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Ebook has 558 lines and 54792 words, and 12 pages

PART I

THE NEW "UBIQUE"

BEGINNING AGAIN A BATTERY IN BEING "IN THE LINE" SPIT AND POLISH A BATTLE

PART II

AND THE OLD

BILFRED "THE PROGRESS OF PICKERSDYKE" SNATTY FIVE-FOUR-EIGHT

IN ENEMY HANDS

SOME EXPERIENCES OF A PRISONER OF WAR HENRY

PART I

THE NEW "UBIQUE"

BEGINNING AGAIN

But now it is midwinter, the second winter of the war, and the French sentries no longer wave to us, for they have seen too many train-loads of English troops to be more than mildly interested. The war to which we set out so light-heartedly sixteen months ago has proved itself to be not the "greatest of games," but the greatest of all ghastly horrors threatening the final disruption of civilised humanity. More than a year has passed and the end is not in sight. But the cause is as righteous, the victory as certain now as it was then.... The methods and practice of warfare have been revolutionised. Theory after theory has been disproved by the devastating power of the high explosive and the giant gun. Horse and field batteries no longer dash into action to the music of jingling harness and thudding hoofs. They creep in by night with infinite precautions and place their guns in casemates which are often ten feet thick; they occupy the same position not for hours, but for months at a time; they fire at targets which are sometimes only fifty yards or even less in front of their own infantry, with the knowledge that the smallest error may mean death to their comrades; and the control of their shooting is no longer an affair of good eyesight and common sense, but of science, complicated instruments, and a multiplicity of telephones.

And I, a novice at all this kind of work, am no longer a subaltern. I am directly responsible for the welfare and efficiency of the battery which this long train is bearing into the zone of war. How we fare when we get there, what kind of tasks are allotted to us, and how we succeed in coping with them I hope to record in due course. But this I know now--the human material with which I have to deal is good enough. We have the advantage of being a homogeneous unit, for we belong to one of the "locally raised" divisions. With only a very few exceptions , the N.C.O.'s and men all come from the same district. Many of them were acquainted in private life and enlisted in little coteries of five or six. Christian names are freely used, which is fortunate seeing that we have four Jones', five Davies', and no less than eight Evans' on our roll. In moments of excitement or of anger they resort to their own language and encourage or abuse each other in voluble Welsh....

A few miles back we passed G.H.Q. I was vaguely impressed with the silent dignity, the aloofness, as it were, of that now celebrated place. Our train drew up in the station, which seemed as deserted as that of a small English country town on a Sunday. "Here, within a mile of me," I thought, "dwell the Powers that Be, whose brains control the destinies of a million men. Here somewhere is the individual who knows my destination and when I am likely to get to it." But this surmise proved incorrect. It was three-thirty on Christmas afternoon and even the staff must lunch. Presently a R.T.O. issued from a cosy-looking office and crossed the line towards me. His first question was positively painful in its na?ve simplicity.

Railway Transport Officer.

"Never mind," I replied, "but would it be disturbing your arrangements at all if I watered my horses and gave my men some food here? They've had nothing since last night, and the horses have been ten hours without water."

"No time for that. You'll leave in two minutes."

And sure enough in half an hour we were off again!...

When, soon after five, we learnt that we were within a few minutes of our journey's end I leant across and woke "The Child"--who is my junior subaltern. If this war had not come to pass the Child would probably be enjoying his Christmas holidays and looking forward to his last term at his public school. Actually, he has already nine months' service, of which three have been spent at the front. He has been home wounded and is now starting out again as a veteran to whom less experienced persons refer their doubts and queries. Last week he celebrated his eighteenth birthday. He is the genuine article, that is he holds a regular commission and has passed through "the Shop." His clothes fit him, his aspirates appear in the right places, he is self-possessed, competent, level-headed and not infrequently amusing. Of his particular type of manhood he is a fine example.

R.M.A. Woolwich.

"Wake up, Child," I said. "We're nearly there."

He rubbed his eyes and sat up, wide awake at once.

I promised to do my utmost, but the prospect of sorting men, horses, vehicles, and harness on a narrow road flanked by deep ditches whilst the rain streamed down out of a sky as black as tar, appealed only vaguely to my optimistic spirit.

The R.T.O., having given minute instructions and made certain that they were in course of being carried out with feverish haste, became communicative.

But at this moment I spotted, by the light of an acetylene flare, my prize-fool sergeant directing his drivers to place their harness just where it could not fail to be in everybody's way. I turned to the R.T.O.

As a matter of fact things went rather well; the men, heartened by the thought that rest and food were not far distant, worked with a will, and by the time the allotted two hours had elapsed we were not only clear of the yard, but hooked in on the road and nearly ready to start. Moreover, being the first battery of the Brigade to arrive we had had our choice of billets, and knew that we had got a good one. The Child, preceded by a cyclist guide whose knowledge of the country was palpably slight, and followed by the mess cart, had gone off into the darkness to find the way. It was his job to make all arrangements and then come back to meet us. Since it was only drizzling now and not really very cold, the outlook was distinctly brighter.

"Walk--march," I ordered, and we duly started. We progressed without mishap for, roughly, twenty-five yards, when there was a shout from the rear of the column. The sergeant-major took in its ominous purport before I did. He forgot himself--and swore aloud. "G.S. wagon's overturned in the ditch" was what I eventually heard. It was enough to make an angel weep tears of vexation.

A battery is provided by a munificent government with two G.S. wagons. One contains supplies , the other contains baggage and stores. To be without either is most unpleasant. I went back to the scene of the disaster. The ditch was deep and more than half full of water. In it, completely overturned and firmly wedged, was the baggage wagon. Behind the wagon, also in the ditch and still mounted upon a floundering steed, was our old farrier, talking very fast to himself in Welsh. We got him out and soothed him--poor old man, he was wet through from the waist downwards--and then looked sadly, reluctantly, at the wagon. Evidently there was no hope of shifting it without unloading, and that would take too long. So three unfortunate gunners and a bombardier were told off to mount guard over it, given some tins of bully beef and a few biscuits and marooned, as it were, till the morning. All this took time. And we were very tired and very hungry.

"I am the most unlucky devil on earth," I thought, as riding up to the front again I found that the pole of an ammunition wagon had broken and was going to cause still further delay. But it was a selfish thought. There was a distant rumbling, not of thunder, far behind us. I looked back. The night was clearing and the black horizon was a clear-cut line against the heavens. Into the sky, now here, now there, kept darting up tiny sparks of fire, and over the whole long line, for miles and miles, a glimmer, as of summer lightning, flickered spasmodically. For in that direction lay "the front." On this Christmas night in the year of grace nineteen hundred and fifteen, from the North Sea to the Alps, there stood men peering through the darkness at the dim shape of the parapet opposite, watching for an enemy who might be preparing some sinister scheme for their undoing. And I had dared to deem myself unlucky--I who had hope that some time that night I should undress and slip into bed--warm and dry....

St. Stephen's Day! I wonder if the U.H.C. are meeting at Clonmult to-day. Closing my eyes I can picture the village street with its crowd of holiday-making farmers, buckeens, horse-dealers, pinkcoated officers and country gentlemen, priests and "lads on jinnets," as it was when I went to a meet there that Boxing Day the year that "Brad" and I spent our leave in Cork. But now hunting is a thing of small importance and Brad--is a treasured memory....

In the end circumstances forced us to celebrate the birth of the year of victory on the last day but one of 1915. For to-day two officers and a large party of N.C.O.'s and men departed for the front on a course of instruction. So we had to have our "day" before they went. And what a day it was! The dinner--thanks largely to the energy and resource of the "quarter-bloke" and the cooks--was an immense success. Every man ate until, literally, he could eat no more. Then, after the issue of beer and a brief interval for repose and tobacco, an inter-section football match was started. The two subalterns whose commands were involved made a sporting agreement that the loser should stand a packet of cigarettes to every man of the winning section--some sixty in all. The game, which was played in a water-logged meadow, ended in a draw, so they each stood their own men the aforesaid packet--a highly popular procedure.

Eventually, well pleased with ourselves and each armed with a brand of cigar which one can buy at the rate of nine inches for twopence, we adjourned to the smoking concert in the barn. The stage was our old friend the G.S. wagon; the lights, siege lamps, hung round at intervals. Bottled beer and cigarettes were in constant circulation; the performers were above the average, and the choruses vociferous but always tuneful.

Every unit has its amateur comedian; but we have got a real professional one--a "lad fra' Lancasheer" who is well known in the north of England. I will not divulge his stage name, but he is a corporal now. His voice is exceptional, his good-nature unlimited, and as for his stories--well! Moreover, he is gifted enough to be always topical, often personal, but never disrespectful.

"Now there's just one point I want to remind you of. We all wear a badge in our caps with a gun on it--those of us that is who haven't gone against orders and given them away as souvenirs" . "We're all members of the Royal Regiment. It's got a fine history--let's play up to it. We'll now sing 'the King,' after which there'll be an issue of tea and rum...."

The windows of our mess-room, as I have said, face the courtyard. We were enjoying supper and a welcome drink whilst the long queue of men waited for their tea at the cook-house door outside, when suddenly in a dark corner of the yard a chorus started. But it was not an ordinary chorus, raucous and none too tuneful. Neither was it music-hall sentiment. It was Grand Opera, sung by a dozen picked men and sung beautifully. We threw open the window to listen.

A BATTERY IN BEING

The author of a little red book "War Establishments," labelled "For Official Use Only" , probably thought of nothing whatever, certainly of no human being, when he penned the decree "Farrier-Sergeants--per battery--1." But if he could only see the result of his handiwork! For our farrier-sergeant David Evans is simply splendid. He is small and sturdy and middle-aged, with grizzled hair that shows at all times in front of his pushed-back cap. His soft Welsh accent is a joy to hear; his affection for the horses is immense, his industry unflagging, and his workmanship always of the very best. He knows nothing about guns or drill or any kind of soldiering, he is an indifferent rider and in appearance he would never be mistaken for a guardsman! But we have only cast one shoe since he joined us months ago, and he has been known to sit up all night with a sick horse and carry on with his work as usual on the following day, whistling merrily and hammering away as if his very ration depended upon his shoeing the whole battery before dusk. The Child summed him up with his customary exactitude.

"I love the old farrier," he said, "he's such a merry old man. I bet he's a topping uncle to somebody!"

Then there is the saddler. I know that the formation of our new armies has produced many anomalies, but it is my conviction that our saddler is unique. To start with he is a grandfather! He is a little wizened old man with a nose like a bird's beak and he wears huge thick spectacles. He is sixty-two, and how he got into the service is a mystery. He has never done a parade in his life, but when it comes to leather-work "he's a tiger." The battery was newly formed and living in billets in North Wales when he joined it. His original appearance caused a mild sensation, even amongst that motley and ununiformed assembly. For he wore check trousers and a pair of ancient brown shoes, a tweed tail-coat from the hind pocket of which protruded a red handkerchief, and--most grotesque of all--a battered top hat of brown felt! And in this costume he served his country, quite unconcernedly, for two months before the authorities saw fit to provide him with a khaki suit. It is his habit, no matter where the battery may find itself--in barracks, camp or billets, to seek out a secluded spot , to instal himself there with his tools and a tangle of odd straps, threads and buckles, and proceed to make or mend things. For he is one of those queer persons who really like work.

I was not fortunate enough to see him in his civilian garb, but I have a vivid recollection of his first appearance after being issued with a "cap, winter, overseas, with waterproof cover." This cap, though practical, does not tend to add to the smartness of the wearer, even if the wearer is in all other respects smart. But the saddler went to extremes. He managed to put on the cover so that the whole, pulled well down over his ears, resembled a vast sponge bag or an elderly lady's bathing cap, beneath which his spectacles gleamed like the head-lights of a motor-car. The wildest stretch of the imagination could not liken him to any sort of soldier. Nevertheless, after his fashion, he is certainly "doing his bit."

To-day I visited "the Front." We rode up, a subaltern and I, to see the battery to which our men are at present attached and which we will eventually relieve. It is a strange experience for the uninitiated, such as I am, this riding along the flat and crumbling roads towards the booming of the guns and the desolation of "the line." The battery position, we found, was just on the borderland of this zone of desolation. One would never have suspected the presence of guns unless one had known exactly where to look--and had gone quite close. A partially ruined house on the road-side had its front and one gable end entirely covered with a solid wall of sandbags, but these were the only obvious indications of occupation. This house, however, was the mess and officers' quarters, and the Child was there at the door to welcome us.

We crossed the road and entered a small orchard. The Child led me up to a large turf-covered mound which had a deep drain all round it and a small door at the back.

"This," he said, rather with the air of a guide showing a visitor round a cathedral, "is No. 4."

I bent my head and stepped inside. The gun-pit was lit only by the narrow doorway at the rear and by what light could filter through the hurdles placed in front of the embrasure. But in the dimness I could just make out the rows and rows of shells all neatly laid in recesses in the walls, the iron girders that spanned the roof and held up its weight of sandbags, brick rubble and--reinforced concrete. Ye gods! concrete--for a field gun! And there, spotlessly clean, ready for instant action, was the gun itself. I felt sorry for it--it seemed so hopelessly out of place, so far removed from its legitimate sphere. To think that an eighteen-pounder, designed for transit along roads and across country, should have come to this!

"The detachment live here," said the Child, and showed me a commodious dug-out connected with the gun-pit by a short tunnel. Inside this dug-out were four bunks and a stove--also a gunner devouring what smelt like a very savoury dinner.

"What will these keep out?" I asked.

German field gun shells.

As we were walking towards it a stentorian voice shouted, "Battery action."

Instantly, the few men who had been working on the drains and on the pits, or filling sandbags, dropped their tools and raced to the gun-pits. In a few seconds the battery was ready to fire.

We entered the telephone room--a shell-proof cave really. A man sat at a little table with an improvised but extraordinarily ingenious telephone exchange in front of him and a receiver strapped to his ear. A network of wires went out through the wall above his head. His instrument emitted a constant buzzing of "dots" and "dashes," all of which he disregarded, waiting for his own call. Suddenly he clicked his key in answer, then said--

"Hullo, oh-pip--yes. Target K.--one round battery fire--yes."

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