BRITISH TRENCHES IN THE AISNE DISTRICTBRITISH TRENCHES IN THE AISNE DISTRICT.Drawn by D. Macpherson.ToList
BRITISH TRENCHES IN THE AISNE DISTRICT.Drawn by D. Macpherson.ToList
He had scarcely begun to speak its solemn words when the Germans opened a perfect hurricane of fire. But the chaplain never altered the measured dignity of his intonation, though shells were bursting all around and the enemy's bullets were pattering against what remained of the church walls.
This weird service over, the officers present had to hurry away to their respective duties with the rattle of German musketry in their ears. As General Smith-Dorrien also left, he said to Mr. Macpherson: "A true soldier's funeral, Padre. We couldn't fire a volley, but the enemy have given him the last salute for us."
Aye! a true soldier's funeral, and the one which he would perhaps have preferred to any other.
Bishop Taylor-Smith, who tells the story of the funeral, also says that the very next day the same chaplain (Mr. Macpherson) had gathered the men of a battery into a musty old barn for a short service, when, in the midst of the service, the roof of the barn was lifted right off by a shell which, however, failed to explode. The service came to a summary conclusion, not because of fear, but because the battery must stop that sort of thing, and gallop away into action.
Further stories by Bishop Taylor-Smith of the period to which this chapter relates show under what weird circumstances the sacrament of the Lord's Supper is sometimes administered.
A jute factory near Armentières was being heavily shelled, but down in the cellar, while the shelling was proceeding, the chaplain calmly distributed the elements to one hundred and twenty-eight officers and men of the Monmouth regiment. The only lightwas that supplied by the chaplain's flash lamp. The battalion went into action next day, and several of those who had taken part in the Holy Communion were killed.
On another occasion a celebration was taking place in a house at Houplines when shells demolished the houses on either side, and no sooner was the service over than a shell struck that self-same house. Close by was the crackling of rifle fire, for a shed in which the ammunition of the West Yorks was stored had been fired by a German shell.
In the same district an ordinary service—lasting about twenty-five minutes—was held at the O.C.'s request in a barn round which shells were dropping every moment. And yet so powerful was the singing of the men that it almost drowned the din of the bombardment. The chaplain, as he stood there conducting the service, thought how fearful it would be if a big shell dropped into the midst of that company of praying men.
After this who will call parsons cowards? I do not wonder that already one of them, the Rev. P.W. Guinness (Church of England), has won the D.S.O., and that Mr. Macpherson was among those "mentioned in despatches." I shall tell the story of Mr. Guinness' brave deed in another chapter.
One more funeral and this chapter shall draw to a close. The scene is too beautiful to leave out, even if it does mean bringing three funerals into one chapter. It dates from the battle of the Marne, and the story is narrated by our old friend the Rev. O.S. Watkins.
No men are braver, and very few render more important service, than the motor cycle scouts. They are, many of them, students from Oxford and Cambridge.Their intelligence, knowledge of languages, and general resource are a great asset to the British Army. Their work, however, is perilous in the extreme. One of these had lost his way and had actually ridden through two villages occupied by Germans when, at Douai, a bullet found its way to his heart.
When the Germans retired from the village, the villagers carried him tenderly into a cottage, straightened the fine young limbs, and covered him with a clean white sheet. They placed a bunch of newly gathered flowers upon his heart. He was carried to his last long rest by the old men of the village—the young men had all gone to the war—and as they passed through the village, the women came from the houses and laid flowers upon the bier.
Slowly they climbed the hill, with many a halt to rest the ancient bearers, while ahead boomed the heavy guns, and at their feet they could see the infantry advancing to action. At last the hill-top was reached, crowned by the little church, with "God's acre" all around. They laid him in the hastily dug grave, the peasants, with uncovered heads, listening reverently to the reading of the burial service in a language they could not understand. Before the service was finished shrapnel shells were bursting over the hilltop, and the peasants quietly moved to the partial shelter of the wall, still with uncovered heads.
When the final "Amen" was said, the chaplain stood for a moment gazing down into the grave and thinking of all the brilliant possibilities wrapped up in that splendid young fellow "gone to his death," when one of the old men, forgetting his fear of the guns, came forward to the graveside, and cast earth with unconscious dignity upon the body lying there."You are a brave man," he said, "and our friend. You have given your life for our country. We thank you. May you sleep well in the earth of beautiful France!" And the old men under the shelter of the wall added "Amen."
Thus they go, the grand old field-marshal 'neath the weight of years, the brilliant general in the full tide of useful service, and the young man, his life-work scarce begun! Thus they go and the flower of our nation's manhood with them. If that were the end, if death ended all, Britain could hardly lift up her head again. But we cheer ourselves as we remember that what we call the end is only the beginning. Goethe draws a picture inFaustof his hero gazing at the setting sun. As he watches it slowly setting in the west, he longs to follow it in its course—
To drink its everlasting light,The day before him and behind the night.
To drink its everlasting light,The day before him and behind the night.
But they may and do. There is always—
The day beforethemand behind the night.
The day beforethemand behind the night.
"There is no night there." And so we comfort ourselves with the thought that service broken short off here may be continued yonder, that the old will grow young again, that the o'erthrown fighter will rise conqueror, and life—eternal life—will crown all.
The best is yet to be.
The best is yet to be.
The Original Thomas Atkins—No Infidels in the Trenches—In the Trenches at Night—A Salvation Army Story, and Others—Man Who was Digging a Trench—They have "Kept Smiling "—What Christ is to the Soldier—What a Picture!—Every Place the "House of the Lord"—The Soldier Spirit—The Gilts from Home—Courage has never Failed—And the Christian Soldier?
The Original Thomas Atkins—No Infidels in the Trenches—In the Trenches at Night—A Salvation Army Story, and Others—Man Who was Digging a Trench—They have "Kept Smiling "—What Christ is to the Soldier—What a Picture!—Every Place the "House of the Lord"—The Soldier Spirit—The Gilts from Home—Courage has never Failed—And the Christian Soldier?
"I tell you what it is, sir, God is jolly near you in the trenches." So spoke Thomas Atkins to a Church of England chaplain. It was just like him to speak thus. A vigorous utterance suits him.
But how did he come by the name Thomas Atkins? The story goes that it dates from the Peninsular War. The Duke of Wellington was directing some operations in the field. An aide-de-camp rode up to him with the outline of a new attestation form, or something of that kind sent out by the War Office of those days.
It was advisable to fill up the top line in order that those who filled up the following lines might have an example of how it should be done. The question was, Whose name should be put in there? The aide-de-camp thought the Duke would mention the first name that came into his mind, but not so the Duke. He looked at it a moment, and said, "I must think. Come back to me in an hour."
During that hour he turned over in his mind the deeds of bravery he had seen performed by private soldiers. He thought of the brave deeds of soldiers in the Peninsular Campaign. And then his mind went back to India, and at last he said to himself, "Yes, that was the bravest deed I ever saw performed by a private soldier." And when his aide-de-camp came back he said, "Put down Thomas Atkins." And "Thomas Atkins" it has been from that day to this. So the title enshrines the memory of a brave man, and I wonder if he, too, felt God "jolly near" him in the trenches.
"Jolly near!" It is a thought-provoking phrase. "Near!" Ah! yes, we know that, and if we can look up amidst the bursting shell and see, not the angry, but the smiling face of God, then the word "jolly," if not as we should put it, is at any rate expressive.
The "Eye-witness" with the British Army tells us something of what it is like in the trenches.
"After a short outburst of fire lasting perhaps for only three or four minutes the hostile trenches are obscured by a pall of smoke, in the midst of which can be seen the flashes of the shrapnel bursts and the miniature volcanoes of earth where the high explosive common shells burst in the soft clay soil. Then, if an infantry attack is to be launched, the cannonade suddenly ceases. There is a moment of suspense, and a swarm of khaki figures springs from our trenches and rushes across the fire-swept zone, possibly 100 yards in breadth. Instantly there breaks out the rattle of machine guns and musketry. There is some hesitation as the stormers reach the entanglements, and then, if the assault succeeds, they disappear into the enemy's trenches, leaving a few or many scatteredbodies lying in the track of their advance. Save at such moments as these there is often no movement whatever in the battle zone, for not a man, horse, or gun is to be seen, and there are periods of absolute stillness when, except for the sight of the deserted and ruined hamlets, the scene is one of peace and agricultural prosperity."
Yes, it is very quiet in the trenches. Not a head must appear over the top or death is the result. Quiet, yes; up to the knees, or sometimes up to the waist, in water, eating there, sleeping there, often dying there. We read of some trenches where the water was so deep that the wounded men were drowned. There was no place to put them, and they just fell into the water, and there they died.
Quiet, until the artillery has done its preparatory work, and then charge, charge, charge!
I do not wonder that a wounded soldier said to the Rev. T.J. Thorpe: "My mates used to tell me in barracks that they were infidels—they did not believe in God—but after their experiences in the trenches they have lost their infidelity. They pray now.There are no infidels in the trenches."
Said another soldier, "We leapt from our trenches singing a rowdy song, but in a minute I was praying as I never prayed before. My mates were praying. We were all praying, and I have been praying ever since."
I do not wonder that "there are no infidels in the trenches."
The Rev. Cuthbert J. Maclean (Church of England chaplain), writing from France on November 3, 1914, tells us that he had been in the trenches continually under fire for three weeks, and had not even had arough wash or taken off his boots. He has had several wonderful escapes from death, even being hit in the neck without, however, sustaining any injury.
"Four days ago," he says, "I spent some hours sitting in my 'funk-hole' in a trench, and then I left for a little exercise. About twenty minutes after I had moved out, a huge shell burst in the exact spot where I had been sitting for hours, and blew up the trench for some twenty yards."
It will be seen from this that the trenches are not always waist-deep or even knee-deep in water. It depends upon the weather. At first elaborate precautions were taken to make the trenches as comfortable as possible. They were deep and comparatively wide. All sorts of necessaries and, occasionally, luxuries were kept there. They were drawing-room and dining-room and kitchen.
But when the long continued rains came they were almost uninhabitable. Men stood in liquid mud, sometimes covered with frost. They stood day after day and suffered sorely. Many of them had to be invalided to the rear with rheumatism, and will never recover from the effect of those terrible days.
An elaborate system of network communication trenches was formed, communicating with the rear, but in the worst of the weather, the communication trenches became worse than the fire trenches, and in some cases the water in them was up to the necks of the men.
It was only when night fell that communication with the fire trenches was possible. Then it was that rations were conveyed to the men at the front—only then was it possible—and even in the dark it was a difficult and dangerous task. No light mustbe shown; to strike a match might be death. Says the non-commissioned officer to his men engaged in this hazardous task: "Whenever a searchlight is turned on you, or the country is lit up by a flare or a star shell, stand perfectly still. It's movement wot gives the show away. Keep still, an' they'll think you're a bush, or a tree, or what not. But as sure as yer move, you're a deader."
Under these circumstances, Christian work in the trenches would seem impossible, but the apparently impossible has been accomplished. The chaplains are from time to time with their men in the trenches. The experience of Mr. McLean has already been quoted, and many another might be added.
Christian men are there also in ever-increasing numbers, and these are themselves unofficial chaplains. We hear of at least one Methodist class meeting regularly held in the trenches, and there is many a prayer meeting there. Yes, and many a man has found his Saviour there, for the Lord Jesus is very near those who seek Him in the trenches.
Here is a sacred little letter scribbled in the trenches by a man who there gave himself to Christ:
"To my darling wife and children. Daddy fully surrendered to Jesus 20.11.14 at Ypres. Sudden death—sudden glory. Safe in the arms of Jesus."
A soldier, who has recently returned home for a brief rest after many weeks in the firing line and in the trenches, says that he is quite an altered man as the result of the war. As a boy he was never taught to pray; but in the trenches he began to pray, and prayed regularly. Hundreds of men, he says, are doing the same thing day by day. He also says that the men at the front expect and reckonupon the prayers of the people at home on their behalf.
And now a Salvation Army story. One day a man came into a Salvation Army hall in the East End of London, and when the officers were speaking to him they found that he had never been to a Salvation Army service before. They asked him what brought him there.
"In the trenches," he replied, "I made up my mind that the very first chance I had I'd come. You see, I was fighting next to a Salvationist. One morning he was hit and fell fatally wounded. I knelt beside him in the trench and asked if I could do anything for him.
"'Yes,' he said. 'In my pocket there is the address of my father and mother; if you live to get home, tell them how I died, and tell them that religion was good for me away from home in the trenches, and death has no terror for me.'
"I said, 'Yes, I'll tell them.'
"Then he opened his eyes and pulled me down. 'Supposing a shot came for you next,' he said, 'how would it be for you?' And although he only lived five minutes longer, he talked to me all that five minutes about my soul, trying to get me converted.
"Then he closed his eyes and died."
Yet another Salvation Army story. It is told in theWar Cryby "Leaguer" John Coombs of the 1st Gloucester Regiment:
"The battle of —— was in progress, and our trenches were being raked by the enemy's fire. We were expecting any moment to be told that the German guns would have to be silenced, and presently along the line came the order 'Charge!' We scrambledinto the open and rushed forward, met by a perfect hail of bullets. Many of our men bit the dust, but we who remained came to grips with the enemy. I cannot write of what happened then. The killing of men is a ghastly business!
"On the way back to the trenches I saw a poor German soldier trying to get to his water-bottle. He was in a fearful condition. I knelt down by his side. Finding his own water-bottle was empty, I gave him water from mine. Somewhat revived, he opened his eyes and saw my Salvation Army Leaguer's button.
"His drawn face lit up with a smile, and he whispered in broken English: 'Salvation Army? I also am a Salvation Soldier.' Then he felt for his Army badge. It was still pinned to his coat, though bespattered with blood.
"I think we both shed a few tears, and then I picked up his poor, broken body, and with as much tenderness as possible, for the terrible hail of death was beginning again, I carried him to the ambulance. But he was beyond human aid. When I placed him on the waggon he gave a gentle tug at my coat; thinking he wanted to say something, I bent low and listened, and he whispered: 'Jesus, safe with Jesus!'"
Sergeant-Major J. Moore, King's Own Yorkshire Light Infantry, tells us that he had often spoken to one non-commissioned officer on the claims of Christ. Three days ago, he says, he was walking from his company officer's trench to another part of the company, when a bullet struck through his greatcoat at the right arm, passed through his right service dress pocket, then over his heart, and out through his left pocket. He was not touched himself, but as he dropped into the trench a little bit stunned, and sawhow near he had been to death, he then and there lifted up his heart to the Lord, thanked Him, and gave his life to Him.
Sergeant-Major Moore tells another story of a lad brought up in a Sunday-school. He had had the best mother in the world, he said, but she was dead. He was sure she had gone to heaven. "Four days ago," says the sergeant-major, "his home-call came. Inside his war pay-book was found an envelope from his wife, and he had written the following while in the trenches:
Jesus! the name that charmsmyfears,That bidsmysorrows cease;'Tis music in the sinner's ears,'Tis life, and health, and peace.He breaks the power of cancelled sin,He sets the prisoners free;His blood can make the foulest clean,His bloodavailsforme.
Jesus! the name that charmsmyfears,That bidsmysorrows cease;'Tis music in the sinner's ears,'Tis life, and health, and peace.
He breaks the power of cancelled sin,He sets the prisoners free;His blood can make the foulest clean,His bloodavailsforme.
That was the last he was known to write."
Sunday-school teachers may take heart of cheer. The work that they were tempted to think was thrown away is taking root and bearing fruit in the trenches.
Another sergeant-major writes:
"We are not able to meet so well, owing to the scattered condition of the battalions. But we have managed, when things are a bit quiet, to steal from the trenches this week, and hold prayer, praise, and testimony meetings, and it would have done your heart good to hear the dear brothers testify to the saving and keeping power of our adorable Saviour, and every one felt drawn nearer to each other, and to God."
What does a charge from the trenches feel like to a Christian "Tommy" who is taking part in it? Listen to this:
"We were in the trenches the whole time. Sometimes we had burning sun, at others pouring rain, and at nights heavy dews soaked you. At the end the order came to fix bayonets for a charge; then I just put my hand over my eyes—so—and asked God to help me to do my duty like a man. We rose up and ran forward a little way, and then fell flat while the bullets and shrapnel flew over us like hail; then on again. We hadn't advanced very far before their artillery was cutting us up badly. Our adjutant and the two mates either side of me were shot dead. Then I was hit in the leg. It made me go right silly like, and I didn't know where I was for a bit. When I came to my mates had gone, so I crawled away as far as I could. I didn't want them Germans to get at me, sir.
"Thank you, sir; I'm just fine now. Doctor says I'm doing marvellous. It's through living a straight life, 'e says. There's nothing like keepin' respectable. As you say, sir, the Lord heard my prayer, and He must have spared me for a purpose. I hope to be back again soon, and give 'em some more socks."
And now it is time that we retired from the trenches and saw these men when they come out. We will not retire far, but just far enough to the rear to see the men as they retire, and watch others who are just going in.
Here is one who has got a trench to dig, and it strikes me as a very quaint ending to a quaint letter. He has told us in the letter of a comrade of his who, when wounded in the foot by a shrapnel shell, exclaimed,"Never mind; thank God, I still have one left." And he concludes by saying, "I could still go on relating my experiences, but I am just about to dig another trench, so I will close now with 1 Peter i. 5, 'Who are kept by the power of God through faith unto salvation.'"
Evidently he was thinking of divine things all the time, and as he dug his trench he might truly sing—
My hands are but engaged below,My heart is still with Thee.
My hands are but engaged below,My heart is still with Thee.
See them as they come out of the trenches! Some of them during the terrible weather about Christmas time had literally to be dragged out by their comrades, for they stuck fast in the mud.
Talk about arctic or antarctic regions! In those regions explorers can at any rate move forward or move back, but to the men in the trenches during the worst of the weather there has been no possibility of movement. They could not even drag one leg out and put it down again. Many of them beat their feet with their muskets, or anything that came to hand, to keepsomelife in them.
But their relief time has come. Look at them, caked with mud, unshaved and haggard. A few days in the trenches makes old men of them. March! How can they march? They just shuffle along as best they may, comrade helping comrade.
But actually baths have been provided; and while a good hot bath is being enjoyed, their clothes are cleaned and sterilised, and then a hot meal and a good sleep, and you would hardly believe these were the same men. But they have never been down-hearted—not they. They have "kept smiling," as they are so fond of saying.
COMFORTING A DYING GERMANCOMFORTING A DYING GERMAN.When "Tommy" asked what he could do for his late antagonist, the latter replied, "Nothing, unless you would be so good as to hold my hand until all is over."Drawn by F. Matania.ToList
COMFORTING A DYING GERMAN.When "Tommy" asked what he could do for his late antagonist, the latter replied, "Nothing, unless you would be so good as to hold my hand until all is over."Drawn by F. Matania.ToList
What stories they have of their experiences. Here is one who writes to the Rev. J.H. Bateson:
"I want you to praise and thank God with me for sparing my life last Thursday, when I had a narrow escape from death. The enemy started to shell our trenches at 3P.M.and continued until dark. One shell burst just outside the trench which I occupied with my section, blowing the trench right in and burying me in earth and mud. I was fast suffocating when God heard my prayer, and sent a corporal and private of my company who dug me out alive. Four of my section were buried up to the hips, but, praise God, they also were got out safely. Further along a shell burst right in the trench, blowing two men out of the trench, who were killed on the spot; a third was buried alive; a fourth was stunned and wandered out in front of the trench, and was shot through the head by the enemy and killed. We have had twenty-five days in the firing line out of the thirty days of November."
This soldier goes on to say that, when at last relieved from the trenches, he had held services in barns with some of his comrades, and had even been called upon to bury the dead. He closes his letter with the verse:
All the way my Saviour leads me;What have I to ask beside?Can I doubt His tender mercy,Who through life has been my Guide?Heavenly peace, divinest comfort,Here by faith in Him to dwell!For Iknow, whate'er befall me,Jesus doeth all things well.
All the way my Saviour leads me;What have I to ask beside?Can I doubt His tender mercy,Who through life has been my Guide?Heavenly peace, divinest comfort,Here by faith in Him to dwell!For Iknow, whate'er befall me,Jesus doeth all things well.
Mr. Bateson sends to theMethodist Timesa letter which he received from a Christian sergeant at thefront in January 1915. I quote it in full because it describes in such vivid detail the experiences of a Christian soldier in the trenches and during the charge. Only by listening to the men themselves can we fully realise what Christ is to the soldier, and how gloriously he is sustained in the most trying times.
"We are having some good times in serving the Master, both in the trenches and during rest periods in billets. It matters not where we are—we can still laugh and sing the praises of Him Who died that we might live. During the retirement, at the commencement of the campaign, when fatigued to the utmost, when drowsing or at least stumbling along as best I could, halts were given, and officers, non-commissioned officers and men simply fell down exhausted, you could notice here and there some kneeling in prayer. I have done the same, and after a few minutes in silent prayer, thanking our beloved Saviour for preserving us, I have gone off sound asleep, and have awakened and gone on again. Then with fresh vigour and a determined effort have managed to pass up and down the ranks under my command, to speak a few encouraging words and turn their thoughts heavenwards. At rest intervals I have managed to get one or two together for a Christian song and prayer, thank God for keeping us so well, and ask for strength to endure it all.
"Now, again, we are in the trenches. It is Sunday morning, my thoughts are of all in the Homeland, and more so about Him Who died for us, and as I think of it all out comes my Bible, and those who are near join in listening to a passage of Scripture; then a few words of prayer, then a chorus or two that we all know. We sing as heartily as if we were at homein our churches. Then over comes 'Jack Johnson.' For a time all is silent, excepting that lips are moving in fervent prayer—not through fear, but with thankfulness and praise. Glory! Glory!
"Another time we are in a different part of the country, and called upon to go into the attack. As we go, not seeing any danger, suddenly over us bursts a shrapnel and shells of the 'Jack Johnson' type, ploughing up the ground, and comrades fall. Some are killed outright; others are severely wounded. I rush here and there to assist with a handshake or a 'God bless you.' I pass on to lead those left, and then right into the thickest of the fray with heavy rifle and machine-gun fire. But nothing daunts the British soldier, and on we press until at last the enemy turns and runs in fear. Then we thank God for all His goodness in protecting and sparing us, and on we go, administering to the wounded and those whose life is fast ebbing away, and in a few words get the assurance that they hear the Saviour's welcome voice. I have felt Him so near at such times as these. Tears of joy and gladness—maybe of sorrow—well from the eyes. Jehovah is present, and after the busy day is done and the shades of night are falling, I again pursue my duties, collecting here and there a few men to establish a firing line and join up the gap between our regiment and those on the right. We start to work to dig ourselves in. When all is complete, we kneel reverently with a heart full of praise and thanks for being enabled to accomplish a little more for King and country, and, above all, to do something for others by grace and strength from on high.
"One day we had just finished trenching in a wood; it was Sunday afternoon. All was complete. I hadbeen reading to four others in my 'dug-out,' and prayed. We were holding a short service. I had just finished speaking, and we were heartily singing that beautiful hymn, 'All hail the power of Jesu's Name,' and had got through the third verse, when we were suddenly called to man our rifles, as the sentry had seen the enemy approaching and given us the warning. Over us scream harmlessly the big shells; some fall in front, some behind. Over comes the shrapnel and bursts over us; then the spurt of rifle-fire begins. But the beauty of it is we are not troubled with fear at all—who could be in the presence of the Master?—but go on singing the chorus 'Crown Him' right on to the finish, although the enemy is only 150 or 200 yards away."
"The beauty of it is we are not troubled with fear at all—who could be in the presence of the Master?" That sentence seems to sum up the situation. Christ is there and He is all-sufficient. Strong in His strength the Christian soldier goes anywhere and faces anything. How grandly old "Diadem" would sound as these Christian soldiers sang it in the battle charge—"And crown Him, crown Him Lord of all." There was nothing in the situation incongruous to them. They did not think of the Germans—only of their Lord and Saviour. And so they went right on. Some of them were sure to fall, but they did not think of that. The fact of Christ dominated them. Every other idea was "a grand impertinence." He was with them here, and He would be with them—yonder.
Sergeant-Major Moore gives us a picture of the King's Own Yorkshire Light Infantry. Writing to Mr. Bateson on December 17, he says:
"Last Tuesday, that is a week ago, they went intothe trenches when it was pouring with rain. They were wet through to the skin, and then had to enter trenches where the water was in the majority of cases up to the knee, and in some as high as the waist. On being relieved some had to be lifted up with drag ropes, and then they had to be helped to walk. Others, after taking their boots off, were unable to put them on again, and I saw several who could not walk at all.
"I was able to have a few quiet talks with some of the young men and older ones, who during the past month have surrendered to the claims of Jesus. Their bright faces told very plainly that they have found the pearl of great price, and can say, 'What a friend I have in Jesus.'"
What a picture!—weary and worn, but not sad. Having to be dragged out of the trenches, unable to walk, and yet with "bright faces." It reminds us of what the Rev. R. Winboult Harding says of a wounded man in hospital at Cambridge: "He is of the Coldstreams and the Glory Room. He has ten shrapnel wounds in his legs, but he has heaven in his face."
Now was the time for services. And if no chaplain were available, the men held meetings themselves.
Writes one, a corporal, to his chaplain: "I thank you for your letter, also for the books for the little services which I hold amongst my comrades when out of the trenches, and in billets, which is not often the case, I am sorry to say. However, if our meetings are not frequent, I praise God my prayers for my comrades are being daily offered for them, in and out of the trenches, and on the march. What a privilege to carry everything to God in prayer! Now it is Sunday night, the 20th, and I have just held a nice service among my comrades, who greatly enjoyed the singingand also the address. We came out of the trenches last night, and go in again on Monday, so far as we know."
After one such little service as these a corporal said to his lads before they lay down to sleep: "If any of you want to lead a Christian life, do so; I will see that no one interferes with you." Next day that corporal was killed.
And now was the opportunity of the chaplains. In the trenches they could only set an example of patient courage to the men and cheer them with words of faith and hope and love. But now they could get among them, hold services for them, and this they did incessantly. Chaplains of all denominations were thus engaged. We read of many united services,—a Church of England chaplain reading the prayers, the colonel of the regiment the lessons, and the Wesleyan chaplain giving the address, or vice versa. As the Rev. E.L. Watson (Baptist chaplain) says: "In the rush of work a chaplain has little time to inquireredenomination; he gives his help where most needed; he comes as a brother man and affords God's own consolation." The Psalmist said, "I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever." To him all life was sacred, every place the House of the Lord. It is the same at the front to-day, every place sacred—trenches, farmyards, cellars, aye, even pig-sties—the House of the Lord.
Lieutenant Grenfell, R.A.M.C, describes one such service where Mr. Watkins preached his sermon from the door of a pig-sty, while a number of young porkers slept within. The men illuminated the scene with the light from an acetylene operating lamp, and so were able to have a good sing. Those were tender moments. The pigs were forgotten, everything was forgotten butthe presence of God, and, wearied but not discouraged, they were able to say, "Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever."
Here, too, was the opportunity of showing kindness to one's enemy, which Tommy is always ready to show. Many a trembling German fallen into the hands of the British, terrified because of the frightful stories he has been told of British cruelty to prisoners, has been cheered by the kindly words and acts of British soldiers.
A young officer writing to theTimessays: "We are out to kill, and kill we do at any and every opportunity. But when all is done and the battle over, the splendid universal soldier spirit comes over all the men.... Just to give you some idea of what I mean, the other night four German snipers were shot on our wire. The next night our men went out and brought one in who was near and get-at-able, and buried him. They did it with just the same reverence and sadness as they do to our own dear fellows. I went to look at the grave the next morning, and one of the most uncouth-looking men in my company had placed a cross on the head of the grave, and had written on it:
Here lies a German,We don't know his name;He died bravely fightingFor his fatherland.
Here lies a German,We don't know his name;He died bravely fightingFor his fatherland.
"And under that 'Got mitt uns' (sic), that being the highest effort of all the men at German. Not bad for a blood-thirsty Briton, eh? Really that shows the spirit."
It does, and a noble spirit too.
God bless you, Thomas Atkins; here's your country's love to you.
God bless you, Thomas Atkins; here's your country's love to you.
Now was the opportunity also for the chaplains to dispense the gifts from home to the war-worn men. How delighted the men were with them, and how every gift was regarded as the gift of love! Even war has its bright side, and surely one of the brightest spots on the bright side of war has been the spontaneous offering of kindly hearts at home to our soldiers abroad. In almost every home in the land skilled and unskilled fingers have been at work. Knitting had almost become a lost art, but now every school-girl knits, and knits not for herself but for the soldiers.
And the men who could not knit found the money, and sent their own special gifts. How they rolled in! What delightful work they gave the chaplains and those associated with them! Cigars, tobacco, cigarettes, candles, matches, soap, socks, mittens, body belts, gloves—and so we might go on quoting almost every article the soldier needs. "You see," said one Tommy, "I've lost all my shirts but one—the one I'm wearing—and that's borrowed. Thanks very much, that's just what I wanted."
And the Indians, too, how they appreciated their gifts! One of them wrote this characteristic little letter to his chaplain—the Rev. A.E. Knott—who had come with them from India.
"Honourable and most gracious Captain Sahib, Padre Sahib,—We are all delighted with the things you have sent us. Sir, may God bless you that you have remembered us. It is very kind of you, and we are very pleased, and for the ladies, our gratitude,who like mothers have regarded us. May no sorrow befall them. From many men, many, many thanks and salaams; also from the writer many salaams."
So hearts were gladdened, and bodies made warm, and our soldiers thanked God and took courage when they realised that they were not forgotten by "the old folks at home."
And now it is time to sum up this chapter. What is the general impression that it leaves?
The whole scene is weird in the extreme. Darkness hangs over the trenches. The work is done for the most part at night. When those of us at home are sleeping, our brothers and sons at the front are charging with the bayonet through the deep darkness. Others are quietly moving backwards and forwards—backward with the wounded, forward with food and reinforcements. Snow and rain and frost! Shrapnel, and rifle fire, and "Jack Johnsons"! Day after day, week after week, even month after month! The monotony of the day must be fearful, the horrors of the night recall the descriptions of theInferno. I do not wonder that, in some cases, nerves have given way, and men have had to be carried to the rear suffering from complete nervous collapse.
But courage has never failed, though nerves have become unstrung. There used to be a story told in Aldershot of an officer who was about to take part in his first battle. His legs were trembling so that he could hardly sit his horse. He looked down at his shaking legs and said, "You're shaking, are you? and you would shake more if you knew whereIwas going to take you to-day, so let us get on." That is the highest courage, which realises and fears and yet goes.
This courage our soldiers in the trenches havepossessed in the highest degree. The charge brought against them is that they have exposed themselves to the fire of the enemy. I do not wonder. They intend to "get on," however much they fear.
And through it all, as Tommy would say, they have "kept smiling." Wet through to the skin, or nipped by frost; sleepless for days together, only getting provisions replenished by night, comrades falling by their side! But they have "kept smiling."
And what about theChristiansoldier? He has had all these qualities—for to none of his comrades is he inferior in courage. But he has had another—an added quality. Something—Someone—who has given him peace in the midst of privation and danger; Someone who has enabled him to exult in the battle. He has had a light in the darkness possessed by none else.
As I have written this chapter the words of Isaiah have been continually in my mind,—"But there shall be no gloom to her that was in anguish. In the former time He brought into contempt the land of Zebulon and the land of Naphtali, but in the latter time hath he made it glorious.... The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light, they that dwelt in the land of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shined."
Our soldiers have been called to walk in darkness but they have seen a great Light. They, too, havedweltin the land of the shadow of death, and uponthemalso hath the Light shined. And so there is no "gloom" for them. It may be night all around, but the sun shines uponthem, and it is always day.
The problem of death has been greatly puzzling us at home—the death of thousands of our best youngmanhood. Goethe says, "The spectacle of nature is always new, for she is always renewing the spectators. Life is her most exquisite invention; and death is her expert contrivance to get plenty of life." We probe into his meaning, and during these months begin to understand.
A "PADRE" HOLDING A SUNDAY EVENING SERVICE ON THE FIELD.From the drawing by A. Michael.A "PADRE" HOLDING A SUNDAY EVENING SERVICE ON THE FIELD.ToList
From the drawing by A. Michael.
A "PADRE" HOLDING A SUNDAY EVENING SERVICE ON THE FIELD.ToList
But the Christian soldier has no difficulty. Death is to him but an incident. Here and yonder he is in the presence of his King. He advances to his death singing "Crown Him," and then wakes up astonished to receive his own crown of life.