Title: Tommy Atkins at War - As Told in His Own Letters
Author: Kilpatrick, James Alexander
Language: English
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TOMMY ATKINS AT WAR


     "The English soldier is the best trained soldier in the world. The
     English soldier's fire is ten thousand times worse than hell. If we
     could only beat the English it would be well for us, but I am
     afraid we shall never be able to beat these English devils."

     _From a letter found on a German officer._



TOMMY ATKINS AT WAR

As Told in His Own Letters

by

JAMES A. KILPATRICK

New York
McBride, Nast & Company

1914



NOTE


This little book is the soldier's story of the war, with all his vivid
and intimate impressions of life on the great battlefields of Europe. It
is illustrated by passages from his letters, in which he describes not
only the grim realities, but the chivalry, humanity and exaltation of
battle. For the use of these passages the author is indebted to the
courtesy and generosity of the editors of all the leading London and
provincial newspapers, to whom he gratefully acknowledges his
obligations.

J.A.K.



CONTENTS


   I   OFF TO THE FRONT                   9

  II   SENSATIONS UNDER FIRE             18

 III   HUMOR IN THE TRENCHES             30

  IV   THE MAN WITH THE BAYONET          39

   V   CAVALRY EXPLOITS                  46

  VI   WITH THE HIGHLANDERS              55

 VII   THE INTREPID IRISH                64

VIII   "A FIRST-CLASS FIGHTING MAN"      73

  IX   OFFICERS AND GENTLEMEN            82

   X   BROTHERS IN ARMS                  91

  XI   ATKINS AND THE ENEMY             100

 XII   THE WAR IN THE AIR               112

XIII   TOMMY AND HIS RATIONS            121



TOMMY ATKINS AT WAR



I

OFF TO THE FRONT


"It is my Royal and Imperial Command that you concentrate your energies,
for the immediate present upon one single purpose, and that is that you
address all your skill and all the valor of my soldiers to exterminate
first the treacherous English and walk over General French's
contemptible little army."[A]

While this Imperial Command of the Kaiser was being written, Atkins,
innocent of the fate decreed for him, was well on his way to the front,
full of exuberant spirits, and singing as he went, "It's a long way to
Tipperary." In his pocket was the message from Lord Kitchener which
Atkins believes to be the whole duty of a soldier: "Be brave, be kind,
courteous (but nothing more than courteous) to women, and look upon
looting as a disgraceful act."

Troopship after troopship had crossed the Channel carrying Sir John
French's little army to the Continent, while the boasted German fleet,
impotent to menace the safety of our transports, lay helpless--bottled
up, to quote Mr. Asquith's phrase, "in the inglorious seclusion of their
own ports."

Never before had a British Expeditionary Force been organized, equipped
and despatched so swiftly for service in the field. The energies of the
War Office had long been applied to the creation of a small but highly
efficient striking force ready for instant action. And now the time for
action had come. The force was ready. From the harbors the troopships
steamed away, their decks crowded with cheery soldiers, their flags
waving a proud challenge to any disputant of Britain's command of the
sea.

The expedition was carried out as if by magic. For a few brief days the
nation endured with patience its self-imposed silence. In the newspapers
were no brave columns of farewell scenes, no exultant send-off
greetings, no stirring pictures of troopships passing out into the
night. All was silence, the silence of a nation preparing for the "iron
sacrifice," as Kipling calls it, of a devastating war. Then suddenly the
silence was broken, and across the Channel was flashed the news that the
troops had been safely landed, and were only waiting orders to throw
themselves upon the German brigands who had broken the sacred peace of
Europe.

And so the scene changes to France and Belgium. Tommy Atkins is on his
way to the Front. He has already begun to send home some of those
gallant letters that throb throughout the pages of this book. If he felt
the absence of the stimulating send-off, necessitated by official
caution and the exigencies of a European war, he at least had the new
joy of a welcome on foreign soil. It is difficult to find words with the
right quality in them to express the feelings aroused in our men by
their reception, or the exquisite gratitude felt by the Franco-Belgian
people. They welcomed the British troops as their deliverers.

"The first person to meet us in France," writes a British officer, "was
the pilot, and the first intimation of his presence was a huge voice in
the darkness, which roared out 'A bas Guillaume. Eep, eep, 'ooray!'" As
transport after transport sailed into Boulogne, and regiment after
regiment landed, the population went into ecstasies of delight. Through
the narrow streets of the old town the soldiers marched, singing,
whistling, and cheering, with a wave of their caps to the women and a
kiss wafted to the children (but not only to the children!) on the
route. As they swept along, their happy faces and gallant bearing struck
deep into the emotions of the spectators. "What brave fellows, to go
into battle laughing!" exclaimed one old woman, whose own sons had been
called to the army of the Republic.

It was strange to hear the pipes of the Highlanders skirl shrilly
through old Boulogne, and to catch the sound of English voices in the
clarion notes of the "Marseillaise," but, strangest of all to French
ears, to listen to that new battle-cry, "Are we down-hearted?" followed
by the unanswerable "No--o--o!" of every regiment. And then the lilt of
that new marching song to which Tommy Atkins has given immortality:--

    "IT'S A LONG, LONG WAY TO TIPPERARY"[B]

    Up to mighty London came an Irishman one day;
    As the streets are paved with gold, sure ev'ry one was gay,
    Singing songs of Piccadilly, Strand and Leicester Square,
    Till Paddy got excited, then he shouted to them there:

    CHORUS

    It's a long way to Tipperary,
      It's a long way to go;
    It's a long way to Tipperary,
      To the sweetest girl I know!
    Good-by Piccadilly,
      Farewell Leicester Square.
    It's a long, long way to Tipperary,
      But my heart's right there!
          It's a' there!

    Paddy wrote a letter to his Irish Molly O',
    Saying, "Should you not receive it, write and let me know!
    If I make mistakes in spelling, Molly dear," said he,
    "Remember it's the pen that's bad, don't lay the blame on me."

    (_Chorus_)

    Molly wrote a neat reply to Irish Paddy O',
    Saying, "Mike Maloney wants to marry me, and so
    Leave the Strand and Piccadilly, or you'll be to blame,
    For love has fairly drove me silly--hoping you're the same!"

    (_Chorus_)

It may seem odd that the soldier should care so little for martial
songs, or the songs that are ostensibly written for him; but that is not
the fault of Tommy Atkins. Lyric poets don't give him what he calls "the
stuff." He doesn't get it even from Kipling; Thomas Hardy's "Song of
the Soldiers" leaves him cold. He wants no epic stanzas, no heroic
periods. What he asks for is something simple and romantic, something
about a girl, and home, and the lights of London--that goes with a swing
in the march and awakens tender memories when the lilt of it is wafted
at night along the trenches.

And so "Tipperary" has gone with the troops into the great European
battlefields, and has echoed along the white roads and over the green
fields of France and Belgium.

On the way to the front the progress of our soldiers was made one long
fête: it was "roses, roses, all the way." In a letter published in _The
Times_, an artillery officer thus describes it:

"As to the reception we have met with moving across country it has been
simply wonderful and most affecting. We travel entirely by motor
transport, and it has been flowers all the way. One long procession of
acclamation. By the wayside and through the villages, men, women, and
children cheer us on with the greatest enthusiasm, and every one wants
to give us something. They strip the flower gardens, and the cars look
like carnival carriages. They pelt us with fruit, cigarettes, chocolate,
bread--anything and everything. It is simply impossible to convey an
impression of it all. Yesterday my own car had to stop in a town for
petrol. In a moment there must have been a couple of hundred people
round clamoring; autograph albums were thrust in front of me; a perfect
delirium. In another town I had to stop for an hour, and took the
opportunity to do some shopping. I wanted some motor goggles, an
eye-bath, some boracic, provisions, etc. They would not let me pay for a
single thing--and there was lunch and drinks as well. The further we go
the more enthusiastic is the greeting. What it will be like at the end
of the war one cannot attempt to guess."

Similar tributes to the kindness of the French and Belgians are given by
the men. A private in the Yorkshire Light Infantry--the first British
regiment to go into action in this war--tells of the joy of the French
people. "You ought to have seen them," he writes. "They were overcome
with delight, and didn't half cheer us! The worst of it was we could not
understand their talking. When we crossed the Franco-Belgian frontier,
there was a vast crowd of Belgians waiting for us. Our first greeting
was the big Union Jack, and on the other side was a huge canvas with the
words 'Welcome to our British Comrades.' The Belgians would have given
us anything; they even tore the sheets off their beds for us to wipe our
faces with." Another Tommy tells of the eager crowds turning out to give
our troops "cigars, cigarettes, sweets, fruits, wines, anything we
want," and the girls "linking their arms in ours, and stripping us of
our badges and buttons as souvenirs."

Then there is the other side of the picture, when the first battles had
been fought and the strategic retreat had begun. No praise could be too
high for the chivalry and humanity of our soldiers in these dark days.
They were almost worshiped by the people wherever they went.

Some of the earliest letters from the soldiers present distressing
pictures of the poor, driven refugees, fleeing from their homes at the
approach of the Germans, who carry ruin and desolation wherever they go.
"It is pitiful, pitiful," says one writer; "you simply can't hold back
your tears." Others disclose our sympathetic soldier-men sharing their
rations with the starving fugitives and carrying the children on their
shoulders so that the weary mothers may not fall by the way. "Be
invariably courteous, considerate, and kind" were Lord Kitchener's words
to the Army, and these qualities no less than valor will always be
linked with Tommy Atkins' name in the memories of the French and Belgian
people.

They will never forget the happy spick-and-span soldiers who sang as
they stepped ashore from the troopships at Boulogne and Havre, eager to
reach the fighting line. These men have fought valiantly, desperately,
since then, but their spirits are as high as ever, and their songs still
ring down the depleted ranks as the war-stained regiments swing along
from battle to battle on the dusty road to Victory.



II

SENSATIONS UNDER FIRE


It is said of Sir John French that, on his own admission, he has "never
done anything worth doing without having to screw himself up to it."
There is no hint here of practical fear, which the hardened soldier, the
fighting man, rarely experiences; but of the moral and mental conflict
which precedes the assumption of sovereign duties and high commands.
Every man who goes into battle has this need. He requires the moral
preparation of knowing why he is fighting, and what he is fighting for.
In the present war, Lord Kitchener's fine message to every soldier in
the Expeditionary Force made this screwing-up process easy. But to men
going under fire for the first time some personal preparation is also
necessary to combat the ordinary physical terror of the battlefield.

Soldiers are not accustomed to self-analysis. They are mainly men of
action, and are supposed to lack the contemplative vision. That was the
old belief. This war, however, which has shattered so many accepted
ideas, has destroyed that conviction too. Nothing is more surprising
than the revelation of their feelings disclosed in the soldiers'
letters. They are the most intimate of human documents. Here and there a
hint is given of the apprehension with which the men go into action,
unspoken fears of how they will behave under fire, the uncertainty of
complete mastery over themselves, brief doubts of their ability to stand
up to this new and sublime ordeal of death.

Rarely, however, do the men allow these apprehensions to depress or
disturb them. Throughout the earliest letters from the front the one
pervading desire was eagerness for battle--a wild impatience to get the
first great test of their courage over, to feel their feet, obtain
command of themselves.

"We were all eager for scalps," writes one of the Royal Engineers, "and
I took the cap, sword, and lance of a Uhlan I shot through the chest."
An artilleryman says a gunner in his battery was "so anxious to see the
enemy," that he jumped up to look, and got his leg shot away. Others
tell of the intense curiosity of the young soldiers to see everything
that is going on, of their reckless neglect of cover, and of the
difficulty of holding them back when they see a comrade fall. "In spite
of orders, some of my men actually charged a machine gun," an officer
related. After the first baptism of fire any lingering fear is
dispelled. "I don't think we were ever afraid at all," says another
soldier, "but we got into action so quickly that we hadn't time to think
about it." "Habit soon overcomes the first instinctive fear," writes a
third, "and then the struggle is always palpitating."

Of course, the fighting affects men in different ways. Some see the
ugliness, the horror of it all, grow sick at the sight, and suffer from
nausea. Others, seeing deeper significance in this desolation of life,
realize the wickedness and waste of it; as one Highlander expresses it:
"Being out there, and seeing what we see, makes us feel religious." But
the majority of the men have the instinct for fighting, quickly adapt
themselves to war conditions, and enter with zest into the joy of
battle. These happy warriors are the men who laugh, and sing, and jest
in the trenches. They take a strangely intimate pleasure in the danger
around them, and when they fall they die like Mr. Julian Smith of the
Intelligence Department, declaring that they "loved the fighting." All
the wounded beg the doctors and nurses to hurry up and let them return
to the front. "I was enjoying it until I was put under," writes
Lance-Corporal Leslie, R.E. "I must get back and have another go at
them," says Private J. Roe, of the Manchesters. And so on, letter after
letter expressing impatience to get into the firing line.

The artillery is what harasses the men most. They soon developed a
contempt for German rifle fire, and it became a very persistent joke in
the trenches. But nearly all agree that German artillery is "hell let
loose." That is what the enemy intended it to be, but they did not
reckon upon the terrors of Hades making so small an impression upon the
British soldier. There is an illuminating passage in an official
statement issued from the General Headquarters:

"The object of the great proportion of artillery the Germans employ is
to beat down the resistance of their enemy by a concentrated and
prolonged fire, and to shatter their nerve with high explosives before
the infantry attack is launched. They seem to have relied on doing this
with us; but they have not done so, though it has taken them several
costly experiments to discover this fact. From the statements of
prisoners, indeed, it appears that they have been greatly disappointed
by the moral effect produced by their heavy guns, which, despite the
actual losses inflicted, has not been at all commensurate with the
colossal expenditure of ammunition which has really been wasted. By this
it is not implied that their artillery fire is not good. It is more than
good; it is excellent. But the British soldier is a difficult person to
impress or depress, even by immense shells filled with high explosives
which detonate with terrific violence and form craters large enough to
act as graves for five horses. The German howitzer shells are 8 to 9
inches in caliber, and on impact they send up columns of greasy black
smoke. On account of this they are irreverently dubbed 'Coal-boxes,'
'Black Marias,' or 'Jack Johnsons' by the soldiers. Men who take things
in this spirit, are, it seems, likely to throw out the calculations
based on the loss of _moral_ so carefully framed by the German military
philosophers."

Every word of this admirable official message is borne out by the men's
own version of their experiences of artillery fire. "At first the din is
terrific, and you feel as if your ears would burst and the teeth fall
out of your head," writes one of the West Kents, "but, of course, you
can get used to anything, and our artillerymen give them a bit of hell
back, I can tell you." "The sensation of finding myself among screaming
shells was all new to me," says Corporal Butlin, Lancashire Fusiliers,
"but after the first terrible moments, which were enough to unnerve
anybody, I became used to the situation. Afterwards the din had no
effect upon me." And describing an artillery duel a gunner declares: "It
was butcher's work. We just rained shells on the Germans until we were
deaf and choking. I don't think a gun on their position could have sold
for old iron after we had finished, and the German gunners would be just
odd pieces of clothing and bits of accouterment. It seems 'swanky' to
say so, but once you get over the first shock you go on chewing biscuits
and tobacco when the shells are bursting all round. You don't seem to
mind it any more than smoking in a hailstorm."

Smoking is the great consolation of the soldiers. They smoke whenever
they can, and the soothing cigarette is their best friend in the
trenches. "We can go through anything so long as we have tobacco," is a
passage from a soldier's letter; and this is the burden of nearly all
the messages from the front. "The fight was pretty hot while it lasted,
but we were all as cool as Liffy water, and smoked cigarettes while the
shells shrieked blue murder over our heads," is an Irishman's account of
the effect of the big German guns.

The noise of battle--especially the roar of artillery--is described in
several letters. "It is like standing in a railway station with heavy
expresses constantly tearing through," is an officer's impression of it.
A wounded Gordon Highlander dismisses it as no more terrible than a bad
thunderstorm: "You get the same din and the big flashes of light in
front of you, and now and then the chance of being knocked over by a
bullet or piece of shell, just as you might be struck by lightning."
That is the real philosophy of the soldier. "After all, we are may-be as
safe here as you are in Piccadilly," says another; and when men have
come unhurt out of infinite danger they grow sublimely fatalistic and
cheerful. An officer in the Cavalry Division, for instance, writes: "I
am coming back all right, never fear. Have been in such tight corners
and under such fire that if I were meant to go I should have gone by
now, I'm sure." And it is the same with the men. "Having gone through
six battles without a scratch," says Private A. Sunderland, of Bolton,
"I thought I would never be hit." Later on, however, he was wounded.

Though the artillery fire has proved most destructive to all ranks, by
far the worst ordeal of the troops was the long retreat in the early
stages of the war. It exhausted and exasperated the men. They grew angry
and impatient. None but the best troops in the world, with a profound
belief in the judgment and valor of their officers, could have stood up
against it. A statement by a driver of the Royal Field Artillery,
published in the _Evening News_, gives a vivid impression of how the men
felt. "I have no clear notion of the order of events in the long
retreat," he says; "it was a nightmare, like being seized by a madman
after coming out of a serious illness and forced towards the edge of a
precipice." The constant marching, the want of sleep, the restless and
(as it sometimes seemed to the men) purposeless backward movement night
and day drove them into a fury. The intensity of the warfare, the fierce
pressure upon the mental and physical powers of endurance, might well
have exercised a mischievous effect upon the men. Instead, however, it
only brought out their finest qualities.

In an able article in _Blackwood's Magazine_, on "Moral Qualities in
War," Major C.A.L. Yate, of the King's Own Yorkshire Light Infantry,
dealt with the "intensity" of the war strain, of which he himself had
acute experience. "Under such conditions," he wrote, "marksmen may
achieve no more than the most erratic shots; the smartest corps may
quickly degenerate into a rabble; the easiest tasks will often appear
impossible. An army can weather trials such as those just depicted only
if it be collectively considered in that healthy state of mind which the
term _moral_ implies." It is just that _moral_ which the British
Expeditionary Force has been proved to possess in so rich a measure, and
which must belong to all good soldiers in these days of nerve-shattering
war.

Little touches of pathos are not wanting in the scenes pictured in the
soldiers' letters, and they bring an element of humanity into the cold,
well-ordered, practical business of war. Men who will meet any personal
danger without flinching often find the mists floating across their eyes
when a comrade is struck down at their side. Private Plant, Manchester
Regiment, tells how his pal was eating a bit of bread and cheese when he
was knocked over: "Poor chap, he just managed to ask me to tell his
missus." "War is rotten when you see your best pal curl up at your
feet," comments another. "One of our chaps got hit in the face with a
shrapnel bullet," Private Sidney Smith, First Warwickshires, relates.
"'Hurt, Bill?' I said to him. 'Good luck to the old regiment,' says he.
Then he rolled over on his back." "Partings of this kind are sad
enough," says an Irish Dragoon, "but we've just got to sigh and get used
to it."

Their own injuries and sufferings don't seem to worry them much. The
sensation of getting wounded is simply told. One man, shot through the
arm, felt "only a bit of a sting, nothing particular. Just like a sharp
needle going into me. I thought it was nothing till my rifle dropped out
of my hand, and my arm fell. Rotten luck." That is the feeling of a
clean bullet wound. Shrapnel, however, hurts--"hurts pretty badly,"
Tommy says. And the lance and the bayonet make ugly gashes. In sensitive
men, however, the continuous shell-fire produces effects that are often
as serious as wounds. "Some," says Mr. Geoffrey Young, the _Daily News
and Leader_ correspondent, "suffer from a curious aphasia, some get
dazed and speechless, some deafened"; but of course their recovery is
fairly rapid, and the German "Black Marias" soon exhaust their terrors.
A man may lose his memory and have but a hazy idea of the day of the
week or the hour of the day, but Tommy still keeps his nerve, and after
his first experience of the enemy's fire, to quote his own words,
"doesn't care one d---- about the danger."

As showing the general feeling of the educated soldier, independent
altogether of his nationality, it is worth quoting two other
experiences, both Russian. Mr. Stephen Graham in the _Times_ recites the
sensations of a young Russian officer. "The feeling under fire at first
is unpleasant," he admits, "but after a while it becomes even
exhilarating. One feels an extraordinary freedom in the midst of death."
The following is a quotation from a soldier's letter sent by Mr. H.
Williams, the _Daily Chronicle_ correspondent at Petrograd: "One talks
of hell fire on the battlefield, but I assure you it makes no more
impression on me now than the tooting of motors. Habit is everything,
especially in war, where all the logic and psychology of one's actions
are the exact reverse of a civilian's.... The whole sensation of fear is
atrophied. We don't care a farthing for our lives.... We don't think of
danger. In this new frame of mind we simply go and do the perfectly
normal, natural things that you call heroism."

When the heroic things are done and there comes a lull in the fighting,
it is sweet to sink down in the trenches worn out, exhausted, unutterly
drowsy, and snatch a brief unconscious hour of sleep. Some of the men
fall asleep with the rifles still hot in their hands, their heads
resting on the barrels. Magnificently as they endure fatigue, there
comes a time when the strain is intolerable, and, "beat to the world,"
as one officer describes it, they often sink into profound sleep, like
horses, standing. At these times it seems as if nothing could wake them.
Shrapnel may thunder around them in vain; they never move a muscle. In
Mr. Stephen Crane's fine phrase, they "sleep the brave sleep of wearied
men."



III

HUMOR IN THE TRENCHES


One of the most surprising of the many revelations of this war has been
that of the gaiety, humor, and good nature of the British soldier. All
the correspondents, English and French, remark upon it. A new Tommy
Atkins has arisen, whose cheery laugh and joke and music-hall song have
enlivened not only the long, weary, exhausting marches, but even the
grim and unnerving hours in the trenches. Theirs was not the excitement
of men going into battle, nervous and uncertain of their behavior under
fire; it was rather that of light-hearted first-nighters waiting in the
queue to witness some new and popular drama.

"A party of the King's Own," writes Sapper Mugridge of the Royal
Engineers, "went into their first action shouting 'Early doors this way!
Early doors, ninepence!'" "The Kaiser's crush" is the description given
by a sergeant of the Coldstream Guards as he watched a dense mass of
Germans emerging to the attack from a wood, and prepared to meet them
with the bayonet. When first the fierce German searchlights were turned
on the British lines a little cockney in the Middlesex Regiment
exclaimed to his comrade: "Lord, Bill, it's just like a play, an' us in
the limelight"; and as the artillery fusillade passed over their heads,
and a great ironical cheer rose from the British trenches, he added:
"But it's the Kaiser wot's gettin' the bird."

Many of the wounded who have been invalided home were asked whether this
humor in the trenches is the real thing, or only an affected drollery to
conceal the emotions the men feel in the face of death; but they all
declare that it is quite spontaneous. One old soldier, well accustomed
to being under fire, freely admitted that he had never been with such a
cheery and courageous lot of youngsters in his life. "They take
everything that comes to them as 'all in the game,'" he said, "and
nothing could now damp their spirits."

Songs, cards and jokes fill up the waiting hours in the trenches; under
fire, indeed, the wit seems to become sharpest. A corporal in the Motor
Cycle Section of the Royal Engineers writes: "At first the German
artillery was rotten. Three batteries bombarded an entrenched British
battalion for two hours and only seven men were killed. The noise was
simply deafening, but so little effect had the fire that the men shouted
with laughter and held their caps up on the end of their rifles to give
the German gunners a bit of encouragement." The same spirit of raillery
is spoken of by a Seaforth Highlander, who says one of the Wiltshires
stuck out in the trenches a tin can on which was the notice "Business as
Usual." As, however, it gave the enemy too good a target he was cheerily
asked to "take the blooming thing in again," and in so doing he was
wounded twice.

"The liveliest Sunday I ever spent" is how Private P. Case, Liverpool
Regiment, describes the fighting at Mons. "It was a glorious time,"
writes Bandsman Wall, Connaught Rangers; "we had nothing to do but shoot
the Germans as they came up, just like knocking dolls down at the fair
ground." "A very pleasant morning in the trenches," remarks one of the
Officers' Special Reserve; and another writer, after being in several
engagements, says, "This is really the best summer holiday I've ever
had."

Nothing could excel the coolness of the men under fire. With a hail of
bullets and shells raining about them they sing and jest with each
other unconcernedly. Wiping the dust of battle from his face and loading
up for another shot, a Highlander will break forth into one of Harry
Lauder's songs:

    "It's a wee deoch an' doruis,
    Jist a wee drap, that's a',"

and with a laugh some English Tommies will make a dash at the line "a
braw, bricht, minlicht nicht," with ludicrous consequences to the
pronunciation! According to "Joe," of the 2nd Royal Scots, the favorite
songs in the trenches or round the camp-fire are "Never Mind," and "The
Last Boat is leaving for Home." "Hitchy Koo" is another favorite, and
was being sung in the midst of a German attack. "One man near me was
wounded," says a comrade, "but he sang the chorus to the finish."

It is remarkable how these songs and witticisms steady the soldiers
under fire. In a letter in the _Evening News_ Sergeant J. Baker writes:
"Some of our men have made wonderful practise with the rifle, and they
are beginning to fancy themselves as marksmen. If they don't hit
something every time they think they ought to see a doctor about it....
Artillery fire, however, is the deadliest thing out, and it takes a lot
of nerve to stand it. The Germans keep up an infernal din from morning
till far into the night; but they don't do half as much damage as you
would think, though it is annoying to have all that row going on when
you're trying to write home or make up the regimental accounts."

Writing home is certainly done under circumstances which are apt to have
a disturbing effect upon the literary style. "Excuse this scrawl,"
writes one soldier, "the German shells have interrupted me six times
already, and I had to dash out with my bayonet before I was able to
finish it off." Another concludes: "Well, mother, I must close now. The
bullets are a bit too thick for letter-writing." To a young engineer the
experience was so strange that he describes it as "like writing in a
dream."

Some of the nick-names given by Tommy Atkins to the German shells have
already been quoted, but the most amusing is surely that in a letter
from Private Watters. "One of our men," he relates, "has got a ripping
cure for neuralgia, but he isn't going to take out a patent for it!
While lying in the trenches, mad with pain in the face, a shell burst
beside him. He wasn't hit, but the explosion rendered him unconscious
for a time, and when he recovered, his neuralgia had gone. His name is
Palmer, so now we call the German shells 'Palmer's Neuralgia Cure.'"

The amusing story of a long march afforded some mirth in the trenches
when it got to be known. A party of artillerymen who had been toiling
along in the dark for hours, and were like to drop with fatigue, ran
straight into a troop of horsemen posted near a wood. "We thought they
were Germans," one gunner related, "for we couldn't make out the colors
of the uniforms or anything else, until we heard some one sing out
'Where the hell do you think you're going to?' _Then we knew we were
with friends._"

Football is the great topic of discussion in the trenches. Mr. Harold
Ashton, of the _Daily News and Leader_, relates an amusing encounter
with a Royal Horse Artilleryman to whom he showed a copy of the paper.
"Where's the sporting news?" asked the artilleryman as he glanced over
the pages. "Shot away in the war," replied Mr. Ashton. "What!" exclaimed
Tommy, "not a line about the Arsenal? Well, I'm blowed! This _is_ a
war!" "We are all in good spirits," writes a bombardier in the 44th
Battery, Royal Artillery, "and mainly anxious to know how football is
going on in Newcastle now." "I got this," said a Gordon Highlander,
referring to his wound, "because I became excited in an argument with
wee Geordie Ferris, of our company, about the chances of Queen's Park
and Rangers this season."

An artilleryman sends a description of the fighting written in the
jargon of the football field. He describes the war as "the great match
for the European Cup, which is being played before a record gate, though
you can't perhaps see the crowd." In spite of all their swank, he adds,
"the Germans haven't scored a goal yet, and I wouldn't give a brass
farthing for their chances of lifting the Cup." At the battle of Mons it
was noticed that some soldiers even went into action with a football
attached to their knapsacks!

But there is no end to the humor of Tommy Atkins. Mr. Hamilton Fyfe
tells in the _Daily Mail_ how he stopped to sympathize with a wounded
soldier on the roadside near Mons. Asking if his injury was very painful
he received the remarkable reply: "Oh, it's not that. I lost my pipe in
the last blooming charge." In a letter from the front, published in the
_Glasgow Herald_, this passage occurs: "Our fellows have signed the
pledge because Kitchener wants them to. But they all say, 'God help the
Germans, when we get hold of them for making us teetotal.'"

What a Frenchman describes as the "new British battle-cry" is another
source of amusement. Whenever artillery or rifle fire sweeps over their
trenches some facetious Tommy is sure to shout, "Are we downhearted?"
and is met with a resounding "No!" and laughter all along the line.

To those at home all this fun may seem a little thoughtless, but to
those in the fighting line it is perfectly natural and unforced. "Our
men lie in the trenches and play marbles with the bullets from shrapnel
shells," writes one of the Royal Engineers; "we have been in two
countries and hope to tour a third," says a letter from a cheery
artilleryman; and Mr. W.L. Pook (Godalming), who is with one of the
field post-offices, declares that things are going so badly with "our
dear old chum Wilhelm" that "I've bet X---- a new hat that I'll be home
by Christmas."

Bets are common in the trenches. Gunners wager about the number of their
hits, riflemen on the number of misses by the enemy. Daring spirits,
before making an attack, have even been known to bet on the number of
guns they would capture. "We have already picked up a good deal in the
way of German souvenirs," says one wag; "enough, indeed, to set a
decent-sized army up in business." The British Army, indeed, is an army
of sportsmen. Every man must have his game, his friendly wager, his
joke, and his song. As one officer told his men: "You are a lively lot
of beggars. You don't seem to realize that we're at war."

But they do. That is just Tommy's way. It is how he wins through. He
always feels fit, and he enjoys himself. Corporal Graham Hodson, Royal
Engineers, provides a typical Atkins letter with which to conclude this
chapter. "I am feeling awfully well," he writes, "and am enjoying myself
no end. All lights are out at eight o'clock, so we lie in our blankets
and tell each other lies about the number of Germans we have shot and
the hairbreadth escapes we have had. Oh, it's a great life!"



IV

THE MAN WITH THE BAYONET


Some military writers have declared that with the increasing range of
rifle and artillery fire the day of the bayonet is over. Battles, they
say, must now be fought with the combatants miles apart. Bayonets are as
obsolete as spears and battle axes. Evidently this theory had the full
support of the German General Staff, whose military wisdom was in some
quarters believed to be infallible--before the war.

As events have proved, however, there has been no more rude awakening
for the German soldiery than the efficacy of the bayonet in the hands of
Tommy Atkins. In spite of the employment of gigantic siege guns and
their enormous superiority in strength, though not in handling, of
artillery, the Germans have failed to keep the Allies at the theoretical
safe distance. They have been forced to accept hand-to-hand fighting,
and in every encounter at close quarters there has never been a moment's
doubt as to the result. They have shriveled up in the presence of the
bayonet, and fled in disorder at the first glimpse of naked steel. It is
not that the Germans lack courage. "They are brave enough," our soldiers
admit with perfect frankness, "but the bayonet terrifies them, and they
cry out in agony at the sight of it."

Admittedly, it requires more than ordinary courage to face a bayonet
charge, just as it calls for a high order of valor to use that deadly
weapon. Instances are given of young soldiers experiencing a sinking
sensation, a feeling of collapse, at the order "Fix Bayonets!" their
hands trembling violently over the task. But when the bugle sounds the
charge, and the wild dash at the enemy's lines has begun, with the skirl
of the pipes to stir up the blood, the nerves stiffen and the hands grip
the rifle with grim determination. "It was his life or mine," said a
young Highlander describing his first battle, "and I ran the bayonet
through him." There is no time for sentiment, and there can be no
thought of chivalry. Just get the ugly business over and done with as
quickly as possible. One soldier tells what a sense of horror swept over
him when his bayonet stuck in his victim, and he had to use all his
strength to wrench it out of the body in time to tackle the next man.

Many men describe the effects of the British bayonet charges and the way
the Germans--Uhlans, Guards, and artillerymen--recoil from them. "If you
go near them with the bayonet they squeal like pigs," "they beg for
mercy on their knees," "the way they cringe before the bayonet is
pitiful"--such are examples of the hundreds of references to this method
of attack.

Private Whittaker, Coldstream Guards, gives a vivid account of the
fighting around Compiègne. "The Germans rushed at us," he writes, "like
a crowd streaming from a Cup-tie at the Crystal Palace. You could not
miss them. Our bullets plowed into them, but still on they came. I was
well entrenched, and my rifle got so hot I could hardly hold it. I was
wondering if I should have enough bullets, when a pal shouted, 'Up
Guards and at 'em.' The next second he was rolled over with a nasty
knock on the shoulder. When we really did get orders to get at them we
made no mistakes, I can tell you. They cringed at the bayonets. Those on
the left wing tried to get round us. We yelled like demons, and racing
as hard as we could for quite 500 yards we cut up nearly every man who
did not run away."

One of the most graphic pictures of the war is that of attack in the
night related by a sergeant of the Worcester Regiment, who was wounded
in the fierce battle of the Aisne. He was on picket duty when the attack
opened. "It was a little after midnight," he said "when the men ahead
suddenly fell back to report strange sounds and movements along the
front. The report had just been made when we heard a rustling in the
bushes near us. We challenged and, receiving no reply, fired into the
darkness. Immediately the enemy rushed upon us, but the sleeping camp
had been awakened by the firing, and our men quickly stood to arms. As
the heavy German guns began to thunder and the searchlights to play on
our position we gathered that a whole Army corps was about to be engaged
and, falling back upon the camp, we found our men ready. No sooner had
we reached the trenches than there rose out of the darkness in front of
us a long line of white faces. The Germans were upon us. 'Fire!' came
the order, and we sent a volley into them. They wavered, and dark
patches in their ranks showed that part of the white line had been
blotted out. But on they came again, the gaps filled up from behind. At
a hundred yards' range, the first line dropped to fix bayonets, the
second opened fire, and others followed. We kept on firing and we saw
their men go down in heaps, but finally they swarmed forward with the
bayonet and threw all their weight of numbers upon us. We gave them one
terrible volley, but nothing could have stopped the ferocious impetus of
their attack. For one terrible moment our ranks bent under the dead
weight, but the Germans, too, wavered, and in that moment we gave them
the bayonet, and hurled them back in disorder. It was then I got a
bayonet thrust, but as I fell I heard our boys cheering and I knew we
had finished them for the night."

This is one of the few accounts that tell of the Germans using the
bayonet on the offensive, and their experience of the businesslike way
in which Tommy Atkins manipulates this weapon has given them a wholesome
dread of such encounters. Private G. Bridgeman, 4th Royal Fusiliers,
tells of the glee with which his regiment received the order to advance
with the bayonet. "We were being knocked over in dozens by the artillery
and couldn't get our own back," he writes,[C] "and I can tell you we
were like a lot of schoolboys at a treat when we got the order to fix
bayonets, for we knew we should fix them then. We had about 200 yards to
cover before we got near them, and then we let them have it in the neck.
It put us in mind of tossing hay, only we had human bodies. I was
separated from my neighbors and was on my own when I was attacked by
three Germans. I had a lively time and was nearly done when a comrade
came to my rescue. I had already made sure of two, but the third would
have finished me. I already had about three inches of steel in my side
when my chum finished him."

The charge of the Coldstream Guards at Le Cateau is another bayonet
exploit that ought to be recorded. "It was getting dark when we found
that the Kaiser's crush was coming through the forest to cut off our
force," a sergeant relates, "but we got them everywhere, not a single
man getting through. About 200 of us drove them down one street, and
didn't the devils squeal. We came upon a mass of them in the main
thoroughfare, but they soon lost heart and we actually climbed over
their dead and wounded which were heaped up, to get at the others."
"What a sight it was, and how our fellows yelled!" says another
Coldstreamer, describing the same exploit.

Tommy Atkins has long been known for his accurate artillery and rifle
fire, but the bayonet is his favorite arm in battle. Through all our
wars it has proved a deciding, if not indeed the decisive, factor in the
campaign. Once it has been stained in service he fondles it as, next to
his pipe, his best friend. And it is the same with the Frenchman. He
calls his bayonet his "little Rosalie," and lays its ruddy edges against
his cheek with a caress.



V

CAVALRY EXPLOITS


"We have been through the Uhlans like brown paper." In this striking
phrase Sir Philip Chetwode, commanding the 5th Cavalry Brigade,
describes the brilliant exploits in the neighborhood of Cambrai when, in
spite of odds of five to one, the Prussian Horse were cut to pieces. Sir
Philip was the first man to be mentioned in despatches, and Sir John
French does not hesitate to confirm this dashing officer's tribute to
his men. "Our cavalry," says the official message, "do as they like with
the enemy."

There is no more brilliant page in the history of the war than that
which has been furnished to the historian by the deeds of the British
cavalry. They carried everything before them. In a single encounter the
reputation of the much-vaunted Uhlans was torn to shreds.

The charge of the 9th Lancers at Toulin was a fine exploit. It was
Balaclava over again, with a gallant Four Hundred charging a battery of
eleven German guns. But there was no blunder this time; it was a
sacrifice to save the 5th Infantry Division and some guns, and the
heroic Lancers dashed to their task with a resounding British cheer. "We
rode absolutely into death," says a corporal of the regiment writing
home, "and the colonel told us that onlookers never expected a single
Lancer to come back. About 400 charged and 72 rallied afterwards, but
during the week 200 more turned up wounded and otherwise. You see, the
infantry of ours were in a fix and no guns but four could be got round,
so the General ordered two squadrons of the 9th to charge, as a
sacrifice, to save the position. The order was given, but not only did A
and B gallop into line, but C squadron also wheeled and came up with a
roar. It was magnificent, but horrible. The regiment was swept away
before 1,000 yards was covered, and at 200 yards from the guns I was
practically alone--myself, three privates, and an officer of our
squadron. We wheeled to a flank on the colonel's signal and rode back. I
was mad with rage, a feeling I cannot describe. But we had drawn their
fire; the infantry were saved."

"It was the most magnificent sight I ever saw," says Driver W. Cryer,
R.F.A., who witnessed the Lancers go into action. "They rode at the
guns like men inspired," declares another spectator, "and it seemed
incredible that any could escape alive. Lyddite and melinite swept like
hail across the thin line of intrepid horsemen." "My God! How they
fell!" writes Captain Letorez, who, after his horse was shot under him,
leapt on a riderless animal and came through unhurt. When the men got up
close to the German guns they found themselves riding full tilt into
hidden wire entanglements--seven strands of barbed wire. Horses and men
came down in a heap, and few of the brave fellows who reached this
barrier ever returned.

The 9th Lancers covered themselves with glory, and this desperate but
successful exploit will live as perhaps the most stirring and dramatic
battle story of the war. The Germans were struck with amazement at the
fearlessness of these horsemen. Yet the 9th Lancers themselves took
their honors very modestly. "We only fooled around and saved some guns,"
said one of the Four Hundred, after it was over. He had his horse shot
under him and his saddle blanket drilled through.

Captain F.O. Grenfell, of the 9th Lancers, was the hero of an incident
in the saving of the guns. All the gunners had been shot down and the
guns looked likely to fall into the enemy's hands. "Look here, boys,"
said Grenfell, "we've got to get them back. Who'll help?" A score of men
instantly volunteered--"our chaps would go anywhere with Grenfell," says
the corporal who tells the story--and "with bullets and shrapnel flying
around us, off we went. It was a hot time, but our captain was as cool
as on parade, and kept on saying, 'It's all right; they can't hit us.'
Well, they did manage to hit three of us before we saved the guns, and
God knows how any of us ever escaped." Later on Captain Grenfell was
himself wounded, but before the ambulance had been brought up to carry
him off he sprang into a passing motor-car and dashed into the thick of
the fighting again.

The 18th Hussars and the 4th Dragoon Guards were also in these brilliant
cavalry engagements, but did not suffer anything like so badly as the
9th Lancers. Corporal Clarke, of the Remount Depot, which was attached
to the 18th Hussars, thus described their "little scrap" with the German
horsemen near Landrecies: "We received orders to form line (two ranks),
and the charge was sounded. We then charged, and were under the fire of
two batteries, one on each side of the cavalry. We charged straight
through them, and on reforming we drove the Germans back towards the
1st Lincoln Regiment, who captured those who had not been shot down. We
had about 103 men missing, and we were about 1,900 strong. The order
then came to retreat, and we returned in the direction of Cambrai, but
we did not take any part in the action there."

History seems to be repeating itself in amazing ways in this war. Just
as the charge of the Light Brigade at Balaclava has been reproduced by
the 9th Lancers, so the Scots Greys and 12th Lancers have reproduced the
famous charge of the "Greys" at Waterloo. This is the fight which
aroused the enthusiasm of Sir Philip Chetwode, for his brigade went
through the German cavalry just as circus horses might leap through
paper hoops. "I watched the charge of the Scots Greys and 12th Lancers,"
writes Sergeant C. Meades, of the Berkshires. "It was grand. I could see
some of the Germans dropping on their knees and holding up their arms.
Then, as soon as our cavalry got through, the Germans picked up their
rifles and started firing again. Our men turned about and charged back.
It was no use the Germans putting up their hands a second time. Our
cavalry cut down every one they came to. I don't think there were ten
Germans left out of about 2,000. I can tell you they had all they
wanted for that day." An officer of the dragoons, describing the same
charge, says the dragoon guards were also in it, and that his lads were
"as keen as mustard." In fact, he declares, "there was no holding them
back. Horses and men positively flew at the Germans, cutting through
much heavier mounts and heavier men than ours. The yelling and the dash
of the lancers and dragoon guards was a thing never to be forgotten. We
lost very heavily at Mons, and it is a marvel how some of our fellows
pulled through. They positively frightened the enemy. We did terrible
execution, and our wrists were feeling the strain of heavy riding before
sunset. With our tunics unbuttoned, we had the full use of our right
arms for attack and defense."

Another charge of the Scots Greys is thus described: "Seeing the wounded
getting cut at by the German officers, the Scots Greys went mad, and
even though retreat had been sounded, with a non-commissioned officer
leading, they turned on the Potsdam Guards and hewed their way through,
their officers following. Having got through, the officers took command
again, formed them up, wheeled, and came back the way they went. It was
a sight for the gods."

Another episode was the capture of the German guns by the 2nd and 5th
Dragoons. An officer of the 5th gives an account of the exploit. "We
were attacked at dawn, in a fog," he relates, "and it looked bad for us,
but we turned it into a victory. Our brigade captured all the guns of
the German cavalry division, fourteen in all; the Bays lost two-thirds
of their horses and many men. The Gunner Battery of ours was annihilated
(twenty left), but the guns were saved, as we held the ground at the
end. This was only a series of actions, as we have been at it all day,
and every day. My own squadron killed sixteen horses and nine Uhlans in
a space of 50 ft., and many others, inhabitants told me, were lying in a
wood close by, where they had crawled. We killed their officer, a big
Postdam Guard, shot through the forehead. L Battery fought their guns to
the last, 'Bradbury' himself firing a gun with his leg off at the knee;
a shell took off his other leg. He asked me then to be carried from the
guns so that the men could not hear or see him."

One of the 2nd Dragoons, wounded in this engagement, says the Bays were
desperately eager for the order to charge, and exultant when the bugle
sounded. "Off they went, 'hell for leather,' at the guns," is how he
described it. "There was no stopping them once they got on the move."

"No stopping them." That sums up what every eye-witness of the British
cavalry charges says. The coolness and dash of the men in action was
amazing. Their voices rang out as they spurred their horses on, and when
they crashed into the enemy, the British roar of exultation was
terrific, and the mighty clash of arms rent the air. "Many flung away
their tunics," writes a Yeomanry Officer with General Smith-Dorrien's
Division, "and fought with their shirt sleeves rolled up above the
elbow. Some of the Hussars and Lancers were almost in a horizontal
position on the off-side of their mounts when they were cutting right
and left with bare arms."

Most intimate details of the fighting at close quarters are given by
another officer. "I shall never forget," he says, "how one
splendidly-made trooper with his shirt in ribbons actually stooped so
low from his saddle as to snatch a wounded comrade from instant death at
the hands of a powerful German. And then, having swung the man right
round to the near side, he made him hang on to his stirrup leather
whilst he lunged his sword clean through the German's neck and severed
his windpipe as cleanly as ---- would do it in the operating theater."

And here is another incident: "A young lancer, certainly not more than
twenty, stripped of tunic and shirt, and fighting in his vest, charged a
German who had fired on a wounded man, and pierced him to the heart.
Seizing the German's horse as he fell, he exchanged it for his own which
had got badly damaged. Then, his sword sheathed like lightning, he swung
round and shot a German clean through the head and silenced him
forever."

The soldiers' letters throb with such stories, and the swiftness, vigor,
and power of expression revealed in them is astonishing. Most of them
were written under withering fire, some scribbled even when in the
saddle, or when the writers were in a state of utter exhaustion at the
end of a nerve-shattering day. "'Hell with the lid off' describes what
we are going through," one of the 12th Lancers says of it. But the men
never lose spirit. Even after eighteen or nineteen hours in the saddle
they still have a kindly, cheering message to write home, and a jocular
metaphor to hit off the situation. "We are going on all right,"
concludes Corporal G.W. Cooper, 16th Lancers; "but still it isn't
exactly what you'd call playing billiards at the club."



VI

WITH THE HIGHLANDERS


The Highlanders have been great favorites in France. Their gaiety, humor
and inexhaustible spirits under the most trying conditions have
captivated everybody. Through the villages on their route these brawny
fellows march with their pipers to the proud lilt of "The Barren Rocks
of Aden" and "The Cock o' the North," fine marching tunes that in turn
give place to the regimental voices while the pipers are recovering
their breath. "It's a long way to Inveraray" is the Scotch variant of
the new army song, but the Scots have not altogether abandoned their own
marching airs, and it is a stirring thing to hear the chorus of "The
Nut-Brown Maiden," for instance, sung in the Gaelic tongue as these
kilted soldiers swing forward on the long white roads of France.

A charming little letter published in _The Times_ tells how the
Highlanders and their pipers turned Melun into a "little Scotland" for
a week, and the enthusiastic writer contributes some verses for a
suggested new reel, of which the following have a sly allusion to the
Kaiser's order for the extermination of General French's "contemptible
little army":

    "What! Wad ye stop the pipers?
      Nay, 'tis ower soon!
    Dance, since ye're dancing, William,
      Dance, ye puir loon!
    Dance till ye're dizzy, William,
      Dance till ye swoon!
    Dance till ye're deid, my laddie!
      We play the tune!"

This is all quite in the spirit of the Highland soldiers. A Frenchman,
writing to a friend in London goes into ecstasies over the behavior of
the Scots in France, and says that at one railway station he saw two
wounded Highlanders "dancing a Scotch reel which made the crowd fairly
shriek with admiration." Nothing can subdue these Highlanders' spirits.
They go into action, as has already been said, just as if it were a
picnic, and here is a picture of life in the trenches at the time of the
fierce battle of Mons. It is related by a corporal of the Black Watch.
"The Germans," he states, "were just as thick as the Hielan' heather,
and by weight of numbers (something like twenty-five to one) tried to
force us back. But we had our orders and not a man flinched. We just
stuck there while the shells were bursting about us, and in the very
thick of it we kept on singing Harry Lauder's latest. It was terrible,
but it was grand--peppering away at them to the tune of 'Roamin' in the
Gloamin'' and 'The Lass o' Killiecrankie.' It's many a song about the
lassies we sang in that 'smoker' wi' the Germans."

According to another Highlander "those men who couldn't sing very well
just whistled, and those who couldn't whistle talked about football and
joked with each other. It might have been a sham fight the way the
Gordons took it." With this memory of their undaunted gaiety it is sad
to think how the Gordons were cut up in that encounter. Their losses
were terrible. "God help them!" exclaims one writer. "Theirs was the
finest regiment a man could see."

But that was in the dark days of the long retreat, when the Highlanders,
heedless of their own safety, hung on to their positions often in spite
of the orders to retire, and avenged their own losses ten-fold by their
punishment of the enemy. Private Smiley, of the Gordons, describing the
German attacks, speaks of the devastating effects of the British fire.
"Poor devils!" he writes of the German infantry. "They advanced in
companies of quite 150 men in files five deep, and our rifle has a flat
trajectory up to 600 yards. Guess the result. We could steady our rifles
on the trench and take deliberate aim. The first company were mown down
by a volley at 700 yards, and in their insane formation every bullet was
almost sure to find two billets. The other companies kept advancing very
slowly, using their dead comrades as cover, but they had absolutely no
chance.... Yet what a pitiful handful we were against such a host!"

The fighting went on all through the night and again next morning, and
the British force was compelled to retreat. In the dark, Private Smiley,
who was wounded, lost his regiment, and was picked up by a battery of
the Royal Field Artillery who gave him a lift. But he didn't rest long,
he says, for "I'm damned if they didn't go into action ten minutes
afterwards with me on one of the guns."

Some fine exploits are also given to the credit of the Black Watch.
They, too, were in the thick of it at Mons--"fighting like gentlemen,"
as one of them puts it--and the Gordons and Argyll and Sutherlands also
suffered severely. In fact, the Highland regiments appear to have been
singled out by the Germans as the object of their fiercest attacks, and
all the way down to the Aisne they have borne the brunt of the
fighting. Private Fairweather, of the Black Watch, gives this account of
an engagement on the Aisne: "The Guards went up first and then the
Camerons, both having to retire. Although we had watched the awful
slaughter in these regiments, when it was our turn we went off with a
cheer across 1,500 yards of open country. The shelling was terrific and
the air was full of the screams of shrapnel. Only a few of us got up to
200 yards of the Germans. Then with a yell we went at them. The air
whistled with bullets, and it was then my shout of '42nd forever!'
finished with a different kind of yell. Crack! I had been presented with
a souvenir in my knee. I lay helpless and our fellows retired over me.
Shrapnel screamed all around, and melinite shells made the earth shake.
I bore a charmed life. A bullet went through the elbow of my jacket,
another through my equipment, and a piece of shrapnel found a resting
place in a tin of bully beef which was on my back. I was picked up
eventually during the night, nearly dead from loss of blood."

Perhaps the most dashing and brilliant episode of the fighting is the
exploit of the Black Watch at the battle of St. Quentin, in which they
went into action with their old comrades, the Scots Greys. Not content
with the ordinary pace at which a bayonet charge can be launched against
the enemy these impatient Highlanders clutched at the stirrup leathers
of the Greys, and plunged into the midst of the Germans side by side
with the galloping horsemen. The effect was startling, and those who saw
it declare that nothing could have withstood the terrible onslaught.
"Only a Highland regiment could have attempted such a movement," said an
admiring English soldier who watched it, and the terrible gashes in the
German ranks bore tragic testimony to the results of this double charge.
The same desperate maneuver, it may be recalled, was carried out at
Waterloo and is the subject of a striking and dramatic battle picture.

Though all the letters from men in the Highland regiments speak
contemptuously of the rifle fire of the Germans, they admit that in
quantity, at least, it is substantial. "They just poured lead in tons
into our trenches," writes one, "but, man, if we fired like yon they'd
put us in jail." The German artillery, however, is described as "no
canny." The shells shrieked and tore up the earth all around the
Highlanders, and accounted for practically all their losses.

Narrow escapes were numerous. An Argyll and Sutherland Highlander got
his kilt pierced eight times by shrapnel, one of the Black Watch had his
cap shot off, and while another was handling a tin of jam a bullet went
clean into the tin. Jocular allusions were made to these incidents, and
somebody suggested labeling the tin "Made in Germany."

Even the most grim incidents of the war are lit up by some humorous or
pathetic passage which illustrates the fine spirits and even finer
sympathies of the Highlanders. Lance-Corporal Edmondson, of the Royal
Irish Lancers, mentions the case of two men of the Argyll and
Sutherlands, who were cut off from their regiment. One was badly
wounded, but his comrade refused to leave him, and in a district overrun
by Germans, they had to exist for four days on half-a-dozen biscuits.

"But how did you manage to do it?" the unwounded man was asked, when
they were picked up.

"Oh, fine," he answered.

"How about yourself, I mean?" the questioner persisted in asking.

"Oh, shut up," said the Highlander.

The truth is he had gone without food all the time in order that his
comrade might not want.

Then there is a story from Valenciennes of a poor scared woman who
rushed frantically into the road as the British troops entered the
town. She had two slight cuts on the arm, and was almost naked--the
result of German savagery. When she saw the soldiers she shrank back in
fear and confusion, whereupon one of the Highlanders, quick to see her
plight, tore off his kilt, ripped it in half, and wrapped a portion
around her. She sobbed for gratitude at this kindly thought and tried to
thank him, but before she could do so the Scot, twisting the other half
of the kilt about himself to the amusement of his comrades, was swinging
far along the road with his regiment.

This is not the only Scot who has lost his kilt in the war. One of the
Royal Engineers gives a comic picture of a Highlander who appears to
have lost nearly every article of clothing he left home in. When last
seen by this letter writer he was resplendent in a Guardsman's tunic,
the red breeches of a Frenchman, a pair of Belgian infantry boots, and
his own Glengarry! "And when he wants to look particularly smart," adds
the Engineer, "he puts on a Uhlan's cloak that he keeps handy!"

As another contribution to the humor of life in the trenches and,
incidentally, to the discussion of soldier songs, it is worth while
quoting from a letter signed "H.L.," in _The_ _Times_, this specimen
verse of the sort of lyric that delights Tommy Atkins. It is the work of
a Sergeant of the Gordon Highlanders, and as the marching song in high
favor at Aldershot, must come as a shock to the ideals of would-be army
laureates:

    "Send out the Army and Navy,
    Send out the rank and file,
           (Have a banana!)
    Send out the brave Territorials,
    They easily can run a mile.
           (I don't think!)
    Send out the boys' and the girls' brigade,
    They will keep old England free:
    Send out my mother, my sister, and my brother,
    But for goodness sake don't send me."

It is doggerel, of course, but it has a certain cleverness as a satire
on the music-hall song of the day, and the Gordons carried it gaily with
them to their battlefields, blending it in that odd mixture of humor and
tragedy that makes up the soldier's life. The bravest, it is truly said,
are always the happiest, and of the happy warriors who have fallen in
this campaign one must be remembered here in this little book of British
heroism. He died bravely on the hill of Jouarre, near La Ferte, and his
comrades buried him where he fell. On a little wooden cross are
inscribed the simple words, "T. Campbell, Seaforths."



VII

THE INTREPID IRISH


"There's been a divil av lot av talk about Irish disunion," says Mr.
Dooley somewhere, "but if there's foightin' to be done it's the bhoys
that'll let nobody else thread on the Union Jack." That is the Irish
temperament all over, and in these days when history is being written in
lightning flashes the rally of Ireland to the old flag is inspiring, but
not surprising.

Political cynics have always said that England's difficulty would be
Ireland's opportunity, but they did not reckon with the paradoxical
character of the Irish people. England's difficulty has indeed been
Ireland's opportunity--the opportunity of displaying that generous
nature which has already contributed thousands of men to the
Expeditionary Force, and is mustering tens of thousands more under the
patriotic stimulus of those old political enemies, Mr. John Redmond and
Sir Edward Carson. The civil war is "put off," as one Irish soldier
expresses it; old enmities are laid aside and Orange and Green are
righting shoulder to shoulder, on old battlefields whose names are writ
in glory upon the colors.

No more cheerful regiments than the Irish are to be found in the firing
line. Their humor in the trenches, their love of songs, and their dash
in action are manifested in all their letters. An English soldier,
writing home, says that even in the midst of a bayonet charge an
Irishman can always raise a laugh. "Look at thim divils retratin' with
their backs facin' us," was an Irish remark about the Germans that made
his fellows roar. And when the Fusiliers heard the story of the Kaiser's
lucky shamrock, one of them said: "Sure, an' it'll be moighty lucky for
him if he doesn't lose it"; adding to one of three comrades, "There'll
be a leaf apiece for us, Hinissey, when we get to Berlin."

In the fighting the Irish have done big things and their dash and
courage have filled their British and French comrades with admiration.
Referring to the first action in which the Irish Guards took part, and
the smart businesslike way in which they cut up the Germans, Private
Heffernan, Royal Irish Fusiliers, says they had a great reception as
they marched back into the lines: "Of course, we all gave them a cheer,
but it would have done your heart good to see the Frenchmen (who had a
good view of the fighting) standing up in their trenches and shouting
like mad as the Guards passed by. The poor chaps didn't like the idea
that it was their first time in action, and were shy about the fuss made
of them: and there was many a row in camp that night over men saying
fine things and reminding them of their brand new battle honors."[D]

A fine story is told of the heroism of two Irish Dragoons by a trooper
of that gallant regiment. "One of our men," he says, "carried a wounded
comrade to a friendly farm-house under heavy fire, and when the retreat
was ordered both were cut off. A patrol of a dozen Uhlans found them
there and ordered them to surrender, but they refused, and, tackling the
Germans from behind a barricade of furniture, killed or wounded half of
them. The others then brought up a machine gun and threatened the
destruction of the farm: but the two dragoons, remembering the kindness
of the farm owners and unwilling to bring ruin and disaster upon them,
rushed from the house in the wild hope of tackling the gun. The moment
they crossed the doorway they fell riddled with bullets." Another story
of the Irish Dragoons is told by Trooper P. Ryan. One of the Berkshires
had been cut off from his regiment while lingering behind to bid a dying
chum good-by, when he was surrounded by a patrol of Uhlans. A troop of
the Irish Dragoons asked leave of their officer to rescue the man, and
sweeping down on the Germans, quickly scattered them. But they were too
late. The plucky Berkshire man had "gone under," taking three Germans
with him. "We buried him with his chum by the wayside," adds Trooper
Ryan. "Partings of this kind are sad, but they are everyday occurrences
in war, and you just have to get used to them."

The Dragoons also went to the assistance of a man of the Irish Rifles
who, wounded himself, was yet kneeling beside a fallen comrade of the
Gloucester Regiment, and gamely firing to keep the enemy off. The
Dragoons found both men thoroughly worn out, but urgency required the
regiment to take up another position, and the wounded men had to be left
to the chance of being picked up by the Red Cross corps. "They knew
that," says the trooper who relates the incident, "and weren't the men
to expect the general safety to be risked for them. 'Never mind,' said
the young Irishman, 'shure the sisters 'll pick us up all right, an' if
they don't--well, we've only once to die, an' it's the grand fight we've
had annyhow.'"

One of the most stirring exploits of the war--equaled only by the
devotion and self-sacrifice of the Royal Engineers in the fight for the
bridge--is that of the Irish Fusiliers in saving another regiment from
annihilation. The regiment was in a distant and exposed position, and a
message had to be sent ordering its retirement. This could only be
accomplished by despatching a messenger, and the fusiliers were asked
for volunteers. Every man offered himself, though all knew what it meant
to cross that stretch of open country raked with rifle fire. They tossed
for the honor, and the first man to start-off with the message was an
awkward shock-headed chap who, the narrator says, didn't impress by his
appearance. Into the blinding hail of bullets he dashed, and cleared the
first hundred yards without mishap. In the second lap he fell wounded,
but struggled to his feet and rushed on till he was hit a second time
and collapsed. One man rushed to his assistance and another to bear the
message. The first reached the wounded man and started to carry him in,
but when nearing the trenches and their cheering comrades, both fell
dead. The third man had by this time got well on his way, and was almost
within reach of the endangered regiment when he, too, was hit.
Half-a-dozen men ran out to bring him in, and the whole lot of this
rescuing party were shot down, but the wounded fusilier managed to crawl
to the trenches and deliver the order. The regiment fell back into
safety and the situation was saved, but the message arrived none too
soon, and the gallant Irish Fusiliers certainly saved one battalion from
extinction.

In one fierce little fight the Munster Fusiliers (the "Dirty Shirts")
had to prevent themselves from being cut off, and in a desperate effort
to capture the whole regiment the Germans launched cavalry, infantry and
artillery upon them. "The air was thick with noises," says one of the
Munsters in telling the story, "men shouting, waving swords, and blazing
away at us like blue murder. But our lads stood up to them without the
least taste of fear, and gave them the bayonet and the bullet in fine
style. They crowded upon us in tremendous numbers, but though it was
hell's own work we wouldn't surrender, and they had at last to leave
us. I got a sword thrust in the ribs, and then a bullet in me, and went
under for a time, but when the mist cleared from my eyes I could see the
boys cutting up the Germans entirely." The losses were heavy, and the
comment was made in camp that the Germans had cleaned up the "Dirty
Shirts" for once. "Well," said an indignant Fusilier, "it was a moighty
expensive washin' for them annyway."

How Private Parker of the Inniskilling Fusiliers escaped from four
Uhlans who had taken him prisoner is an example of personal daring. His
captors marched him off between them till they came to a narrow lane
where the horsemen could walk only in single file--three in front of him
and one behind. He determined to make a bid for liberty. Ducking under
the rear horse he seized his rifle, shot the Uhlan, and disappeared in
the darkness. For days he lay concealed, and on one occasion German
searchers entered the room in which he was hidden, yet failed to find
him.

Private Court, 2nd Royal Scots, pays a tribute to the gallantry of the
Connaught Rangers, and tells how they saved six guns which had been
taken by the enemy. The sight of British guns in German hands was too
much for the temper of the Connaughts, who came on with an irresistible
charge, compelling the guns to be abandoned, and enabling the Royal
Field Artillery to dash in and drag them out of danger. Another soldier
relates that the Connaughts were trapped by a German abuse of the white
flag and suffered badly when, all unsuspecting, they went to take over
their prisoners; but they left their mark on the enemy on that occasion,
and "when the Connaught blood is up," as one of the Rangers expresses
it, "it's a nasty job to be up agin it."

Stories of Irish daring might be multiplied, but these are sufficient to
show that the old regiments are still full of the fighting spirit. "Now
boys," one of their non-commissioned officers is reported to have said,
"no surrender for us! Ye've got yer rifles, and yer baynits, and yer
butts, and after that, ye divils, there's yer fists." A drummer of the
Irish Fusiliers who had lost his regiment, met another soldier on the
road and begged for the loan of his rifle "just to get a last pop at the
divils." Sir John French is himself of Irish parentage--Roscommon and
Galway claim him--and there is no more ardent or cheerful fighter in the
British army.

"It beats Banagher," says a jocular private in the Royal Irish, "how
these Germans always disturb us at meal times. I suppose it's just the
smell of the bacon that they're after, and Rafferty says we can't be too
careful where we stow the mercies." From all accounts the Germans taken
prisoner are about as ill-fed as they are ill-informed. Private Harkness
of the same regiment, says the captives' first need is food and then
information. One of them asked him why the Irish weren't fighting in
their own civil war. "Faith," said he, "this is the only war we know
about for the time being, and there's mighty little that's _civil_ about
it with the way you're behaving yourselves." The German looked gloomy,
and, added Harkness, "I don't think he liked a plain Irishman's way of
putting things."



VIII

"A FIRST-CLASS FIGHTING MAN"


"If ever I come back, and anybody at home talks to me about the glory of
war, I shall be d----d rude to him." That is an extract from the letter
of an officer who has seen too much of the grim and ugly side of the
campaign to find any romance in it. Yet out of all the horror there
emerge incidents of conspicuous bravery that strike across the
imagination like sunbeams, and cast a glow even in the darkest corners
of the stricken field.

Valor is neither a philosophy nor a calculation. The soldier does not
say to himself, "Look here, Atkins,

    'One crowded hour of glorious life
    Is worth an age without a name.'"

He goes into the business of war determined to get it over as quickly as
possible,[E] and when he does something stupendous, as he does nearly
ever day, it is just because the thing has to be done, and he is there
to do it. Tommy Atkins doesn't stop to think whether he is doing a brave
thing, nor does he wait for orders to do it; he just sets about it as
part of the day's work, and looks very much abashed if anybody applauds
him for it.

For instance, there is a man in the Buffs (the story is told by a driver
of the Royal Marine Artillery), who picked up a wounded comrade and
carried him for more than a mile under a vicious German fire that was
exterminating nearly everything. It was a fine act of heroism. "Yet if
anybody were to suggest the V.C. he'd break his jaw," says the writer,
"and as he's a man with a 4.7 punch the men of his regiment keep very
quiet about it."

Some fine exploits are recorded of the Artillery. When the Munster
Fusiliers were surrounded in one extended engagement a driver of the
R.F.A. named Pledge, who was shut up with them, was asked to "cut
through" and get the assistance of the Artillery. Lance-Corporal John
McMillan, Black Watch, thus describes what happened: "Pledge mounted a
horse and dashed through the German lines. His horse was brought to the
ground, and, as we afterwards discovered, he sustained severe injuries
to his legs. Nothing daunted, he got his horse on its feet, and again
set off at a great pace. To get to the artillery he had to pass down a
narrow road, which was lined with German riflemen. He did not stop,
however, but dashed through without being hit by a single bullet. He
conveyed the message to the artillery, which tore off to the assistance
of the Munsters, and saved the situation."

The saving of the guns is always an operation that calls for
intrepidity, and many exploits of that kind are related. Lance-Corporal
Bignell, Royal Berks, tells how he saw two R.F.A. drivers bring a gun
out of action at Mons. Shells had been flying round the position, and
the gunners had been killed, whereupon the two drivers went to rescue
the gun. "It was a good quarter of a mile away," says the witness, "yet
they led their horses calmly through the hail of shell to where the gun
stood. Then one man held the horses while the other limbered up. It
seemed impossible that the men could live through the German fire, and
from the trenches we watched them with great anxiety. But they came
through all right, and we gave them a tremendous cheer as they brought
the gun in."

Sir John French in one of his despatches records that during the action
at Le Cateau on August 26th the whole of the officers and men of one of
the British batteries had been killed or wounded with the exception of
one subaltern and two gunners. These continued to serve one gun, kept up
a sound rate of fire, and came unhurt from the battlefield.

Another daring act is described by W.E. Motley, R.F.A. "Things became
very warm for us," he says, "when the Germans found the range. In fact
it became so hot that an order was passed to abandon the guns
temporarily. This is the time when our men don't obey orders, so they
stuck to their guns. They ceased their fire for a time. The enemy,
thinking our guns were out of action, advanced rapidly. Then was the
time our men proved their worth. They absolutely shattered the Germans
with their shells."

Some gallant stories are told of the Royal Engineers. One especially
thrilling, is given in the words of Darino, a lyrical artist of the
Comédie Française, who joined the Cuirassiers, and was a spectator of
the scene he describes. A bridge had to be blown up, and the whole place
was an inferno of mitrailleuse and rifle fire. "Into this," he relates,
"went your Engineers. A party of them rushed towards the bridge, and,
though dropping one by one, were able to lay the charge before all were
sacrificed. For a moment we waited. Then others came. Down towards the
bridge they crept, seeking what cover they could in their eagerness to
get near enough to light the fuse. Ah! it was then we Frenchmen
witnessed something we shall never forget. One man dashed forward to his
task in the open, only to fall dead. Another, and another, and another
followed him, only to fall like his comrade, and not till the twelfth
man had reached the fuse did the attempt succeed. As the bridge blew up
with a mighty roar, we looked and saw that the brave twelfth man had
also sacrificed his life."

During the long retreat from Mons the Middlesex Regiment got into an
awkward plight, and a bridge--the only one left to the Germans--had to
be destroyed to protect them. This was done by a sergeant of the
Engineers, but immediately afterwards his own head was blown away by a
German shell. "The brave fellow certainly saved the position," writes
one of the Middlesex men, "for if the Germans had got across that night
I'm afraid there would have been very few of us left."

Other daring incidents may be told briefly. One of the liveliest is
that of seven men of the Worcesters, who were told they could "go for a
stroll." While loitering along the road they encountered a party of
Germans, and captured them all without firing a shot. "We just covered
them with our rifles," writes Private Styles; "so simple!" Sir John
French relates a similar exploit of an officer who, while proceeding
along the road in charge of a number of led horses, received information
that there were some of the enemy in the neighborhood. Upon seeing them
he gave the order to charge, whereupon three German officers and 106 men
surrendered! On another occasion a portion of a supply column was cut
off by a detachment of German cavalry and the officer in charge was
summoned to surrender. He refused, and starting his motors off at full
speed dashed safely through.

Hairbreadth escapes are related in hundreds of letters, and they have a
dramatic quality that makes the ineffectual fires of imaginative fiction
burn very low. Sergeant E.W. Turner, West Kents, writes to his
sweetheart: "The bullet that wounded me at Mons went into one breast
pocket and came out of the other, and in its course passed through your
photo." Private G. Ryder vouches for this: "We were having what you
might call a dainty afternoon tea in the trenches under shell fire. The
mugs were passed round with the biscuits and the 'bully' as best they
could by the mess orderlies, but it was hard work messing through
without getting more than we wanted. My next-door neighbor, so to speak,
got a shrapnel bullet in his tin, and another two doors off had his
biscuit shot out of his hand." Lieutenant A.C. Johnstone, the Hants
county cricketer, after escaping other bullets and shells which were
dancing around him, was hit over the heart by a spent bullet, which on
reaching hospital he found in his left-hand breast pocket. Private
Plant, Manchester Regiment, had a cigarette shot out of his mouth, and a
comrade got a bullet into his tin of bully beef. "It saves the trouble
of opening it," was his facetious remark.

One of the Royal Scots Fusiliers was saved by a cartridge clip. He felt
the shock and thought he had been hit, but the bullet was diverted by
the impact owing to a loose cartridge. Had it been struck higher up all
the cartridges might have exploded. Another letter mentions a case where
a man got two bullets; one struck his cartridge belt, and the other
entered his sleeve and passed through his trousers as far as the knee,
without even scratching him. Drummer E. O'Brien, South Lancashires, had
his bugle and piccolo smashed, his cap carried away by a bullet, and
another bullet through his coat before he was finally struck by a piece
of shrapnel which injured his ankle; and another soldier records thus
his adventures under fire: (1) Shell hit and shattered my rifle; (2) Cap
shot off my head; (3) Bullet in muscle of right arm. "But never mind, my
dear," he comments, "I had a good run for my money." Staff-Sergeant J.W.
Butler, 1st Lincolns, was saved by a paper pad in his pocket book; the
bullet embedded itself there.

Sapper McKenny, Royal Engineers, records the unique experience of a
comrade whose cap was shot off so neatly that the bullet left a groove
in his hair just like a barber's parting! He thinks the German who fired
the shot is probably a London hairdresser.

Private J. Drury, 3rd Coldstream Guards, also had a narrow escape, being
hit by a bullet out of a shell between the left eye and the temple. "It
struck there," he relates, "but one of our men got it out with a safety
pin, and now I've got it in my pocket!"

The amusing escapade of "wee Hecky MacAlister," is told by Private T.
McDougall, of the Highland Light Infantry. Hecky went into a burn for a
swim, and suddenly found the attentions of the Germans were directed to
him. "You know what a fine mark he is with his red head," says the
writer to his correspondent, and so they just hailed bullets at him.
Hecky, however, "dooked and dooked," and emerged from his bath happy but
breathless after his submarine exploit.

But while the men in the trenches applaud all the brilliant exploits of
their fellows, and laugh and jest over the lively escapes of the lucky
ones who, in Atkins's phraseology, "only get their hair parted," there
are other fine deeds done in the quiet corners of hospitals and out of
the glamour of battle that move the strongest to tears. Such is the
incident related by a member of the Royal Army Medical Corps, and it is
a fitting story with which to close this chapter. One soldier, mortally
wounded, was being attended by the doctor when his eye fell on a dying
comrade. "See to him first, doctor," he said faintly, "that poor bloke's
going home; he'll be home before me."



IX

OFFICERS AND GENTLEMEN


"He died doing his duty like the officer and gentleman he was." Could
any man have a finer epitaph? It is an extract from a letter written by
Private J. Fairclough, Yorkshire Light Infantry, to General A. Wynn, and
refers to the death of the General's son, Lieutenant G.O. Wynn, killed
in action at Landrecies. The letter goes on to tell of the affection in
which the young officer was held by his men, and this story of courage
and unselfishness in the field is the simple but faithful tribute of a
devoted soldier.

The war has brought out in a hundred ways the admirable qualities of all
ranks in the British Expeditionary Force; but the relations of officers
and men have never been revealed to us before with such friendly candor
and mutual appreciation. Over and over again in these letters from the
front the soldiers are found extolling the bravery and self-sacrifice
of their officers. "No praise is too great for them," "our officers
always pull us through," "they know their business to the finger-tips,"
"as cool as cucumbers under fire," "magnificent examples," "absolutely
fearless in the tightest corners"--these are some of the phrases in
which the men speak proudly of those in command.

One officer in the 1st Hampshire Regiment read _Marmion_ aloud in the
trenches, under a fierce maxim fire, to keep up the spirits of his men;
and they "play cards and sing popular songs to cheer us up," adds
another genial soldier. Not that the men suffer much from depression. On
the contrary, the commanders agree that their spirits have been
splendid. "Our men are simply wonderful," writes an officer in the
cavalry division; "they will go through anything."

The most surprising thing in the soldiers' letters is that they should
show such an extraordinary sense of the dramatic. They throb with
emotion. Take this account of the death of Captain Berners as written by
Corporal S. Haley, of the Brigade of Guards, in a letter published by
the _Star_:

"Captain Berners, of the Irish, was the life and soul of our lot. When
shells were bursting over our heads he would buck us up with his humor
about Brock's displays at the Palace. But when we got into close
quarters it was he who was in the thick of it. And didn't he fight! I
don't know how he got knocked over, but one of our fellows told me he
died a game 'un. He was one of the best of officers, and there is not a
Tommy who would not have gone under for him."

Among those who fell at Cambrai was Captain Clutterbuck, of the King's
Own (Lancaster) Regiment. He was killed while leading a bayonet charge.
"Just like Clutterbuck," wrote a wounded sergeant, describing the
officer's valor, and adding, "Lieutenant Steele-Perkins also died one of
the grandest deaths a British officer could wish for. He was lifted out
of the trenches wounded four times, but protested and crawled back again
till he was mortally wounded."

A sergeant of the Coldstream Guards, in an account given to the _Evening
News_, speaks of the death of Captain Windsor Clive. "We were sorry to
lose Captain Clive, who," he says, "was a real gentleman and a soldier.
He was knocked over by the bursting of a shell, which maddened our
fellows I can tell you." The utmost anger was also aroused in the men of
the Lancaster Regiment by the death of Colonel Dykes. "Good-by, boys,"
he exclaimed as he fell; and "By God, we avenged him," said one of the
"boys" in describing the fight.

Many instances are given of the devotion shown by the soldiers in saving
their officers. Private J. Ferrie, of the Royal Scots Fusiliers, wounded
while defending a bridge at Landrecies, tells in the _Glasgow Herald_
how Sergeant Crop rescued Lieutenant Stephens, who had been badly hit
and must otherwise have fallen into the enemy's hands: "The sergeant
took the wounded lieutenant on his back, but as he could not crawl
across the bridge so encumbered he entered the water, swam the canal,
carried the wounded man out of line of fire, and consigned him to the
care of four men of his own company. Of a platoon of fifty-eight which
was set to guard the bridge only twenty-six afterwards answered to the
roll call."

On the other hand, there are many records of the tremendous risks taken
by officers to rescue wounded men. Private J. Williams, Royal Field
Artillery, had two horses shot under him and was badly injured "when the
major rushed up and saved me." "I was lying wounded when an artillery
major picked me up and took me into camp, or I would never have seen
England again," writes Lance-Corporal J. Preston, Inniskilling
Fusiliers. Lieutenant Sir Alfred Hickman was wounded in the shoulder
while rescuing a wounded sergeant under heavy fire. How another disabled
man was brought in by Lieutenant Amos, is told by Private George
Pringle, King's Own Scottish Borderers. "Several of us volunteered to do
it," he says, "but the lieutenant wouldn't hear of anybody else taking
the risk." Captain McLean, Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, saved one
of his men under similar circumstances. All the letters are full of
praise of the officers who, in the words of Private James Allan, Gordon
Highlanders, "seem to be mainly concerned about the safety of their men,
and indifferent to the risks they take upon themselves."

Every Tommy knows he is being finely led. The officers are a constant
source of inspiration and encouragement. Private Campbell, Irish
Fusiliers, writes:

"Lieutenant O'Donovan led us all the time, and was himself just where
the battle was hottest. I shall never forget his heroism. I can see him
now, revolver in one hand and sword in the other. He certainly accounted
for six Germans on his own, and inspired us to the effort of our lives.
He has only been six months in the service, is little more than a boy,
but the British Army doesn't possess a more courageous officer."

The Scottish Borderers speak proudly of Major Leigh, who was hit during
a bayonet charge, and when some of his men turned to help him, shouted
"Go on, boys; don't mind me." A lieutenant of A Company, 1st Cheshires:
"I only know his nickname," says Private D. Schofield--though wounded in
two places, rushed to help a man in distress, brought him in, and then
went back to pick up his fallen sword. Captain Robert Bruce, heir of
Lord Balfour of Burleigh, distinguished himself in the fighting at Mons.
One of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders relates that, in spite of
wounds, Captain Bruce took command of about thirty Highlanders who had
been cut off, and throwing away his sword, seized a rifle from one of
the killed, and fought side by side with his men.

How the guns were saved at Soissons is told in a letter, published in
_The Times_, from Sergeant C. Meades, of the Berkshire Regiment. "We had
the order to abandon our guns," he writes, "but our young lieutenant
said, 'No, boys; we'll never let the Germans take a British gun,' and
with a cheer we fought on.... The Staffords came up and reinforced us.
Then I got hit, and retired.... But the guns were saved. When the last
of the six got through every one cheered like mad." One of the West
Kents also described the daring action of an officer. In the midst of
terrific fire, he walked calmly down the artillery line, putting our
lost guns out of action so that they would be useless to the Germans.

Even into the letters describing these gallant incidents there creep
frequent evidences of Atkins's unconquerable spirit and sense of humor.
Private R. Toomey, Royal Army Medical Corps, tells of an officer of the
Royal Irish shouting at the top of his voice, "Give 'em hell, boys, give
'em hell!" He had been wounded in the back by a lump of shrapnel, but,
says Toomey, "it was a treat to hear him shouting."

Most of these accounts refer to the weary days of the retirement from
Mons to Compiègne, a test of endurance that brought out the splendid
fighting qualities of officers and men alike. That retirement is
certainly one of the most masterly achievements of a war already
glorious for the exploits of British arms. Day after day our men had to
fall back, tired and hungry, exhausted from want of sleep, yet fighting
magnificently, and only impatient to begin the attack. This eagerness
for battle is in marked contrast to the spirit of the German troops, of
whom there is abundant evidence that the men have often to be driven
into action by the threatening swords and revolvers of their officers.

Francis Ryan, Northumberland Fusiliers, tells in the _Scotsman_ how
young lieutenant Smith-Dorrien pleaded to be allowed to remain with his
men in the trenches after a retirement had been ordered. The South
Staffordshires thought they were "getting along splendidly," says one of
the men, "until the General came and told us we must retreat or we would
be surrounded." The officer spoke very encouragingly, and praised his
men; but they were all so unwilling to yield ground that one of them,
expressing impatience, made a comment he would never have thought of
doing in peace time. The General only smiled.

This impatience pervaded all arms of the service. Some of the Highland
regiments began to grow grim and sullen, in spite of their play with the
bayonet; and the Irish corps became "unaisy." It was then that the
officers' fine spirit brought reassurance. This is how the King's Royal
Rifles were cheered up, according to Private Harman: "The officers knew
we were disappointed, because on the fifth day of retirement our
commanding officer came round and spoke to us. 'Stick it, boys, stick
it,' he said; 'To-morrow we shall go the other way and advance--Biff,
biff!' The way he said 'Biff, biff,' delighted the men, and after that
we frequently heard men shouting, 'Biff, biff!'"

General Sir John French, who is a great favorite with all ranks, and
spoken of with affection by every Tommy, makes frequent tours of the
lines and has a cheery word for every regiment. Driver W. Cryer, Royal
Field Artillery, relates in the _Manchester Guardian_ that, at St.
Quentin, Sir John French visited the troops, "smiling all over his
face," and explained the meaning of the repeated retirements. Up to
then, says Cryer, the men had almost to be pulled away by the officers,
but after the General's visit they fell in with the general scheme with
great cheerfulness.

Summing up his impressions of the nerve-strain of these weary rearguard
actions, a famous cavalry officer writing home, says: "We had a hell of
a time.... But the men were splendid. I don't believe any other troops
in the world could have stood it."



X

BROTHERS IN ARMS


There is a fine fraternity between the British and the French soldiers.
They don't understand very much of each other's speech, but they "muddle
through," as Atkins puts it, with "any old lingo." The French call out,
"Bravo, Tommee!" and share cigarettes with him: and Atkins, not very
sure of his new comrades' military Christian name, replies with a cheery
"Right, Oh!" Then turning to his own fellows he shouts, "Are we
downhearted?" and the clamorous "No!" always brings forth a rousing
French cheer.

Having seen each other in action since they first met on the way to
battle they have grown to respect each other more and more. There is not
much interchange of compliments in the letters from the trenches, but
such as there is clearly establishes the belief of Atkins that he is
fighting side by side with a brave and generous ally.

"We always knew," writes one soldier, "that the French were swift and
dangerous in attack, but we know now that they can fight on the
stubbornly defensive." One of the South Lancashires is loud in his
praise of their behavior under fire. "Especially the artillery,"
Sergeant J. Baker adds; "the French seem to like the noise, and aren't
happy unless it's there."

One of _The Times_ correspondents mentions that the German guns have a
heavy sound "boum," and the French a sharper one, "bing"; but neither of
them is very pleasant to the ear, and it requires a cultured military
taste like that of the French to enjoy the full harmony of the music
when the British "bang" is added to the general cannonading. The French
artillery is admitted to be fine, the deadly accuracy of the gunners
being highly praised by all who have watched the havoc wrought in the
German lines.

For the French soldier, however, the path of greatest glory lies in the
charge. Dash and fire are what he possesses in the highest degree. His
highly-strung temperament chafes under delays and disappointments. He
hasn't the solid, bull-dog courage that enables the British soldier to
take hard knocks, even severe punishment, and come up smiling again to
renew the battle that he will only allow to end in one way, and that
way victory.

In the advance, as one writer describes it, the French dash forward in
spasmodic movements, making immediately for cover. After a brief
breathing space they bound into the open again, and again seek any
available shelter. And so they proceed till the charge is sounded, when
with gleaming bayonets and a cry of "_pour la gloire_" upon their lips
they sweep down upon the enemy at a tremendous pace. The whole thing is
exhilarating to watch, and to the men engaged it is almost intoxicating.
They see red and the only thing that can stop them is the sheer dead
weight of the columns in front. To the French the exploit of the 9th
Lancers, already described in this volume, is the greatest thing in the
war. They would have died to have accomplished it themselves. The fine
heroics of such an exploit gives them a crazy delight. Then there are
the forlorn hopes, the bearing of messages across a zone of withering
fire, the fights for the colors. One incident which closely resembles
the exploit of the Royal Irish Fusiliers is recorded. A message had to
be borne to another regiment and volunteers sprang forward eagerly to
the call. The enemy's fire was particularly deadly at this point, and it
seemed impossible for a messenger to get through, but no man hesitated.
The first fell dead before he had traveled many yards, the second had a
leg shot off, the third by amazing luck got through without a scratch.
Deeds of this kind have endeared the French soldier to Tommy Atkins more
than all his extravagant acts of kindness, and the sympathetic bond of
valor has linked them together in the close companionship of
brothers-in-arms.

Having shown what the British soldier thinks of the French as fighting
men, it is pleasant to turn to our Ally's opinion of Tommy Atkins. Here
the letters deal in superlatives. M. Duchene, French master at
Archbishop Holgate's School, York, who was wounded with his regiment at
Verdun, writes in glowing terms of his comrades' praise. "Ah, those
English soldiers!" he says. "In my regiment you only hear such
expressions as _'Ils sont magnifiques,' 'Ils sont superbs,' 'Quels
soldats!'_ No better tribute could be given." Another Frenchman with the
army of the Republic is stirred into this eulogy in a letter to a friend
in England: "How fine they are, how splendidly they behave, these
English soldiers! In their discipline and their respect for their
officers they are magnificent, and you will never know how much we have
applauded them."

Another Frenchman, acting as interpreter with a Scottish regiment,
relates with amazement how the Highlanders go into action, "as if they
were going to a picnic, with laughing eyes and, whenever possible, with
a cigarette between their lips. Their courage is a mixture of
imperturbability and tenacity. One must have seen their immovable calm,
their heroic sang-froid, under the rain of bullets to do it justice."
Then he goes on to describe how a handful of Scots were selected to hold
back a large body of Germans in a village to enable the main body of the
British to retire in good order. They took up a position in the first
house they came to and fired away at the invaders, who rained bullets on
the building. Some of the gallant little party fell, but the others kept
up the fight. Then there came a pause in the attack, the German fire
ceased, the enemy was seeking a more sheltered position. During this
brief respite the sergeant in command of the Scots surveyed the building
they had entered. It was a small grocer's shop, and on an upper shelf he
found a few packets of chocolate. "Here, lads," he shouted, "whoever
kills his man gets a bit o' this." The firing began again, and as each
marksman succeeded, the imperturbable Scot shouted "Got him," and handed
over the prize amid roars of laughter. "Alas," comments the narrator,
"there were few prize-winners who lived to taste their reward."

The same eulogist, whose narrative was obtained by Reuter's
correspondent, also speaks of the fastidious Scot's preoccupations. He
has two--to be able to shave and to have tea. "No danger," the Frenchman
declares, "deters them from their allegiance to the razor and the
teapot. At ----, in the department of the Nord, I heard a British officer
of high rank declare with delicious calm between two attacks on the
town: 'Gentlemen, it was nothing. Let's go and have tea.' Meanwhile his
men took advantage of the brief respite to crowd round the pump, where,
producing soap and strop, they proceeded to shave minutely and
conscientiously with little bits of broken glass serving as mirrors."

The same sense of order and method also struck another Frenchman, who
speaks of the "amazing Englishmen," who carry everything with them, and
are never in want of anything, not even of sleep!

Certainly there is much truth in these tributes to the British military
organization, but that is another story and for another chapter. The
opinion of an English cavalry officer, however, may be quoted as to the
relative merits of the French and English horses. "The French horses,"
he writes, "are awful. They look after them so badly. They all say,
'What lovely horses you have,' to us, and they do look fine beside
theirs, but we look after ours so well. We always dismount and feed them
on all occasions with hay and wheat found on the farms and in stacks in
the fields, also clover. The French never do."

As a result of these observations the French appear to have been
applying themselves to the study of the British fighting force. "I know
for a fact," says Trooper G. Douglas, "that French officers have been
moving amongst us studying our methods. The French Tommies try to copy
us a lot, and they like, when they have time, to stroll into our lines
for a chat or a game; but it's precious little time there is for that
now."

But it is in character and temperament that the chief differences of the
allies lie. "Brigadier" Mary Murray, who went to the front with other
members of the Salvation Army, records a conversation she had with a
French soldier over a cup of coffee. "Ah," he said, "we lose heavily, we
French. We haven't the patience of the English. They are fine and can
wait: we must rush!" And yet Tommy Atkins can do a bit of rushing too.
Private R. Duffy, of the Rifle Brigade, sends home a lively account of
the defense of the Marne in which a mixed force of British and French
was engaged. The object to be achieved was to drive back the Germans who
were attempting to cross the river. "About half a mile from the banks,"
writes Duffy, "we came out from a wood to find a French infantry
battalion going across in the same direction. We didn't want to be
behind, so we put our best foot forward, and one of the most exciting
races you ever saw followed. We got in first by a head, as you might
say, and we were just in time to tackle a mob of Germans heading for the
crossing in disorder. We went at them with the bayonet, but they didn't
seem to have the least heart for fighting. Some of them flung themselves
in the stream and tried to swim to safety, but they were heavily
accoutered and worn out so they didn't go very far. Of about three
hundred men who tried this not more than half a dozen succeeded in
reaching the other bank."

In spite of all the hatreds the war has engendered--and one of the Royal
Lancasters declares that the sign manual of friendship between the
French and the English soldier is "a cross on the throat indicating
their wish to the Kaiser"--there is still room for passages of fine
sympathy and chivalry. One young French lieutenant distinguished himself
by carrying a wounded Uhlan to a place of safety under a heavy German
fire, English soldiers have shown equal generosity and kindness to
injured captives, and the tributes to heroic and patient nurses shine
forth in letters of gold upon the dark pages of this tragic history.
Here is a touching letter from one of the King's Own Royal Lancasters.
"In one hospital, which was a church," he writes, "there was a young
French girl helping to bandage us up. How she stood it I don't know.
There were some awful sights, but she never quailed--just a sad sweet
smile for every one. If ever any one deserved a front seat in Heaven
this young angel did. God bless her! She has the prayers and all the
love the remnants of the Fourth Division can give her."

And another pretty little tribute is paid to the kindness of a French
lady to four English soldiers billeted at her house. "She was wondrous
kind," writes one of the grateful soldiers, "and when we left for the
front Madame and her mother sobbed and wept as if we had been their own
sons."



XI

ATKINS AND THE ENEMY


In one of his fine messages from the front, Sir John French, whom the
_New York World_ has described as the "best of war correspondents,"
referred to the British soldier as "a difficult person to impress or
depress." He meant, of course, that it was no use trying to terrify
Tommy Atkins. Nothing will do that. His stupendous sense of humor
carries him, smiling, through every emergency.

But Atkins is a keen observer, and he takes on very clear and vivid
impressions of men and affairs. He hates compromises and qualifications,
and just lets you have his opinion--"biff!" as one officer expresses it.

"Bill and I have been thinking it over," says one letter from the
trenches, "and we've come to the conclusion that the German army system
is rotten." There you have the concentrated wisdom of hundreds of
soldier critics who talk of the Kaiser's great military machine as they
know it from intimate contact with the fighting force it propels. They
admit its mechanical perfection; it is the human factor that breaks
down.

Nothing has impressed Tommy Atkins more than the lack of _morale_ in the
German soldiers. "Oh, they are brave enough, poor devils; but they've
got no heart in the fighting," he says. That is absolutely true.
Hundreds of thousands of them have no notion of what they are fighting
for. Some of the prisoners declared that when they left the garrisons
they were "simply told they were going to maneuvers"; "others," says a
Royal Artilleryman, "had no idea they were fighting the English";
according to a Highland officer, surrendering Germans said their fellows
had been assured that "America and Japan were fighting on their side,
and that another Boer war was going on"; and a final illusion was
dispelled when those captured by the Royal Irish were told that the
civil war in Ireland had been "put off!"

It is not only that the men lack this moral preparation for war. Their
system of fighting is demoralizing. "They come on in close formation,
thousands of them, just like sheep being driven to the slaughter," is
the description that nine soldiers out of every ten give of the Germans
going into action. "We just mow them down in heaps," says an
artilleryman. "Lord, even a woman couldn't miss hitting them," is the
comment from the Infantry. And as for the cavalry: "Well, we just makes
holes in them," adds one of the Dragoons. At first they didn't take
cover at all, but just marched into action with their drums beating and
bands playing, "like a blooming parade," as Atkins puts it. After the
first slaughter, however, they shrank from the attack, and there is
ample evidence of eyewitnesses that the German infantry often had to be
lashed into battle by their officers. "I saw a colonel striking his own
men with his sword to prevent them running away," is one of the many
statements. Revolvers, too, were freely used for the same purpose.

But, generally speaking, there is iron discipline in the Kaiser's army.
The men obey their officers implicitly. Trooper E. Tugwell, of the
Berwicks, tells this little story of a cavalry charge from which a
German infantry regiment bolted--all but one company, whose officers
ordered them to stand: "They faced round without attempting to fire a
shot, and stood there like statues to meet the onslaught of our men. Our
chaps couldn't help admiring their fine discipline, but there's not much
room for sentiment in war, and we rode at them with the lance, and
swept them away." "They are big fellows, and, in a way, brave," writes
Private P. Case of the King's (Liverpool) Regiment, describing one of
their attacks; "they must be brave, or they would not have kept
advancing when they saw their dead so thick that they were practically
standing up." "Their officers simply won't let them surrender," says
another writer, "and so long as there's an officer about they'll stand
like sheep and be slaughtered by the thousand." The essential difference
between the German soldiers and our own is in the officering and
training, and it is admirably expressed by Private Burrell,
Northumberland Fusiliers. "_We_ are led; _they_ are driven,"[F] is
Burrell's epigram.

According to other letter writers, the German soldiers are absolutely
tyrannized over by their officers. They are horribly ill-used, badly
fed,[G] overworked, constantly under the lash. "They hate their officers
like poison, and fear them ten times more than they fear death," says
Private Martin King. "Most of the prisoners that I've seen are only fit
for the hospital, and many of them will never be fit for anything else
this side of the grave. Their officers don't seem to have any
consideration for the men at all, and we have a suspicion that the heavy
losses of German officers aren't all due to our fire. There was one
brought in who had certainly been hit by one of their own bullets, and
in the back too." Other soldiers say the same, and add that if it
weren't for dread of their officers the Germans would surrender
wholesale. "Take the officers away, and their regiments fall to pieces,"
is the dictum of one of the Somerset Light Infantry, "and that's why we
always pick off the German officers first."

There is not the slightest divergence of opinion in the British ranks as
to the German infantry fire. "Their shooting is laughable," "they
couldn't hit a haystack in an entry," and "asses with the rifle," are
how our men dispose of it. The Germans fire recklessly with their rifles
planted against their hips, while Tommy Atkins takes cool and steady
aim, and lets them have it from the shoulder. "We just knocked them over
like nine-pins," a Highlander explained. As to the German cavalry, one
Tommy expressed the prevailing opinion to nicety. "I don't want to be
nasty," he said, "but what we all pray for is just half-an-hour each
way with three times our number of Uhlans."

When it comes to artillery, however, Atkins has nothing but praise for
the enemy. Their aeroplanes flutter over the British positions and give
the gunners the exact range, and then they let go. "I can only figure it
out as being something worse than the mouth of hell," declares Private
John Stiles, 1st Gloucesters, and it may be here left at that, as the
devastating effects of artillery have already been dealt with in a
previous chapter. One thing which has puzzled and sometimes baffled our
men is the way the Germans conceal their guns. They display
extraordinary ingenuity in this direction, hiding them inside haystacks,
in leaf-covered trenches, and sometimes, unhappily, in Red Cross wagons.

Stories of German treachery are abundant, and official reports have
dealt with such shameful practises as driving prisoners and refugees in
front of them when attacking, abusing the protection of the White Flag,
and wearing Red Cross brassards in action. The men have their own
stories to tell. An Irish Guardsman records a white flag incident during
the fighting on the Aisne: "Coldstreamers, Connaughts, Grenadiers, and
Irish Guards were all in this affair, and the fight was going on well.
Suddenly the Germans in front of us raised the white flag, and we ceased
firing and went up to take our prisoners. The moment we got into the
open, fierce fire from concealed artillery was turned on us, and the
surrendered Germans picked up their rifles and pelted us with their
fire. It was horrible. They trapped us completely, and very few
escaped." The German defense of these white flag incidents was given to
Trooper G. Douglas by a prisoner who declared that the men were quite
innocent of intention to deceive, but that whenever their officers saw
the white flag they hauled it down, and compelled them to fight.

Many British soldiers suffered from the treachery of the Germans
in wearing English and French uniforms, and their letters home are
full of indignation at the practises of the enemy. It was in the
fighting following such a ruse at Landrecies that the Honorable
Archer-Windsor-Clive, of the Coldstream Guards, met his death. "Another
time," an artillery officer relates, "they ran into one of our regiments
with some of their officers dressed in French uniforms. They said 'Ne
tirez-pas, nous sommes Français,' and asked for the C.O. He came up, and
then they calmly blew his brains out!" A similar act of treachery is
recorded by Lieutenant Oswald Anne, R.A., in a letter published in the
_Leeds Mercury_: "At one place where the Berkshire Regiment was on guard
a German force arrived attired in French uniforms. To keep up the
illusion, a German called out in French from the wire entanglements that
they wanted to interview the commanding officer. A major of the
Berkshires who spoke French, went forward, and was immediately shot
down. This sort of thing is of daily occurrence." Lieutenant Edgcumbe,
son of Sir Robert Edgcumbe, Newquay, tells of another instance of
treachery in which British uniforms were used, and declares, in common
with many other officers, that he "will never again respect the Germans;
they have no code of honor!"

They strip the uniforms from the dead, come on in night attacks shouting
"Vive, l'Angleterre!" and sound the British bugle-call "Cease fire" in
the thickest of the fight. Twice in one engagement the Germans stopped
the British fire by the mean device of the bugle, and twice they charged
desperately upon the silent ranks. But in nearly every case their
punishment for these violations of the laws of civilized warfare has
been swift and terrible, and no mercy has been shown them.

Charges of barbarity are also common in letters from the battlefields.
One officer, who says he "never before realized what an awful thing war
is," writes: "We have with us in the trenches three girls who came to us
for protection. One had no clothes on, having been outraged by the
Germans. I have given her my shirt and divided my rations among them. In
consequence I feel rather hungry, having had nothing for thirty-two
hours, except some milk chocolate. Another poor girl has just come in,
having had both her breasts cut off. Luckily I caught the Uhlan officer
in the act, and with a rifle at 300 yards killed him. And now she is
with us, but, poor girl, I am afraid she will die. She is very pretty
and only about nineteen."[H]

Captain Roffey, Lancashire Fusiliers, tells how he was found wounded,
and handed over his revolver to the Germans, whereupon his captor used
it to shoot him again, and left him for dead. There is no end to the
stories of this kind, and one of the wounded vehemently declared that
the "devilry of the Germans cannot be exaggerated."

There are others amongst the wounded however, who have received nothing
but kindness from the enemy. Lieutenant H.G.W. Irwin, South Lancashire
Regiment, pays a tribute to the treatment he met with in the German
lines; Captain J.B. George, Royal Irish, "could not have been better
treated had he been the Crown Prince;" and one of the Officer's Special
Reserve says the stories of "brutality are only exceptions, and there
are exceptions in every army."

And here it is worth quoting a happy example of German chivalry. It is
taken from one of Sir John French's messages. A small party of French
under a non-commissioned officer was cut off and surrounded. After a
desperate resistance it was decided to go on fighting to the end.
Finally, the N.C.O. and one man only were left, both being wounded. The
Germans came up and shouted to them to lay down their arms. The German
commander, however, signed to them to keep their arms, and then asked
for permission to shake hands with the wounded non-commissioned officer,
who was carried off on his stretcher with his rifle by his side.

After this account of what British soldiers think of the enemy, it is
interesting to read what is the German opinion of Tommy Atkins.
Evidently the fighting men do not share the Kaiser's estimate of
"French's contemptible little army." Three very interesting letters,
written by German officers, and found in the possession of the
captives, were published in an official despatch from General
Headquarters. Here are extracts from each:

     (1) "With the English troops we have great difficulties. They
     have a queer way of causing losses to the enemy. They make good
     trenches, in which they wait patiently. They carefully measure the
     ranges for their rifle fire, and then they open a truly hellish
     fire on the unsuspecting cavalry. This was the reason that we had
     such heavy losses."

     (2) "The English are very brave and fight to the last.... One of
     our companies has lost 130 men out of 240."

     (3) "We are fighting with the English Guards, Highlanders and
     Zouaves. The losses on both sides have been enormous. The English
     are marvelously trained in making use of the ground. One never
     sees them, and one is constantly under fire. Two days ago, early
     in the morning, we were attacked by immensely superior English
     forces (one brigade and two battalions) and were turned out of
     our positions. The fellows took five guns from us. It was a
     tremendous hand-to-hand fight. How I escaped myself I am not
     clear.... If we first beat the English, the French resistance will
     soon be broken."

The admissions of prisoners that the Germans were amazed at the fighting
qualities of the British soldier, and had acquired a wholesome dread of
meeting him at close quarters, may have been colored by a trifling
disposition to be amiable in their captivity; but letters such as those
just quoted are honest statements for private reading in Germany, and
were never intended to fall into British hands.

Although Tommy Atkins makes occasional jocular allusions to the enemy as
"Sausages" there is no doubt that he considers the German army a very
substantial fighting force. "The German is not a toy terrier, but a
bloodhound thirsting for blood," is one description of him; "getting to
Berlin isn't going to be a cheap excursion," says another; and, to quote
a third, "in spite of all we say about the Teuton, he is taking his
punishment well, and we've got a big job on our hands."



XII

THE WAR IN THE AIR


Mr. H.G. Wells did not long anticipate the sensations of an aerial
conflict between the nations. Six years after the publication of his
_War in the Air_ the thing has become an accomplished fact, and for the
first time in history the great nations are fighting for the mastery not
only upon land but in the air and under the sea.

Fine as have been the adventures of airmen in times of peace, and
startling as spectators have found the acrobatic performance of "looping
the loop," these tricks of the air appear feeble exploits compared with
the new sensation of an actual battle in the clouds. Soldiers,
scribbling their letters in the trenches, have been fascinated by the
sudden appearance at dusk of a hostile aeroplane, and have gazed with
pleasurable agitation as out of the dim, mysterious distance a British
aviator shot up in pursuit.

"It is thrilling and magnificent," says one officer, "and I was filled
with rapture at the spectacle of the first fight in the clouds. The
German maneuvered for position and prepared to attack, but our fellow
was too quick for him, and darted into a higher plane. The German tried
to circle round and follow, and so in short spurts they fought for
mastery, firing at each other all the time, the machines swaying and
oscillating violently. The British airman, however, well maintained his
ascendency. Then suddenly there was a pause, the German machine began to
reel, the wounded pilot had lost control, and with a dive the aeroplane
came to earth half a mile away. Our man hovered about for a time, and
then calmly glided away over the German lines to reconnoiter."

Nothing could excel the skill and daring shown by the men of the Royal
Flying Corps. They stop at nothing. Some of their machines have been so
badly damaged by rifle and shell fire that on descending they have had
to be destroyed.

"Fired at constantly both by friend and foe," Sir John French writes,
"and not hesitating to fly in every kind of weather, they have remained
undaunted throughout." The highest praise is bestowed upon
Brigadier-General Sir David Henderson, in command of the Corps, for the
high state of efficiency this young branch of the service has attained.
It has been on its trial, and has already covered itself with glory.
General Joffre, the French Commander-in-Chief, has sent a special
message singling out the British Flying Corps "most particularly" for
his highest eulogies. Several English airmen have already been made
Chevaliers of the Legion of Honor.

That the nervous strain of aerial warfare is severe is shown by
expression in several airmen's letters. Not only have they to fight
their man, but they have to manage their machines at the same time. This
means that if an airman ascends alone he is unable to use a rifle and
must depend for attack on revolver fire only. This is illustrated by a
passage in one of the official reports: "Unfortunately one of our
aviators, who has been particularly active in annoying the enemy by
dropping bombs, was wounded in a duel in the air. Being alone on a
single-seated monoplane, he was not able to use a rifle, and whilst
circling above a German two-seater in an endeavor to get within pistol
shot was hit by the observer of the latter, who was armed with a rifle.
He managed to fly back over our lines, and by great good luck descended
close to a motor ambulance, which at once conveyed him to hospital."

This appears to be only the second instance recorded during the first
two months of the war in which our airmen have suffered mishap, yet
half-a-dozen German machines have been brought down and their navigators
either killed or wounded. Private Harman, King's Royal Rifles, describes
an exciting pursuit in which a German aeroplane was captured. The
British aviator, who had the advantage in speed and was a good revolver
shot, evidently greatly distressed the fugitive, for, surrendered, he
planed down in good order, and on landing was found to be dead.

According to an officer in the Royal Flying Corps the worst aerial
experience in war is to go up as a passenger. "It is 'loathly,'" he
says, "to sit still helplessly and be fired at." In one flight as a
spectator his machine was "shelled and shot at about a hundred times,
but luckily only thirteen shots went through the planes and neither of
us was hit." An interesting account of a battle seen from the clouds is
given in a letter published by _The Times_. "I was up with ---- for an
evening reconnaissance over this huge battle. I bet it will ever be
remembered as the biggest in history. It extends from Compiègne right
away east to Belfort. Can you imagine such a sight? We flew at 5 p.m.
over the line, and at that time the British Army guns (artillery, heavy
and field) all opened fire together. We flew at 5,000 feet and saw a
sight which I hope it will never be my lot to see again. The woods and
hills were literally cut to ribbons all along the south of Laon. It was
marvelous watching hundreds of shells bursting below one to right and
left for miles, and then to see the Germans replying."

Another officer of the Flying Corps describes his impression of the
Battle of Mons, seen from a height of 5,000 feet. British shells were
bursting like little bits of cotton wool over the German batteries. A
German attack developed, and the airman likens the enemy's advance
formation to a "large human tadpole"--a long dense column with the head
spread out in front.

Evidently the anti-aircraft guns, though rather terrifying, do very
little damage. Airmen have had shells burst all round them for a long
time without being hurt. Of course they are careful to fly at a high
altitude. When struck by shrapnel, however, an aeroplane (one witness
says) "just crumples up like a broken egg." On the other hand, bombs
dropped from aeroplanes do great damage, if properly directed. A petrol
bomb was dropped by an English airman at night into a German bivouac
with alarming results, and another thrown at a cavalry column struck an
ammunition wagon and killed fifteen men. A French airman wiped out a
cavalry troop with a bomb, and the effect of the steel arrows used by
French aviators is known to be damaging. The German bombs thrown by
Zeppelins and Taube aeroplanes on Antwerp and Paris do not appear to
have much disturbed either the property or equanimity of the
inhabitants. So far as aerial excursions are concerned the most
brilliant exploit is undoubtedly that of Flight-Lieutenant C.H. Collet,
of the Naval Wing of the British Flying Corps, who, with a fleet of five
aeroplanes swept across the German frontier and, hovering over
Düsseldorf, dropped three bombs with unerring effect upon the Zeppelin
sheds.

Bomb-dropping, however, has not been indulged in to any great extent by
either of the combatants, and the chief use to which air machines have
been put is that of scouting. The Germans use them largely for range
finding, and they seem to prove a very accurate guide to the gunners.
"We were advancing on the German right and doing splendidly," writes
Private Boardman (Bradford) "when we saw an aeroplane hover right over
our heads, and by some signaling give the German artillery the range.
The aviator had hardly gone when we were riddled with shot and shell." A
sergeant of the 21st Lancers says the signaling is done by dropping a
kind of silver ball or disc from the aeroplanes, and the Germans watch
for this and locate our position to a nicety at once.

As scouts--and that, meantime, is the real practical purpose of
aeroplanes in war--the British aviators have done wonders. Their
machines are lighter and faster than those of the Germans, and as they
make a daily average of nine reconnaissance flights of over 100 miles
each it will be understood that they keep the Intelligence Department
well supplied with accurate information of the enemy's movements.

French airmen are particularly daring both in reconnaissance and in
flight, and the well-known M. Védrines, whose achievements are familiar
to English people, has already brought down three German aeroplanes. In
one encounter he fought in a Blériot machine carrying a mitrailleuse,
and the enemy dropped, riddled with bullets. So completely have some of
the aeroplanes been perforated, without mishap, says the _Daily
Telegraph's_ war correspondent, that the pilots have found a new game.
Each evening after their flights they count the number of bullet holes
in their machine, marking each with a circle in red chalk, so that none
may be included in the next day's total. The record appears to be
thirty-seven holes in one day, and the pilot in question claims to be
the "record man du monde."

Zeppelins have not maintained their reputation in this war. One sailed
over Sir John French's headquarters and indicated the position to the
enemy, but they are no match for the swift and agile aeroplanes. A
wounded dispatch carrier saw one English and two French machines attack
a Zeppelin and bring it down instantly. A half hour's fight with another
is recorded; among the captured passengers in this, according to a
soldier's letter, was a boy of nine. Private Drury, Coldstream Guards,
saw one huge German aeroplane brought to earth, three of its officers
being killed by rifle fire and one badly injured.

There is something strange, mysterious, and insubstantial about the war
in the air that the soldiers do not yet feel or comprehend. Often the
feverish activity of aircraft at a high altitude is known only to a very
few practised observers. A gentle purring in the air and the scarcely
audible ping-pong of distant revolver shots may represent a fierce duel
in the clouds, and often the soldiers are unaware of the presence of a
hostile airman until the projectiles aimed at them burst in the
trenches. One evening, a graphic official message states, the atmosphere
was so still and clear that only those specially on the lookout detected
the enemy's aeroplanes, and when the bombs burst "the puffs of smoke
from the detonating shell hung in the air for minutes on end like balls
of fleecy cottonwool before they slowly expanded and were dissipated."

Of course, the tactics adopted for dealing with hostile aircraft are to
attack them instantly with one or more British machines, and as in this
respect the British Flying Corps has established an individual
ascendency, Sir John French proudly declares that "something in the
direction of the mastery of the air has already been gained."



XIII

TOMMY AND HIS RATIONS


A medical officer at the front declares that the British Expeditionary
Force is, without doubt, the "best fed Army that has ever taken the
field." That is a sweeping statement, but it is true. It is confirmed
over and over again in the letters of Tommy Atkins. It is acknowledged
by the French. Even the most sullen German prisoners agree with it.
There has been universal praise for the quality and abundance of the
food, and the general arrangements for the comfort of the British
soldier.

One French description of the feeding says that the English troops "live
like fighting cocks," another marvels at "the stupendous pieces of meat,
and bread heavy with butter and jam," a third speaks of the "amazing
Tommees" who "carry everything in their pockets and forget nothing at
all." And so on.

But the most remarkable tribute of all to the perfect working of the
transport and supply service is that given by the British officers and
men themselves. Captain Guy Edwards, Coldstream Guards, says: "They have
fed our troops wonderfully regularly and well up to the present; we have
had no sickness at all, and every one is in splendid spirits." In
another letter an officer refers to the generosity of the rations. "In
addition to meat and bread (or biscuit)," he says, "we get 1/4lb. jam,
1/4lb. bacon, 3oz. cheese, tea, etc., while the horses have had a good
supply of oats and hay." During the whole of the long retreat from Mons,
says an officer of the Berkshires, "there was only one day when we
missed our jam rations!"

And it is the same with the men. Here are some brief extracts from their
letters:

     Private ----, 20th Field Ambulance:

     "Our food supply is magnificent. We have everything we want and
     food to spare. Bacon and tomatoes is a common breakfast for us."

     Driver Finch: "I am in the best of health, with the feeding and the
     open-air life. The stars have been our covering for the last few
     weeks."

     Sergeant, Infantry Regiment: "The  arrangements are very good--no
     worry or hitch anywhere; it is all wonderful."

     Cavalryman: "We live splendidly, being even able to supplement our
     generous rations with eggs, milk and vegetables as we go through
     the villages."

     Gunner: "Having the time of my life."

Of course, the exigencies of war may not always permit of the perfect
working of the supply machine. Already there have been many hardships to
be endured. Incessant fighting does not give the men time for proper
meals, sleep is either cut out altogether or reduced to an occasional
couple of hours, heavy rains bring wet clothing and wetter resting
places, boots wear out with prolonged marching, and men have to go for
days and even weeks unwashed, unshaven, and without even a chance of
getting out of their clothes for a single hour.

The officers suffer just as much as the men. After a fortnight or three
weeks at the front one cavalry officer wrote that he "had not taken his
clothes off since he left the Curragh." "For five days," another says,
"I never took off my boots, even to sleep, and for two days I did not
even wash my hands or face. For three days and nights I got just four
hours' sleep. The want of sleep was the one thing we felt." Sleep,
indeed, is just the last thing the officers get. Brigadier-General Sir
Philip Chetwode outlines his daily program as "work from 4 a.m. to 11
p.m., then writing and preparations until 4 a.m. again." To make matters
worse just at the start of the famous cavalry charge which brought Sir
Philip such distinction, his pack-horse bolted into the German lines
carrying all his luggage, and leaving him nothing but a toothbrush!

One of the Dorsets' officers reports that "owing to the continuous
fighting the 'evening meal' has become conspicuous by its absence," but
in spite of having carried a 1lb. tin of compressed beef and a few
biscuits about with them for several days they are all "most beastly fit
on it." "No one seems any the worse, and I feel all the fitter," writes
an officer of a Highland Regiment, "after long marches in the rain going
to bed as wet as a Scotch mist."

The men are just as cheerful as their officers. "You can't expect a
blooming Ritz Hotel in the firing line," is how a jocular Cockney puts
it. An artilleryman says they would fare sumptuously if it weren't for
the German shells at meal times: "one shell, for instance, shattered our
old porridge pot before we'd had a spoonful out of it!" Lieutenant
Jardine, a son of Sir John Jardine, M.P., relates this same incident.
Gunner Prince, R.F.A., has a little joke about the sleeping quarters:
"Just going to bed. Did I say bed? I mean under the gun with an overcoat
for a blanket." There is no sort of grumbling at all. As Lieutenant
Stringer, of the 5th Lancers, expresses it, the A.S.C. "manage things
very well, and our motto is 'always merry and bright.'"

Occasionally, when there is a lull in the operations, the men dine
gloriously. Stories are told of gargantuan feeds--of majestic stews that
can be scented even in the German lines. Occasionally, too, there is the
capture of a banquet prepared for the enemy's officers as the following
message from the _Standard_ illustrates: "A small party of our cavalry
were out on reconnaissance work, scouring woods and searching the
countryside. Just about dusk a hail of bullets came upon our party from
a small spinney of fir trees on the side of a hill. We instantly wheeled
off as if we were retreating, but, in fact, we merely pretended to
retire and galloped round across plowed land to the other side of the
spinney, fired on the men, and they mounted their horses and flew like
lightning out of their 'supper room.' They left a finely cooked repast
of beef-steaks, onions and fried potatoes all ready and done to a turn,
with about fifty bottles of Pilsner lager beer, which was an acceptable
relish to our meal. Ten of our men gave chase and returned for an
excellent feed."

Another amusing capture is that of an enterprising Tommy who possessed
himself of a German officer's bearskin, a cap, helmet, and Jaeger
sleeping bag. He is now regarded as the "toff of the regiment." The
luxury of a bath was indulged in by a company of Berkshires at one
encampment. Forty wine barrels nearly full of water were discovered
here, and the thirsty men were about to drink it when their officer
stopped them. "Well," said one, "if it's not good enough to drink it'll
do to wash in," and with one accord they stripped and jumped into the
barrels! Nothing has been more notable than Tommy's desire for
cleanliness and tidiness. It is something fine and healthy about the
British soldier. One wounded man, driven up to a hospital, limped with
difficulty to a barber's shop for a shave before he would enter the
building. "I couldn't face the doctors and nurses looking like I was,"
he told the ambulance attendant.

Of all the soldiers' wants the most imperative appears to be the
harmless necessary cigarette. All their letters clamor for tobacco in
that form. "We can't get a decent smoke here," says one writer. An army
airman "simply craves for cigarettes and matches." From a cavalryman
comes the appeal that a few boxes of cigarettes and some thick chocolate
would be luxuries. "Just fancy," to quote from another letter, "one
cigarette among ten of us--hardly one puff a-piece."

In the French hospitals the wounded men are being treated with the
greatest kindness, and during convalescence are being loaded with
luxuries. "Spoilt darlings," one Scottish nurse in Paris says about
them, "but who could help spoiling them?" They are so happy and
cheerful, so grateful for every little service, so eager to return to
the firing line in order to "get the war over and done with." "We've
promised to be home by Christmas," they say, "and that turkey and
plum-pudding will be spoilt if we don't turn up."

Home by Christmas! That is Tommy Atkins' idea of a "Non-stop run to
Berlin"--the facetious notice he printed in chalk on the troop trains at
Boulogne as, singing "It's a long way to Tipperary," he rolled away to
the greatest battles that have ever seared the face of Europe.


FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote A: Extract from _The Times_ report of the German Emperor's
Army Orders, dated Headquarters, Aix-la-Chapelle, August 19th, 1914.]

[Footnote B: Copyright Chappell & Co., Ltd., 41 East 34th St., New
York.]

[Footnote C: _Daily Express_, Sept. 25th, 1914.]

[Footnote D: The Irish Guards were created entirely on the initiative of
Queen Victoria, and as a recognition of the fine achievements of "Her
brave Irish" in the South African War.]

[Footnote E: Gunner Batey, Royal Garrison Artillery, writes of a
comrade, Gunner Spencer Mann: "He seems in his glory during the
fighting. He fears nothing, and is always shouting, 'Into them, lads:
the sooner we get through, the sooner we'll get home.'"]

[Footnote F: "The German officers are a rum lot," writes Sergeant W.
Holmes; "they lead from the rear all the time."]

[Footnote G: "When they are working hardest their rations would not do
for a tom-tit," says Sergeant J. Baker.]

[Footnote H: This letter was written to the son of a London vicar, and
published in _The Times_, Sept. 12th, 1914.]


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