Part 10

Discontented, ungrateful creatures we are! And yet there is nobility in our discontent.

By the way, over the doorway of my O.P. is chalked this sound advice—“Do unto Fritzie as he doth unto you. But do it first.”

LXVII

France

August 13, 1918

I haven’t seen a paper for nearly a fortnight, so don’t know what news of the Front has been published and can risk telling you nothing. Suffice it to say that I’m having the most choice experience that I’ve had since I took up soldiering. We are winged persons—the body is nothing; to use Homer’s phrase, “our souls rush out before us.” This is the top-notch of life; there was nothing like it before in all the ages. We triumph; we each individually contribute to the triumph, and, though our bodies are tired, our hearts are elated. We’ll win the war for you and bring peace back; even the most dreary pessimist must believe that now.

I try to keep notes of the tremendous tragedies and glories which I witness hour by hour, so that one day I can paint the picture for you as it happened. All day I am reminded of that motto of the Gesta Romanorum, “What I spent, I had; what I saved, I lost; what I gave, I have.” So many men have given in this war—given in the sense of giving all. I think it must be true of them wherever they are now, that they have in proportion to their sacrifice. It should be written on the white crosses above all our soldiers, “What He Gave, He Has.” What we are trying to give is heaven to the world; it is just that those who fall should receive heaven in return.

LXVIII

France

August 14, 1918

I am writing to you in a lull—I may not have another opportunity for days. In a battle one has no transport for conveying letters—only for ammunition, wounded, and supplies. I’m stunningly well and bronzed. The weather is royal and tropical and, best of all, the Hun’s tail is down while ours is pointing heavenwards. One of my gunners was complaining this morning that it was “a hell of a war.” It was the smell of dead cavalry horses that nauseated him. Another gunner cheered him up, “Where’s the use of complaining, Bill? It’s the only war we have.” That’s the spirit of our men. It may be a hell of a war, but it’s the only one we have, so we may as well grin and make the best of it. In the past few days I have seen more than in all my former experience. I can visualize Waterloo now—and the last trump: the hosts of death deploying before my eyes. That one still walks the earth seems wonderful. God is very lenient.

But there is nothing to fear in death—only the thing that is left is horrible—and how horrible! But the things that are left are not us—we have pushed onwards to God.

LXIX

France August 15, 1918

I keep on dropping you little notes to let you know that everything is all right with me. It makes me very happy to hear from you; it always does, but more so than ever nowadays.

You remember R.? A few days ago he was killed. He was just ahead of me, riding up the road. I did not see his face, but recognized his square-set figure and divisional patches. He’s not had much of a run for his money, poor chap. It was his first show, but he died game.

How much longer have we got to go? It’s like a long, long walk, with no milestones, towards an unknown destination. If we only knew how much farther our goal lay, it would be easier. I dreamed last night of Kootenay, all green and cool and somnolent. It was rest, rest, rest. One gazed through the apple-trees to the quiet lake and felt happy in the too much beauty. But please don’t worry about me.

LXX

France

August 17, 1918

I’m in the support trenches to-night carrying on with the infantry. This is my third day and I am relieved to-morrow. Yesterday I had a gorgeous spree which I will tell you about some day. I was out in front of our infantry in an attack, scouting for the enemy. This war may be boring at times, but its great moments hold thrills which you could find nowhere else. It may sound mad, but it’s extraordinary fun to be chased by enemy machine-gun bullets. I’ve recently had fun of every kind.

Once again death is a familiar sight—tired bodies lying in the August sunshine. In places where men once were, birds are the only inhabitants remaining.

In this hole in the ground where I am sitting I found a copy of the New York Times for 30th June, with the first advertisement of Out to Win. Less than thirty hours ago the Hun was sitting here and making himself quite comfortable. I wonder if he was the owner of the New York Times.

I was relieved last night, and had a difficult walk back to the battery. There were several letters from you all awaiting me. How tired I was you may judge when I tell you that I fell asleep without reading them. For the first time in a fortnight I had my breeches off last night. Up forward one got drenched with sweat by day and lay sodden and itchy on the damp ground by night. But don’t think we weren’t cheerful—we were immensely happy. There’s no game in the world like pushing back the Hun. I had another example of how we treat our prisoners. A young officer came in captive while I was shaving. “How long before we win?” I asked him. “We are going to vin,” he replied. “If not, vhy because?” Our Tommies started kidding him. “Say, beau, you don’t look much like winning now.” And then they offered him water and food, although we were short ourselves and his whole deportment was insolent.

During an attack, while I was within 200 yards of the advanced post and pinned under a barrage, a Canadian Tommy wormed his way towards me. “Say, sir, are you hungry? Have some maple sugar and cake?” Was I hungry! He had received a parcel from Canada the night before which he had taken with him into the attack. There, amongst whizz-bangs and exploding five-nines, we feasted together, washing it all down with water from the bottle of a neighbouring dead Hun.

You can’t beat chaps who joke, think of home, go forward, and find time to love their enemies under shell-fire. They’re extraordinary and as normal as the air.

LXXI

France August 20, 1918

To-day I have spent some time in composing recommendations for decorations for two of my signallers who were with me in my latest show. One of the lucky fellows came straight out of the death and racket to find his Blighty leave-warrant waiting for him. Not that I really envy him, for I wouldn’t leave the Front at this moment if there were twenty leave-warrants offered to me. I suppose I’m a little mad about the war.

I’m still very tired from my last adventure and am limping about with very sore feet—but I’m very happy. I begin to feel that we’re drawing to the end of the war. The Hun knows now that the jig is up. He was going to have defeated us this summer while the Americans were still preparing—instead of that we’re pushing him back. I don’t think he will gain another square yard of France. From now on he must go back and back.

This moving battle has been a grand experience; it enables you to see everything unfolding like a picture—tanks, cavalry, infantry, guns. The long marches were very wearying, and we were always pushing on again before we were rested. Not that we minded—the game was too big. The first day of the attack I sailed out into the blue alone, following up the Hun. I had the huge felicity of firing at his retreating back over open sights at a range of less than 1000 yards. We pushed so far that night that we got in front of our infantry and were turned back by enemy machine-gun fire. The Hun is a champion runner when he starts to go and difficult to keep up with. However, we caught him up several times after that and helped him to hurry a bit faster. I never saw anything finer in my life than the clouds of cavalry mustering—the way the horses showed their courage and never budged for shell-fire set an example to us men. The destruction burst in the midst of them, but they stood like statues till the order was given to advance. Then away they went, like a whirlwind of death, with the artillery following at the trot and coming into action point-blank. I came across one machine-gun emplacement that a horseman had charged. The horse lay dead on top of the emplacement, having smothered the machine gunner out of action. That day when I was off by myself with my two guns, I fed my horses on the oats of the fallen cavalry and my men on the rations in the haversacks of the dead. In the ripe wheat the dying stared at us with uninterested eyes as we passed. The infantry going cheering by when we were firing, waved their hands to us, shouting, “That’s the stuff, boys. Give ’em hell!” We gave them hell, right enough.

I’ve come through without a scratch and now I’m off to bed. Don’t worry if I don’t write you—it’s impossible sometimes, and I’ll always cable through London as soon as I can.

LXXII

France

August 22,1918

I can’t sleep to-night. It’s nearly one. The candle lights up the mud walls and makes the other occupants of my dug-out look contorted and grotesque. They sigh and toss in their dreams. Now an arm is thrown out and a face is turned. They’ve been through it, all of them, in the past few days. They have a haggard look. And somewhere in shell-holes, wheatfields, woods, they lie to-night—those others. Pain no longer touches them—their limbs have ceased to twitch and their breath is quiet. They have given their all. For them the war is finished—they can give no more.

Do people at home at all realize what our men are doing and have done? Coarse men, foulmouthed men—men whose best act in life is their manner in saying good-bye to it. And then there are the high-principled fellows from whom ideals are naturally to be expected—whatever we are, we all go out in the same way and in the same rush of determined glory. We climb the steep ascent of Heaven through peril, toil, and pain—and at last our spirits are cleansed.

I think continually of the mothers who stand behind these armies of millions. Mothers just like my mother, with the same hopes and ambitions for their sons. Poor mothers, they never forget the time when the hands that smite to-day were too strengthless to do more than grope at the breast. They follow us like ghosts; I seem to see their thoughts like a grey mist trailing behind and across our strewn battlefields. When the rain descends upon our dead, it is their tears that are falling. The whispering of the wheat is like the tiptoe rustling of approaching women.

Pray for us; we need your prayers—need them more than you think, perhaps. Tuck us up in our scooped-out holes with your love, the way you used to before we began to adventure. Above all be proud of us, whether we stand or fall—so proud that you will not fret. God will let us be little again for you in Heaven. We shall again reach up our arms to you, relying on your strength. We shall be afraid and cry out for your comfort. We’re not brave—not brave naturally; we shall want you in Heaven to tell us we are safe.

So many thoughts and pictures come to me to-night. One is of a ravine I was in a few days ago, all my men mounted and waiting to move forward. Wounded horses of the enemy are limping through the grass. German wagons, caught by our shell-fire, stand silent, the drivers frozen to the seats with a terrifying look of amazement on their faces, their jaws loose and their bodies sagging. Others lie twisted in the grass—some in delirium, some watching. We shall need all our water before the day is over, and have no time to help them. Besides, our own dead are in sight and a cold anger is in our heart. The stretcher-bearers will be along presently—time enough for mercy when the battle is won! We ourselves may be dead before the sun has set. I know the anger of war now, the way I never did in the trenches. You can see your own killing. You can also see the enemy’s work. And yet, through it all down come our wounded, supported by the wounded Huns.

“Those chaps are very good to you,” one of our officers said. The Tommy grinned. “They have to be. If they weren’t, I’d let the daylight into them. I’ve a pocketful of bombs, and they know it.” Well, that’s one incentive to friendship, however reluctant.

The Huns are brave—I know that now. They endure tests of pluck that are well-nigh incredible. We are not defeating craven curs. I can think of no one braver than the man who stays behind with a machine gun, fighting a rearguard action and covering his comrades’ road to freedom. He knows that he will receive no quarter from our people and will never live to be thanked by his own. His lot is to die alone, hated by the last human being who watches him. They’re brave men; they cease fighting only when they’re dead.

What a contrast between love and hatred—dreaming of our mothers to the last and smashing the sons of other mothers. That’s war!

LXXIII

France

August 22, 1918

Here I am lying flat on my tummy in the grass and spying on the enemy 2000 yards away. I shall be here for twenty-four hours. There’s no sort of cover and the sun is scalding. Luckily we’ve found water in a captured village near by and I sent our linesmen to refill our bottles. There’s a lull for the moment and we stretch ourselves out in weary contentment The body is a traitor to the spirit—it can become very tired.

I begin to see the end of the war. I can feel it coming as I never did before since I struck France. The unbelievable truth begins to dawn on me that we’ll be coming back to you—that we shall wake up one morning to find that the world has no further use for our bombs and bayonets. Strange! After so much killing, to kill will be again a crime. We shall begin to count our lives in years instead of in days.

How will the pictures one’s memory holds seem then? I can see, as I saw the other day, a huge German lying on the edge of a wheatfield. His knees were arched. He was on his back. His head rolled wearily from side to side. The thing that fixed my attention was a rubber groundsheet flung hastily across his stomach, whether in disgust or pity, I cannot say. I had my guns drawn up in column, my men mounted, all ready to trot into action—so I had no time for compassion or curiosity. But from my saddle I saw an infantryman raise the ground-sheet and underneath there was nothing but a scarlet gap. There were many sights like that that day. There have been many since then. I have seen as many parts of the human body that the beautiful white skin tents, as a student of anatomy. What hatred and injustice has preceded the making possible of such acts!

But in these places where horrors have been committed, the birds still flit about their nests. When the tanks and the cavalry and the guns have pushed forward, Nature returns to her task of beautifying the world.

How I would like to sit down and talk with you all. When the war is over I can see us going away to some quiet place and re-living the past and re-building the future with words. I may see you sooner than either of us expect; there’s always the chance of a Blighty. So far, beyond an attack of trench-fever from which I’ve almost recovered, I’ve come through scatheless.

By the time this reaches you I shall be looking forward to leave. Casualties have thinned out the numbers on the leave-list and I stand fairly high now. I ought to see England again in October.

LXXIV

France

August 30,1918

This is only a brief note to say that all is well with me and to ask you not to worry. It’s two years to-morrow since I first saw the Front—two centuries it seems. I’m different inside. I don’t know whether my outside has changed much—but I wish sometimes that I could be back again. I begin to be a little afraid that I shan’t be recognizable when I return.

The journalists have been very free in their descriptions of our doings—they have told you everything. If I told a tithe, my letter would not reach you.

LXXV

France

September 1, 1918

This is just another little note to let you know that I am safe and well. I am allowed to say so little to you; that’s one of the worst penalties of this war—the silence. Yesterday your cable, sent in reply to mine and forwarded from London, arrived. My only chance of relieving your suspense when I have not been able to write for some time, is to get one of my English friends to cable to you.

Did you see the good news concerning R. B.? He’s got his V.C. for saving life under shell-fire in Zeebrugge harbour. His M.L. was hit fifty times. I remember the way his neighbours used to patronize him before the war. They all laughed when he went to California to study for an aeroplane pilot. They didn’t try to join themselves, but his keenness struck them as funny. What could a man who was half-blind do at the war, they asked—a man who ran his launch into logs on the lake, and who crashed in full daylight when approaching a wharf? When he had been awarded his flying certificate at the American Air School our R.F.C. refused to take him. He tried to get into the infantry, into everything, anything, and was universally turned down on the score of weak sight. His quixotic keenness made less keen spectators smile. Then, by a careless chance, he got himself accepted by the R.N.V.R. and was put on to a motor launch. Everyone pictured him as colliding with everything solid that came his way, and marvelled at the slipshod naval tests. But it wasn’t his eyesight and limitations that really counted—it was his keenness. In two years he’s a V.C., a D.S.O., and a Lieutenant-Commander. Before the war he was the kind of chap with whom girls danced out of kindness To-day he’s a hero.

We were discussing him out here the other day; he’s the type of hero this war has produced—a man not strong physically, a man self-depreciating and shy, a man with grave limitations and very conscious of his difference from other men. This was his chance to approve himself. People laughed that he should offer himself as a fighter at all, but he elbowed his way through their laughter to self-conquest. That’s the grand side of war—its test of internals, of the heart and spirit of a man! bone and muscle and charm are only secondary.

The big things one sees done out here—done in the way of duty—and so quietly! Whether one comes back or stays, the test has made all the personal suffering worth while—for one hour of living to know that you have played the man and saved a fellow-creature’s life. One never knows when these chances will come; they rush in on you unexpectedly and expect to find you ready. In the encounter the character built up in a lifetime is examined and reported on by the momentary result.

And yet how one suffers for the suffering he witnesses—the suffering of horses and Huns, as well as of the men on our own side. The silent, smashed forms carried past on the stretchers; the little groups of busy men among whom a shell bursts, leaving those who do not rise. And overhead the sky is blue and the wind blows happily through the sunshine. “Gone west”—that’s all, to the land of departing suns. Some of us will stay to sleep among the gentlemen of France. In either event we are fortunate in having been given the privilege to serve our kind.

LXXVI

Prince of Wales Hospital, London, September 6, 1918

Here I am once again in a clean white bed with the discreet feet of nurses, like those of nuns, making hardly any sound as they pass up and down the corridor. There’s just one other officer in my room. His leg is full of machine-gun bullets, and, like myself, he’s just arrived from France. I’ve not got used to this new security yet, this right to live, this ordered decency—all of which seems to be summed up in the presence of women. Less than three days ago I saw two of my gun-teams scuppered by shellfire and the horses rolling among the wounded men. I can’t get the sight out of my mind. To be alive seems an unfair advantage I have taken.—And all the time I want to be back in the thick of it. It was so glorious—such a bon little war, as we say out there, while it lasted.

You’ll want to know what happened. On 2nd September at dawn we set out as the point of the attacking wedge to hammer our way to Cambrai. You will have read this, and more than this, already in your papers. After we had fired on the barrage for several hours, and our infantry had advanced, we began to move our battery forward by sections. The major was away on leave to Blighty, so the captain was acting O.C. He went forward to observe and reconnoitre; I was left to move up the battery. My own section was the last to move. On the road I was met by a mounted orderly who handed me a written order to join another battery which was doing forward work on opportunity targets. I reported to this battery and had brought my two guns into position on their right flank, when the first shell burst. The gun-teams had not unhooked; it burst directly under the centre team and scuppered the lot, wounding all the drivers and killing one of the gunners. We had got the guns into action, when another shell burst beside the left-hand gun, near which I was standing, wounding all the gun-crew except one man. I myself got a piece in the head, between the ear and the left temple. It was a lucky chance that I wasn’t killed outright. The fragment of shell struck upwards and under my steel helmet, cutting the chin-strap and the brass link which holds the strap to the helmet. It was diverted by a rivet in the strap, so instead of going straight into my head, it glanced along the skull. I was X-rayed in France and was to have been operated on, but there was no time with so many casualties coming down, so I was sent to England for the operation. I was in luck to escape so lightly. I was so grateful to my helmet that I hid it in my trench coat and smuggled it back to England with me as a curiosity—which is not allowed.