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Title: News from No Man's Land
Author: Green, James
Language: English
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NEWS FROM NO MAN'S LAND
[Illustration: "Now they begin to return."
(See page 60.) ]
NEWS FROM
NO MAN'S LAND
BY
JAMES GREEN
SENIOR CHAPLAIN THE AUSTRALIAN IMPERIAL FORCE
WITH INTRODUCTION BY
LIEUT.-GEN. SIR W. R. BIRDWOOD,
K.C.S.I., K.C.M.G., C.B., C.I.E., D.S.O.
LONDON
CHARLES H. KELLY
25-35 CITY ROAD, AND 26 PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.
First Edition, 1917
INTRODUCTION
I am indebted to the Rev. James Green for the privilege of writing an
introduction to his book, in which he gives a lucid and interesting
description of the life of our gallant soldiers of the A.I.F. In his
capacity as one of our Chaplains to the Force, all of whom have done
such noble work during the war, he has been able to enjoy a close
personal touch with our men—more particularly perhaps at Gallipoli; the
record of his sympathetic observation and experience will, I am sure, be
heartily welcomed by all who are interested in the welfare of the A.I.F.
Previous publications have, I know, chronicled the incidents of our
campaign in Egypt and on the Gallipoli Peninsula—deeds in which the
greatest courage, determination, and self-sacrifice have been displayed
by our men from the Southern Seas, many of whom, alas! have made the
supreme sacrifice in the cause of Justice and Freedom. Chaplain Green's
work will, however, be an interesting sequel in that he describes what
one may call our second phase of operations on the Western Front.
Here, in France, our Australian troops have continued to show that
magnificent bravery and spirit which has enabled them to undergo
cheerfully the severest hardships, and even to enhance their fine
reputation as soldiers, which now stands second to none in this huge
Army. No words of mine can adequately express my admiration and
affection for them. I am proud to think that for nearly three years now
I have been privileged to serve with them, during which period they have
made traditions which will live for all time in the history of
Australia.
I wish all success to Chaplain Green in the publication of his book.
W. R. BIRDWOOD.
FRANCE, May 13, 1917.
FOREWORD
For reasons known to the men of the Australian Imperial Force, I am
always interested in meeting others who wear the green badge on their
arm. A good soldier is always as proud of the colours he wears on his
shoulder as the colours he wears on his breast. He knows that each
brigade and battalion possesses a soul of its own, and he is proud to
belong to his battalion and to worthily wear its colours. For these
reasons I ask the privilege of dedicating this book to the officers and
men of the First and the Fourteenth Brigades. Sister brigades they are,
from the Mother State; with them I campaigned, and for them I have a
proud affection.
Heroes of many a fight,--for those two Brigades will stand out specially
in Australian History, the story of the Landing at Anzac, the Battle of
the Lone Pine, Pozières, Fromelles, Bapaume, and Bullecourt. Some of the
men drafted from the First to the Fourteenth shared in the perils of
Gallipoli, and all are associated with the fighting on the Western
Front.
For them all, I wish that they may fight on to the certain and glorious
victory, and have the luck to return to Australia, the land of sunshine
and opportunity—there to help in building up the Commonwealth in harmony
with the principles of freedom for which they are fighting.
In spite of necessary suppression, or vagueness of names of localities,
my comrades of the Fifty-fifth Battalion, to which I was attached, will
recognize many of the incidents described, and I can only hope that
reading what the padre has to say may cheer them in some lonely places,
or help them to be happy though miserable in some indifferent billets.
JAMES GREEN.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A QUIET NIGHT ON THE WESTERN FRONT 11
II. NOTRE DAME DE DÉLIVRANCE 29
III. NEWS FROM NO MAN'S LAND 43
IV. THE BOMBER 67
V. ROMANCE AND REALITY 79
VI. THE GOD OF BATTLES 97
VII. THE CHIMNEY-POTS OF LONDON 121
VIII. HORSEFERRY ROAD 135
I
A QUIET NIGHT ON THE WESTERN FRONT
We marched along, the sun was high;
We marched along—the halt was nigh;
We marched along, a little parched,
It seemed we marched—and marched—and marched;
We sang a song, a little dry,
We sang a song, a halt was nigh.
The whistle blew, ah! welcomed cry--
'Halt!'--welcomed rest from wearied road,
With opened tunic, laid-down load;
Ah! welcomed rest with opened vest,
'Twere worth that strain to rest again!
H. H. V. CROSS,
London Rifle Brigade.
'A Route March in Northern France, 1916.'
I
A QUIET NIGHT ON THE WESTERN FRONT
We are getting near IT at last. We have started our march through the
quaint Flemish villages, past canals where long strings of barges,
painted grey, and bearing the marks of the wonderful Army Service Corps
of the British Army, are being towed steadily forward.
Occasionally, we march through good French towns, with their fine
churches and cathedrals. We hate the pavé. It is hard for marching; but
we recognize that it is a great advantage to possess such hard roads to
bear the enormous War traffic of great guns and heavy motor-lorries,
proceeding constantly to the front. Our band cheers us up. We are proud
of it. The tunes we like best are, 'Advance, Australia Fair,' 'Australia
will be There,' and 'Bonnie Dundee.'
The women and children and a few old men come out to cheer and clap,
and, occasionally, we see some woman in black turn aside to weep. Is she
thinking of some brave husband or son who marched to the front just as
gaily as we are doing, and who did not come back?
But what rouses the enthusiasm of those stricken people is the
'Marseillaise.' When our band strikes up the martial strains of that
most wonderful melody, the old men square their shoulders and the boys
march bravely alongside us, and the whole roadside seems to be vibrant
with the fighting spirit.
I remember one little fellow with a crutch who, though a confirmed
cripple, hobbled in front of our band for miles. It was a sight which
made us forget that we were footsore and hungry. Away, behind us, are
the memories of the long train journey from Ismailia to Alexandria. Only
a vague recollection remains of our small fleet of transports sailing
the beautiful waters of the Mediterranean. We do sometimes think of the
reception we got as we steamed into Marseilles, with its statue of Notre
Dame guarding the seas from her eminence on the hill above. Then the
long troop trains and longer journey across La Belle France. A beautiful
country, 'worth fighting for,' is the verdict of many a stalwart
Australian from 'out back,' and from perhaps some little Bush township,
with but a church, a blacksmith's shop, and an hotel. Further out, of
course, there was a race-course, and divided by miles there were the
stations and farms, but it was a land of magnificent distances. Here,
however, there is intensive cultivation, and towns close to each other.
A pleasant land of beautiful trees and rivers, and grass of greenness
new to us. But we are getting closer to the desolation of war, closer to
the valley of decision.
By and by we rest in a small village, and it is Sunday. The church bells
are ringing, and as I have made elaborate arrangements for church
parades, I am looking forward to a good padre's day.
The brigadier, however, cancels everything. 'Sorry, padre, the men are
going to be "gassed" this morning, but not by you.' They are, and they
look very uncanny manœuvring there in the fields with gas-helmets on. No
one is harmed by the gas, and they learn that it is possible to live and
move under gas. But I am sure they would have preferred my gas for once.
I am billeted with a very nice family here; and as the daughter is quite
charming, I have many visits from the younger officers. I did not know I
was so popular with them. Mademoiselle has learnt to speak English quite
well.
'Don't you like Australians best of all?' said Lieutenant Gallant, with
a languishing look to mademoiselle.
'We have many good soldiers here; English (they do not say much);
Scotch—very good men; they speak more, and ask if there is any place
where they can buy whisky. I like them all, and I do like Australians
best.' The gallant lieutenant beams with joy; but she continues archly,
'Because I always like those best who come last.'
Now the battalion is formed up to march. My batman says to mademoiselle:
'You are very sorry we are going, aren't you?'
'But, yes,' and one could see it was real sorrow.
'I know why,' I ventured to say. 'It is Sunday, and to-day you would
have worn your beautiful dress.'
'Ah, _oui_,' she says sadly, 'you are very wise, and it is true. Come';
and she leads us into the house again, opens the wardrobe, and behold
the costume from Paris, _très chic_, the lovely hat—a creation; the
high-heeled boots, they are all there. Quite innocently she tells us
that, had we stayed, she, with many another fair one, would have 'made
promenade.'
Oh, what we have missed! and what greater pleasure they have missed who
would have 'made promenade' to the big church and along the quaint
streets of that beautiful village. We have seen them working in the
fields, on the railway, in the signal-boxes; but the brave women of this
village would have liked us to see another side of their life when in
their Parisian costumes they promenaded the streets with the grace which
seems natural to every Frenchwoman.
We have had the deep sound of the big guns in our ears for days now, and
we are getting so near that we have seen fights in the air. Our band
instruments have been packed away, and we are in our last billet before
'going in.'
It is afternoon, the day following. The whole brigade is on the move in
readiness to fight. The men march in file under the avenues of
poplar-trees. The points where the various companies enter the sector
have all been detailed, and officers who have been down to the sector
before act as guides. At a cross-road the colonel on his horse watches
the men break off for their different directions, and receives reports
from time to time; nevertheless, in the darkness, the transport which I
am temporarily with goes too far, and we have to halt for instructions.
By this time our guns are booming out. We don't know whether there is
some 'stunt' on, or whether they are merely firing to cover our
'changing over.' Some thousands of men are 'coming out' and 'going in.'
It is a difficult operation. The noise of shell-fire is great, and now
we can see the festoons of flares going up in the Hun lines. The
lieutenant has inquired, and he says we are right and must go on. I
don't believe it. I have been down the road and I saw a parapet. I wish
I had not come with the transport. They are so visible on the white
road. At any time we may be discovered and a machine-gun turned on to
us. The horses are getting restive. The doctor has kindly lent me his
horse, and it is jumping about. I seem so high up and exposed there in
the saddle, and yet I cannot hold the beast when I dismount.
The wagons, too, make such a distinct noise as they rumble over the
metal road. I agree with one of the men whom I hear declaring to a chum
that 'the whole bally thing is "no bon."' The men inquire, when a fresh
gun-shock is heard, 'Is that ours or theirs?' With a brave optimism, I
assure them that all the guns in action are ours. They take me for a
veteran, and say, 'It's all right; the padre says they are all ours.'
Most of the men who have been in action before add to their authority by
agreeing with me. But I have a shrewd suspicion that, like me, they
_think_ they are all ours, and I know they _hope_ they are all ours.
With a splendid audacity and tone of finality, reminiscent of my
cricket-umpiring days, I continue coolly to announce to every inquirer,
'Yes, of course that's one of ours.' At last a shell breaks on the road
with a vicious 'whiz-bang.' No one is hurt, thank God, but it was close,
and the horses are playing up. Amid the silence which follows, one of
our Australians cries out: 'Now, then, padre, what about that? Is that
one of ours?' Such a question, and at such a time, demands a moment's
thought. But I answer quite confidently, 'Yes, that's ours—now.'
Everybody laughs, but it relieves the tension. It is relieved more by
the fact that the lieutenant, realizing that we _have_ gone too far, has
given the order to 'About turn,' and we are getting the horses and
wagons behind the bend of the road.
More inquiries. I've lost my faith in the transport. The doctor's groom
has come for the restless 'Rosinante,' and I'm free. If I am to get to
the Battalion Head Quarters, I must proceed 'on my own.' But first I
will turn into this little shelter, a forsaken dug-out covered with
stout beams and sand-bags.
Two of us light up our pipes, but a profane sentry draws near. 'Now,
then, you blighters, put out those pipes. You mustn't show the Huns a
light. Don't you know you're in a very dangerous place?'
It's all dangerous, but we didn't know that this place was specially
dangerous. I must make some inquiries of my own. I would have to leave
the transport some time. Why not now? I get into a long communication
sap. Like many another on the Western Front it is called Watling Street.
But it gives me a cue. I remember now that it leads into Convent Avenue,
and that, I heard them say, leads into Plug Street, and that is the road
to the Battalion Head Quarters.
I pull my tin-hat firmly down, and when the banks are low I crouch, for
the machine-gun bullets are whistling overhead, and all the choir and
orchestra of the guns on both sides are in full voice now. The Concert
of Europe has, by a metallic crescendo, reached its fortissimo.
The full diapason is out, but, as always in war, the _vox humana_ is
silent. There are little islands (traverses) in the communication
trench, and suddenly emerging from the sap near one of these, I nearly
bump into a sturdy machine-gunner I know well. He is a member of my
Church, a sweet singer in my choir when he is at home. And this is the
night for the choir practice, too. I see it now as in a vision. The
choir is gathered round the great organ, and the conductor raps out his
admonitions with the baton. They are practising one of my favourite
anthems, 'Send out Thy Light.'
'You must duck your head here, padre; it is a bad place, and you are not
supposed to loiter.'
But I must wait. I am asking myself, 'Are these guns sending out the
Light and Truth?' 'Yes, they are,' I say to myself. It is a quick mental
process, but I am satisfied with the conclusion.
We crouch down together and talk of the old church. He gives me more
information, and I press on again. I am talking to myself, a bad sign,
but the meeting and the memory has stirred up emotions not to be
stilled.
'We must have two anthems next Sunday,' I say to the conductor as though
he were present. 'First, "Send out Thy Light," and second, "The Radiant
Morn."'
I wonder if, after this fury, there will be a radiant morn for Europe;
not one that has passed away.
When wilt Thou save the people?
O God of mercy, when?
Not kings alone, but nations!
Not thrones and crowns, but men!
Flowers of Thy heart, O God, are they;
Let them not pass like weeds away,
Their heritage a sunless day.
God save the people!
A few more turns of the sap, and then I come to three trenches meeting,
and it is a dangerous spot, for shells are dropping close. But the
sentry, with bayonet fixed, is on guard.
'A hot place here.'
'Yes, padre, you can plop one any time here. I keep to the left side as
much as possible under the bank.'
'You're wise; and what are you here for?'
'Men of the "Fifty-fifth" are to be directed down this sap to the front
line, and men of the "Fifty-fourth" go down that, and by this you can
find your way to the Battalion Head Quarters.'
'Eureka! I've found it. _Bon soir_,' and '_bonne chance_, sonny'; my
present troubles are over.
Arriving at the Battalion Head Quarters, I find it to be a farm-house,
ruined beyond recognition as such. Kindly nature has covered it with a
screen of verdure, rendering it almost invisible. The cook is there and
his assistant. My kit has not come down to trolley-line yet, but the
major, who has been 'in' some days, shows me my dug-out, a mere hole.
Hours after the officers begin to turn up after various adventures. They
seem surprised to see me in first. 'Our padre is the limit,' says the
colonel. 'Chuck him into the centre of Darkest Africa, and he would
strike out for home.' They glare at me with vengeful jealousy, but they
have to confess I got supper on the way with the help of the cook.
Hot coffee melts them. It is professional jealousy. I tell them we ought
to have a few non-combatants to settle this war. We're good pals after
all, and I know they would not care for a padre who got lost; worse
still, they wouldn't want one who didn't _go in_ with them at all.
There's nothing like sticking up to these fine young fellows now and
again. Mutual admiration, tempered by strong opinions on irrelevant
questions. The colonel is jubilant because our battalion is right in now
without a casualty. Others, both going in and getting out, have,
unfortunately, not been so lucky.
Bed made at last. Fritz is still letting off fireworks.
Now to get to my dug-out. I walk quietly to the left behind a wall of
sand-bags, then going through an opening, I run smartly for the hole,
for machine-gun bullets are splitting the air. I have a bag in front of
my dug-out, and a sheet of corrugated iron to keep in the light. All
night long the guns boom, but you sleep all the same.
When we get our papers up a day afterwards, we read of this particular
night a neutral paragraph, headed, 'A Quiet Night on the Western Front.'
II
NOTRE DAME DE DÉLIVRANCE
From city homes—from country homes we came;
From mother's love and father's gift we came,
A wind most terrible blew o'er earth's seas;
It waved a smouldering ash, and blazed up war;
The smoke and heat of that great Hell drew us,
And from our lives we came to live, to live.
From sluggish routine, sluggish wrong we came.
From heedless walks, from ageing rust we came
--we called it life.
'Twas not! We came to live.
Out of the profound, profound we'll come, out, up;
Out of the deep we'll come, not from the shallows.
H. H. V. CROSS,
London Rifle Brigade.
'A Young Soldier's De Profundis.'
II
NOTRE DAME DE DÉLIVRANCE
At the gate of a ruined farm in our sector in Flanders is a little
chapel to 'Our Lady of Deliverance.' It is seventy years old. The
brickwork at one corner is broken down by shell-fire, but the ancient
picture above the altar, and the altar also, are intact.
What was the idea of the ancient proprietor in building this chapel at
his gate? for most of the wayside sanctuaries hereabout are dedicated to
our Saviour. It was a large farm-house, evidently the property of some
wealthy farmer. It must have survived the Franco-German War of 1870; but
it has not survived this, for the huge grange is a mass of ruins.
Perhaps the shrine is a recognition of deliverance during the first war.
Although it stands amid ruin to-day, the chapel is prophetic of a
deliverance which is in process of being worked out.
Near it there is a battery of field-guns, and in rear of it a battery of
'heavies'; in fact, all around there are guns, guns, and more guns!
They were hurling an avalanche of shells into the Hun lines when I
passed on a Sunday afternoon to conduct a service at a post in the
second line. What a horror of sound!
The Huns began to reply, and they sent nothing over but high explosives.
'Crump, crump, crump,' went the shells as they exploded, raising clouds
of dust and smoke, but fortunately missing all our batteries. To be
comparatively safe it was necessary for me to go by a way which avoided
all the targets the German gunners were aiming at. As though despairing
of getting our guns the Germans began to belabour our trenches with
minenwerfers, and soon the crash of mortars began to mingle with the
noise of our howitzers, field-guns, and machine-guns.
Thank God it did not last long. In ten minutes' intense bombardment in a
large sector like this hundreds of projectiles are launched in the air.
But we had the last word in this duel, and when it died down we were not
done. A flight of our aeroplanes droned overhead. They were going over
for the usual afternoon 'strafe.' There is some danger to pedestrians
from fragments of anti-aeroplane shells, for the Germans ceaselessly
bombard our 'planes, usually without any luck. They go right over the
German lines, probably carrying bombs for some depot or ammunition dump.
When they have passed, a different, a solitary aeroplane appears. The
'flight' was of battle-planes. This one is for spotting purposes, and a
single battery begins to fire in its direction.
The intense bombardment therefore gives place to a deliberate slow
firing of shell after shell in obedience to the observer above. They are
trying to get some special object, and 'registering' their shots for
future guidance.
At night-time this little sanctuary of Our Lady of Deliverance becomes
the centre of a scene which might be taken from some drama of the
underworld. Huge ammunition motor-lorries dash past with a reverberation
which makes the ruined walls tremble. They are delivering stores of
shell (largely made by the women of England) for the daily consumption
of the guns. Our Lady of Deliverance has many disciples among both
English and French women in these days; daughters of deliverance we
might call them.
Then very often at night-time the gun positions are changed, and by
immense efforts great howitzers are hauled into new pits. The Army
Service Corps must deliver its goods also by the light of the moon, and
from the front glide past the motor-ambulances with wounded and sick.
They are protected by a mesh of expanded steel, for they go right into
the zone of fire.
In this way deliverance is worked out for unhappy Flanders. Amid
thunderous roar of cannon, the rising and falling of star-shells,
rockets, and flares, of all colours and meanings, and the ceaseless
rattle of machine-guns, Our Lady of Deliverance is thrusting forth the
flail of retribution and the banner of freedom.
It is no sacrilege to ascribe our slow and sure pressure on the enemy to
higher and divine powers, even if we acknowledge, for our sins, that the
backward sweep of the awful flail smites us also. This would be the last
thought to the inhabitants of these war-stricken areas. To begin with,
they are a deeply religious people, and their religion gives them hope
and faith for the future. The Germans have destroyed their church but
not their faith. They have removed the altar from the ruins of their
once beautiful church to a neighbouring farm-house, and there they pray
to Notre Dame de Délivrance.
The same spirit is seen in the neighbouring towns and villages. In such
churches as are left standing you usually see the Union Jack and the
Tricolour at each side of the chancel, and always the statue of St.
Jeanne D'Arc is prominent, decorated, sometimes illuminated, and ever
the object of many devotions. It is this spirit which possesses the
women of France. Yet religion here to-day manifests itself in masculine
types, and even the Maid of Orleans is portrayed in the garb of a
soldier and with a drawn sword.
It is the effigy of Christ which is usually seen in wayside sanctuaries,
and they are not usually dedicated to Notre Dame. This is natural enough
in such a virile country as Northern France. The women, however, are
doing their share in working out the deliverance. Near this very
sanctuary you may see women and girls on the top of the haystacks
building them up. A soldier on leave is usually seen tossing the stooks
up, and boys drive the big Flemish horses in the lumbering old fashioned
wains, but all the rest is the work of the women, even to harrowing the
fields. The harvest is being got in right up to the guns, and the
soldiers are not allowed to harm crops or traverse fields. The heavy
traffic on roads by guns and army transport has necessitated a good deal
of reconstruction. The boys and the old men are doing it. How the women
can stay on and attend to the little shops in the villages at the front
is a mystery to us, for these shops and houses are being steadily
demolished by gunfire.
During one of our heavy bombardments recently I went into a little shop
to make a small purchase. The building alongside had been shelled the
previous week and had to be abandoned. The girl behind the counter was
obviously nervous, and she said to me in broken English, 'Too much
bombardment I do not like.' '_Tout Anglais_,' I replied. Immediately she
brightened up wonderfully. '_Très bon pour les Allemands_,' she said,
and went about her work singing.
A curious note amid this quaint Flemish environment of red brick and
tiles, interspersed with trees and grass of a greenness unknown to
Australia, is produced by the London motor-buses. They rush past with a
roar, filled with Tommies singing, 'Keep the home-fires burning.'
From one end of the line to the other every man has his job. There are
snipers, machine-gunners, trench-mortar men, bombers, signallers,
pigeon-men. This last suggests the pigeon service. Men who _know_
pigeons are chosen for this work, and they like it. In the stress and
strain of battle 'wireless' and 'wire' may break down, so pigeons are
trained by a daily service of duplicate messages. They have their
regular flights, and there is a constant service of cages being brought
up to the lines by motor-bike, and flights of pigeons returning to their
lots at stated times. We see the German birds flying back too, so that
man, beast, and bird have all been drawn into this great war. They get
very wise too, and the older pigeons fly low along the hedges and by the
avenues of poplar-trees to avoid gunfire. The pigeon-man follows the
commander into battle as well as the telephonist.
But most useful and enthusiastic of all are the observers. 'O. Pip'
observers' post is a place the enemy is always seeking to discover and
'knock out.' But they are cleverly hidden. The other day, however, one
of our men fell by his enthusiasm. He was directing gunfire on an enemy
battery, and by and by he got it. When the Hun gun position was hit he
forgot for a moment how precarious a foothold he had in his eyrie in the
spreading branches of a tree. 'We've got it!' he cried, standing up and
waving his hands. He fell out of his perch and broke his leg. He is now
rejoicing in a hospital. We must not forget the wonderful work of the
miners. They drive tunnels and construct weird 'bomb-proofs' and other
works, thus contributing their share to the coming deliverance in which
everybody at the Front firmly believes.
Yes, that little chapel is a parable and a prophecy. Itself intact amid
the ruins, it reminds us that although we ourselves are imperfect
instruments, our cause is good, and the day is surely coming when these
farm-houses and churches will be rebuilt in this beautiful countryside
and prosperity and peace will rule. Every gun-shot expresses our faith
and what we suffer in the price we pay for freedom and security which
shall be ours and for many long years our children's.
In the quiet days they brought their offering of flowers to this shrine.
To-day we bring our howitzers drawn by huge traction engines, our
field-guns, our mortars, our machine-guns, our rifles, and these are our
offerings.
More: from distant lands many thousands of miles across the ocean _men_
have come. Nay, they have been _sent_. They have been given up by their
women, for they are husbands, fathers, sons, and brothers. These men,
greater than they know themselves to be, are the living offerings at
this shrine, given to the cause of Notre Dame de Délivrance.
III
NEWS FROM NO MAN'S LAND
There's a zone,
Wild and lone,
None claim, none own,
That goes by the name of No Man's Land;
Its frontiers are bastioned, and wired, and mined,
The rank grass shudders and shakes in the wind,
And never a roof nor a tree you find
In No Man's Land.
They that gave
Lives so brave
Have found a grave
In the haggard fields of No Man's Land.
By the foeman's reddened parapet
They lie with never a head-stone set,
But their dauntless souls march forward yet
In No Man's Land.
H. D'A. B.,
Major, 55th Division, B.E.F., France.
III
NEWS FROM NO MAN'S LAND
'No Man's Land' is that bit of ground six hundred yards, and sometimes
only thirty yards, between our trenches and those of the enemy. Over
this disputed area we 'strafe' each other night and day. There are often
water-holes, even swamps, in No Man's Land, and both sides have a habit
of draining trenches into it. Wild flowers and even garden flowers grow
in this area, for it contains ruined farm-houses and orchards. Poppies
red as blood, lilies white as snow, roses, and blue cornflowers are
often seen there waving in the breeze, sometimes swaying before the hail
of bullets from machine-guns.
The birds sing oblivious of war here, but sometimes you see pigeons
trying to fly across. I say trying, because our men always endeavour and
sometimes succeed in shooting them. Why? Because probably they are
carrying spies' messages to the Huns which may mean death to us. We do
not want the enemy to know how we are distributing our batteries in the
rear, so we try to stop enemy aeroplanes or pigeons crossing either way.
As soon as daylight appears you will usually hear the droning of a swarm
of great bees humming their way across No Man's Land. They are British
aeroplanes, often flown by young men from eighteen years of age and
upwards. They never refuse a fight, and the best proof of their
efficiency is seen in the fact that fortunes are wasted by the Germans
every day in anti-aeroplane fire, in the vain hope of stopping them.
They often cross in ordered ranks, and go through wonderful evolutions
on their way—circling over each other like catherine-wheels, and looping
the loop as if in the joy of battle and contempt of the enemy.
Our airmen are the pride of the infantry. If you want to be cheered up,
all you have to do is to look up, and watch these adventurers of the
air. Many a stirring fight have we witnessed in the air over that
unowned terrain called No Man's Land. One evening we watched a fearless
observer making his regular circles amid such intense anti-aeroplane
fire that we trembled for him. By-and-by he began to fall, and we
watched his descent with our hearts in our mouths. When we saw that he
was going to land just in our lines, we raced madly to the spot. Some of
the officers, revolver in hand, thinking they might need to fend off the
enemy, were so eager that they forgot their _tin-hats_ which were really
more necessary. To make sure of him the Boches simply plastered the spot
where he had landed with shell-fire. Arriving, we saw him desperately
dragging the engine, which was intact, under a parapet. Then he took
refuge, and we congratulated him, saying he was 'very lucky.'
'Lucky, do you call it?' he responded. 'Why, they have ruined my
machine.'
Why, so they had!
There was a legend with us in one sector not far from Armentières of an
airman whom we called 'the mad major.' I don't know whether he was one,
or two, or three. Like the gun we called 'Beechy Bill' at Gallipoli,
perhaps there were several of him. All we knew was that we would see an
airman flying gamely among the puffballs of the breaking anti-aeroplane
shells of the enemy, and sometimes he seemed to get into trouble, and we
used to cry out, 'They have got him!' He would fall like a stone,
recover, fall again, and then when we looked for the awful end he would
skim low over the German trenches plying his machine-gun like one
o'clock. Good luck to the mad major! There was a method in his madness,
although we never knew what he was going to do next. Nor did the Hun. In
spite of danger and orders, we used to crouch behind the parapets
watching our airmen, and it was a tonic to us.
Of course at any time, and for long periods all the time, shells, from
spitting rifle batteries to 60-lb. projectiles from big guns in the
rear, are screaming and hissing over No Man's Land; and wherever you are
'you never know your luck.' Moral: Do not despise your tin-hat. It may
be uncomfortable, but it would be more uncomfortable to 'stop one' even
if it were but a fragment.
New monsters called Tanks have taken to moving across the debateable
territory called No Man's Land, spitting out flaming death as they go.
In short, all the accumulating frightfulness which we are learning to
use is being used to say to the Hun in tongues of fire and steel, 'This
is not your land; begone, and take up once more your watch on the
Rhine!'
But you wonder why we do not annex No Man's Land, and advance. The
strategy of staying here till the right moment comes is wise and humane.
There are fine towns and villages containing non-combatants on the other
side of No Man's Land. It would be but to mock their hopes to advance
unless we could sweep on everywhere. Nor do we wish to conquer in such a
way that every village is left in ruins. Here and there at strategic
points we may have to do that. It is not so much that we want to break
through as that we want the whole line to break. Meanwhile it is a very
hot and unhealthy place for Fritz.
Besides that, we are beating the enemy every day on this line. It suits
us. We have organized it. Here we have trolley-lines, concrete
bomb-proof stores, and many things that take time to build. Later, when
the right time comes, we shall cross No Man's Land at many places, and
it will become France again for ever. Until that time comes we cannot do
more than present our claim to No Man's Land. We do this frequently and
'in person.' Our patrols and scouts enter it nightly, and it requires
courage and craft to do this. Through secret sally-ports, over parapets,
and where the line has been damaged by shell-fire, they steal out in the
darkness, and the German sentries keep a succession of flares and
star-shells going to detect them. What hairbreadth escapes they have,
and what escapes the Hun sentries have; for sometimes they find
themselves very near to one, and they have to get back with their
information without raising an alarm if possible. Sometimes, however,
through a mistake, in the fog or darkness they get into the German line,
and they have to fight and escape amid following bullets. At such times
our men at the parapets have carefully to cover their return with
rifle-fire, and even help them over or under our defences back again to
safety. Young intelligence officers take many risks as they crawl amid
the hollows in No Man's Land, revolver in hand, in search of
information.
We got a few body-shields for our scouts in our battalion, and they went
out for a long time with a greater confidence. The protection they
afforded gave them a calmer frame of mind, which produced extra
efficiency. But we make more serious claims on this disputed ground by
our 'raids,' which occur in many places every night. The raid is a
survival, or perhaps a revival, of the old hand-to-hand fighting. It is
a curious anti-climax of science in war, of which there are so many
illustrations to-day.
In spite of long-range guns of great power and high-velocity telescopic
rifles, we fight in trenches close together, and we have got back to
grenadier days. Hand-grenades, rifle-grenades, and trench-mortar bombs
as big as howitzer-shells are tossed over to the enemy lines at the same
murderous distances as those at which Wellington's and Napoleon's
veterans fired at each other in Peninsula days.
The raid is the last illustration of our backsliding in an age of
science to the primaeval fighting instinct, unrelieved by the chivalry
of a knightly age. You may be sure there are no banners flying or
trumpets blowing, no heraldic challenge to warn the Hun that he is to be
raided. It is a form of frightfulness calculated to jar the nerves of
the most militant disciple of the gospel of blood and iron.
We were warned that our battalion, in common with others, would be
expected to raid the enemy's lines in its turn, and volunteers were
immediately called for. There was no lack of response. Then the men had
to go through a long and careful training, as those do who are out to
win a county football cup. In the rear of the sector they dug trenches
which were a replica of those to be raided. They did this from
photographs provided by our indomitable airmen. On this ground the men
were trained physically, and in the use of the special arms they were to
carry. Relay races to give them speed, crawling attacks at night to make
them wary and acquaint them with the 'lie of the land'; and added to
this, bayonet-fighting, revolver-practice, and all this again and again,
and in all sorts of light or darkness, until at last they were smitten
with a desire to 'get it through,' and a confidence that they could 'put
it through.' So much so, that two of their number who became due for
leave declined it, as they thought it was 'up to them' to be in the raid
after training for it.
At last the great day arrived. No one knew until almost the last moment.
When the raiders came up in two London motor-buses singing 'Australia
will be There,' we did not know them at first. They were a disgrace to
the battalion as far as clothing went, for they were clad in ragged and
dirty clothes from which all marks of identification were absent. Short
as the notice was, we had organized a 'banquet' for them, and even got a
huge three-decker bride-cake from a neighbouring village. We had a solid
meal of three courses, and you may be sure it was none the less hearty
because of the absence of intoxicants. Every one was cheerful, but there
was an undercurrent of seriousness and grim determination. The chaplain
had to propose a toast, and after he had wished them 'Good luck' and
'God bless you,' the men came up with apparent casualness to say a word
or two of intimate confidence not to be divulged in this sketch.
Then the men were prepared. They all wore aprons containing bombs; some
had rifle and bayonet, some clubs, entrenching-tool handles with
cog-wheels at the end—commonly called chloroform sticks—some bombs and
revolvers. Every non-com. had a watch set to divisional time and an
electric torch.
Amid a good deal of merriment they blackened each other's faces—not for
fun, but because white faces would be easily revealed under the white
light of the German flares. Then the motor-lorries came up to take them
into the sector, and with many cheerful wishes they drove away as jolly
as though they were going to a party. A motor-ambulance followed with
the regimental doctor, the chaplain, and the stretcher-bearers. Down the
long communication trenches we followed them silently over the
duck-boards, from which occasionally some would slip partially into the
water draining below.
The arrival at the front line is marked by a 'fading away' of the troops
holding it. 'It's me for my dug-out,' I heard one man say. 'It ain't
healthy with raiders about.' This is wise, because when the raid begins
the Boches will rain shells on No Man's Land, and then put a barrage on
or about the parapets to get them on the return. Now the raiders are
sorted out and put round the three secret sally-ports through which each
party will enter the 'verboten' land. The doctor inspects the special
aid-posts to see if all arrangements are perfect. Yes, the bandages and
doctor's kit are all laid out, and the A.M. Corps men at their posts,
and I and the doc., with an A.M.C. sergeant, repair to the main aid-post
to wait. It is three-quarters of an hour yet to zero time, but before
that many of the raiders will be lying out in No Man's Land in holes and
hollows. We try to read a bit, then talk, and all the time smoke.
Smoking has a curious psychological effect. It steadies the nerves,
makes you believe you are not perturbed, but there is no doubt that the
time of waiting is always the worst.
Every now and again we look at the watches. 'Quarter of an hour to go.'
'Yes,' says the doc. 'I expect some of them have crawled out now.' 'Ten
minutes to go.' You throw down your book. It is no good pretending to
read. For three days our gunners have been 'wire-cutting.' They have cut
the wire over a very wide front, but they always take care to cut it
where our men are going to attack.
Zero time is 9 p.m., and exactly on the second hell breaks out. Guns in
the rear roar out in fury. Trench mortars close at hand vomit forth
their missiles of death, and even machine-guns and rifle batteries help
to swell the crescendo of battle. The ranges are well known, and the
guns do their work without harming our men, who are now crawling
forward.
Our aid-post is a dug-out covered with steel joists and sand-bags; but
it rocks with the swish, swish, swish of the shells flying through the
air like hail. Now the Boche begins to reply, and every now and then a
'whiz-bang' bursts on the parapets. We can only hope that no high
explosive will happen to break on _our_ dug-out. Now the guns lift, and
the raiders get closer up. A frenzy of flares go up, and we are so
curious that we sneak out to see across No Man's Land. We cannot see a
man of our party, and we take that to indicate that the Huns, too,
cannot see them yet.
Now it is 9.10, and on the instant there is a silence as terrible as was
the fearful noise. The raiders are among the Germans now. They rush from
dug-out to dug-out bombing. Meeting Huns, they fight face to face and
hand to hand. German fire breaks out on No Man's Land, and occasionally
a rifle shot. Then, 'bad luck to us,' the Hun ceases to engage our guns,
and he puts his high explosives on, and just over our parapets. And this
is the time we must get out for our work, for casualties soon come back;
indeed a message has come to say that two are back. One man who has
brought a wounded comrade and himself has suffered a fall, injuring the
knee. As we run along the duck-boards behind the parapet we bend low and
listen fearfully to the crump, crump, crump of shells exploding behind
our line. The raiders have just ten minutes for their fighting. At that
time our guns will raise another curtain of fire behind them to keep the
Huns from a counter-attack.
They must not stay under our own fire. Now they begin to return, with
their eyes bright with the excitement of battle, covered with mud, with
a German helmet or two, with many stories of the fighting, and with
their wounded. The stretcher-bearers are out in No Man's Land seeking
others, and we have enough to do dealing with those at hand. We have got
most of them close up to the parapet, and the doctor has difficult work
to do under circumstances the reverse of helpful, for German shells are
landing in our lines pretty thickly. But when you reach this point in a
'stunt' you cease to think of danger; you are absorbed in helping. The
wounded turn to the padre as a friend and almost as a father. They
babble of their home folks, give you messages, and they hold your hand
tightly when they are in pain. You cannot stay with one longer than is
necessary, for others ask for you. 'Ask the padre to come' is something
which makes it worth your while to be with the men in battle. One man,
not at all young, gives me many loving messages to one whom I took to be
his wife. I send them all to Australia, and receive thanks from his
mother, who explains that her son was a confirmed bachelor. Another poor
chap has a slight wound; but it does not bleed, and he is so cold. We
heap blankets and new sand-bags on him and give him stimulants. But he
gets colder and colder, and just as the ambulance reaches the billets in
the village he dies of shell-shock. The wounded men are put on the
trolleys, and the stretcher-bearers begin to push them out of the
sector; and while they do so the Huns' shells fall all round. 'But who
cares?' That is the feeling you have at this stage. Now we have a
bother. Some of the raiders are not easily persuaded to start on the
homeward march up the communication trench. The special officer stands,
notebook in hand, ticking off the names of the raiders who have
returned. In spite of his assurance some want to go back to find chums
who are really not lost. Others seek excuses because they want to go
back for trophies or booty which they now remember to have seen.
One of our company is still missing, and a wounded man tells me where he
has seen him. As a matter of fact, things have quietened down a lot now,
and we have virtual possession of No Man's Land; the Huns have hidden.
They are satisfied to sprinkle our sector with shells in the hope of
getting returning men. But our stretcher-bearers are indignant at the
idea of my attempting to get the lost man. Securing my information, they
go into No Man's Land and find him. We still have a number of less
seriously wounded men behind the parapets. Everybody is talking of the
exploits of one of them. He is an athletic fellow whom the doctor is
attending. To counterbalance the pain he is suffering I congratulate
him, and suggest that he will probably get recommended for reward.
'No fear of that,' he says laughing. 'More likely ten days' C.B.'
(confinement to barracks).
'Why?' I inquire.
'Well, I shouldn't have been there at all,' he replies.
'I can't understand that,' I say.
'Well, sir, I'm not a raider at all; but when I heard the shots, I
couldn't resist, so I slipped over the parapet and into it.'
It is difficult to tell exactly what success the raid has had; but the
men seem to agree that with those they accounted for and Huns they found
killed by our artillery fire altogether twenty-five of the enemy were
destroyed. We have lost three killed in action, and a number of wounded
who will recover. One prisoner has been brought back, and he seems to be
a regular walking orderly-room for the number of official documents in
his possession. It may be but a small affair; but when we remember that
there were twenty-five raids the same night, it will be recognized that
we are not sitting down tamely and submitting to the German occupation
of any part of France.
Probably the British press will announce to-morrow, 'All calm on the
Western Front'; but we know that every night No Man's Land is the scene
of deeds of valour and self-sacrifice, proving that our men have the
fighting spirit of their fathers; and that apart from the clash of
material forces, in the great battle of spirits which is the ultimate
basis upon which a decision in war depends, we need not doubt the 'will
to victory' of our men. No Man's Land, with all its pathos and sorrow,
the grave of unknown heroes, the battle-ground on which many a brave
exploit is enacted which is unnoticed and unrecognized, is still the
pledge and prophecy of our final victory.
Now we must trudge back to the village. We walk about two miles in saps,
and then join the ambulances waiting on the road. You begin to feel
tired at this stage!
IV
THE BOMBER
'THE CALL OF THE BUGLE.'
The Bugles of England were blowing o'er the sea,
As they had called a thousand years—calling now for me.
They woke me from my dreaming in the dawning of the day,
The Bugles of England—and how could I stay!
The Banners of England unfurled across the sea,
Floating out upon the wind, were beckoning to me.
Storm-rent and battle-torn, smoke-stained and grey:
The Banners of England—and how could I stay!
O England, I heard the cry of those who died for thee,
Sounding like an organ voice across the winter sea;
They lived and died for England, and gladly went their way:
England, O England—how could I stay!
PTE. J. D. BURNS, A.I.F.
(Killed in action, Gallipoli.)
Son of Rev. ---- Burns, late of Bairnsdale, Victoria.
IV
THE BOMBER
We had a treasure in our battalion—a sergeant who knew all about bombs.
He liked them, and knew exactly how to treat them. Of course we could
not keep such a man in the battalion. He was manifestly called to the
vocation of Instructor for Bombing Schools.
They will never make a general of him—he is too valuable in his present
capacity. Besides, his grammar and pronunciation are not equal to such a
strain. The more lucid his explanations are, the looser is his control
of the aspirate; although that is nothing in these days, for I heard a
member of the British Parliament speaking the other day, and he---- But
that is another story!
'Bombs is all right if you treat them properly. They will never do no
'arm to you if you don't monkey with them. They are gentle and 'armless
things to them as is wise to them,' he would say, addressing his group
of humble disciples. 'Gather round and I'll learn you about bombs.' And
what time he toyed with the vicious missile the 'class' would gather
somewhat fearfully around him.
'When you remove this 'ere pin you release the spring which causes the
charge to explode the bomb in the time that you count five—so.' He
removes the pin and proceeds to deliberately count, 'One, two, three';
now his disciples begin to melt away, 'four'--'Oh, you needn't worry,
five, there ain't no charge in this one. It's empty for experimental
purposes.'
He has a wonderful command of hard, technical words, only equalled by
his disregard of the proper pronunciation of simple words.
[Illustration: "Gather round, and I'll learn you about bombs."]
Now with reassured courage the class gather round again, and he takes up
a 'live' bomb.
'As you count three, you hurl the bomb, not with a jerk, but with a
smooth round arm bowling motion. So—one, two, three,' and he hurls the
bomb clear into a trench forty yards away. It explodes with a loud
detonation, smashing up the trench, and he resumes his lecture.
'Although you 'ave removed the pin, you can still keep your bomb right,
by pressing the spring until you are ready for action, so you can 'ave a
bomb in your 'and just ready for throwing as you go up a German trench.
You've got to do it just right, so that Fritz has no time to pick up
your bomb and throw it back at you.
'You can 'ave faith in your bombs now. It's not like them there
Gallipoli days, when we 'ad to fire jam-tin bombs made on the premises.
They was filled with Turkish bullets and all sorts of things, but they
couldn't be relied on to do the same thing every time. Did you ever 'ear
of Lieutenant Forshaw, V.C., down Cape Hellis way? He hurled jam-tin
bombs for forty-two hours at Johnny Turk. He 'ad to light them with his
cigarette.
'Not been used to smoking cigarettes, 'im 'aving been brought up as a
schoolmaster, the smoking did 'im a lot of 'arm, for which reason the
King made 'im a V.C. Lucky fellow, I call 'im. Many's the time I've been
short of a fag.'
At once quite a number of the sergeant's pupils present fags, and having
made a selection and put a few in his pocket for future use, the
sergeant proceeds:
'There's another man I want to tell you about—Captain Shout, V.C., of
the 1st Battalion. 'E was throwing bombs at such close range at the
Turks that 'e had to have three lit at once for 'im, and 'e fired them
just so as they would explode among the enemy. 'E kept this up a long
time, and 'eld the enemy up, but one burst too near 'im, and after some
time, he died of 'is wounds. A great loss to the A.I.F., believe me. You
needn't worry about such-like 'appenings now; only one in two thousand
of our Mills' grenade goes wrong, and with the odd one you've got your
sporting chance.
'Now, what about bombs that land close to you, sometimes thrown by the
enemy, and sometimes by accident, our own, when a man 'its the side of
the trench? Don't be too scared. Even then bombs is 'armless properly
treated. Get behind a traverse if there is one. If not, then you render
the live bomb 'armless. Gather round. I'll show you.'
Sitting on a chair, he took a bomb, and, after counting three, threw it
on the ground, not a great way off. The men scatter for all they are
worth; but the sergeant, having thrown an overcoat over the bomb, calmly
resumes his seat. Crash! goes the bomb at the fifth second. The coat
rises with the bomb, the fragments drop harmlessly around, and the coat
is not much worse.
'Now then, let that learn you to throw sand-bags, blankets, your own
overcoat or some such thing over a bomb, and ten to one no 'arm will
follow.
'Did you ever hear of Mulga Bill at Quinn's Post? A bomb dropped in the
trench amongst them, and 'e promptly put a sand-bag from the parapet on
top of it. To make sure, 'e sat on top of the sand-bag. When it exploded
'e went up with the bag a little way. 'E came down all right and none
the worse. But 'e was _narked_--annoyed, to find his chums laughing at
'im. "What are yer laughing at?" 'e said. "I did that to save you
fellows, but I'll never do it again."
'That's where Mulga Bill was wrong. He done right, except sitting on top
of it. That was an extra act—a sort of curtain-raiser at the wrong end
of the play.
'Let that learn you not to put 'ard substances on a live bomb. It don't
take kindly to pressure. I'll show you. Gather round.'
The instructor then proceeds to throw another bomb. As, counting three,
he throws the bomb down, he proceeds quickly to put a sheet of
corrugated iron on it.
'Now,' he cries, 'run like hell!'--and he showed them the example.
The bomb, exploding, sends fragments, throws the torn iron all around,
and the men have learnt another strange lesson in regard to the
behaviour of bombs.
Notwithstanding the confident handling of bombs by this expert, I am
privately of opinion that men should beware of 'the familiarity which
breeds contempt' in the matter of bombs.
There was a man in our Brigade who had just returned from a bombing
school with his head stuffed full of all sorts of knowledge about the
manufacture and use of bombs. He had a small collection of them, and one
morning in the shadow of the Calvary at the cross-roads-at Fleurbaix,
having an audience, he held forth on his new subject, illustrating his
remarks by fiddling with a small screw-driver at a bomb which he
professed to know all about. Suddenly it exploded, wounding him sadly.
'A little learning' had for the moment 'made him mad.'
To get back to our Bombing School. After the instructor's talks, the men
in turn would hurl bombs from one trench to another, until they were no
longer 'bomb-shy.' As a matter of fact, a good bomber is just as good a
'life' in the army as any other expert. Indeed, a man may lose his life
through the absence of a bomb or the knowledge of how to use it.
In the words of our instructor, 'The cure for the bombing craze is--"A
hair of the dog that bit you."'
The Germans are good bombers, and when, in their counter-attack, they
come down a trench throwing bombs, the only way is to bomb them back and
out again.
He used to say, 'The Boches began this blooming bombing business,' only
his adjectives were sometimes profane. 'What we have to do is to give
them a fair sickening of it. Bomb their Zeppelins, bomb their
submarines, bomb their dug-outs'--then, in one final outburst, he would
say, 'Bomb the Boches; and if you don't believe what I say, ask the
Chaplain.'
If they ask me, how can I contradict him?
Our 'bomber' often surprised us, even to alarm. But the biggest surprise
he ever gave us was when he had been granted ten days' (well deserved)
leave in 'Blighty,' he turned up again in six. Wondering, the men, who
envied him his leave, inquired why he had returned before his leave was
up.
'I was very lonely in London,' he replied simply. 'I like to be with my
pals.'
V
ROMANCE AND REALITY
Page from a world-old palimpsest
Shrined on the altar of the sea,
Whereon a Nation's new-limned crest
Glitters in glorious blazonry!
Grave that our race shall kneel anigh
For aye—Gallipoli; good-bye!
Dying to rank as men with those
Who manned the wall while Ilium burned--
This is the crown your story knows,
The need their rare dear madness earned!
Troy's heroes cry to ours and thee,
Gallipoli, Gallipoli!
They watched through fierce weeks many a one
While, from his tent of rose-hued lawn
The unclenched fingers of the sun
Unloosed the westering birds of dawn;
For them those sun-birds stoop and fly
No more! Gallipoli, good-bye!
God's acre, bare and barren woods,
Cross-guarded mounds where noon-rays burn--
Like pale knights praying by their swords,
Set upright in the bracken-fern--
Thy love shall keep our freemen free,
Gallipoli, Gallipoli!
J. ALEX. ALLEN in the _Sydney Bulletin_.
V
ROMANCE AND REALITY.
The Army Chaplain, drawn by Mars from his quiet round of parish work and
life, made up, as it is, of pastoral visitation, educational and
devotional meetings, and the public services of the Sabbath, is certain
to find active service a restless experience. His battles aforetime,
fierce enough sometimes, were in the arena of Synod or Conference Hall,
and his duels were of the more or less friendly sort of the Ministers'
Fraternal. Now he sees something of battles more dramatic, in which the
missiles are more than words. He moves in an atmosphere of romance
mingled with grim reality, and he begins to feel that he is living in
heroic days. He sees the world in process of reconstruction, and looks
on whilst the fabric of man's life and character is taken down and built
up again according to a new pattern.
Our disappointment in not being allowed to proceed straight to the front
in France was somewhat mitigated by the news that we were to train and
wait beneath the shadows of the mighty Pyramids at Cairo. On the ground
where Napoleon, addressing his troops, reminded them that 'forty
centuries looked down upon them' and awaited their achievements, we
trekked through the sand, sweated through the hot days and shivered
during the cold nights, as we camped amid sand which is always either
very hot or cold. There was a hard winter's work for padres here who
desired to do something to counteract the evil attractions of Cairo for
the troops. The reality was, however, always tinctured with the romantic
glamour of Egypt and the Nile.
There was Vieux Cairo—the ancient Forstad—with its undoubted earliest
Christian Church; the place to which we can say with almost certainty
that Joseph and Mary came with the Infant Christ. Wanderings amid the
antiquities of this ancient place full of Coptic traditions, and an
occasional mingling with the multi-coloured crowds gathering among the
Bazaars of the Monsky, somewhat relieved the tedium of evolutions amid
the eternal sand of the Libyan Desert.
A hard three days' manœuvring was set over against the interesting fact
that we fought our sham battles at Sakkara, the City of the Dead, and
our Brigade signallers flashed or flagged their messages from the Step
Pyramid—the very oldest building in the world to-day.
'Going down to Egypt' had the same dangerous fascination for us as for
the ancient Israelites, and padres had to be modern Isaiahs, warning the
men of the languorous seductions which Egypt in modern times, as in
ancient, holds out to men of a sturdy race.
Then came the never-to-be-forgotten day when we marched out of our Mena
Camp, headed by our bands—away from the sand of the desert, and on
through the crowded streets of Cairo, singing, 'Advance, Australia Fair'
and 'Good-bye, Cairo.' We were going to fight, and we were glad. We had
left the back-block townships away beyond sunset for this very purpose:
to strike a blow for Old England.
That we were going to strike a blow at the heart of the Turkish Empire
made it all the more thrilling. Whether we would succeed or not we could
not tell, but we knew that we were going to strike hard. No ancient
crusaders ever felt higher enthusiasm than did we amid the marshalling
of the armada of transports at Alexandria. Then, with Pompey's Pillar
looking down upon us, we sailed away from the city of Alexander the
Great, passed the Pharos and out to the blue Mediterranean.
Whither bound? We hardly knew, but in those days, when padres stood upon
the higher decks and spoke to the men in their ranks below in the deep
well decks of those huge transports, the romance of it all impelled them
to call men to high endeavour and heroic faith. We had to 'do censor' on
this voyage, and we found that the men's letters were surcharged in
almost equal quantities with reality and romance. They complained that
they had to sleep on an iron deck, eat iron rations, and, to crown all,
some one said, 'We are commanded by a General called Iron Hamilton.' But
they felt the glory of it, and displayed the spirit of adventurers.
With St. John's Patmos in sight, with its white buildings on the summit
of the hill, we steamed on for Lemnos. Lemnos, the island to which, in
Greek myth, Jove's son was hurled from heaven, in disgrace, and where
the Greek army called on its way to the Trojan War, was beautiful to us
after the hot sands of Egypt.
We manœuvred on shore among the most beautiful wild flowers, and we
sailed in Mudros Bay around the formidable battleships of a mighty
allied fleet.
Those were romantic days for the padre. Everything one said was
flavoured with the seriousness of last words and final exhortations. The
last Communion service, and the last service on the huge flagship of the
A.I. Force, the _Minnewaska_, is something to remember. On April 11 the
topic was 'Consecration.' 'And Joshua said unto the people, Sanctify
yourselves; for to-morrow the Lord will begin to do wonders among you.'
The lesson was the story of the preparation of Joshua's army for the
crossing of the Jordan. Knowing how desperate was our enterprise, we
girded ourselves for the attack, and whatever the result of our campaign
may have been—and we shall not know that fully until the war is over—we
can claim that we obeyed the word which said, 'When ye come to the brink
of the water of Jordan, ye shall stand still in Jordan.' How many of our
brave fellows on the brink of the water of the last Jordan stood firm on
that bit of land we wrested from the Turk?
The last service of all on the deck of the flagship, on April 18, 1915,
had for its message: 'Faith in God's leadership,' 'The Pillar of Cloud
by day and the Pillar of Fire by night.' It _was_ a pillar of
cloud—clouds of battle-smoke—and a pillar of fire from the thunderous
guns of our Fleet; and although it was not written in the Book of Fate
that we should take Gallipoli, we may yet believe that God was with us.
In that address, after showing, first, that God does lead nations, and,
secondly, we are not in the war for Empire aggrandizement, but for the
preservation of God-given ideals—I turned to ask: 'Are we suitable
instruments for the fulfilment of God's will?'
I look back with thankfulness to the fact that my last words to the men
who were going to land at Gallipoli were on 'personal salvation.' 'Some
of you may be satisfied that we are right as a nation in regard to God,
but you may have confused and troubled thoughts about your own relation
to God. You say, "I am not a church member or communicant. What about my
personal salvation?" In regard to the forgiveness of sins, there is no
magic or mystery about it. A man can be a Christian without knowing the
creeds, just as a man can be a soldier without knowing the military
text-books. The great revelation of the Bible is of God as a Father.
Think of a good father. He would forgive even a prodigal son. So will
God. But there must be repentance. If you thus come, God will accept you
and say: "Thy sins which were many are all forgiven; go in peace and sin
no more." Thus you may go forward, and fight all your battles knowing
that at last, when you ground your arms before the Throne of God, and
answer the roll-call of eternity, you will hear the Father say, "Well
done, thou hast been faithful unto death; enter into Life."'
On a brilliant day of Mediterranean beauty our ships lifted their
anchors, and, amid resounding cheers, one after another steamed out into
the Ægean Sea, in the wake of the fabled Argonauts and on the ancient
track of the Greek army sailing for the Plains of Troy. In the darkness
battleships and transports took up their allotted positions, and in the
early dawn there began one of the greatest combined naval and military
battles which the world has ever seen.
Even amid the tragedy of those Gallipoli days we lived under the spell
of the storied past. We were living in St. Paul's world. On a certain
bright Sunday morning we addressed some hundreds of men on 'Paul's
vision and call to Macedonia.'
We were fairly safe, for the shells flew over us on their way to the
beach, and the hill intervening stopped the rifle-fire of the enemy. It
is a good thing to be on the right side of the hill.
The men were always glad to hear about that indomitable fighter, Paul.
We were able to point to Kum Kale in the distance, which our battleships
had bombarded some days previously. It is the ancient Troas, from which
Paul sailed, and Troas again is the more ancient Troy. He 'made a
straight course to Samothrace.'
This would take his little ship (something like that Greek lugger
sailing in our sight) over the place where a few days before our good
friend, H.M.S. _Triumph_, was sunk by a submarine. And there, to the
right, was Samothrace, in its snow-capped beauty, facing us.
That was the romance. We were in the ancient world. The reality was that
we were verminous, plagued with flies and all the diseases they bring.
After visiting the dug-outs that day, I had to bathe in the Gulf of
Saros, wash all my clothes, and, dressed in others less worrying, try to
sleep in my cave of Adullam that night. Experiences solemn and weird
were ours on that craggy shore.
A Communion service at that same place stands out in my memory. How
freely the men came to the Table of the Lord! In the beautiful twilight
they sang hymn after hymn as relays of men took their places. It was a
setting solemn and impressive as any cathedral of man's building for
such a service. But there was a grim reality about it too, for as they
sang:
I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless!
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness:
Where is death's sting? where, grave, thy victory?
I triumph still if Thou abide with me!
others, who had left the service for duty, were passing in single file
up the long communication trench armed for the fray.
It seems a strange and romantic fact that when we returned to Egypt,
after the evacuation of Gallipoli, our main camp was at Tel-el-Kebir.
Sir Garnet Wolseley's trenches were visible on the outskirts of our
camp. But what is more interesting, is that on the march to the desert
front our force followed the line mainly of the sweet-water canal, which
is probably the route of the Israelites under the wise generalship of
Moses.
Some units took a route through the Desert to Ismailia. There was less
romance about their experiences, and a reality which does not lend
itself to description here. Crossing the Suez Canal, we campaigned for
some months on a route which ultimately brought us to a post seventeen
miles out in the desert. What an opportunity for the padre of re-telling
the story of the wandering and fighting of the hordes of Israel under
Moses and Joshua!
Our Arab camel convoys, on a new-made road parallel with a strategic
railway, traversed by electric locomotives—East and West together!--lent
an air of romance to this period of service. But it was counterbalanced
by a severe reality, for on occasions we marched at 7 a.m. with the
thermometer at 100 degrees. And a padre's Sunday, beginning with the
first church parade at 5 a.m. and conducting others at various posts
among the sand-dunes, was a day which left one more conscious of reality
than romance.
An atmosphere of romantic interest hangs about our French campaign. The
scene changes, and for the white-robed hosts following Saladin or
Mehemet Ali, for the bronzed warriors who followed Cambyses, Alexander
the Great, Rameses II, for the Red and Blue arrayed against each other
under Napoleon or Abercromby, we have to exchange the chivalry and
battle represented by such names as Poictiers, Cressy, or Waterloo. In
our fleet of six transports, our division _en route_ had to _watch_ and
pray, wearing a lifebelt always.
We steamed into a bay of Malta on a Sunday morning. This gave us another
memory of Paul, and we had to speak of his shipwreck and landing there.
Arriving in La Belle France, we realize that it is a land of chivalry
and romance. We move under the banner of Joan of Arc, and fight on old
battle-fields. Every town has its storied past; but this is no war of
chivalry, and our battalions do not flaunt the banners of heraldry. The
reality is cold mud, dripping dug-outs, and hard fighting night and day;
and yet over all are the crossed flags of the two most romantic and
adventurous races in the world—the British and the French.
The achievements both of Napoleon and Wellington call us, the one to the
path of glory and the other to the path of duty; and a second greater
Waterloo awaits us as victors in the struggle for the freedom of Europe.
At this time we may still hear the ringing cry of Henry V at Harfleur in
our English ears:
'Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead!
In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility;
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favoured rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let it pry through the portage of the head,
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a gallèd rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swilled with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide;
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height!--On, on, you noblest English.'
VI
THE GOD OF BATTLES
Lord God of Hosts, whose mighty hand
Dominion holds on sea and land,
In Peace and War Thy will we see
Shaping the larger liberty.
Nations may rise and nations fall,
Thy Changeless Purpose rules them all.
JOHN OXENHAM.
VI
THE GOD OF BATTLES
Everything is in the melting-pot. Even our ideas of religion are
changing. The development of theology is being hastened by the 'big
push,' and orthodoxy is being tested in the red crucible of war. There
is a lot of confusion, and that all the contending nations claim God is
embarrassing to _us_, but not to God. We may be sure that there is no
jostling or confusion in the Eternal mind. The Good Shepherd knows His
own and is not deceived by our claims and counter-claims. 'Gott mit uns'
is engraved upon the belt of each German soldier, and the Kaiser claims
God as the German God. He has been appealed to by the Austrian Emperor,
by the Czar; even the Sultan's soldiers advance to the charge crying,
'Allah, Allah.' We appeal to God too. It is all natural and, from the
human standpoint, right. We may be sure that the God of Battles knows
the worth of all our claims, knows how much of truth is contained in our
cause. In His name the conscientious objector declines to fight, and God
only knows where conscience ends and cowardice begins. 'The Lord is a
Man of War,' and if history shows anything it shows that God does not
despise the sword as an instrument whereby men contend for the faith,
and even the blood of men is not too precious to spill for the defence
of the ideals of freedom and right. Like the pulsator on the diamond
fields of Kimberley, war, the mill of God, throbs back and forth. We may
throw on it the heaps of earth, but as it throbs it will shake away the
clods and wash away the mire; the true diamonds will remain.
To the superficial, war seems to be a grim contradiction of the fact
that God is the Ruler of the world. To them it seems as though this
world were governed by a demon. But really war is a terrible
confirmation of God's presence in the world and a lurid re-emphasis of
His inevitable and inexorable Law.
The mental disease of selfishness, lust of power, and military glory was
present; it was slumbering in the heart of the nations in times of
peace. The disease (which shows itself in commercial competition too)
broke out in the violent inflammation and irruption of war. War is a
delirium, a delusion, and a degeneracy. It is made possible by the brute
strength of a soulless people on the one part and the weak
unpreparedness of an easy-going, prosperous, and pleasure-loving people
on the other part.
Suddenly a bolt from the blue fuses all antagonisms into the mad storm
which we call 'War.' A good deal of dross will be burnt up, but the pure
gold will remain. Out of the collision of national ideals which are
right or wrong, heroism and self-sacrifice are born. Out of the
commotion of contending ideals, truth, single-eyed, in clear perspective
and circular, containing every point of view in its comprehensiveness,
will emerge. It is not to the balance of power or the inter-relation of
dynastic connexions that we must look for peace, but to the balance of
the naked truth and the essential solidarity and brotherhood of man.
The Concert of Europe has broken down in discord, the Conductor is
rapping out with His baton the true music of humanity, and He insists
that we should all recognize the Keynote.
The pre-millenarian sees in it all a superhuman interference with the
human will which is the prelude to a forcible application of the Divine
Will and a millennium of peace and perfection. But when we investigate,
we see that there is no mental violence in the coming of the Great War.
We are reaping what we sowed. It arises out of logical and adequate
causes. It will not end until these causes have been removed.
Political excrescences must be sloughed off. Nations will be born or
reborn in a day. So war is working the world-fever out of our blood,
cleansing our hearts, and making us seriously face life's issues.
To get to particulars. We hear much about man-power to-day. It is the
last word of the strategist, the first thought of the statesman, and the
secret of victory. But who bothered about man-power a few years ago?
A Russian peasant in Petrograd, after the Revolution, said to an English
press correspondent: 'We shall have fine times in the church now. There
will not be so many long prayers for the Czar, the Imperial family, and
all the nobility, with a little prayer for the poor peasants at the tail
end.'
Yet it is the great mass of _men_ which Russia possesses which forms the
famous 'steam-roller' upon which so many have placed their hope for the
liberation of Europe. It may be that the God of Battles has ordained
that in saving Russia, and in part Europe, the Russian people are to
save themselves.
How was it with us? How many cubic feet of air have our men had to
breathe in the wretched and monotonous tenements in which they were
compelled to live? Houses must be built that way, I am told, because the
land is dear. Who made the land dear and men cheap?
Men in many callings could not obtain a living wage. Some weird economic
law--'supply and demand' or other phrase—made it impossible to give the
worker more! But, suddenly, a struggle for national life is thrust upon
us, and there is money enough!
I know it is a very complicated question, but it is _there_. We must
face it; we _are_ 'our brothers' keepers.' They are like 'sheep without
a shepherd,' unless they are cared for. It is a national obligation to
provide right conditions of life, proper education for mind and body for
the boy who is going to be the unit in the man-power of the nation.
We must organize our national life to allow of this, for we have no
right to permit our industrial development to outpace our humanitarian
provision of the fair conditions of a full-orbed, manly life. Each
nation contending is 'up against it.' Men are precious in France, but
scarce. The birth-rate has fallen off. Why? We leave it to French
patriots to solve, and turn to our own affairs once more.
We have suffered in this war, and victory has been delayed because we
lacked organization, and yet we prided ourselves upon being organizers.
The victories in war are manufactured in days of peace. We were not
organized in pre-war days. Things _happened_. Under the pressure of war
we have had to organize ourselves in many ways. The railways have been
brought under central control to serve _England_ and not companies
merely. The vested interest of the Drink Traffic has had to be squeezed
into more reasonable proportions, and may have to go altogether to
secure victory. Men and women are being mobilized for national service,
and agitation for women's suffrage is silenced for the present. In the
silence it may be that we shall learn that the claim for suffrage
depends not upon _being_ but upon _doing_. National service is surely a
good claim for suffrage. Representation should not merely depend upon
taxation, but upon a wider qualification—service for the common good in
war and peace.
We are not the only people under the pressure of war and compelled to
listen to the will of the God of Battles.
We have seen an Anglo-Saxon nation, claimed to be the freest in the
world, struggling to grasp at the same time peace and conserve its
liberty, reluctant to grasp the sword even to protect its nationals. Led
by a far-seeing, cautious, and astute President, it made a wonderful
attempt to keep out of war; but the grim circles of battle have with
ever-widening sweep reached this huge nation of peace-lovers, and it is
learning that in citizenship quantity is not everything; quality, racial
purity, counts for something.
Moreover, nations are not permitted, any more than individuals, by the
God of Battles to evade or shirk the great moral issues of life:
Once to every man and nation
Comes the moment to decide,
In the strife of truth with falsehood,
For the good or evil side.
The Church is being tested by war. It had not been prepared by its human
leaders for this test, though history shows clearly War, Revolution,
Crisis, and Persecution are the foster-mothers of Religion.
But we built up the Church for peace and prosperity. Its ordinances,
ceremonials, customs, and solemn pomps; its appeal, apparel, and
ambition, all needed peace for their opportunity and prosperity for
their support. When a nation strips for war, however, it needs a
religion from which everything which is extraneous and superfluous is
eliminated.
When the soldier, living in the world of elemental passions and away
from all the Church aids and props, free from the suggestiveness of the
church as a sacred place and all the sensuous accessories and aids to
worship, asks for religion, he wants it _neat_. He needs the
fundamental, the essential, the irreducible minimum.
Now the Church has to work in an altogether different atmosphere. It
must not be thought that it is an atmosphere less favourable to
religion. The drama of the soul never has so fitting a setting as in the
red landscape of war, with its alternations of lively death and deadly
life.
The very processes of soul growth and the problems of time and eternity
are, so to speak, 'filmed.' A lifetime is compressed into a campaign.
As the individual soul has its tragic opportunities, so the Church
itself has its great chance. Never was such a setting for the divine
drama since it was first enacted. Never were the truths of religion so
clearly illustrated or the comforts of religion so pathetically needed.
The suitability of the gospel message as a response to man's needs, and
the perfection of Christ as man's Comrade and Saviour, never shine forth
so fully as in the lurid glare of war's terrible perspective.
It is the business of the soldier's preacher to interpret this. He has
abundant mental material to hand, and he works in an atmosphere solemn,
insistent, and impressive.
If he turns aside to talk of lesser things, he wastes his time. He must
not get between the men and God, or put the Church, or its ordinances,
or its rules, so far as they are human, between the men and God.
If this is so when we speak of the Church in the larger sense, how much
more is it so when we speak of the Church as a denomination!--and all
Churches are denominations when we are at war.
The minister, too, has to cut his baggage down. His spiritual equipment
is in his mind and heart. The soldier does not inquire what college his
padre comes from, or what qualifications the titles before or after his
name stand for. Whether he is a bishop, a great evangelist, or a popular
preacher means little to the man. What the man asks is, 'What sort of
chap is he? How is he sticking it? What has he got to say? Does he help
a fellow?'
The chaplain's one object is to lead men in thought and faith to God as
God is revealed in Christ, and to get him _there quickly_.
In regard to the Church as an institution, there is a feeling among the
men, more or less articulate, that it has humbugged them. It has
denounced the sins it does not often commit, but has been too silent
about the sins which are common to its own membership. The Church, in
time of peace, has built up a vast superstructure of respectability. The
sins of the flesh and drunkenness and swearing were not respectable; but
it has not turned the white burning light of truth against the sins of
the spirit—covetousness, selfishness, lying, fraud, greed, and
injustice. The soldier has many things to put up with, but for the time
he is freed from the soul-destroying influence of an industrial system
built upon the basis of competition. He is not afraid of losing his job,
and he need not toady to any one to secure the chance of his
bread-and-butter. Under the pressure of campaigning he begins to exalt
comradeship and self-sacrifice to the first place in the list of
virtues. Battle forges a new and strong bond of brotherhood.
He does not possess this at first. He comes out of a world of
self-seeking, but he gradually discovers that men depend on each other.
In a word, the shells that fly, knocking the parapets about, and the
rough and tumble of campaigning knock a man's creed about fearfully. He
has to re-sort his ideas of religion and the Church, and when he puts
them together again, he finds that they fit his complex needs better
when they are built up the other way. Perhaps an arrangement of topics
which I have found to be dead topics as far as work amongst soldiers is
concerned, and others which seem to be _live_ topics, will help to show
what I mean.
DEAD TOPICS LIVE TOPICS.
Future punishment Personal salvation
Baptismal regeneration Prayer and providence
Apostolic succession Comradeship and Communion
Claims of the Church Christ as Friend and Lord
Sabbath observance Righteousness
Observance of Holy Days and God as a Ruler
Church ordinances
Sectarianism and all Church Here, hereafter, and the
shibboleths soul's destiny
The soldier is particularly interested in spiritual biography, and very
glad to hear about what God did for Paul, Peter, Moses, Joshua, and
David. There are vestiges of superstition lingering in many men, and it
is hard to see where superstition ends and faith begins. I have known
men sample all sorts of religion during the campaign, trying to find out
perhaps what different chaplains have to say about things.
There is a species of fatalism; they value luck, and would sympathize
with the Prayer-Book phrase, 'Good luck in the name of the Lord.'
It is strange that men should turn to the elements of religion in which
the Church is getting slack. They value prayer, and I think most of them
pray in their own way. They believe in providence, but do not expect
that prayer for them means necessarily immunity from wounds or death;
but they know quite well that whatever may be their lot they will be the
better for the prayers which ascend for them and for their own prayers.
An Australian of the real primitive sort was moving across No Man's Land
to the attack on Fromelles, and he stopped amid the hail of bullets and
bursting shells and leaned on his rifle. A comrade rushed up and
inquired, 'What is the matter, mate; are you hit?' 'Hit, no,' he
shouted; 'if you want to know what I am doing, I'll tell you. I am
saying a prayer.' With that he seized his rifle and went forward to the
charge.
An Australian non-com., who went right through Gallipoli and was in many
a fight, wrote to me and said that since a certain service at Mena Camp,
in Egypt, he had made prayer the habit of his life, and it helped him to
play the game. 'I have never gone over the bags without prayer first,
and specially commending myself to God, and I find it bucks me up a
lot.'
Another, referring to an address on the text, 'Thy rod and Thy staff
comfort me,' wrote: 'The note of guidance and strengthening helped me a
great deal in the hard business of the attack on the Lone Pine, and it
was constantly with me in the Gallipoli days.'
Whilst so many in pulpit and pew have ceased to ponder and wonder at the
mystery of the Atonement, soldiers have seen a new meaning in it. A man
in our force at Anzac said to me: 'I never could understand before; but
now, when I know I may be blown out, I reckon there isn't much chance
for me unless somebody has made up for my failure and done for me what I
have not been able to do for myself. I guess that is what it means.'
He did not express it very well, but agreed with me when I said that
'Calvary has made up for our failure to come up to the standard of
Sinai.'
That most difficult idea of substitution for us and representation of us
in the death on the cross is forced into men's minds by many an
illustration now. To a soldier dying at Étaples, a chaplain said, 'Do
you understand, and does it help you to know that Christ died for you?'
'Oh, yes,' he said, 'I know He died for me, just as I am dying for those
shirkers at home.' He used the word 'shirkers' without condemnation,
just as the first word which came to him, and passed away at peace and
content.
For so long the Cross, with its extended arms, has spoken to the world
of a redemption of love. But we passed by carelessly, not choosing to
understand; so that we might well ask of the multitude:
All ye that pass by,
To Jesus draw nigh:
To you is it nothing that Jesus should die?
Now we know a little of what it means, for so many of our best have died
for us. So many real if not material crosses have been lifted on the low
hills of Flanders; so many have laid down their lives for the race, that
we are beginning to understand.
There is nothing morbid in these thoughts of Christ dying. The Cross to
the soldier is full of sweet helpfulness, it appeals to him with
comfort.
Everard Owen, in a poem which we are allowed to reprint from _The
Times_, called 'A Kind Hill to Souls in Jeopardy,' gives us the idea of
tender succour which men see in Calvary:
There is a hill in England,
Green fields and a school I know,
Where the balls fly fast in summer,
And the whispering elm-trees grow.
A little hill, a dear hill,
And the playing-fields below.
There is a hill in Flanders
Heaped with a thousand slain,
Where the shells fly night and noontide
And the ghosts that died in vain.
A little hill, a hard hill
To the souls that died in pain.
There is a hill in Jewry,
Three crosses pierce the sky,
On the midmost He is dying
To save all those who die,
A little hill, a kind hill
To souls in jeopardy.
What will the Church do with the men when the God of Battles gives the
remnant back to us? We shall have to make room for them. They will want
a simple and strong religion. Something to call forth and use the heroic
in them. They will not stay in the Church if there is 'nothing doing,'
for they are intensely practical.
To recapitulate. The war has shown the political unimportance of the
Churches in Europe. The Will of God was not expressed clearly enough or
sufficiently by them to prevent the war. The World was stronger than the
Church and imposed its will upon the Church.
Now that we are at war, the Churches are still divided in their witness
for righteousness. Even the Church, which, beyond all others, calls
itself Catholic, is not catholic in the sense of unity, for it speaks
with different voices in Austria, Belgium, Germany, and France. The
Church which calls itself Orthodox has failed to give the people a lead
in Russia. With us the lack of unity in the Christian Church has
weakened its testimony in the nation and marred its work in the Army.
Once more, therefore, in the history of the world, the King of
Righteousness, who is also the Prince of Peace, is recalled in human
life as the God of Battles.
Still, He will make the wrath of men to serve Him, and He will gird the
soldier to execute His purposes, unconsciously, it may be, as He girded
and used Cyrus the Persian: 'I girded thee, though thou hast not known
Me' (Isa. xlv. 5). In spite of the failure of the Churches, He is
setting up His kingdom of Brotherhood and righteousness in the earth.
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fatal lightning of His terrible swift sword:
His truth is marching on.
He hath sounded out the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgement-seat;
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him, be jubilant, my feet;
Our God is marching on.
I have seen Him in the watchfires of a hundred circling camps;
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps;
His day is marching on.
In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in His bosom which transfigures you and me.
As He died to make men holy, let us live to make men free,
While God is marching on.
VII
THE CHIMNEY-POTS OF LONDON
I will not cease from mental fight
Or let the sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England's green and pleasant land.
BLAKE.
VII
THE CHIMNEY-POTS OF LONDON
There is some very fine architecture in London, and buildings which
reveal some of the finest workmanship in the world, for the London
craftsmen are famous.
But all this is crowned with the craziest collection of chimney-pots.
Sometimes the brickwork of the chimneys is built from one angle to
another above the roof; like a zigzag, and then surmounted on the same
building with chimney-pots of different designs and heights, pointing,
too, in different directions, and again capped with many weird
contrivances to make them _draw_. They are certainly _out of drawing_,
as any artist will confess.
There are machines that whirl in the wind and by their mad circling
withdraw the smoke, and there are _cowls_ that move with the wind,
swinging in such a direction that the wind cannot blow down the chimney.
There are _hoods_, and tin monstrosities that rear their ugliness over
palaces, and there are chimneys that have been built up so much higher
than the original ending, that in their fresh start to the sky they
spoil the sky view as well as the contour of the building. There are
beautiful chimneys, which begin well, but have to be assisted to do
their work by horrible tin extensions soaring into the air.
These hideous makeshifts disfigure the dwellings of the rich and the
poor alike with a deadly equality of utility unrelieved by any beauty.
To see it all stretching out beneath you from the Monument fills you
with disappointment at the wretched discord. I believe there are experts
in chimneys in London, men who _doctor_ them. If one could be found with
an artistic soul, who could make them beautiful, he would deserve well
of his country.
But it would never do to take all these ugly things down, for uniformity
and even beauty may cost too much. A house full of smoke would, added to
the London fog, be intolerable. 'Handsome is as handsome does.'
The housewife says 'Ours is a beautiful chimney. It draws so well.' When
you sit by the bright fire on a winter's night, you do not think of the
ugly chimney aloft except as a plain-featured but dear friend.
But, for all that, these chimney-pots of London are a sad commentary on
our human nature. Our architecture and building goes wrong just where it
comes into contact with rough nature, with its treacherous tempest and
veering winds. The architect plans a beautiful Gothic mansion and
everything goes right. It is a dream, a vision of harmony, until he
comes to the chimneys—then brief and tragic experience demands a
distorted chimney or a tin contrivance, and the plan is spoiled.
So we build our lives up to a point. It is to be a Gothic career for the
noble son. What Eton, Harrow, Rugby, Oxford, or Cambridge can do for him
is done. The Church, the Army—Society (with a big 'S') lend a hand, and
he is turned out true to sample—the right accent, the right dress, the
right manner. But, alas! when he comes into contact with the intricate
promptings of nature and the subtle temptings of the world, some strain,
inherited from the days of the Conqueror, makes him wobble. He marries
the wrong woman, or doesn't marry her at all, misses the bus, or catches
the wrong one. His career is altogether different from plan and
specification, and yet he may be quite a good sort!
Here is another case. We set out to build a really artistic life. She,
the favoured creature, is nurtured amid culture and reared in the
atmosphere of poetry. Listening to smart conversation in epigram and
lightning-sketch style, she goes out into the world without a practical
notion; and because these things 'require money,' drifts into a
business-like marriage with an unpoetic person, who makes glue or blue.
Settles down—a Queen Anne villa with Mary Ann chimneys.
These are mild cases. How few of us live up to our fond parents' hopes
and prayers! How many of us end far otherwise than our education,
advantages, and associations seemed to promise. We have power of choice,
we are not made uniform, and we do wobble a lot when we are turned loose
among the currents and storms of life.
We overseas Britons are apt to expect too much of dear old London.
At first we are foolish enough to think that this mighty capital of our
far-flung Empire should be an epitome of all our British virtues. Coming
to the fountainhead, we expect the water to be pure. We soon learn that
it is not a fountainhead of anything. It is a great bay of human life
and action into which a thousand rivers, of different quality and force,
empty themselves.
London is a magnified expression of the life of the whole Empire. The
currents which we on the frontiers of the Empire set going all come
pulsing towards this mighty mother of cities; but with the boundless
generosity of a mother of nations, mature but still vigorous, she
receives this inflowing life and sends it back again in responsive
floods to the end of the earth.
The jaundiced critic treads this mighty city with the blinded eyes of
ignorance, and seeing faults and sins, identifies her as 'Babylon the
Great, Mother of Harlots'; but to those who look for goodness, London
suggests the city of which it is written: 'And the nations of them which
are saved shall walk in the light of it; and the kings of the earth do
bring their glory and honour into it.'
Let us not hide the truth from ourselves. These chimney-pots of London,
for all their ugliness, mean a lot of kindly comfort. They draw well,
they are comfortable to live with.
You may find the worst in London, but you will always find the best
also.
There is a warm sympathy for sorrow, a motherly helpfulness in need, a
maternal solicitude for the welfare of the humblest, which stretches
down from the throne, and is reflected in the kindness of the poor
towards each other. No good movement will ever lack support here, and no
stauncher friend to freedom is planted four-square upon this earth than
the City of London, which so gallantly fought for its own freedom and so
jealously guards it still.
If all these classic characters planned by fond parents had materialized
right up to the very chimney-pots, they would probably have been less
companionable and kindly. Purity of style does not always mean domestic
harmony. Go into these houses with the distorted chimneys, and you will
often find them 'all beautiful within,' carrying an atmosphere of peace
and well-being which is refreshing to the soul. Think, too, of how many
of them have been turned into hospitals for our wounded soldiers, and of
others which dispense a hospitality to the men from overseas which helps
them to forget or at least to bear their exile.
It is unreasonable to expect the discourse and decisions of the great
mother of Parliaments to match the classic purity of the building in
which it meets. Its members are men, swayed by many winds of interest
and influence, and if they wobble a bit it is only natural. We
youngsters would settle the Irish Question and the problem of the Drink
Traffic monopoly very quickly! We would fix up the Suffrage for them and
bring everything up-to-date very soon! We would indeed—until we get the
over-sea mail and are reminded of our own lesser problems unsolved and
see our own wobbling. If we have nicer chimneys it is because our
climate is more kindly; and if life seems easier with us it is because
we are so young. We did not have so much hoary feudalism to dig up;
neither, however, have we such golden traditions and such a storied
history. Our life is free, but is it so full?
Let us be very charitable to the homely chimney-pots of London. We have
poured out our treasure and blood for the Empire in this great war
gladly, but this one city has sent over a million of her sons to fight
and given readily scores of millions of her wealth without a murmur, and
is still giving out, giving out, without stint. It is the most heroic,
adventurous city in the world, where men use big maps, think in
millions, and build nationhood not for to-day only but for the centuries
to come.
To speak of lesser things, where is there a more orderly, a more
good-tempered crowd than the crowd of London? Paris has its gay beauty,
Edinburgh its classic lines; but here they have dug parks out of the
quarries of bricks and mortar. The trees, squares, little green patches,
breathing-spaces, unexpected quiet nooks—all these are a surprise to us
because they have cost so much, and they represent a city of ideals
which embrace the past as well as the future.
Later on, when we are older and wiser, you will call us to your
council-chambers. And we shall bring something with us of the freedom of
the large spaces, some vaulting ambitions from new countries where life
is a young man's adventure, some clearness of vision brought from the
solitary places.
We shall bring Home some of the sweeping perspective of a land of
magnificent distances. Freighted, too, we shall be with that love for
England which only those can feel who have left her shores behind to
strike the long trail of Empire. But we can never bring back such gifts
to the mother county as she first dowered us with when she sent us out
to the great new lands with a love for freedom which she nourished
through the centuries with her own blood.
Ah, London of the crazy chimney-pots! what we like about you specially
is your marvellous courage. London afraid, shrinking, timorous! Only
madmen would think it! How you wrestled with your mighty
problems!--problems of transport (you plant mighty railway systems in
your heart, and dig ways underground for your people), and problems of
administration greater than those of many nations!
But your courage is still challenged. You will not fail us, Great Mother
of Cities! We look to you for a lead. You _are_ going to root out your
slum public-houses. You _are_ going to do more for the housing of your
people. And in the larger sphere of the politics of the world you are
still going to hold aloft the banner of freedom and righteousness. Send
out your life-blood of brave endeavour, and we shall feel every
heart-beat and respond to it, away under the Southern Cross, and
wherever the Union Jack flies or English is spoken.
VIII
HORSEFERRY ROAD
Hail to the brave!
Who, going, come no more;
Th' imperious call broke on their slumb'ring souls,
And woke to action all their manhood strong,
And bade them go, that Right might conquer wrong.
Hail to the brave!
Who, going, come no more.
Hail to the brave!
Who going, come again,
Though our poor vision may not see their form;
Yet in the silent hour, when thought seems deep,
We hail them near, and holy vigil keep
With all the brave,
Who going, come again.
J. WILLIAMS BUTCHER.
VIII
HORSEFERRY ROAD
When the great war is over there are some places which will live in the
minds of the Australians. Mena and the desert around the Pyramids has
become a part of the perspective of many Australian lives. It is stamped
there by many a long route march, and the training of the Australian
Forces there is a page in the annals of the history of Egypt, which
includes so much that is military, most noteworthy being the assembling,
training, and fighting of Napoleon's Army at the same place. We had our
Battle of the Pyramids, strenuous enough if only a sham battle.
Heliopolis, with its old associations—the City of the Sun in the days of
Joseph and the place of his marriage, was the centre for our New Zealand
troops and also for many of our Australian units. Particularly will it
be remembered by the thousands of sick and wounded who came there to our
great No. 1 Australian General Hospital, which occupied the largest
hotel in the world, the Heliopolis Palace. The classic island of Lemnos,
both before our landing at Gallipoli and after our evacuation, loomed
large in our life. Salisbury Plain with its ancient towns and its
Druidical remains at Stonehenge also comes into the picture.
But Horseferry Road has its special place in our records. Thousands of
Australians, on business bent, visit Head Quarters there, and the number
who report there on duty or leave every week never falls below four
figures. They see that it is a college, and that the officers are
working in libraries surrounded by memorial busts and bronzes of old
Masters, Tutors, and Scholars. They see hundreds of clerks working in
lecture-halls, class-rooms, or College Chapel. It will be interesting
for them to know that Horseferry Road is worthy of coming into the
historic perspective of the Australian Army.
To begin with, it is probably the oldest road in England, certainly
older than Watling Street. The Archbishop's horse ferry began when his
Grace was more powerful than any of the several kings in England, and
brought the traffic from one side of the Thames to the other before
bridges were thought of. The Horseferry Road carried this ancient
traffic, and was laid out by use, very much the same as Parramatta Road
followed the tracks of the bullock teams along the ridge leading from
Sydney to Parramatta—and thus became in a casual way the first road in
the history of the new nation under the Southern Cross.
The ancient Archbishop never could in his wildest dreams foreshadow the
time when hosts of British soldiers from the other side of the world
would march along his narrow horse ferry road.
The building occupied by our Head Quarters is the Westminster Training
College for teachers, whose principal is Dr. Workman, a leading scholar
of England, and one of the first authorities on Mediaeval History. It
was first thought of taking the College for an officers' training depot,
but the War Office ultimately handed it over to the Australian
Commonwealth.
The Australian Imperial Force but continues the war record of this great
college. Of its 800 or more pre-war students who have attested, 735 are
on active service: 47 have been killed in action, 23 wounded, 7 reported
missing, and 3 are prisoners of war. It has contributed 97 commissioned
officers and 218 non-commissioned officers to the army. The men of this
college have obtained many distinctions in the field. Lieutenant William
F. Forshaw and Lieutenant Donald Simpson Bell have won the V.C. The
first case is well known to Australians, for Lieutenant Forshaw won his
V.C. in the critical days of Gallipoli by holding up Turks for forty-one
hours by throwing bombs. Captain C. H. Hill Roberts and Captain J. W.
Wood won the Military Cross, and Lieutenant E. J. Phillips the
Distinguished Conduct Medal and the Médaille Militaire. Private Herbert
Brindle and Gunner W. L. Cooper, B.A., have won the Military Medal.
This does not profess to be a complete record of the honours won by
Westminster Training College men, but just a list dug out of the
statistics while the war continues, to show that the Australians have
become citizens of no mean city in coming to Horseferry Road,
Westminster.
Besides this _war work_, the Westminster College has done a great deal
for Britain in sending one of its old tutors, Dr. Lowry, to the Munition
Board. He is a great chemist, and the author of some of the surprise
packets which have been sent to Fritz in the shape of new explosives.
In peace, as well as war, the college, which was founded over seventy
years ago at Horseferry Road, has gained honourable distinction. Hedley
Fitton, the famous etcher, was one of its old pupils. Sir James Yoxall,
author and M.P., is another old student. James Smetham, the famous
artist and letter-writer, was a tutor here. John Scott, grandfather of
the Rev. Dr. Scott Lidgett, was the first Principal, and was followed by
Dr. Rigg, the great educational expert and writer on Methodism and
Anglican theology. Besides that, it is linked to Australia by the fact
that some of its old pupils have gone to occupy honourable positions as
teachers and in some cases ministers in the Commonwealth.
At least one of our great Australian schoolmasters, Mr. F. Chapple,
M.A., B.Sc., Principal of the largest boys' college in Australia, Prince
Alfred College, Adelaide, was a student and a member of the staff here.
One of the strange things that war does is to bring back in khaki men
from Australia, on business to the A.I.F. Head Quarters to find that it
is their own old college. Men from Westminster Training College are
fighting in France, Palestine, Mesopotamia, on the Salonica front, and
some of them are in naval work; and while this famous Alma Mater sends
out her own sons to the frontiers of the Empire, she opens wide her
hospitable portals to receive the brawny pioneers of New Lands away
'down under.' Thus men from back-block townships in Australia are
brought into a sort of fellowship of service with the English trainers
of the old Horseferry Road Training College.
Our men will think kindly, too, of Horseferry Road, because the War
Chest Club, just opposite the Head Quarters, was so often their home.
Here, under the hostess, Mrs. Samuel, a capable group of lady workers
have dispensed thousands of hot meals to sore-footed and war-weary
Australians on leave from France. Then there was the quiet refuge of the
Y.M.C.A. Hostel on the other side of the road, in the Wesleyan Central
Hall, where, under the lady superintendent, Mrs. Workman, and her
voluntary assistants, similar good work was done.
To Horseferry Road the Australian came gladly, leaving it regretfully
for war again; and when the war is over it will be a kindly memory. In
close proximity to Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament, where
so many bonds of Empire are forged, the old Westminster Training College
will continue to do its useful part in Empire building.
* * * * *
_Printed by Jarrold & Sons, Ltd., Norwich, England._
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Transcriber’s Note:
● Where hyphenation occurs on a line break, the decision to
retain or remove is based on occurrences elsewhere in the
text.
● The errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have
been corrected, and are noted here.
● The numbers are references are to the page and line in the
original book.
● Errors in punctuation and quotes have been silently
restored.
Reference correction original text
22.26 tin-hat I pull my tin hat firmly down
32.6 field-guns a battery of field guns
33.18 depot bombs for some dépot
37.16 gunfire demolished by gun-fire
77.5 Zeppelins Bomb their Zeppelyns,
81.20 process world in prosess of reconstruction
83.8 Bazaars Bazars of the Monsky
86.3 battleships battle-ships of a mighty
86.10 Minnewaska the Minniwaska is something
99.16 by the by Austrian Emperor
116.1 chaplain at Étaples, a chaplaín said
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