Chapter 6

One morning, when the Germans seemed fairly quiet, David and Jonathan set out arm in arm towards Ypres, to explore. An occasional shell--a hum, increasing until it became a roar, followed, a moment after, by a fearful explosion--warned them not to proceed beyond the outskirts of the town, and here it was that they came upon a large villa, with lilac budding in the garden. By mutual consent, they turned in at the tall iron gate, and entered the half-ruined house.

The part of the house giving on the road had been destroyed by a large shell. Over a gaping hole in the ceiling was a bed, its iron legs weirdly twisted, which threatened to overbalance at any minute and to come hurtling down into the hall beneath. Shattered picture frames still hung on the walls, and on the floor near at hand lay a rosary, the Crucifix crushed by some heedless boot. The furniture lay in heaps, and the front door was lying grotesquely across a broken mirror. Everywhere was wreckage.

The other half of the house was still almost intact. In what had once been the salon they found comfortable chairs and an excellent Pleyel piano, while a copy of the _Daily Mirror_ gave the clue that the room had until recently been occupied by British troops.

David seated himself at the piano and began to play, and Jonathan threw himself in an arm-chair near the window to listen, and to watch the alternate cloud and sunshine outside. It was one of those perfect mornings of April, bright-coloured and windy, and the breeze in the lilacs combined with the notes of the piano until they could hardly be told apart. The rare whirr and explosion of a shell only had the effect of accentuating the intervening peace. Jonathan had never felt so at one with Nature and with his friend, and more than once, stolid and calm though he generally was, he felt a tear in his eye at an extra beautiful little bit of music or the glory of the world outside.

III

"Coming up to the villa this morning?" asked David of his friend a day or two later.

"I've got a confounded rifle inspection at half-past ten. You go on and I'll get up there as soon as I can," answered Jonathan, and he went off to talk to his platoon sergeant while his friend strolled off to the villa.

When he was going up the road to Ypres an hour later, he met an orderly on horseback. "Excuse me, sir, I don't think the road's extry nice now," he said. "They're dropping some heavy stuff into Yips again."

Jonathan smiled. "Oh, that's all right," he said. "Thanks, all the same, for warning me. I'll take care." And he hurried on up the road.

It was not until he was inside the villa that he noticed anything out of the ordinary. Suddenly, however, he stopped aghast. The door by which they entered the salon was gone, and in its place was a huge gap in the wall. The furniture was buried under a mass of debris, and instead of the gilded ceiling above him was only the blue sky. The piano was still untouched, but on the keys, and on the wall behind, were splashes of blood. Lying on the ground near it, half covered in plaster, was David. He forced himself to approach, and looked again. His friend's head was completely smashed, and one arm was missing.

For some minutes he stood still, staring. Then, with a sudden quiver, he turned and ran. In the garden he tripped over something, and fell, but he felt no hurt, for mad terror was upon him, and all sense had gone. He must get away from the dreadful thing in there; he must put miles between himself and the vision; he must run ... run ... run....

IV

Two privates found him, wild-eyed and trembling, and brought him to a medical officer. "Nerves, poor devil, and badly too!" was the diagnosis; and before Jonathan really knew what had happened, he was in hospital in Rouen.

Everyone gets "nervy" after a certain amount of modern warfare; even the nerves of the least imaginative may snap before a sudden shock.

So with stolid Jonathan. After a year, he is still in England. "Why doesn't he go out again?" people ask. "He looks well enough. He must be slacking." But they realise nothing of the waiting at night for the dreaded, oft-repeated dreams; they cannot tell of the horrible visions that war can bring, they do not know what it means, that neurasthenia, that hell on earth.

It is difficult to forget what must be forgotten. If you have "nerves" you must do all you can to forget the things that caused them, but when everything you do or say, think or hear, reminds you in some remote way of all you must forget, then recovery is hard indeed.

That is why Jonathan is still in England. If he hears or reads of the war he thinks of his dead friend: if he hears music--even a street organ--the result is worse; if he tries to escape from it all, and hides himself away in the country, the birds and the lilac blossom take him back to that morning near Ypres, when he first realised how much his friendship meant to him. And whenever he thinks of his friend, that horrible corpse near the piano comes back before his tight-closed eyes, and his hands tremble again in fear.

XV

THE RUM JAR

AND OTHER SOLDIER SUPERSTITIONS

The most notable feature in the famous history of the "Angels of Mons" was the fact that hundreds of practical, unpoetical, and stolid English soldiers came forward and testified to having seen the vision. Whether the story were fact or fancy, it is an excellent example of a change in our national character.

Before the war, the unromantic Englishman who thought he saw a vision would have blamed in turn his eyesight, his digestion, his sobriety, and his sanity before he allowed that he had anything to do with the supernatural. He now tells, without the least semblance of a blush, that he puts his faith in superstitions, and charms, and mascots, and that his lucky sign has saved his life on half a dozen occasions.

Of all the many and weird superstitions that exist in the British Army of to-day, the most popular has to do with the jar that contains the ration of rum. Rumour has it that once, long ago, a party that was bringing up rations for a company in the trenches was tempted by the thought of a good drink, and fell. When all the rum had been consumed the question arose as to how to explain matters, and the genius of the party suggested breaking the jar and pretending that it had been hit by a bullet. When the party filed into the trench, the waiting company was shown the handle of the jar, and had to listen to a vivid tale of how a German bullet that had just missed Private Hawkes had wasted all the company's rum. Rumour also has it that the unsteady gait of one member of the party gave the lie to the story--but this is beside the point.

From this little incident there has sprung up a far-reaching superstition--German bullets, the men have it, swerve instinctively towards the nearest rum jar. A few stray shots have helped to strengthen the belief, and the conviction holds firm down nearly the whole length of the British line that the man who carries the rum jar runs a double risk of being hit.

Mascots and talismans hold an important place in the soldier's life. I know of one man who used to carry in his pack a rosary that he had picked up in one of the streets of Ypres. One day his leg was fractured in two places by a large piece of a trench-mortar bomb, but, in spite of his pain, he refused to be taken down to the dressing station until we had hunted through his pack and found him his rosary. "If I don't take it with me," he said, "I'll get 'it again on the way down."

And this is by no means an isolated example. Nearly every man at the front has a mascot of some sort--a rosary, a black cat, a German button, or a weird sign--which is supposed to keep him safe.

Their superstitions, too, are many in number. One man is convinced that he will be killed on a Friday; another man would rather waste a dry--and therefore valuable--match than light three cigarettes with it; another will think himself lucky if he can see a cow on his way up to the trenches; a fourth will face any danger, volunteer for any patrol, go through the worst attack without a qualm, simply because he "has got a feeling he will come through unhurt." And he generally does, too.

I once had a servant who used to wear a shoe button on a piece of string round his neck. At some village billet in France a tiny girl had given it him as a present, and he treasured it as carefully as a diamond merchant would treasure the great Koh-i-noor stone--in fact, I am convinced that he often went without washing just to avoid the risk of loss in taking it off and putting it on again. To you in England it seems ridiculous that a man should hope to preserve his life by wearing a shoe button on a piece of string. But then, you have not seen the strange tricks that Fate will play with lives. You have not watched how often a shell will burst in a group of men, kill one outright, and leave the others untouched; you have not joked with a friend one moment and knelt by him to catch his dying words the next; you have not stood at night by a hastily dug grave and wondered, as you mumbled a few half-remembered prayers, why the comrade who is lying there on a waterproof sheet should have been killed while you are left unhurt.

Besides, there are so many things which tend to make a man superstitious and to confirm him in his trust in mascots and charms. Many a man has had a premonition of his death, many a man has come through long months of war, and then has been killed on the day on which he lost his mascot.

The thought of superstition recalls to me Joe Williams, the ex-policeman. Joe Williams was a fatalist, and believed every word he read in his little book of prophecies, so that the dawn of September 4th found him glum and depressed.

"It ain't no bloomin' good," he grumbled. "It says in my book as 'ow September 4th is a disastrous day for England, so it will be. There ain't no way of stopping Fate." And when his section laughed at him for his fears he merely shrugged his shoulders, and sat gazing into the brazier's glow.

The day wore quietly on, and I had forgotten all about Williams and his gloomy prophecies when a corporal came along to my dug-out. "Williams has been hit by a bomb, sir," he said, "and is nearly done for."

At the other end of the trench lay Joe Williams, near to death, while his comrades tied up his wounds. The glumness had gone from his face, and when he saw me he signed for me to stoop down. "What did I tell you, sir, about the disaster for England?" he whispered. "Ain't this a bloomin' disaster?" and he tried to laugh at his little joke, but the flow of blood choked him, and he died.

Perhaps, though, he was nearer the mark than he imagined, for it is a rash thing to say that the death of a man who can joke with his dying breath is not a disaster to England.

* * * * *

It may all seem intensely foolish to you, and childish; it may strike you that our men at the front are attempting to bribe Fate, or that we are returning to the days of witches and sorcerers. But it is not without its good points, this growth of superstition. Man is such a little, helpless pawn in the ruthless game of war, and death is so sudden and so strange, that the soul gropes instinctively in search of some sign of a shielding arm and a watchful power. The Bible, the Crucifix, a cheap little charm--any of these may bring comfort to the man in the trench, and give him the illusion that he is not one of those marked for the sickle of Death.

A man who is confident that he will come through a battle unhurt generally does so, or, if Death comes, he meets it with a smile on his lips. The man who expects to be killed, who has no belief in some shielding power--though it be but symbolised by a common shoe button--is taken by Death very soon, but, even then, not before he has gone through those long, morbid hours of waiting that breed the germs of fear.

The penny lucky charm that can bring comfort to a man in danger is not a thing to be ridiculed. It may be a proof of ignorance, but to the man it is symbolical of his God, and is therefore worthy of all respect and reverence from others.

XVI

THE TEA SHOP

Baker came to me directly after lunch. "Look here," he said, "I'm not satisfied."

"What's the matter now?"

"I want something respectable to eat. Let's go into Poperinghe and get a properly cooked tea."

"It's six miles," I objected, "and a confoundedly hot day."

"All the better for an omelette appetite."

I thought of the omelettes in the tea shop of Poperinghe, and I knew that I was lost. "Can't you get horses?" I asked.

"No luck. The transport has to shift to-day and there's nothing doing in that line. I asked just before lunch."

The omelettes danced up and down before my eyes until the intervening miles over hard cobble stones dwindled to nothing. "All right," I said. "Will you go and get leave for us? I'll be ready in a minute." And I went off to borrow some money from Jackson with which to pay for my omelettes.

The church tower of Poperinghe shimmered in the heat and seemed to beckon us on along the straight road that led through the miles of flat country, relieved here and there by stretches of great hop poles or by little red-roofed farms where lounged figures in khaki.

In every field grazed dozens of horses and in every lane were interminable lines of motor lorries, with greasy-uniformed men crawling about underneath them or sleeping on the seats. In one place, a perspiring "Tommy" hurried round a farmyard on his hands and knees, and barked viciously for the benefit of a tiny fair-haired girl and a filthy fox-terrier puppy; and right above him swung a "sausage" gleaming in the sunlight. Just outside Poperinghe we met company after company of men, armed with towels, waiting by the roadside for baths in the brewery, and, as we passed, one old fellow, who declared that his "rheumatics was that bad he couldn't wash," was trying to sell a brand-new cake of soap for the promise of a drink.

The sun was hot in the sky, and the paving, than which nothing on earth is more tiring, seemed rougher and harder than usual; motor lorries, or cars containing generals, seemed, at every moment, to compel us to take to the ditch, and we were hot and footsore when we tramped through the Grande Place to the tea shop.

But here we were doomed to disappointment, for not a chair was vacant--"Not room for a flea," as Madame explained to us, and we had to curb our appetites as best we could.

The tea shop at Poperinghe! Where could you hope to find a more popular spot than was the tea shop in the early part of 1915? Where could you get better omelettes served by a more charming little waitress?--was she really charming, I wonder, or did she merely seem so _faute de mieux_? Where could you find a nicer place to meet your friends from other regiments, to drink coffee, to eat quantities of dainty French cakes? It is not surprising that the shop at Poperinghe was always crowded by four in the afternoon in those old days before the second battle of Ypres.

As patiently as might be, Baker and I waited, lynx-eyed, until two chairs were vacated.

"Mademoiselle," we called, "deux omelettes, s'il vous plait."

"Bien, messieurs, tout de suite."

But we were far too hungry to wait, and before the omelettes arrived we had cleared a great plate of cakes. After weeks of indifferent trench cooking the first well-done omelette is a great joy, and, as I put down my fork, I glanced inquiry at Baker.

"Rather," he answered to my unspoken question.

"Mademoiselle, encore deux omelettes, s'il vous plait," I ordered. "Nous avons une faim de loup."

"Je m'en aperçois, messieurs les officiers," answered our fair enchantress, as she hurried off to repeat our order in the kitchen, while a crowd of predatory officers glared murder at us when they found we did not intend to leave our places so soon. "Some fellows are pigs," murmured one.

"That was splendid," said Baker when we started off on our homeward walk. "But six miles is a hell of a long way."

Personally, though, I enjoyed those six miles through the dusk, for we seemed to hear the hum of the traffic and the shouts of newsboys. Our tea brought back souvenirs of England, and we talked of London and of home, of theatres, and of coast patrol on the southern cliffs, until the little low huts of our camp showed up ahead.

* * * * *

It is nearly two years now since Baker was killed. He was found gassed in a dug-out on Hill 60, and by his side lay his servant, who had died in the attempt to drag him out to the comparative safety of the open trench. Nearly two years since another friend gave up his life for his country; nearly two years since another mother in England learned that her son had been killed in a "slight diversion on the Ypres salient"!

But it was thus that he would have wished to die.

XVII

"HERE COMES THE GENERAL"

A servant brought me a note to my dug-out:

"Come down and have some lunch in trench 35D," it ran, "in C Company officers' dug-out. Guests are requested to bring their own plates and cutlery; and, if it is decent, their own food. Menu attached. R.S.V.P."

The menu was as follows:

MENU OF LUNCHEON GIVEN BY C COMPANY AT THEIR COUNTRY RESIDENCE, "THE RETREAT," 15/5/15.

SOUPS

Soup à la Bully Beef. Soup à l'Oxo.

FISH

Salmon (and Shrimp Paste) without Mayonnaise Sauce. Sardines à l'Huile (if anyone provides them).

ENTREES

Maconochie, very old. Bully beef and boiled potatoes.

SWEETS

Pineapple Chunks, fresh from the tin. English Currant Cake.

SAVOURY

Welsh Rarebit.

I read through the menu, and decided to risk it, and, procuring the necessary crockery, I clanked through fully half a mile of trenches to C Company. The officers' dug-out was in the cellar of an old cottage which just came in our line of trenches. The only access to it was by means of a very narrow stairway which led down from the trench. The interior, when I arrived, was lit by three candles stuck in bottles, which showed officers in almost every vacant spot, with the exception of one corner, where a telephone orderly was situated with his apparatus. I occupied the only untenanted piece of ground I could find, and awaited events.

The soup was upset, as the moment when the servant was about to bring it down from the outer air was the moment chosen for a rehearsal of that famous game, "Here comes the General." The rules of this game are simple. The moment anyone utters the magic phrase there is an immediate rush for the steps, the winner of the game being he who manages to arrive at the top first and thus impress the imaginary general with his smartness.

The soup stood but a poor chance in a stampede of eleven officers, the candles were kicked out, and a long argument ensued as to whose plate was which, and why Martin's spoon should have gone down Fenton's neck, and if the latter should be made to forfeit his own spoon to make up for his unintentional theft.

Order was at length restored, and the meal was proceeding in comparative peace, when, suddenly, Jones, who had not been invited to the luncheon, appeared at the top of the steps.

"I say, you fellows," he cried excitedly. "Here comes the General."

"Liar!" shouted someone. But the magic words could not be allowed to pass unnoticed, even though we were eating pineapple chunks at the time, and they are very sticky if you upset them over your clothes.

A fearful scramble took place, in which everyone--with the exception of Walters, who placed himself in the further corner with the tin of pineapple--tried to go together up steps which were just broad enough to allow the passage of one man at a time.

A conglomerate mass of officers, all clinging convulsively to each other, suddenly burst into the open trench--almost at the feet of the General, who came round the traverse into view of them at that moment.

When I returned to C Company's dug-out, an hour or so later, to try to recover my plate and anything else that had not been smashed, I found three officers reading a message that had just come by telephone from Battalion Headquarters. It was prefixed by the usual number of mysterious letters and figures and ran:

"The Brigadier has noticed with regret the tendency of several officers to crowd into one dug-out. This practice must cease. An officer should have his dug-out as near those of his own men as possible, and should not pass his time in the dug-outs belonging to officers of other companies."

"Here comes the General!" whispered somebody.

I got first up the steps and hurried, a battered plate in my hand, along the trenches to my dug-out.

XVIII

THE RASCAL IN WAR

Even the most apathetic of us has been changed by war--he who in times of peace was content with his ledgers and daily office round is now in the ranks of men who clamber over the parapet and rush, cheering, to the German lines; she who lived for golf, dances, and theatres is now caring for the wounded through the long nights in hospital. Everyone in every class of life has altered--the "slacker" has turned soldier, and the burglar has become a sound, honest man.

Strange it is that war, which might be expected to arouse all the animal passions in us, has done us so much good! There are among the men in the trenches many hundreds who were, before the war, vastly more at home in the police courts and prisons than is the average Londoner at a public dinner. That they should be brave is not astonishing, for adventure is in their bones, but they are also as faithful, as trustworthy, as amenable to discipline as any soldiers we possess.

There was "Nobby" Clarke, for instance. "Nobby" was a weedy little Cockney who became my "batman," or servant. He had complete control of my privy purse, did all my shopping, and haggled over my every halfpenny as carefully as though it were his own. Then, when he had served me for over six months, I overheard him one day recounting his prison experiences, and I discovered that he had been a pilferer and pickpocket well known in all the London police courts. In his odd moments out of jail, he would hover outside the larger stations, touch a bedraggled cap with a filthy finger, and say, "Kerry yer beg, sir?" in a threatening tone to all passers-by; his main income, however, appeared to come from far less respectable sources.

And yet he served me more faithfully than I have ever been served before or since, and I have seldom been more sorry than I was when "Nobby" Clarke was hit. As we were tying him up--he had been wounded in eight places by a rifle grenade--he signed to me and I stooped over him.

"I ain't got no one at 'ome as cares fer me," he said, "so yer might 'and me things round to the blokes 'ere. I've got a photograph of me ole woman wot died five years ago. It's in me pay book, sir, an' I'd like yer to keep it jest to remind yer of me." Then, his voice getting weaker every moment, "I ain't been such a bad servant to yer, 'as I, sir?" he whispered, his eyes looking appealingly into mine. And when "Nobby" Clarke, onetime loafer and pickpocket, passed away, I am not ashamed to own that there was a queer sort of lump in my throat.

And he was only one of many, was "Nobby" Clarke. There was Bennett, the tramp, who was always ready with a song to cheer up the weary on the march; there was a Jewish money-lender who was killed while trying to save a man who was lying wounded in No Man's Land; there was Phillips, who had been convicted of manslaughter--he became a stretcher-bearer, and was known all over the battalion for his care of the wounded.