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23 chapters
TO THE LONDON IRISH TO THE SPIRIT OF THOSE WHO FIGHT AND TO THE MEMORY OF THOSE WHO HAVE PASSED AWAY THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED FOREWORD
TO THE LONDON IRISH TO THE SPIRIT OF THOSE WHO FIGHT AND TO THE MEMORY OF THOSE WHO HAVE PASSED AWAY THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED FOREWORD
To Patrick MacGill, Rifleman No. 3008, London Irish. Dear Patrick MacGill, There is open in France a wonderful exhibition of the work of the many gallant artists who have been serving in the French trenches through the long months of the War. There is not a young writer, painter, or sculptor of French blood, who is not risking his life for his country. Can we make the same proud boast? When I recruited you into the London Irish—one of those splendid regiments that London has sent to Sir John Fre
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THE RED HORIZON CHAPTER 1
THE RED HORIZON CHAPTER 1
I wish the sea were not so wide That parts me from my love; I wish the things men do below Were known to God above. I wish that I were back again In the glens of Donegal; They'll call me coward if I return, But a hero if I fall. "Is it better to be a living coward, Or thrice a hero dead?" "It's better to go to sleep, my lad," The Colour Sergeant said. Night, a grey troubled sky without moon or stars. The shadows lay on the surface of the sea, and the waves moaned beneath the keel of the troopshi
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CHAPTER II
CHAPTER II
When I come back to England, And times of Peace come round, I'll surely have a shilling, And may be have a pound; I'll walk the whole town over, And who shall say me nay, For I'm a British soldier With a British soldier's pay. The Rest Camp a city of innumerable bell-tents, stood on the summit of a hill overlooking the town and the sea beyond. We marched up from the quay in the early morning, followed the winding road paved with treacherous cobbles that glory in tripping unwary feet, and sweated
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CHAPTER III
CHAPTER III
The fog is white on Glenties moors, The road is grey from Glenties town, Oh! lone grey road and ghost-white fog, And ah! the homely moors of brown. The farmhouse where we were billeted reminded me strongly of my home in Donegal with its fields and dusky evenings and its spirit of brooding quiet. Nothing will persuade me, except perhaps the Censor, that it is not the home of Marie Claire, it so fits in with the description in her book. The farmhouse stands about a hundred yards away from the main
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CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER IV
Four by four in column of route, By roads that the poplars sentinel, Clank of rifle and crunch of boot— All are marching and all is well. White, so white is the distant moon, Salmon-pink is the furnace glare, And we hum, as we march, a ragtime tune, Khaki boys in the long platoon, Going and going—anywhere. "The battalion will move to-morrow," said the Jersey youth, repeating the orders read out in the early part of the day, and removing a clot of farmyard muck from the foresight guard of his rif
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CHAPTER V
CHAPTER V
The nations like Kilkenny cats, Full of hate that never dies out, Tied tail to tail, hung o'er a rope, Still strive to tear each other's eyes out. The company came to a halt in the village; we marched for three miles, and the morning being a hot one we were glad to fall out and lie down on the pavement, packs well up under our shoulders and our legs stretched out at full length over the kerbstone into the gutter. The sweat stood out in beads on the men's foreheads and trickled down their cheeks
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CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VI
Up for days in the trenches, Working and working away; Eight days up in the trenches And back again to-day. Working with pick and shovel, On traverse, banquette, and slope, And now we are back and working With tooth-brush, razor, and soap. We had been at work since five o'clock in the morning, digging away at the new communication trench. It was nearly noon now, and rations had not come; the cook's waggons were delayed on the road. Stoner, brisk as a bell all the morning, suddenly flung down his
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CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VII
At night the stars are shining bright, The old-world voice is whispering near, We've heard it when the moon was light, And London's streets were verydear; But dearer now they are, sweetheart, The 'buses running to the Strand, But we're so far, so far apart, Each lonely in a different land. The night was murky and the air was splashed with rain. Following the line of trench I could dimly discern the figures of my mates pulling off their packs and fixing their bayonets. These glittered brightly as
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CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER VIII
Buzz fly and gad fly, dragon fly and blue, When you're in the trenches come and visit you, They revel in your butter-dish and riot on your ham, Drill upon the army cheese and loot the army jam. They're with you in the dusk and the dawning and the noon, They come in close formation, in column and platoon. There's never zest like Tommy's zest when these have got to die: For Tommy takes his puttees off and straffs the blooming fly. "Some are afraid of one thing, and some are afraid of another," sai
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CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER IX
You ask me if the trench is safe? As safe as home, I say; Dug-outs are safest things on land, And 'buses running to the Strand Are not as safe as they. You ask me if the trench is deep? Quite deep enough for me, And men can walk where fools would creep, And men can eat and write and sleep And hale and happy be. The dug-out is the trench villa, the soldiers' home, and is considered to be proof against shrapnel bullets and rifle fire. Personally, I do not think much of our dug-outs, they are jerry
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CHAPTER X
CHAPTER X
Our old battalion billets still, Parades as usual go on. We buckle in with right good will, And daily our equipment don As if we meant to fight, but no! The guns are booming through the air, The trenches call us on, but oh! We don't go there, we don't go there! I have come to the conclusion that war is rather a dull game, not that blood-curdling, dashing, mad, sabre-clashing thing that is seen in pictures, and which makes one fearful for the soldier's safety. There is so much of the "everlastin'
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CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XI
There's a tramp o' feet in the mornin', There's an oath from an N.C.O., As up the road to the trenches The brown battalions go: Guns and rifles and waggons, Transports and horses and men, Up with the flush of the dawnin', And back with the night again. Sometimes when our spell in the trenches comes to an end we go back for a rest in some village or town. Here the estaminet or débitant (French as far as I am aware for a beer shop), is open to the British soldier for three hours daily, from twelve
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CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XII
A brazier fire at twilight, And glow-worm fires ashine, A searchlight sweeping heaven, Above the firing-line. The rifle bullet whistles The message that it brings Of death and desolation To common folk and kings. We went back from the trenches as reserves to the Keep. Broken down though the place was when we entered it there was something restful in the brown bricks, hidden in ivy, in the well-paved yard, and the glorious riot of flowers. Most of the original furniture remained—the beds, the cha
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CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIII
'Tis only a dream in the trenches, Told when the shadows creep, Over the friendly sandbags When men in the dug-outs sleep. This is the tale of the trenches Told when the shadows fall, By little Hughie of Dooran, Over from Donegal. On the noon following the journey to the village I was sent back to the Keep; that night our company went into the firing trench again. We were all pleased to get there; any place was preferable to the block of buildings in which we had lost so many of our boys. On the
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CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XIV
The men who stand to their rifles See all the dead on the plain Rise at the hour of midnight To fight their battles again. Each to his place in the combat, All to the parts they played, With bayonet brisk to its purpose, With rifle and hand-grenade. Shadow races with shadow, Steel comes quick on steel, Swords that are deadly silent, And shadows that do not feel. And shades recoil and recover, And fade away as they fall In the space between the trenches, And the watchers see it all. I lay down in
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CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XV
We are marching back from the battle, Where we've all left mates behind, And our officers are gloomy, And the N.C.O.'s are kind, When a Jew's harp breaks the silence, Purring out an old refrain; And we thunder through the village Roaring "Here we are again." Four days later we were relieved by the Canadians. They came in about nine o'clock in the evening when we stood to-arms in the trenches in full marching order under a sky where colour wrestled with colour in a blazing flare of star-shells. W
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CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVI
You'll see from the La Bassée Road, on any summer day, The children herding nanny goats, the women making hay. You'll see the soldiers, khaki clad, in column and platoon, Come swinging up La Bassée Road from billets in Bethune. There's hay to save and corn to cut, but harder work by far Awaits the soldier boys who reap the harvest fields of war. You'll see them swinging up the road where women work at hay, The long, straight road, La Bassée Road, on any summer day. The farmhouse stood in the cen
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CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVII
There's the butter, gad, and horse-fly, The blow-fly and the blue, The fine fly and the coarse fly, But never flew a worse fly Of all the flies that flew Than the little sneaky black fly That gobbles up our ham, The beggar's not a slack fly, He really is a crack fly, And wolfs the soldiers jam. So strafe that fly! Our motto Is "strafe him when you can." He'll die because he ought to, He'll go because he's got to, So at him every man! What time we have not been in the trenches we have spent march
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CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XVIII
Along the road in the evening the brown battalions wind, With the trenches threat of death before, the peaceful homes behind; And luck is with you or luck is not, as the ticket of fate is drawn, The boys go up to the trench at dusk, but who will come back at dawn? The darkness clung close to the ground, the spinney between our lines was a bulk of shadow thinning out near the stars. A light breeze scampered along the floor of the trench and seemed to be chasing something. The night was raw and ma
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CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XIX
I have a big French rifle, its stock is riddled clean, And shrapnel smashed its barrel, likewise its magazine; I've carried it from A to X and back to A again, I've found it on the battlefield amidst the soldiers slain. A souvenir for blighty away across the foam, That's if the French authorities will let me take it home. Most people are souvenir hunters, but the craze for souvenirs has never affected me until now; at present I have a decent collection of curios, consisting amongst other things
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CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XX
Lonely and still the village lies, The houses asleep and the blinds all drawn. The road is straight as the bullet flies, And the east is touched with the tinge of dawn. Shadowy forms creep through the night, Where the coal-stacks loom in their ghostly lair; A sentry's challenge, a spurt of light, A scream as a woman's soul takes flight Through the quivering morning air. We had been working all morning in a cornfield near an estaminet on the La Bassée Road. The morning was very hot, and Pryor and
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CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXI
"What do you do with your rifle, son?" I clean it every day, And rub it with an oily rag to keep the rust away; I slope, present and port the thing when sweating on parade. I strop my razor on the sling; the bayonet stand is made For me to hang my mirror on. I often use it, too, As handle for the dixie, sir, and lug around the stew. "But did you ever fire it, son?" Just once, but never more. I fired it at a German trench, and when my work was o'er The sergeant down the barrel glanced, and looked
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CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXII
The young recruit is apt to think Of war as a romance; But he'll find its boots and bayonets When he's somewhere out in France. When the young soldier takes the long, poplar-lined road from —— his heart is stirred with the romance of his mission. It is morning and he is bound for the trenches; the early sunshine is tangled in the branches, and silvery gossamer, beaded with iridescent jewels of dew, hang fairylike from the green leaves. Birds are singing, crickets are thridding in the grass and t
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