to the German wire, fifty yards away; great gaps, on
+which the German machine guns played at intervals, were made all along
+our parapet; the casualties were being sorted out as well as
+possible--the dead to be carried into an old support trench, and there
+to await burial, the wounded to be hurried down to the overcrowded
+dressing station as quickly as the bearers could get the stretchers
+away; the unhurt--scarcely half the company--were, for the most part,
+still gazing up into the sky in the expectation of that twisting, all
+too familiar, black bomb that has such a terrific devastating power.
+Gradually quiet came again, and the men set about their interrupted
+business--their sleep to be snatched, their work to be finished before
+the long night with its monotonous watching and digging began.
+
+With the Sergeant-major I went down the trench to discuss repairs, for
+much must be done as soon as night fell. Then, leaving him to make out a
+complete list of the casualties, I returned to my dug-out to share the
+rations of rum with Bennett, the only subaltern who remained in the
+company.
+
+"Where's the rum?" I asked. "Being shelled makes one thirsty."
+
+He handed me a cup, at the bottom of which a very little rum was to be
+seen. "I divided it as well as I could," he said rather apologetically.
+
+"If you were thinking of yourself at the time, you certainly did," I
+answered as I prepared myself for battle, for nothing sets your nerves
+right again as quickly as a "scrap."
+
+We were interrupted, however, in the preliminaries by the
+Sergeant-major, who brought with him a handful of letters and pay books,
+the effects of the poor fellows who were now lying under waterproof
+sheets in the support trench.
+
+"Total killed forty-one, sir, and I'm afraid Sergeant Wall didn't get
+down to the dressing station in time. It's a bad day for us to-day. Oh,
+and by the way, sir, that fellow Spiller has just been found dead at the
+end of the communicating trench."
+
+"Which end, Sergeant-major?" I asked.
+
+"The further end, sir. He left the trench without leave. He told Jones,
+who was next to him, that he was not going to have any more damned
+shelling, and he appears to have made off immediately after."
+
+Bennett whistled. "Is that the blighter whom poor old Hayes had to
+threaten with his revolver the day before we were gassed?"
+
+The Sergeant-major nodded.
+
+"It's just the sort of thing he would do," said Bennett, whose hand was
+still unsteady from the strain of an hour ago, "to bunk when Brother
+Boche is giving us a little crumping to keep us amused."
+
+I turned to the Sergeant-major. "Let me have these fellows' effects," I
+said. "As to Spiller, I don't expect he could have really been bunking.
+At all events, let the other fellows think I sent him to Headquarters
+and he got hit on the way. I expect he was going down with a stretcher
+party." But, in my heart, I knew better. I knew Spiller for a coward.
+
+It is not for me to judge such a man. God knows it is no man's fault if
+he is made so that his nerves may fail him at a critical moment.
+Besides, many a man who is capable of heroism that would win him the
+Victoria Cross fails when called upon to stand more than a few weeks of
+trench warfare, for a few minutes of heroism are very different to
+months of unrelieved strain. However, Spiller and his like let a
+regiment down, and one is bound to despise them for that.
+
+Thoughts of our "scrap" had entirely left us, for Bennett and I had
+before us one of the most uncongenial tasks that an officer can have.
+The news has to be broken by someone when a wife is suddenly made a
+widow, and the task is generally taken on by the dead man's platoon
+commander, who sends back home his letters and papers. There were many
+men who had died that afternoon, and letters of condolence and bad news
+are always difficult to write, so that there was silence in our dug-out
+for the next two hours.
+
+The last pay book I examined had belonged to Private E. Spiller. His
+other belongings were scanty--a few coppers, a much-chewed pencil, and
+two letters. I looked at the latter for a clue as to whom I ought to
+write; one was in his own handwriting and unfinished, the other was from
+a girl with whom he had been "walking out," apparently his only friend
+in the world, as she alone was mentioned in the little will written at
+the end of his pay book. But her love was enough. Her letter was
+ill-spelt and badly written, but it expressed more love than is given to
+most men.
+
+"Take care of yourself, Erny dear, for my sake," she wrote. "I am so
+proud of you doing so well in them horrid trenches.... Dear Erny, you
+can't have no idear how pleased I am that you are so brave, but be quick
+and come back to me what loves you so...."
+
+So brave! I tried to laugh at the unconscious irony of it all, but my
+laugh would not come, for something in my throat held it back--perhaps I
+was a little overwrought by the recent shelling.
+
+I turned to the other letter, which I have thought fit to transcribe in
+full:
+
+   "DEAREST LIZ,
+
+   "I hope this finds you as it leaves me at present in the pink. Dear
+   Liz, i am doing very well and i will tell you a secret--i am going to
+   be rekermended for the V.C. becos i done so well in the trenches. i
+   don't feel a bit fritened wich is nice, and, dear Liz, i hope to be
+   made Lance Corpril soon as my officer is so ..."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+And here it ended, this letter from a liar. I balanced it on my knee and
+wondered what to do with it. Should I tear it up and write to the girl
+to tell her the truth--that her lover was a liar and a coward? Should I
+tear his letter up and just announce his death? For some minutes I
+hesitated, and then I put his half-finished letter in an envelope and
+added a note to tell her.
+
+"He died like a soldier," I finished. "His letter will tell you better
+than any words of mine how utterly without fear he was."
+
+And I wish no other lie were heavier on my conscience than is the lie I
+told to her.
+
+
+
+
+XI
+
+THE CITY OF TRAGEDY
+
+
+What does it matter that the Cloth Hall and the Cathedral are in ruins,
+that the homes and churches are but rubble in the streets? What do we
+care if great shells have torn gaping holes in the Grande Place, and if
+the station is a battered wreck where the rails are bent and twisted as
+bits of wire? We do not mourn for Ypres, for it is a thousand times
+grander in its downfall than it was ever in the days of its splendour.
+
+In the town, the houses are but piles of stone, the streets are but
+pitted stretches of desolation, the whole place is one huge monument to
+the memory of those who have suffered, simply and grandly, for a great
+cause. Round the town run the green ramparts where, a few years ago, the
+townspeople would stroll of an evening, where the blonde Flemish girls
+would glance shyly and covertly at the menfolk. The ramparts now are
+torn, the poplars are broken, the moat is foul and sullied, and facing
+out over the wide plain are rows of little crosses that mark the
+resting-places of the dead.
+
+For herein lies thy glory, Ypres. To capture thee there have fallen
+thousands of the German invaders; in thy defence there have died
+Belgians and French and English, Canadians and Indians and Algerians.
+Three miles away, on Hill 60, are the bodies of hundreds of men who have
+fought for thee--the Cockney buried close to the Scotchman, the Prussian
+lying within a yard of the Prussian who fell there a year before, and
+along the Cutting are French bayonets and rifles, and an occasional
+unfinished letter from some long-dead _poilu_ to his lover in the sunny
+plains of the Midi or the orchards of Normandy.
+
+And all these men have died to save thee, Ypres. Why, then, should we
+mourn for thee in thy ruin? Even thy great sister, Verdun, cannot boast
+so proud a record as thine.
+
+But the awful tragedy of it all! That the famous old town, quietly
+asleep in its plain, should be shattered and ruined; that so many hopes
+and ambitions can be blasted in so few hours; that young bodies can be
+crushed, in a fraction of a second, to masses of lifeless, bleeding
+pulp! The glorious tragedy of Ypres will never be written, for so many
+who could have spoken are dead, and so many who live will never
+speak--you can but guess their stories from the dull pain in their
+eyes, and from the lips that they close tightly to stop the sobs.
+
+God, how they have suffered, these Belgians! Day after day for over a
+year the inhabitants of Ypres lived in the hell of war; day after day
+they crouched in their cellars and wondered if it would be their little
+home that would be ruined by the next shell. How many lived for months
+in poky little basements, or crowded together in the one room that was
+left of their home--anything, even death, rather than leave the place
+where they were born and where they had passed all their quiet, happy
+years.
+
+I knew one woman who lived with her little daughter near the Porte de
+Menin, and one day, when the next cottage to hers had been blown to
+bits, I tried to persuade her to leave. For a long time she shook her
+head, and then she took me to show me her bedroom--such a poor little
+bedroom, with a crucifix hanging over the bed and a dingy rosebush
+growing up outside the window. "It was here that my husband died, five
+years ago," she said. "He would not like me to go away and leave the
+house to strangers."
+
+"But think of the little one," I pleaded. "She is only a girl of five,
+and you cannot endanger her life like this."
+
+For a long time she was silent, and a tear crept down her cheek as she
+tried to decide. "I will go, monsieur," she said at last, "for the sake
+of the little one."
+
+And that night she set off into the unknown, fearful to look back at her
+little home lest her courage should desert her. She was dressed in her
+best clothes--for why leave anything of value for the Germans, should
+they ever come?--and she wheeled her few household treasures before her
+in the perambulator, while her little daughter ran beside her.
+
+But next morning I saw her again coming back up the street to her
+cottage. This time she was alone, and she still trundled the
+perambulator in front of her.
+
+I went out, and knocked at her door. "So you have come back," I said.
+"And where have you left the little one?"
+
+She gazed at me dully for a minute, and a great fear gripped me, for I
+saw that her best clothes were torn and dust stained.
+
+"It was near the big hospital on the Poperinghe road," she said in a
+horribly even voice. "The little one had lingered behind to pick up some
+bits of coloured glass on the roadside when the shell came. It was a big
+shell ... and I could find nothing but this," and she held up part of a
+little torn dress, bloody and terrible.
+
+I tried to utter a few words of comfort, but my horror was too great.
+
+"It is the will of God," she said, as she began to unpack the treasures
+in the perambulator, but, as I closed the door, I heard her burst into
+the most awful fit of weeping I have ever known.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+And, day by day as the war goes on, the tragedy of Ypres grows greater.
+Each shell wrecks a little more of what was once a home, each crash and
+falling of bricks brings a little more pain to a breaking heart. The
+ruins of Ypres are glorious and noble, and we are proud to defend them,
+but the quiet, simple people of Ypres cannot even find one brick on
+another of their homes.
+
+Somewhere in England, they tell me, is a little old lady who was once a
+great figure in Brussels society. She is nearly eighty now, and alone,
+but she clings on tenaciously to life till the day shall come when she
+can go back to her Chateau at Ypres, where she has lived for forty
+years. One can picture her--feeble, wizened, and small, her eyes bright
+with the determination to live until she has seen her home again.
+
+I, who have seen her Chateau, pray that death may come to close those
+bright eyes, so that they may never look upon the destruction of her
+home, for it is a desolate sight, even though the sky was blue and the
+leaves glistened in the sun on the morning when, two years ago, I
+tramped up the winding drive.
+
+The lodge was nothing more than a tumbled pile of broken bricks, but, by
+some odd chance, the Chateau itself had never suffered a direct hit. In
+front of the big white house there had once been an asphalt tennis
+court--there was now a plain pitted at every few yards by huge shell
+holes. The summer-house at the edge of the wood--once the scene of
+delightful little flirtations in between the games of tennis--was now a
+weird wreck, consisting of three tottering walls and a broken seat.
+Oddest of all, there lay near the white marble steps an old, tyreless De
+Dion motor-car.
+
+I have often wondered what the history of that battered thing could be.
+One can almost see the owner packing herself in it with her most
+precious belongings, to flee from the oncoming Germans. The engine
+refuses to start, there is no time for repairs, there is the hurried
+flight on foot, and the car is left to the mercy of the invading troops.
+Perhaps, again, it belonged to the staff of some army, and was left at
+the Chateau when it had run its last possible mile. At all events, there
+it stood, half-way between Ypres and the Germans, with everything of any
+possible value stripped off it as thoroughly as though it had been left
+to the white ants.
+
+By the side of the tennis court, where had once been flower beds, there
+was now a row of little, rough wooden crosses, and here and there the
+narcissi and daffodils had sprung up. What a strange little cemetery!
+Here a khaki cap and a bunch of dead flowers, there a cross erected to
+"An unknown British hero, found near Verbrandenmolen and buried here on
+March 3rd, 1915," there an empty shell case balanced at a comical angle
+on a grave, and everywhere between the mounds waved the flowers in the
+fresh breeze of the morning, while away in the distance loomed the tower
+of the Cloth Hall of Ypres, like a gigantic arm pointing one finger up
+to heaven.
+
+The Chateau itself, I have said, had never had a direct hit; but do you
+think the hand of war had passed it by, and that the little old lady
+would find in it something of home?
+
+Every window on the ground floor had been choked by sandbags, and no
+glass remained in those upstairs. In a room that had once been a kitchen
+and was now labelled in chalk "Officers' Mess" were an old bedstead, two
+mattresses, a wooden table, and three rickety chairs; but for these, and
+a piano in the dining-room upstairs, the house was absolutely devoid of
+furniture. Even the piano, which must have twanged out the tunes of at
+least three nations since the war began, had sacrificed its cover for
+firewood.
+
+Rooms where once ladies had powdered and perfumed themselves to attract
+the fickle male were now bare and empty, and pungent with the smell of
+chloride of lime. In the dining-hall, where fine old wines had
+circulated, were a hundred weary, dirty men. In the kitchen, where the
+fat _cuisiniere_ had prepared her dinners, were now a dozen officers,
+some sprawling asleep on the floor, some squatting round the table
+playing "vingt-et-un."
+
+For this is war.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+There is one more memory of Ypres--a very different one--that comes back
+to me. It is the recollection of our regimental dinner.
+
+The first thing that I heard of it came from Lytton's servant.
+
+"Please, sir," he said one morning, "Mr. Lytton sends his compliments,
+and can you tell 'im where the Hotel Delepiroyle is?"
+
+"The Hotel de what?"
+
+"The Hotel Delepiroyle, sir. That's what 'e said."
+
+"Ask Mr. Lytton to write it down--no, wait a minute. Tell him I'm coming
+over to see him about it." So I strolled across to the other side of the
+infantry barracks to find him.
+
+"What, haven't you heard about it?" asked Lytton. "The new C.O., Major
+Eadie, is giving a dinner to-night to all the officers of the regiment
+as a farewell to Major Barton before he goes off to take command of his
+new crowd. It's at the Hotel de l'Epee Royale, wherever that may be.
+Let's go and track it down."
+
+So we wandered down the Rue de Lille, as yet relatively free from the
+ravages of war, for the shops were open and the inhabitants stood
+talking and gossiping at the doors of their houses. Here and there
+rubble lay across the pavement, and what had once been a home was now an
+amorphous pile of bricks and beams. Just by the church was a ruined
+restaurant, and a host of little children played hide and seek behind
+the remnants of its walls.
+
+On our way down the street we came across Reynolds, who had only joined
+the regiment the night before, while we, who had been nearly three weeks
+at the front, felt ourselves war-beaten veterans compared to him. He was
+standing on the pavement, gazing excitedly up at an aeroplane, around
+which were bursting little white puffs of smoke.
+
+"Come along with us," said Lytton. "You'll get sick to death of seeing
+aeroplanes shelled when you've been out here as long as we have. Come
+and discover the scene of to-night's orgy."
+
+In the Grande Place, at the side of the Cloth Hall, we discovered the
+Hotel de l'Epee Royale. A "Jack Johnson" had made an enormous hole in
+the pavement just in front of it, and a large corner of the building had
+gone.
+
+"By Jove," said Reynolds in an awed voice. "What a hole! It must have
+taken some shell to do that."
+
+Lytton smiled patronisingly. "My dear fellow," he said, "that's nothing
+at all. It's hardly any bigger than the hole that a spent bullet makes.
+Let's go inside and get some lunch to see what sort of a place it is."
+
+But Reynolds and I were firm. "Rot!" we said. "Let's go home and fast.
+Otherwise we shall be no good for this evening; we've got our duty to do
+to the dinner."
+
+So we went back to the Company Mess in the infantry barracks, past a
+house that had been destroyed that morning. Hunting in and out of the
+ruins were a man and a woman, and another woman, very old, with eyes
+swollen by weeping, sat on what was left of the wall of her house, a
+broken photograph frame in her hands.
+
+There are many fellows who have laid down their lives since that little
+dinner in the Hotel de l'Epee Royale; he who gave it died of wounds six
+weeks later, as gallant a commanding officer as one could wish to have.
+If the dinner were to take place again, there would be many gaps round
+the table, and even the building must long since have been pounded to
+dust.
+
+If this should meet the eyes of any of you that were there, let your
+minds run back for a moment, and smile at your recollections. Do you
+remember how we dosed Wilson's glass so that he left us before the
+sweets were on the table? Do you remember how we found him later sitting
+on the stairs, poor fellow, clasping his head in a vain effort to stop
+the world from whirling round? Do you remember the toasts that we drank,
+and the plans we made for that dim period, "after the war"? I confess
+that I have completely forgotten everything that we ate--beyond the
+whisky, I forget even what we drank; but I know that the daintiest
+little dinner in London could not have pleased us nearly so much. And
+then, when it was all over and we broke up to go home to bed, do you
+remember how young Carter stood in the middle of the Grande Place and
+made rhapsodies to the moon--though, to the rest of us, it seemed much
+like any other moon--until we took him up and carried him home by force?
+
+It does you good to look back sometimes. You may find it sad because so
+many are gone that were our companions then. But this is the way of war;
+they must die sooner or later, and they could not have chosen better
+graves. If one must die, why not die fighting for England and Ypres?
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+There is one street in Ypres that I knew in peace time. It wound in and
+out between the stiff, white houses, and the little Flemish children
+would make it echo to their shouts and laughter, until you could
+scarcely hear the rumble and the rattle of the carts on the cobbles of
+the main street, near by. And I passed along the same winding way during
+the second battle of Ypres. The shattered houses stretched jagged edges
+of brickwork towards the sky, the road was torn up, and the paving
+stones were piled up grotesquely against each other. Outside the
+convent, where I seemed to catch the dim echo of children's laughter,
+lay a smashed limber--the horse was on its back, with its legs stuck up
+stiffly; and, just touching the broken stone cross that had fallen from
+above the convent door, lay the figure of the dead driver.
+
+And, of all that I remember of Ypres, it is of this that I think most
+often, for it is a symbol of the place itself--the dead man lying by the
+cross, sign of suffering that leads to another life. The agony of Ypres
+will render it immortal; for if ever a town deserved immortality, it is
+surely this old, ruined city on the plains of Flanders.
+
+
+
+
+XII
+
+"PONGO" SIMPSON ON GRUMBLERS
+
+
+I was in my dug-out, trying to write a letter by the intermittent light
+of a candle which was extinguished from time to time by the rain drops
+that came through the roof, when I suddenly heard the squelching of mud,
+the sound of slipping, and an appalling splash. Someone had fallen into
+the shell hole just outside.
+
+I waited a moment, and I heard the well-known voice of "Pongo" Simpson.
+"Strike me pink!" he spluttered, as he scrambled up the steep bank out
+of the water. "An' I gone an' forgot me soap. The first bath as I've 'ad
+for six weeks, too." And he blundered into my dug-out, a terrible object
+covered in slimy mud from head to foot, and when he breathed little
+showers of mud flew off his moustache.
+
+"Hullo," I said, "you seem to be wet."
+
+"Sorry, sir," said "Pongo," "I thought as 'ow this was my dug-out. Wet,
+sir? Gawd! Yes, I should think I was wet," and he doubled up to show
+me, while a thin stream of muddy water trickled from his hair on to my
+letter. "'Owever, it ain't no good to grumble, an' it's better to fall
+in a shell hole than to 'ave a shell fall on me. I've got some 'ot tea
+in me own dug-out, too."
+
+When he had gone, I crumpled up my muddy letter, and I confess that I
+purposely listened to his conversation, for his dug-out was only
+separated from mine by a few horizontal logs piled up on each other.
+
+"Well, you see, it ain't no good to grouse," he was saying to someone.
+"I've got mud up me nose an' in me eyes, and all down me neck, but it
+won't go away 'owever much I grumbles. Now, there's some blokes as
+grouses all the time--'ere, Bert, you might 'and over your knife a
+moment to scrape the mud off me face, it all cracks, like, when I
+talk--if they've got a Maconochie ration they wants bully beef, an' if
+they've got bully beef they carn't abear nothink but Maconochie. If you
+told 'em as 'ow the war was goin' to end to-morrow they'd either call
+you a bloomin' liar, or grouse like 'ell becos they 'adn't 'ad the time
+to win the V.C.
+
+"There was young Alf Cobb. 'E wasn't arf a grouser, an' 'e 'ad good luck
+all the bloomin' time. When 'e came to the front they put 'im along o'
+the transport becos 'e'd been a jockey before the war, an' 'e groused
+all the time that 'e didn't 'ave none of the fun of the fightin'. Fun of
+the fightin', indeed, when 'e'd got that little gal what we used to
+call Gertie less than ten minutes from the stables! She was a nice
+little bit of stuff, was Gertie, an', if only she'd spoke English
+instead of this bloomin' lingo what sounds like swearin' ..." and here
+"Pongo" wandered off into a series of reminiscences of Gertie that have
+little to do with war and nothing to do with grumbling.
+
+"'Owever, as I was sayin'," he continued at last, "that there Alf Cobb
+used to fair aggryvate me with 'is grousin'. When 'e got sent up for a
+spell in the trenches, and 'ad all 'the fun of the fightin',' 'e groused
+because 'e couldn't go off to some ole estaminet an' order 'is glass o'
+bitters like a dook. 'E groused becos 'e 'adn't got a feather bed, 'e
+groused becos 'e 'ad to cook 'is own food, an' 'e groused becos 'e
+didn't like the 'Uns. An' then when a whizz-bang landed on the parapet
+an' gave 'im a nice Blighty one in the arm, 'e groused becos 'e was
+afraid the sea'd be rough when 'e crossed over, an' 'e groused becos 'e
+couldn't light 'is own pipe. 'E's the sort of bloke what I don't like.
+
+"What I like is a bloke like ole Lewis, who was always chirpy. 'E 'ad
+the rheumatics something fearful, but 'e never grumbled. Then 'e'd jest
+gone an' got spliced afore the war, an' 'is missis got 'im into debt an'
+then ran off with a fellow what works in the munitions. 'No good
+grousin',' says ole Joe Lewis, an' 'e still stayed cheerful, an' the
+night 'e 'eard as 'ow 'is young woman 'ad gone off 'e played away on 'is
+ole mouth-organ as 'appily as a fellow what's on 'is way to the Green
+Dragon with five bob in 'is pocket. The other blokes what knew about it
+thought as 'ow Joe didn't care at all, but I was 'is mate an' I knew as
+'ow it 'urt a lot. When 'e got knocked over in that attack down Lee
+Bassey way, I jest stopped by 'im for a minute. 'Don't you worry about
+me, Pongo,' says 'e, 'I couldn't stand 'ome without 'er'--meanin' 'is
+missis, you see--'an' I'd rather 'op it like this. If I 'ad me ole
+mouth-organ 'ere, I'd give you chaps a tune to 'elp you on like.' That's
+the sort of bloke 'e was, chirpy up to the end. I 'ad to go on to the
+'Un trenches, an' I never saw 'im again, for a big shell came along an'
+buried 'im.
+
+"After all," continued "Pongo" after a pause, "it's a life what 'as its
+advantages. I ain't got to put on a 'ard collar o' Sundays out 'ere like
+me ole woman makes me do at 'ome. Then, I might 'ave stuck in that shell
+'ole and 'ave been drowned; I might not 'ave 'ad a clean shirt to dry
+meself with; I might 'ave been 'it by a 'crump' yesterday. Yes, it might
+be worse, an' I ain't never a one to grouse."
+
+Then someone who knew "Pongo" well made an apparently irrelevant remark.
+"There's plum and apple jam for rations again," he said.
+
+"Pongo" rose to the fly at once. "Gawd!" he said, "if that ain't the
+bloomin' limit. I'd like to get me 'and round the neck of the bloke what
+gets all the raspberry an' apricot an' marmalade. 'Ere 'ave I been two
+years in the trenches, an' what 'ave I seen but plum an' apple? If it
+ain't plum an' apple, it's damson an' apple, which is jest the same only
+there's more stones in it. It do make me fair wild...."
+
+"Pongo," insinuated someone at this moment, "I thought as 'ow you never
+grumbled."
+
+"Pongo's" voice sank to its ordinary level. "That ain't grumblin'," he
+said. "I ain't a one to grumble."
+
+But for the better part of an hour I heard him growling away to himself,
+and "plum and apple" was the burden of his growl. For even "Pongo"
+Simpson cannot always practise what he preaches.
+
+
+
+
+XIII
+
+THE CONVERT
+
+
+John North, of the Non-Combatant Corps, leaned over the counter and
+smiled lovingly up into the shop girl's face. By an apparent accident,
+his hand slid across between the apple basket and the tins of biscuits,
+and came into gentle contact with hers. Knowing no French, his
+conversation was strictly limited, and he had to make amends for this by
+talking with his hand--by gently stroking her palm with his
+earth-stained thumb.
+
+Mademoiselle Therese smiled shyly at him and her hand remained on the
+counter.
+
+Private John North, thus encouraged, grew still bolder. He clasped her
+fingers in his fist, and was just wondering if he dared kiss them, when
+a gruff voice behind him caused him to stiffen, and to pretend he wanted
+nothing but a penny bar of chocolate.
+
+"Now then, come orf it," said the newcomer, a private with the trench
+mud still caked on his clothes. "She's my young laidy, ain't yer,
+Therese?"
+
+Therese smiled rather vaguely, for she knew no more Cockney than John
+North knew French.
+
+"You clear out of 'ere," continued the linesman. "I don't want none o'
+you objector blokes 'anging around this shop, and if you come 'ere again
+I won't arf biff you one."
+
+Unfortunately, it is the nature of woman to enjoy the sight of two men
+quarrelling for her favours, and Therese, guessing what was happening,
+was so unwise as to smile sweet encouragement at John North.
+
+Even a Conscientious Objector loses his conscience when there is a woman
+in the case. John North turned up his sleeves as though he had been a
+boxer all his life, and proceeded to trounce his opponent with such
+vigour that the biscuit tins were hurled to the ground and the contents
+of a box of chocolates were scattered all over the floor.
+
+As far as we are concerned, Mademoiselle Therese passes out of existence
+from this moment, but the little incident in her shop was not without
+consequences. In the first place, the Military Police cast the two
+miscreants into the same guard room, where, from bitter rivals, they
+became the best of friends. In the second place, John North, having once
+drawn blood, was no longer content with his former life, and wanted to
+draw more.
+
+In the end he joined the Westfords, and fired his first shot over the
+parapet under direct tuition from his new friend. It matters little
+that his first shot flew several yards above the German parapet; the
+intention was good, and it is always possible that the bullet may have
+stung into activity some corpulent Hun whose duty called on him to lead
+pack horses about behind the firing line.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+For weeks Holy John, as his company called him, passed out of my life.
+There were many other things to think of--bombs and grenades, attacks
+and counter-attacks, "barrages" and trench mortars, and all the other
+things about which we love to discourse learnedly when we come home on
+leave. John North was, for the time, completely forgotten.
+
+But one day when the Great Push was in full swing, I met him again. From
+his former point of view he had sadly degenerated; from ours he had
+become a useful fellow with a useful conscience that told him England
+wanted him to "do in" as many Huns as he could.
+
+I was supervising some work on a trench that had been German, but was
+now ours--the red stains on the white chalk told of the fight for
+it--when a voice I knew sounded from farther up the trench.
+
+"If you don't bloomin' well march better, I won't arf biff you one, I
+won't," I heard, as the head of a strange little procession came round
+the traverse. At the rear of six burly but downcast Germans, came
+Private John North, late Conscientious Objector, driving his prisoners
+along with resounding oaths and the blood-chilling manoeuvres of a
+bayonet that he brandished in his left hand.
+
+"They'll all mine, sir, the beauties," he said as he passed me. "Got 'em
+all meself, and paid me little finger for 'em, too," and he held up a
+bandaged right arm for my inspection.
+
+And, far down the trench, I heard him encouraging his prisoners with
+threats that would delight a pirate or a Chinaman.
+
+How he, single-handed, captured six of the enemy I do not know, but he
+was the first man to reach the German wire, they tell me, and he brought
+in two wounded men from No Man's Land.
+
+Personally, then, it hardly seems to me that six Germans are enough to
+pay for the little finger of Holy John, erstwhile Conscientious
+Objector.
+
+
+
+
+XIV
+
+DAVID AND JONATHAN
+
+
+I
+
+Strangely different though they were, they had been friends ever since
+they first met at school, eleven years before. Jonathan--for what other
+names are necessary than the obvious David and Jonathan?--was then a
+fat, sandy-haired boy, with a deep love of the country, and hands that,
+however often he washed them, always seemed to be stained with ink. He
+had a deep admiration, an adoration almost, for his dark-haired,
+dark-eyed David, wild and musical.
+
+The love of the country it was that first made them friends, and David
+became, so to speak, Jonathan's means of expression, for David could put
+into words, and, later on, into music, what Jonathan could only feel
+dimly and vaguely. Jonathan was the typical British public-schoolboy
+with a twist of artistic sense hidden away in him, while David was
+possessed of a soul, and knew it. A soul is an awkward thing to possess
+at school in England, for it brings much "ragging" and no little
+contempt on its owner, and Jonathan fought many battles in defence of
+his less-understood friend.
+
+Eleven years had wrought but little material change in them. Jonathan,
+after a few minor rebellions, had settled down in his father's office
+and was learning to forget the call of the open road and the half-formed
+dreams of his youth. David, on the other hand, was wandering over the
+Continent nominally studying languages for the Consular Service, really
+picking up a smattering of poetry, a number of friends, and a deep
+knowledge of music. From Jonathan, he had learned to hide his sentiments
+in the presence of those who would not understand, and to make his
+reason conquer the wilder of the whims that ran through his brain.
+Jonathan, in turn, had gained a power, which he scarcely realised, of
+appreciating music and scenery, and which no amount of office life would
+ever diminish.
+
+Then the war broke out, and brought them together again.
+
+At the beginning of it, David, who had been amusing himself in Madrid by
+teaching the elements of grammar and a large vocabulary of English slang
+to any Spaniard who would pay for it, came home and enlisted with
+Jonathan in a line regiment. For two months they drilled and exercised
+themselves in the so-called "arts of war." Then, chiefly on account of
+a soulless section commander, they applied for, and obtained,
+commissions in the same regiment.
+
+In the same billet, they re-lived their schooldays, and over the fire in
+the evenings would call up old memories, or David would tell of his
+adventures abroad, until late in the night.
+
+When the time came for them to go to the front, the Fates still favoured
+them; they went out together to the same regiment in France, and were
+drafted to the same company. Together they went up to the trenches for
+the first time, together they worked, together they crouched under the
+parapet when the German shells came unpleasantly close, and, all the
+time, Jonathan, calm and stolid, unconsciously helped the other, who,
+being cursed with a vivid imagination, secretly envied his friend's
+calm.
+
+Now, nothing has more power to cement or break friendships than war. The
+enforced company, the sharing of danger, the common bearing of all
+imaginable discomforts combine to make comrades or enemies. There are so
+many things to tax one's patience, that a real friend in whom one may
+confide becomes doubly dear, while you end by hating a man who has the
+misfortune to irritate you day after day. War made David and Jonathan
+realise how much their friendship meant, and how necessary each was to
+the other, the one because of his continued calm, the other because of
+the relief his love of music and of Nature brought with it.
+
+
+II
+
+Near the end of April 1915 they came back to billets near Ypres. To the
+north a terrific battle was in progress, the last inhabitants were
+fleeing from the town, and huge shells screamed on their way, and burst
+with appalling clouds of smoke among the already shattered houses.
+Occasionally a motor cyclist would come racing down the road, and, once
+or twice, an ambulance came by with its load of gassed and wounded from
+the fighting to the north.
+
+One morning, when the Germans seemed fairly quiet, David and Jonathan
+set out arm in arm towards Ypres, to explore. An occasional shell--a
+hum, increasing until it became a roar, followed, a moment after, by a
+fearful explosion--warned them not to proceed beyond the outskirts of
+the town, and here it was that they came upon a large villa, with lilac
+budding in the garden. By mutual consent, they turned in at the tall
+iron gate, and entered the half-ruined house.
+
+The part of the house giving on the road had been destroyed by a large
+shell. Over a gaping hole in the ceiling was a bed, its iron legs
+weirdly twisted, which threatened to overbalance at any minute and to
+come hurtling down into the hall beneath. Shattered picture frames
+still hung on the walls, and on the floor near at hand lay a rosary, the
+Crucifix crushed by some heedless boot. The furniture lay in heaps, and
+the front door was lying grotesquely across a broken mirror. Everywhere
+was wreckage.
+
+The other half of the house was still almost intact. In what had once
+been the salon they found comfortable chairs and an excellent Pleyel
+piano, while a copy of the _Daily Mirror_ gave the clue that the room
+had until recently been occupied by British troops.
+
+David seated himself at the piano and began to play, and Jonathan threw
+himself in an arm-chair near the window to listen, and to watch the
+alternate cloud and sunshine outside. It was one of those perfect
+mornings of April, bright-coloured and windy, and the breeze in the
+lilacs combined with the notes of the piano until they could hardly be
+told apart. The rare whirr and explosion of a shell only had the effect
+of accentuating the intervening peace. Jonathan had never felt so at one
+with Nature and with his friend, and more than once, stolid and calm
+though he generally was, he felt a tear in his eye at an extra beautiful
+little bit of music or the glory of the world outside.
+
+
+III
+
+"Coming up to the villa this morning?" asked David of his friend a day
+or two later.
+
+"I've got a confounded rifle inspection at half-past ten. You go on and
+I'll get up there as soon as I can," answered Jonathan, and he went off
+to talk to his platoon sergeant while his friend strolled off to the
+villa.
+
+When he was going up the road to Ypres an hour later, he met an orderly
+on horseback. "Excuse me, sir, I don't think the road's extry nice now,"
+he said. "They're dropping some heavy stuff into Yips again."
+
+Jonathan smiled. "Oh, that's all right," he said. "Thanks, all the same,
+for warning me. I'll take care." And he hurried on up the road.
+
+It was not until he was inside the villa that he noticed anything out of
+the ordinary. Suddenly, however, he stopped aghast. The door by which
+they entered the salon was gone, and in its place was a huge gap in the
+wall. The furniture was buried under a mass of debris, and instead of
+the gilded ceiling above him was only the blue sky. The piano was still
+untouched, but on the keys, and on the wall behind, were splashes of
+blood. Lying on the ground near it, half covered in plaster, was David.
+He forced himself to approach, and looked again. His friend's head was
+completely smashed, and one arm was missing.
+
+For some minutes he stood still, staring. Then, with a sudden quiver, he
+turned and ran. In the garden he tripped over something, and fell, but
+he felt no hurt, for mad terror was upon him, and all sense had gone.
+He must get away from the dreadful thing in there; he must put miles
+between himself and the vision; he must run ... run ... run....
+
+
+IV
+
+Two privates found him, wild-eyed and trembling, and brought him to a
+medical officer. "Nerves, poor devil, and badly too!" was the diagnosis;
+and before Jonathan really knew what had happened, he was in hospital in
+Rouen.
+
+Everyone gets "nervy" after a certain amount of modern warfare; even the
+nerves of the least imaginative may snap before a sudden shock.
+
+So with stolid Jonathan. After a year, he is still in England. "Why
+doesn't he go out again?" people ask. "He looks well enough. He must be
+slacking." But they realise nothing of the waiting at night for the
+dreaded, oft-repeated dreams; they cannot tell of the horrible visions
+that war can bring, they do not know what it means, that neurasthenia,
+that hell on earth.
+
+It is difficult to forget what must be forgotten. If you have "nerves"
+you must do all you can to forget the things that caused them, but when
+everything you do or say, think or hear, reminds you in some remote way
+of all you must forget, then recovery is hard indeed.
+
+That is why Jonathan is still in England. If he hears or reads of the
+war he thinks of his dead friend: if he hears music--even a street
+organ--the result is worse; if he tries to escape from it all, and hides
+himself away in the country, the birds and the lilac blossom take him
+back to that morning near Ypres, when he first realised how much his
+friendship meant to him. And whenever he thinks of his friend, that
+horrible corpse near the piano comes back before his tight-closed eyes,
+and his hands tremble again in fear.
+
+
+
+
+XV
+
+THE RUM JAR
+
+AND OTHER SOLDIER SUPERSTITIONS
+
+
+The most notable feature in the famous history of the "Angels of Mons"
+was the fact that hundreds of practical, unpoetical, and stolid English
+soldiers came forward and testified to having seen the vision. Whether
+the story were fact or fancy, it is an excellent example of a change in
+our national character.
+
+Before the war, the unromantic Englishman who thought he saw a vision
+would have blamed in turn his eyesight, his digestion, his sobriety, and
+his sanity before he allowed that he had anything to do with the
+supernatural. He now tells, without the least semblance of a blush, that
+he puts his faith in superstitions, and charms, and mascots, and that
+his lucky sign has saved his life on half a dozen occasions.
+
+Of all the many and weird superstitions that exist in the British Army
+of to-day, the most popular has to do with the jar that contains the
+ration of rum. Rumour has it that once, long ago, a party that was
+bringing up rations for a company in the trenches was tempted by the
+thought of a good drink, and fell. When all the rum had been consumed
+the question arose as to how to explain matters, and the genius of the
+party suggested breaking the jar and pretending that it had been hit by
+a bullet. When the party filed into the trench, the waiting company was
+shown the handle of the jar, and had to listen to a vivid tale of how a
+German bullet that had just missed Private Hawkes had wasted all the
+company's rum. Rumour also has it that the unsteady gait of one member
+of the party gave the lie to the story--but this is beside the point.
+
+From this little incident there has sprung up a far-reaching
+superstition--German bullets, the men have it, swerve instinctively
+towards the nearest rum jar. A few stray shots have helped to strengthen
+the belief, and the conviction holds firm down nearly the whole length
+of the British line that the man who carries the rum jar runs a double
+risk of being hit.
+
+Mascots and talismans hold an important place in the soldier's life. I
+know of one man who used to carry in his pack a rosary that he had
+picked up in one of the streets of Ypres. One day his leg was fractured
+in two places by a large piece of a trench-mortar bomb, but, in spite of
+his pain, he refused to be taken down to the dressing station until we
+had hunted through his pack and found him his rosary. "If I don't take
+it with me," he said, "I'll get 'it again on the way down."
+
+And this is by no means an isolated example. Nearly every man at the
+front has a mascot of some sort--a rosary, a black cat, a German button,
+or a weird sign--which is supposed to keep him safe.
+
+Their superstitions, too, are many in number. One man is convinced that
+he will be killed on a Friday; another man would rather waste a dry--and
+therefore valuable--match than light three cigarettes with it; another
+will think himself lucky if he can see a cow on his way up to the
+trenches; a fourth will face any danger, volunteer for any patrol, go
+through the worst attack without a qualm, simply because he "has got a
+feeling he will come through unhurt." And he generally does, too.
+
+I once had a servant who used to wear a shoe button on a piece of string
+round his neck. At some village billet in France a tiny girl had given
+it him as a present, and he treasured it as carefully as a diamond
+merchant would treasure the great Koh-i-noor stone--in fact, I am
+convinced that he often went without washing just to avoid the risk of
+loss in taking it off and putting it on again. To you in England it
+seems ridiculous that a man should hope to preserve his life by wearing
+a shoe button on a piece of string. But then, you have not seen the
+strange tricks that Fate will play with lives. You have not watched how
+often a shell will burst in a group of men, kill one outright, and leave
+the others untouched; you have not joked with a friend one moment and
+knelt by him to catch his dying words the next; you have not stood at
+night by a hastily dug grave and wondered, as you mumbled a few
+half-remembered prayers, why the comrade who is lying there on a
+waterproof sheet should have been killed while you are left unhurt.
+
+Besides, there are so many things which tend to make a man superstitious
+and to confirm him in his trust in mascots and charms. Many a man has
+had a premonition of his death, many a man has come through long months
+of war, and then has been killed on the day on which he lost his mascot.
+
+The thought of superstition recalls to me Joe Williams, the
+ex-policeman. Joe Williams was a fatalist, and believed every word he
+read in his little book of prophecies, so that the dawn of September 4th
+found him glum and depressed.
+
+"It ain't no bloomin' good," he grumbled. "It says in my book as 'ow
+September 4th is a disastrous day for England, so it will be. There
+ain't no way of stopping Fate." And when his section laughed at him for
+his fears he merely shrugged his shoulders, and sat gazing into the
+brazier's glow.
+
+The day wore quietly on, and I had forgotten all about Williams and his
+gloomy prophecies when a corporal came along to my dug-out. "Williams
+has been hit by a bomb, sir," he said, "and is nearly done for."
+
+At the other end of the trench lay Joe Williams, near to death, while
+his comrades tied up his wounds. The glumness had gone from his face,
+and when he saw me he signed for me to stoop down. "What did I tell you,
+sir, about the disaster for England?" he whispered. "Ain't this a
+bloomin' disaster?" and he tried to laugh at his little joke, but the
+flow of blood choked him, and he died.
+
+Perhaps, though, he was nearer the mark than he imagined, for it is a
+rash thing to say that the death of a man who can joke with his dying
+breath is not a disaster to England.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+It may all seem intensely foolish to you, and childish; it may strike
+you that our men at the front are attempting to bribe Fate, or that we
+are returning to the days of witches and sorcerers. But it is not
+without its good points, this growth of superstition. Man is such a
+little, helpless pawn in the ruthless game of war, and death is so
+sudden and so strange, that the soul gropes instinctively in search of
+some sign of a shielding arm and a watchful power. The Bible, the
+Crucifix, a cheap little charm--any of these may bring comfort to the
+man in the trench, and give him the illusion that he is not one of
+those marked for the sickle of Death.
+
+A man who is confident that he will come through a battle unhurt
+generally does so, or, if Death comes, he meets it with a smile on his
+lips. The man who expects to be killed, who has no belief in some
+shielding power--though it be but symbolised by a common shoe button--is
+taken by Death very soon, but, even then, not before he has gone through
+those long, morbid hours of waiting that breed the germs of fear.
+
+The penny lucky charm that can bring comfort to a man in danger is not a
+thing to be ridiculed. It may be a proof of ignorance, but to the man it
+is symbolical of his God, and is therefore worthy of all respect and
+reverence from others.
+
+
+
+
+XVI
+
+THE TEA SHOP
+
+
+Baker came to me directly after lunch. "Look here," he said, "I'm not
+satisfied."
+
+"What's the matter now?"
+
+"I want something respectable to eat. Let's go into Poperinghe and get a
+properly cooked tea."
+
+"It's six miles," I objected, "and a confoundedly hot day."
+
+"All the better for an omelette appetite."
+
+I thought of the omelettes in the tea shop of Poperinghe, and I knew
+that I was lost. "Can't you get horses?" I asked.
+
+"No luck. The transport has to shift to-day and there's nothing doing in
+that line. I asked just before lunch."
+
+The omelettes danced up and down before my eyes until the intervening
+miles over hard cobble stones dwindled to nothing. "All right," I said.
+"Will you go and get leave for us? I'll be ready in a minute." And I
+went off to borrow some money from Jackson with which to pay for my
+omelettes.
+
+The church tower of Poperinghe shimmered in the heat and seemed to
+beckon us on along the straight road that led through the miles of flat
+country, relieved here and there by stretches of great hop poles or by
+little red-roofed farms where lounged figures in khaki.
+
+In every field grazed dozens of horses and in every lane were
+interminable lines of motor lorries, with greasy-uniformed men crawling
+about underneath them or sleeping on the seats. In one place, a
+perspiring "Tommy" hurried round a farmyard on his hands and knees, and
+barked viciously for the benefit of a tiny fair-haired girl and a filthy
+fox-terrier puppy; and right above him swung a "sausage" gleaming in the
+sunlight. Just outside Poperinghe we met company after company of men,
+armed with towels, waiting by the roadside for baths in the brewery,
+and, as we passed, one old fellow, who declared that his "rheumatics was
+that bad he couldn't wash," was trying to sell a brand-new cake of soap
+for the promise of a drink.
+
+The sun was hot in the sky, and the paving, than which nothing on earth
+is more tiring, seemed rougher and harder than usual; motor lorries, or
+cars containing generals, seemed, at every moment, to compel us to take
+to the ditch, and we were hot and footsore when we tramped through the
+Grande Place to the tea shop.
+
+But here we were doomed to disappointment, for not a chair was
+vacant--"Not room for a flea," as Madame explained to us, and we had to
+curb our appetites as best we could.
+
+The tea shop at Poperinghe! Where could you hope to find a more popular
+spot than was the tea shop in the early part of 1915? Where could you
+get better omelettes served by a more charming little waitress?--was she
+really charming, I wonder, or did she merely seem so _faute de mieux_?
+Where could you find a nicer place to meet your friends from other
+regiments, to drink coffee, to eat quantities of dainty French cakes? It
+is not surprising that the shop at Poperinghe was always crowded by four
+in the afternoon in those old days before the second battle of Ypres.
+
+As patiently as might be, Baker and I waited, lynx-eyed, until two
+chairs were vacated.
+
+"Mademoiselle," we called, "deux omelettes, s'il vous plait."
+
+"Bien, messieurs, tout de suite."
+
+But we were far too hungry to wait, and before the omelettes arrived we
+had cleared a great plate of cakes. After weeks of indifferent trench
+cooking the first well-done omelette is a great joy, and, as I put down
+my fork, I glanced inquiry at Baker.
+
+"Rather," he answered to my unspoken question.
+
+"Mademoiselle, encore deux omelettes, s'il vous plait," I ordered. "Nous
+avons une faim de loup."
+
+"Je m'en apercois, messieurs les officiers," answered our fair
+enchantress, as she hurried off to repeat our order in the kitchen,
+while a crowd of predatory officers glared murder at us when they found
+we did not intend to leave our places so soon. "Some fellows are pigs,"
+murmured one.
+
+"That was splendid," said Baker when we started off on our homeward
+walk. "But six miles is a hell of a long way."
+
+Personally, though, I enjoyed those six miles through the dusk, for we
+seemed to hear the hum of the traffic and the shouts of newsboys. Our
+tea brought back souvenirs of England, and we talked of London and of
+home, of theatres, and of coast patrol on the southern cliffs, until the
+little low huts of our camp showed up ahead.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+It is nearly two years now since Baker was killed. He was found gassed
+in a dug-out on Hill 60, and by his side lay his servant, who had died
+in the attempt to drag him out to the comparative safety of the open
+trench. Nearly two years since another friend gave up his life for his
+country; nearly two years since another mother in England learned that
+her son had been killed in a "slight diversion on the Ypres salient"!
+
+But it was thus that he would have wished to die.
+
+
+
+
+XVII
+
+"HERE COMES THE GENERAL"
+
+
+A servant brought me a note to my dug-out:
+
+"Come down and have some lunch in trench 35D," it ran, "in C Company
+officers' dug-out. Guests are requested to bring their own plates and
+cutlery; and, if it is decent, their own food. Menu attached. R.S.V.P."
+
+The menu was as follows:
+
+   MENU OF LUNCHEON GIVEN BY C COMPANY AT THEIR COUNTRY RESIDENCE, "THE
+   RETREAT," 15/5/15.
+
+   SOUPS
+
+   Soup a la Bully Beef. Soup a l'Oxo.
+
+   FISH
+
+   Salmon (and Shrimp Paste) without Mayonnaise Sauce.
+   Sardines a l'Huile (if anyone provides them).
+
+   ENTREES
+
+   Maconochie, very old.
+   Bully beef and boiled potatoes.
+
+   SWEETS
+
+   Pineapple Chunks, fresh from the tin.
+   English Currant Cake.
+
+   SAVOURY
+
+   Welsh Rarebit.
+
+I read through the menu, and decided to risk it, and, procuring the
+necessary crockery, I clanked through fully half a mile of trenches to C
+Company. The officers' dug-out was in the cellar of an old cottage which
+just came in our line of trenches. The only access to it was by means of
+a very narrow stairway which led down from the trench. The interior,
+when I arrived, was lit by three candles stuck in bottles, which showed
+officers in almost every vacant spot, with the exception of one corner,
+where a telephone orderly was situated with his apparatus. I occupied
+the only untenanted piece of ground I could find, and awaited events.
+
+The soup was upset, as the moment when the servant was about to bring it
+down from the outer air was the moment chosen for a rehearsal of that
+famous game, "Here comes the General." The rules of this game are
+simple. The moment anyone utters the magic phrase there is an immediate
+rush for the steps, the winner of the game being he who manages to
+arrive at the top first and thus impress the imaginary general with his
+smartness.
+
+The soup stood but a poor chance in a stampede of eleven officers, the
+candles were kicked out, and a long argument ensued as to whose plate
+was which, and why Martin's spoon should have gone down Fenton's neck,
+and if the latter should be made to forfeit his own spoon to make up for
+his unintentional theft.
+
+Order was at length restored, and the meal was proceeding in comparative
+peace, when, suddenly, Jones, who had not been invited to the luncheon,
+appeared at the top of the steps.
+
+"I say, you fellows," he cried excitedly. "Here comes the General."
+
+"Liar!" shouted someone. But the magic words could not be allowed to
+pass unnoticed, even though we were eating pineapple chunks at the time,
+and they are very sticky if you upset them over your clothes.
+
+A fearful scramble took place, in which everyone--with the exception of
+Walters, who placed himself in the further corner with the tin of
+pineapple--tried to go together up steps which were just broad enough to
+allow the passage of one man at a time.
+
+A conglomerate mass of officers, all clinging convulsively to each
+other, suddenly burst into the open trench--almost at the feet of the
+General, who came round the traverse into view of them at that moment.
+
+When I returned to C Company's dug-out, an hour or so later, to try to
+recover my plate and anything else that had not been smashed, I found
+three officers reading a message that had just come by telephone from
+Battalion Headquarters. It was prefixed by the usual number of
+mysterious letters and figures and ran:
+
+"The Brigadier has noticed with regret the tendency of several officers
+to crowd into one dug-out. This practice must cease. An officer should
+have his dug-out as near those of his own men as possible, and should
+not pass his time in the dug-outs belonging to officers of other
+companies."
+
+"Here comes the General!" whispered somebody.
+
+I got first up the steps and hurried, a battered plate in my hand, along
+the trenches to my dug-out.
+
+
+
+
+XVIII
+
+THE RASCAL IN WAR
+
+
+Even the most apathetic of us has been changed by war--he who in times
+of peace was content with his ledgers and daily office round is now in
+the ranks of men who clamber over the parapet and rush, cheering, to the
+German lines; she who lived for golf, dances, and theatres is now caring
+for the wounded through the long nights in hospital. Everyone in every
+class of life has altered--the "slacker" has turned soldier, and the
+burglar has become a sound, honest man.
+
+Strange it is that war, which might be expected to arouse all the animal
+passions in us, has done us so much good! There are among the men in the
+trenches many hundreds who were, before the war, vastly more at home in
+the police courts and prisons than is the average Londoner at a public
+dinner. That they should be brave is not astonishing, for adventure is
+in their bones, but they are also as faithful, as trustworthy, as
+amenable to discipline as any soldiers we possess.
+
+There was "Nobby" Clarke, for instance. "Nobby" was a weedy little
+Cockney who became my "batman," or servant. He had complete control of
+my privy purse, did all my shopping, and haggled over my every halfpenny
+as carefully as though it were his own. Then, when he had served me for
+over six months, I overheard him one day recounting his prison
+experiences, and I discovered that he had been a pilferer and pickpocket
+well known in all the London police courts. In his odd moments out of
+jail, he would hover outside the larger stations, touch a bedraggled cap
+with a filthy finger, and say, "Kerry yer beg, sir?" in a threatening
+tone to all passers-by; his main income, however, appeared to come from
+far less respectable sources.
+
+And yet he served me more faithfully than I have ever been served before
+or since, and I have seldom been more sorry than I was when "Nobby"
+Clarke was hit. As we were tying him up--he had been wounded in eight
+places by a rifle grenade--he signed to me and I stooped over him.
+
+"I ain't got no one at 'ome as cares fer me," he said, "so yer might
+'and me things round to the blokes 'ere. I've got a photograph of me ole
+woman wot died five years ago. It's in me pay book, sir, an' I'd like
+yer to keep it jest to remind yer of me." Then, his voice getting weaker
+every moment, "I ain't been such a bad servant to yer, 'as I, sir?" he
+whispered, his eyes looking appealingly into mine. And when "Nobby"
+Clarke, onetime loafer and pickpocket, passed away, I am not ashamed to
+own that there was a queer sort of lump in my throat.
+
+And he was only one of many, was "Nobby" Clarke. There was Bennett, the
+tramp, who was always ready with a song to cheer up the weary on the
+march; there was a Jewish money-lender who was killed while trying to
+save a man who was lying wounded in No Man's Land; there was Phillips,
+who had been convicted of manslaughter--he became a stretcher-bearer,
+and was known all over the battalion for his care of the wounded.
+
+In every regiment in every army you will find a little group of men who
+were tramps and beggars and thieves, and, almost without exception, they
+have "made good." For the first time in their lives they have been
+accepted as members of great society, and not driven away as outcasts.
+The Army has welcomed them, disciplined them, and taught them the
+elements of self-respect--a quality whose very existence they ignored
+before the war.
+
+There is an Italian proverb--"Tutto il mondo e paese"--which means, in
+its broadest sense, "All the world is ruled by the same passion and
+qualities." In the old days it needed a Dickens, and, later, a Neil
+Lyons to discover the qualities of the criminal classes; now war has
+brought us all together--the erstwhile city merchant warms himself
+before the same brazier as the man who would have picked his pocket
+three years before--and we suddenly find that we are no better than the
+beggar, and that a man who stole apples from a stall is no worse at
+heart than the inhabitant of Mayfair.
+
+It is not that our ideas of greatness have degenerated when we call
+these men heroes; it is not that war is entirely a thing of evil, so
+that the criminal shines as a warrior--it is that these "outcasts" have
+changed. Statistics prove that crime has decreased since the war began,
+and crime will continue to decrease, for that indefinable instinct we
+call patriotism has seized on all classes alike, so that the criminal
+can make the supreme sacrifice just as magnificently as the man who has
+"kept straight" all his life.
+
+And the best of it is that this reform among burglars and beggars is not
+for the "duration of the war only." War has lost us our sons and our
+fathers, it has brought appalling sorrow and suffering into the world,
+but it has given the very poor a chance they have never had before. No
+more are they outcasts; they are members of society, and such they will
+remain. If this were all the good that war could do, it would still be
+our ultimate gain that the great scourge is passing over the world.
+
+
+
+
+XIX
+
+"PONGO" SIMPSON ON OFFICERS
+
+
+"Orficers," said "Pongo" Simpson, "is rum blokes. I've got a fam'ly of
+six kids back at 'ome, not counting Emma what's in service, an' I reckon
+my orficer's more trouble to look after nor all the lot of 'em put
+together. It's always: 'Simpson, where the dooce is my puttees?' or
+'Simpson, you've sewed this 'ere button on in the wrong place,' or
+'Simpson, the soup tastes like cocoa and the cocoa tastes like
+soup'--does 'e expect me to kerry a bloomin' collection of canteens?
+Don't 'e think it better to 'ave cocoa what's got a bit o' soup in it
+than to 'ave a canteen what's been washed in a shell 'ole along of a
+dead 'Un? Why, if we was goin' to charge to Berlin to-morrer I'd 'ave to
+spend 'arf the night cleanin' 'is boots and buttons.
+
+"Yes, 'e's a funny sort o' bloke, my orficer, but, my Gawd!"--and here
+Simpson expectorated to give emphasis to his statement--"I'd foller 'im
+against a crowd of 'Uns, or a lot of wimmen what's waiting for their
+'usbands what ain't come 'ome at three in the morning, or anythink else
+you like. 'E's an 'elpless sort of chap, an' 'e's got funny ideas about
+shavin' and washin'--sort of disease, you know--but 'e's a good sort
+when you knows 'is little ways.
+
+"Do you remember that young Mr. Wilkinson?" asked "Pongo," and a few of
+the "old hands" in the dug-out nodded affirmatively. "'E was a one, 'e
+was," resumed "Pongo." "Do you remember the day we was gassed on 'Ill
+60? 'E used to be my bloke then, and I was with 'im all the time. 'E was
+a proper lad! When the gas 'ad gone over there was only five of A
+Company left, with 'im in charge, and we knew as 'ow the 'Uns would
+attack as soon as they thought we was properly wiped out. And Mr.
+Wilkinson was fine. All down the trench 'e put blokes' rifles on the
+parapet, and the 'ole bloomin' six of us ran up an' down the trench like
+a lot of rabbits, firin' off rifle after rifle till the Alleymans must
+'ave thought we was an 'ole battalion. The only times when Mr. Wilkinson
+wasn't firin' rifles, 'e was fusin' bombs, jest as busy as that little
+girl be'ind the counter of the Nag's 'Ead of a Saturday night. 'E must
+'ave sent a good number of 'Uns 'ome that day with bits of bombs inside
+of them.
+
+"And you should 'a' seen Mr. Wilkinson when the Sergeant wos for givin'
+in and goin' back to the second line! We'd all the gas in us more or
+less, and 'e could 'ardly talk, 'e was that bad, but when 'e 'eard the
+Sergeant say as 'ow 'e was goin' back, 'e shouted like the Colonel on a
+battalion parade. 'Curse you, Sergeant!' 'e yelled, 'what's the good of
+goin' back? We've got to 'old this trench or 'op it. If you don't like
+the air down there, come up on the parapet with me.' And up 'e jumps on
+to the parapet with the gas clearin' away, and the Fritzes only 30 or 40
+yards off.
+
+"'It? Why, of course 'e was 'it. 'E was laughin' like a kid what's
+stealin' apples--all excited like--when they got 'im right through the
+'ead, and 'e fell down on the other side of the parapet. But 'e'd done
+what 'e wanted to, for the Sergeant wasn't talkin' any more about goin'
+back. 'E crawled out over the parapet and brought poor Mr. Wilkinson
+back, and got 'it in the leg while 'e was doin' it, too. But that didn't
+matter to 'im, for 'e was out to 'ave 'is own back, was the Sergeant,
+and we 'eld that bloomin' trench for another hour until the blokes got
+up the communication trench to 'elp us. There's a lot of medals what
+ought to go to blokes as don't get them, and it might 'ave 'elped Mr.
+Wilkinson's mother if they'd given 'im the V.C., but there weren't no
+other orficers about, and they didn't take any notice of us chaps."
+
+"Talkin' of 'Ill 60," said Bert Potter, "there was that Captain--I
+misremember 'is name--you know, that bloke what got into trouble at the
+ole farm for giving a cow a tin o' bully beef, and the cow died next
+day. I was in 'is trench with a machine gun when 'e got 'is little bit.
+A chunk out of an 'and grenade 'it 'im in the thigh, and 'e laughed like
+'ell becos 'e'd got a 'cushy' wound. Why, 'e even said as 'ow 'e could
+walk down to the dressing station, and we envied 'im like 'ell and
+thought it was only a flesh wound. I got 'it the next day and went to
+the same 'orspital where 'e was. 'E'd 'ad 'is thigh bone smashed all to
+bits, and they'd jest taken 'is leg off when I saw 'im. 'E was weak as a
+kid and chirpy as a sparrer, and only cursin' becos 'e was out of things
+for the rest of the war. I never 'eard what 'appened to 'im, but the
+nurse told me as 'ow they was afraid 'e wouldn't recover becos of
+emmyridge, or something with a name like that. And 'e wasn't more nor
+twenty-one years old neither, pore bloke."
+
+"But you won't beat the Medical Orficer anywhere," said Jones, one of
+the stretcher-bearers who was on duty in the trenches. "'E don't 'ave to
+fight, but you should see 'im when things is busy up 'ere. Coat off an'
+sleeves up, workin' for 'ours on end till any man what wasn't an 'orse
+would drop dead. 'E's 'ard on the shirkers and scrimshankers--e's the
+sort of bloke what would give you a dose o' castor oil for earache or
+frost-bitten feet, but 'e's like a mother with the wounded. I've seen
+'im, too, goin' along the cutting when the whizz-bangs was burstin' all
+the way down it, carryin' some wounded fellow in 'is arms as calmly as
+if 'e were an ole girl carryin' a parcel along Regent Street. And then,"
+said Jones, as he named the greatest point in the M.O.'s favour, "'e's
+the best forward on a wet day as ever I seed."
+
+Just at that moment a voice sounded from farther up the trench.
+"Simpson," it said, "where the deuce is my toothbrush?"
+
+"Jest comin', sir. I've got 'un," answered "Pongo" Simpson as he
+produced a greasy-looking toothbrush from his pocket. "'Ere, give us
+that canteen of 'ot water," he said quietly, "I used 'is toothbrush to
+grease 'is boots with yesterday--didn't think 'e'd miss it, for you
+don't come out 'ere to wash your teeth. They 'ave got funny ways, these
+'ere orficers. 'Owever," he continued as he wiped the brush dry on the
+sleeve of his tunic, "what the eye don't see, the 'eart don't grieve
+over. 'E'll only think as 'ow it's the water what's greasy."
+
+"Simpson," came the voice from farther along the trench, a moment or so
+later, "this is the greasiest water I've ever tasted. What the deuce
+you've done to it I don't know."
+
+
+
+
+XX
+
+THE HAND OF SHADOW
+
+
+"Come in," said Margery Debenham, as she opened her eyes lazily to the
+sunlight. "Put my tea on the table, please, Mary. I'm too sleepy to
+drink it yet.
+
+"There's a letter from the front, miss," said Mary with emphasis, as she
+went out of the room.
+
+Margery was awake in a second. She jumped out of bed, slipped on a
+dressing-gown, and, letter in hand, ran over to the window to read it in
+the morning sunshine. As she tore open the envelope and found only a
+small sheet of paper inside, she made a little _moue_ of disappointment,
+but the first words of the letter changed it into a sigh of joy. It was
+dated September 13th and ran:
+
+"MY DARLING,
+
+"At last I have got my leave, and am coming home to be married. Our
+months of waiting are over. I leave here to-morrow afternoon, shall
+spend the night on the way somewhere, and shall arrive in London late
+on the 15th, or during the morning of the 16th. I must spend the day in
+town to do a little shopping (I couldn't be seen at my own wedding very
+well in the clothes I have on now) and expect to get down to Silton at
+3.20 on the 17th. I have to be back in this hole on the 24th, so that if
+we get married on Saturday we shall have quite a nice little honeymoon.
+Darling little one! Isn't it too good to be true? I can hardly realise
+that within a week I shall be
+
+"Your devoted and hen-pecked husband
+
+RONALD."
+
+"P.S.--I have written to father, and he will make all arrangements for
+Saturday.
+
+"P.P.S.--Shall I be allowed to smoke in the drawing-room?"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Margery Debenham leant out of the window and gazed at the garden and the
+orchard beyond. The light flickered through the trees of the old flagged
+path along which she and Ronald had so often wandered, and she could
+just see the tall grass waving down at the bottom of the orchard, where
+they used to sit and discuss the future. Everything reminded her of her
+lover who was coming back to her, who would be with her again to-morrow
+afternoon. At the thought of the five long, weary months of waiting that
+were passed, and of the eight days of happiness that were coming, two
+little tears crept out of her eyes and down her cheeks. She brushed them
+impatiently away, for she was too busy to cry. She must run and tell her
+parents; she must hurry over to talk to Ronald's father; she must write
+to her friends; she must run down to the bottom of the orchard and watch
+for a while the trout that lay in the little stream; she must laugh and
+sing until the whole village of Silton knew that her waiting was over,
+and that Ronald was in England again.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Captain Ronald Carr hoisted his pack on his shoulder, and turned to
+three officers who were looking at him enviously. "Cheer oh, you
+fellows," he said, "think of me in two days' time, while you are being
+'strafed' by the Hun, rushing about town in a taxi," and, with a wave of
+his hand, he marched off to battalion headquarters, followed by Butler,
+his servant. From battalion headquarters he had a distance of two miles
+to walk to the cross roads where he was to meet his groom with his
+horse, but the day was hot and progress was rather slow. His first
+quarter of a mile was along a narrow and winding communicating trench;
+after that the way was along a hidden road, but huge shell craters all
+along told that the German artillery had it well marked.
+
+Away to the right a bombardment was in progress, and the dull thuds of
+the guns came sleepily through the September haze; above him, a skylark
+sang lustily; the long grass by the roadside smelt sweet and lush. As
+Ronald Carr strode down the road, he laughed to himself at the fairness
+of the world.
+
+Of a sudden, a shell burst over some trees a few hundred yards away,
+and, as the white smoke rolled away, he felt aware of a change.
+
+Supposing he were to get wounded on the way down! With the next warning
+whine of a coming shell he found himself ducking as never before, for
+Captain Carr was not a man who often crouched for nothing.
+
+Another shell came, and another, and with each his feeling grew. Just so
+must a mouse feel, he thought, when a cat plays with it. He felt as
+though he were at the mercy of an enormous giant, and that, each time he
+thought to escape, the shadow of a huge hand fell on the ground around
+him, and he knew that the hand above was waiting to crush him. At the
+thought, the hair on his forehead grew damp; time after time he checked
+his mad impulse to quicken his pace, and caught himself glancing
+covertly at his servant to see if he noticed his captain's strange
+behaviour. Suppose the hand should crush him before he could get back to
+England, to his home, to his marriage!
+
+Suddenly there were four short, loud hisses, and four shells burst along
+the road close in front of them.
+
+"They're searching the road. Quick, into the ditch," shouted Carr to
+his servant, as he jumped into an old trench that ran along the
+roadside. Butler turned to do the same, slipped on the _pave_, and fell
+heavily, his ankle badly sprained. Those hateful hisses would come again
+before the man could crawl into safety, and this time they would
+probably be nearer, and escape almost miraculous. Captain Carr leaped
+out of the trench again and helped his servant to his feet.
+
+"Cling on to me, man!" and, a moment after, he shouted, "down, here they
+come again!" and they flung themselves on their faces scarce two feet
+from the ditch and probable safety.
+
+When Butler raised his head again after the four explosions, Captain
+Ronald Carr lay at his side, dead. The hand had grasped its prey.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Margery Debenham was standing in front of her mirror, getting ready to
+go to meet Ronald by the 3.20 train, when Mr. Carr came to announce the
+receipt of the War Office telegram.
+
+She could find no tears when she heard the news; she felt stunned, and
+vaguely bored by the platitudes of consolation people uttered. When she
+could escape, she went slowly down the flagged path, where they used to
+walk to the orchard, where the future had been planned by two people
+full of the happy confidence of the young. She flung herself down in
+the long grass by the stream, and buried her hot face in her hands.
+
+"What does it all mean?" she said to herself. Then, a minute later, she
+thought of all the other women who had to bear the same pain, and all
+for no reason. "There is no God," she cried passionately. "No one can
+help me, for there is no God." Day after day, night after night of
+waiting, and all for nothing. All those hours of agony, when the papers
+talked of "diversions" on the British front, rewarded by the supreme
+agony, by the sudden loss of all hope. No more need to hunt for a loved
+but dreaded name through the casualty lists every morning; all that was
+finished now.
+
+The splash of a jumping trout in the pool under the willow tree took her
+thoughts away from her pain for the fraction of a second--just
+sufficient time to allow the soothing tears to come.
+
+"O God," she murmured, "help me to see why. Help me, God, help me!" and
+she burst into sobs, her face pressed down into the cool, long grass.
+
+
+
+
+XXI
+
+THE VETERAN
+
+
+Old Jules Lemaire, ex-sergeant in the 3rd regiment of the line, raised
+his wine glass.
+
+"Bonne chance," he said, "and may you fight the devils as we did in 1870
+and 1871, and with more success too."
+
+"Enough of you and your 1870," said someone roughly. "We go out to win
+where you lost; there will be no Woerth or Sedan in this war. We will
+drive the Prussians back to Berlin; you let them march to Paris. We are
+going to act, whereas you can only talk--you are much too old, you see,
+Pere Lemaire."
+
+The ex-sergeant put down his glass with a jerk as though he had been
+struck. He looked around on the company that filled the front room of
+the Faisan d'Or, and on the faces of the men who had looked up to him
+for years as the hero of 1870 he now saw only the keenness to fight. He
+was old, forgotten, and no longer respected, and the blow was a hard one
+to bear.
+
+The cloud of war was drifting up from the east, and the French Army was
+mobilising for the Great War. The peasants of the village had just been
+called up, and within half an hour they would be on their way to the
+depots of their different regiments, while Jules Lemaire, sergeant of
+the line, would be left at home with the cripples and the women and the
+children.
+
+"I will serve France as well as any of you," he said defiantly. "I will
+find a way." But his voice was unheeded in the general bustle and noise,
+and Madame Nolan, the only person who appeared to hear him, sniffed with
+contempt.
+
+Men destined for different regiments were saying good-bye to each other;
+Georges Simon, the blacksmith, with his arm round his fiancee's waist,
+was joking with Madame Nolan, who hurried about behind her little zinc
+counter; the door slammed noisily at each departure--and Jules Lemaire
+sat unheeded in the corner by the old clock.
+
+And presently, when the front room was quiet and Madame Nolan was using
+her dirty apron to wipe away her tears, the ex-sergeant crept out
+quietly into the street and hobbled along to his cottage. He reached up
+and took his old Chassepot rifle down from the wall where it had hung
+these many years, and, while the other inhabitants thronged the road,
+cheering, weeping, laughing, Jules Lemaire sat before his little wooden
+table, with his rifle in his hands and a pile of cartridges before him.
+
+"There will be a way," he murmured. "I will help my country; there will
+be a way."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The grey invaders swept on through the village, and Jules Lemaire, from
+his hiding-place on the church tower, watched them come with tears of
+impotent rage on his cheeks. Battalion after battalion they passed
+by--big, confident Germans who jeered at the peasants, and who sang as
+they plodded over the _pave_. Once, when a company was halted beneath
+him, while the officers went in to the Faisan d'Or across the road, to
+see what they could loot in the way of drinks, the ex-sergeant aimed
+carefully at the captain, but he put down his rifle without firing.
+
+At last, late in the afternoon when the dusk was beginning to hide the
+southern hills, Jules Lemaire's waiting came to an end. A large motor
+car drew up outside the inn, and a general with three officers of his
+staff got out into the road. One of the officers spread a map on the old
+door bench--where Jules Lemaire had so often sat of an evening and told
+of his adventures in the war--and, while an orderly went to procure wine
+for them, the four Germans bent over the plan of the country they
+thought to conquer.
+
+Suddenly a shot rang out from the church tower above them. The general
+fell forward on to the bench, while his blood and his wine mingled in a
+staining stream that ran across the map of invincible France, and
+dripped down on to the dust below.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+They met Jules Lemaire coming down the spiral steps of the church tower,
+his rifle still in his hand. They hit him with their rifle butts, they
+tied him up with part of the bell rope, and propped him up against the
+church wall.
+
+Just before they fired, Jules Lemaire caught sight of Madame Nolan, who
+stood, terrified and weeping, at the doorway of the inn.
+
+"You see," he shouted to her, "I also, I have helped my country. I was
+not too old after all."
+
+And he died with a smile on his face.
+
+
+
+
+XXII
+
+THE SING-SONG
+
+
+As soon as the battalion marches back from the trenches to the village
+in the first light of the morning, everyone turns his mind to methods
+which will help the few days of rest to pass as pleasantly as war and
+the limited amusements afforded by two estaminets and a row of cottages
+will permit.
+
+"Chacun son gout." As he tramps along the street, B Company
+Sergeant-Major challenges Corporal Rogers to a boxing match on the
+morrow; Second Lieutenant White, who is new to war, sits in his billet
+and, by the light of a candle stuck in a bottle, traces the distance to
+the nearest town on the off chance that he will get leave to visit it;
+the doctor demands of his new landlady, in the most execrable French,
+where he can find a field suitable for "le football"; and Private
+Wilson, as he "dosses down" on the floor, suggests sleepily to Private
+Jones that he will be thirsty in the afternoon and that Private Jones
+has been owing him a drink since that day in Ouderdom three weeks ago.
+
+Besides such methods of passing the time, there are baths to be had in
+the great brewery vats of the village, there is an inter-company hockey
+tournament to be played with a Tickler's jam tin in lieu of a ball, and,
+best of all, there is the "sing-song."
+
+Be it in a trench, or in a barn, or out in the open fields where the
+battalion lies bivouacked under rows of waterproof sheets strung up as
+inadequate tents, the sing-song is sure of success, and a man with a
+voice like a mowing machine will receive as good a reception as would
+Caruso or Melba at Covent Garden. There is a French Territorial regiment
+which has a notice up at the entrance of its "music hall"--"Entree pour
+Messieurs les Poilus. Prix un sourire." Admission a smile! There is
+never a man turned away from its doors, for where is the "poilu" or
+where is the "Tommy" who is not always ready with a smile and a laugh
+and a song?
+
+There are little incidents in life that engrave themselves deep in the
+memory. Of all the sing-songs I have attended, there is one that is
+still vivid--the brush of time has washed away the outlines and edges of
+the others.
+
+We were billeted, I remember, in Eliza's farm--Eliza, for the benefit of
+those who do not know her, is fair, fat, fifty, and Flemish; a lady who
+shakes everyone in the farm into wakefulness at five o'clock each
+morning by the simple process of stepping out of bed--when the Captain
+decided that we wanted "taking out of ourselves." "We'll have a
+sing-song," he announced.
+
+So the Company Sergeant-Major was called in to make arrangements, and at
+eight o'clock that evening we wandered into the Orchestra Stalls. The
+concert hall was a large barn with a double door in the middle which had
+been opened wide to allow the admittance of a cart, which was placed in
+the entrance to act as a stage. All around the high barn, and perched
+precariously on the beams, were the men, while we of the Orchestra
+Stalls were accommodated on chairs placed near the stage. Behind the
+cart was a background consisting of Eliza and her numerous gentlemen
+friends, her daughter, an old lady aged roughly a hundred, and a cow
+that had no right to be there at all, but had wandered in from the
+nearest field to see the show. An orchestral accompaniment was kept up,
+even during the saddest recitation, by dozens of little pigs that
+scrambled about in the farmyard and under the stage. And beyond the farm
+swayed the tall poplars that stood along the road which led straight
+away into the distance, whence came sudden flashes of light and the
+long, dull rumble of the guns.
+
+Of the programme itself, I have but the vaguest recollection, for the
+programmes are the least interesting part of these performances. The
+first item, I remember, was a dreadful sentimental song by Private
+Higgs which accident converted from comparative failure into howling
+success. Just as he was rendering the most affecting passage, Private
+Higgs stepped back too far, the cart--of the two-wheeled
+variety--overbalanced, and the sad singer was dropped down amongst the
+little pigs below, to the great joy of the crowd.
+
+Then came a Cockney humorist, who, in times of peace, was the owner of a
+fried fish and chip barrow in that home of low comedians--the East End.
+After him appeared Sergeant Andrews, disguised in one of Eliza's
+discarded skirts, with a wisp of straw on his head to represent a lady's
+hair. Some vulgar song he sang in a shrill, falsetto voice that caused
+great dismay among the pigs, as yet unused to the vagaries of the
+British soldier.
+
+After the interval, during which the audience _en masse_ made a
+pilgrimage to Eliza's back door to buy beer at a penny a glass, there
+came the usual mixture of the vulgar and the sentimental, for nothing on
+earth is more sentimental than a soldier. There was the inevitable
+"Beautiful Picture in a Beautiful Golden Frame," and a recitation in
+Yiddish which was well applauded simply because no man had any idea what
+it was about. The Sergeant-Major gave a very creditable rendering of
+"Loch Lomond" in a voice that would terrify a recruit, and we finished
+up the evening with a song requesting a certain naughty boy to hold out
+his hand, which was shouted by everyone with so much vigour that one
+wondered how it was the men could still sing "God save the King" when
+the time came.
+
+And far into the night, when the farmyard lay still and ghostly, and the
+pigs had gone off to bed, we still sat and talked in the "Officers'
+Mess," and recalled jokes of George Robey and Harry Tate, or hummed over
+the tunes we had heard at the last Queen's Hall concert. As the Captain
+had said, we wanted "taking out of ourselves," and it had just needed an
+impromptu concert in an old Flemish barn to do it.
+
+
+
+
+XXIII
+
+THE "STRAFE" THAT FAILED
+
+
+There is a certain battery in France where the name of Archibald Smith
+brings a scowl to every brow and an oath to every lip. The Battery Major
+still crimsons with wrath at the thought of him, and the Observing
+Officer remembers bitterly the long, uncomfortable hours he spent,
+perched up in a tree a hundred yards or so from the German lines. And
+this is how Archibald Smith was the unwitting cause of so much anger to
+the battery, and the saver of many a German life.
+
+One morning shortly before dawn the Commanding Officer of an infantry
+regiment was wading down a communicating trench, when he met an
+artillery officer, accompanied by three men with a big roll of telephone
+wire.
+
+"Hullo, what are you doing at this hour?" he asked.
+
+"We hope to do some good 'strafing,' sir," said the subaltern. "I'm
+coming up to observe. Some aeroplane fellow has found out that Brother
+Boche does his relieving by day in the trenches opposite. We hope to
+catch the relief to-day at ten."
+
+"Where are you going to observe from?"
+
+"There's an old sniper's post in one of the trees just behind your
+trenches. If I get up there before light I shall get a topping view, and
+am not likely to get spotted. That's why I'm going up there now, before
+it gets light."
+
+"Well, are you going to stick up on that confounded perch until ten
+o'clock?" asked the C.O. "You'd better come and have some breakfast with
+us first."
+
+But the Observing Officer knew the necessity of getting to his post as
+soon as possible and, reluctantly refusing the Colonel's invitation, he
+went on his way. Ten minutes later, he was lying full length on a
+platform constructed in one of the trees just behind the firing line.
+With the aid of his glasses, he scanned the German sandbags and, in the
+growing light, picked out a broad communicating trench winding towards
+the rear. "Once they are in that gutter," he muttered, "we shall get
+lots of them," and he allowed this thought to fortify him during his
+long wait.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"Quite sure the telephone's all right?" asked the Observing Officer for
+the fiftieth time. "If that wire were to go wrong we should have no
+means of getting on to the battery, for the infantry can only get on by
+'phoning to Brigade Headquarters first, and you know what that means."
+
+The telephone orderly, situated in a trench almost underneath the
+observer's tree, smiled consolingly, "That's all right, sir," he said.
+"I can ring up the battery in a second when the 'Uns come, as they ought
+to in a minute."
+
+He had hardly spoken when they came. The subaltern could see them quite
+distinctly at the turnings of the trench, and at other times an
+occasional head or rifle showed itself. "God!" said the subaltern, "if
+we search that trench with shrapnel, we must get heaps of them," and he
+issued a hurried order. Trembling in his excitement, he awaited the
+report "Just fired, sir," but nothing happened. The orderly called and
+called the battery, but there was no reply. The wire was cut!
+
+Half an hour later, the Battery Major came across his Observing Officer
+and a sergeant gazing dismally at two ends of cut wire.
+
+"I was just coming down to see what was the matter. I hear from the
+Brigade that some doddering idiot has cut our wire. Who in the hell was
+it?"
+
+"I don't know, sir. All I know is that I have seen a wonderful target,
+and couldn't fire a round at it. The relief's over by now, and, as we
+leave this sector to-night, we've lost a priceless chance."
+
+"It must be some wretched infantry blighter," said the Major. "I'll just
+go and have a talk to their C.O.," and he hurried off to the Colonel's
+dug-out, leaving the Observer to lament his lost target.
+
+The C.O. smiled soothingly. "My dear Wilson," he said to the Major, "I
+don't think it could have been one of our men. They have been warned so
+often. What do you say, Richards?" he asked the Adjutant.
+
+"Well, sir, I'm not sure. I saw that young fellow Smith with some wire
+about half an hour ago, but I don't expect he did it. I'll send for him
+to make sure."
+
+Second Lieutenant Archibald Smith certainly looked harmless enough. He
+was thin and freckled, and his big blue eyes gazed appealingly through
+his glasses.
+
+"Where did you get that wire you had just now?" asked the Adjutant.
+
+Smith beamed. "I got it just behind the wood, sir. There's a lot of old
+wi ..." but the Major interrupted him. "That's the place," he cried
+excitedly. "Well, what the devil did you go cutting my wire for?"
+
+Archibald Smith looked at him in alarmed fascination. "I didn't think it
+was any good, sir. I wa-wanted some string, and...."
+
+"What did you want string for? Were you going to hang yourself to the
+roof of your dug-out?"
+
+"No, sir. I wanted to wrap up a p-parcel to send home, sir. I wa-anted
+to send back some socks and underclothes to be darned. I'm very sorry,
+sir."
+
+"Sorry? Sorry be damned, and your underclothes too!" And the Battery
+Major, who had more bad language at his disposal than most men in the
+Army, for once forgot he was in the presence of a senior officer.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+While the Major, his subaltern, and three men with a roll of wire wended
+their sorry way back to the battery, Archibald Smith, surprised and
+hurt, sat in his dug-out, amusing himself by making fierce bayonet
+thrusts at his parcel, and alternately wishing it were the Major or
+himself.
+
+
+
+
+XXIV
+
+THE NIGHTLY ROUND
+
+
+I swear, and rub my eyes.
+
+"Dusk, sir," says the Sergeant-Major with a smile of comprehension, and
+he lets fall the waterproof sheet which acts as a door to my dug-out. I
+yawn prodigiously, get up slowly from my bed--one of two banks of earth
+that run parallel down each side of my muddy hovel, rather after the
+fashion of seats down each side of an omnibus--and go out into the
+trench, along which the command "Stand to arms" has just been passed.
+The men leave their letters and their newspapers; Private Webb, who
+earned his living in times of peace by drawing thin, elongated ladies in
+varying stages of undress for fashion catalogues, puts aside his
+portrait of the Sergeant, who is still smiling with ecstasy at a tin of
+chloride of lime; the obstinate sleepers are roused, to a great flow of
+bad language, and all stand to their arms in the possibility of an
+attack.
+
+It is a monotonous time, that hour of waiting until darkness falls, for
+gossip is scarce in the trenches, and the display of fireworks in the
+shape of German star shells has long since ceased to interest us--always
+excepting those moments when we are in front of our trench on some
+patrol. Away to the left, where the artillery have been busy all day,
+the shelling slackens as the light fades, and the rifle shots grow more
+and more frequent. Presently the extra sentries are posted--one man in
+every three--the disgusted working parties are told off to their work of
+filling sandbags or improving the communication trenches, and the long,
+trying night begins.
+
+All down the line the German bullets spin overhead or crack like whips
+against our sandbags, sending little clods of earth down into the
+trench; all down the line we stand on our firing platforms, and answer
+back to the little spurts of flame which mark the enemy trench; sudden
+flashes and explosions tell of bombs or grenades, and star shells from
+both sides sweep high into the air to silhouette the unwary and to give
+one something to fire at, for firing into the darkness with the
+probability of hitting nothing more dangerous than a tree or a sandbag
+is work of but little interest.
+
+I wander on my rounds to see that all the sentries are on the alert,
+and, suddenly, nearly fall over a man lying face downwards along the
+bottom of the trench. "Here, you can't sleep here, you know; you give no
+one a chance to pass," I say, and, for answer, I am told to "shut up,"
+while a suppressed but still audible giggle from Private Harris warns me
+that the situation is not as I had imagined. The figure in the mud gets
+up and proves to be an officer of the Engineers, listening for sounds of
+mining underneath us. "I think they're at it again, but I'm not certain
+yet," he says cheerfully as he goes off to his own dug-out. I, in turn,
+lie down in the mud with my ear pressed to the ground, and I seem to
+hear, far beneath me, the rumble of the trolleys and the sound of the
+pick, so that I am left for the rest of the night in the uncomfortable
+expectation of flying heavenwards at any moment.
+
+A buzz of voices which reaches me as I return from a visit to a working
+party informs me that the one great event of the night has taken
+place--the rations and the mail have arrived and have been "dumped" by
+the carrying party in a little side trench. Before I reach the spot a
+man comes hurrying up to me, "Please, sir," he says, "young Denham has
+been hit by a rifle grenade. 'E's got it very bad." Just as I pass the
+side trench, I hear the sergeant who is issuing the letters call:
+"Denham. A letter for young Denham," and someone says, "I'll take it to
+him, Sergeant, 'e's in my section."
+
+But the letter has arrived too late, for when I reach the other end of
+the trench Denham is dead, and a corporal, is carefully searching his
+pockets for his letters and money to hand over to the platoon commander.
+They have carried him close to the brazier for light, and the flames
+find reflection on the white skin of his throat where his tunic has been
+torn open, and there is an ugly black stain on the bandage that has been
+roughly tied round him. Only one man in millions, it is true, but one
+more letter sent home with that awful "Killed" written across it, and
+one more mother mourning for her only child.
+
+And so the night draws on. Now there is a lull, and the sentries,
+standing on the fire platforms, allow their heavy lids to fall in a
+moment's sleep; now a sudden burst of intense fire runs along the line,
+and everyone springs to his rifle, while star shells go up by dozens;
+now a huge rumble from the distance tells that a mine has been fired,
+and we wonder dully who fired it, and how many have been killed--dully
+only, for death has long since ceased to mean anything to us, and our
+powers of realisation and pity, thank God! have been blunted until the
+only things that matter are food and sleep.
+
+At last the order to stand to arms is given again, and the new day comes
+creeping sadly over the plain of Flanders. What looked like a great hand
+stretched up appealingly to heaven becomes a shattered, broken tree; the
+uniform veil of grey gives place to grass and empty tins, dead bodies
+lying huddled up grotesquely, and winding lines of German trenches. The
+sky goes faintly blue, and the sun peeps out, gleaming on the drops of
+rain that still hang from our barbed wire, and on the long row of
+bayonets along the trench.
+
+The new day is here, but what will it bring? The monotony may be broken
+by an attack, the battalion may be relieved. Who knows? Who cares?
+Enough that daylight is here and the sun is shining, that periscopes and
+sleep are once more permitted, that breakfast is at hand, and that some
+day we shall get back to billets.
+
+
+
+
+XXV
+
+JOHN WILLIAMS, TRAMP AND SOLDIER
+
+
+On a wet and cheerless evening in September 1914, John Williams, tramp,
+sat in the bar of the Golden Lion and gazed regretfully at the tankard
+before him, which must of necessity remain empty, seeing that he had
+just spent his last penny. To him came a recruiting sergeant.
+
+"Would you like a drink, mate?" he asked.
+
+John Williams did not hesitate.
+
+"You ought to be in the Army," said the sergeant, as he put down his
+empty tankard, "a fine great body of a man like you. It's the best life
+there is."
+
+"I bean't so sartain as I want to be a sojer. I be a hindependent man."
+
+"It's a good life for a healthy man," went on the sergeant. "We'll talk
+it over," and he ordered another drink apiece.
+
+John Williams, who had had more than enough before the sergeant had
+spoken to him, gazed mistily at his new acquaintance. "Thee do seem to
+have a main lot o' money to spend."
+
+The sergeant laughed. "It's Army pay, mate, as does it. I get a fine,
+easy life, good clothes and food, and plenty of money for my glass of
+beer. Where did you sleep last night?" he asked suddenly.
+
+"If I do mind me right," said John Williams, "it were in a leaky barn,
+over Newton way."
+
+"Where are you going to sleep to-night?" asked the sergeant again.
+
+Williams remembered his empty pocket. "I doan't know," he said with
+regret. "Most likely on some seat in the park."
+
+"Well, you come along o' me, and you'll get a comfortable barricks to
+sleep in, a life as you likes, and a bob a day to spend on yourself."
+
+John Williams listened to the dripping of the rain outside. To his
+bemused brain the thought of a "comfortable barricks" was very, very
+tempting. "Blame me if I doan't come along o' thee," he said at length.
+
+In wartime a medical examination is soon over and an attestation paper
+filled up. "There's nothing wrong with you, my man," said the Medical
+Officer, "except that you're half drunk."
+
+"I bean't drunk, mister," protested Williams sleepily.
+
+"We'll take you at your word, anyhow," said the doctor. "You're too
+good a man physically to lose for the Army."
+
+Thus it was that John Williams took the King's Shilling, and swore to
+serve his country as a soldier should.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+One of the most wonderful things about the British Army is the way that
+recruits are gradually fashioned into soldiers. There are thousands of
+men fighting on our different fronts who, a year ago, hated the thought
+of discipline and order; they are now amongst the best soldiers we have.
+But there are exceptions--Private John Williams was one. In a little
+over a year of military service, he had absented himself without leave
+no fewer than eleven times, and the various punishments meted out to him
+failed signally in their object to break him of his habit. In every
+respect save one he was a good soldier, but, do what it would, the Army
+could not bring him to see the folly of repeated desertion; the life in
+the Army is not the life for a man with the wander thirst of centuries
+in his blood. Williams had all the gipsy's love of wandering and
+solitude, and not even a threatened punishment of death will cure a man
+of that.
+
+So it came about that John Williams sat outside his billet one September
+evening, and watched the white chalk road that ran over the hill towards
+Amiens. After the flat and cultivated country of Flanders, the rolling
+hills called with an unparalleled insistence, and the idea of spending
+the two remaining days before the battalion went back to the trenches in
+company with sixty other men in a barn grew more and more odious. If he
+were to go off even for twenty-four hours, he would receive, on return,
+probably nothing more than a few days Field Punishment, which, after
+all, was not so bad when one grew used to it. He was sick of the life of
+a soldier, sick of obeying officers half his age, sick of being ordered
+to do things that seemed senseless to him; he would be quit of it all
+for twenty-four hours.
+
+John Williams went to the only shop in the village to buy food, with the
+aid of fifty centimes and a wonderful Lingua Franca of his own, and when
+his companions collected in their billet that night he was already far
+away on the open road. He walked fast through the still September
+evening, and as he walked he sang, and the woods echoed to the strange
+songs that gipsies sing to themselves as they squat round their fires at
+night. When at last he came to a halt he soon found sleep, and lay
+huddled up in his greatcoat at the foot of a poplar tree, until the dawn
+awoke him.
+
+All through the summer day he walked, his Romany blood singing in his
+veins at the feel of the turf beneath his feet, and evening found him
+strolling contentedly through the village to his billet. Suddenly a
+sentry challenged: "'Alt! who goes there?"
+
+"Downshires," came the reply.
+
+"Well, what the 'ell are you doin' of 'ere?"
+
+"I be going back to my regiment."
+
+"Well, your regiment's in the trenches. They relieved us sudden like
+last night, owing to us getting cut up. You see, they Germans attacked
+us and killed a good few of our chaps before we drove 'em out again, so
+the Downshires 'ad to come up and relieve us late; somewhere about
+eleven o'clock they must 'ave left 'ere. What are you doing of, any'ow?"
+he asked jokingly. "Are you a bloomin' deserter what's come to be
+arrested?" But he posed the question to empty air, for Williams was
+retracing his steps at a steady double.
+
+"Seems to me that bloke 'll get hisself inter trouble," said the sentry
+of the Westfords as he spat in disgust. Then he forgot all about it, and
+fell to wondering what the bar of the Horse and Plough must be looking
+like at the moment.
+
+John Williams knew that he had burnt his boats, and he became a deserter
+in real earnest. For several weeks he remained at large, and each day
+made the idea of giving himself up of his own accord more difficult to
+entertain; but at last he was singled out from among the many men who
+wander about behind the firing line, and was placed under a guard that
+put hope of escape out of the question. Not even the wander thirst in
+his gipsy blood could set his feet on the wide chalk road again, or give
+him one more night of freedom.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"He might have a long term of imprisonment, mightn't he, sir?" asked the
+junior member of the Court Martial. "He could have no idea that his
+regiment was suddenly warned for the trenches when he deserted. Besides,
+the man used to be a tramp, and it must be exceptionally hard for a man
+who has led a wandering life to accustom himself to discipline. It must
+be in his blood to desert." And he blushed slightly, for he sounded
+sentimental, and there is little room for sentiment in an army on active
+service.
+
+The President of the Court was a Major who liked his warm fire and his
+linen sheets, which, with the elements of discipline and warfare,
+occupied most of his thoughts. "I fear you forget," he said rather
+testily, "that this is the twelfth occasion on which this man has made
+off. I have never heard of such a case in my life. Besides, on this
+occasion he was warned that the Downshires were in the trenches by the
+sentry of the Westfords, and, instead of giving himself up, he
+deliberately turned round and ran off, so that the excuse of ignorance
+does not hold water. That the man was a tramp is, to my mind, no excuse
+either--the army is not a rest home for tired tramps. The man is an
+out-and-out scoundrel."
+
+So the junior member, fearful of seeming sentimental and unmilitary,
+timidly suggested the sentence of death, to which the other two agreed.
+
+"We must make an example of these fellows. There are far too many cases
+of desertion," said the Major, as he lit his pipe and hurried off to his
+tea.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Thus ended the career of No. 1234 Pte. John Williams, formerly a tramp
+in the west of England, unmourned and despised.
+
+On the morning after he had been shot, his platoon sergeant sat before a
+brazier and talked to a corporal. "'E ain't no bloomin' loss, 'e ain't.
+'E gave me too much trouble, and I got fair sick of 'aving to report 'im
+absent. It serves 'im blamed well right, that's what I say."
+
+The corporal sipped his tea out of an extremely dirty canteen. "Well,"
+he said at length, "I 'ope as the poor devil don't find it so warm where
+'e's gone as what it is 'ere. I quite liked un, though 'e were a bit
+free with 'is fists, and always dreamin' like," which was probably the
+only appreciation ever uttered in memory of John Williams, tramp and
+soldier.
+
+
+
+
+XXVI
+
+THE CLEARING HOUSE
+
+
+You collect your belongings, you stretch and yawn, you rub your eyes to
+rid them of sleep--and incidentally you leave great black marks all down
+your face--you struggle to get on your equipment in a filthy
+second-class carriage where are three other officers struggling to get
+on their equipment, and waving their arms about like the sails of
+windmills. Then you obtain a half share of the window and gaze out as
+the train crawls round the outskirts of the town, that lies still and
+quiet in the dusk of the morning. You have arrived at your
+destination--you are at the base.
+
+This quaint old town, with its streets running up the hill from the
+river, with its beautiful spires and queer old houses, is the great
+clearing house of the British Army. Here the new troops arrive; here
+they leave for the front; here, muddy and wounded, they are driven in
+motor chars-a-bancs and ambulances from the station to the hospitals;
+here they are driven down to the river-side and carried on to the
+hospital ships that are bound for England.
+
+And this gigantic clearing house buzzes with soldiers in khaki. There
+are the hotels where the generals and staff officers take their tea;
+there are the cafes haunted by subalterns; there are little "Debits de
+Vins" where "Tommies" go and explain, in "pidgin" English, that they are
+dying for glasses of beer. In all the streets, great motor lorries
+lumber by, laden with blackened soldiers who have been down on the quay,
+unloading shells, food, hay, oil, anything and everything that can be
+needed for the British Expeditionary Force. And, in the two main
+thoroughfares of an afternoon, there flows an unceasing crowd--generals
+and privates, French men and women, officers hunting through the shops
+for comforts to take up the line, people winding their busy way through
+the throng, and people strolling along with the tide, intent on
+snatching all they can of pleasure and amusement while they have the
+opportunity.
+
+And a few years ago these same streets would lie sleepily in the sun,
+dreaming of the days of splendour long by. In the square before the
+wonderful cathedral there would be stillness--here and there, perhaps, a
+pigeon would come fluttering down from the ledges and cornices of the
+Gothic facade; sometimes a nondescript dog would raise a lazy head to
+snap at the flies; occasionally the streets would send back a nasal echo
+as a group of American tourists, with their Baedekers and maps, came
+hurrying along to "do" the town before the next train left for
+Paris--beyond that ... nothing.
+
+Now, in the early morning, the Base seems almost to have relapsed into
+its slumber of yore. As yet, the work of the day has not begun, and the
+whole town seems to stir sleepily as the screeching brakes bring your
+train to a standstill. As you stumble out of the carriage, the only
+living person in the place appears to be a sentry, who tramps up and
+down in the distance, on guard over a few empty trucks and a huge pile
+of bundles of straw.
+
+It is a little disappointing, this arrival at the Base, for there is not
+even a proper station in sight; you have been brought, like so many
+sheep or cows, into the dismal goods station, and you look in vain for
+the people who should be there to welcome you, to throw flowers, and to
+cheer as you arrive at the first halt of your great Odyssey. However,
+you shake yourself, you bundle your valise out of the carriage on to the
+railway line, and, with your late carriage companions, you go across to
+the sentry and his bundles of straw.
+
+"Can you tell us where the Railway Transport Officer is to be found?"
+you ask. "We've got orders to report to him as soon as we can."
+
+"Yes, sir, they's always got those orders, but you won't find 'im not
+before 'alf-past nine. 'Is office is over there in them buildings." And
+a subaltern in the office gives you the same information--it is now five
+o'clock, and the R.T.O. who has your movement orders will not be here
+for four and a half hours. "Go and have a look round the town," suggests
+the subaltern.
+
+The idea of "looking round a town" at five in the morning! You slouch
+over the bridge, and wander up and down the empty streets until an hotel
+shows up before you. You are very tired and very dirty and very
+unshaven. Instinctively you halt and feel your chins. "Dunno when we'll
+get another bath," suggests one of the party, and he goes to ring the
+bell. For ten minutes you ring the bell, and then the door is opened by
+a half-clothed porter who is also very tired and very dirty and very
+unshaven. He glares at you, and then signs to you to enter, after which
+he runs away and leaves you in a hall in the company of a dust pan and
+brush and a pile of chairs pushed up in the corner--no welcome and no
+flowers.
+
+But in a moment there is a shuffle on the stairs, and a fat, buxom
+woman, with a cheerful face and a blouse undone down the back, makes
+her appearance. Oh yes, Messieurs les Officiers can have a bath--for two
+francs, including a towel; and they can have breakfast--for three and a
+half francs, including "ze English marmalade" and "un oeuf a la coque"
+(which sets you to wondering whether she means a cock's egg, and, if so,
+what sort of a thing it may be). "It is a nice bath," she tells you,
+"and always full of Messieurs les Anglais, who forget all about the war
+and only think of baths and of football. No, zere is only one bath, but
+ze ozer officiers can wait," and she leads one of the party away into
+the dim corridors and up dim staircases.
+
+Breakfast and a wash work wonders, and you still keep cheerful when the
+R.T.O. tells you at half-past nine that your camp is three miles away,
+that you may not see your valise for days unless you take a "taxi," and
+that there are only three "taxis" in the town. You wander about in
+search of one during the whole morning, you find the three all hiding
+away together in a side street, you bundle your valises into one, and
+arrive at the camp just in time for lunch.
+
+It is a strange life, that life at the Base--it is like life on an
+"island" in a London thoroughfare, with the traffic streaming by on
+either side. All day long there are men arriving to go to the front, all
+day long there are men coming back on their way to England. For a week
+you live on this "island," equipping men for drafts all the morning--for
+most of them seem to have dropped part of their equipment into the sea
+on the way across--and sitting in cafes in the evenings, drinking
+strange mixtures of wines and syrups and soda water.
+
+Then, one day, the Colonel sends for you. Your turn has come to set out
+on that journey which may have no return. "You will proceed to the front
+by the four o'clock train this afternoon," he says. "You are instructed
+to conduct a party of 100 Northshire Highlanders, who are in 'S' Camp,
+which is over there," and he waves his hand vaguely in the direction of
+the typewriter in the corner of the room.
+
+These are your instructions, and, after a prolonged hunt for "S" Camp,
+you march off to the station at the head of a hundred Scotchmen, not one
+of whom you can understand. At the station you make a great show of
+nominal rolls and movement orders, and finally get your Highlanders
+packed safely in their compartments under strict injunctions not to
+leave the train without your orders.
+
+Now comes the time to look after your own comfort. If you have "been up"
+before you have learnt that it is wise to stroll into the town for your
+last proper tea, and not to come back much before six o'clock, by which
+time the train is thinking of reluctantly crawling out of the station.
+If, in your absence, someone has else has tried to settle in your
+compartment, providing his rank is not superior to your own, you get rid
+of him either by lying strenuously or by using a little force. Thus, if
+you are lucky, a good liar, or a muscular man, you can keep the carriage
+for yourself, your particular friend, your kits, and your provisions
+(which last, in the form of bottles, require no small space).
+
+All along the line are children, waving their grubby hands and shouting
+in monotonous reiteration, "Souvenir biskeet, souvenir bully biff," and
+you throw them their souvenirs without delay, for no man sets out for
+war without a plentiful stock of more interesting provisions to keep his
+spirits up. All along the train, in disobedience of orders, the carriage
+doors are open, and "Tommies" and "Jocks," and "Pats" are seated on the
+footboards, singing, shouting, laughing.
+
+This, until night falls. Then, one by one, the carriage doors are shut,
+and the men set about the business of sleeping. Here and there, perhaps,
+is a man who stays awake, wondering what the future will bring him, how
+his wife and children will get on if he is killed, and how many of these
+men, who are lolling in grotesque attitudes all round him, will ever
+come back down the line. In the daylight, the excitement drives away
+these thoughts--there are songs to sing and sights to see--but as the
+train jolts on through the night, there seems to be an undefinable
+feeling of fear. What will it be like to be shelled, to fight, to die?
+
+Morning brings cheerfulness again. There are halts at Boulogne and
+Calais; news must be obtained from English sentries and French railway
+officials; there is, in one place, a train of German prisoners; there
+are long halts at tiny stations where you can procure hot water while
+the O.C. Train discusses life with the R.T.O.; there are the
+thousand-and-one things which serve to remind you that you are in the
+war zone, although the country is peaceful, and you look in vain for
+shell holes and ruined houses.
+
+At length the railhead is reached--from here the rumble of the guns can
+be heard--and the detrainment takes place. You fall your Highlanders in
+by the side of the train, you jerk your pack about in a vain effort to
+make it hang comfortably, a whistle blows, and you start off on your
+long march to your regiment, to those dull, mumbling guns, to your first
+peep of war.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+A "cushy" wound, a long and aching journey in a motor ambulance, a
+nerve-racking night in a clearing hospital, where the groans of the
+dying, the hurrying of the orderlies, and your own pain all combine in a
+nightmare of horror, and next morning you are in the train once
+more--you are going back to the Base. But how different is this from the
+journey up to the front! The sound of distant firing has none of the
+interest of novelty; the shelling of an aeroplane, which would have
+filled you with excitement a short time ago, does not now even cause you
+to raise your eyes to watch; you are old in warfare, and _blase_.
+
+There is no room for fear on this train; it is crowded out by pain, by
+apathy, by hope. The man next you cannot live a week, but he seems
+content; at all events, it is not fear that one sees in his face. There
+is no fear--there is hope.
+
+The train is bright with flowers; there are nurses, and books, and
+well-cooked food--there is even champagne for the select few. There is
+no longer the shattered country of the firing line, but there are hills
+and rivers, there is the sea near Wimereux, and the hope of being sent
+home to England. There are shattered wrecks that were men, there is the
+knowledge of hovering death, but, above all, there is hope.
+
+So the train hastens on--no crawling this time--to the clearing house,
+the Base. Past the little sun-washed villages it runs, and the gleaming
+Seine brings smiles to wan faces. There, look, over there in the
+distance, are the wonderful spires and the quaint houses and the river,
+all fresh and laughing in the sun, and the trees up on the hill above
+the town are all tender green. Even if one is to die, one may get back
+home first; at all events, one has been spared to see God's clean
+country, and to breathe untainted air again.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+_Printed in Great Britain by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and
+Aylesbury, for Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent & Co., Ltd._
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Mud and Khaki, by Vernon Bartlett
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