Mud And Khaki, Sketches From Flanders And France

SKETCHES FROM FLANDERS AND FRANCE

SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT &amp; CO. LTD., 4 STATIONERS' HALL COURT : : LONDON, E.C. Copyright First published April 1917...

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APOLOGIA

There has been so much written about the trenches, there are so many war photographs, so many cinema films, that one might well hesitate before even mentioning the war—to try to write a book about it is, I fear, to incur the censure of the many who are tired of hearing about bombs and bullets, and who prefer to read of peace, and games, and flirtations. But, for that very reason, I venture to think that even so indifferent a war book as mine will not come entirely amiss. When the Lean Years are

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I

Close behind the trenches on the Ypres salient stands part of "Chapel Farm"—the rest of it has long been trampled down into the mud by the many hundreds of men who have passed by there. Enough of the ruin still stands for you to trace out the original plan of the place—a house and two barns running round three sides of the farmyard that is fœtid and foul and horrible. It is an uninviting spot, for, close by, are the remains of a dead cow, superficially buried long ago by some working party that

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II

Everyone is always anxious to get on the right side of his General; I have chanced upon a recipe which I believe to be infallible for anyone who wears spurs, and who can, somehow or other, get himself in the presence of that venerated gentleman. I sat one day in a trench outside my dug-out, eating a stew made of bully beef, ration biscuits, and foul water. Inside my dug-out, the smell of buried men was not conducive to a good appetite; outside, some horrible Hun was amusing himself by firing at

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III

Those at home in England, with their experience of war books and photographs, of Zeppelin raids and crowded hospitals, are beginning to imagine they know all there is to know about war. The truth is that they still have but little idea of the life in the trenches, and, as far as mud is concerned, they are delightfully ignorant. They do not know what mud is. They have read of Napoleon's "Fourth Element," they have listened to long descriptions of mud in Flanders and France, they have raised incre

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IV

"Do you really feel quite fit for active service again?" asked the President of the Medical Board. It was not without reason that Roger Dymond hesitated before he gave his answer, for nerves are difficult things to deal with. It is surprising, but it is true, that you never find a man who is afraid the first time he goes under fire. There are thousands who are frightened beforehand—frightened that they will "funk it" when the time comes, but when they see men who have been out for months "duckin

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V

"Pongo" Simpson was sitting before a brazier fire boiling some tea for his captain, when the warning click sounded from the German trenches. Instinctively he clapped the cover on the canteen and dived for shelter, while the great, black trench-mortar bomb came twisting and turning down through the air. It fell to ground with a dull thud, there was a second's silence, then an appalling explosion. The roof of the dug-out in which "Pongo" had found refuge sagged ominously, the supporting beam crack

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VI

"So, you see, Schoolmaster," said Oberleutnant von Scheldmann, "you French are a race of dogs. We are the real masters here, and, by Heaven, we have come to make you realise it. Your beloved defenders are running for their lives from the nation they ventured to defy a month ago. They are beaten, routed. What is it they say in your Latin books? 'Væ Victis.' Woe to the conquered!" Gaston Baudel, schoolmaster in the little village of Pont Saverne, looked out of the window along the white road to Ch

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VII

We sat in a railway carriage and told each other, as civilians love to do, what was the quickest way to end the war. "You ought to be able to hold nearly 400 yards of trench with a company," my friend was saying. "You see, a company nowadays gives you 250 fighting men to man the trenches." And then the muddy figure in the corner, the only other occupant of the carriage, woke up. "You don't know what you're talking about," he snorted as he tossed his cap up on to the rack, and put his feet on the

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VIII

We were sitting round the fire in the club, discussing that individual colloquially known as the "knut." "The 'knut,'" said Green, "is now virtually extinct, he is killed by war. As soon as he gets anywhere near a trench, he drops his cloak of affectation, and becomes a reasonable human being—always excepting, of course, certain young subalterns on the staff." Rawlinson leant forward in his chair. "I'm not sure," he said, "that I agree with you. It all depends upon how you define a 'knut.'" "A '

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IX

As the Captain sat down to breakfast, he turned to speak to me: "I propose ..." he began, but Lawson interrupted him. "Oh, John dear," he said, "this is so sudden." The Captain took no notice of the interruption. "... that you and I go shopping this afternoon." "Jane," I called to an imaginary maid, "please tell Parkes to bring the car round at eleven o'clock; we are going shopping in Bond Street, and lunching at the Ritz." "You all seem to think you're deucedly funny this morning," growled the

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X

For an hour and a half we had been crumped and whizz-banged and trench-mortared as never before, but it was not until the shelling slackened that one could really see the damage done. The sudden explosions of whizz-bangs, the increasing whine and fearful bursts of crumps, and, worst of all, the black trench-mortar bombs that came hurtling and twisting down from the skies, kept the nerves at a pitch which allowed of no clear vision of the smashed trench and the wounded men. However, as the interv

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XI

What does it matter that the Cloth Hall and the Cathedral are in ruins, that the homes and churches are but rubble in the streets? What do we care if great shells have torn gaping holes in the Grande Place, and if the station is a battered wreck where the rails are bent and twisted as bits of wire? We do not mourn for Ypres, for it is a thousand times grander in its downfall than it was ever in the days of its splendour. In the town, the houses are but piles of stone, the streets are but pitted

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XII

I was in my dug-out, trying to write a letter by the intermittent light of a candle which was extinguished from time to time by the rain drops that came through the roof, when I suddenly heard the squelching of mud, the sound of slipping, and an appalling splash. Someone had fallen into the shell hole just outside. I waited a moment, and I heard the well-known voice of "Pongo" Simpson. "Strike me pink!" he spluttered, as he scrambled up the steep bank out of the water. "An' I gone an' forgot me

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XIII

John North, of the Non-Combatant Corps, leaned over the counter and smiled lovingly up into the shop girl's face. By an apparent accident, his hand slid across between the apple basket and the tins of biscuits, and came into gentle contact with hers. Knowing no French, his conversation was strictly limited, and he had to make amends for this by talking with his hand—by gently stroking her palm with his earth-stained thumb. Mademoiselle Thérèse smiled shyly at him and her hand remained on the cou

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XIV

Strangely different though they were, they had been friends ever since they first met at school, eleven years before. Jonathan—for what other names are necessary than the obvious David and Jonathan?—was then a fat, sandy-haired boy, with a deep love of the country, and hands that, however often he washed them, always seemed to be stained with ink. He had a deep admiration, an adoration almost, for his dark-haired, dark-eyed David, wild and musical. The love of the country it was that first made

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XV

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 anythi

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XVI

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 tha

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XVII

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 p

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XVIII

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 migh

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XIX

"Orficers," said "Pongo" Simpson, "is rum blokes. I've got a fam'ly of six kids back at 'ome, not counting Emma what's in service, an' I reckon my orficer's more trouble to look after nor all the lot of 'em put together. It's always: 'Simpson, where the dooce is my puttees?' or 'Simpson, you've sewed this 'ere button on in the wrong place,' or 'Simpson, the soup tastes like cocoa and the cocoa tastes like soup'—does 'e expect me to kerry a bloomin' collection of canteens? Don't 'e think it bette

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XX

"Come in," said Margery Debenham, as she opened her eyes lazily to the sunlight. "Put my tea on the table, please, Mary. I'm too sleepy to drink it yet. "There's a letter from the front, miss," said Mary with emphasis, as she went out of the room. Margery was awake in a second. She jumped out of bed, slipped on a dressing-gown, and, letter in hand, ran over to the window to read it in the morning sunshine. As she tore open the envelope and found only a small sheet of paper inside, she made a lit

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XXI

Old Jules Lemaire, ex-sergeant in the 3rd regiment of the line, raised his wine glass. "Bonne chance," he said, "and may you fight the devils as we did in 1870 and 1871, and with more success too." "Enough of you and your 1870," said someone roughly. "We go out to win where you lost; there will be no Woerth or Sedan in this war. We will drive the Prussians back to Berlin; you let them march to Paris. We are going to act, whereas you can only talk—you are much too old, you see, Père Lemaire." The

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XXII

As soon as the battalion marches back from the trenches to the village in the first light of the morning, everyone turns his mind to methods which will help the few days of rest to pass as pleasantly as war and the limited amusements afforded by two estaminets and a row of cottages will permit. "Chacun son goût." As he tramps along the street, B Company Sergeant-Major challenges Corporal Rogers to a boxing match on the morrow; Second Lieutenant White, who is new to war, sits in his billet and, b

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XXIII

There is a certain battery in France where the name of Archibald Smith brings a scowl to every brow and an oath to every lip. The Battery Major still crimsons with wrath at the thought of him, and the Observing Officer remembers bitterly the long, uncomfortable hours he spent, perched up in a tree a hundred yards or so from the German lines. And this is how Archibald Smith was the unwitting cause of so much anger to the battery, and the saver of many a German life. One morning shortly before daw

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XXIV

I swear, and rub my eyes. "Dusk, sir," says the Sergeant-Major with a smile of comprehension, and he lets fall the waterproof sheet which acts as a door to my dug-out. I yawn prodigiously, get up slowly from my bed—one of two banks of earth that run parallel down each side of my muddy hovel, rather after the fashion of seats down each side of an omnibus—and go out into the trench, along which the command "Stand to arms" has just been passed. The men leave their letters and their newspapers; Priv

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XXV

On a wet and cheerless evening in September 1914, John Williams, tramp, sat in the bar of the Golden Lion and gazed regretfully at the tankard before him, which must of necessity remain empty, seeing that he had just spent his last penny. To him came a recruiting sergeant. "Would you like a drink, mate?" he asked. John Williams did not hesitate. "You ought to be in the Army," said the sergeant, as he put down his empty tankard, "a fine great body of a man like you. It's the best life there is."

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XXVI

You collect your belongings, you stretch and yawn, you rub your eyes to rid them of sleep—and incidentally you leave great black marks all down your face—you struggle to get on your equipment in a filthy second-class carriage where are three other officers struggling to get on their equipment, and waving their arms about like the sails of windmills. Then you obtain a half share of the window and gaze out as the train crawls round the outskirts of the town, that lies still and quiet in the dusk o

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