CHAPTER XVI

THE PLAY SIDE OF WAR

There has to be a play side. Human nerves could not stand the strain of this modern warfare without some chance to alternate the light and frivolous with the tragedy of the struggle. It is not only that all war and no play would make the soldier a dull boy, but the fact is it would finish him up in short order. Every general recognizes this. It is not a matter of sentiment. It is a matter of business--the business of war. Men cannot absolutely be made into machines and they cannot work well in the grim business of war if they fall below a certain point in mental cheerfulness. Yes, men must be cheerful to fight well. Generals found that out long ago and they are acting on this knowledge during every day of the frightful conflict that is going on in Europe.

They not only take the men out of the trenches after a certain number of hours to “rest” them, to get them away from the noise and strain of battle, but also to give them a chance to laugh, to romp, to exercise all such diversions as the men’s mentality may specially select. The chance to get emotional relief as well as physical relief of which they all stand in need after the ordeal of imminently facing death must be afforded them.

In “Restville” good commanders give their men opportunities of all kinds to ease their minds and bodies of nervous strain. Dancing, singing, sheer frolicking is smiled upon by the officers. Every sort of diversion is encouraged. Farmer soldiers and gardeners are supplied with materials with which to plant and tend little gardens. Other men are given facilities with which to sew or knit, artistic men are furnished pencils, paper, charcoal, canvasses and paints. Others put in their time composing songs and drilling choruses. In “Restville” there have also been fashioned beautiful statuettes in wood, striking models in clay.

Concerts and dramatic entertainments are common occurrences. There is always a great deal of fun obtained from the necessity of men assuming women’s parts in these comedies. The work of preparing for such entertainment is often very elaborate. Nothing is too much trouble that has enough fun in it. And you may be sure that the audiences at these shows, which are sometimes held in the wreck of a theater of a smashed French town or in a barn or again in a dug-out possibly 100 feet under ground, are rapturously appreciative. There are always many recalls. But the actors receive no reverence. They are yelled at by name and “kidded” extravagantly.

In “Restville” are foot races, steeple-chases, catch-the-ring-on-the-bayonet races, dashes with gas masks, all manner of obstacle races invented on the spur of the moment.

The “catch-the-ring” may be taken as a good example of the ingenuity in inventing games having a relation to the war game itself. The race begins with a dash and ends with a difficulty. The difficulty is presented by a series of small rings fixed in posts along the course. Each man in the race reaches for these rings and must pass the bayonet through them with a single stab. The winner, of course, is he who successfully pierces with a single motion the most rings.

Air men fly over “Restville,” doing some of their fancy stunts for the amusement of the men below. Cavalrymen give exhibitions of hippodrome riding. Dances are encouraged in the hotels of these “Restvilles.”

But whether in “Restville” or in action, one cannot help pay a tribute to the cheerfulness of the British soldier. Tommy sings, laughs and jokes when marching along the white dusty road in France even though he be dead fagged with the heaviness of his equipment. As the reinforcements move over the devastated territory and while shells fall all around him Tommy will sing, “Are we down-hearted?” “Are we fed up?” The reply will come: “_NO!_ _NO!_ NO!”

During the suspense of waiting in the dug-outs and trenches and when the German heavies are sending forth a continuous hurricane of high explosives and shrapnel and those born to die on the battlefield are being blown to pieces, the others can be heard singing, “I wouldn’t leave my little wooden hut for you,” “Mother Machree,” “Home, sweet home,” “Tipperary,” and “Pack all your troubles in your old kit bag.”

They--the men in “Restville”--talk a great deal among themselves regarding the wounds they wouldn’t mind getting. All wounds are known as “Blighty.” Some would not mind a nice little “Blighty” in the arm, others express preference to a “Blighty” in the leg, and others, more careless, say that any old “Blighty” would do. They all have a common opinion and that is that they would rather be blown to pieces than be blinded, gassed or taken prisoner.

When going over the top in the face of murderous fire from shells and machine guns one often hears some cheerful soul shout: “Keep in step! Left, right, left! I had a good job and I left!” Or in the crowding as they start away, you will sometimes hear a man call merrily, “Keep your distance, Bill, I’m not your little bit of fluff.” This because of the natural tendency of men to huddle under such circumstances. It is a tendency an officer must combat since men in mass can be pulverized by machine-gun fire and bomb and shell explosions.

When a man falls someone is sure to say, “Poor old boy--his day’s work is done.”

Or again in passing the wounded, the characteristic cry is: “Cheer up, I’ll soon be joining you.” Another kindly call to a wounded comrade is: “Keep a place for me in the next bed in hospital.” I’ve heard the Tommies running through German trenches, throwing bombs to the tune of, “You made me what I am today, I hope you’re satisfied.”

I can’t think of how such spirits can ever be beaten. The morale of the British army can never be destroyed.

And I desire to say right here that as for the German he fights like a dog under a master’s lash. I have never seen a smile or a grin on a Hun’s face and never heard humorous remarks from his lips and I have an army school certificate which asserts that I can understand German.

Even when the Huns are taken prisoners--and I might remind you we don’t volunteer to take them--they bring all their surliness with them. After some heavy fighting on the Ancre where we unavoidably captured a few Huns and sustained many losses, I ordered four Germans to carry one of my men who had been dangerously wounded. They refused, saying, “They would not carry the English dog.” However, I punched them into obedience.

Once I had as a prisoner a German officer. One of my men felt sorry for him in his appearance of complete dejection. He went over to the man and by way of commiseration offered him a cigarette. The German officer growled, leaped to his feet, knocked the cigarette from the Tommy’s hand and spat in his face. I never saw a quicker bayonet thrust in all my life.

As for the play side of war, who can ever forget the men of the East Surrey Regiment who on the fourth of July, 1916, went over the top in the face of blasts of shrapnel, dribbling a football?

The Huns called those boys “Madmen.” But our prisoners frequently admitted their admiration of that particular “stunt.”

It is an everyday occurrence “over there” to witness a football match on some recently regained, devastated French field. Often enough shells from a German battery engaged in its usual afternoon work of strafing will be falling within a few hundred feet of the players.

I once acted as referee at a brigade boxing tournament when during the final bout Boche airplanes spotted us. They sent down bombs and darts, but we went on with our sport until a bomb fell close to the ringside and killed several spectators. Even then the crowd seemed bent on remaining to witness the end of the bout until the brigadier commandant, one of the spectators, suddenly said: “We are a lot of damn’ fools to stay here,” and he ordered the bugler to sound the safety call.

Regimental, brigade and divisional concerts are daily affairs in “Restville.” Every company has its singers, dancers and jokers.

It may not strike you as a delicate or charming phase of trench sport, but in the summer months “Cootee-hunting” is the principal diversion. In other words, flea picking. These vermin are more terrible than the Germans in provoking our boys to profanity. Whether on the march, in the trenches or in billets, cootee-hunting is played by everybody from General to private. One trench game is to bet on who can capture the most cootees in a given time.

A pack of cards is a precious possession, especially in the trenches. The best known games for which they are used are Poker, Banker and Broker, Brag, Twenty-one, Crown and Anchor and House.

The playing of these games provides a very necessary relaxation.

One day’s picture of life in the trenches will convey an idea of its generality. You would find men not on duty reading newspapers and books. They were reading any kind of newspaper or books. Old yellow fragments of newspapers were precious possessions. You would find that they had even memorized the advertisements and the contents of the women’s pages. Pieces of printed matter were so precious that they were read and re-read until each man could tell you the whole thing without looking at the paper. Men write letters with tiny pencil stubs that are guarded zealously and only loaned to closest friends.

I remember one day when some of the men were playing Brag. In this game each man is given three cards and the best hand a man can hold is three aces. Six men were playing in this game. After a few unimportant deals two men got right down to earnest betting. They staked all their money. And they staked their next most precious possession--cigarettes. Then one man pitted one captured German officer’s cap against two private German’s helmets. This was followed by the bet of the piece of a shell that had been taken from the wound of one of the players some months back against an iron cross which the other player had ripped off a German’s breast in a night raid. In the end they had heaped up all their souvenirs, but when they attempted to wager their next quarter’s pay I interrupted the game. It was no wonder they had been betting so hard. The winner held the highest possible hand of the game--three aces. But the loser had three kings.

“House” is without doubt Tommy’s favorite game. It is really old-fashioned Lotto. It can be played with crowds which is what makes it the more interesting and popular. The game consists of numbered cards with a banker who holds a bag containing the numbers which run from one to ninety. As each number is called out the men with heads down and eyes on their cards cover their respective numbers as they are announced, using matches, bits of paper or stones as their covering pieces. The man who has his card filled first receives the whole of the “Kitty” less a small sum which the banker appropriates as his reward for supplying the cards and calling the numbers.

“Bankers” start the games by barking in front of their trenches and there is always lively competition. The shout with all of them is the same, “Roll up! Roll up! Come along with your dough and souvenirs! Come up with your riches and princely treasures. Come up! Come up!” and occasionally a very honest one will add: “And go away skint” (broke). Announcing the numbers that he draws from the bag the banker has a language of his own. As, for instance, the number 1 is called “bottom of the house,” number 90 “top of the house” and when you hear the banker shout “clickety click,” put your covering piece on 66.

It’s just a little sidelight I have given you here of the optimism and cheerfulness of the British soldier and my reason for presenting this phase of his type is to claim for him that men of such spirit can never be driven to the despondency which accepts defeat.