The question that leaps to the lips in connexion with the title of this chapter is, Why should the events associated with this particular day be recorded? Are they different from what takes place on any or all of the other days of the week—something special which clearly denotes that one week has ended and another week begun? Is there a temporary cessation of hostilities, during which bells are rung and men may be seen wending their way to some established building for worship, or does that indefinable stillness peculiar to the first day of the week in peaceful places pervade all life?
Apart from the interest and curiosity that many attach thereto, there is no significance in the selection of the day, and there is little if anything associated with the events of Sunday at the Front todistinguish it from any other day. Yet it is strange that though men may frequently confuse the days between Monday and Saturday, they instinctively seem to know when Sunday has come. Whether by chance or convenience, I know not, some of the biggest 'stunts' have been initiated on the Lord's Day. At times the voice of the Padre was scarcely heard above the din and noise of heavy guns as they dispatched their projectiles of destruction and death over the place in which a church parade was being conducted. The recollection of certain events and experiences of some Sundays will undoubtedly tend to make many a man more thoughtful and analytic than the events or experiences entered into on any other day during his active service career.
The disposition of an army is not affected by certain days, but by developments within the area of operations. If Sunday should be considered the opportune time for putting over a barrage, making a raid on the enemy lines, or effecting an advance, no thought of the sacred associations ofthat day is given serious consideration. The system in vogue provides for units when not in the line to be in reserve or resting. Such units supply working and carrying parties; so that the number of men available for church services on Sunday is no greater than on ordinary days. The war proceeds. Man may worship when opportunity permits.
A summary of the events of one Sunday will suffice to convey an idea of how almost every Sunday is spent at the Front. The weather is seasonable: over the country a dense mist hangs low in the early morn. The sun rises, and the mist flees before it, revealing the face of the earth covered with snow, mud, or in the tight grip of 'Jack Frost.' Aeroplanes glide gracefully overhead. They are out for observation purposes, or to prevent the approach of enemy craft. The artillery, ever alert both day and night, sends out its missiles of death far into the enemy's lines. The enemy guns reply, and thus it might continue through the day. Shells are ugly killers and wounders; but forthem there would be little of the slaughter-yard suggestion about a modern battlefield, with its improved system of well-built and cleanly kept trenches and its clean puncturing bayonet thrust or rifle bullet. While the shells shriek and whirr through the air, heaps of humanity are distributed about the trenches, in the dug-outs, or in the reserve lines. The men sit or lie about for the most part, as unconcerned as if on holiday bent. The order to 'stand to' would bring them to their appointed places, from whence they would resist an invasion of their lines by the enemy, or launch an attack, make a raid, or go forth on patrol of 'no man's land.'
The Ostrich.The Ostrich.
The Ostrich.
Back from the lines units are resting or engaged on the lines of communication; from such units men are available for church parades. Men of different units and of different theological views come together in one place and worship God. Buildings are not always available for parade services. Sometimes they are held in the open field, in farm-yards, or in billets; frequently in tents providedby the Y.M.C.A. Attendance at these services is purely voluntary, and a large proportion of men attend whenever opportunity offers. While the service is in progress the war goes on. The men in the trenches catch the strains of band music, and there is carried over the distance intervening the sound of the singing of old familiar hymns. It is a privilege to speak to these men who have been in the shell-swept trenches, who have participated in raids, who have taken part in one of the most successful battles of the war, who have seen suffering and even looked into the face of death.
Several parades might be held during the day at hours convenient to those who wish to attend, and in the evening a song-service is conducted, when the men choose the hymns which they would sing. They are reverent in attitude, earnest in attention.
Sundays are no different from other days of the week. They merely mark, as do other days, the passing of time, which will bring either grief or gladness to thosewho watch and wait for the day of peace, and to us who war a victory crowned with honour. There is noSun-day. The thick, dark cloud of war hides the sun's bright face, but there is hope in the thought that Sun-day is prophetic as well as historic, and insistently in its recurrence directs us to wait patiently for the cloud-bursts out of which shall emerge the Sun of Righteousness, who will proclaim such time to be the Day of the Lord.
For, lo, the days are hastening onBy prophet bard foretold,When with the ever circling yearsComes round the age of gold.When peace shall over all the earthIts ancient splendours fling,And all the world take up the songWhich angels once did sing:'Glory to God in the highest, on earthpeace, goodwill toward men.'
For, lo, the days are hastening onBy prophet bard foretold,When with the ever circling yearsComes round the age of gold.When peace shall over all the earthIts ancient splendours fling,And all the world take up the songWhich angels once did sing:'Glory to God in the highest, on earthpeace, goodwill toward men.'
For, lo, the days are hastening onBy prophet bard foretold,When with the ever circling yearsComes round the age of gold.When peace shall over all the earthIts ancient splendours fling,And all the world take up the songWhich angels once did sing:'Glory to God in the highest, on earthpeace, goodwill toward men.'
For, lo, the days are hastening onBy prophet bard foretold,When with the ever circling yearsComes round the age of gold.When peace shall over all the earthIts ancient splendours fling,And all the world take up the songWhich angels once did sing:
'Glory to God in the highest, on earthpeace, goodwill toward men.'
With the advent of Christmas, arrangements were effected by which officers whose work necessitated their being temporarily separated from the unit could come together for the purpose of observing the special season in the established epicurean style. Every effort was made to make the day as distinct from other days as circumstances would allow. Donations from the officers and small contributions from the men enabled those who had the matter in hand to provide the customary Christmas dinner. Though it was not served up on tables, spread with linen, and the usual impedimenta of the banqueting-table, it was greatly appreciated, and afforded a rare opportunity for reunion. Fresh friendships were formed, acquaintances renewed, brothers and relatives met after monthsof separation. Toasts were honoured and carols or hymns appropriate to the season were sung. A great deal had been heard or read about our troops fraternizing with the enemy during the Christmas seasons of the previous years of the war, but there was none of that during the Christmas of 1916. There was no cessation of hostilities. The lines were held with the same keenness, and there was considerable aerial and artillery activity throughout the day and night. In fact, Christmas 'Somewhere in France' was born to the accompaniment of the boom of guns and the whirr of aeroplanes. The weather conditions were decidedly inclement, and, despite the good wishes from friends in the Homeland, it was difficult to keep warm.
At the back of the lines, in a certain battalion's H.Q. billets, a number of officers had assembled. They had come together by invitation to participate in a reunion dinner. Everything had been done to make it a meal worthy of the occasion. Great taste had been displayed in decorating the table, and the cooksexcelled themselves in the quality of the food served. We seated ourselves immediately 'Grace' was said, when somebody remarked that there were thirteen only, and suggested that another be asked in to make fourteen. Little notice was taken of the remark until the same officer ventured to predict that one of them would 'go out' before the year ended. He was teased with being unduly superstitious and attaching too much significance to the supposed unluckiness of the number thirteen. His mind was evidently depressed with the impression which he had gathered, and there was not lacking evidence that the gathering ceased to interest him further.
Despite the good wishes from friendsDespite the good wishes from friends in the Homeland, it was difficult to keep warm.
Despite the good wishes from friends in the Homeland, it was difficult to keep warm.
Exactly a week passed, and another such reunion had been arranged for the purpose of celebrating the passing of the old year and the ushering in of the new. Several jocularly remarked that for G——'s sake we should arrange to have more or less than thirteen present. Late on the afternoon of the last day of the year, advice was received at B.Q.H. that Lieut.G—— had been killed. He had gone down to the trenches to inspect some work which was being done by his platoon, and was on the point of returning when an enemy shell burst and a shrapnel bullet went through his heart. This sad event recalled to us his words at the gathering on Christmas night. His prediction that one would be missing ere the year ended was fulfilled, and he was the one called hence. Arrangements for the evening function were cancelled, and the next day his remains were interred in the military cemetery, and the grave is now marked by a beautiful cross made by a member of his platoon and inscribed by his O.C. He was a fine fellow, full of fun and life, a true comrade, an ideal officer, beloved by all who knew him.
The following pathetic incident speaks of the attachment which springs up between officers and men, and incidentally testifies to the high esteem in which our late comrade was held by one who had exceptional opportunities for knowing him. Duty took me to the cemeterya few days after the burial, and I noticed standing at the graveside with uncovered and bowed head a soldier of the battalion. I could see that the lad was deeply affected, and inquired as to whether he had known Lieut. G——. 'Yes sir,' he replied; 'I was his orderly; and—I miss him so much.'
Superstitions play a large part in the life of the average soldier, and frequently gain the ascendancy over common sense. Though rather reticent about expressing his religious views, he is in many respects intensely religious. He may admit being superstitious and even boast about it, or declare himself to be a fatalist. Fatalism in the vocabulary of the soldier is just another name for Providence.
Few, if any, are afraid of death. They seldom give it a thought. The general belief is that if a man's 'time' has come, nothing can possibly avert it. Under this impression he goes into battle or takes up his position in the lines. He consistently refuses, however, to be a party to anything which is considered at all likelyto precipitate the end. For instance, no amount of persuasion would induce him to be one of three to receive a light for his cigarette or pipe from the same match, and owing to the strange coincidences in connexion with the number thirteen, he is prepared to deny himself much.
A silent tribute to the brave.A silent tribute to the brave.
A silent tribute to the brave.
While soldiers are ever ready to avail themselves of every possible comfort when in the trenches, they hesitate to make use of a field service stretcher. They prefer to make their bed on the ground, under the impression that if they were to lie on stretchers in the trenches they would be carried out from the trenches on stretchers. One of a draft of reinforcements was attached to a platoon which had been detailed to proceed to the lines. On arrival, this man, despite many warnings from the others, took possession of a stretcher and used it as a bed. About eleven o'clock the following morning, the same stretcher was used to carry him back to the R.A.P. While working in the lines he was seriously wounded bya piece of shrapnel. It is hardly necessary to state that this man was completely won over to the belief which only the previous evening he had laughed at.
At the head of a trench in the vicinity of Ploegsteert a rusted revolver which had been found by a working party was suspended from a short pole. It caught the eye of all who passed by on their way up the lines. Nearly every man was seen to touch that useless weapon. Upon making enquiries it was ascertained that a superstition had grown up round that revolver. It was supposed to possess a certain charm, and the men who merely touched it on their way into the line would be protected from all danger. Certainly many incidents occurred which tended to support the belief that the mud covered rusted revolver possessed all the remarkable miraculous powers attributed to it.
In course of conversation with a soldier, I questioned the advisability of his proceeding to the trenches. 'Oh,' he declared, 'it is all right; no matter where I may be, if a shell has my number on it, I will haveto take delivery, whether I like it or not.' While working in the lines a few days later a shell penetrated the parapet and buried its nose in the clay at the edge of the duck-boards. Allowing sufficient time to elapse to ascertain whether it was 'alive' (it proved to be a 'dud') he then examined the base of the shell, and was astonished to read thereon his regimental number.
Such coincidences tend to strengthen the superstitious tendencies of the soldier, and the effect upon most minds is to lead them to believe that a man's death or deliverance is absolutely due to Fate, which is just another way of saying, 'There's a Divinity which shapes our ends, rough hew them as we may.'
TO THE WIDOWS OF FRANCE
Eyes that have rained tears, lips that have trembled,Twitching convulsively, torn with their grief.Now face us bravely with pride undissembled,Glad to have suffered to show their belief.Troop upon troop of them, some walking singly,Weaker ones plodding in pairs for support;Mates to the spirits of men who were kingly,Coming from Matins with old men's escort.Ask them, ye watchers, inquire their elation,Tell them ye wonder they bear them so brave.Proudly they'll answer, 'La belle France, our nation,Requires us to suffer, our country to save.'To save from the maw of the great avaricious,The cold scheming brain of a commerce run mad—A commerce all-grasping and sordid and vicious;For this are we martyred, for this are we glad.Then the soul of the Springtime, the great resurrection,Shines bright in their faces, they wave to the car,Packed tight with our comrades, a cheery collection,As we dash thro' the streets to the trenches afar.And France comes to meet us, to cheer us and greet us,As we race past the fields to the woods brightly green,Whose young leaves half rustle with a great show of bustleWhen we halt at the fairest of spots ever seen.[1]Where the old kings of history, now shrouded in myst'ry,Once hunted the boar, or the feather, or fur.But we feel this is over as we wade thro' the clover,No tyrant again in this great wood shall stir.For France now demands it; however she stands it,However those brave ones in thousands can smile,Requires some explaining, so cease all complaining,And come on and battle and make it worth while.Yes! on to the thunder, tho' it's a blunder,On to the swish and the whine and the roar;With the memoried face of one you called 'treasure,'Above and around and ever before.Oh! thou in that homeland so wistfully waiting,Watching and wearing your worries or woe,So proudly triumphant, consider such women;Work for them, pray for them, smile as you go.For into the furnace they've thrown all their 'treasures,'Knowing that out of the vibrating whole,Quiveringly molten, pulsating, gleaming,Europe shall find her immaculate soul—Soul of the suff'ring, bleeding and dying,Soul of a freedom unselfish and clean,Loving the light of a love all around us,Scorning the actions of men who are mean.Oh! men who were kingly, mated to martyrs(Silently, cheerfully, plodding along),Send all ye can of such great souls to help us,Make us and keep us triumphant and strong.
Eyes that have rained tears, lips that have trembled,Twitching convulsively, torn with their grief.Now face us bravely with pride undissembled,Glad to have suffered to show their belief.Troop upon troop of them, some walking singly,Weaker ones plodding in pairs for support;Mates to the spirits of men who were kingly,Coming from Matins with old men's escort.Ask them, ye watchers, inquire their elation,Tell them ye wonder they bear them so brave.Proudly they'll answer, 'La belle France, our nation,Requires us to suffer, our country to save.'To save from the maw of the great avaricious,The cold scheming brain of a commerce run mad—A commerce all-grasping and sordid and vicious;For this are we martyred, for this are we glad.Then the soul of the Springtime, the great resurrection,Shines bright in their faces, they wave to the car,Packed tight with our comrades, a cheery collection,As we dash thro' the streets to the trenches afar.And France comes to meet us, to cheer us and greet us,As we race past the fields to the woods brightly green,Whose young leaves half rustle with a great show of bustleWhen we halt at the fairest of spots ever seen.[1]Where the old kings of history, now shrouded in myst'ry,Once hunted the boar, or the feather, or fur.But we feel this is over as we wade thro' the clover,No tyrant again in this great wood shall stir.For France now demands it; however she stands it,However those brave ones in thousands can smile,Requires some explaining, so cease all complaining,And come on and battle and make it worth while.Yes! on to the thunder, tho' it's a blunder,On to the swish and the whine and the roar;With the memoried face of one you called 'treasure,'Above and around and ever before.Oh! thou in that homeland so wistfully waiting,Watching and wearing your worries or woe,So proudly triumphant, consider such women;Work for them, pray for them, smile as you go.For into the furnace they've thrown all their 'treasures,'Knowing that out of the vibrating whole,Quiveringly molten, pulsating, gleaming,Europe shall find her immaculate soul—Soul of the suff'ring, bleeding and dying,Soul of a freedom unselfish and clean,Loving the light of a love all around us,Scorning the actions of men who are mean.Oh! men who were kingly, mated to martyrs(Silently, cheerfully, plodding along),Send all ye can of such great souls to help us,Make us and keep us triumphant and strong.
Eyes that have rained tears, lips that have trembled,Twitching convulsively, torn with their grief.Now face us bravely with pride undissembled,Glad to have suffered to show their belief.
Troop upon troop of them, some walking singly,Weaker ones plodding in pairs for support;Mates to the spirits of men who were kingly,Coming from Matins with old men's escort.
Ask them, ye watchers, inquire their elation,Tell them ye wonder they bear them so brave.Proudly they'll answer, 'La belle France, our nation,Requires us to suffer, our country to save.'
To save from the maw of the great avaricious,The cold scheming brain of a commerce run mad—A commerce all-grasping and sordid and vicious;For this are we martyred, for this are we glad.
Then the soul of the Springtime, the great resurrection,Shines bright in their faces, they wave to the car,Packed tight with our comrades, a cheery collection,As we dash thro' the streets to the trenches afar.
And France comes to meet us, to cheer us and greet us,As we race past the fields to the woods brightly green,Whose young leaves half rustle with a great show of bustleWhen we halt at the fairest of spots ever seen.[1]
Where the old kings of history, now shrouded in myst'ry,Once hunted the boar, or the feather, or fur.But we feel this is over as we wade thro' the clover,No tyrant again in this great wood shall stir.
For France now demands it; however she stands it,However those brave ones in thousands can smile,Requires some explaining, so cease all complaining,And come on and battle and make it worth while.
Yes! on to the thunder, tho' it's a blunder,On to the swish and the whine and the roar;With the memoried face of one you called 'treasure,'Above and around and ever before.
Oh! thou in that homeland so wistfully waiting,Watching and wearing your worries or woe,So proudly triumphant, consider such women;Work for them, pray for them, smile as you go.
For into the furnace they've thrown all their 'treasures,'Knowing that out of the vibrating whole,Quiveringly molten, pulsating, gleaming,Europe shall find her immaculate soul—
Soul of the suff'ring, bleeding and dying,Soul of a freedom unselfish and clean,Loving the light of a love all around us,Scorning the actions of men who are mean.
Oh! men who were kingly, mated to martyrs(Silently, cheerfully, plodding along),Send all ye can of such great souls to help us,Make us and keep us triumphant and strong.
G.P. CuttrissandJ.W. Hood.
FOOTNOTES:[1]Ploegsteert.
[1]Ploegsteert.
[1]Ploegsteert.
Nothing is impossible
From the time of our arrival in France until a week or two prior to the battle of Messines, general dissatisfaction was expressed by the troops because of the seeming slow progress that was being made. The men soon tired of the uneventful trench warfare. They were eager to go 'over the top.' Defensive operations did not appeal to them; they were impatient to assume the offensive. To put it in their own language, they had enlisted not to dig trenches or repair roads, but to fight the Hun. Certainly the monotony was relieved by an occasional raid, for whichwork they earned for the Division a splendid reputation. The area which the Division occupied was known throughout France as the 'Nursery,' where men, new to the modern mode of waging war, had opportunity for gaining experience and getting accustomed to shell and machine-gun fire under comparatively safe conditions.
During this period of 'marking time' the men were engaged both day and night on works of importance, without which an offensive would have meant sheer suicide. The elaborate preparations that were being made denoted that a big 'push' was contemplated. In connexion with this work, the pioneers and the engineers did magnificently.
Everything was arranged according to well-conceived plans, and the preliminaries to an unprecedented offensive were completed by June 6. Guns of different calibre were massed at points of vantage, cleverly camouflaged to conceal them from enemy observation. Dumps were replete with the necessary suppliesof ammunition, and scrupulous regard was paid to arrangements for keeping the lines of communication clear. Provision was made for the treatment of wounded and their evacuation, and for the burial of the killed. Refreshment stalls were established at convenient points, where the attacking troops and the wounded could receive hot coffee and biscuits. Nothing that could be done for the comfort of the men and to ensure the success of the venture was overlooked.
Only those who are actually at the Front have any conception of the amount of work involved in assuming the aggressive. The staff responsible for perfecting the organization are deserving of the highest praise. There had been numerous rumours in connexion with mines. The air was electric, the men were confident, and all were determined to do their level best to uphold the splendid traditions bequeathed by older Australian units.
During the night preceding the dawn of June 6 the troops who were to take part in the attack marched totheir respective assembling points. The march was uneventful up to a certain stage, after which large clouds of gas were encountered, which rendered necessary the wearing of respirators. Despite the sickly sensation produced by the inhalation of gas, the troops advanced. There is much to be written of the latter part of the approach march, but that will be recorded by others. It is sufficient to state that certain unforeseen events threatened to seriously disorganize things, but these were overcome as they were met with.
Almost simultaneously with the first faint streak of the dawn of June 7 the mines at Hill 60 and St. Yves were exploded. The sight was awe-inspiring, and the ground trembled as if in the throes of an agonizing palsy. On the tick of the appointed time our 'boys' went 'over the top.' It was for this experience that they had worked and waited. They advanced immediately behind the barrage so consistently sustained by the artillery, and in the face of a terrific fusilade of machine-gun fire which seemed to leap upon themfrom almost every angle. Some of the enemy machine-guns were captured by our troops, who used them with deadly effect upon the then retiring foe. All the objectives were obtained with clock-like precision. Again and again the victorious troops were subjected to withering counter-attacks, and shells fell around them like hail. There was no faltering. They held the recovered ground in the face of a merciless tornado of steel and bullets.
As the infantry advanced, the pioneers and engineers followed, digging trenches, extending tramways, and keeping the lines of communication clear. No pen, however facile, could give the true lines to the picture. Ordinary language is inadequate to express all that was achieved, seen, and felt. The men did splendidly. The respective work of the several services was perfectly co-ordinated, so much so that after the 'stunt' it seemed as if a mutual admiration society had been spontaneously organized. The infantry congratulated the Flying Corps, the Flying Corps complimented the Artillery, and both Artillery and Flying Corps were loud in their praiseof the dauntless Infantry. All did their part, and the taking of Messines will probably be chronicled as one of the greatest, if not the greatest, of battles in connexion with this world-war.
Prior to this engagement the Third Division had experienced but a sprinkling of fire, but during its progress it received its baptism, and emerged from the battle with a reputation of which any unit might be proud. It was a stupendous task, a severe test for the 'baby' Division, but every man rose to the occasion. The wounded were cheerful, the dead died gloriously, and those of us who are alive and remain are proud to have had some part in such an important and eminently successful undertaking.
There were many acts of heroism, some of which have been officially recognized. The Australians have the utmost contempt for the enemy as fighting men. They declare that if the artillery and air-craft were eliminated they would be prepared to give the enemy the benefit of odds in hand-to-hand fighting.
One instance will suffice to illustrate their indomitable spirit. While the 'push' was in progress, a man who, in his own words, had 'stopped one,' was carried to an R.A.P. His wounds were numerous and rather serious. Two fingers of the left hand had been blown off, his right arm was shattered, his head and neck were much cut about, and blood oozed from wounds on his chest. This man had got a 'Blighty,' but he did not appear to be at all pleased. It should be stated that the men who receive wounds sufficiently serious to warrant their being sent to hospitals in England are considered, and consider themselves, very fortunate. He was disappointed because he was wounded, not that he complained about his disfigurement or the pain. I expressed my sympathy and wished him a speedy recovery and a happy time in 'Blighty,' and suggested that possibly there would be no need for him to return, for the Hun might soon be driven out from Belgium. He eyed me unflinchingly, and endeavoured to raise himself on his uninjured elbow,and then blurted out, 'It is just as well for the —— Huns that I got wounded.' These were not the exact words he used. There were many accompanying adjectives, without which the vocabulary of the Australian would be very limited indeed. This big-hearted, whole-souled, hefty 'Westralian' seemed to think that the issue to that particular 'push' depended absolutely upon him.
The men of the Third Division have now had the experience which many had longed for. Going 'over the top' was not quite so romantic as fancy had pictured it to be, and the experience which is common to all who take part in it for the first time defies expression. A peculiar sensation creeps annoyingly slowly along the spinal column, subtly affecting every member of the body. There's a gripping of the heart and a numbing of the brain, and the tongue persistently cleaves to the roof of the mouth, which seems as dry as powdered chalk. A choking sensation accompanies every effort to cough. You may be in the stepping-off trench or lyingface-down on the churned-up mud out on 'no man's land,' waiting for the signal to 'go.' The seconds tick slowly by, the minutes are leaden-footed in their passing, and seem like eternities. The eyes are almost blinded through the strain of peering into darkness, the imagination runs riot, grotesque shapes are conjured into view, only to be dissipated by a solitary flare or a series of gun-flashes. The fact that it is raining and you are lying in a gradually deepening pool of water occasions no concern. What matters most is that your puttees are frayed or your boots in need of repair, but you console yourself with the thought that after the 'stunt' it will be easy to get a new outfit, and maybe you commence to make plans as to how you will spend your leave. You appear to be quite oblivious to the fact that the next moment may be your last.
Ages roll by; suddenly you are conscious of somebody by your side; you make an attempt to smile, when at the same instant the ground trembles as if in thethroes of a tremendous earthquake; flash after flash in quick succession; the air vibrates with noises that deafen; hundreds of shells hurtle overhead. 'That's 'er,' shouts the man by your side. You are pleased that something has happened to divert your mind from its morbid fancyings. This is the 'Dinkum.' The electrical effect upon your mind and body is wonderful. You break from the shackles that fear and fancy have thrown round you. The reports of terrific explosions rend the air, you grip frantically at the soft mud to prevent yourself being hurled through space. Somebody from somewhere makes a sign, and in a moment you are erect and speeding in the direction of the enemy lines. There is but one thought in the mind as you allow your hand to tighten round your rifle—to gain your objective. Heaven help the Hun who attempts to frustrate you. 'Hurrah!' The wire has been smashed to smithereens, and in less time than it takes to describe you are 'over the top'—close up to the enemy line. You stumble forward, onward,without noticing the broken nature of the ground. The sight of the enemy rushing towards you with hands well above their heads, shouting 'Kamerad,' or fleeing before your advance, excites greater enthusiasm.
You begin to notice other things. Possibly the first thing that dawns upon your mind is that others are taking part in the business—that you are not alone. Then you notice the effect of our shell-fire; this inspires greater confidence, and involuntarily you thank heaven for such splendid artillery. Then you notice little heaps clad in familiar khaki—they are what remain of comrades who have sealed their love of country with their blood. You observe others wandering aimlessly about, suffering from shell-shock; or the gallant stretcher-bearers, regardless of all danger, attending to the wounded and carrying them back for treatment. The sight does not grieve or shock you—only surprise is evinced by a change in facial expression. You just carry on—the shock and grief will come later. You justgrit your teeth and take a fresh grip of your rifle and go forward with greater determination to strike a blow in the cause of freedom and honour. Maybe you reach your objective, your clothes sodden with sticky, clammy mud and possibly the red of your own blood showing through.
The whole thing has been like some dream of adventure with wild beasts; but there is firmly embedded in your consciousness the knowledge that you have done the job. Other waves of men pass through the line which you have wrested from the Hun; you cheer them as they pass, and then dig in for all you are worth.
A few days later there appears in the daily papers, under the heading of 'British Official,' that the troops penetrated the enemy's lines to such and such a depth, and have bravely withstood several terrific counter-attacks; and war correspondents will cable the news to our waiting people of the Homeland that the 'boys' magnificently stormed and won additional fame; but if you want it inthe every-day language of the man from 'down under,' he merely went 'over the top.'
After the rush there is no time for rest. The recovered ground must be retained. New positions have to be consolidated, fresh gun positions have to be constructed. The lines must be made habitable. The dead have to be buried. The efficient and expeditious manner in which this work was accomplished established the Third Division's right to full participation in the honour and glory of the taking and holding of Messines by the Second Anzacs.
When the guns begin to speak, and shells are hurtling through the air, places of shelter are resorted to. These places are not always shell-proof, but they serve as a protection against splinters. There are few places that would withstand the effects of a direct hit by a heavy shell, but one feels perfectly safe with even a sheet of iron overhead. The effects of an explosion are very local, and the chances of a direct hit are very remote. The first law of nature takes precedence during a bombardment. Precaution is esteemed to be much better than a blanket and burial.
In and about the towns at the back of the lines where the troops are billeted there are a sprinkling of civilians. When these places are being shelled they display no fear. Occasionally elderly people willcover their heads with their hands and seek shelter in the cellars, while the soldier, ostrich-like, is quite contented provided he has some protection for his head, but the majority continue with their work as in normal times. When the civilians were questioned as to whether they were afraid of the enemy breaking through and carrying them off or killing them, they would confidently reply, 'Oh, no! British between.' They feel perfectly safe, knowing that the British are between them and the Hun.
Many of them have good reason to remember the time when the enemy were in occupation of the town. In some instances the Germans have been highly spoken of. I give credence to every good report. Personally, we bear them no ill-will. We detest the system which has made them what they are, and we are here to crush it, and sincerely hope that the men of the German race who, however, mistaken, are ready to lay down their lives for their country, may emerge from this war and be re-made on the anvil of defeat,and in the days to be redeem to honour the name which to-day is the synonym for all that is brutal and abhorrent.
That all of them are not filled with implacable hatred towards the British is evidenced in the following incident. We attempted to raid the enemy trenches. The weather was bitterly cold and the night was dark. Our artillery put over a heavy barrage, after which the raiding party went forth; they crept forward over the muddy ground, and entered the German lines. Several casualties were sustained during the operations. When our men returned to their trenches, it was discovered that one of the raiding party was missing. When the noise of the counter-barrage had died down, a cry for help was distinctly heard by our front line troops. It came from 'no man's land.' A couple of stretcher-bearers and two men went out in search of the one in distress. While groping about amongst the wire in the darkness, they heard the Germans assuring the man for whom they were searching that he would be all right. Suddenly the enemyturned a trench searchlight on to 'no man's land,' and by this light the search party were guided to their wounded comrade. The light was kept on him until he was rescued, and was then used to guide the party back to their own lines. During this time no shot was fired. This was a humane action indeed.
All the Huns, however, are not so humanely disposed. In connexion with another raid on the enemy trenches, our men met with violent opposition, but succeeded in obtaining their objective. When returning, a few of the party were wounded—one very seriously. He was unable to make his way back. The Germans got him, stripped him of his uniform, and left him against the wire. The weather being intensely cold, the man soon died from exposure. These two incidents illustrate the two extremes in the attitude of the Huns towards the British. One was a brutal act of hatred, the other a humane act, which commends itself to both friend and foe.
To see ourselves as others see us.To see ourselves as others see us.
To see ourselves as others see us.
The Germans have been credited withalmost every conceivable atrocity that man is capable of perpetrating. Whether these brutalities are perpetrated with the sanction of the German authorities, or are merely the expression of individual hatred, one is not prepared to state. We have ceased to be angry with or alarmed at their tactics of intimidation. We interpret every act of frightfulness as evidence of desperate conditions. The only effect that such devilish methods have upon the men in the lines is to make them more determined to crush the mad and murderous spirit of militarism which holds the Hun in its merciless grip.
During ordinary trench warfare the enemy appears to concentrate his artillery fire on to the towns and villages at the back of our lines. Villages have been practically eliminated and large towns reduced to a heap of ruins. The destruction of these places is of no military consequence. It is pure vandalism.
With the aid of electric torches.With the aid of electric torches ... we descended to the cellar.
With the aid of electric torches ... we descended to the cellar.
Bairnsfather's sketches portraying the humour and coolness that such critical conditions create are in no particularexaggerated. A certain building, prominently situated in a fairly large town, within easy range of the enemy guns, was being used as B.H.Qs. It afforded accommodation for about twelve officers and as many other ranks. The outskirts of the town had been subjected to severe shelling during the day. Towards evening the shelling ceased, but commenced again about midnight; on this occasion the shells were directed more to the centre of the town. Pieces of iron and a hail of shrapnel descended upon the roof of our billet. All were awakened by the noise. From different parts of the building the same query was advanced: 'Are you all right?' Then a hurried conference was held, and the C.O. decided that discretion was the better part of valour. With the aid of electric torches we collected our blankets, etc., and descended to the cellar. Everybody was cheerful. The report of the guns somewhere along the enemy's lines was heard distinctly, and we would wait for the swish of the shells as they hurtled through the air. Almost simultaneouslywith the swish would come the crash followed by the sound of breaking glass and falling bricks, and involuntarily we exclaimed in chorus, 'Another one in.' We thought of the poor devils who may have been in the vicinity where the shell exploded, and various expressions of sympathy escaped from our lips. Almost immediately on reaching the cellar, there was a terrific explosion, and one of the chimneys of the building crashed into the cellar. Gradually we lost interest and became almost indifferent to what was going on. One by one we repaired to our improvised beds on the floor. Sometimes one would have difficulty in wooing the goddess of sleep, and his persistency in asking questions was exceeded only by the annoyance experienced by those to whom the questions were addressed. The usual question of the sleepless individual is 'Where did that one land?' and the answer with some accompanying adjectives is invariably, 'I am more concerned about where the next one will land.'
The enemy generally commences shellingthese places at the close of day, and the men have described these operations as 'The Hun's evening hate.' On one occasion a certain village was being strafed. Several men of a certain battalion were on the road at the time. They quickly availed themselves of the shelter of a cellar. The building was hit several times. Shortly after the bombardment commenced a man leading a mule was observed, coming along the road. He was invited to take shelter in the cellar. The invitation was accepted with alacrity. The mule was tethered to the window-sill, and the man was soon in their midst. Shells continued to burst overhead and round about. The newcomer proved to be a blessing. He soon had the men laughing despite the noise and danger. When a shell burst in close proximity to the building, he evinced great concern for the safety of his mule. 'My poor old "donk,"' he would exclaim; 'there goes his tail.' Another burst: 'There goes his hind-quarters.' It seemed impossible for the mule to escape injury or death. Turning to his companions hedeclared that he would carry part of that mule back. If his head were left intact he would gather the harness and wrap it round the head and carry it back to the lines, and if the O.C. transport asked where the 'donk' was, he would say, 'Shot from under me, sir.' Suddenly the shelling ceased, and they emerged from their shelter. The mule's master was the first outside. He fully expected to see but a blood-stain on the spot where he had left the beast, but to his great surprise and satisfaction he saw the mule serenely nibbling at the grass growing alongside the building. The old 'donk' had not sustained an injury. To say that he was proud to lead a whole mule back to his quarters instead of having to carry only its head, is an altogether inadequate way of describing his actual feelings.
'Did you hear that one, Bill?''Did you hear that one, Bill?'
'Did you hear that one, Bill?'
'Did you hear that one, Bill?' asked one man of another who had come along the shell-swept road rather hurriedly.
'Yes,' replied the nearly exhausted man, 'I heard it twice; once when it passed me, and again when I passed it.'
A shell-struck souvenir of hellish war,A monument of man's stupendous hate!Can this have been a Paradise before,Now up-blown, blasted, drear and desolate?Aye, once with smiling and contented faceShe reigned a queen above a charming place.But soon the sport of leaders and of kingsTransformed her to a resting-place for guns,Rude scars across her breasts the worker flings,To shelter countless hordes of hell-born Huns,The while, upon the next opposing crest,Our men died gamely as they did their best.And thus for years, with cold, relentless zeal,With fiendish science both sides fought and watched,From loop-holes or from clouds which half conceal,Or in deep tunnels all their skill was matched.On sentry in the firebay, or the hov'ring 'plane,Mining and countermining yet again.And far behind such scenes, great engineersPondered o'er problems without parallel.And planned with wisdom of a thousand years,To blow the other to eternal Hell.Their calculations left no callous scheme untried,To slaughter hundreds of the other side.But hush! the whole machinery's complete,All plans are folded and the great work's done,The work of building up to cause defeat—The lever's pulled, and, lo! a new work has begun.The task of falling on a shattered foe,And doing things undreamed-of years ago.Hush! hark! A mighty rumbling roar breaks thro',And see! Her crest-line leaps into a flame,The foul disease within her bowels she blewHigh into the air to rid her of her shame;In one huge vomit she now flings her filth,Far o'er the country in a powdered 'tilth.'And so the vassals of a fiendish foeAre scattered far and wide into a dust.Those who have revelled as they wreaked red woe,A shattered sample of their own blood-lust.Whilst from our hill-crest and its catacomb,A new life comes a-pouring from the tomb.Eager, and burning with the zeal of youth,Our Second Anzacs sprang from out the ground,Bound by their mateships and their love of truth,The Third Division its new soul has found;Straight o'er the top amidst a hail of shellTo their objective which they knew so well.On, on, thro' poison gas and rattling roar,Past ulc'rous craters, blackened foul and deep,These comrades 'stuck' as ne'er they had before.And kept together in their rushing sweep;Deafened and rattled, hung up in the wire,Helping each other thro' such fearful fire.On still until they reached the furthest goal,There to dig in and hold the new-won line.By linking up each torn and shattered hole—By no means easy, but their grit was fine—They fought and worked like demons till the dawn,Harried and pestered by the 'Kaiser's spawn.'And, baffled from his gun-pits far away,Low-down, well south, an angry foe doth roar,He opens out again upon another dayAnd rakes the slope with shrapnel as before.But only working parties on the top are found,The rest, save A.M.C., are underground.Strange sights are seen upon that battle-ground,But stranger still are unearthed from below;Here many supermen may now be found,Just watch those stretcher-bearers wheretheygo,And see those parties bearing food and drink,Past all those blizzard shells—then stand and think!But one poor shell-crazed loon roamed far and wide;Sweat-grimed, wild-eyed, and now bereft of all.'Me mates? W'ere is my mates?' he plaintive cried,'They's in that 'ole withmewhenitdid fall.'We took him to three huddled heaps near by,But he roamed on as tho' he wished to die.And as the sun's great light bursts o'er the scene,La Petit Douve, one-time a sparkling stream,Now sluggish slides, red-tinted, she has beenPast horrors thro' the night anddid not dream.For many days she'll, silent, strive to bearSuch human wreckage down a path once fair.
A shell-struck souvenir of hellish war,A monument of man's stupendous hate!Can this have been a Paradise before,Now up-blown, blasted, drear and desolate?Aye, once with smiling and contented faceShe reigned a queen above a charming place.But soon the sport of leaders and of kingsTransformed her to a resting-place for guns,Rude scars across her breasts the worker flings,To shelter countless hordes of hell-born Huns,The while, upon the next opposing crest,Our men died gamely as they did their best.And thus for years, with cold, relentless zeal,With fiendish science both sides fought and watched,From loop-holes or from clouds which half conceal,Or in deep tunnels all their skill was matched.On sentry in the firebay, or the hov'ring 'plane,Mining and countermining yet again.And far behind such scenes, great engineersPondered o'er problems without parallel.And planned with wisdom of a thousand years,To blow the other to eternal Hell.Their calculations left no callous scheme untried,To slaughter hundreds of the other side.But hush! the whole machinery's complete,All plans are folded and the great work's done,The work of building up to cause defeat—The lever's pulled, and, lo! a new work has begun.The task of falling on a shattered foe,And doing things undreamed-of years ago.Hush! hark! A mighty rumbling roar breaks thro',And see! Her crest-line leaps into a flame,The foul disease within her bowels she blewHigh into the air to rid her of her shame;In one huge vomit she now flings her filth,Far o'er the country in a powdered 'tilth.'And so the vassals of a fiendish foeAre scattered far and wide into a dust.Those who have revelled as they wreaked red woe,A shattered sample of their own blood-lust.Whilst from our hill-crest and its catacomb,A new life comes a-pouring from the tomb.Eager, and burning with the zeal of youth,Our Second Anzacs sprang from out the ground,Bound by their mateships and their love of truth,The Third Division its new soul has found;Straight o'er the top amidst a hail of shellTo their objective which they knew so well.On, on, thro' poison gas and rattling roar,Past ulc'rous craters, blackened foul and deep,These comrades 'stuck' as ne'er they had before.And kept together in their rushing sweep;Deafened and rattled, hung up in the wire,Helping each other thro' such fearful fire.On still until they reached the furthest goal,There to dig in and hold the new-won line.By linking up each torn and shattered hole—By no means easy, but their grit was fine—They fought and worked like demons till the dawn,Harried and pestered by the 'Kaiser's spawn.'And, baffled from his gun-pits far away,Low-down, well south, an angry foe doth roar,He opens out again upon another dayAnd rakes the slope with shrapnel as before.But only working parties on the top are found,The rest, save A.M.C., are underground.Strange sights are seen upon that battle-ground,But stranger still are unearthed from below;Here many supermen may now be found,Just watch those stretcher-bearers wheretheygo,And see those parties bearing food and drink,Past all those blizzard shells—then stand and think!But one poor shell-crazed loon roamed far and wide;Sweat-grimed, wild-eyed, and now bereft of all.'Me mates? W'ere is my mates?' he plaintive cried,'They's in that 'ole withmewhenitdid fall.'We took him to three huddled heaps near by,But he roamed on as tho' he wished to die.And as the sun's great light bursts o'er the scene,La Petit Douve, one-time a sparkling stream,Now sluggish slides, red-tinted, she has beenPast horrors thro' the night anddid not dream.For many days she'll, silent, strive to bearSuch human wreckage down a path once fair.
A shell-struck souvenir of hellish war,A monument of man's stupendous hate!Can this have been a Paradise before,Now up-blown, blasted, drear and desolate?Aye, once with smiling and contented faceShe reigned a queen above a charming place.
But soon the sport of leaders and of kingsTransformed her to a resting-place for guns,Rude scars across her breasts the worker flings,To shelter countless hordes of hell-born Huns,The while, upon the next opposing crest,Our men died gamely as they did their best.
And thus for years, with cold, relentless zeal,With fiendish science both sides fought and watched,From loop-holes or from clouds which half conceal,Or in deep tunnels all their skill was matched.On sentry in the firebay, or the hov'ring 'plane,Mining and countermining yet again.
And far behind such scenes, great engineersPondered o'er problems without parallel.And planned with wisdom of a thousand years,To blow the other to eternal Hell.Their calculations left no callous scheme untried,To slaughter hundreds of the other side.
But hush! the whole machinery's complete,All plans are folded and the great work's done,The work of building up to cause defeat—The lever's pulled, and, lo! a new work has begun.The task of falling on a shattered foe,And doing things undreamed-of years ago.
Hush! hark! A mighty rumbling roar breaks thro',And see! Her crest-line leaps into a flame,The foul disease within her bowels she blewHigh into the air to rid her of her shame;In one huge vomit she now flings her filth,Far o'er the country in a powdered 'tilth.'
And so the vassals of a fiendish foeAre scattered far and wide into a dust.Those who have revelled as they wreaked red woe,A shattered sample of their own blood-lust.Whilst from our hill-crest and its catacomb,A new life comes a-pouring from the tomb.
Eager, and burning with the zeal of youth,Our Second Anzacs sprang from out the ground,Bound by their mateships and their love of truth,The Third Division its new soul has found;Straight o'er the top amidst a hail of shellTo their objective which they knew so well.
On, on, thro' poison gas and rattling roar,Past ulc'rous craters, blackened foul and deep,These comrades 'stuck' as ne'er they had before.And kept together in their rushing sweep;Deafened and rattled, hung up in the wire,Helping each other thro' such fearful fire.
On still until they reached the furthest goal,There to dig in and hold the new-won line.By linking up each torn and shattered hole—By no means easy, but their grit was fine—They fought and worked like demons till the dawn,Harried and pestered by the 'Kaiser's spawn.'
And, baffled from his gun-pits far away,Low-down, well south, an angry foe doth roar,He opens out again upon another dayAnd rakes the slope with shrapnel as before.But only working parties on the top are found,The rest, save A.M.C., are underground.
Strange sights are seen upon that battle-ground,But stranger still are unearthed from below;Here many supermen may now be found,Just watch those stretcher-bearers wheretheygo,And see those parties bearing food and drink,Past all those blizzard shells—then stand and think!
But one poor shell-crazed loon roamed far and wide;Sweat-grimed, wild-eyed, and now bereft of all.'Me mates? W'ere is my mates?' he plaintive cried,'They's in that 'ole withmewhenitdid fall.'We took him to three huddled heaps near by,But he roamed on as tho' he wished to die.
And as the sun's great light bursts o'er the scene,La Petit Douve, one-time a sparkling stream,Now sluggish slides, red-tinted, she has beenPast horrors thro' the night anddid not dream.For many days she'll, silent, strive to bearSuch human wreckage down a path once fair.
G.P. CuttrissandJ.W. Hood.