Part 3

A few days ago a pitiful derelict of the streets crossed my path. I’d been dining out in the West End with L. and P. and was on my way back, when a girl stopped me. She stopped me for the usual reason, and I suppose I refused her rudely. The next thing I knew she was crying. She said she had been walking for twelve hours, and was cold and tired, and ready to fall from weariness. It was very late, and I scarcely knew where to take her, but we found a little French restaurant open in Gerrard Street. On coming into the light, I discovered that she had a little toy dog under her arm, just as tired of life as herself. It was significant that she attended to the dog’s before her own needs. We had to tempt it with milk before it would eat—then she set to work herself ravenously. I learnt her story by bits. She was a discharged munition worker, had strained herself lifting shells, and hadn’t the brains or strength for anything but the streets. When she left the restaurant the lap-dog was again tucked beneath her arm. It was nearly midnight when she disappeared in the raw chilliness of the scant electric light. People die worse deaths than on battle-fields.

Wednesday.—I’ve been working for the last three days at the Minister’s, and still have no inkling of what is to happen to me. My major walked in to-day; he wants me to wait till his sick-leave is over, after which we can return together. He’ll put in a strong personal request for me to be allowed to return. He got concussion of the brain eight weeks ago through a shell bursting in his dug-out. S. was wounded at the same time, but didn’t go out till next day. He had got one hundred yards from the battery when he and his batman were killed instantly by the same shell.

Reggie wasn’t in town when I arrived. He didn’t meet me till Friday. What with playing with him and working here I don’t get much time for writing. But you’ll hear from me again quite soon.

XVII

The Ritz, London November 15, 1917

This hanging round London seems a very poor way to help win a war. I couldn’t stand very much of it, however invaluable they pretended I was, when my pals are dying out there. Poor old S.! He’s in my thoughts every hour of the day. He was always getting new photos of his little daughter. He longed for a Blighty that he might see her again. He was wounded, but stopped on duty for two days. At last, only one hundred yards down the trench on his way to the dressing-station a shell caught him. He was dead in an instant. Before the Vimy show two of our chaps in the mess had peculiar dreams: one saw D.’. grave and the other S.’.. Both S. and D. are dead. The effect that all this has on me is not what might be expected—makes me the more anxious to get back. I hate to think that others are going sleepless and cold and are in danger, and that I am not there. When the memory comes at meal-times I feel like leaving the table.

It was ripping to hear from you last night. Your letter greeted me as I returned from the theatre. We’d been out with my major. At the theatre we picked up with a plucky chap, named K., who belonged to the same battery as B., to whom, you remember, I was carrying a present from some girl in New York. The present which she was so keen should reach him by Christmas turned out to be a neck-tie which she had knitted for him. On asking K., I found out that B. was killed on October 31st. It’s the same story all the time so far as the 18-pounders are concerned.

When Reggie leaves me I’m going to start on another book, Out to Win, which is to be an interpretation for England of the new spirit which is animating America, and a plea for a closer sense of kinship between my two nations.

Don’t worry about me, you’ll get a cabled warning before I go to France. My major expects to go back in a month or two, and we’ve arranged to return together if possible. But you needn’t get worried—I’m afraid I shall probably spend Christmas in London.

XVIII

The Ritz, London November 17, 1917

Your minds can be at rest as regards my safety for a few weeks at least. I’ve been collared for fair, but I think I’ll manage to get free again presently. I suppose you’ll say that I’m a donkey to want so much to get back to the Front; perhaps I am—the war will last quite long enough for every man in khaki to get very much more of it than he can comfortably stomach. The proper soldierly attitude is to take every respite as it turns up and be grateful for it. But then I’m not a professional soldier. I think in saying that I’ve laid my finger on the entire reason for the splendour of our troops—that they’re not professional soldiers, but civilian idealists. Your professional soldier isn’t particularly keen on death—his game is to live that he may fight another day. Our game is to fight and fight and fight so long as we have an ounce of strength left. My major and myself are all that are left of the officers in my battery. A great many of our best men are gone. They need us back to help them out.

Here’s a story of stories—one which answers all the questions one hears asked as to whether the Army doesn’t lower a man’s morals and turn saints into blackguards.

When we were on the Somme, a batch of very worthless-appearing remounts arrived at our wagon-lines direct from England. When they were paraded before us, they made the rottenest impression—they looked like molly-coddles whom the Army had cowed. Among them was a particularly inoffensive-looking young man who had been a dental student, whom, if the Huns could have seen him as a sample of the kind of reinforcements we were getting, they would certainly have taken new courage to win the war. All the officers growled and prayed God for a consignment of the old rough-and-tumble knockabout chaps who came out of gaols, from under freight-trains, and from lumber-camps to die like gentlemen—the only gentlemanly thing some of them ever did, I expect—with the Canadian First Contingent.

A few weeks later we sent back to the wagonlines for a servant to be sent up to the guns, two of our batmen having been killed and a third having been returned to duty. The wagon-line officer sent us up this fellow with the following note: “I’m sending you X. He’s the most useless chap I have—not bad, but a ninny. I hope he’ll suit you.” He didn’t. He could never carry out an order correctly, and seemed scared stiff: by any N.C.O. or officer. We got rid of him promptly. When he returned to the wagon-lines, he was put on to all the fatigues and dirty jobs.

The first time we got any hint that the chap had guts was when we were out at rest at Christmas. He’d been shifted from one section to another, because no one wanted him.. Each new Number One as he received him put him on to his worst horses, so as to get rid of him the more quickly. The chap was grooming a very ticklish mare, when she up with her hind-legs and caught him in the chest, throwing him about twenty yards into the mud. He lay stunned for a full minute; we thought he was done. Then, in a dazed kind of way, he got upon his feet. He was told he could fall out, but he insisted upon finishing the grooming of his horse. When the stable parade was dismissed, much against his will he was sent to be inspected by the Brigade doctor.

The doctor looked him over and said, “I ought to send you out to a hospital, but I’ll see how you are to-morrow. You must go back to your billets and keep quiet. The kick has chipped the point of your breast-bone.”

“It didn’t,” said Driver X., “and I’m not going to lie down.”

The doctor, who is very small, looked as much like the Last Judgment as his size would allow. “You’ll do what you’re told,” he said sharply. “You’ll find yourself up for office if you speak to me like that. If I told you that both your legs were broken, they would be broken. You don’t know very much about the Army, my lad.”

“But my breast-bone isn’t chipped,” he insisted. Contrary to orders he was out on the afternoon parade and was up to morning stables next day at six o’clock. When strafed for his disobedience, he looked mild and inoffensive and obstinate. He refused to be considered, and won out. You can punish chaps for things like that; but you don’t.

The next thing we noticed about him was that he was learning to swear. Then he began to look rough, so that no one would have guessed that he came from a social grade different from that of the other men. And this was the stage he had arrived at when I got wounded last summer and left the battery. The story of his further progress was completed for me this week when I met my major in town.

“Who’s the latest hero, do you think?” he questioned. “You’d never guess—the dental student. He did one of the most splendid bits of work that was ever done by an Artillery driver.”

Here’s what he did. He was sent along a heavily shelled road at nightfall to collect material from blown-in dug-outs for building our new battery position. He was wheel-driver on a G.S. wagon which had three teams hooked into it. There was a party of men with him to scout up the material and an N.C.O. in charge. As they were halted, backed up against an embankment, a shell landed plumb into the wagon, crippling it badly, wounding all the horses and every man except the ex-dental student. The teams bolted, and it was mainly due to the efforts of the wheel-driver that the stampede was checked. He must have used quite a lot of language which really polite people would not have approved. He then bound up all the wounds of his comrades—there was no one to help him—and took them back to the field dressing-station two at a time, mounted on two of the least wounded horses. When he had carried them all to safety, he removed their puttees and went back alone along the shelled road to the wounded horses and used the puttees to stop their flow of blood. He managed to get the wagon clear, so that it could be pulled. He tied four of the horses on behind; hooked in the two that were strongest, and brought the lot back to the wagonlines single-handed.

And here’s the end of the story. The O.C. put in a strong recommendation that he be decorated for his humanity and courage. The award came through in the record time of fourteen days, with about a yard of Military Medal ribbon and congratulations from high officers all along the line. The morning of the day it came through thieving had been discovered in the battery, and a warning had been read out that the culprit was suspected, and that it would go hard with him when he was arrested. The decoration was received in the afternoon while harness-cleaning was in progress. Without loss of time the O.C. went out, a very stern look on his face, and had the battery formed up in a hollow square. There was only one thought in the men’s heads—that the thief had been found. There was a kind of “Is it I” look in their faces. Without explanation, the O.C. called upon the ex-dental student to fall out. He fell out with his knees knocking and his chin wobbling, looking quite the guilty party. Then the O.C. commenced to read all the praise from officers at Brigade, Division, Corps, Army, of the gallant wheel-driver who had not only risked his life to save his pals, but had even had the fineness of forethought to bind up the horses’ wounds with the puttees. Then came the yard of Military Medal ribbon, a piece of which was snipped off and pinned on to the lad’s worn tunic. The battery yelled itself crimson. The dental student had learnt to swear, but he’d won his spurs. He’s been promoted to the most dangerous and coveted job for a gunner or driver in the artillery; he’s been put on to the B.C. party, which has to go forward into all the warm spots to observe the enemy and to lay in wire with the infantry when a “show” is in progress. Can you wonder that I get weary of seeing the London buses trundle along the well-swept asphalt of Oxford Street and long to take my chance once more with such chaps?

XIX

London

November 29, 1917

Here’s such a November London day as no American ever imagines. A feeling of spring and greenness is in the air, and a glint of subdued gold. This morning as I came across Battersea Bridge it seemed as though war could not be—that, at worst, it was only an incident. The river lay below me so old and good-humoured—in front Cheyne Walk comfortably ancient and asleep. Through the chimneys and spires of the distant city blue scarfs of mist twisted and floated. Everything looked very happy. Boys—juvenile cannon-fodder—went whistling along the streets; housemaids leant shyly out of upstairs windows, shaking dusters to attract their attention. In the square by the Chelsea Pensioners, soldiers, all spit and polish, were going through their foot-drill; they didn’t look too earnest about it—not at all as if in two months they would be in the trenches. It’s the same with the men on leave—they live their fourteen days with cheery common sense as though they were going to live for ever. It’s impossible, even when you meet the wounded, to discover any signs of tragedy in London. The war is referred to as “good old war,” “a bean-feast,” “a pretty little scrap,” but never as an undertaking of blood and torture. Last night there was strong moonlight, very favourable to an air raid. When I bought my paper this morning, the fat woman, all burst out and tied in at the most unexpected places, remarked to me with an air of disappointment: “They fergot h’us.”

“Who forgot us?” I asked.

“The bloomin’ 'Uns. I wus h’expecting them lawst night.”

She spoke as though she’d had tea ready and the kettle boiling for a dear friend who had mis-remembered his engagement. England has set out to behave as if there was no death; she’s jolly nearly succeeded in eliminating it from her thoughts. She’s learnt the lesson of the chaps in the front-line trenches, and she’s like a mother—like our mother—who has sons at the war—she’s going to keep on smiling so as not to let her fellows down.

All the streets are full of girls in khaki—girls with the neatest, trimmest little ankles. The smartest of all are the Flying Corps girls, many of whom drive the army cars in the most daring manner. When you think of what they are and were, the war hasn’t done so badly for them. They were purposeless before. Their whole aim was to get married. They felt that they weren’t wanted in the world. They broke windows with Mother Pankhurst. Now they’ve learnt discipline and duty and courage. They’d man the trenches if we’d let them. They used to sneer at our sex; whether they married or remained single, quite a number of them became man-haters. But now—that kind of civil war is ended. Ask the young subaltern back on leave how much he is disliked by the girls. Babies and home have become the fashion. I received quite a shock last Sunday when I was saluted by one of these girls—saluted in a perfectly correct and soldierly fashion. The idea is right; if they outwardly acknowledge that they are a part of the Army, military discipline becomes their protection. But what a queer, changed world from the world of sloppy blouses, cheap and much-too-frequent jewellery, and silly sentimental ogling! England’s become more alert and forthright; despite the war, she’s happier. This isn’t meant for a glorification of war; it’s simply a statement of fact. The time had to come when women would become men; they’ve become men in this most noble and womanly fashion—through service. They’re doing men’s jobs with women’s alacrity.

There is only one thing that will keep me from rejoining my battery in January, and that’s this American book. We have come to the conclusion that to complete the picture of American determination to win out, I ought to go on a tour of inspection in France. The Government is interested in the book for propaganda work. The extreme worthwhileness of such an undertaking would reconcile me to a postponement of my return to the Front—nothing else will. All the papers here are full of the details of the advance at Cambrai. I want to be “out there” so badly. What does it matter that there’s mud in the trenches, and death round every traverse, and danger in each step? It’s the hour of glorious life I long for; for such an hour I would exchange all the sheeted beds and running bath-taps, not to mention the æons of Cathay. I can see those gunners forcing up their guns through the mire, and can hear the machine guns clicking away like infuriated typewriters. The whole gigantic pageant of death and endeavour moves before me—and I’m sick of clubs and safety. People say to me, “You’re of more use here—you can serve your country better by being in England.” But when chaps are dying I want to take my chance with them. Don’t be afraid I’ll be kept here. I won’t. I didn’t know till I was held back against my will what a grip that curious existence at the Front had got on me. It isn’t the horror one remembers—it’s the exhilaration of the glory.

Cheer up, I’ll be home some Christmas to fill your Christmas stocking. It won’t be this Christmas—perhaps not the next; but perhaps the next after that. The young gentlemen from the Navy will be there too to help me. It’s a promise.

I was present at the opening of the American Officers’ Club by the Duke of Connaught. This club is the private house of Lord Leconfield. Other people have presented furniture, pictures, and money. It costs an American officer next to nothing, and is the best attempt that has been made to give a welcome to the U.S.A. in London. It’s the most luxurious club in the West End at present.

XX

London

December 10, 1917

I got a letter from the Foreign Office, asking me to go back to America to do writing and lecturing for the British Mission. I’m sure you’ll appreciate why I refused it, and be glad. I couldn’t come back to U.S.A. to talk about nobilities when their sons and brothers are getting their first baptism of fire in the trenches. If I’d got anything worth saying I ought to be out there in the mud—saying it in deeds. But I’ve told Colonel B. that if ever I come out again wounded I will join the British Mission for a time. So now you have something to look forward to.

I hear though that permission will probably be granted to me within the next few days to start for France to go through the American lines and activities. You can guess how interesting that will be to me. I only hope they have a fight on while I’m in the American lines. I suppose the tour will take me the best part of a month, so I’ll be away from England for Christmas. I rather hope I’ll be in Paris—ever since reading Trilby I’ve longed to go to the Madeleine for Noël—which reminds me that I must get Trilby to read on the journey. It’s rather a romantic life that I’m having nowadays, don’t you think? I romp all over the globe and, in the intervals, have a crack at the Germans.

After I have finished writing this book on the American activities in France I shan’t be content a moment till I’ve rejoined my battery. I feel a terrible shyster stopping away from the fighting a day longer than can be helped. This book, which I intend to be a spiritual interpretation of the soul of America, ought to do good to Anglo-American relations; so it seems of sufficiently vital importance. I can’t think of anything that would do more to justify the blotting out of so many young lives than that, when the war is ended, England and America should have reason to forget the last hundred and thirty years of history, joining hands in a worldwide Anglo-Saxon alliance against the future murdering of nations. If I can contribute anything towards bringing that about, the missing of two months in the trenches will be worth it.

I went to a “good luck” dinner the other night, which we gave to my major on the occasion of his setting sail for Canada. Two others of the officers who used to be with me in the battery are to be on the same ship. A year ago in the Somme we used to pray for a Blighty—to-day, every officer in our mess has either got a Blighty or is dead. It gives one some idea of the brevity of our glory.

You’d love the West End shops were you here. I’ve just drawn down my blinds on Oxford Street; I walked back by way of Regent Street after lunch—all the windows are gay and full. Men in khaki are punting their girls through the crowds, doing their Christmas shopping. You can see the excited faces of little children everywhere. There doesn’t seem to be much hint of war. One wonders whether people are brave to smile so much or only careless. You hear of tremendous lists of casualties, but there are just as many men. It looks as though we had man-power and resources to carry on the war interminably. There’s only one class of person who is fed-up—and that’s the person who has done least sacrificing. The person who has done none at all is a nervous wreck and can’t stand the strain much longer. But ask the fighting men—they’re perfectly happy and contented. Curious! When you’ve given everything, you can always give some more.

This may reach you before Christmas, though I doubt it. If it does, be as merry as we shall be, though absent.

XXI

London

December 10, 1917

I hope you feel as I do about my refusal of Colonel B.’. offer to send me back to America on the British Mission. I was also approached to-day to do press work for the Canadians. It seems as though everyone was conspiring to throw tempting plums in my way to keep me from returning to the Front. I don’t know that I’m much good as a soldier; probably I’m very much better as a writer; but it’s as though my soul, my decency, my honour were at stake—I must get back to the Front. The war is going to be won by men who go back to the trenches in the face of reason and common sense. If I had a leg off I should try for the Flying Corps. I may be a fool in the Front line, but I won’t be finished as a fighting man till I’m done. They can keep all their cushy jobs for other chaps—I want the mud and the pounding of the guns. It doesn’t really matter if one does get killed, provided he’s set a good example. Do you remember that sermon we heard Dr. Jowett give about St. Paul at Lystra, going back after they had stoned him? “Back to the stones”—that expresses me exactly. I hate shell-fire and discomfort and death as much as any other man. But I’d rather lose everything than have to say good-bye to my standard of heroism. I don’t want to kill Huns particularly, but I do want to prove to them that we’re the better men. I can’t do that by going through oratorical gymnastics in America or by writing racy descriptions of the Canadians’ bravery for the international press. I shall be less than nothing when I return to France—merely subaltern whose life isn’t very highly valued. But in my heart I shall know myself a man. There’s no one understands my motive but you three, who have most to lose by my cripplement or death. All my friends over here think me an ass to throw away such chances—they say I’m economically squandering myself in the place where I’m least trained to do the best work. I know they talk sense; but they don’t talk chivalry. If every man took the first chance offered him to get out of the catastrophe, where would the Huns’ offensive end?

You’ve probably been writing hard at The Father of a Soldier, and saying all that you would like to say to me in that. I’m most anxious to see the manuscript of it. If you please, how could the son of the man who wrote that book accept a cushy job?