With our Fighting Men Part 9

Bishop Taylor-Smith, who tells the story of the funeral, also says that the very next day the same chaplain (Mr. Macpherson) had gathered the men of a battery into a musty old barn for a short service, when, in the midst of the service, the roof of the barn was lifted right off by a sh.e.l.l which, however, failed to explode. The service came to a summary conclusion, not because of fear, but because the battery must stop that sort of thing, and gallop away into action.

Further stories by Bishop Taylor-Smith of the period to which this chapter relates show under what weird circ.u.mstances the sacrament of the Lord's Supper is sometimes administered.

A jute factory near Armentieres was being heavily sh.e.l.led, but down in the cellar, while the sh.e.l.ling was proceeding, the chaplain calmly distributed the elements to one hundred and twenty-eight officers and men of the Monmouth regiment. The only light was that supplied by the chaplain's flash lamp. The battalion went into action next day, and several of those who had taken part in the Holy Communion were killed.

On another occasion a celebration was taking place in a house at Houplines when sh.e.l.ls demolished the houses on either side, and no sooner was the service over than a sh.e.l.l struck that self-same house.

Close by was the crackling of rifle fire, for a shed in which the ammunition of the West Yorks was stored had been fired by a German sh.e.l.l.

In the same district an ordinary service--lasting about twenty-five minutes--was held at the O.C.'s request in a barn round which sh.e.l.ls were dropping every moment. And yet so powerful was the singing of the men that it almost drowned the din of the bombardment. The chaplain, as he stood there conducting the service, thought how fearful it would be if a big sh.e.l.l dropped into the midst of that company of praying men.

After this who will call parsons cowards? I do not wonder that already one of them, the Rev. P.W. Guinness (Church of England), has won the D.S.O., and that Mr. Macpherson was among those "mentioned in despatches." I shall tell the story of Mr. Guinness' brave deed in another chapter.

One more funeral and this chapter shall draw to a close. The scene is too beautiful to leave out, even if it does mean bringing three funerals into one chapter. It dates from the battle of the Marne, and the story is narrated by our old friend the Rev. O.S. Watkins.

No men are braver, and very few render more important service, than the motor cycle scouts. They are, many of them, students from Oxford and Cambridge. Their intelligence, knowledge of languages, and general resource are a great a.s.set to the British Army. Their work, however, is perilous in the extreme. One of these had lost his way and had actually ridden through two villages occupied by Germans when, at Douai, a bullet found its way to his heart.

When the Germans retired from the village, the villagers carried him tenderly into a cottage, straightened the fine young limbs, and covered him with a clean white sheet. They placed a bunch of newly gathered flowers upon his heart. He was carried to his last long rest by the old men of the village--the young men had all gone to the war--and as they pa.s.sed through the village, the women came from the houses and laid flowers upon the bier.

Slowly they climbed the hill, with many a halt to rest the ancient bearers, while ahead boomed the heavy guns, and at their feet they could see the infantry advancing to action. At last the hill-top was reached, crowned by the little church, with "G.o.d's acre" all around.

They laid him in the hastily dug grave, the peasants, with uncovered heads, listening reverently to the reading of the burial service in a language they could not understand. Before the service was finished shrapnel sh.e.l.ls were bursting over the hilltop, and the peasants quietly moved to the partial shelter of the wall, still with uncovered heads.

When the final "Amen" was said, the chaplain stood for a moment gazing down into the grave and thinking of all the brilliant possibilities wrapped up in that splendid young fellow "gone to his death," when one of the old men, forgetting his fear of the guns, came forward to the graveside, and cast earth with unconscious dignity upon the body lying there. "You are a brave man," he said, "and our friend. You have given your life for our country. We thank you. May you sleep well in the earth of beautiful France!" And the old men under the shelter of the wall added "Amen."

Thus they go, the grand old field-marshal 'neath the weight of years, the brilliant general in the full tide of useful service, and the young man, his life-work scarce begun! Thus they go and the flower of our nation's manhood with them. If that were the end, if death ended all, Britain could hardly lift up her head again. But we cheer ourselves as we remember that what we call the end is only the beginning. Goethe draws a picture in _Faust_ of his hero gazing at the setting sun. As he watches it slowly setting in the west, he longs to follow it in its course--

To drink its everlasting light, The day before him and behind the night.

But they may and do. There is always--

The day before _them_ and behind the night.

"There is no night there." And so we comfort ourselves with the thought that service broken short off here may be continued yonder, that the old will grow young again, that the o'erthrown fighter will rise conqueror, and life--eternal life--will crown all.

The best is yet to be.

CHAPTER V

THOMAS ATKINS IN THE TRENCHES

The Original Thomas Atkins--No Infidels in the Trenches--In the Trenches at Night--A Salvation Army Story, and Others--Man Who was Digging a Trench--They have "Kept Smiling "--What Christ is to the Soldier--What a Picture!--Every Place the "House of the Lord"--The Soldier Spirit--The Gilts from Home--Courage has never Failed--And the Christian Soldier?

"I tell you what it is, sir, G.o.d is jolly near you in the trenches."

So spoke Thomas Atkins to a Church of England chaplain. It was just like him to speak thus. A vigorous utterance suits him.

But how did he come by the name Thomas Atkins? The story goes that it dates from the Peninsular War. The Duke of Wellington was directing some operations in the field. An aide-de-camp rode up to him with the outline of a new attestation form, or something of that kind sent out by the War Office of those days.

It was advisable to fill up the top line in order that those who filled up the following lines might have an example of how it should be done. The question was, Whose name should be put in there? The aide-de-camp thought the Duke would mention the first name that came into his mind, but not so the Duke. He looked at it a moment, and said, "I must think. Come back to me in an hour."

During that hour he turned over in his mind the deeds of bravery he had seen performed by private soldiers. He thought of the brave deeds of soldiers in the Peninsular Campaign. And then his mind went back to India, and at last he said to himself, "Yes, that was the bravest deed I ever saw performed by a private soldier." And when his aide-de-camp came back he said, "Put down Thomas Atkins." And "Thomas Atkins" it has been from that day to this. So the t.i.tle enshrines the memory of a brave man, and I wonder if he, too, felt G.o.d "jolly near" him in the trenches.

"Jolly near!" It is a thought-provoking phrase. "Near!" Ah! yes, we know that, and if we can look up amidst the bursting sh.e.l.l and see, not the angry, but the smiling face of G.o.d, then the word "jolly," if not as we should put it, is at any rate expressive.

The "Eye-witness" with the British Army tells us something of what it is like in the trenches.

"After a short outburst of fire lasting perhaps for only three or four minutes the hostile trenches are obscured by a pall of smoke, in the midst of which can be seen the flashes of the shrapnel bursts and the miniature volcanoes of earth where the high explosive common sh.e.l.ls burst in the soft clay soil. Then, if an infantry attack is to be launched, the cannonade suddenly ceases. There is a moment of suspense, and a swarm of khaki figures springs from our trenches and rushes across the fire-swept zone, possibly 100 yards in breadth.

Instantly there breaks out the rattle of machine guns and musketry.

There is some hesitation as the stormers reach the entanglements, and then, if the a.s.sault succeeds, they disappear into the enemy's trenches, leaving a few or many scattered bodies lying in the track of their advance. Save at such moments as these there is often no movement whatever in the battle zone, for not a man, horse, or gun is to be seen, and there are periods of absolute stillness when, except for the sight of the deserted and ruined hamlets, the scene is one of peace and agricultural prosperity."

Yes, it is very quiet in the trenches. Not a head must appear over the top or death is the result. Quiet, yes; up to the knees, or sometimes up to the waist, in water, eating there, sleeping there, often dying there. We read of some trenches where the water was so deep that the wounded men were drowned. There was no place to put them, and they just fell into the water, and there they died.

Quiet, until the artillery has done its preparatory work, and then charge, charge, charge!

I do not wonder that a wounded soldier said to the Rev. T.J. Thorpe: "My mates used to tell me in barracks that they were infidels--they did not believe in G.o.d--but after their experiences in the trenches they have lost their infidelity. They pray now. _There are no infidels in the trenches._"

Said another soldier, "We leapt from our trenches singing a rowdy song, but in a minute I was praying as I never prayed before. My mates were praying. We were all praying, and I have been praying ever since."

I do not wonder that "there are no infidels in the trenches."

The Rev. Cuthbert J. Maclean (Church of England chaplain), writing from France on November 3, 1914, tells us that he had been in the trenches continually under fire for three weeks, and had not even had a rough wash or taken off his boots. He has had several wonderful escapes from death, even being hit in the neck without, however, sustaining any injury.

"Four days ago," he says, "I spent some hours sitting in my 'funk-hole' in a trench, and then I left for a little exercise. About twenty minutes after I had moved out, a huge sh.e.l.l burst in the exact spot where I had been sitting for hours, and blew up the trench for some twenty yards."

It will be seen from this that the trenches are not always waist-deep or even knee-deep in water. It depends upon the weather. At first elaborate precautions were taken to make the trenches as comfortable as possible. They were deep and comparatively wide. All sorts of necessaries and, occasionally, luxuries were kept there. They were drawing-room and dining-room and kitchen.

But when the long continued rains came they were almost uninhabitable.

Men stood in liquid mud, sometimes covered with frost. They stood day after day and suffered sorely. Many of them had to be invalided to the rear with rheumatism, and will never recover from the effect of those terrible days.

An elaborate system of network communication trenches was formed, communicating with the rear, but in the worst of the weather, the communication trenches became worse than the fire trenches, and in some cases the water in them was up to the necks of the men.

It was only when night fell that communication with the fire trenches was possible. Then it was that rations were conveyed to the men at the front--only then was it possible--and even in the dark it was a difficult and dangerous task. No light must be shown; to strike a match might be death. Says the non-commissioned officer to his men engaged in this hazardous task: "Whenever a searchlight is turned on you, or the country is lit up by a flare or a star sh.e.l.l, stand perfectly still. It's movement wot gives the show away. Keep still, an' they'll think you're a bush, or a tree, or what not. But as sure as yer move, you're a deader."

Under these circ.u.mstances, Christian work in the trenches would seem impossible, but the apparently impossible has been accomplished. The chaplains are from time to time with their men in the trenches. The experience of Mr. McLean has already been quoted, and many another might be added.

Christian men are there also in ever-increasing numbers, and these are themselves unofficial chaplains. We hear of at least one Methodist cla.s.s meeting regularly held in the trenches, and there is many a prayer meeting there. Yes, and many a man has found his Saviour there, for the Lord Jesus is very near those who seek Him in the trenches.

Here is a sacred little letter scribbled in the trenches by a man who there gave himself to Christ:

"To my darling wife and children. Daddy fully surrendered to Jesus 20.11.14 at Ypres. Sudden death--sudden glory. Safe in the arms of Jesus."

A soldier, who has recently returned home for a brief rest after many weeks in the firing line and in the trenches, says that he is quite an altered man as the result of the war. As a boy he was never taught to pray; but in the trenches he began to pray, and prayed regularly.

Hundreds of men, he says, are doing the same thing day by day. He also says that the men at the front expect and reckon upon the prayers of the people at home on their behalf.

And now a Salvation Army story. One day a man came into a Salvation Army hall in the East End of London, and when the officers were speaking to him they found that he had never been to a Salvation Army service before. They asked him what brought him there.