War Letters of a Public-School Boy Part 13

The journey up from the base seemed absolutely endless, but was never lacking in interest, so much was there to see. The glorious spirits of our men would be a lesson to the Jeremiahs at home.

Never had I expected, never could I believe possible, that such a wonderfully jovial spirit could prevail among men going to certain danger and hardship and possible death. I saw a lot of Welshmen on the way, and wherever one met them they were singing in those gloriously rich Welsh voices.

How kind-hearted our soldiers are I realised on my journey up.

Frequently alongside the railway line were groups of French kiddies shouting, "Souvenirs!" "Souvenirs!" In response our fellows were chucking out to them from the train all sorts of things, bully beef, bread, biscuits, etc., and laughing and chatting at the windows. What a diversity of tongues and accents among our soldiers! c.o.c.kney, Lancashire, Scotch, Welsh and West Country were easily recognisable. For cheerfulness and kindness you will never match the British Tommy.

I don't see so very much difference between the new and the old France, except for the greater number of uniforms; the same gay old cafe-life goes on as always.

Only four out of the fifteen A.S.C. officers who left London on Monday last came up-country, and I was one of the four. Eureka!

also Banzai! There ought to be a chance of some excitement, anyhow. I am in glorious health and spirits and feel very pleased with life. Isn't it fine that my desire to be really close to the thick of things should be so fully gratified? Tell Hal I had two delightful swims at the base.

_August 9th, 1915._

My mare is temporarily _hors de combat_ with a cut on the hock.

This is a nuisance, as I have now to rely on the hospitality of other officers in lending me either their horses or their motor-cars, or, alternatively, go about on a push-bike when I have to travel far afield, which happens almost daily. Before the week is out I am expecting to go right up into the firing-line.

One is astounded at the off-hand manner in which officers who have been in the trenches take the most hair-raising adventures.

An artillery officer was telling us to-day with the utmost sang-froid of the difficulty he and his comrades had in eating their dinner when poison-gas was blowing about. The gas made their eyes water to such a degree that everybody at the mess seemed to be weeping bitterly. He also told us that for a long time they had had no need of reveille, as the Boches had a habit of dropping a Jack Johnson near by every morning at 6.15 punctually. In the short time I have been out here I have been struck with the glorious English coolness and the steadfast refusal to get flurried that marks all our tribe.

In our relations with the inhabitants of the countryside we show consideration and strict honesty. Every bit of damage done is compensated, every blade of gra.s.s is paid for, although necessarily we have first to investigate the validity of claims for damage. The whole thing is very characteristic of British integrity. I am going very strong and gradually getting the hang of my work, which is decidedly interesting.

We had a remarkable concert the other night. The whole thing--stage, paints, wigs, orchestra, curtains, scenery, everything--was got up by the 1st Cavalry Division Supply Column, and most of the performers were A.S.C. men. The most popular vocalist turned up on his own, however, viz. Captain the Maclean, of Lochbuie (of the 19th Hussars), who is quite an artist in his way. This gay, debonair Scotsman is simply worshipped by the men.

One of the latter (himself holding the D.C.M. and the French Medaille Militaire for conspicuous bravery at Landrecies) told me Maclean was the bravest man he had ever seen; he is always at the head of a rush whether on horseback or on foot, and invariably goes into action with a hunting-crop.

A French Territorial Infantry Regiment marched into the town yesterday. They all wore the new grey uniform that is superseding the red trousers and blue tunics of the old days. Quite an interesting spectacle! But for sheer beauty you should see our cavalry on the move. A wonderful sight, I a.s.sure you, even without all the gay accoutrements of the Military Tournament. In fact, to my mind, the field-dress makes the affair even more impressive. The horses are simply beauties, and every one of them is in perfect condition.

I have met an old Bedfordian among the cavalry. We have had many a chat comparing notes as to the past, especially in regard to the fierce-fought struggles of old between Bedford and the Blue-and-Blacks. We hope to get some sort of Rugger up when the winter comes, though of course a very great proportion of the cavalry officers are men from Eton, Harrow, Winchester and other schools where, I regret to say, the game of games is not played!

They will have to be taught.

_August 13th, 1915._

A lot of cavalry men are up trench-digging and I have had my first experience of being up really close to the firing-line. It doesn't take one long to get from here to the thick of things, and we were soon apprised of the fact by heavy and ponderous crashes. Just above us a British aeroplane was winging its flight towards the German lines. Presently one saw small flashes of flame in the air all around it, followed by curious little puffs of smoke; then came the sound of exploding sh.e.l.ls; you know that light travels faster than sound. The Boches were potting at the 'plane. However, the British airman was easily able to clear away. After this, a Taube came in our direction and our artillery was having pots at it. Pursued by two British 'planes the Taube turned tail and skedaddled, pa.s.sing exactly over our car. I wonder it didn't buzz a bomb at us, for the road was crowded with cars, lorries, waggons, and columns of marching soldiers. But it didn't, and went off as fast as it could lick.

We soon reached a village which, during the previous day, had been subjected to a mild bombardment. The results even of a few sh.e.l.ls were staggering. A large number of the houses and the village church were shattered into atoms; nothing left but heaps of bricks, with here and there a wall standing amid the debris.

To me it was a remarkable spectacle, though my companions a.s.sured me that this village was in a positively palatial condition compared to other places farther up. Just as we reached the troops we were destined for, an appalling crash rent the air, and went echoing away like a peal of thunder. It was the British heavy artillery at work, though we couldn't see any batteries.

Meanwhile the Boches were aiming at our aeroplanes which were flying above us continually. Amid all this our fellows were quite unmoved, and an exciting game of Soccer was in progress, every successful effort being cheered to the echo by the soldier spectators. And that, mind, though only last night the Boches put twenty-eight of our men out of action not far from this very spot, landing three sh.e.l.ls on top of them at midnight, killing one and wounding twenty-seven others, not to mention several horses.

Our route now lay along a road roughly parallel to the firing-lines, and only a few miles behind them. We pa.s.sed several camps, where all sorts of regiments were quartered. Then we came to quite a big town, which was packed with lorries and field ambulances, and with columns of British soldiers, always cheerful, though in many cases much fatigued. Finally we came back to our quarters. To me the whole experience was most interesting and exciting, and I am eagerly looking forward to a repet.i.tion of it. Next time I shall go right up to the real centre of things. It is great to be so near the sc.r.a.pping, and I only hope a chance of real fighting does come my way. Anyhow, I am ready to do my duty, whatever it may be.

Well, the Germans have got that Petrograd-Warsaw railway.

Apparently some people antic.i.p.ate an advance on Petrograd itself.

The war is a.s.suming a phase very like that of the Napoleonic struggles. I hope 1812 repeats itself, but candidly I don't think that the Boches will put their heads into the lion's mouth by risking an advance into Russia with winter coming on.

TO HIS BROTHER

_August 18th, 1915._

I am very busy, but my work is becoming more and more interesting, and I am about in the open air almost all the time.

To-day I have had a twenty-mile horse-ride. My little mare ran like clockwork. She is a gem of a horse. I am hoping also to get some motor driving. There is no speed limit here. Talk about express trains! No; Rugby football is not much appreciated by the 9th Brigade. Cavalry officers swear by polo. To see them play a polo match is a sheer delight, for they are the best hors.e.m.e.n in the world.

Many men of our Cavalry Division are at present employed in making a reserve line of trenches some distance behind the real article. Our own brigade is digging vigorously in the grounds of a fine old chateau. The Supply Officer and I, as his understudy, go up continually in a car conveying special supplies and to do various other duties. The chateau grounds are well within enemy gun range, and most of the neighbouring buildings have been blown to atoms. Yesterday the first news that greeted us from the trench-diggers was that they had been bombarded that morning by gas sh.e.l.ls, among other pleasant surprises. While we were pursuing our duties I heard a boom, followed by a long, sighing screech, then a violent crash about fifty yards off. It was a German sh.e.l.l. Another and yet another followed. Suddenly an R.A.M.C. man came running up to fetch a stretcher--someone had been knocked out. As the nearest man at hand I joined him in carrying the stretcher, and we doubled our fastest for the trees where the first shot had pitched. We found that an R.A.M.C. man had been struck above the ankle by a piece of shrapnel. The wound was small, but deep and ugly, and the leg was broken. The poor chap was in terrible pain. We conveyed him as carefully as we could to the field ambulance. There had been other casualties hereabouts in the morning.

More and more sh.e.l.ls, and then a lull. After this exhibition of afternoon hate, we took tea with some officers of the 15th Hussars in a tent in the chateau grounds. It was a delicious meal, and was not interrupted, though enemy sh.e.l.ls from time to time shot over our heads and exploded some distance away in the woods behind. The ineffectiveness of the enemy sh.e.l.ling was greeted every time there was an explosion by cat-calls, shouts and whistling on the part of our imperturbable soldiers. Then the enemy diverted his guns to a village through which our return road ran. On our approaching this place we found our way barred by military policemen, who informed us the traffic was temporarily held up, and that we would have to seek our destination by another and a more devious route. Looking back, one is amused at the nonchalance of this tea in the open with the Hussar officers, while German missiles were shooting over our heads and crashing to earth a couple of hundred yards away. Had the enemy shortened the range we should all have gone up among the little birds.

Did you see that splendid joke in _Punch_--an old man talking to a very badly wounded Irish soldier swathed in bandages from head to foot? The former says, "This is a terrible war, isn't it, my man?" Pat replies, "Yes, sorr, it is that; a rale tirrible war.

But faith! 'tis better than no war at all." Capital, and so deliciously Irish!

_August 23rd, 1915._

Excessively busy days these--out sometimes from nine in the morning till about ten at night, often missing meals perforce. A few days back I was in the city whose name practically sums up the character of British fighting--Ypres. Never have I seen such a picture of desolation. Not a house standing; only skeletons of buildings, shattered walls, and gaping window openings, from which all vestige of gla.s.s has long since disappeared. The Church and the Cloth Hall are simply piles of debris. To walk along the streets is like a kind of nightmare, even when the Boches are not indulging in a spell of hate against the place. Talk of Pompeii--why, this puts it quite among the "also-rans." What a pathetic spectacle to see a whole city in ruins! Stupefaction and sadness at the wholesale destruction is my impression of this melancholy ruin of an historic town.

Having seen my rations delivered to our regiments, I and my companions (two Hussar officers) visited a battery of 5-inch howitzers at work not far off, through the medium of a friendly Artillery officer. Their headquarters have been amazingly lucky in not being hit up to date. They told us that there was going to be great "strafing" that night, that the Boches were very good gunners, but that they and the French sometimes became quarrelsome and loosed off at each other like fury for a short time, both sides doing very little real damage. As we were chatting a long whistle-blast betokened the presence of a Taube, and our companions quickly dragged us out of sight into a dug-out, lest the enemy airman should spot men about and send back the range. You must understand that the guns are so concealed that it is almost impossible to see them even when you know where they are located. After the aerial visitor cleared off, we had a great tea, with all the ground about us shaking to the reverberation of the battery discharges. Presently a long-drawn-out screech in the distance, and a fearful crash in the middle distance. "That's Percy again!" said the Artillery officer. We found that "Percy" is the name for a German 17-incher, which frequently drops sh.e.l.ls ten miles behind our lines. The smallest crater made by his sh.e.l.ls would accommodate a locomotive engine with ease. "Percy" is no doubt "some gun," as the Yankees would say. It was a curious sensation to walk about the fields with sh.e.l.ls from both sides flying over one's head.

Some gas sh.e.l.ls had been discharged that day, and the air in places was quite heavy with the odour of them--not unpleasant to smell, but most mephitic, and apt to make your eyes water.

Whom do you think I met on the main road up to-day? None other than Reggie Lloyd, who was one of my best pals at Dulwich. Our car was moving very fast and overtook his. I stopped and jumped out, and we exchanged a firm handshake and a few words before we had to be moving on again "in the cause of duty." He is a second lieutenant in the R.E., and looked thundering fit. To-day I saw him again. On this occasion he was moving about fifty miles an hour on a motor-bike, and we only had time for a hand-wave as we pa.s.sed. What a thrill to meet an old pal like that out here in the fire zone!

_August 28th, 1915._

To go up the road from here to the firing-line is a great experience. You see, as you pa.s.s along, all the multifarious items of army organisation--long lines of lorries, horsed-wagons, limbers, guns, columns of marching men, motor-cars by the score, French soldiers, British soldiers, aeroplanes spinning merrily overhead--truly a wonderful spectacle. You have no conception of the abominable state of the main roads out here. The _pave_ road, peculiar to these parts, is always a bone-shaker at the best of times, but now, after the pa.s.sage of so much heavy traffic, it is simply appalling. A curious feature is the extraordinary straightness of the main roads, down which you can literally see for miles. The by-roads, on the other hand, seem to abound in right-angled turns, and it is not an easy matter to drive a car along at any considerable rate of speed.

My knowledge of French has come in very useful indeed, but for these outlying country districts a knowledge of Flemish would be even more valuable. Many persons about here speak not one word of French, and Flemish is almost always used by the people _en famille_. It is a kind of mixture of low German and middle English. I can usually get at people's meanings, and even make them understand mine, by a jargon embracing sometimes words from Chaucer and sometimes a little German. Listening to the language when spoken one is reminded of rather nasal Welsh. There is a distinct resemblance between the general sound of Welsh and Flemish in conversation.

These parts const.i.tute one of the most Catholic districts in Europe; the people are quite as devout as those of the south of Ireland. Wherever you go on the roads you are confronted with shrines--little structures with an altar, holy images, etc., that can be seen through a gla.s.s window barred across with slender pieces of iron. Above the door is an admonition urging the pa.s.ser-by to stop and say an "Ave" or a "Pater." All the dedications to saints and the Virgin are in Latin. For example, this is a very common heading for a shrine, "_Ave, Maria, gratiae plena._" I have also seen shrines dedicated to some of those old chaps that Dad is so interested in--Antony of Padua, Francis of a.s.sisi, etc. All over the place you meet, stuck in boxes with gla.s.s fronts and mounted on poles, tiny waxen images of various saints, or Christ on the Cross, the Virgin Mary, etc., etc. When a native comes to one of these shrines or images, he pulls off his hat, crosses himself, repeats a prayer, and pa.s.ses on, probably confident that his sins are forgiven. Everybody goes to Ma.s.s at the church of his commune at seven o'clock each morning, and often in the evening as well--on Sunday about three times.

Church spires are about the only landmarks in this very flat and rather uninteresting country. The towers vary between the square and the spire. The church itself is always large and quite imposing. You don't see churches of anything like the same size in English villages of corresponding population. A common sight as you ride along these roads is to see the cure, dressed in a long black surtout and a huge wide-brimmed hat just like "Don Bartola," the music-master in the opera of _Il Barbiere de Siviglia_. The cure gravely salutes you as you pa.s.s by, "Bon jour, mon ami!"

I am billeted with very decent folk, extremely devout Catholics.

The old man is the secretary to the Mayor. He spends his spare time learning English, and can read an English newspaper quite well. My room is of the kind I like--plain, with two huge windows opening like folding-doors, and only a tiny carpet to attract the dust; the rest clean, bare boards. In the room are two waxen images, one of the Virgin and Child, and one of Christ carrying a child in His arms; also a waxen model in a case of gla.s.s of the Virgin and Child, besides no fewer than three crucifixes. This is only characteristic of the whole village: every room I've seen hereabouts seems crowded with images. There are lots of these images, chipped and smashed, lying about the streets of Ypres. I suppose where you are at present [Scotland] everybody is a Presbyterian and very much against all ritual. There is at least this resemblance between Scot and Flemish: they both call the church "kirk" or "kerque." It is rather amusing to think that, according to the ideas of some English Churchmen, both Scottish Presbyterian and Flemish Catholic are lost for ever; while the Baptist of Llanelly is equally convinced that all three of them are; and each imagines the other to be hopelessly wrong. The war has this advantage: that it cuts athwart of all such ridiculous distinctions--for have we not among the Allies English Churchmen and Nonconformists, Catholics, Mohammedans, Hindus and secular Frenchmen, all fighting on the one side against another side which includes Catholics, Protestants and Mohammedans? I say what matter what a man believes if he does his duty?

The last two or three days I have spent in more or less local work, meaning by that districts within about ten miles of headquarters. I have been in the saddle all day, from 9 _A.M._ to 7 _P.M._, the only interval being for lunch. Riding is glorious sport. I don't think I shall ever be able to live without a horse in the future. I have been using here one of my own mares, and a fine charger belonging to a 9th Lancer employed at H.Q. (you remember it was this regiment that made the famous charge at Le Cateau back in October). It is a glorious steed this, full of "devil," and a bit bad-tempered. My own big mare is a rather quiet horse, very good at trotting long distances; my other one is smaller but more fiery. I prefer to ride whenever possible a horse that really takes some managing.

_September 8th, 1915._

I am glad you are invigorated and pleased with your trip to the land of Burns and Harry Lauder. The Scottish Highlands are the exact opposite of these flat plains. Never in my life have I seen a district so absolutely level as this. There are but three hills in these parts, and these are the only landmarks for miles and miles. Otherwise every road is like every other, every field and every clump of trees the same. The roads are all either dead straight or, in the case of side roads, full of right-angle bends. There is nothing of that sinuous curving which characterises English country roads. As you get nearer the firing-line the roads become worse owing to the pa.s.sage of Army traffic, till finally they end up in mere broad tracks full of holes and humps. When the weather is bad the mud is appalling--even the Dulwich footer-ground variety comes a bad second--added to which there is, in the case of main roads, the nuisance of a most unlevel _pave_, which, it is true, keeps free from mud, but to travel along which in a motor-car is torture.

The way the Army lorries go b.u.mping along--many of them old motor-buses with the top parts discarded--is stupendous. It is a strange sight occasionally to see approaching you a real motor-bus, painted grey and full of Tommies. I almost stopped one the other day, near the fire zone, and asked to be taken to Oxford Circus; it all seemed so familiar.

The news from Russia isn't very inspiriting. It looks as if Riga and Rovno will follow in the wake of Warsaw and Novo-Georgievsk.

Not that the mere capture of a town means anything in itself, but the Boches must be getting a store of ammunition and guns through their successes. Still, it might be that 1812 would repeat itself, though I fear the Germans have studied history too well to fall into the pit that destroyed Napoleon. _Nous verrons._

I went down the other day to an advanced Field Supply Depot. I often think of the steady flow of goods across the Channel from the home port where I began my Army experience, and the vastness of the silent work behind the scenes that is needed to keep the Army going. You would be amazed to find how little is known even in the A.S.C. itself of that which I have been privileged to see.

It has a spice of romance about it, this moving of vast stores from England to the trenches. Out here one gets fresh bread and meat regularly. There are also ample supplies of preserved meat.

As for "bully" beef, it is rare good stuff, and I am by no means averse from the hard Army biscuit.

It is the chief part of my duties to make local purchases or requisitions of goods as they are needed. Local resources are always used to the utmost, though G.H.Q. is careful to insist on all goods being duly paid for, or an official requisition-note being handed to the seller. You will realise that in this sort of work I get a lot of practice in French. The French spoken in these parts is very thick, quite different from the metallic French of Paris.

I am told that when we are moving in the field, cavalry go twice as fast as any other branch of the Service. When we begin to move, my job will be really most exciting and interesting, as I shall have to be right on ahead with a store of supplies, bought, requisitioned, or obtained somehow, to keep things going till the ordinary service of lorries and horsed wagons adapts itself to the new conditions. Whatever happens I hope to see some sport.