Part 1

_THE DAILY CHRONICLE WAR LIBRARY_

THE WAR STORIES OF PRIVATE THOMAS ATKINS

A SELECTION OF THE BEST THINGS IN HIS PERSONAL LETTERS FROM THE FRONT & SO A STIRRING TALE OF GREAT DEEDS DONE FOR A GREAT CAUSE IN A SPIRIT OF SIMPLE DUTY AND GALLANT GAIETY

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The most entertaining Stories ever written of “Tommy Atkins” and his little ways

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THE WAR STORIES OF PRIVATE THOMAS ATKINS

“_Are we downhearted?_” “_No-o-o!_”

THE WAR CRY OF PRIVATE ATKINS.

_It’s a long way to Tipperary It’s a long way to go, It’s a long way to Tipperary, To the sweetest girl I know! Good-bye, Piccadilly! Farewell, Leicester Square! It’s a long, long way to Tipperary, But my heart’s right there._

THE MARCHING SONG OF PRIVATE ATKINS.

PUBLISHED FOR THE DAILY CHRONICLE BY GEORGE NEWNES LIMITED OF SOUTHAMPTON ST., STRAND, LONDON

PRINTED AT THE BALLANTYNE PRESS LONDON

CONTENTS

Page

“BLOW! BUGLES, BLOW!” 5

I MARCHING TO WAR 9

II THINGS BY THE WAY 14

III THE FRIENDLY FRENCH 20

IV THE ENEMY GERMAN 26

V CAMPAIGNING IN GENERAL 32

VI BATTLES IN BEING 41

VII WHAT THE SOLDIER SEES 56

VIII HOW IT FEELS UNDER FIRE 67

IX CORNERS IN THE FIGHT 78

X HIT AND MISSED 92

XI ADVANCE AND RETREAT 103

XII IN THE TRENCHES 115

XIII GALLANT DEEDS 125

XIV TALES OF TRAGEDY 134

XV ANECDOTES OF HUMOUR 142

XVI STORIES OF SACRIFICE 150

XVII THE MAN AMID WAR 159

XVIII THE COMMON TASK 169

XIX MATTERS IN GENERAL 179

XX SUMMING IT UP 186

_Now all the youth of England are on fire, And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies; Now thrive the armourers, and honour’s thought Reigns solely in the breast of every man._

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

“BLOW! BUGLES, BLOW!”

_Boot, saddle, to horse, away! Rescue my castle before the hot day Brightens to blue from its silvery grey. Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!_

ROBERT BROWNING.

You like song, dear Private Atkins, its lilt and its sentiment, and you have been singing your way through battle, on the hills of France and the plains of Belgium. You are really a poet, as well as a first-rate fighting man, though the very idea will make your camp-fire rock with laughter. Well, in your letters from the war to the old folk and the young folk at home, you have written things worthy to be bound in cloth of gold.

You have, in particular, being a natural fellow, written yourself to them, and you are just splendid, singly and collectively. You look out from your epistles with a smile on your lips, humour in one eye and a touch of the devil in the other, and you cry, “Are we downhearted?” “No!” gladly answer we, who have been listening to the news of battle ringing down the street, and for a moment, perhaps, forgetting you and your writing on the wall with the bayonet point.

You do get the red, living phrases, don’t you, Private Atkins? “The hottest thing in South Africa was frost-bitten compared with what’s going on here.” “The Boer War was a mothers’ meeting beside this affair.” “Another shell dropped at me and I went like Tod Sloan.” “Did you see that German man’s face when I told him about our victories? Poor devil! He opened his mouth like a letter-box.” No, Thomas, you may not be a scribe, but you “get there,” especially when the order comes, “All rifles loaded and handy by your side!”

“It’s hard, but it’s good,” is how you sum up your campaigning, and there goes a bottom truth. “You can’t,” as you say, “expect a six-course dinner on active service,” but you would break your heart to be out of it all. “When I am in the thick of the fire a strange feeling comes over me. I feel and see no danger--I think it is the fighting blood of my forefathers.” Yes, and when you receive a rifle bullet through the arm or leg it feels “a bit of a sting,” nothing more, “like a sharp needle going into me, but shrapnel hurts--hurts pretty badly.” You are not, however, going to let mother, wife, or sweetheart know this, because it would worry them.

You dread to tell them that “when the bullet went in my leg the main artery was severed, and they are going to take part of it off and leave me a cripple for life.” Still harder is it to write: “I am wounded, and do not hope to live; I am going and so cannot come home as I hoped; I send all my love.” And then there is an echo of infinity and immortality in the thought, “When a fellow gets shot you never think he is gone, but that he will come back.” Someone softly starts singing “Nearer, my God, to Thee,” and it runs sweetly along the ranks, the muffled prayer of inextinguishable hearts for a soul in flight.

But “Black Marias” and “Jack Johnsons” and “coal-boxes,” as you call the enemy’s howitzer shells, are driving along, and you accept them with your usual Atkins philosophy. The gun you know as “Aunt Sally” is flopping her big shells at you; “Calamity Jane” salutes you in odd volumes from miles away, and “Belching Billy” chimes in now and then. “Whistling Rufus,” whose shells are smaller, is also in the turmoil, but, being without fear of the big brethren, you merely have a contempt for him. Still, the whole roar keeps you from the hour’s sleep you are entitled to snatch, and therefore you gently swear at the Kaiser as “William the Weed,” nickname Von Kluck “Old Von o’Clock,” and grimly subscribe to the Uhlans as “Ewe-lambs.” Always you remain the good sportsman, saying, “Put me a shilling on Gravelotte for the Cesarewitch, if this letter is in time”; or, “Fancy Robins drawing the Palace 1--1. Cheers!”

What was it you said when the doctor was bandaging your shattered knee? That you wouldn’t be able to play for Maidstone United at Christmas! You had forgotten the remark. Possibly you had also forgotten that four of you, and rather “bad cases,” enjoyed “nap” on the top of a Red Cross motor-lorry, all the way to the hospital. One of you contained six bullets, and he said on the operating-table, “There will be enough to make the missus a pair of earrings.” Another of you, a big Highlander, had pleaded not to be taken from the firing line because “I have still some shots left and I can do something with them.” “Keep smiling” is your motto; “there’s only one winner in this game--roll on, England.”

Your gay bravery, your simple tenderness, and your fine humour make an epic, Thomas Atkins, and it is you yourself who write it, all unknowingly. “Tell mother I’m all Sir Garnet, Al.” “How is little Dick? Give him a kiss. He must be a great man in this long while. Love to the old lady and write soon”; and then, “I am wading in blood!” “Irene’s prayer-book is always with me, although it upsets me to think of her saying her little prayers for me. I have got some French slippers for the children, which I hope to be able to bring to England. They are very quaint--_Bon jour!_” “I parted with my badge to a little Belgian girl who, with her mother, was giving our boys milk to drink. She was just like Dora, and was wildly delighted to get such a souvenir.” “If you have not sold Nigger I should like to have a photo of him and the two boys, or Jack and the dog, to show some of my chums.” Thinking tenderly of home!

With tenderness, Private Atkins, you have chivalry; or, as you would put it yourself, you “know how to behave towards a woman.” “The Red Cross girleens, with their purty faces and their sweet ways, are as good men as most of us, and better than some of us. They are not supposed to venture into the firing line, but they get there all the same, and devil the one of us durst turn them away.” Of course not, my Irish soldier, and maybe it was you who plucked the grapes that a French maiden couldn’t reach, and had the surprise and confusion of your life when, in thanks, she kissed you on both cheeks. She knew, with the woman’s instinct, that she could fire your chivalry and still trust it. “_Très correct_” is the universal tribute you get in France, and it is a tribute to wear under your medals, next to your heart--a Legion of Honour for the gentleman you are.

You have given your French friends another true taste of yourself in your high spirits, your jollity, your manifestation that the merry heart goes all the day. You have the gift of wonder, which means imagination, and occasions for exercising it, as when the concussion of a shell flung you up into a tree, and your sergeant, missing you and looking around, asked in military language where you had gone! You came down to tell him and couldn’t, and thereupon the wonder of the thing seized him also. That incident was of the drawbridge order which links tragedy and humour, for they march together even in the battlefield with you. Serious, nay, grave things may be framing you about, but your eye never misses the rift of humour, and that is good.

There was a shell which lighted on a field kitchen while the master cook was stirring the dinner. It was a near shave for him, but, as he did escape, you mostly recall his rueful appearance as he gathered himself out of the scattered soup. Another of our vignettes is of some cows getting into the battle arena, and of half a dozen infantrymen calmly milking them. “Early doors this way; early doors, ninepence!” you once cried for slogan in a hard charge. When the German searchlights fell on you for the first time, your comment was, “Why, Bill, it’s just like a play and us in the limelight.” It was the Irish element in you which shouted, “Look at thim divils retraitin’ with their backs facin’ us,” adding, about a lucky shamrock supposed to have been given to the Kaiser by somebody, “Sure, Hinissey, and there’ll be a leaf apiece for us when we get to Berlin.”

Your philosophy, Private Atkins, cannot be upset even when a shrapnel bullet knocks a few inches out of your arm. No; your lament is that it carries away a tattooed butterfly of which you were very proud. You date your letters from the “Hotel de la Openaires, Rue de Grassies, bed most comfortable and all arrangements up-to-date.” You have your little joke all the time, and so when you meet the Foot Guards on a Sunday you ask them which band is playing in the Park? Now and then the joke is against you, but you only enjoy it all the more, which is the final testimony that you are a true humorist.

Perhaps if the joke singles out overmuch you go “all the colours of the rainbow,” a lovable thing, because it reveals your modesty. Otherwise you always are in your element, be the field tented white or stricken red. You are the complete knight in khaki, self-respecting, proud of your regiment, a lion-rampant of bravery and resolution, tender-hearted for all suffering; and we shall not forget your simple request, “Think kind of a soldier!” How could we when we know that you have a greater song than “Tipperary,” although you only sing it silently to yourselves in the dark watches of the night:

“_A little I’m hurt, but not yet slain; I’ll but lie down and bleed awhile And then I’ll rise and fight again._”

JAMES MILNE

THE WAR STORIES OF PRIVATE THOMAS ATKINS

I. MARCHING TO WAR

_Fair stood the wind for France When we our sails advance._

MICHAEL DRAYTON.

_Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife, To all the sensual world proclaim, One crowded hour of glorious life Is worth an age without a name._

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

One pretty French girl had learned only one English phrase, “Kiss me quick.” I don’t know who taught her, but when she walked up the lines repeating it she soon found out its significance: _Truthful Thomas Atkins_.

Keepsakes

The French girls are going mad on getting our cap-badges and the numerals on our shoulders. We have been served with jack-knives, and they want to buy them of us, but we will not part with them: _A Private of the Worcesters_.

Want Nothing

France is a lovely country, but the sun has been very hot and trying--almost as bad as India. The roads are lined with apple and pear trees, which are now laden with fruit, and the troops are not in want of anything in that line: _Quartermaster-Sergeant R. Hodge_.

“Cheer, Boys, Cheer”

It’s enough to give you fits to hear the Frenchmen trying to pick up the words of “Cheer, Boys, Cheer,” which we sing with a great go on the march. They haven’t any notion of what the words mean, but they can tell from our manner that they mean we’re in great heart, and that’s infectious here: _Sergt. W. Holmes, Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders_.

Couldn’t Understand!

We never see a paper here; only a French one, and you should see the sport when our fellows try to read one. Everyone has his own way of reading it. The French people are very nice, also very generous. The only drawback is we can’t understand them--only just a few words now and again: _Sergt. D. O’Donnell, 2nd Royal Irish_.

Those Highlanders

The French people could not do enough for us when we landed at Boulogne. They were principally struck with the Highlanders. They had been told we were the most daring of the British forces, and one woman shouted out in admiration as we marched past, “There go the women from hell.” She thought that was the biggest compliment she could pay us: _A Seaforth Highlander_.

Her “Soldat”

The French people run out with bread and wine and fruit, and press them on the soldiers as they march through the villages. To-day we are camped by a field of lucerne, which is fortunate, as no hay is available. The tinned meat is very good, and we get French bread at times, which is excellent. Yesterday, passing through a village early, I went into a small buvette, and got coffee and some chocolate. The good woman refused all payment, saying she had a son who was “soldat,” and I could not get her to take any money at all: _Anonymous_.

Delightfully Hungry

I have never felt so well in my life, and, my word, I can eat--any time and all times. We get plenty of real good food, and tea or coffee. You will be rather surprised to hear we are served with roast beef, lamb, boiled beef, bully beef, cheese, bacon, jam, marmalade, large and small biscuits, onions, carrots, spuds, celery; in fact, we are living like lords. But we can’t get any London shag (that is the worst rub), nor any fag-papers, at least not with gum on them: _Pte. C. A. Porter, Army Service Corps_.

Dandy Lads

It rained a bit the first day we landed in France, but after that there were sunny days, and grand country to march through, the roads being particularly good. We did our thirty and thirty-five miles a day, and finished up fresh, bar a number who had bad feet and had to be left at the base.... These are the men, I said to myself, who have made Old England the real stuff which never allows confidence to flag in a great national trouble such as that through which we are now passing: _A Private of the Royal Scots Fusiliers_.

Flowers and Favours

The British troops met with an overwhelming reception immediately they landed on French soil. People went mad almost, so overjoyed were they to see us, and they begged us to give them pieces of biscuit and small articles as souvenirs. We never wanted for food or anything else among the French. The girls threw us flowers and people gave us wine, and anything, in fact, we wanted. They all wanted to shake hands with us, and we had great difficulty in marching, so surrounded were we with them. When we met the French soldiers--well, that did it. They commenced shouting and singing, and were properly excited at seeing us: _A Private of the Royal Sussex Regiment_.

Tramp, Tramp, Tramp!

It would do your heart good to see our fellows leaving for the front. Regiment after regiment, thousands of men, march past here every night: Tramp, tramp, tramp! All splendidly fit; sometimes with a band, sometimes singing. A great favourite is “Here we are, here we are, here we are again,” also “Tipperary.” As I am writing a train is leaving, packed, and the Tommies are singing, “Hold your hand out, naughty boy,” all happy. There is nothing on earth to touch our chaps for spirits: _Sapper C. R. J. Green, Royal Engineers_.

Pat’s Mishap

I was unlucky. I fell from a train at full speed. I was picked up for dead. French soldiers came and carried me away for burial. There were some women about. It was, I think, a woman who came up and looked at me and noticed something which made her think I was not a corpse--not yet. It’ll take a lot to kill me! So I was resurrected. I’m a good bit broken--something in my back, something in my head. Oh, yes; it’s a bad pain when I move. But that’ll be all right soon. I don’t look bad, do I? _An Irish Private_.

A Comparison

As regards France in general, they are a long way behind England in so far as trams, buses, etc., are concerned, but the country is simply handsome. There is not a bit of idle land anywhere, for all you can see for miles is nothing but wheat and fruit trees. The houses and villages, I should think, were built years ago. They put you in mind of the old-fashioned pictures of villages you see at home. The people are the most cordial I have seen, and at the present moment they would give you their hearts if they could: _Pte. Talbot, Army Service Corps_.

Church Bells

Just got into a big town. Resting here for a few hours, so snatched the opportunity to scribble this. Can hear all the church bells ringing. This is a very nice country indeed. Every bit of land is cultivated and there are tons of fruit of all kinds everywhere. The people here are about the cleanest I have seen. They are all wild with joy to think we are here helping them, and every single one tries to give us something. We get more food, drinks, tobacco, smokes, and fruit than we hardly know what to do with. It seems a bit funny to see the boys going fighting with cigars on, but it’s a fact. Have a pocketful myself at present: _Corpl. Tupper, 4th Hussars_.

Invited Out!

I put on a clean shirt, washed, shaved, and regular brush-up. We arrived at the house, or rather mansion, and were quite out of place, as we thought, walking on polished tiles in the passage with our big, heavy boots. It was a perfect slide. We took a seat by a big, round table, had wine, cakes, tea, cigars and cigarettes. To our surprise, this lady’s father was mayor of ----. The lady, whose husband was with his regiment about eleven miles away, sang us two songs in English--“The Holy City” and “Killarney.” It was a perfect treat to have one’s legs under a table and drink from cups and saucers. Next day we thought it was a dream: _Pte. Pakeman, Army Service Corps_.

Triumphant

Since we landed here our march has been a triumphal one. Everywhere the people received us with demonstrations of joy. When off duty we are taken possession of by the townspeople and the French soldiers, and fêted as though we had been lifelong friends. It is not uncommon to see British and French soldiers walking about the streets arm-in-arm, and the shopkeepers refuse to take money from our men. We are free to take what we want in the way of fruit or wine, and some of the traders are indignant even if you hint at payment. “Pay us in German coin when you come back from Berlin,” is a favourite injunction. We have no difficulty in making ourselves understood, for a surprising number of the people know enough English to go on with, and men of the French army are always ready to act as interpreters for us. The French troops are delighted at the prospect of having British “comrades-in-arms.” I was surprised to find that the average French “Tommy” is familiar with the names of most of our regiments and our officers: _Lance-Corporal T. Kelly_.

Thinking of Home

You needn’t worry about us. We are more concerned about you at home, and only hope that you are being well looked after in our absence. If we find that our loved ones are not being cared for, we will never forgive those responsible. That’s my little “grouse,” done with now, and I can tell of the happy times we’re having here: _Anonymous_.

II. THINGS BY THE WAY

_Hark! I hear the tramp of thousands, And of armèd men the hum! Lo! a nation’s hosts have gathered Round the quick alarming drum, Saying, “Come, Freemen, come! Ere your heritage be wasted,” said the quick alarming drum._

BRET HARTE.

The French people were like mothers to us, giving us food, money, and wine. It is a pity to see them leaving their homes and having nowhere to go: _Pte. W. Irwan, 1st East Lancashires_.

Safe!

The refugees used to follow our troops, as they knew they would be safe. The French people were very kind to us. They would have given us their shirt if they thought we wanted it. They gave us plenty of bread and cheese and wine and water: _Pte. W. Pallett, 2nd Royal Sussex Regiment_.

Perfectly Happy

I am in a little French village, halted for the day, and with a few chums have found a house that has been left in a hurry all complete with cooking-pots. I am preparing the supper, which smells all right, but you should see the ingredients. I am perfectly happy, as this seems the proper country for me, and I never felt better in my life. I am picking up French all right, but I have not started eating frogs yet: _Pte. T. Green, 5th Lancers_.

“Du Pain!”

My chum and I came into a village one day, and we wanted to get some bread and tobacco. We met a peasant woman in the village, and I said, “Du pain.” She took me by the arm and led me into a house. She opened a door and shoved me into a dark room. I couldn’t see where I was, and thought it might be a dodge, so I waved for my chum, and he came in as well. Then we noticed some food and a bottle of wine on the table: _Pte. Hannah, Scottish Borderers_.

A Song of a Shirt

I shall be a handy man soon. Yesterday I washed my only shirt. We were allowed only one with us and one at the base. I have washed it twice a month and used all my soap. Washing is a luxury, but I have managed a couple of good swims. The worst part of yesterday’s washing was that just as I had finished wringing it out orders came to move off, and I have been all night shirtless, and it looks as though I shall be a day or two without, because I have no opportunity of hanging it out to dry: _A Private, of Bridlington_.

Like Rob Roy

We are quartered in large caves alongside a château three hundred years old. We occupy three caves, and a large fire is lighted in the middle of each to purify the air and keep us warm at night. The nights are bitterly cold and very damp. Incidentally it is fine to-day, but we have had days of pouring rain--not that it affected our spirits in the least. You should see us all clustered round our fires in the evening, the flames lighting up at times the oval ceiling of the caverns and our faces; we must look like bandits or Rob Roy’s boys: _A Lance-Corporal of the London Scottish_.