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The  Grey  Wave 


THE  GREY  WAVE 

By    Major    A.    Hamilton    Gibbs 

With   an   introduction   by   Philip    Gibbs 


« 


LOS^DO:^:   HUTCHIKSOK  &   CO 
.:■    PATER3^0STER   ROW   1920    .:■ 


o 


My  dear  Mrs.  Poole 

I  dedicate  this  book  to  you  because 
your  house  has  been  a  home  to  me  for 
so  many  years,  and  because,  having 
opened  my  eyes  to  the  fact  that  it  was 
my  job  to  join  up  in  1914,  your  kindness 
and  help  were  unceasing  during  the 
course  of  the  war. 

Yours  affectionately, 

ARTHUR  HAMILTON  GIBBS 

Metz,  January,  1919 


CONTENTS 
PART  I 

PAGE 

The  Ranks         ,        .        .        .         .        •        .        •        i 

PART  II 
,  Ubique 73 

PART  III 
The  Western  Front  .•.•••     ^23 

PART  IV 
The  Armistice    ...  .  .        .    263 


INTRODUCTION 

There  seems  no  reason  to  me  why  I  should  write  a 
preface  to  my  brother's  book  except  that  I  have  been, 
as  it  were,  a  herald  of  war  proclaiming  the  achievements 
of  knights  and  men-at-arms  in  this  great  conflict  that 
has  passed,  and  so  may  take  up  my  scroll  again  on  his 
behalf,  because  here  is  a  good  soldier  who  has  told,  in  a 
good  book,  his  story  of 

"  most  disastrous  chances  of  moving  accidents 
by  flood  and  field  ;  of  hair-breadth  'scapes  i'  the 
imminent-deadly  breach." 
That  he  was  a  good  soldier  I  can  say  not  because 
my  judgment  is  swayed  by  brotherly  partiality,  but 
because  I  saw  him  at  his  job,  and  heard  the  opinions 
of  his  fellow  officers,  which  were  immensely  in  his  favour. 
"  Your  brother  is  a  bom  soldier,"  said  my  own  Chief 
who  was  himself  a  gallant  officer  and  had  a  quick  eye 
for  character.  I  think  that  was  true.  The  boy  whom 
once  I  wheeled  in  a  go-cart  when  he  was  a  shock-headed 
Peter  and  I  the  elder  brother  with  a  sense  of  responsibility 
towards  him,  had  grown  up  before  the  war  into  a  strong 
man  whose  physical  prowess  as  an  amateur  pugilist, 
golfer,  archer  (in  any  old  sport)  was  quite  outside  my 
sphere  of  activities,  which  were  restricted  to  watching 
the  world  spin  round  and  recording  its  movements  by 
quick  penmanship.  Then  the  war  came  and  like  all  the 
elder  brothers  of  England  I  had  a  quick  kind  of  heart- 
beat when  I  knew  that  the  kid  brother  had  joined  up  and 

ix 


X  Introduction 

in  due  time  would  have  to  face  the  music  being  played 
by  the  great  orchestra  of  death  across  the  fields  of  life. 

I  saw  the  war  before  he  did,  knew  the  worst  before 
he  guessed  at  the  lesser  evils  of  it,  heard  the  crash  of 
shell  fire,  went  into  burning  and  bombarded  towns, 
helped  to  carry  dead  and  wounded,  while  he  was  training 
in  England  under  foul-mouthed  sergeants — training  to 
learn  how  to  fight,  and,  if  need  be,  how  to  die,  like  a  little 
gentleman.  But  I  from  the  first  was  only  the  onlooker, 
the  recorder,  and  he  was  to  be,  very  quickly,  one  of  the 
actors  in  the  drama,  up  to  his  neck  in  the  "  real  thing." 
His  point  of  view  was  to  be  quite  different  from  mine, 
I  saw  the  war  in  the  mass,  in  its  broad  aspects  and  move- 
ments from  the  front  line  trenches  to  the  Base,  from  one 
end  of  the  front  to  the  other.  I  went  into  dirty  places, 
but  did  not  stay  there.  I  went  from  one  little  corner 
of  hell  to  another,  but  did  not  dwell  in  its  narrow  boun- 
daries long  enough  to  get  its  intimate  details  of  hellishness 
burnt  into  my  body  and  soul.  He  did.  He  had  not  the 
same  broad  vision  of  the  business  of  war — appalling  in 
its  vastness  of  sacrifice  and  suffering,  wonderful  in  its 
mass-heroism — but  was  one  little  ant  in  a  particular 
muck-heap  for  a  long  period  of  time,  until  the  stench 
of  it,  the  filth  of  it,  the  boredom  of  it,  the  futility  of 
it,  entered  into  his  very  being,  and  was  part  of  him 
as  he  was  part  of  it.  His  was  the  greater  knowledge. 
He  was  the  sufferer,  the  victim.  Our  ways  lay  apart 
for  a  long  time.  He  became  a  ghost  to  me,  during  his 
long  spell  in  Salonica,  and  I  thought  of  him  only  as  a 
ghost  figure  belonging  to  that  other  life  of  mine  which 
I  had  known  "  before  the  war,"  that  far-off  period  of 
peace  which  seemed  to  have  gone  forever.  Then  one 
day  I  came  across  him  again  out  in  Flanders  in  a  field 
near  Armenti^res,  and  saw  how  he  had  hardened  and 
grown,  not  only  in  years,  but  in  thoughtfulness  and  know- 


Introduction  xi 

ledge.  He  was  a  commander  of  men,  with  the  power  of 
life  and  death  over  them.  He  was  a  commander  of  guns 
with  the  power  of  death  over  human  creatures  lurking 
in  holes  in  the  earth,  invisible  creatures  beyond  a  hedge 
of  barbed  wire  and  a  line  of  trench.  But  he  also  was 
under  the  discipline  of  other  powers  with  higher  command 
than  his — ^who  called  to  him  on  the  telephone  and  told 
him  to  do  things  he  hated  to  do,  but  had  to  do,  things 
which  he  thought  were  wrong  to  do,  but  had  to  do  ;  and 
among  those  otKer  powers,  disciplining  his  body  and  soul, 
was  German  gun-power  from  that  other  side  of  the 
barbed-wire  hedge,  always  a  menace  to  him,  always 
teasing  him  with  the  chance  of  death, — a  yard  this  way, 
a  yard  that,  as  I  could  see  by  the  shell-holes  round  about 
his  gun-pits,  following  the  track  of  his  field-path,  clustering 
in  groups  outside  the  little  white  house  in  which  he  had 
his  mess.  I  studied  this  brother  of  mine  curiously. 
How  did  he  face  all  the  nerve-strain  under  which  I  had 
seen  many  men  break  ?  He  was  merry  and  bright 
(except  for  sudden  silences  and  a  dark  look  in  his  eyes 
at  times).  He  had  his  old  banjo  with  him  and  tinkled 
out  a  tune  on  it.  How  did  he  handle  his  men  and  junior 
officers  ?  They  seemed  to  like  him  "  this  side  idolatry," 
yet  he  had  a  grip  on  them,  and  demanded  obedience,  which 
they  gave  with  respect.  Queer  !  My  kid-brother  had 
learned  the  trick  of  command.  He  had  an  iron  hand 
under  a  velvet  glove.  The  line  of  his  jaw,  his  straight 
nose  (made  straighter  by  that  boxing  in  his  old  Oxford 
days)  were  cut  out  for  a  job  like  this.  He  looked  the 
part.  He  was  born  to  it.  All  his  training  had  led  up  to 
this  soldier's  job  in  the  field,  though  I  had  not  guessed 
so  when  I  wheeled  him  in  that  old  go-cart. 

For  me  he  had  a  slight  contempt,  which  he  will  deny 
when  he  reads  this  preface.  Though  a  writer  of  books 
before  the  war,  he  had  now  the  soldier's  scorn  of  the 


xii  Introduction 

chronicler.  It  hurt  him  to  see  my  green  arm-band, 
my  badge  of  shame.  That  I  had  a  motor-car  seemed 
to  him,  in  his  stationary  exile,  the  sign  of  a  soft  job — 
as,  compared  with  his,  it  was — disgraceful  in  its  luxury. 
From  time  to  time  I  saw  him,  and,  in  spite  of  many 
narrow  escapes  under  heavy  shelling,  he  did  not  change, 
but  was  splendidly  cheerful.  Even  on  the  eve  of  the 
great  German  offensive  in  March  of  19 18,  when  he  took 
me  to  see  his  guns  dug  in  under  the  embankment 
south  of  St.  Quentin,  he  did  not  seem  apprehensive  of  the 
awful  ordeal  ahead  of  him.  I  knew  more  than  he  did 
about  that.  I  knew  the  time  and  place  of  its  coming, 
and  I  knew  that  he  was  in  a  very  perilous  position. 
We  said  "  so  long  "  to  each  other  at  parting,  with  a  grip 
of  hands,  and  I  thought  it  might  be  the  last  time  I  should 
see  him.  It  was  I  think  ten  days  later  when  I  saw  him, 
and  in  that  time  much  had  happened,  and  all  that  time 
I  gave  him  up  as  lost.  Under  the  overwhelming  weight 
of  numbers — 114  Divisions  to  48 — the  British  line 
had  broken,  and  fighting  desperately,  day  by  day, 
our  men  fell  back  mile  after  mile  with  the  enemy  out- 
flanking them,  cutting  off  broken  battalions,  threatening 
to  cut  off  vast  bodies  of  men.  Every  day  I  was  in  the 
swirl  of  that  Retreat,  pushing  up  to  its  rearguards,  seeing 
with  increasing  dismay  the  fearful  wreckage  of  our 
organization  and  machine  of  war  which  became  for  a 
little  while  like  the  broken  springs  of  a  watch,  with 
Army,  Corps,  and  Divisional  staffs,  entirely  out  of  touch 
with  the  fighting  units  owing  to  the  break-down  of  all 
lines  of  communication.  In  that  tide  of  traffic,  of  men, 
and  guns,  and  transport,  I  made  a  few  inquiries  about 
that  brother  of  mine.  Nobody  had  seen,  or  heard  of  his 
battery.  I  must  have  been  close  to  him  at  times  in 
Noyon,  and  Guiscard  and  Ham,  but  one  individual 
was  like  a  needle  in  a  bunch  of  hay,  and  the  enemy 


Introduction  xiii 

had  rolled  over  in  a  tide,  and  there  did  not  seem  to 
me  a  chance  of  his  escape.  Then,  one  morning,  in  a 
village  near  Poix,  when  I  asked  a  gunner-officer  whether 
he  had  seen  my  brother's  battery,  he  said,  "  Yes — 
two  villages  up  that  road/'  "  Do  you  happen  to  know 
Major  Gibbs  ?  "  "  Yes  ...  I  saw  him  walking  along 
there  a  few  minutes  ago." 

It  was  like  hearing  that  the  dead  had  risen  from 
the  grave. 

Half  an  hour  later  we  came  face  to  face. 

He  said :  ?> 

"  Hulloa,  old  man  !  " 

And  I  said  : 

''  Hulloa,  young  fellow  !  " 

Then  we  shook  hands  on  it,  and  he  told  me  some 
of  his  adventures,  and  I  marvelled  at  him,  because 
after  a  wash  and  shave  he  looked  as  though  he  had 
just  come  from  a  holiday  at  Brighton  instead  of  from 
the  Valley  of  Death.  He  was  as  bright  as  ever,  and 
I  honestly  believe  even  now  that  in  spite  of  all  his  danger 
and  suffering,  he  had  enjoyed  the  horrible  thrills  of 
his  adventures.  It  was  only  later  when  his  guns  were 
in  action  near  Albert  that  I  saw  a  change  in  him.  The 
constant  shelling,  and  the  death  of  some  of  his  officers 
and  men,  had  begun  to  tell  on  him  at  last.  I  saw  that 
his  nerve  was  on  the  edge  of  snapping,  as  other  men's 
nerves  had  snapped  after  less  than  his  experiences,  and 
I  decided  to  rescue  him  by  any  means  I  could.  ...  I 
had  the  luck  to  get  him^out  of  that  hole  in  the  earth 
just  before  the  ending  of  the  war. 

Now  I  have  read  his  book.  It  is  a  real  book.  Here 
truthfully,  nakedly,  vividly,  is  the  experience  not  only 
of  one  soldier  in  the  British  Army,  but  of  thousands, 
and  hundreds  of  thousands.  All  our  men  went  through 
the  training  he  describes,  were  shaped  by  its  hardness 


xiv  Introduction 

and  its  roughness,  were  trampled  into  obedience  of  soul 
and  body  by  its  heavy  discipline.  Here  is  the  boredom 
of  war,  as  well  as  its  thrill  of  horror,  that  devastating 
long-drawn  Boredom  which  is  the  characteristic  of  war 
and  the  cause  of  much  of  its  suffering.  Here  is  the  sense 
of  futility  which  sinks  into  the  soldier's  mind,  tends 
to  sap  his  mental  strength  and  embitters  him,  so  that 
the  edge  is  taken  off  his  enthusiasm,  and  he  abandons 
the  fervour  of  the  ideal  with  which  he  volunteered. 

There  is  a  tragic  bitterness  in  the  book,  and  that 
is  not  peculiar  to  the  temperament  of  the  author,  but  a 
general  feeling  to  be  found  among  masses  of  demobilized 
officers  and  men,  not  only  of  the  British  Armies,  but  of 
the  French,  and  I  fancy,  also,  of  the  American  forces. 
What  is  the  cause  of  that  ?  Why  this  spirit  of  revolt 
on  the  part  of  men  who  fought  with  invincible  courage 
and  long  patience  ?  It  will  seem  strange  to  people 
who  have  only  seen  war  from  afar  that  an  officer  like 
this,  decorated  for  valour,  early  in  the  field,  one  of  the 
old  stock  and  tradition  of  English  loyalty,  should  utter 
such  fierce  words  about  the  leaders  of  the  war,  such  ironi- 
cal words  about  the  purpose  and  sacrifice  of  the  world 
conflict.  He  seems  to  accuse  other  enemies  than  the 
Germans,  to  turn  round  upon  Allied  statesmen,  philo- 
sophers, preachers,  mobs  and  say,  "  You  too  were  guilty 
of  this  fearful  thing.  Your  hands  are  red  also  with 
the  blood  of  youth.  And  you  forget  already  those  who 
saved  you  by  their  sacrifice." 

That  is  what  he  says,  clearly,  in  many  passionate 
paragraphs ;  and  I  can  bear  witness  that  his  point 
of  view  is  shared  by  many  other  soldiers  who  fought 
in  France.  These  men  were  thinking  hard  when  day 
by  day  they  were  close  to  death.  In  their  dug-outs 
and  ditches  they  asked  of  their  own  souls  enormous 
questions.    They    asked   whether    the    war   was    being 


Introduction  xv 

fought  really  for  Liberty,  really  to  crush  Militarism, 
really  on  behalf  of  Democracy,  or  whether  to  bolster 
up  the  same  system  on  our  side  of  the  lines  which  had 
produced  the  evils  of  the  German  menace.  Was  it  not  a 
conflict  between  rival  Powers  imbued  with  exactly 
the  same  philosophy  of  Imperialism  and  Force  ?  Was 
it  not  the  product  of  commercial  greed,  diplomatic 
fears  and  treacheries  and  intrigues  (conducted  secretly 
over  the  heads  of  the  peoples)  and  had  not  the  German 
people  been  led  on  to  their  villainy  by  the  same  spell- 
words  and  "  dope  "  which  had  been  put  over  our  peoples, 
so  that  the  watch-words  of  "  patriotism,"  "  defensive 
warfare  "  and  "  Justice  "  had  been  used  to  justify  this 
massacre  in  the  fields  of  Europe  by  the  Old  Men  of  all 
nations,  who  used  the  Boys  as  pawns  in  their  Devil's 
game  ?  The  whole  structure  of  Europe  had  been  wrong. 
The  ministers  of  the  Christian  churches  had  failed  Christ 
by  supporting  the  philosophy  of  Force,  and  diplomatic 
wickedness  and  old  traditions  of  hatred.  All  nations 
were  involved  in  this  hark-back  to  the  jungle-world, 
and  Germany  was  only  most  guilty  because  first  to 
throw  off  the  mask,  most  efficient  in  the  mechanism  of 
Brute-government,  most  logical  in  the  damnable  laws  of 
that  philosophy  which  poisoned  the  spirit  of  the  modem 
world. 

That  was  the  conclusion  to  which,  rightly  or  wrongly 
— I  think  rightly — many  men  arrived  in  their  secret 
conferences  with  their  own  souls  when  death  stood  near 
the  door  of  their  dug-outs. 

That  sense  of  having  fought  for  ideals  which  were 
not  real  in  the  purpose  of  the  war  embittered  them  ; 
and  they  were  most  bitter  on  their  home-coming,  after 
Armistice,  or  after  Peace,  when  in  England  they  found 
that  the  victory  they  had  won  was  being  used  not  to 
inaugurate  a  new  era  of  liberty,  but  to  strengthen  the 


xvi  Introduction 

old  laws  of  "  Might  and  Right,"  the  old  tyrannies  of 
government  without  the  consent  of  peoples,  the  old 
Fetish  worship  of  hatred  masking  under  the  divine  name 
of  Patriotism.  Disillusionment,  despair,  a  tragic  rage, 
filled  the  hearts  of  fighting  men  who  after  all  their  sacri- 
fices found  themselves  unrewarded,  unemployed,  and 
unsatisfied  in  their  souls.  Out  of  this  psychological 
distress  have  come  civil  strife  and  much  of  the  unrest 
which  is  now  at  work. 

My  brother's  book  reveals  something  of  this  at  work 
in  his  own  mind,  and,  as  such,  is  a  revelation  of  all  his 
comrades.  I  do  not  think  he  has  yet  found  the  key  to 
the  New  Philosophy  which  will  arise  out  of  all  that  ex- 
perience, emotion,  and  thought ;  just  as  the  mass  of 
fighting  men  are  vague  about  the  future  which  must 
replace  the  bad  old  past.  They  are  perplexed,  illogical, 
passionate  without  a  clear  purpose.  But  undoubtedly 
out  of  their  perplexities  and  passion  the  New  Era  will 
be  born. 

So  I  salute  my  "  kid-brother  "  as  one  of  the  makers 
of  History  greater  than  that  which  crushed  German 
militarism  and  punished  German  crimes  (which  were 
great),  and  I  wish  him  luck  with  this  book,  which  is 
honest,  vital,  and  reveaUng. 

PHILIP  GIBBS. 


PART    I 

THE  RANKS 


THE  GREY  WAVE 


IN  June,  1914, 1  came  out  of  a  hospital  in  Philadelphia 
after  an  operation,  faced  with  two  facts.  One  was 
that  I  needed  a  holiday  at  home  in  England,  the  second 
that  after  all  hospital  expenses  were  paid  I  had  five 
dollars  in  the  world.  But  there  was  a  half -finished  novel 
in  my  trunk  and  the  last  weeks  of  the  theatrical  tour 
which  had  brought  me  to  Philadelphia  would  tide  me  over. 
A  month  later  the  novel  was  bought  by  a  magazine  and 
the  boat  that  took  me  to  England  seemed  to  me  to  be 
the  tangible  result  of  concentrated  will  power.  "  Man 
proposes.  ..."  My  own  proposal  was  to  return  to 
America  in  a  month  or  six  weeks  to  resume  the  task  of 
carving  myself  a  niche  in  the  fiction  market. 

The  parting  advice  of  the  surgeon  had  been  that  I 
was  not  to  play  ball  or  ride  a  horse  for  at  least  six  months. 
The  green  sweeping  uplands  of  Buckinghamshire  greeted 
me  with  all  their  fragrance  and  a  trig  golf  course  gave 
me  back  strength  while  I  thought  over  ideas  for  a  new 
novel. 

Then  like  a  thunderbolt  the  word  "  War "  crashed 
out.  Its  full  significance  did  not  break  through  the 
ego  of  one  who  so  shortly  would  be  leaving  Europe 
far  behind  and  to  whom  a  personal  career  seemed  of 
vital   importance.     England   was   at   war.    The   Army 


4  The  Grey  Wave 

would  te  bucklirxg  on  its  sword,  running  out  its  guns ; 
the  Navy  clearing  decks  for  action.  It  was  their  job, 
not  mine.  The  Boer  War  had  only  touched  upon  my 
childish  consciousness  as  a  shouting  in  the  streets,  cheer- 
ing multitudes  and  brass  bands.  War,  as  such,  was 
something  which  I  had  never  considered  as  having  any 
personal  meaning  for  me.  Politics  and  war  were  the 
business  of  politicians  and  soldiers.  My  business  was 
writing  and  I  went  up  to  London  to  arrange  accommo- 
dations on  the  boat  to  New  York. 

London  was  different  in  those  hot  August  days. 
Long  queues  waited  all  day, — not  outside  theatres, 
but  outside  recruiting  offices, — city  men,  tramps,  brick- 
layers, men  of  all  types  and  ages  with  a  look  in  their 
eyes  that  puzzled  me.  Every  taxi  hoot  drew  one's  atten- 
tion to  the  flaring  poster  on  each  car,  ''  Young  Men  of 
England,  Your  King  and  Country  need  you  1  " 

How  many  millions  of  young  men  there  were  who 
would  be  glad  to  answer  that  call  to  adventure, — an 
adventure  which  surely  could  not  last  more  than  six 
months  ?  It  did  not  call  me.  My  adventure  lay  in 
that  wonderland  of  sprouting  towers  that  glistened 
behind  the  Statue  of  Liberty. 

But  day  by  day  the  grey  wave  swept  on,  tearing 
down  all  veils  from  before  the  altar  of  reality.  Belgian 
women  were  not  merely  bayoneted. 

"  Why  don't  we  stop  this  ?  What  is  the  Army  doing  ?  ' ' 
How  easy  to  cry  that  out  from  the  leafy  lanes  of  Bucking- 
hamshire. A  woman  friend  of  mine  travelled  up  in  the 
train  with  me  one  morning,  a  friend  whose  philosophy 
and  way  of  life  had  seemed  to  me  more  near  the  ideal 
than  I  had  dreamed  of  being  able  to  reach.  She  spoke 
of  war,  impersonally  and  without  recruiting  propaganda. 
All  unconsciously  she  opened  my  eyes  to  the  unpleasant 
fact  that  it  was  my  war  too.    Suppose  I  had  returned 


The  Ranks  5 

to  New  York  and  the  Germans  had  jumped  the  tiny 
Channel  and  "  bayoneted  "  her  and  her  children  ?  Could 
I  ever  call  myself  a  man  again  ? 

I  took  a  taxi  and  went  round  London.  Every  recruit- 
ing office  looked  like  a  four-hour  wait.  I  was  in  a  hurry. 
So  I  went  by  train  to  Bedford  and  found  it  crowded 
with  Highlanders.  When  I  asked  the  way  to  the  recruit- 
ing office  they  looked  at  me  oddly.  Their  speech  was 
beyond  my  London  ear,  but  a  pointing  series  of  arms 
showed  it  to  me. 

By  a  miracle  the  place  was  empty  except  for  the 
doctor  and  an  assistant  in  khaki. 

"  I  want  to  join  the  Cavalry,"  said  I. 

**  Very  good,  sir.  Will  you  please  take  off  your 
clothes." 

It  was  the  last  time  a  sergeant  called  me  sir  for  many 
a  long  day. 

I  stripped,  was  thumped  and  listened  to  and  gave 
description  of  tattoo  marks  which  interested  that 
doctor  greatly.  The  appendix  scar  didn't  seem  to 
strike  him.  "  What  is  it  ?  "  said  he,  looking  at  it 
curiously,  and  when  I  told  him  merely  grunted.  Shades 
of  Shaw  !  I  thought  with  a  jump  of  that  Philadelphia 
surgeon.  "  Don't  ride  a  horse  for  six  months."  Only 
three  had  elapsed. 

I  was  passed  fit.  I  assured  them  that  I  was  English 
on  both  sides,  unmarried,  not  a  spy,  and  was  finally 
given  a  bundle  of  papers  and  told  to  take  them  along  to 
the  barracks. 

The  barracks  were  full  of  roughnecks  and  it  occurred 
to  me  for  the  first  time,  as  I  listened  to  them  being  sworn 
in,  that  these  were  my  future  brother  soldiers.  What 
price  Mulvaney,  Learoyd  and  Ortheris  ?  thought  I. 

I  repeated  the  oath  after  an  hour's  waiting  and  swore 
to  obey  orders  and  respect  superior  officers  and  in  short 


6  The  Grey  Wave 

do  my  damnedest  to  kill  the  King's  enemies.  I've  done 
the  last  but  when  I  think  of  the  first  two  that  oath  makes 
me  smile. 

However,  I  swore,  received  two  shillings  and  three- 
pence for  my  first  two  days'  pay  and  was  ordered  to 
report  at  the  Cavalry  Depot,  Woolwich,  the  following 
day,  September  3,  19 14. 

The  whole  business  had  been  done  in  a  rush  of  exalta- 
tion that  didn't  allow  me  to  think.  But  when  I  stepped 
out  into  the  crowded  streets  with  that  two  shillings  ratthng 
in  my  pocket  I  felt  a  very  sober  man.  I  knew  nothing 
whatever  of  soldiering.  I  hardly  even  knew  a  corporal 
from  a  private  or  a  rifle  from  a  ramrod,  and  here  I  was 
Trooper  A.  H.  Gibbs,  9th  Lancers,  with  the  sullen  rumble 
of  heavy  guns  just  across  the  Channel — growing  louder. 


Woolwich  ! 

Bad  smells,  bad  beer,  bad  women,  bad  language  ! 
— ^Those  early  days  !  None  of  us  who  went  through 
the  ranks  will  ever  forget  the  tragedy,  the  humour, 
the  real  democracy  of  that  period.  The  hand  of  time 
has  already  coloured  it  with  the  glow  of  romance,  but 
in  the  living  it  was  crude  and  raw,  like  waking  up  to 
find  your  nightmare  real. 

Oxford  University  doesn't  give  one  much  of  an  idea 
of  how  to  cope  with  the  class  of  humanity  at  that  Depot 
in  spite  of  Ruskin  Hall,  the  working-man's  college,  of 
which  my  knowledge  consisted  only  of  climbing  over 
their  wall  and  endeavouring  to  break  up  their  happy  home. 
But  the  Ruskin  Hall  man  was  a  prince  by  the  side  of  those 
recruits.  They  came  with  their  shirts  sticking  out  of 
trousers  seats,  naked  toes  showing  out  of  gaping  boots, 


The  Ranks  7 

and  their  smell We  lay  at  night  side  by  side  on 

adjoining  bunks,  fifty  of  us  in  a  room.  They  had  spent 
their  two  days'  pay  on  beer,  bad  beer.  The  weather  was 
hot.  Most  of  them  were  stark  naked.  I'd  had  a  bath 
that  morning.     They  hadn't. 

The  room  was  enormous.  The  windows  had  no 
blinds.  The  moon  streamed  in  on  their  distorted  bodies 
in  all  the  twistings  of  uneasy  sleep.  Some  of  them 
smoked  cigarettes  and  talked.  Others  blasphemed  them 
for  talking,  but  the  bulk  snored  and  ground  their  teeth 
in  their  sleep. 

A  bugle  rang  out. 

Aching  in  every  limb  from  the  unaccustomed  hardness 
of  the  iron  bed  it  was  no  hardship  to  answer  the  call. 
There  were  lavatories  outside  each  room  and  amid  much 
sleepy  blasphemy  we  shaved,  those  of  us  who  had  razors, 
and  washed,  and  in  the  chill  of  dawn  went  down  to  a 
misty  common.  It  was  too  early  for  discipline.  There 
weren't  enough  N.C.O.'s,  so  for  the  first  few  days  we 
hung  about  waiting  for  breakfast  instead  of  doing  physical 
jerks. 

Breakfast !  One  thinks  of  a  warm  room  with  cereals 
and  coffee  and  eggs  and  bacon  with  a  morning  paper  and, 
if  there's  a  soot  in  our  cup,  a  sarcastic  reference  as  to 
cleanliness.    That  was  before  the  war. 

We  lined  up  before  the  door  of  a  gun  shed,  hundreds 
of  us,  shivering,  filing  slowly  in  one  by  one  and  having 
a  chunk  of  bread,  a  mug  of  tea  and  a  tin  of  sardines 
slammed  into  our  hands,  the  sardines  having  to  be  divided 
among  four. 

The  only  man  in  my  four  who  possessed  a  jack-knife 
to  open  the  tin  had  cleaned  his  pipe  with  it,  scraped  the 
mud  off  his  boots,  cleaned  out  his  nails  and  cut  up  plug 
tobacco.  Handy  things,  jack-knives.  He  proceeded  to 
hack  open  the  tin  and  scoop  out  sardines.     It  was  only 


8  The  Grey  Wave 

my  first  morning  and  my  stomach  wasn't  strong  in  those 
days.  I  disappeared  into  the  mist,  alone  with  my  dry 
bread  and  tea.     Hunger  has  taught  me  much  since  then. 

The  mist  rolled  up  later  and  daylight  showed  us  to 
be  a  pretty  tough  crowd.  We  were  presently  taken 
in  hand  by  a  lot  of  sergeants  who  divided  us  into  groups, 
made  lists  of  names  and  began  to  teach  us  how  to  march 
in  the  files,  and  in  sections, — the  elements  of  soldiering. 
Some  of  them  didn't  seem  to  know  their  left  foot  from 
their  right,  but  the  patience  of  those  sergeants  was  only 
equalled  by  the  cunning  of  their  blasphemy  and  the 
stolidity  of  their  victims. 

After  an  hour  of  it  we  were  given  a  rest  for  fifteen 
minutes,  this  time  to  get  a  handful  of  tobacco.  Then 
^t  went  on  again  and  again, — and  yet  again. 

The  whole  of  that  first  period  of  seven  days  was  a 
long  jumble  of  appalling  happenings ;  meals  served 
by  scrofulitic  hands  on  plates  from  which  five  other 
men's  leavings  and  grease  had  to  be  removed ;  bread 
cut  in  quarter  loaves  ;  meat  fat,  greasy,  and  stewed — 
always  stewed,  tea,  stewed  also,  without  appreciable 
milk,  so  strong  that  a  spoon  stood  up  in  it  unaided  ; 
sleeping  in  one's  clothes  and  inadequate  washing  in  that 
atmosphere  of  filth  indescribable ;  of  parades  to  me 
childish  in  their  elementariness ;  of  long  hours  in  the 
evening  with  nothing  to  do,  no  place  to  go,  no  man  to 
talk  to, — a  period  of  absolute  isolation  in  the  middle  of 
those  thousands  broken  only  by  letters  which  assumed 
a  paramount  importance,  constituting  as  they  did  one's 
only  link  with  all  that  one  had  left  behind,  that  other  life 
which  now  seemed  like  a  mirage. 

Not  that  one  regretted  the  step.  It  was  a  first-hand 
experience  of  life  that  only  Jack  London  or  Masefield 
could  have  depicted.  It  was  too  the  means  of  getting 
out  to  fight  the  Boche.    A  monotonous  means,  yes,  but 


The  Ranks  9 

every  day  one  learnt  some  new  drill  and  every  day  one 
was  thrilled  with  the  absolute  cold-blooded  reality  of  it 
all.  It  was  good  to  be  alive,  to  be  a  man,  to  get  one's 
teeth  right  into  things.  It  was  a  bigger  part  to  play  than 
that  of  the  boy  in  "  The  Blindness  of  Virtue." 


Two  incidents  stand  out  in  that  chrysalis  stage  of 
becoming  soldiers. 

One  was  a  sing-song,  spontaneously  started  among 
the  gun  sheds  in  the  middle  of  the  white  moonlight. 
One  of  the  recruits  was  a  man  who  had  earned  his  living 
— ^hideously  sarcastic  phrase  ! — by  playing  a  banjo  and 
singing  outside  public  houses.  He  brought  his  banjo 
into  the  army  with  him.     I  hope  he's  playing  still ! 

He  stuck  his  inverted  hat  on  the  ground,  lit  a  candle 
beside  it  in  the  middle  of  the  huge  square,  smacked  his 
dry  lips  and  drew  the  banjo  out  of  its  baize  cover. 

"  Perishin'  thirsty  weather,  Bill." 

He  volunteered  the  remark  to  me  as  to  a  brother. 

"  Going  to  play  for  a  drink  ?  "  I  asked. 

He  was  already  tuning.  He  then  sat  down  on  a 
large  stone  and  began  to  sing.  His  accompaniment 
was  generous  and  loud  and  perhaps  once  he  had  a  voice. 
It  came  now  with  but  an  echo  of  its  probable  charm, 
through  a  coating  of  beer  and  tobacco  and  years  of 
rough  living. 

It  was  extraordinary.  Just  he  sitting  on  the  stone, 
and  I  standing  smoking  by  his  side,  and  the  candle 
flickering  in  the  breeze,  and  round  us  the  hard  black 
and  white  buildings  and  the  indefinable  rumble  of  a 
great  life  going  on  somewhere  in  the  distance. 

Presently,  as  though  he  were  the  Pied  Piper,  men 


10  The  Grey  Wave 

came  in  twos  and  threes  and  stood  round  us,  forming 
a  circle. 

"  Give  us  the  '  Little  Grey  *Ome  in  the  West,'  George  !  " 

And  "  George,"  spitting  after  the  prolonged  senti- 
ment of  Thora,  struck  up  the  required  song.  At  the 
end  of  half  an  hour  there  were  several  hundred  men 
gathered  round  joining  in  the  choruses,  volunteering 
solos,  applauding  each  item  generously.  The  musician 
had  five  bottles  of  beer  round  his  inverted  hat  and  perhaps 
three  inside  him,  and  a  collection  of  coppers  was  taken 
up  from  time  to  time. 

They  chose  love  ballads  of  an  rdtra-sentimental  nature 
with  the  soft  pedal  on  the  sad  parts, — these  men  who 
to-morrow  would  face  certain  death.  How  little  did 
that  thought  come  to  them  then.  But  I  looked  round 
at  their  faces,  blandly  happy,  dirty  faces,  transformed 
by  the  moon  and  by  their  oath  of  service  into  the  faces 
of  crusaders. 

How  many  of  them  are  alive  to-day,  how  many  buried 
in  nameless  mounds  somewhere  in  that  silent  desolation  ? 
How  many  of  them  have  suffered  mutilation  ?  How 
many  of  them  have  come  out  of  it  untouched,  to  the 
waiting  arms  of  their  women  ?     Brothers,  I  salute  you. 

The  other  incident  was  the  finding  of  a  friend,  a 
kindred  spirit  in  those  thousands  which  accentuated 
one's  solitude. 

We  had  been  standing  in  a  long  queue  outside  the 
Quartermaster's  store,  being  issued  with  khaki  one 
by  one.  I  was  within  a  hundred  yards  of  getting  out- 
fitted when  the  Q.M.  came  to  the  door  in  person  and 
yelled  that  the  supply  had  run  out.  I  think  we  all 
swore.  The  getting  of  khaki  meant  a  vital  step  nearer 
to  the  Great  Day  when  we  should  cross  the  Channel. 
As  the  crowd  broke  away  in  disorder,  I  heard  a  voice 


The  Ranks  11 

with  an  '  h  *  say  "  How  perfectly  ruddy  !  "  I  could  have 
fallen  on  the  man's  neck  with  joy.  The  owner  of  it  was 
a  comic  sight.  A  very  battered  straw  hat,  a  dirty  handker- 
chief doing  the  duty  of  collar,  a  pair  of  grey  flannel  trousers 
that  had  been  slept  in  these  many  nights.  But  the 
face  was  clear  and  there  was  a  twinkle  of  humorous 
appreciation  in  the  blue  eye.  I  made  a  bee-line  for  that 
man.  I  don't  remember  what  I  said,  but  in  a  few  minutes 
we  were  swapping  names,  and  where  we  lived  and  what  we 
thought  of  it,  and  laughing  at  our  mutually  draggled 
garments. 

We  both  threw  reserve  to  the  wind  and  were  most 
un-English,  except  perhaps  that  we  may  have  looked 
upon  each  other  as  the  only  two  white  men  in  a  tribe 
of  savages.  In  a  sense  we  were.  But  it  was  like  finding 
a  brother  and  made  all  that  difference  to  our  immediate 
lives.  There  was  so  much  pent-up  feeling  in  both  of 
us  that  we  hadn't  been  able  to  put  into  words.  Never 
have  I  realized  the  value  and  comfort  of  speech  so  much, 
or  the  bond  established  by  sharing  experiences  and 
emotions. 


My  new-found  "brother's"  name  was  Bucks.  After 
a  few  more  days  of  drilling  and  marching  and  sergeant 
grilling,  we  both  got  khaki  and  spurs  and  cap  badges 
and  bandoliers,  and  we  both  bought  white  lanyards 
and  cleaning  appliances.  Smart  ?  We  made  a  point 
of  being  the  smartest  recruits  of  the  whole  bunch.  We 
felt  we  were  the  complete  soldier  at  last  and  although 
there  wasn't  a  horse  in  Woolwich  we  clattered  about  in 
spurs  that  we  burnished  to  the  glint  of  silver. 

And  then  began  the  second  chapter  of  our  military 


12  The  Grey  Wave 

career.  We  all  paraded  one  morning  and  were  told 
off  to  go  to  Tidworth  or  the  Curragh. 

Bucks  and  I  were  for  Tidworth  and  marched  side 
by  side  in  the  great  squad  of  us  who  tramped  in  step, 
singing  '*  Tipperary  "  at  the  top  of  our  lungs,  down  to 
the  railway  station. 

That  was  the  first  day  I  saw  an  officer,  two  officers 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  subalterns  of  our  own  regiment. 
It  gave  one  for  the  first  time  the  feeling  of  belonging 
to  a  regiment.  In  the  depot  at  Woolwich  were  9th 
Lancers,  5th  Dragoon  Guards,  and  i6th  Lancers.  Now 
we  were  going  to  the  9th  Lancer  barracks  and  those  two 
subalterns  typified  the  regiment  to  Bucks  and  me.  How 
we  eyed  them,  those  two  youngsters,  and  were  rather 
proud  of  the  aloof  way  in  which  they  carried  themselves. 
They  were  specialists.  We  were  novices  beginning  at 
the  bottom  of  the  ladder  and  I  wouldn't  have  changed 
places  with  them  at  that  moment  had  it  been  possible. 
As  an  officer  I  shouldn't  have  known  what  to  do  with 
the  mob  of  which  I  was  one.  I  should  have  been  awk- 
ward, embarrassed. 

It  didn't  occur  to  me  then  that  there  were  hundreds, 
thousands,  who  knew  as  little  as  we  did  about  the  Army, 
who  were  learning  to  be  second  lieutenants  as  we  were 
learning  to  be  troopers. 

We  stayed  all  day  in  that  train,  feeding  on  cheese 
and  bread  which  had  been  given  out  wrapped  in  news- 
papers, and  buns  and  biscuits  bought  in  a  rush  at  rail- 
way junctions  at  which  we  stopped  from  time  to  time. 
It  was  dark  when  we  got  to  Tidworth,  that  end-of-the- 
world  siding,  and  were  paraded  on  the  platform  and 
marched  into  barracks  whose  thousand  windows  winked 
cheerily  at  us  as  we  halted  outside  the  guardroom. 

There  were  many  important  people  like  sergeant- 
majors  waiting  for  us,  and  sergeants  who  called  them 


The  Ranks  13 

"  sir  "  and  doubled  to  carry  out  their  orders.  These 
latter  fell  upon  us  and  in  a  very  short  time  we  were 
divided  into  small  groups  and  marched  away  to  barrack 
rooms  for  the  night.  There  was  smartness  here,  dis- 
cipline. The  chaos  of  Woolwich  was  a  thing  of  the  past. 
Already  I  pictured  myself  being  promoted  to  lance- 
corporal,  the  proud  bearer  of  one  stripe,  picking  Boches 
on  my  lance  like  a  row  of  pigs, — and  I  hadn't  even  handled 
a  real  lance  as  yet ! 


Tidworth,  that  little  cluster  of  barrack  buildings  on 
the  edge  of  the  sweeping  downs,  golden  in  the  early 
autumn,  full  of  a  lonely  beauty  like  a  green  Sahara  with 
springs  and  woods,  but  never  a  house  for  miles,  and  no 
sound  but  the  sighing  of  the  wind  and  the  mew  of  the 
peewit !  Thus  I  came  to  know  it  first.  Later  the  rain 
turned  it  into  a  sodden  stretch  of  mud,  blurred  and 
terrible,  like  a  drunken  street-woman  blown  by  the  wind, 
filling  the  soul  with  shudders  and  despair. — The  barrack 
buildings  covered  perhaps  a  square  mile  of  ground, 
ranged  orderly  in  series,  officers'  quarters — as  far  removed 
from  Bucks  and  me  as  the  Carlton  Hotel — married 
quarters,  sergeants'  mess,  stables,  canteen,  riding  school, 
barrack  rooms,  hospital ;  like  a  small  city,  thriving  and 
busy,  dropped  from  the  blue  upon  that  patch  of  country. 

The  N.C.O.'s  at  Tidworth  were  regulars,  time-serving 
men  who  had  learnt  their  job  in  India  and  who  looked 
upon  us  as  a  lot  of  *'  perishin'  amatoors."  It  was  a  very 
natural  point  of  view.  We  presented  an  ungodly  sight, 
a  few  of  us  in  khaki,  some  in  "  blues,"  those  terrible 
garments  that  make  their  wearers  look  like  an  orphan's 
home,  but  most  in  civilian  garments  of  the  most  tattered 


14  The  Grey  Wave 

description.  Khaki  gave  one  standing,  self-respect, 
cleanliness,  enabled  one  to  face  an  officer  feeling  that  one 
was  trying  at  least  to  be  a  soldier. 

The  barrack  rooms  were  long  and  whitewashed,  a  stove 
in  the  middle,  rows  of  iron  beds  down  either  side  to  take 
twenty  men  in  peace  times.  As  it  was  we  late  comers 
slept  on  "biscuits,"  square  hard  mattresses,  laid  down 
between  the  iron  bunks,  and  mustered  nearly  forty  in 
a  room.  In  charge  of  each  room  was  a  lance-corporal 
or  corporal  whose  job  it  was  to  detail  a  room  orderly  and 
to  see  furthermore  that  he  did  his  job,  i.e.,  keep  the  room 
swept  and  garnished,  the  lavatory  basins  washed,  the 
fireplace  blackleaded,  the  windows  cleaned,  the  step 
swept  and  whitewashed. 

Over  each  bed  was  a  locker  (without  a  lock,  of  course) 
where  each  man  kept  his  small  kit, — razor,  towel,  tooth- 
brush, blacking  and  his  personal  treasures.  Those  who 
had  no  bed  had  no  locker  and  left  things  beneath  the 
folded  blankets  of  the  beds. 

How  one  missed  one's  household  goods  !  One  learnt 
to  live  like  a  snail,  with  everything  in  the  world  upon 
one's  person, — everything  in  the  world  cut  down  to  the 
barest  necessities,  pipe  and  baccy,  letters,  a  photograph, 
knife,  fork  and  spoon,  toothbrush,  bit  of  soap,  tooth  paste, 
one  towel,  one  extra  pair  of  socks.  Have  you  ever  tried 
it  for  six  months — a  year  ?  Then  don't.  You  miss 
your  books  and  pictures,  the  bowl  of  flowers  on  the  table, 
the  tablecloth.  All  the  things  of  everyday  life  that  are 
taken  for  granted  become  a  matter  of  poignant  loss 
when  you've  got  to  do  without  them.  But  it's  mar- 
vellous what  can  be  done  without  when  it's  a  matter  of 
necessity. 

Bucks  unfortunately  didn't  get  to  the  same  room 
with  me.  All  of  us  who  had  come  in  the  night  before 
were  paraded  at  nine  o'clock  next  morning  before  the 


The  Ranks  15 

Colonel  and  those  who  had  seen  service  or  who  could 
ride  were  considered  sheep  and  separated  from  the  goats 
who  had  never  seen  service  nor  a  horse.     Bucks  was  a 
goat.     I  could  ride, — although  the  sergeant-major  took 
fifteen  sulphuric  minutes  to  tell  me  he  didn't  think  so. 
And  so  Bucks  and  I  were  separated  by  the  space  of  a 
barrack  wall,   as  we  thought  then.     It  was  a  greater 
separation  really,  for  he  was  still  learning  to  ride  when 
I  went  out  to  France  to  reinforce  the  fighting  regiment 
which  had  covered  itself  with  glory  in  the  retreat  from 
Mons.    But  before  that  day  came  we^^orked  through 
to  the  soul  of  Tidworth,   and  of  tha,  4ergeant-major, 
if  by  any  stretch  of  the  imagination  he  may  be  said  to 
have  had  a  soul.     I  think  he  had,  but  all  the  other  men 
in  the  squadron  dedicated  their  first  bullet  to  him  if  they 
saw  him   in   France.     What   a  man !     He   stands   out 
among  all  my  memories  of  those  marvellous  days  of 
training  when  everything  was  different  from  anything 
I  had  ever  done  before.     He  stands  before  me  now, 
a  long,  thin  figure  in  khaki,  with  a  face  that  had  been 
kicked  in  by  a  horse,  an  eye  that  burnt  like  a  branding 
iron,  and  picked  out  unpolished  buttons  like  a  magnet. 
In  the  saddle  he  was  a  centaur,  part  of  the  horse,  won- 
derful.    His  long,  thin  thighs  gripped  like  tentacles  of 
steel.    He  could  make  an  animal  grunt,  he  gripped  so 
hard.    And  his  language  !     Never  in  my  life  had  I  con- 
ceived the  possibilities  of  blasphemy  to  shrivel  a  man's 
soul  until  I  heard  that  sergeant-major.     He  ripped  the 
Bible   from    cover   to    cover.     He    defied   thunderbolts 
from  on  high  and  referred  to  the  Almighty  as  though 
he  were  a  scuUion, — and  he's  still  doing  it.     Compared 
to  the  wholesale  murder  of  eight  million  men  it  was 
undoubtedly  a  pin-prick,  but  it  taught  us  how  to  ride ! 


16  The  Grey  Wave 


Reveille  was  at  5.30. 

Grunts,  groans,  curses,  a  kick, — and  you  were  sleepily 
struggling  with  your  riding  breeches  and  puttees. 

The  morning  bath  ?  Left  behind  with  all  the  other 
things. 

There  were  horses  to  be  groomed  and  watered  and 
fed,  stables  to  be  "  mucked  out,'*  much  hard  and  muscular 
work  to  be  done  before  that  pint  of  tea  and  slab  of  grease 
called  bacon  would  keep  body  and  soul  together  for  the 
morning  parade.  One  fed  first  and  shaved  and  splashed 
one's  face,  neck,  and  arms  with  water  afterwards.  Have 
you  ever  cleaned  out  a  stable  with  your  bare  hands  and 
then  been  compelled  to  eat  a  meal  without  washing  ? 

By  nine  o'clock  one  paraded  with  cleaned  boots, 
polished  buttons  and  burnished  spurs  and  was  inspected 
by  the  sergeant-major.  If  you  were  sick  you  went  before 
the  doctor  instead.  But  it  didn't  pay  to  be  sick.  The 
sergeant-major  cured  you  first.  Then  as  there  weren't 
very  many  horses  in  barracks  as  yet,  we  were  divided 
half  into  the  riding  school,  half  for  lance  and  sword 
drill. 

Riding  school  was  invented  by  the  Spanish  Inquisi- 
tion. Generally  it  lasted  an  hour,  by  which  time  one 
was  broken  on  the  rack  and  emerged  shaken,  bruised  and 
hot,  blistered  by  the  sergeant-major's  tongue.  There 
were  men  who'd  never  been  on  a  horse  more  than  twice 
in  their  lives,  but  most  of  us  had  swung  a  leg  over  a  saddle. 
Many  in  that  ride  were  grooms  from  training  stables, 
riders  of  steeple-chasers.  But  their  methods  were  not 
at  all  those  desired  in  His  Majesty's  Cavalry  and  they 
suffered  like  the  rest  of  us.    But  the  sergeant-major's 


The  Ranks  17 

tongue  never  stopped  and  we  either  learned  the  essentials 
in  double-quick  time  or  got  out  to  a  more  elementary 
ride. 

It  was  a  case  of  the  survival  of  the  fittest.  Round 
and  round  that  huge  school,  trotting  with  and  without 
stirrups  until  one  almost  fell  off  from  sheer  agony,  with 
and  without  saddle  over  five-foot  jumps  pursued  by  the 
hissing  lash  of  the  sergeant-major's  tongue  and  whip, 
jumping  without  reins,  saddle  or  stirrups.  The  agony 
of  sitting  down  for  days  afterwards  ! 

Followed  a  fifteen-minute  break,  after  the  horses 
were  led  back  to  the  stables  and  off-saddled,  and  then 
parade  on  the  square  with  lance  and  sword.  A  lovely 
weapon  the  lance — slender,  irresistible — but  after  an 
hour's  concentrated  drill  one's  right  wrist  became  red- 
hot  and  swollen  and  the  extended  lance  points  drooped 
in  our  tired  grasp  hke  reeds  in  the  wind.  At  night 
in  the  barrack  room  we  used  to  have  competitions  to  see 
who  could  drive  the  point  deepest  into  the  door  panels. 

Then  at  eleven  o'clock  "  stables  "  again  :  caps  and 
tunics  off,  braces  down,  sleeves  rolled  up.  We  had  a 
magnificent  stamp  of  horse,  but  they  came  in  ungroomed 
for  days  and  under  my  inexpert  methods  of  grooming 
took  several  days  before  they  looked  as  if  they'd  been 
groomed  at  all. 

Dinner  was  at  one  o'clock  and  by  the  time  that  hour 
struck  one  was  ready  to  eat  anything.  Each  squadron 
had  its  own  dining-rooms,  concrete  places  with  wooden 
tables  and  benches,  but  the  eternal  stew  went  down 
like  caviar. 

The  afternoon  parades  were  marching  drill,  physical 
exercises,  harness  cleaning,  afternoon  stables  and  finish 
for  the  day  about  five  o'clock,  unless  one  were  wanted 
for  guard  or  picquet.  Picquet  meant  the  care  of  the 
horses  at  night,  an  unenviable  job.     But  guard  was  a 


18  The  Grey  Wave 

twenty-four  hours'  duty,  two  hours  on,  four  hours  off, 
much  coveted  after  a  rough  passage  in  the  riding  school. 
It  gave  one  a  chance  to  heal. 

Hitherto  everything  had  been  a  confused  mass  of 
men  without  individuality  but  of  unflagging  cheerfulness. 
Now  in  the  team  work  of  the  squadron  and  the  barrack 
room  individuality  began  to  play  its  part  and  under  the 
hard  and  fast  routine  the  cheerfulness  began  to  yield 
to  grousing. 

The  room  corporal  of  my  room  was  a  re-enlisted 
man,  a  schoolmaster  from  Scotland,  conscientious,  liked 
by  the  men,  extremely  simple.  I've  often  wondered 
whether  he  obtained  a  commission.  The  other  troopers 
were  ex-stable  boys,  labourers,  one  a  golf  caddy  and  one 
an  ex-sailor  who  was  always  singing  an  interminable 
song  about  a  highly  immoral  donkey.  The  caddy  .and 
the  sailor  slept  on  either  side  of  me.  They  were  a  mixed 
crowd  and  used  filthy  language  as  naturally  as  they 
breathed,  but  as  cheery  and  stout  a  lot  as  you'd  wish 
to  meet.  Under  their  grey  shirts  beat  hearts  as  kindly 
as  many  a  woman's.  I  remember  the  first  time  I  was 
inoculated  and  felt  like  nothing  on  earth. 

"  Christ !  "  said  the  sailor.  "  Has  that  perishin' 
doctor  been  stickin'  his  perishin'  needle  into  you,  Mr. 
Gibbs  ?  " — For  some  reason  they  always  called  me 
Mr.  Gibbs. — ''  Come  over  here  and  get  straight  to  bed 
before  the  perishin'  stuff  starts  workin'.  I've  'ad  some 
of  it  in  the  perishin'  navy."  And  he  and  the  caddy  took 
off  my  boots  and  clothes  and  put  me  to  bed  with  gentle 
hands. 

The  evening's  noisiness  was  given  up.  Everybody 
spoke  in  undertones  so  that  I  might  get  to  sleep.  And 
in  the  morning,  instead  of  sweeping  under  my  own  bed 
as  usual,  they  did  it  for  me  and  cleaned  my  buttons  and 
boots  because  my  arm  was  still  sore. 


The  Ranks  19 

Can  you  imagine  men  like  that  nailing  a  kitten  by  its 
paws  to  a  door  as  a  booby-trap  to  blow  a  building  sky 
high,  as  those  Boches  have  done  ?  Instead  of  bayoneting 
prisoners  the  sailor  looked  at  them  and  said,  "  Ah,  you 
poor  perishin'  tikes  !  "  and  threw  them  his  last  cigarettes. 

They  taught  me  a  lot,  those  men.  Their  extra- 
ordinary acceptation  of  unpleasant  conditions,  their 
quickness  to  resent  injustice  and  speak  of  it  at  once, 
their  continual  cheeriness,  always  ready  to  sing,  gave  me 
something  to  compete  with.  On  wet  days  of  misery 
when  I'd  had  no  letters  from  home  there  were  moments 
when  I  damned  the  war  and  thought  with  infinite  regret 
of  New  York.  But  if  these  fellows  could  stick  it,  well, 
I'd  had  more  advantages  than  they'd  had  and,  by  Jove, 
I  was  going  to  stick  it  too.  It  was  a  matter  of  personal 
pride. 

Practically  they  taught  me  many  things  as  well. 
It  was  there  that  they  had  the  advantage  of  me.  They 
knew  how  to  wash  shirts  and  socks  and  do  all  the  menial 
work  which  I  had  never  done.  I  had  to  learn.  They 
knew  how  to  dodge  "  fatigues  "  by  removing  themselves 
just  one  half-minute  before  the  sergeant  came  looking 
for  victims.     It  didn't  take  me  long  to  learn  that. 

Then  one  saw  gradually  the  social  habit  emerge,  called 
"  mucking  in."  Two  men  became  pals  and  paired  off, 
sharing  tobacco  and  pay  and  saddle  soap  and  so  on. 
For  a  time  I  "  mucked  in  "  with  Sailor — he  was  always 
called  Sailor — and  perforce  learned  the  song  about  the 
Rabelaisian  donkey.  I've  forgotten  it  now.  Perhaps 
it's  just  as  well.  Then  when  the  squadron  was  divided 
up  into  troops  Sailor  and  I  were  not  in  the  same  troop 
and  I  had  to  muck  in  with  an  ex-groom.  He  was  the 
only  man  who  did  not  use  filthy  language. 

It's  odd  about  that  language  habit.  While  in  the 
ranks  I  never  caught  it,  perhaps  because  I  considered 

2* 


20  The  Grey  Wave 

myself  a  bit  above  that  sort  of  thing.  It  was  so  childish 
and  unsatisfying.  But  since  I  have  been  an  officer  I 
think  I  could  sometimes  have  almost  challenged  the 
sergeant-major  ! 


As  soon  as  one  had  settled  into  the  routine  the  days 
began  to  roll  by  with  a  monotony  that  was,  had  we  only 
known  it,  the  beginning  of  knowledge.  Some  genius 
has  defined  war  as  "  months  of  intense  boredom  punctu- 
ated by  moments  of  intense  fear."  We  had  reached 
the  first  stage.  It  was  when  the  day's  work  was  done 
that  the  devil  stalked  into  one's  soul  and  began  asking 
insidious  questions.  The  work  itself  was  hard,  healthy, 
of  real  enjoyment.  Shall  I  ever  forget  those  golden 
autumn  dawns  when  I  rode  out,  a  snorting  horse  under 
me,  upon  the  swelling  downs,  the  uplands  touched  by 
the  rising  sun ;  but  in  the  hollows  the  feathery  tops 
of  trees  poked  up  through  the  mist  which  lay  in  velvety 
clouds  and  everywhere  a  filigree  of  silver  cobwebs,  like 
strung  seed  pearls.  It  was  with  the  spirit  of  crusaders 
that  we  galloped  cross-country  with  slung  lances,  or 
charged  in  line  upon  an  imaginary  foe  with  yells  that 
would  demoralise  him  before  our  lance  points  should 
sink  into  his  fat  stomach.  The  good  smells  of  earth  and 
saddlery  and  horse  flesh,  the  lance  points  winking  in  the 
sun,  were  all  the  outward  signs  of  great  romance  and  one 
took  a  deep  breath  of  the  keen  air  and  thanked  God 
to  be  in  it.  One  charged  dummies  with  sword  and  lance 
and  hacked  and  stabbed  them  to  bits.  One  leaped  from 
one's  horse  at  the  canter  and  lined  a  bank  with  rifles 
while  the  numbers  three  in  each  section  galloped  the 
horses  to  a  flank  under  cover.  One  went  over  the  brigade 
jumps  in  troop  formation,  taking  pride  in  riding  so  that 


The  Ranks  21 

all  horses  jumped  as  one,  a  magnificent  bit  of  team  work 
that  gave  one  a  thrill. 

It  was  on  one  of  those  early  morning  rides  that  Sailor 
earned  undying  fame.  Remember  that  all  of  the  work 
was  done  on  empty  stomachs  before  breakfast  and 
that  if  we  came  back  late,  a  frequent  occurrence,  we 
received  only  scraps  and  a  curse  from  the  cook.  On  the 
morning  in  question  the  sergeant-major  ordered  the  whole 
troop  to  unbuckle  their  stirrup  leathers  and  drop  them 
on  the  ground.     We  did  so. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  '*  we're  going  to  do  a  brisk  little 
cross-country  foUow-my-leader.  I'm  the  leader  and" 
(a  slight  pause  with  a  flash  from  the  steely  eye),  "  God  help 
the  weak-backed,  herring-gutted  sons  of  —  who  don't 
perishin'  well  line  up  when  I  give  the  order  to  halt.  Half 
sections  right !   walk,  march  !  " 

We  walked  out  of  the  barracks  until  we  reached  the 
edge  of  the  downs  and  then  followed  such  a  ride  as  John 
Gilpin  or  the  Baron  Munchausen  would  have  revelled 
in — perhaps.  The  sergeant-major's  horse  could  jump 
anjrthing,  and  what  it  couldn't  jump  it  climbed  over. 
It  knew  better  than  to  refuse.  We  were  indifferently 
mounted,  some  well,  some  badly.  My  own  was  a  good 
speedy  bay.  The  orders  were  to  keep  in  half  sections 
— two  and  two.  For  a  straight  half-mile  we  thundered 
across  the  level,  drew  rein  slightly  through  a  thick  copse 
that  lashed  one's  face  with  pine  branches  and  then 
dropped  over  a  precipice  twenty  feet  deep.  That  was 
where  the  half-section  business  went  to  pieces,  especially 
when  the  horses  clambered  up  the  other  side.  We 
had  no  stirrups.  It  was  a  case  of  remaining  in  the  saddle 
somehow.  Had  I  been  alone  I  would  have  ridden  five 
miles  to  avoid  the  places  the  sergeant-major  took  us  over, 
through,  and  under, — ^bramble  hedges  that  tore  one's 
clothes  and  hands,  ditches  that  one  had  to  ride  one's 


22  The  Grey  Wave 

horse  at  with  both  spurs,  banks  so  steep  that  one  almost 
expected  the  horse  to  come  over  backwards,  spinneys 
where  one  had  to  he  down  to  avoid  being  swept  off. 
At  last,  breathless,  aching  and  exhausted,  those  of  us 
who  were  left  were  halted  and  dismounted,  while  the 
sergeant-major,  who  hadn't  turned  a  hair,  took  note 
of  who  was  missing. 

Five  unfortunates  had  not  come  in.  The  sergeant- 
major  cast  an  eye  towards  the  open  country  and  remained 
ominously  silent.  After  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
the  five  were  seen  to  emerge  at  a  walk  from  behind  a 
spinney.  They  came  trotting  up,  an  anxious  expression 
on  their  faces,  all  except  Sailor,  who  grinned  from  ear  to 
ear.  Instead  of  being  allowed  to  fall  in  with  us  they  were 
made  to  halt  and  dismount  by  themselves,  facing  us.  The 
sergeant-major  looked  at  them,  slowly,  with  an  infinite  con- 
tempt, as  they  stood  stiffly  to  attention.    Then  he  began. 

"  Look  at  them  1"  he  said  to  us.  "  Look  at  those 
five  ..."  and  so  on  in  a  stinging  stream,  beneath  which 
their  faces  went  white  with  anger. 

As  the  sergeant-major  drew  breath.  Sailor  stepped 
forward.  He  was  no  longer  grinning  from  ear  to  ear. 
His  face  might  have  been  cut  out  of  stone  and  he  looked 
at  the  sergeant-major  with  a  steady  eye. 

"  That's  all  right,  Sergeant-Major,''  he  said.  "  We're 
all  that  and  a  perishin'  lot  more  perhaps,  but  not  you  nor 
Jesus  Christ  is  going  to  make  me  do  a  perishin'  ride 
like  that  and  come  back  to  perishin'  barracks  and  get 
no  perishin'  breakfast  and  go  on  perishin'  parade  again 
at  nine  with  not  a  perishin'  thing  in  my  perishin'  stomach." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  the  sergeant-major. 

"  Wliat  I  says,"  said  Sailor,  standing  to  his  guns 
while  we,  amazed,  expected  him  to  be  slain  before  our 
eyes.  "  Not  a  perishin*  bit  of  breakfast  do  we  get  when 
we  go  back  late." 


The  Ranks  2t 

"  Is  that  true  ?  "    The  sergeant-major  turned  to  us. 

"  Yes/'  we  said,  *'  perishin'  true  !  " 

"  Mount  1  "  ordered  the  sergeant-major  without  another 
word  and  we  trotted  straight  back  to  barracks.  By 
the  time  we'd  watered,  off-saddled  and  fed  the  horses 
we  were  as  usual  twenty  minutes  late  for  breakfast.  But 
this  morning  the  sergeant-major,  with  a  face  like  a  black 
cloud,  marched  us  into  the  dining-hall  and  up  to  the 
cook's  table. 

We  waited,  breathless  with  excitement.  The  cook 
was  in  the  kitchen,  a  dirty  fellow. 

The  sergeant-major  slammed  the  table  with  his  whip. 
The  cook  came,  wiping  a  chewing  mouth  with  the  back 
of  his  hand. 

"  Breakfast  for  these  men,  quick,"  said  the  sergeant- 
major. 

"  All  gone,  sir,"  said  the  cook,  "  we  can't " 

The  sergeant-major  leaned  over  with  his  face  an 
inch  from  the  cook's.  "  Don't  you  perishin'  well  answer 
me  back,"  he  said,  "or  I'll  put  you  somewhere  where 
the  Almighty  couldn't  get  you  out  until  I  say  so.  Break- 
fast for  these  men,  you  fat,  chewing  swine,  or  I'll  come 
across  the  table  and  cut  your  tripes  out  with  my  riding 
whip  and  cook  them  for  breakfast !  Jump,  you  foul- 
feeder  !  "  and  down  came  the  whip  on  the  table  like  a 
pistol  shot. 

The  cook  swallowed  his  mouthfuj  whole  and  retired, 
emerging  presently  with  plenty  of  excellent  breakfast 
and  hot  tea.     We  laughed. 

"  Now,"  said  the  sergeant-major,  "  if  you  don't  get 
as  good  a  breakfast  as  this  to-morrow  and  every  to- 
morrow, tell  me,  and  I'll  drop  this  lying  bastard  into  his 
own  grease  trap." 

Sailor  got  drunk  that  night.     We  paid. 


24  The  Grey  Wave 


8 

The  evenings  were  the  hardest  part.  There  was 
only  Bucks  to  talk  to,  and  it  was  never  more  than  twice 
a  week  that  we  managed  to  get  together.  Generally 
one  was  more  completely  alone  than  on  a  desert  island, 
a  solitude  accentuated  by  the  fact  that  as  soon  as  one 
ceased  the  communion  of  work  which  made  us  all  brothers 
on  the  same  level,  they  dropped  back,  for  me  at  least, 
into  a  seething  mass  of  rather  unclean  humanity  whose 
ideas  were  not  mine,  whose  language  and  habits  never 
ceased  to  jar  upon  one's  sensitiveness.  There  was  so 
little  to  do.  The  local  music  hall,  intensely  fifth  rate, 
only  changed  its  programme  once  a  week.  The  billiard 
tables  in  the  canteen  had  an  hour-long  waiting  list  always. 

The  Y.M.C.A.  hadn't  developed  in  those  early  days 
to  its  present  manifold  excellence.  There  was  no  gym- 
nasium. The  only  place  one  had  was  one's  bed  in  the 
barrack  room  on  which  one  could  read  or  write,  not  alone, 
because  there  was  always  a  shouting  incoming  and 
outgoing  crowd  and  cross  fire  of  elementary  jokes  and 
horseplay.  It  seemed  that  there  was  never  a  chance 
of  being  alone,  of  escaping  from  this  "  lewd  and  licentious 
soldiery."  There  were  times  when  the  desert  island 
called  irresistibly  in  this  eternal  isolation  of  mind  but  not 
of  body.  All  that  one  had  left  behind,  even  the  times 
when  one  was  bored  and  out  of  temper,  because  perhaps 
one  was  off  one's  drive  at  the  Royal  and  Ancient,  or 
some  other  trivial  thing  like  that,  became  so  glorious 
in  one's  mind  that  the  feel  of  the  barrack  blanket  was  an 
agony.  Had  one  ever  been  bored  in  that  other  life  ? 
Had  one  been  touchy  and  said  sarcastic  things  that 
were  meant  to  hurt  ?     Could  it  be  possible  that  there 


The  Ranks  25 

was  anything  in  that  other  world  for  which  one  wouldn't 
barter  one's  soul  now  ?  How  little  one  had  realised, 
appreciated,  the  good  things  of  that  life  I  One  accepted 
them  as  a  matter  of  course,  as  a  matter  of  right. 

Now  in  the  barrack-room  introspections  their  real 
value  stood  out  in  the  limelight  of  contrast  and  one  saw 
oneself  for  the  first  time  :  a  rather  selfish,  indifferent 
person,  thoughtless,  hurrying  along  the  road  of  life  with 
no  point  of  view  of  one's  own,  doing  things  because 
everybody  else  did  them,  accepting  help  carelessly,  not 
realising  that  other  people  might  need  one's  help  in 
return,  content  with  a  somewhat  shallow  secondhand 
philosophy  because  untried  in  the  fire  of  reality.  This 
was  reality,  this  barrack  life.  This  was  the  first  time 
one  had  been  up  against  facts,  the  first  time  it  was  a 
personal  conflict  between  life  and  oneself  with  no  mother 
or  family  to  fend  off  the  unpleasant ;  a  fact  that  one 
hadn't  attempted  to  grasp. 

The  picture  of  oneself  was  not  comforting.  To  find 
out  the  truth  about  oneself  is  always  like  taking  a  pill 
without  its  sugar  coating ;  and  it  was  doubly  bitter  in 
those  surroundings. 

Hitherto  one  had  never  been  forced  to  do  the  un- 
pleasant. One  simply  avoided  it.  Now  one  had  to  go 
on  doing  it  day  after  day  without  a  hope  of  escape, 
without  any  more  alleviation  than  a  very  occasional 
week-end  leave.  Those  week-ends  were  like  a  mouthful 
of  water  to  Dives  in  the  flames  of  hell, — but  which  made 
the  flames  all  the  fiercer  afterwards !  One  prayed  for 
them  and  loathed  them. 

The  beating  heart  with  which  one  leaped  out  of  a 
taxi  in  London  and  waited  on  the  doorstep  of  home, 
heaven.  The  glory  of  a  clean  body  and  more  particularly, 
clean  hands.  It  was  curious  how  the  lack  of  a  bath 
ceased  after  a  time  to  be  a  dreadful  thing,  but  the  im- 


26  The  Grey  Wave 

possibility  of  keeping  one's  hands  clean  was  always  a 
poignant  agony.  They  were  always  dirty,  with  cracked 
nails  and  a  cut  or  two,  and  however  many  times  they 
were  scrubbed,  they  remained  appalling.  But  at  home 
on  leave,  with  hot  water  and  stacks  of  soap  and  much 
manicuring,  they  did  not  at  least  make  one  feel  uncom- 
fortable. 

The  soft  voices  and  laughter  of  one's  people,  their 
appearance — ^just  to  be  in  the  same  room,  silent  with 
emotion — God,  will  one  ever  forget  it  ?  Thin  china 
to  eat  off,  a  flower  on  the  table,  soft  lights,  a  napkin. 
— ^The  little  ones  who  came  and  fingered  one's  bandolier 
and  cap  badge  and  played  with  one's  spurs  with  their 
tiny,  clean  hands^ — one  was  almost  afraid  to  touch  them, 
and  when  they  puckered  up  their  tiny  mouths  to  kiss 
one  good  night. — I  wonder  whether  they  ever  knew 
how  near  to  tears  that  rough-looking  soldier-man  was  ? 

And  then  in  what  seemed  ten  heart-beats  one  was 
saying  good-bye  to  them  all.  Back  to  barracks  again 
by  way  of  Waterloo  and  the  last  train  at  9  p.m. — its 
great  yellow  lights  and  awful  din,  its  surging  crowd  of 
drunken  soldiers  and  their  girls  who  yelled  and  hugged 
and  screamed  up  and  down  the  platform,  and  here  and 
there  an  officer  diving  hurriedly  into  a  first-class  com- 
partment. Presently  whistles  blew  and  one  found  oneself 
jammed  into  a  carriage  with  about  twelve  other  soldiers 
who  fought  to  lean  out  of  the  window  and  see  the  last  of 
their  girls  until  the  train  had  panted  its  way  out  of  the 
long  platform.  Then  the  foul  reek  of  Woodbine  cigar- 
ettes while  they  discussed  the  sexual  charms  of  those 
girls — and  then  a  long  snoring  chorus  for  hours  into 
the  night,  broken  only  by  some  one  being  sick  from  over- 
much beer. 

The  touch  of  the  rosebud  mouth  of  the  baby  girl  who 
had  kissed  me  good-bye  was  still  on  my  lips. 


The  Ranks  27 


It  was  in  the  first  week  of  November  that,  having 
been  through  an  exhaustive  musketry  course  in  addition 
to  all  the  other  cavalry  work,  we  were  **  passed  out  "  by 
the  Colonel.  I  may  mention  in  passing  that  in  October, 
1914,  the  British  Cavalry  were  armed,  for  the  first  time 
in  history,  with  bayonets  in  addition  to  lance,  sword  and 
rifle.  There  was  much  sarcastic  reference  to  "  towies,'' 
"  foot-sloggers,"  "  P.B.I." — all  methods  of  the  mounted 
man  to  designate  infantry ;  and  when  an  infantry  ser- 
geant was  lent  to  teach  us  bayonet  fighting  it  seemed  the 
last  insult,  even  to  us  recruits,  so  deeply  was  the  cavalry 
spirit  already  ingrained  in  us. 

The  *'  passing  out  "  by  the  Colonel  was  a  day  in  our 
lives.  It  meant  that,  if  successful,  we  were  considered 
good  enough  to  go  and  fight  for  our  country  :  France  was 
the  Mecca  of  each  of  us. 

The  day  in  question  was  bright  and  sunny  with  a  touch 
of  frost  which  made  the  horses  blow  and  dance  when, 
with  twinkling  lance-points  at  the  carry,  we  rode  out  with 
the  sergeant-major,  every  bright  part  of  our  equipment 
polished  for  hours  overnight  in  the  barrack  room  amid 
much  excited  speculation  as  to  our  prospects. 

The  sergeant-major  was  going  to  give  us  a  half-hour's 
final  rehearsal  of  all  our  training  before  the  Colonel 
arrived.  Nothing  went  right  and  he  damned  and  cursed 
without  avail,  until  at  last  he  threatened  to  ride  us  clean 
off  the  plain  and  lose  us.  It  was  very  depressing.  We 
knew  we'd  (^one  badly,  in  spite  of  all  our  efforts,  and  when 
we  saw,  not  far  off,  the  Colonel,  the  Major  and  the  Adju- 
tant, with  a  group  of  other  people  riding  up  to  put  us 
through  our  paces,  there  wasn't  a  heart  that  didn't  beat 


28  The  Grey  Wave 

faster  in  hope  or  despair.  We  sat  to  attention  like  Indians 
while  the  officers  rode  round  us,  inspecting  the  turnout. 

Then  the  Colonel  expressed  the  desire  to  see  a  little 
troop  drill. 

The  sergeant-major  cleared  his  throat  and  like  an 
i8-pounder  shell  the  order  galvanised  us  into  action.  We 
wheeled  and  formed  and  spread  out  and  reformed  without 
a  hitch  and  came  to  a  halt  in  perfect  dressing  in  front  of 
the  Colonel  again,  without  a  fault.  Hope  revived  in 
despairing  chests. 

Then  the  Colonel  ordered  us  over  the  jumps  in  half 
sections,  and  at  the  order  each  half  section  started  away 
on  the  half-mile  course — ^walk,  trot,  canter,  jump,  steady 
down  to  trot,  canter,  jump — e  da  capo  right  round  about 
a  dozen  jumps,  each  one  over  a  different  kind  of  obstacle, 
each  half  section  watched  far  more  critically  perhaps  by 
the  rest  of  the  troop  than  by  the  officers.  My  own 
mount  was  a  bay  mare  which  I'd  ridden  half  a  dozen 
times.  When  she  liked  she  could  jump  anything.  Some- 
times she  didn't  like. 

This  day  I  was  taking  no  chances  and  drove  home  both 
spurs  at  the  first  jump.  My  other  half  section  was  a 
lance-corporal.  His  horse  was  slow,  preferring  to 
consider  each  jump  before  it  took  it. 

Between  jumps,  without  moving  our  heads  and  looking 
straight  in  front  of  us,  we  gave  each  other  advice  and 
encouragement. 

Said  he,  '*  Not  so  perishin'  fast.  Keep  dressed,  can't 
you." 

Said  I,  "  Wake  your  old  blighter  up  !  What've  you 
got  spurs  on  for  ? — Hup  !  Over.     Steady,  man,  steady." 

Said  he,  "  Nar,  then,  like  as  we  are.  Knee  to  knee. 
Let's  show  'em  what  the  perishin'  Kitchener's  mob 
perishin'  well  can  do."  And  without  a  refusal  we  got 
round  and  halted  in  our  places. 


The  Ranks  29 

When  we'd  all  been  round,  the  Colonel  with  a  faint 
smile  on  his  face,  requested  the  sergeant-major  to  take 
us  round  as  a  troop — sixteen  lancers  knee  to  knee  in  the 
front  rank  and  the  same  number  behind. 

It  happened  that  I  was  the  centre  of  the  front  rank- 
technically  known  as  centre  guide — whose  job  it  was  to 
keep  four  yards  from  the  tail  of  the  troop  leader  and  on 
whom  the  rest  of  the  front  rank  "  dressed." 

When  we  were  well  away  from  the  officers  and  about 
to  canter  at  the  first  jump  the  sergeant-major's  head 
turned  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Oh,  you've  centre  guide,  Gibbs,  are  you  !  Well, 
you  keep  your  distance  proper,  that's  all,  and  by  Christ, 
if  you  refuse " 

I  don't  know  what  fate  he  had  in  store  for  me  had  I 
missed  a  jump  but  there  I  was  with  a  knee  on  either 
side  jammed  painfully  hard  against  mine  as  we  came  to 
the  first  jump.  It  was  the  man  on  either  flank  of  the 
troop  who  had  the  most  difficult  job.  The  jumps  were 
only  just  wide  enough  and  they  had  to  keep  their  horses 
from  swinging  wide  of  the  wings.  It  went  magnificently. 
Sixteen  horses  as  one  in  both  ranks  rose  to  every  jump, 
settled  down  and  dressed  after  each  and  went  round  the 
course  without  a  hitch,  refusal  or  fall,  and  at  last  we  sat  at 
attention  facing  the  Colonel,  awaiting  the  verdict  which 
would  either  send  us  back  for  further  training,  or  out  to — 
what  ?     Death,  glory,  or  maiming  ? 

The  Major  looked  pleased  and  twisted  his  moustache 
with  a  grin.  He  had  handled  our  squadron  and  on  the 
first  occasion  of  his  leading  us  in  a  charge,  he  in  front 
with  drawn  sword,  we  thundering  behind  with  lances 
menacing  his  back  in  a  glittering  row,  we  got  so  excited 
that  we  broke  ranks  and  flowed  round  him,  yelling  like 
cowboys.  How  he  damned  us  ! 
The  Colonel  made  a  little  speech  and  complimented 


30  The  Grey  Wave 

us  on  our  work  and  the  sergeant-major  for  having  trained 
us  so  well, — us,  the  first  of  Kitchener's  "  mob  "  to  be 
ready.  Very  nice  things  he  said  and  our  hearts  glowed 
with  appreciation  and  excitement.  We  sat  there  without 
a  movement  but  our  chests  puffed  out  like  a  row  of  pouter 
pigeons. 

At  last  he  saluted  us — saluted  us,  he,  the  Colonel — 
and  the  officers  rode  away, — the  Major  hanging  behind 
a  little  to  say  with  a  smile  that  was  worth  all  the  cursings 
the  sergeant-major  had  ever  given  us,  "  Damn  good,  you 
fellows  !  Damn  good  !  "  We  would  have  followed  him 
to  hell  and  back  at  that  moment. 

And  then  the  sergeant-major  turned  his  horse  and  faced 
us.  *'  You  may  think  you're  perishin'  good  soldiers  after 
all  that,  but  by  Christ,  I've  never  seen  such  a  perishin' 
awful  exhibition  of  carpet-baggers." 

But  there  was  an  unusual  twinkle  in  his  eye  and  for 
the  first  time  in  those  two  months  of  training  he  let  us 
"  march  at  ease,"  i.e.,  smoke  and  talk,  on  the  way  back 
to  stables. 


10 

That  was  the  first  half  of  the  ordeal. 

The  second  half  took  place  in  the  afternoon  in  the 
barrack  square  when  we  went  through  lance  drill  and 
bayonet  exercises  while  the  Colonel  and  the  officers 
walked  round  and  discussed  us.  At  last  we  were  dis- 
missed, trained  men,  recruits  no  longer  ;  and  didn't  we 
throw  our  chests  out  in  the  canteen  that  night !  It  made 
me  feel  that  the  Nobel  prize  was  futile  beside  the  satis- 
faction of  being  a  fully  trained  trooper  in  His  Majesty's 
Cavalry,  and  in  a  crack  regiment  too,  which  had  already 
shown  th£  Boche  that  the  "  contemptible  little  army  " 


The  Ranks  81 

had  more  "  guts  "  than  the  Prussian  Guards  regiments 
and  anything  else  they  hked  to  chuck  in. 

I  foregathered  with  Bucks  that  night  and  told  him  all 
about  it.  Our  ways  had  seemed  to  lie  apart  during  those 
intensive  days,  and  it  was  only  on  Sundays  that  we  some- 
times went  for  long  cross-country  walks  with  biscuits  and 
apples  in  our  pockets  if  we  were  off  duty.  About  once 
a  week  too  we  made  a  point  of  going  to  the  local  music- 
hall  where  red-nosed  comedians  knocked  each  other 
about  and  fat  ladies  in  tights  sang  slushy  love  songs ; 
and  with  the  crowd  we  yelled  choruses  and  ate  vast 
quantities  of  chocolate. 

Two  other  things  occurred  during  those  days  which 
had  an  enormous  influence  on  me  ;  one  indeed  altered  my 
whole  career  in  the  army. 

The  first  occurrence  was  the  arrival  in  a  car  one  evening 
of  an  American  girl  whom  I'd  known  in  New  York.  It 
was  about  a  week  after  my  arrival  at  Tidworth.  She,  it 
appeared,  was  staying  with  friends  about  twenty  miles 
away. 

The  first  thing  I  knew  about  it  was  when  an  orderly 
came  into  stables  about  4.30  p.m.  on  a  golden  afternoon 
and  told  me  that  I  was  wanted  at  once  at  the  Orderly 
Room. 

"  What  for  ?  '*  said  I,  a  little  nervous. 

The  Orderly  Room  was  where  all  the  scallawags  were 
brought  up  before  the  Colonel  for  their  various  crimes, — 
and  I  made  a  hasty  examination  of  conscience. 

However,  I  put  on  my  braces  and  tunic  and  ran  across 
the  square.  There  in  a  car  was  the  American  girl  whom 
I  had  endeavoured  to  teach  golf  in  the  days  immediately 
previous  to  my  enlistment.  ''  Come  on  out  and  have  a 
picnic  with  me,'*  said  she.  "I've  got  some  perfectly 
luscious  things  in  a  basket." 

The   idea  was   heavenly   but   it   occurred   to  me   I 


32  The  Grey  Wave 

ought  to  get  permission.  So  I  went  into  the  Orderly 
Room. 

There  were  two  officers  and  a  lot  of  sergeants.  I 
tiptoed  up  to  a  sergeant  and  explaining  that  a  lady  had 
come  over  to  see  me,  asked  if  I  could  get  out  of  camp  for 
half  an  hour  ?  I  was  very  raw  in  those  days,— half  an 
hour  I 

The  sergeant  stared  at  me.  Presumably  ladies  in 
motor-cars  didn't  make  a  habit  of  fetching  cavalry 
privates.  It  wasn't  "  laid  down  "  in  the  drill  book. 
However,  he  went  over  to  one  of  the  officers, — the 
Adjutant,  I  discovered  later. 

The  Adjutant  looked  me  up  and  down  as  I  repeated  my 
request,  asked  me  my  name  and  which  ride  I  was  in  and 
finally  put  it  to  the  other  officer  who  said  "  yes  "  without 
looking  up.  So  I  thanked  the  Adjutant,  clicked  to  the 
salute  and  went  out.  As  I  walked  round  the  front  of 
the  car,  while  the  chauffeur  cranked  up,  the  door  of  the 
Orderly  Room  opened  and  the  Adjutant  came  on  to  the 
step.  He  took  a  good  look  at  the  American  girl  and  said, 
"  Oh — er — Gibbs  !  You  can  make  it  an  hour  if  you 
like." 

It  may  amuse  him  to  know,  if  the  slaughter  hasn't 
claimed  him,  that  I  made  it  exactly  sixty  minutes,  much 
as  I  should  have  liked  to  make  it  several  hours,  and  was 
immensely  grateful  to  him  both  for  the  extra  half  hour 
and  for  the  delightful  touch  of  humour. 

What  a  picnic  it  was  !  We  motored  away  from  that 
place  and  all  its  roughness  and  took  the  basket  under  a 
spinney  in  the  afternoon  sun  which  touched  everything 
in  a  red  glow. 

It  wasn't  only  tea  she  gave  me,  but  sixty  precious 
minutes  of  great  friendship,  letting  fall  little  remarks 
which  helped  me  to  go  back  all  the  more  determined  to 
stick  to  it.     She  renewed  my  faith  in  myself  and  gave  me 


The  Ranks  33 

renewed  courage, — for  which  I  was  unable  to  thank  her. 
We  British  are  so  accursedly  tongue-tied  in  these  matters. 
I  did  try  but  of  course  made  a  botch  of  it. 

There  are  some  things  which  speech  cannot  deal  with. 
Your  taking  me  out  that  day,  oh,  American  girl,  and  the 
other  days  later,  are  numbered  among  them. 


II 

The  other  occurrence  was  also  brought  about  by  a 
woman,  the  woman  for  whom  I  joined  up.  It  was  a 
Sunday  morning  on  which  fortunately  I  was  not  detailed 
for  any  fatigues  and  she  came  to  take  me  out  to  lunch. 
We  motored  to  Marlborough,  lunched  at  the  hotel  and 
after  visiting  a  racing  stable  some  distance  off  came 
back  to  the  hotel  for  tea,  a  happy  day  unflecked  by  any 
shadow.  In  the  corner  of  the  dining-room  were  two 
officers  with  two  ladies.  I,  in  the  bandolier  and  spurs  of 
a  trooper,  sat  with  my  back  to  them  and  my  friend  told 
me  that  they  seemed  to  be  eyeing  me  and  making 
remarks.  It  occurred  to  me  that  as  I  had  no  official 
permission  to  be  away  from  Tidworth  they  might  possibly 
be  going  to  make  trouble.  How  little  I  knew  what  was 
in  their  minds.  When  we'd  finished  and  got  up  to  go 
one  of  the  officers  came  across  as  we  were  going  out  of 
the  room  and  said,  *'  May  I  speak  to  you  a  moment  ?  " 

We  both  stopped.  "  I  see  you're  wearing  the  numerals 
of  my  regiment,"  said  he  and  went  on  to  ask  why  I  was 
in  the  ranks,  why  I  hadn't  asked  for  a  commission,  and 
strongly  advised  me  to  do  so. 

I  told  him  that  I  hadn't  ever  thought  of  it  because  I 
knew  nothing  about  soldiering  and  hadn't  the  faintest 
idea  of  whether  I  should  ever  be  any  good  as  an  officer. 
He  waved  that  aside  and  advised  me  to  apply.    Then  he 

'3 


84  The  Grey  Wave 

added  that  he  himself  was  going  out  to  France  one  day  in 
the  following  week  and  would  I  like  to  go  as  his  servant  ? 
Would  I  ?  My  whole  idea  was  to  get  to  France  ;  and  this 
happened  before  I  had  been  passed  out  by  the  Colonel. 
So  he  took  down  my  name  and  particulars  and  said  he 
would  ask  for  me  when  he  came  to  Tidworth,  which  he 
proposed  to  do  in  two  days'  time. 

Whether  he  ever  came  or  not  I  do  not  know.  I  never 
saw  him  again.  Nor  did  I  take  any  steps  with  regard  to 
a  commission.  My  friend  and  I  talked  it  over  and  I 
remember  rather  laughing  at  the  idea  of  it. 

Not  so  she,  however.  About  a  fortnight  later  I  was 
suddenly  sent  for  by  the  Colonel. 

"  I  hear  you've  applied  for  a  commission,"  said  he. 

It  came  like  a  bolt  from  the  blue.  But  through  my 
brain  flashed  the  meeting  in  the  Marlborough  Hotel  and 
I  saw  in  it  the  handiwork  of  my  friend. 

So  I  said,  "  Yes,  sir." 

He  then  asked  me  where  I  was  educated  and  whether  I 
spoke  French  and  what  my  job  was  in  civil  life  and  finally 
I  was  sent  off  to  fill  up  a  form  and  then  to  be  medically 
examined. 

And  there  the  matter  ended.  I  went  on  with  the  daily 
routine,  was  passed  out  by  the  Colonel  and  a  very  few 
days  after  that  heard  the  glorious  news  that  we  were  going 
out  as  a  draft  to  France  on  active  service. 

We  were  all  in  bed  in  the  barrack  room  one  evening 
when  the  door  opened  and  a  sergeant  came  in  and  flicked 
on  the  electric  light,  which  had  only  just  been  turned 
out. 

"  Wake  up,  you  bloodthirsty  warriors,"  he  cried. 
"  Wake  up.  You're  for  a  draft  to-morrow  all  of  you  on 
this  list,"  and  he  read  out  the  names  of  all  of  us  in  the 
room  who  had  been  passed  out.  "  Parade  at  the  Quar- 
termaster's stores  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning."     And 


The  Ranks  35 

out  went  the  light  and  the  door  slammed  and  a  burst  of 
cheering  went  up. 

And  while  I  lay  on  my  "  biscuits,"  imagining  France 
and  hearing  in  my  mind  the  thunder  of  guns  and  wondering 
what  our  first  charge  would  be  hke,  the  machinery  which 
my  friend  had  set  in  motion  was  rolling  slowly  (shades  of 
the  War  Office  !)  but  surely.  My  name  had  been  sub- 
merged in  the  "  usual  channels  "  but  was  receiving  first 
aid,  all  unknown  to  me,  of  a  most  vigorous  description. 


12 

Shall  I  ever  forget  that  week-end,  with  all  its  strength 
of  emotions  running  the  gamut  from  exaltation  to  blank 
despair  and  back  again  to  the  wildest  enthusiasm  ? 

We  paraded  at  the  Quartermaster's  stores  and  received 
each  a  kit  bag,  two  identity  discs — the  subject  of  many 
gruesome  comments — a  jack-knife,  mess  tin,  water  bottle, 
haversack,  and  underclothes.  Thus  were  we  prepared 
for  the  killing. 

Then  the  Major  appeared  and  we  fell  in  before  him. 

"  Now  which  of  you  men  want  to  go  to  the  front  ?  " 
said  he.  "  Any  man  who  wants  to,  take  one  pace  for- 
ward." 

As  one  man  the  whole  lot  of  us,  about  thirty,  took  one 
pace  forward. 

The  Major  smiled.  "  Good,"  said  he.  "  Any  man 
not  want  to  go — prove." 

No  man  proved. 

*'  Well,  look  here,"  said  the  Major,  "  I  hate  to  dis- 
appoint anybody  but  only  twenty-eight  of  you  can  go. 
You'll  have  to  draw  lots." 

Accordingly  bits  of  paper  were  put  into  a  hat,  thirty 
scraps  of  paper,  two  of  them  marked  with  crosses.     Was 

3* 


86  The  Grey  Wave 

it  a  sort  of  inverted  omen  that  the  two  who  drew  the 
crosses  would  never  find  themselves  under  little  mounds 
in  France  ? 

We  drew  in  turn,  excitement  running  high  as  paper 
after  paper  came  out  blank.  My  heart  kicked  within  me. 
How  I  prayed  not  to  draw  a  cross.     But  I  did  ! 

Speechless  with  despair  the  other  man  who  drew  a 
cross  and  I  received  the  good-natured  chaff  of  the  rest. 

I  saw  them  going  out,  to  leave  this  accursed  place  of 
boredom  and  make-believe,  for  the  real  thing,  the  thing 
for  which  we  had  slaved  and  sweated  and  suffered.  We 
two  were  to  be  left.  We  weren't  to  go  on  sharing  the  luck 
with  these  excellent  fellows  united  to  us  by  the  bonds  of 
fellow-striving,  whom  we  knew  in  sickness  and  health, 
drunk  and  sober. 

We  had  to  remain  behind,  eating  our  hearts  out  to  wait 
for  the  next  draft — a  lot  of  men  whom  we  did  not  know, 
strangers  with  their  own  jokes  and  habits — possibly  a 
fortnight  of  hanging  about.  The  day  was  a  Friday  and 
our  pals  were  supposed  to  be  going  at  any  moment.  The 
other  unlucky  man  and  myself  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  consolation  might  be  found  in  a  long  week-end  leave 
and  that  if  we  struck  while  the  iron  of  sympathy  was  hot 
the  Major  might  be  inclined  to  lend  a  friendly  ear.  This 
indeed  he  did  and  within  an  hour  we  were  in  the  London 
train  on  that  gloomy  Friday  morning,  free  as  any  civilian 
till  midnight  of  the  following  Tuesday.  Thus  the  Major's 
generosity.  The  only  proviso  was  that  we  had  both  to 
leave  telegraphic  addresses  in  case 

But  in  spite  of  that  glorious  week-end  in  front  of  us, 
we  refused  to  be  consoled,  yet,  and  insisted  on  telling  the 
other  occupants  of  the  carriage  of  our  rotten  luck.  We 
revelled  in  gloom  and  extraneous  sympathy  until  Waterloo 
showed  up  in  the  murk  ahead.  Then  I'm  bound  to  con- 
fess my  own  mental  barometer  went  up  with  a  jump  and  I 


The  Ranks  37 

said  good-bye  to  my  fellow  lancer,  who  was  off  to  pursue 
the  light  o*  love  in  Stepney,  with  an  impromptu  Te  Deum 
in  my  heart. 

My  brother,  with  whom  I  spent  all  my  week-ends  in 
those  days,  had  a  house  just  off  the  Park.  He  put  in  his 
time  looking  like  a  rather  tired  admiral,  most  of  whose 
nights  were  passed  looking  for  Zeppelins  and  yearning 
for  them  to  come  within  range  of  his  beloved  "  bundooks" 
which  were  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Admiralty. 
Thither  I  went  at  full  speed  in  a  taxi — they  still  existed 
in  those  days — and  proceeded  to  wallow  in  a  hot  bath, 
borrowing  my  brother's  bath  salts  (or  were  they  his 
wife's  ?),  clean  "  undies  "  and  hair  juice  with  a  liberal 
hand.  It  was  a  comic  sight  to  see  us  out  together  in  the 
crowded  London  streets,  he  all  over  gold  lace,  me  just  a 
Tommy  with  a  cheap  swagger  stick  under  my  arm. 
Subalterns,  new  to  the  game,  saluted  him  punctiliously. 
I  saluted  them.  And  when  we  met  generals  or  a  real 
admiral  we  both  saluted  together.  The  next  afternoon, 
Saturday,  at  tea  time  a  telegram  came.  We  were  deep 
in  armchairs  in  front  of  a  gorgeous  fire,  with  muffins  sitting 
in  the  hearth  and  softly  shaded  electric  lights  throwing 
a  glow  over  pictures  and  backs  of  books  and  the  piano 
which,  after  the  barrack  room,  made  us  as  near  heaven  as 
I've  ever  been.  The  telegram  was  for  me,  signed  by  the 
Adjutant. 

"  Return  immediately. *' 

It  was  the  echo  of  a  far-off  boot  and  saddle. — I  took 
another  look  round  the  room.  Should  I  ever  see  it 
again  ?     My  brother's  eye  met  mine  and  we  rose  together. 

"  Well,  I  must  be  getting  along,"  said  I.  "  Cheero, 
old  son." 

"I'll  come  with  you  to  the  station,"  said  he. 

I  shook  my  head.  "  No,  please  don't  bother. — Don't 
forget  to  write." 


88  The  Grey  Wave 

"  Rather  not. — Good  luck,  old  man." 

"  Thanks.^' 

We  went  down  to  his  front  door.  I  put  on  my  bandolier 
and  picked  up  my  haversack. 

"  Well— so  long." 

We  shook  hands. 

"  God  bless  you." 

I  think  we  said  it  together  and  then  the  door  closed 
softly  behind  me. 

Partly,  c'est  mourir  un  peu. — Un  peu. — God  ! 


13 

The  next  day,  Sunday,  we  all  hung  about  in  a  sort  of 
uneasy  waiting,  without  any  orders. 

It  gave  us  all  time  to  write  letters  home.  If  I  rightly 
remember,  absolute  secrecy  was  to  be  maintained  so  we 
were  unable  even  to  hint  at  our  departure  or  to  say  good- 
bye. It  was  probably  just  as  well  but  they  were  difficult 
letters  to  achieve.  So  we  tied  one  identity  disc  to  our 
braces  and  slung  the  other  round  our  necks  on  a  string 
and  did  rather  more  smoking  than  usual. 

Next  morning,  however,  all  was  bustle.  The  orders 
had  come  in  and  we  paraded  in  full  fighting  kit  in  front 
of  the  guardroom. 

The  Colonel  came  on  parade  and  in  a  silence  that  was 
only  broken  by  the  beating  of  our  hearts  told  us  we  were 
going  out  to  face  the  Boche  for  our  King  and  Country's 
sake,  to  take  our  places  in  the  ranks  of  a  very  gallant 
regiment,  and  he  wished  us  luck. 

We  gave  three  rather  emotional  cheers  and  marched 
away  with  our  chins  high,  followed  by  the  cheers  of  the 
whole  barracks  who  had  turned  out  to  see  us  off.  Just 
as  we  were  about  to  entrain  the  Major  trotted  up  on  his 


The  Ranks  89 

big  charger  and  shook  us  individually  by  the  hand  and 
said  he  wished  he  were  coming  with  us.  His  coming  was 
a  great  compHment  and  every  man  of  us  appreciated  it 
to  the  full. 

The  harbour  was  a  wonderful  sight  when  we  got  in 
late  that  afternoon.  Hundreds  of  arc  lights  lit  up 
numbers  of  ships  and  at  each  ship  was  a  body  of  troops 
entraining, — EngHsh,  Scotch  and  Irish,  cavalry,  gunners 
and  infantry.  At  first  glance  it  appeared  a  hopeless 
tangle,  a  babel  of  yelling  men  all  getting  into  each  other's 
way.  But  gradually  the  eye  tuned  itself  up  to  the  endless 
kaleidoscope  and  one  saw  that  absolute  order  prevailed. 
Every  single  man  was  doing  a  job  and  the  work  never 
ceased. 

We  were  not  taking  horses  and  marched  in  the  charge 
of  an  officer  right  through  the  busy  crowd  and  halted 
alongside  a  boat  which  already  seemed  packed  with 
troops.  But  after  a  seemingly  endless  wait  we  were 
marched  on  board  and,  dodging  men  stripped  to  the  waist 
who  were  washing  in  buckets,  we  climbed  down  iron 
ladders  into  the  bowels  of  the  hold,  were  herded  into  a 
corner  and  told  to  make  ourselves  comfortable.  Tea 
would  be  dished  out  in  half  an  hour. 

Holds  are  usually  iron.  This  was.  Furthermore  it 
had  been  recently  red-leaded.  Throw  in  a  strong  sugges- 
tion of  garlic  and  more  than  a  hint  of  sea-sickness  and 
you  get  some  idea  of  the  perfume  that  greeted  us,  friendly- 
like. 

The  comments,  entirely  good-natured,  were  unprint- 
able. There  were  no  bunks.  We  had  one  blanket  each 
and  a  greatcoat.  My  thoughts  turned  to  the  first-class 
stateroom  of  the  Caronia  in  which  only  four  months 
previously  I  had  had  no  thought  of  war.  The  accepted 
form  of  romance  and  the  glamour  of  war  have  been  altered. 
There  are  no  cheering  crowds  and  fluttering  handkerchiefs 


40  The  Grey  Wave 

and  brass  bands.  The  new  romance  is  the  hght  of  the 
moon  flickering  on  darkened  ships  that  creep  one  after 
the  other  through  the  mine  barrier  out  into  deep  waters, 
turning  to  silver  the  foam  ripped  by  the  bows,  picking  out 
the  white  expressionless  faces  of  silent  thousands  of 
khaki-clad  men  lining  the  rail,  following  the  will-o'-the- 
wisp  which  beckoned  to  a  strange  land. 

How  many  of  them  knew  what  they  were  going  to  fight 
for  ?  How  many  of  them  reahzed  the  unforgetable  hell 
they  were  to  be  engulfed  in,  the  sacrifice  which  they  so 
readily  made  of  youth,  love,  ambition,  life  itself — and  to 
what  end  ?  To  give  the  lie  to  one  man  who  wished  to 
alter  the  face  of  the  world  ?  To  take  the  part  of  the 
smaller  country  trampled  and  battered  by  the  bully  ? 
To  save  from  destruction  the  greasy  skins  of  dirty-minded 
politicians,  thinking  financially  or  even  imperially,  but 
staying  at  home  ? 

God  knows  why  most  of  us  went. 

But  the  sting  of  the  Channel  wind  as  we  set  out  faces 
to  the  enemy  drove  all  reason  from  the  mind  and  filled 
it  with  a  mighty  exultation.  If  Death  were  there  to 
meet  us,  well,  it  was  all  in  the  game. 


14 

We  climbed  up  from  the  hold  next  morning  to  find 
ourselves  in  Portsmouth  harbour.  The  word  submarines 
ran  about  the  decks.  There  we  waited  all  day,  and  again 
under  cover  of  dark  made  our  way  out  to  open  water, 
reaching  Havre  about  six  o'clock  next  morning. 

We  were  marched  ashore  in  the  afternoon  and  trans- 
ferred to  another  boat.  Nobody  knew  our  destination 
and  the  wildest  guesses  were  made.  The  new  boat  was 
literally  packed.    There  was  no  question  of  going  down 


The  Ranks  41 

into  a  hold.  We  were  lucky  to  get  sufficient  deck  space 
to  lie  down  on,  and  just  before  getting  under  way,  it 
began  to  rain.  There  were  some  London  Scottish  at 
our  end  of  the  deck  who,  finding  that  we  had  exhausted 
our  rations,  shared  theirs  with  us.  There  was  no  question 
of  sleeping.  It  was  too  cold  and  too  uncomfortable. 
So  we  sang.  There  must  have  been  some  two  thousand 
of  us  on  board  and  all  those  above  deck  joined  in  choruses 
of  all  the  popular  songs  as  they  sat  hunched  up  or  lying 
like  rows  of  sardines  in  the  rain.  Dawn  found  us  shiver- 
ing, passing  little  villages  on  either  bank  of  the  river  as 
we  neared  Rouen.  The  early-rising  inhabitants  waved 
and  their  voices  came  across  the  water,  "  Vivent  les 
Anglais  !  A  has  les  Boches  I  "  And  the  sun  came  out 
as  we  waved  out  shaving  brushes  at  them  in  reply.  We 
eventually  landed  in  the  old  cathedral  city  and  formed 
up  and  marched  away  across  the  bridge,  with  everybody 
cheering  and  throwing  flowers  until  we  came  to  La 
Bruyere  camp. 

Hundreds  of  bell  tents,  thousands  of  horses,  and  mud 
over  the  ankles  !  That  was  the  first  impression  of  the 
camp.  It  wasn't  until  we  were  divided  off  into  tents 
and  had  packed  our  equipment  tight  round  the  tent  pole 
that  one  had  time  to  notice  details. 

We  spent  about  nine  days  in  La  Bruyere  camp  and  we 
groomed  horses  from  6  a.m.  to  6  p.m.  every  day,  wet  or 
fine.  The  lines  were  endless  and  the  mud  eternal.  It 
became  a  nightmare,  relieved  only  by  the  watering  of  the 
horses.  The  water  was  about  a  kilometre  and  a  half 
distant.  We  mounted  one  horse  and  led  two  more  each 
and  in  an  endless  line  splashed  down  belly-deep  in  mud 
past  the  hospital  where  the  slightly  wounded  leaned  over 
the  rail  and  exchanged  badinage.  Sometimes  the  sisters 
gave  us  cigarettes  for  which  we  called  down  blessings  on 
their  heads. 


42  The  Grey  Wave 

It  rained  most  of  the  time  and  we  stood  ankle-deep 
all  day  in  the  lines,  grooming  and  shovelling  away  mud. 
But  all  the  time  jokes  were  hurled  from  man  to  man, 
although  the  rain  dripped  down  their  faces  and  necks. 
We  slept,  if  I  remember  rightly,  twenty  men  in  a  tent, 
head  outwards,  feet  to  the  pole  piled  on  top  of  each  other, 
— ^wet,  hot,  aching.  Oh,  those  feet,  the  feet  of  tired  heroes, 
but  unwashed.  And  it  was  impossible  to  open  the  tent 
flap  because  of  the  rain. — Fortunately  it  was  cold  those 
nights  and  one  smoked  right  up  to  the  moment  of  falling 
asleep.  Only  two  per  cent,  of  passes  to  visit  the  town 
were  allowed,  but  the  camp  was  only  barb-wired  and 
sentried  on  one  side.  The  other  side  was  open  to  the 
pine  woods  and  very  pretty  they  were  as  we  went  cross- 
country towards  the  village  of  St.  Etienne  from  which  a 
tram-car  ran  into  Rouen  in  about  twenty  minutes.  The 
military  police  posted  at  the  entrance  to  the  town  either 
didn't  know  their  job  or  were  good  fellows  of  Nelsonian 
temperament,  content  to  turn  a  blind  eye.  From  later 
experience  I  judge  that  the  former  was  probably  the  case. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  several  hundreds  of  us  went  in  with- 
out official  permission  nearly  every  night  and,  consider- 
ing all  things,  were  most  orderly.  Almost  the  only  man 
I  ever  saw  drunk  was,  paradoxically  enough,  a  police 
man.  He  tried  to  place  my  companion  and  myself  under 
arrest,  but  was  so  far  gone  that  he  couldn't  write  down  our 
names  and  numbers  and  we  got  off.  The  hand  of  Fate 
was  distinctly  in  it  for  had  I  been  brought  up  and  crimed 
for  being  loose  in  the  town  without  leave  it  might  have 
counted  against  me  when  my  commission  was  being 
considered. 

One  evening,  the  night  before  we  left  for  the  front,  we 
went  down  for  a  bath,  the  last  we  should  get  for  many  a 
day.  On  our  way  we  paid  a  visit  to  the  cathedral.  It 
was  good  to  get  out  of  the  crowded  streets  into  the  vast 


The  Ranks  48 

gloom  punctured  by  pin  points  of  candlelight,  with  only 
faint  footfalls  and  the  squeak  of  a  chair  to  disturb  the 
silence.  For  perhaps  half  an  hour  we  knelt  in  front  of  the 
high  altar, — quite  unconsciously  the  modern  version  of 
that  picture  of  a  knight  in  armour  kneeling,  holding  up 
his  sword  as  a  cross  before  the  altar.  It  is  called  the 
Vigil,  I  believe.  We  made  a  little  vigil  in  khaki  and 
bandoliers  and  left  the  cathedral  with  an  extraordinary 
confidence  in  the  morrow.  There  was  a  baby  being 
baptised  at  the  font.  It  was  an  odd  thing  seeing  that 
baby  just  as  we  passed  out.  It  typified  somewhat  the 
reason  of  our  going  forth  to  fight. 

The  bath  was  amusing.  The  doors  were  being  closed 
as  we  arrived,  and  I  had  just  the  time  to  stick  my  foot  in 
the  crack,  much  to  the  annoyance  of  the  attendant.  I 
blarneyed  him  in  French  and  at  last  pushed  into  the  hall 
only  to  be  greeted  by  a  cry  of  indignation  from  the  lady 
in  charge  of  the  ticket  ofiice.  She  was  young,  however 
and  pretty,  and,  determined  to  get  a  bath,  I  played  upon 
her  feelings  to  the  extent  of  my  vocabulary.  At  first  she 
was  adamant.  The  baths  were  closed.  I  pointed  out 
that  the  next  morning  we  were  going  to  the  front  to  fight 
for  France.  She  refused  to  beheve  it.  I  asked  her  if 
she  had  a  brother.  She  said  she  hadn't.  I  congratu- 
lated her  on  not  being  agonized  by  the  possibihties  of  his 
death  from  hour  to  hour.     She  smiled. 

My  heart  leaped  with  hope  and  I  reminded  her  that  as 
we  were  possibly  going  to  die  for  her  the  least  she  could 
do  was  to  let  us  die  clean.  She  looked  me  straight  in  the 
eye.  There  was  a  twinkle  in  hers.  "  You  will  not  die,'* 
she  said.  Somehow  one  doesn't  associate  the  selling  of 
bath  tickets  with  the  caUing  of  prophet.  But  she  com- 
bined the  two.     And  the  bath  was  gloriously  hot. 


44  The  Grey  Wave 


15 

That  nine  days  at  La  Bruy^re  did  not  teach  us  very 
much, — not  even  the  reahzation  of  the  vital  necessity  of 
patience.  We  looked  upon  each  day  as  wasted  because 
we  weren't  up  the  line.  Everywhere  were  preparations 
of  war  but  we  yearned  for  the  sound  of  guns.  Even  the 
blue-clad  figures  who  exchanged  jokes  with  us  over  the 
hospital  railing  conveyed  nothing  of  the  grim  tragedy  of 
which  we  were  only  on  the  fringe.  They  were  mostly 
convalescent.  It  is  only  the  shattered  who  are  being 
pulled  back  to  life  by  a  thread  who  make  one  curse  the 
war.  We  looked  about  like  new  boys  in  a  school,  inter- 
ested but  knowing  nothing  of  the  workings,  reading  none 
of  the  signs.  This  all  bored  us.  We  wanted  the  line 
with  all  the  persistence  of  the  completely  ignorant. 

The  morning  after  our  bath  we  got  it.  There  was 
much  bustle  and  running  and  cursing  and  finally  we  had 
our  saddles  packed,  and  a  day's  rations  in  our  haver- 
sacks and  a  double  feed  in  the  nose-bags. 

The  cavalry  man  in  full  marching  order  bears  a  strange 
resemblance  to  a  travelling  ironmonger  and  rattles  like 
the  banging  of  old  tins.  The  small  man  has  almost  to 
cjimb  up  the  near  foreleg  of  his  horse,  so  impossible  is 
it  to  get  a  leg  anywhere  near  the  stirrup  iron  with  all  his 
gear  on.  My  own  method  was  to  stick  the  lance  in  the 
ground  by  the  butt,  climb  with  infinite  labour  and 
heavings  into  the  saddle  and  come  back  for  the  lance  when 
arranged  squarely  on  the  horse. 

Eventually  everything  was  accomplished  and  we 
were  all  in  the  saddle  and  were  inspected  to  see  that  we 
were  complete  in  every  detail.  Then  we  rode  out  of  that 
muddy  camp  in  sections — four  abreast — and  made  our 


The  Ranks  45 

way  down  towards  the  station.  It  was  a  real  touch  of 
old-time  romance,  that  ride.  The  children  ran  shouting, 
md  people  came  out  of  the  shops  to  wave  their  hands  and 
give  us  fruit  and  wish  us  luck,  and  the  girls  blew  kisses, 
and  through  the  hubbub  the  clatter  of  our  horses  over  the 
cobbles  and  the  jingle  of  stirrup  striking  stirrup  made 
music  that  stirred  one's  blood. 

There  was  a  long  train  of  cattle  trucks  waiting  for  us 
at  the  station  and  into  these  we  put  our  horses,  eight  to 
each  truck,  fastened  by  their  ropes  from  the  head  collar 
to  a  ring  in  the  roof.  In  the  two-foot  space  between  the 
two  lots  of  four  horses  facing  each  other  were  put  the  eight 
saddles  and  blankets  and  a  bale  of  hay. 

Two  men  were  detailed  to  stay  with  the  horses  in 
each  truck  while  the  rest  fell  in  and  were  marched  away 
to  be  distributed  among  the  remaining  empty  trucks. 
I  didn't  altogether  fancy  the  idea  of  looking  after  eight 
frightened  steeds  in  that  two-foot  alleyway,  but  before 
I  could  fall  in  with  the  rest  I  was  detailed  by  the  sergeant. 

That  journey. was  a  nightmare.  My  fellow  stableman 
was  a  brainless  idiot  who  knew  even  less  about  the  hand- 
ling of  horses  than  I  did. 

The  train  pulled  out  in  the  growing  dusk  of  a  cold 
November  evening,  the  horses  snorting  and  starting 
at  every  jolt,  at  every  signal  and  telegraph  pole  that  we 
passed.  When  they  pawed  with  their  front  feet  we^ 
sitting  on  the  bale  of  hay,  had  to  dodge  with  curses. 
There  was  no  sand  or  bedding  and  it  was  only  the  tight- 
ness with  whibh  they  were  packed  together  that  kept  them 
on  their  feet.  Every  light  that  flashed  by  drew  fright- 
ened snorts.  We  spent  an  hour  standing  among  them, 
saying  soothing  things  and  patting  their  necks.  We 
tried  closing  the  sliding  doors  but  at  the  end  of  five  minutes 
the  heat  splashed  in  great  drops  of  moisture  from  the  roof 
and  the  smell  was  impossible.     Eventually  I  broke  the 


46  The  Grey  Wave 

bale  of  hay  and  threw  some  of  that  down  to  give  them  a 
footing. 

There  was  a  lamp  in  the  corner  of  the  truck.  I  told 
the  other  fellow  to  light  it.  He  said  he  had  no  matches. 
So  I  produced  mine  and  discovered  that  I  had  only  six 
left.  We  used  five  to  find  out  that  the  lamp  had  neither 
oil  nor  wick.  We  had  just  exhausted  our  vocabularies 
over  this  when  the  train  entered  a  tunnel.  At  no  time 
did  the  train  move  at  more  than  eight  miles  an  hour  and 
the  tunnel  seemed  endless.  A  times  I  still  dream  of  that 
tunnel  and  wake  up  in  a  cold  sweat. 

As  our  truck  entered  great  billows  of  smoke  rushed  into 
it.  The  eight  horses  tried  as  one  to  rear  up  and  crashed 
their  heads  against  the  roof.  The  noise  was  deafening 
and  it  was  pitch  dark.  I  felt  for  the  door  and  slid  it  shut 
while  the  horses  blew  and  tugged  at  their  ropes  in  a 
blind  panic.  Then  there  was  a  heavy  thud,  followed  by 
a  yell  from  the  other  man  and  a  furious  squealing. 

"  Are  you  all  right  ?  "  I  shouted,  holding  on  to  the  head 
collar  of  the  nearest  beast. 

"  Christ  !  "  came  the  answer.  "  There's  a  'orse  down 
and  I'm  jammed  up  against  the  door  'ere.  Come  and  get 
me  out,  for  Christ's  sake." 

My  heart  was  pumping  wildly. 

The  smoke  made  one  gasp  and  there  was  a  furious 
stamping  and  squealing  and  a  weird  sort  of  blowing  gurgle 
which  I  could  not  define. 

Feeling  around  I  reached  the  next  horse's  head  collar 
and  staggered  over  the  pile  of  saddlery.  As  I  leaned 
forward  to  get  to  the  third  something  whistled  past  my 
face  and  I  heard  the  sickening  noise  of  a  horse's  hoof 
against  another  horse,  followed  by  a  squeal.  I  felt 
blmdly  and  touched  a  flank  where  a  head  should  have 
been.  One  of  them  had  swung  round  and  was  standing 
with  his  fore  feet  on  the  fallen  horse  and  was  lashing  out 


The  Ranks  47 

with  both  hind  feet,  while  my  companion  was  jammed 
against  the  wall  of  the  truck  by  the  fallen  animal  presum- 
ably. 

And  still  that  cursed  tunnel  did  not  come  to  an  end. 
I  yelled  again  to  see  if  he  were  all  right  and  his  fruity 
reply  convinced  me  that  at  least  there  was  no  damage 
done.  So  I  patted  the  kicker  and  squeezed  in  to  his 
head  and  tried  to  get  him  round.  It  was  impossible  to 
get  past,  over  or  under,  and  the  brute  wouldn't  move. 
There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  remain  as  we  were  until 
out  of  the  tunnel.  And  then  I  located  the  gurgle.  It 
was  the  fallen  horse,  tied  up  short  by  the  head  collar  to 
the  roof,  being  steadily  strangled.  It  was  impossible  to 
cut  the  rope.  A  loose  horse  in  that  infernal  melee  was 
worse  than  one  dead — or  at  least  choking.  But  I  cursed 
and  pulled  and  heaved  in  my  efforts  to  get  him  up. 

By  this  time  there  was  no  air  and  one's  lungs  seemed  on 
the  point  of  bursting.  The  roof  rained  sweat  upon  our 
faces  and  every  moment  I  expected  to  get  a  horse's  hoof 
in  my  face. 

How  I  envied  that  fellow  jammed  against  the  truck. 
At  last  we  came  out  into  the  open  again,  and  I  slid  back 
the  door,  and  shoved  my  head  outside  and  gulped  in  the 
fresh  air.  Then  I  untied  the  kicker  and  somehow,  I 
don't  know  how,  got  him  round  into  his  proper  position 
and  tied  him  up,  with  a  handful  of  hay  all  round  to  steady 
their  nerves. 

The  other  man  was  cursing  blue  blazes  aU  this  time, 
but  eventually  I  cut  the  rope  of  the  fallen  horse,  and 
after  about  three  false  starts  he  got  on  his  feet  again 
and  was  retied.  The  man  was  not  hurt.  He  had  been 
merely  wedged.  So  we  gave  some  more  hay  all  round, 
cursed  a  bit  more  to  ease  ourselves  and  then  went  to  the 
open  door  for  air.  A  confused  shouting  from  the  next 
truck  reached  us.    After  many  yells  we  made  out  the 


€8  The  Grey  Wave 

following,  "  Pass  the  word  forward  that  the  train's  on 
fire/* 

All  the  stories  I'd  ever  heard  of  horses  being  burnt 
alive  raced  through  my  brain  in  a  fraction  of  a  second. 

We  leaned  to  the  truck  in  front  and  yelled.  No 
answer.     The  truck  was  shut. 

"  CHmb  on  the  roof,"  said  I,  "  and  go  forward."  The 
other  man  obeyed  and  disappeared  into  the  dark. 

Minutes  passed,  during  which  I  looked  back  and  saw 
a  cloud  of  smoke  coming  out  of  a  truck  far  along  the 
train. 

Then  a  foot  dropped  over  from  the  roof  and  my  com- 
panion climbed  back. 

"  Better  go  yourself,"  he  said.  "  I  carnt  mike  'im 
understand.  He  threw  lumps  of  coal  at  me  from  the 
perishin'  engine." 

So  I  climbed  on  to  the  roof  of  the  swajdng  coach, 
got  my  balance  and  walked  forward  till  a  yard-wide 
jump  to  the  next  roof  faced  me  in  the  darkness. 

"  Lord  !  "  thought  I,  ''  if  I  didn't  know  that  other 
lad  had  been  here,  I  shouldn't  care  about  it.  How- 
ever  "     I  took  a  strong  leap  and  landed,  sHpping  to 

my  hands  and  knees. 

There  were  six  trucks  between  me  and  the  engine 
and  the  jumps  varied  in  width.  I  got  there  all  right 
and  screamed  to  the  engine  driver,  "  Incendie ! 
— Incendie  !  " 

He  paused  in  the  act  of  throwing  coal  at  me  and  I 
screamed  again.  Apparently  he  caught  it,  for  first 
peering  back  along  all  the  train,  he  dived  at  a  lever  and 
the  train  screamed  to  a  halt.  I  was  mighty  thankful. 
I  hadn't  looked  forward  to  going  back  the  way  I  came 
and  I  climbed  quickly  down  to  the  rails.  A  sort  of 
guard  with  a  lantern  and  an  official  appearance  climbed 
out  of  a  box  of  sorts  and  demanded  to  know  what  was 


The  Ranks  49 

the  matter,  and  when  I  told  him,  called  to  me  to  follow 
and  began  doubling  back  along  the  track. 

I  followed.  The  train  seemed  about  a  mile  long  but 
eventually  we  reached  a  truck,  full  of  men  and  a  rosy 
glare,  from  which  a  column  of  smoke  beUied  out.  The 
guard  flashed  his  lantern  in. 

The  cursed  thing  wasn't  on  fire  at  all.  The  men  were 
burning  hay  in  a  biscuit  tin,  singing  merrily,  just  keeping 
themselves  warm. 

I  thought  of  the  agony  of  those  jumps  in  the  dark 
from  roof  to  roof  and  laughed.  But  I  got  my  own  back. 
They  couldn't  see  us  in  the  dark,  so  in  short  snappy 
sentences  I  ordered  them  to  put  the  fire  out  immediately. 
And  they  thought  I  was  an  officer  and  did  so. 


i6 

The  rest  of  the  night  passed  in  an  endeavour  to  get 
to  sleep  in  a  sitting  position  on  the  bale  of  hay.  From 
time  to  time  one  dozed  off,  but  it  was  too  cold,  and  the 
infernal  horses  would  keep  on  pawing. 

Never  was  a  night  so  long  and  it  wasn't  till  eight 
o'clock  in  the  morning  that  we  ran  into  Hazebrouck 
and  stopped.  By  this  time  we  were  so  hungry  that 
food  was  imperative.  On  the  station  was  a  great  pile  of 
rifles  and  bandoliers  and  equipment  generally,  all  dirty 
and  rusty,  and  in  a  corner  some  infantry  were  doing 
something  round  a  fire. 

*'  Got  any  tea,  chum  ?  "  said  I. 

He  nodded  a  Balaklava  helmet. 

We  were  on  him  in  two  leaps  with  extended  dixies. 
It  saved  our  lives,  that  tea.  We  were  chilled  to  the 
bone  and  had  only  bully  beef  and  biscuits,  of  course,  but 


50  The  Grey  Wave 

I  felt  renewed  courage  surge  through  me  with  every 
mouthful. 

''  What's  all  that  stuff  ?  "  I  asked,  pointing  to  the 
heap  of  equipments. 

"  Dead  men's  weapons,"  said  he,  lighting  a  "  gas- 
per." Somehow  it  didn't  sound  real.  One  couldn't 
picture  all  the  men  to  whom  that  had  belonged  dead. 
Nor  did  it  give  one  anything  of  a  shock.  One  just 
accepted  it  as  a  fact  without  thinking,  "  I  wonder  whether 
my  rifle  and  sword  will  ever  join  that  heap  ?  "  The  idea 
of  my  being  killed  was  absurd,  fantastic.  Any  of  these 
others,  yes,  but  somehow  not  myself.  Never  at  any 
time  have  I  felt  anything  but  extreme  confidence  in  the 
fact — ^yes,  fact — that  I  should  come  through,  in  all 
probability,  unwounded.  I  thought  about  it  often  but 
always  with  the  certainty  that  nothing  would  happen 
to  me. 

I  decided  that  if  I  were  killed  I  should  be  most  fright- 
fully angry  !  There  were  so  many  things  to  be  done 
with  Ufe,  so  much  beauty  to  be  found,  so  many  ambitions 
to  be  realized,  that  it  was  impossible  that  I  should  be 
killed.  All  this  dirt  and  discomfort  was  just  a  necessary 
phase  to  the  greater  appreciation  of  everything. 

I  can't  explain  it.  Perhaps  there  isn't  any  explana- 
tion. But  never  at  any  time  have  I  seen  the  shell  or 
bullet  with  my  name  on  it, — as  the  saying  goes.  And 
yet  somehow  that  pile  of  broken  gear  filled  one  with  a 
sense  of  the  pity  of  it  all,  the  utter  folly  of  civilization 
which  had  got  itself  into  such  an  unutterable  mess  that 
blood-letting  was  the  only  way  out. — I  proceeded  to 
strip  to  the  waist  and  shave  out  of  a  horse-bucket  of 
cold  water. 

There  was  a  cold  drizzle  falling  when  at  last  we  had 
watered  the  horses,  fed  and  saddled  them  up,  and  were 
ready  to  mount.     It  increased  to  a  steady  downpour 


The  Ranks  51 

as  we  rode  away  in  half  sections  and  turned  into  a  muddy 
road  lined  with  the  eternal  poplar.  In  the  middle  of 
the  day  we  halted,  numbed  through,  on  the  side  of 
a  road,  and  watered  the  horses  again,  and  snatched  a 
mouthful  of  biscuit  and  bully  and  struggled  to  fill  a 
pipe  with  icy  fingers.  Then  on  again  into  the  increasing 
murk  of  a  raw  afternoon. 

Thousands  of  motor  lorries  passed  like  an  endless 
chain.  Men  muffled  in  greatcoats  emerged  from  farm- 
houses and  faintly  far  came  the  sound  of  guns. 

The  word  went  round  that  we  were  going  up  into 
the  trenches  that  night.  Heaven  knows  who  started 
it  but  I  found  it  a  source  of  spiritual  exaltation  that 
helped  to  conquer  the  discomfort  of  that  ride.  Every 
time  a  trickle  ran  down  one's  neck  one  thought,  "  It 
doesn't  matter.  This  is  the  real  thing.  We  are  going 
up  to-night,"  and  visualised  a  Hun  over  the  sights  of 
one's  rifle. 

Presently  the  flames  of  fires  lit  up  the  murk  and 
shadowy  forms  moved  round  them  which  took  no  notice 
of  us  as  we  rode  by. 

At  last  in  pitch  darkness  we  halted  at  a  road  crossing 
and  splashed  into  a  farmyard  that  was  nearly  belly  deep 
in  mud.  Voices  came  through  the  gloom,  and  after 
some  indecision  and  cursing  we  off-saddled  in  a  stable 
lit  by  a  hurricane  lamp,  hand-rubbed  the  horses,  blanketed 
them  and  left  them  comfortable  for  the  night. 

We  were  given  hot  tea  and  bread  and  cheese  and 
shepherded  into  an  enormous  barn  piled  high  with  hay. 
Here  and  there  twinkled  candles  in  biscuit  tins  and 
everywhere  were  men  sitting  and  lying  on  the  hay,  the 
vague  whiteness  of  their  faces  just  showing.  It  looked 
extremely  comfortable. 

But  when  we  joined  them — ^the  trench  rumour  was 
untrue — ^we  found  that  the  hay  was  so  wet  that  a  Hghted 

4* 


52  The  Grey  Wave 

match  thrown  on  it  fizzled  and  went  out.  The  rain  came 
through  innumerable  holes  in  the  roof  and  the  wind 
made  the  candles  burn  all  one-sided.  However,  it  was 
soft  to  lie  on,  and  when  my  "  chum  "  and  I  had  got  on 
two  pairs  of  dry  socks  each  and  had  snuggled  down 
together  with  two  blankets  over  our  tunics  and  great- 
coats, and  mufflers  round  our  necks,  and  Balaklava 
helmets  over  our  heads  we  found  we  could  sleep  warm 
till  reveille. 

The  sock  question  was  difficult.  One  took  off  soaking 
boots  and  puttees  at  night  and  had  to  put  them  on  again 
still  soaking  in  the  morning.  The  result  was  that  by 
day  our  feet  were  always  ice-cold  and  never  dry.  We 
never  took  anything  else  off  except  to  wash,  or  to  groom 
horses. 

The  next  morning  I  had  my  first  lesson  in  real  soldier- 
ing.    The  results  were  curious. 

The  squadron  was  to  parade  in  drill  order  at  9  a.m. 
We  had  groomed  dihgently  in  the  chilly  dawn.  None 
of  the  horses  had  been  clipped,  so  it  consisted  in  getting 
the  mud  off  rather  than  really  grooming,  and  I  was  glad 
to  see  that  my  horse  had  stood  the  train  journey  and 
the  previous  day's  ride  without  any  damage  save  a  slight 
rubbing  of  his  tail.  At  about  twenty  minutes  to  nine, 
shaved  and  washed,  I  went  to  the  stables  to  saddle  up 
for  the  parade.  Most  of  the  others  in  that  stable  were 
nearly  ready  by  the  time  I  got  there  and  to  my  dismay 
I  found  that  they  had  used  all  my  gear.  There  was 
nothing  but  the  horse  and  the  blanket  left, — no  saddle, 
no  head  collar  and  bit,  no  rifle,  no  sword,  no  lance. 
Everything  had  disappeared.  I  dashed  round  and  tried 
to  lay  hands  on  some  one  else's  property.  They  were 
too  smart  and  eventually  they  all  turned  out  leaving  me. 
The  only  saddle  in  the  place  hadn't  been  cleaned  for 
months  and  I  should  have  been  ashamed  to  ride  it. 


The  Ranks  58 

Then  the  sergeant  appeared,  a  great,  red-faced,  bad- 
tempered-looking  man. 

I  decided  on  getting  the  first  blow  in.  So  I  went  up 
and  told  him  that  all  my  things  had  been  "  pinched." 
Could  he  tell  me  where  I  could  find  some  more  ? 

His  reply  would  have  blistered  the  paint  off  a  door. 
His  adjectives  concerning  me  made  me  want  to  hit  him. 
But  one  cannot  hit  one's  superior  officer  in  the  army 
— more's  the  pity — on  occasions  like  that.  So  we  had 
a  verbal  battle.  I  told  him  that  if  he  didn't  find  me 
everything  down  to  lance  buckets  I  shouldn't  appear  on 
parade  and  that  if  he  chose  to  put  me  under  arrest,  so 
much  the  better,  as  the  Major  would  then  find  out  how 
damned  badly  the  sergeant  ran  his  troop. 

It  was  a  good  bluff.  Bit  by  bit  he  hunted  up  a  head 
collar,  a  saddle,  sword,  lance,  etc.  Needless  to  say  they 
were  all  filthy  and  Ij  wished  all  the  bullets  in  Germany 
on  the  dirty  dog  who  had  pinched  my  clean  stuff.  How- 
ever, I  was  on  parade  just  half  a  minute  before  the 
Major  came  round  to  inspect  us.  He  stopped  at  me, 
his  eye  taking  in  the  rusty  bit  and  stirrup  irons,  the 
coagulations  on  the  bridle,  the  general  damnableness  of 
it  all.     It  wasn't  nice. 

"  Did  you  come  in  laaij  night  ?  "  The  voice  was 
hard. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Did  you  come  up  from  the  base  with  your  appoint- 
ments in  that  state  ?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

The  sergeant  was  looking  apoplectic  behind  him. 

"  These  aren't  my  things,  sir,"  said  I. 

"  Whose  are  they  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  sir." 

"  Where  are  your  things  ?  " 


54  The  Grey  Wave 

"  They  were  in  the  stables  at  reveille,  sir,  but  they'd 
all  gone  when  I  went  to  saddle  up.  The  horse  is  the 
only  thing  I  brought  with  me,  sir." 

The  whole  troop  was  sitting  at  attention,  listening, 
and  I  hoped  that  the  man  who  had  stolen  ever3^hing 
heard  this  dialogue  and  was  quaking  in  his  wet  boots. 

The  Major  turned.  "  What  does  this  mean.  Ser- 
geant ?  " 

There  was  a  vindictive  look  in  the  sergeant's  eye  as 
he  spluttered  out  an  unconvincing  reply  that  "  these 
new  fellows  wanted  nursemaids  and  weren't  'alf  nippy 
enough  in  lookin'  arter  'emselves." 

The  Major  considered  it  for  a  moment,  told  me  that 
I  must  get  everything  clean  for  the  next  parade  and 
passed  on. 

At  least  I  was  not  under  arrest,  but  it  wasn't  good 
enough  on  the  first  morning  to  earn  the  Major's  scorn 
through  no  fault  of  my  own.     I  wanted  some  one's  blood. 

Each  troop  leader,  a  subaltern,  was  given  written 
orders  by  the  Major  and  left  to  carry  them  out.  Our 
own  troop  leader  didn't  seem  to  understand  his  orders 
and  by  the  time  the  other  three  troops  had  ridden  away 
he  was  still  reading  his  paper.  The  Major  returned 
and  explained,  asked  him  if  all  was  clear,  and  getting  yes 
for  an  answer,  rode  off. 

The  subaltern  then  asked  the  sergeant  if  he  had  a 
map  ! 

What  was  even  more  curious,  the  sergeant  said  yes. 
The  subaltern  said  we  had  to  get  to  a  place  called  Fletre 
within  three  quarters  of  an  hour  and  they  proceeded  to 
try  and  find  it  on  the  sergeant's  map  without  any  success 
for  perhaps  five  minutes. 

During  that  time  the  troopers  around  me  made  remarks 
in  undertones,  most  ribald  remarks.  We  had  come 
through  Fletre  the  previous  day  and  I  remembered  the 


The  Ranks  5S 

road.  So  I  turned  to  a  lance-corporal  on  my  right  and 
said,  "  Look  here,  I  know  the  way.     Shall  I  tell  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  tell  him  for  Christ's  sake  !  "  said  the  lance- 
corporal.     "  It's  too  perishin'  cold  to  go  on  sitting  'ere." 

So  I  took  a  deep  breath  and  all  my  courage  in  both 
hands  and  spoke.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  I. 
"  I  know  Fletre." 

The  subaltern  turned  round  on  his  horse.  "  Who 
knows  the  place  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I  do,  sir,"  and  I  told  him  how  to  get  there. 

Without  further  comment  he  gave  the  word  to  advance 
in  half  sections  and  we  left  the  parade  ground,  but 
instead  of  turning  to  the  left  as  I  had  said,  he  led  us 
straight  on  at  a  good  sharp  trot. 

More  than  half  an  hour  later,  when  we  should  have 
been  at  the  pin  point  in  Fletre,  the  subaltern  halted  us 
at  a  crossroads  in  open  country  and  again  had  a  map 
consultation  with  the  sergeant.  Again  it  was  apparently 
impossible  to  locate  either  the  crossroads  or  the 
rendezvous. 

But  in  the  road  were  two  peasants  coming  towards 
us.  He  waited  till  they  came  up  and  then  asked  them 
the  way  in  bad  German.  They  looked  at  him  blankly, 
so  he  repeated  his  question  in  worse  French.  Mispro- 
nunciation of  Fletre  puzzled  them  but  at  last  one  of  them 
guessed  it  and  began  a  stream  of  explanations  and 
pointings. 

"  What  the  hell  are  they  talking  about  ?  "  said  the 
subaltern  to  the  sergeant. 

The  lance-corporal  nudged  me.  "  Did  you  under- 
stand ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  I. 

"  Tell  him  again,"  he  said.     "  Go  on." 

So  again  I  begged  his  pardon  and  explained  what 
the  peasants  had  told  him.    He  looked  at  me  for  a 


56  The  Grey  Wave 

moment  oddly.  I  admit  that  it  wasn't  usual  for  a 
private  to  address  his  officer  on  parade  without  being 
first  spoken  to.  But  this  was  war,  the  world  war,  and 
the  old  order  changeth.  Anyhow  I  was  told  to  ride  in 
front  of  the  troop  as  guide  and  did  and  brought  the  troop 
to  the  rendezvous  about  twenty  minutes  late. 

The  Major  was  not  pleased. 

Later  in  the  day  the  subaltern  came  around  the  stables 
and,  seeing  me,  stopped  and  said,  *'  Oh — er — you  !  " 

I  came  to  attention  behind  the  horse. 

"  What's  your  name  ?  "  said  he. 

I  told  him. 

"  Do  you  talk  French  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Where  were  you  educated  ?  " 

"  France  and  Oxford  University,  sir." 

"  Oh  !  "  slightly  surprised.  **  Er — all  right,  get  on 
with  your  work  " — and  whether  it  was  he  or  the  sergeant 
I  don't  know,  but  I  had  four  horses  to  groom  that 
morning  instead  of  two. 

From  that  moment  I  decided  to  cut  out  being  intelligent 
and  remain  what  the  French  call  a  "  simple  "  soldier. 

By  a  strange  coincidence  there  was  a  nephew  of  that 
subaltern  in  the  Brigade  of  Gunners  to  which  I  was 
posted  when  I  received  a  commission.  It  is  curious  how 
accurately  nephews  sum  up  uncles. 


17 

When  we  did  not  go  out  on  drill  orders  like  that  we 
began  the  day  with  what  is  called  rough  exercise.  It 
was.  In  the  foggy  dawn,  swathed  in  scarfs  and  Bala- 
klava  helmets,  one  folded  one's  blanket  on  the  horse, 
bitted  him,  mounted,  took  another  horse  on  either  side, 


The  Ranks  57 

and  in  a  long  column  followed  an  invisible  lance-corporal 
across  ploughed  fields,  over  ditches,  and  along  roads  at  a 
good  stiff  trot  that  jarred  one's  spine.  It  was  generally 
raining  and  always  so  cold  that  one  never  had  the  use 
of  either  hands  or  feet.  The  result  was  that  if  one  of 
the  unbitted  led  horses  became  frolicsome  it  was  even 
money  that  he  would  pull  the  rope  out  of  one's  hands 
and  canter  off  blithely  down  the  road, — for  which  one 
was  cursed  bitterly  by  the  sergeant  on  one's  return.  The 
rest  of  the  day  was  divided  between  stables  and  fatigues 
in  that  eternal  heart-breaking  mud.  One  laid  brick 
paths  and  brushwood  paths  and  within  twenty-four  hours 
they  had  disappeared  under  mud.  It  was  shovelled 
away  in  sacks  and  wheelbarrows,  and  it  oozed  up  again 
as  if  by  magic.  One  made  herring-bone  drains  and  they 
merged  in  the  mud.  There  seemed  to  be  no  method  of 
competing  with  it.  In  the  stables  the  horses  stood  in 
it  knee-deep.  As  soon  as  one  had  finished  grooming,  the 
brute  seemed  to  take  a  diabolical  pleasure  in  lying  down 
in  it.     It  became  a  nightmare. 

The  sergeant  didn't  go  out  of  his  way  to  make  things 
easier  for  any  of  us  and  confided  most  of  the  dirtier, 
muddier  jobs  to  me.  There  seemed  to  be  always  some- 
thing unpleasant  that  required  "  intelligence,"  so  he 
said,  and  in  the  words  of  the  army  I  "  clicked."  The 
result  was  that  I  was  happiest  when  I  was  on  guard,  a 
twenty-four-hour  duty  which  kept  me  more  or  less  out 
of  the  mud  and  entirely  out  of  his  way. 

The  first  time  I  went  on  I  was  told  by  the  N.C.O. 
in  charge  that  no  one  was  to  come  through  the  hedge 
that  bounded  the  farm  and  the  road  after  Hghts  out, 
and  if  any  one  attempted  to  do  so  I  was  to  shoot  on 
sight.  So  I  marched  up  and  down  my  short  beat  in  the 
smaU  hours  between  two  and  four,  listening  to  the  far- 
off  muttering  of  guns  and  watching  the  Verey  lights  like 


58  The  Grey  Wave 

a  miniature  firework  display,  praying  that  some  spy 
would  try  and  enter  the  gap  in  the  hedge.  My  finger 
was  never  very  far  from  the  trigger,  and  my  beat  was 
never  more  than  two  yards  from  the  hedge.  I  didn't 
realize  then  that  we  were  so  far  from  the  line  that  the 
chances  of  a  strolling  Hun  were  absurd.  Looking  back 
on  it  I  am  inclined  to  wonder  whether  the  N.C.O.  didn't 
tell  me  to  shoot  on  sight  because  he  knew  that  the  ser- 
geant's billet  was  down  that  road  and  the  hedge  was  a 
short  cut.    The  sergeant  wasn't  very  popular. 

There  was  an  estaminet  across  the  road  from  the  farm, 
and  the  officers  had  arranged  for  us  to  have  the  use  of 
the  big  room.  It  wais  a  godsend,  that  estaminet,  with  its 
huge  stove  nearly  red-hot,  its  bowls  of  coffee  and  the 
single  glass  of  raw  cognac  which  they  were  allowed  to  sell 
us.  The  evenings  were  the  only  time  one  was  ever 
warm,  and  although  there  was  nothing  to  read  except 
some  old  and  torn  magazines  we  sat  there  in  the  fetid 
atmosphere  just  to  keep  warm. 

The  patron  talked  vile  French  but  was  a  kindly  soul, 
and  his  small  boy,  Gaston,  aged  about  seven,  became 
a  great  friend  of  mine.  He  used  to  bring  me  my  coffee, 
his  tiny,  dirty  hands  only  just  big  enough  to  hold  the 
bowl,  and  then  stand  and  talk  while  I  drank  it,  calling 
me  "  thou." 

"  Tes  pas  anglais,  dis  ?  " 

And  I  laughed  and  said  I  was  French. 

"  Alors  comment  qu'  t'es  avec  eux,  dis  ?  " 

And  when  one  evening  he  came  across  and  looked 
over  my  shoulder  as  I  was  writing  a  letter,  he  said,  "  QuS 
que  fecris,  dis  ?  " 

I  told  him  I  was  writing  in  EngUsh. 

He  stared  at  me  and  then  called  out  shrilly,  "  Papa . 
V'ld  VFrangais  qu'ecrit  en  anglais  !  " 

He  had  seen  the  Boche,  had  little  Gaston,  and  told 


The  Ranks  59 

me  how  one  day  the  Uhlans  had  cleaned  the  estaminet 
out  of  everything, — ^wine,  cognac,  bread,  blankets, 
sheets — les  sales  Boches  I 

As  the  days  dragged  rauddily  through  it  was  borne 
in  on  me  that  this  wasn't  fighting  for  King  and  Country. 
It  was  just  Tidworth  over  again  with  none  of  its  advan- 
tages and  with  all  its  discomforts  increased  a  thousand- 
fold. Furthermore  the  post-office  seemed  to  have  lost 
me  utterly,  and  weeks  went  by  before  I  had  any  letters 
at  all.  It  was  heart-breaking  to  see  the  mail  distributed 
daily  and  go  away  empty-handed.  It  was  as  though  no 
one  cared,  as  though  one  were  completely  forgotten,  as 
though  in  stepping  into  this  new  life  one  had  renounced 
one's  identity.  Indeed,  every  day  it  became  more 
evident  that  it  was  not  I  who  was  in  that  mud  patch. 
It  was  some  one  else  on  whom  the  real  me  looked  down  in 
infinite  amazement.  I  heard  myself  laugh  in  the  farm 
at  night  and  join  in  choruses  ;  saw  myself  dirty  and 
unbathed,  with  a  scarf  around  my  stomach  and  another 
round  my  feet,  and  a  woollen  helmet  over  my  head ; 
standing  in  the  mud  stripped  to  the  waist  shaving  with- 
out a  looking-glass  ;  drinking  coffee  and  cognac  in  that 
estaminet, — ^Was  it  I  who  sometimes  prayed  for  sleep 
that  I  might  shut  it  all  out  and  slip  into  the  land  of 
dreams,  where  there  is  no  war  and  no  mud  ?  Was  it  I 
who  when  the  first  letters  arrived  from  home  went  out 
into  the  rainy  night  with  a  candle-end  to  be  alone  with 
those  I  loved  ?  And  was  it  only  the  rain  which  made 
it  so  difficult  to  read  them  ? 


60  The  Grey  Wave 


i8 

The  culminating  point  was  reached  when  I  became 
ill. 

Feeling  sick,  I  couldn't  eat  any  breakfast  and  dragged 
myself  on  parade  like  a  mangy  cat.  I  stuck  it  till  about 
three  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  horse  which  I  was 
grooming  receded  from  me  and  the  whole  world  rocked. 
I  remember  hanging  on  to  the  horse  till  things  got  a  bit 
steadier,  and  then  asked  the  sergeant  if  I  might  go  off 
parade.  I  suppose  I  must  have  looked  pretty  ill  because 
he  said  yes  at  once. 

For  three  days  I  lay  wrapped  up  on  the  straw  in  the 
barn,  eating  nothing  ;  and  only  crawling  out  to  see  the 
doctor  each  morning  at  nine  o'clock.  Of  other  symptoms 
I  will  say  nothing.  The  whole  affair  was  appalling,  but 
I  recovered  sufficient  interest  in  life  on  the  fourth  morn- 
ing to  parade  sick,  although  I  felt  vastly  more  fit. 
Indeed,  the  argument  formed  itself,  "  since  I  am  a  soldier 
I'll  play  the  '  old  soldier  '  and  see  how  long  I  can  be 
excused  duty."  And  I  did  it  so  well  that  for  three  more 
days  I  was  to  all  intents  and  purposes  a  free  man.  On 
one  of  the  days  I  fell  in  with  a  corporal  of  another 
squadron,  and  he  and  I  got  a  couple  of  horses  and  rode 
into  Bailleul,  which  was  only  about  three  miles  south  of 
us,  and  we  bought  chocolates,  and  candles  and  books, 
and  exchanged  salutes  with  the  Prince  of  Wales,  who 
was  walking  in  the  town.  Then  we  came  back  with  our 
supplies  after  an  excellent  lunch  at  the  hotel  in  the 
square,  the  "  Faucon,"  and  had  tea  with  the  officers' 
servants  in  a  cosy  little  billet  with  a  fire  and  beds.  The 
remarks  they  made  about  their  officers  were  most  in- 


The  Ranks  61 

structive,  and  they  referred  to  them  either  as  "  my 
bloke  "  or  **  'is  lordship." 

And  there  it  was  I  met  again  a  man  I  had  spoken  to 
once  at  Tidworth,  who  knew  French  and  was  now 
squadron  interpreter.  He  was  a  charming  man  of 
considerable  means,  with  a  large  business,  who  had 
joined  up  immediatefy  on  the  outbreak  of  war.  But 
being  squadron  interpreter  he  messed  with  the  officers, 
had  a  billet  in  a  cottage,  slept  on  a  bed,  had  a  private 
hip  bath  and  hot  water,  and  was  in  heaven,  comparatively. 
He  suggested  to  me  that  as  my  squadron  lacked  an 
interpreter  (he  was  doing  the  extra  work)  and  I  knew 
French  it  was  up  to  me. 

"  But  how  the  devil's  it  to  be  done  ?  "  said  I,  alight 
with  the  idea. 

"  Why  don't  you  go  and  see  the  Colonel  ?  "  he 
suggested. 

I  gasped.     The  Colonel  was  nearly  God. 

He  laughed.  "  This  is  *  Kitchener's  Army,'  "  he 
said,  "  not  the  regular  Army.  Things  are  a  bit  different." 
They  were  indeed  ! 

So  I  slept  on  the  idea  and  every  moment  it  seemed 
to  me  better  and  better,  until  the  following  evening 
after  tea,  instead  of  going  to  the  estaminet,  I  went  down 
to  squadron  headquarters.  For  about  five  minutes  I 
walked  up  and  down  in  the  mud,  plucking  up  courage. 
I  would  rather  have  faced  a  Hun  any  day. 

At  last  I  went  into  the  farmyard  and  knocked  at  the 
door.  There  were  hghts  in  the  crack  of  the  window 
shutters. 

A  servant  answered  the  door. 

"  Is  the  Colonel  in  ?  "  said  I  boldly. 

He  peered  at  me.  "  What  the  perishin'  'ell  do  you 
want  to  know  for  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  see  him,"  said  I. 


62  The  Grey  Wave 

"  And  what  the  'ell  do  you  want  to  see  him  for  ?  " 

I  was  annoyed.  It  seemed  quite  likely  that  this 
confounded  servant  would  do  the  St.  Peter  act  and 
refuse  me  entrance  into  the  gates. 

"  Look  here,"  I  said,  '*  it  doesn't  matter  to  you  what 
for  01"  why.  You're  here  to  answer  questions.  Is  the 
Colonel  in  ?  " 

The  man  snorted.  "  Oh  I  I'm  'ere  to  answer  questions, 
am  I  ?  Well,  if  you  want  to  know,  the  Colonel  ain't 
in. — Anything  else  ?  " 

I  was  stumped.  It  seemed  as  if  my  hopes  were 
shattered.  But  luck  was  mine — as  ever.  A  voice 
came  from  the  inner  room.  "  Thomson  !  Who  is  that 
man  ?  " 

The  servant  made  a  face  at  me  and  went  to  the  room 
door. 

"  A  trooper,  sir,  from  one  of  the  squadrons,  askin'  to 
see  the  Colonel." 

"  Bring  him  in,"  said  the  voice. 

My  heart  leapt. 

The  servant  returned  to  me  and  showed  me  into  the 
room. 

I  saw  three  officers,  one  in  shirt  sleeves,  all  sitting 
around  a  fire.  Empty  tea  things  were  still  on  a  table. 
There  were  a  sofa,  and  armchairs  and  bright  pictures,  a 
pile  of  books  and  magazines  on  a  table,  and  a  smell  of 
Egyptian  cigarettes.    They  all  looked  at  me  as  I  saluted. 

"  Thomson  tells  me  you  want  to  see  the  Colonel,^' 
said  the  one  whose  voice  I  had  heard,  the  one  in  shirt 
sleeves.     "  Anything  I  can  do  ?  " 

It  was  good  to  hear  one's  own  language  again,  and  I 
decided  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it. 

"It's  awfully  kind  of  you,  sir,"  said  I.  "  Perhaps  you 
can.  I  came  to  ask  for  the  interpretership  of  my 
squadron.     We  haven't  got  one  and  I  can  talk  French. 


The  Ranks  63 

If  you  could  put  in  a  word  for  me  I  should  be  lastingly 
grateful." 

His  next  words  made  him  my  brother  for  Hfe.  *'  Sit 
down,  won't  you,"  he  said,  "  and  have  a  cigarette." 

Can  you  realize  what  it  meant  after  those  weeks  of 
misery,  with  no  letters  and  the  eternal  adjective  of  the 
ranks  which  gets  on  one's  nerves  till  one  could  scream, 
to  be  asked  to  sit  down  and  have  a  cigarette  in  that 
officers'  mess  ? 

Speechless,  I  took  one,  although  I  dislike  cigarettes 
and  always  stick  to  a  pipe.  But  that  one  was  a  link 
with  all  that  I'd  left  behind,  and  was  the  best  I've  ever 
smoked  in  my  life.  He  proceeded  to  ask  me  my  name 
and  where  I  was  educated,  and  said  he  would  see  what 
he  could  do  for  me,  and  after  about  ten  minutes  I  went 
out  again  into  the  mud  a  better  soldier  than  I  went  in. 
That  touch  of  fellow  feeling  helped  enormously.  And 
he  was  as  good  as  his  word.  For  the  following  morning 
the  Major  sent  for  me. 


19 

The  rain  had  stopped  and  there  had  been  a  hard 
frost  in  the  night  which  turned  the  roads  to  ice.  The 
horses  were  being  walked  round  and  round  in  a  circle, 
and  the  Major  was  standing  watching  them  when  I  came 
up  and  saluted. 

"  Yes,  what  is  it  ?"  he  said. 

"  You  sent  for  me,  sir." 

"  Oh — ^you're  Gibbs,  are  you  ? — Yes,  let's  go  in  out 
of  this  wind."  He  led  the  way  into  the  mess  and  stood 
with  his  back  to  the  fire. 

Every  detail  of  that  room  Hves  with  me  yet.  One 
went  up  two  steps  into  the  room.    The  fireplace  faced 


64  The  Grey  Wave 

the  door  with  a  window  to  the  right  of  the  fireplace. 
There  was  a  table  between  us  with  newspapers  on  it, 
and  tobacco  and  pipes.  And  two  armchairs  faced  the 
fire. 

He  asked  me  what  I  wanted  the  interpretership  for. 
I  told  him  I  was  sick  of  the  ranks,  that  I  had  chucked 
a  fascinating  job  to  be  of  use  to  my  King  and  country, 
and  that  any  fool  trooper  could  shovel  mud  as  I  did  day 
after  day. 

He  nodded.  "  But  interpreting  is  no  damned  good, 
you  know,"  he  said.  "  It  only  consists  in  looking  after 
the  forage  and  going  shopping  with  those  ofiicers  who 
can't  talk  French. — ^That  isn't  what  you  want,  is  it  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  said  I. 

"  Well,  what  other  job  would  you  like  ?  " 

That  floored  me  completely.  I  didn't  know  what 
jobs  there  were  in  the  squadron  and  told  him  so. 

"  Well,  come  and  have  dinner  to-night  and  we'll 
talk  about  it,"  said  he. 

Have  dinner  !  My  clothes  reeked  of  stables,  and  I 
had  slept  in  them  ever  since  I  arrived. 

"  That  doesn't  matter,"  said  the  Major.  "  You 
come  along  to-night  at  half-past  seven.  You've  been 
sick  all  this  week.     How  are  you  ?     Pretty  fit  again  ?  " 

He's  Brigadier-General  now  and  has  forgotten  all 
about  it  years  ago.     I  don't  think  I  ever  shall. 

There  were  the  Major,  the  Captain  and  one  subaltern 
at  dinner  that  night — an  extraordinary  dinner — the 
servant  who  a  moment  previously  had  called  me  "  chum  " 
in  the  kitchen  gradually  getting  used  to  waiting  on  me 
at  the  meal,  and  I,  in  the  same  dress  as  the  servant, 
gradually  feeling  less  like  a  fish  out  of  water  as  the 
ofiicers  treated  me  as  one  of  themselves.  It  was  the 
first  time  I'd  eaten  at  a  table  covered  with  a  white  table- 
cloth for  over  two  months,  the  first  time  I  had  used  a 


The  Ranks  65 

plate  or  drunk  out  of  a  glass,  the  first  time  I  had  been 
with  my  own  kind. — It  was  very  good. 

The  outcome  of  the  dinner  was  that  I  was  to  become 
squadron  scout,  have  two  horses,  keep  them  at  the 
cottage  of  the  interpreter,  where  I  was  to  live,  and  ride 
over  the  country  gathering  information,  which  I  was 
to  bring  as  a  written  report  every  night  at  six  o'clock. 
While  the  squadron  was  behind  the  lines  it  was,  of  course, 
only  a  matter  of  training  myself  before  other  men  were 
given  me  to  train.  But  when  we  went  into  action, — 
vistas  opened  out  before  me  of  dodging  Uhlan  patrols 
and  galloping  back  with  information  through  a  rain  of 
bullets.  It  was  a  job  worth  while  and  I  was  speechless 
with  gratitude. 

It  was  not  later  than  seven  o'clock  the  following 
morning,  Christmas  Eve,  1914,  that  I  began  operations. 
I  breakfasted  at  the  cottage  to  which  I  had  removed  my 
belongings  overnight,  and  went  along  towards  the  stables 
to  get  a  horse. 

The  man  with  whom  I  had  been  mucking  in  met  me 
outside  the  farm.  He  was  in  the  know  and  grinned, 
cheerily. 

"  The  sergeant's  lookin'  for  you,"  he  said.  "  He's 
over  in  the  stables." 

I  went  across.  He  was  prowHng  about  near  the 
forage. 

"  Good  morning,  Sergeant,"  said  I. 

He    looked   at   me   and  stopped   prowling.     "  Where 

the- "  and  he  asked  me  in  trooperese  where  I  had 

been  and  why  I  wasn't  at  early  morning  stables.     I  told 
him  I  was  on  a  special  job  for  the  Major. 

He  gasped  and  requested  an  explanation. 

"I'm  knocked  off  all  rolls,  and  parades  and  fatigues," 
I  said.  **  You've  got  to  find  me  a  second  horse.  They 
are  both  going  to  be  kept  down  the  road,  and  I  shall 

5 


66  The  Grey  Wave 

come  and  see  you  from  time  to  time  when  I  require 
forage." 

He  was  speechless  for  the  first  and  only  time.  It 
passed  his  comprehension. 

At  that  moment  the  sergeant-major  came  in  and  pro- 
ceeded to  tell  him  almost  word  for  word  what  I  had  told 
him.  It  was  a  great  morning,  a  poetic  revenge,  and 
eventually  I  rode  away  leading  the  other  horse,  the 
sergeant's  pop  eyes  following  me  as  I  gave  him  final 
instructions  as  to  where  to  send  the  forage. 

Later,  as  I  started  out  on  my  first  expedition  as 
squadron  scout,  he  waved  an  arm  at  me  and  came  run- 
ning. His  whole  manner  had  changed,  and  he  said  in  a 
voice  of  honey,  "  If  you  should  'appen  to  pass  through 
Ballool  would  you  mind  gettin'  me  a  new  pipe? — 'Ere's 
five  francs." 

I  got  him  a  pipe,  and  in  Bailleul  sought  out  every 
likely  looking  English  signaller  or  French  officer,  and 
dropped  questions,  and  eventually  at  6  p.m.,  having  been 
the  round  of  Dramoutre,  Westoutre,  and  Locre,  took  in 
a  rather  meagre  first  report  to  the  Major.  How  I 
regretted  that  I  had  never  been  a  newspaper  reporter  ! 
However,  it  was  a  beginning. 

The  following  morning  was  Christmas  Day,  cold  and 
foggy,  and  before  starting  out  I  went  about  a  mile  down 
the  road  to  another  farm  and  heard  Mass  in  a  barn.  An 
odd  little  service  for  Christmas  morning.  The  altar 
was  made  of  a  couple  of  biscuit  boxes  in  an  open  barn. 
The  priest  wore  his  vestments,  and  his  boots  and  spurs 
showed  underneath.  About  half  a  dozen  troopers  with 
rifles  were  all  the  congregation,  and  we  kneeled  on  the 
damp  ground. 

The  first  Christmas  at  Bethlehem  came  to  mind  most 
forcibly.  The  setting  was  the  same.  An  icy  wind 
blew  the  wisps  of  straw  and  the  lowing  of  a  cow  could 


The  Ranks  67 

be  heard  in  the  byre.  Where  the  Magi  brought  frankin- 
cense and  myrrh  we  brought  our  hopes  and  ambitions 
and  laid  them  at  the  Child's  feet,  asking  Him  to  take 
care  of  them  for  us  while  we  went  out  to  meet  the  great 
adventure.  What  a  contrast  to  the  previous  Christmas, 
in  the  gold  and  sunshine  of  Miami,  Florida,  splashed  with 
the  scarlet  flowers  of  the  bougainvillea,  and  at  night 
the  soft,  feathery  palms  leaning  at  a  curious  angle  in  the 
hard  moonUght  as  though  a  tornado  had  once  swept 
over  the  land. 

The  farm  people  sold  me  a  bowl  of  coffee  and  a  slice 
of  bread,  and  I  mounted  and  rode  away  into  the  fog 
with  an  apple  and  a  piece  of  chocolate  in  my  pocket,  the 
horse  slipping  and  shding  on  the  icy  road.  Not  a  sound 
broke  the  dead  silence  except  the  blowing  of  my  horse 
and  his  hoofs  on  the  road.  Every  gun  was  silent  during 
the  whole  day,  as  though  the  Child  had  really  brought 
peace  and  good  will. 

I  got  to  within  a  couple  of  miles  of  Ypres  by  the  map, 
and  saw  nothing  save  a  few  peasants  who  emerged  out 
of  the  blanket  of  fog  on  their  way  to  Mass.  A  magpie 
or  two  flashed  across  my  way,  and  there  was  only  an 
occasional  infantryman  muffled  to  the  eyes  when  I  passed 
through  the  scattered  villages. 

About  midday  I  nibbled  some  chocolate,  and  watered 
my  horse  and  gave  him  a  feed,  feeling  more  and  more 
miserable  because  there  was  no  means  of  getting  any 
information.  My  imagination  drew  pictures  of  the 
Major,  on  my  return  with  a  blank  confession  of  failure, 
telling  me  that  I  was  no  good  and  had  better  return  to 
duty.  As  the  short  afternoon  drew  in,  my  spirits  sank 
lower  and  lower.  They  were  below  zero  when  at  last  I 
knocked  reluctantly  at  the  door  of  the  mess  and  stood 
to  attention  inside.  To  make  things  worse  all  the  officers 
were  there. 

5* 


6a  The  Grey  Wave 

"  Well,  Gibbs  ?  "  said  the  Major. 

"  It  isn't  well,  sir,**  said  I.  "  I'm  afraid  I'm  no  damn 
good.  I  haven't  got  a  thing  to  report,"  and  I  told  him 
of  my  ride. 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  The  Major  flicked  off 
the  ash  of  his  cigarette.  "  My  dear  fellow,"  he  said 
quietly,  "  you  can't  expect  to  get  the  hang  of  the  job 
in  five  minutes.  Don't  be  impatient  with  it.  Give  it  a 
chance." 

It  was  like  a  reprieve  to  a  man  awaiting  the  hangman. 


20 

The  squadron,  having  been  on  duty  that  day,  had 
not  celebrated  Christmas,  but  the  estaminet  was  a  mass 
of  holly  and  mistletoe  in  preparation  for  to-morrow,  and 
talk  ran  high  on  the  question  of  the  dinner  and  concert 
that  were  to  take  place.  There  were  no  letters  for  me, 
but  in  spite  of  it  I  felt  most  unaccountably  and  absurdly 
happy  as  I  left  the  estaminet  and  went  back  to  my  billet 
and  got  to  bed. 

The  interpreter  came  in  presently.  He  had  been 
dining  well  and  Christmas  exuded  from  him  as  he  smoked 
a  cigar  on  the  side  of  his  bed. 

"  Oh,  by  the  way,"  he  said,  "  your  commission  has 
come  through.  They  were  talking  about  it  in  mess 
to-night .     Congratulations . " 

Commission  !  My  heart  jumped  back  to  the  Marl- 
borough Hotel. 

"  I  expect  you'll  be  going  home  to-morrow,"  he  went 
on  ;    "  lucky  devil." 

Home  1  Could  it  be  ?  Was  it  possible  that  I  was 
going  to  escape  from  all  this  mud  and  filth  ?  Home. 
What  a  Christmas  present  !     No  more  waiting  for  letters 


The  Ranks  69 

that  never  came.     No  more  of  the  utter  loneUnessand 
indifference  that  seemed  to  fill  one's  days  and  nights. 

The  dingy  farm  room  and  the  rough  army  blanket 
faded  and  in  their  place  came  a  woman's  face  in  a  setting 
of  tall  red  pines  and  gleaming  patches  of  moss  and  high 
bracken  and  a  green  lawn  running  up  to  a  little  house  of 
gables,  with  chintz-curtained  windows,  warm  tiles  and 
red  chimneys,  and  a  shining  river  twisting  in  stately 
loops.  And  instead  of  the  guns  which  were  thundering 
the  more  fiercely  after  their  lull,  there  came  the  mewing 
of  sandpipers,  and  the  gurgle  of  children's  laughter,  and 
the  voice  of  that  one  woman  who  had  given  me  the 
vision. — 


21 

The  journey  home  was  a  foretaste  of  the  return  to 
civilisation,  of  stepping  not  only  out  of  one's  trooper's 
khaki  but  of  resuming  one's  identity,  of  counting  in  the 
scheme  of  things.  In  the  ranks  one  was  a  number,  like 
a  convict, — a  cipher  indeed,  and  as  such  it  was  a  struggle 
to  keep  one's  soul  alive.  One  had  given  one's  body. 
They  wanted  one's  soul  as  well.  By  "  they  "  I  mean 
the  system,  that  extraordinary  self-contained  world 
which  is  the  Army,  where  the  private  is  marched  to 
church  whether  he  have  a  religion  or  not,  where  he  is 
forced  to  think  as  the  sergeant  thinks  and  so  on,  right  up 
to  the  General  commanding.  How  few  officers  realise 
that  it  is  in  their  power  to  make  the  lives  of  their  juniors 
and  men  a  hell  or  a  heaven. 

It  was  a  merciful  thing  for  me  that  I  was  able  to  escape 
so  soon,  to  climb  out  of  that  mental  and  physical  morass 
and  get  back  to  myself. 

From  the  squadron  I  went  by  motor  lorry  to  Haze- 
brouck  and  thence  in  a  first-class  carriage  to  Boulogne, 


70  The  Grey  Wave 

and  although  the  carriage  was  crowded  I  thought  of  the 
horse  truck  in  which  I'd  come  up  from  Rouen,  and 
chuckled.  At  Boulogne  I  was  able  to  help  the  Major, 
who  was  going  on  leave.  He  had  left  a  shirt  case  in  the 
French  luggage  office  weeks  before  and  by  tackling  the 
porter  in  his  own  tongue,  I  succeeded  in  digging  it  out 
in  five  minutes.  It  was  the  only  thing  I've  ever  been 
able  to  do  to  express  the  least  gratitude, — and  how 
ridiculously  inadequate. 

We  spent  the  night  in  a  hotel  and  caught  the  early 
boat,  horribly  early.  But  it  was  worth  it.  We  reached 
London  about  two  in  the  afternoon,  a  rainy,  foggy,  de- 
pressing afternoon,  but  if  it  had  snowed  ink  I  shouldn't 
have  minded.  I  was  above  mere  weather,  sailing  in  the 
blue  ether  of  radiant  happiness.  In  this  case  the  realisa- 
tion came  up  to  and  even  exceeded  the  expectation. 
Miserable-looking  poUcemen  in  black  waterproof  capes 
were  things  of  beauty.  The  noise  of  the  traffic  was 
sweetest  music.  The  sight  of  dreary  streets  with  soaked 
pedestrians  made  one's  eyes  brim  with  joy.  The  swish 
of  the  taxi  round  abrupt  corners  made  me  burst  with  song. 
I  was  glad  of  the  rain  and  the  sort  of  half-fog.  It  was 
so  typically  London  and  when  the  taxi  driver  stopped  at 
my  brother's  house  and  said  to  me  as  I  got  out,  "  Just 
back  from  the  front,  chum  ?  "  I  laughed  madly  and 
scandalously  overtipped  him.  No  one  else  would  ever 
call  me  chum.  That  was  done  with.  I  was  no  longer 
7205  Trooper  A.  H.  Gibbs,  9th  Lancers.  I  was  Second 
Lieutenant  A.  Hamilton  Gibbs,  R.F.A.  and  could  feel  the 
stars  sprouting. 

My  brother  wasn't  at  home.  He  was  looking  like  an 
admiral  still  and  working  like  the  devil.  But  his  wife 
was  and  she  most  wisely  lent  me  distant  finger  tips  and 
hmrried  me  to  a  bath,  what  time  she  telephoned  to  my 
brother. 


The  Ranks  71 

That  bath  !  I  hadn't  had  all  my  clothes  off  more  than 
once  in  six  weeks  and  had  slept  in  them  every  night. 
Ever  tried  it  ?  Well,  if  you  really  want  to  know  just  how 
I  felt  about  that  first  bath,  you  try  it. 

I  stayed  in  it  so  long  that  my  sister-in-law  became 
anxious  and  tapped  at  the  door  to  know  if  I  were  all 
right.  All  right !  Before  I  was  properly  dressed — but 
running  about  the  house  most  shamelessly  for  all  that — 
my  brother  arrived. 

It  was  good  to  see  him  again, — very  good.  We 
"  foregathered,"— what  ? 

And  the  next  morning  scandalously  early,  the  break- 
fast things  still  on  the  table,  found  me  face  to  face  once 
more  with  the  woman  who  had  brought  me  back  to  life. 
All  that  nightmare  was  immediately  washed  away  for 
ever.  It  was  past.  The  future  was  too  vague  for 
imaginings  but  the  present  was  the  most  golden  thing 
I  had  ever  known. 


PART    II 
UBIQUE 


THE  Division  of  Field  Artillery  to  which  I  was 
posted  by  the  War  Office  was  training  at  Bulford 
up  to  its  neck  in  mud,  but  the  brigade  had  moved  to 
Fleet  two  days  before  I  joined.  By  that  time — it  was 
a  good  fifteen  days  since  I  had  come  home — I  had  grown 
accustomed  to  the  feel  and  splendour  of  a  Sam  Browne 
belt  and  field  boots  and  the  recurring  joy  of  being  saluted 
not  merely  by  Tommies  but  by  exalted  beings  like 
sergeants  and  sergeant-majors  ;  and  I  felt  mentally  as 
well  as  physically  clean. 

At  the  same  time  I  arrived  at  the  Fleet  Golf  Club, 
where  most  of  the  officers  were  billeted,  feeling  vastly 
diffident.  I'd  never  seen  a  gun,  never  given  a  command 
in  my  life  and  hadn't  the  first  or  foggiest  idea  of  the  sort 
of  things  gunners  did,  and  my  only  experience  of  an 
officers'  mess  was  my  dinner  with  the  Major  in  France. 
Vaguely  I  knew  that  there  was  a  certain  etiquette  de- 
manded.    It  was  rather  like  a  boy  going  to  a  new  school. 

It  was  tea  time  and  dark  when  the  cab  dropped  me 
at  the  door  and  the  place  was  practically  empty.  How- 
ever, an  officer  emerged,  asked  me  if  I'd  come  to  join,  and 
led  me  in  to  tea.  Presently,  however,  a  crowd  swarmed 
in,  flung  wet  mackintoshes  and  caps  about  the  hall  and 
began  devouring  bread  and  jam  in  a  way  that  more 
and  more  resembled  school.  They  looked  me  over  with 
the  unintentional  insolence  of  all  Englishmen  and  one 
or  two  spoke.    They  were  a  likely-looking  lot,  mostly 

75 


76  ,         The  Grey  Wave 

amazingly  young  and  full  of  a  vitality  that  was  like  an 
electric  current.  One,  a  fair  willowy  lad  with  one  or  two 
golden  fluffs  that  presumably  did  duty  as  a  moustache, 
took  me  in  hand.  He  was  somewhat  fancifully  called 
Pot-face  but  he  had  undoubtedly  bought  the  earth  and 
all  things  in  it.  Having  asked  and  received  my  name 
he  informed  me  that  I  was  posted  to  his  battery  and 
introduced  me  to  the  other  subaltern,  also  of  his  battery. 
This  was  a  pale,  blue-eyed,  head-on-one-side,  sensitive 
youth  who  was  always  just  a  moment  too  late  with  his 
repartee.  Pot-face,  who  possessed  a  nimble,  sarcastic 
tongue,  took  an  infinite  delight  in  baiting  him  to  the 
verge  of  tears.  His  nickname,  to  which  incidentally 
he  refused  to  answer,  was  the  Fluttering  Palm. 

The  others  did  not  assume  individualities  till  later. 
It  was  an  amusing  tea  and  afterwards  we  adjourned  to 
the  big  club  room  with  two  fireplaces  and  straw  arm- 
chairs and  golfing  pictures.  The  senior  officers  were 
there  and  before  I  could  breathe  Pot-face  had  introduced 
me  to  the  Colonel,  the  Adjutant,  and  the  Captain  com- 
manding our  battery,  a  long,  thin,  dark  man  with  India 
stamped  all  over  him  and  a  sudden  infectious  laugh  that 
crinkled  all  his  face.  He  turned  out  to  be  the  owner  of  a 
vitriolic  tongue. 

A  lecture  followed,  one  of  a  series  which  took  place  two 
or  three  evenings  a  week  attended  by  all  the  officers  in 
the  brigade,  a  good  two  thirds  of  whom  were  billeted  in 
the  village  and  round  about.  Of  technical  benefit  I  don't 
think  I  derived  any,  because  I  knew  no  gunnery,  but  it 
helped  me  to  get  to  know  everybody.  A  further  help 
in  that  respect  was  afforded  by  my  Captain  who  on  that 
first  evening  proposed  getting  up  a  concert.  Having  had 
two  years  on  the  stage  in  America  I  volunteered  to 
help  and  was  at  once  made  O.  C.  Concert.  This  gave 
me  a  sort  of  standing,  took  away  the   awful  newness 


Ubique  77 

and  entirely  filled  my  spare  time  for  two  weeks.  The 
concert  was  a  big  success  and  from  that  night  I  felt  at 
home. 

To  me,  after  my  experience  in  the  ranks,  everything 
was  new  and  delightful.  We  were  all  learning,  subalterns 
as  well  as  men.  Only  the  Colonel  and  the  Battery  Com- 
manders were  regulars  and  every  single  officer  and  man  was 
keen.  The  work  therefore  went  with  a  will  that  sur- 
prised me.  The  men  were  a  different  class  altogether  to 
those  with  whom  I  had  been  associated.  There  were 
miners,  skilled  men,  clerks,  people  of  some  education  and 
distinct  intelligence.  Then  too  the  officers  came  into 
much  closer  contact  with  them  than  in  the  Cavalry.  Our 
training  had  been  done  solely  under  the  sergeant-major. 
Here  in  the  Gunners  the  officers  not  only  took  every 
parade  and  lecture  and  stable  hour  and  knew  every  man 
and  horse  by  name,  but  played  in  all  the  inter-battery 
football  matches.  It  was  a  different  world,  much  more 
intimate  and  much  better  organised.  We  worked  hard 
and  played  hard.  Riding  was  of  course  most  popular 
because  each  of  us  had  a  horse.  But  several  had  motor- 
bicycles  and  went  for  joy-rides  half  over  the  south  of 
England  between  tattoo  and  reveille.  Then  the  Golf 
Club  made  us  honorary  members,  and  the  Colonel  and 
I  had  many  a  match,  and  he  almost  invariably  beat  me 
by  one  hole. 

My  ignorance  of  gunnery  was  monumental  and  it  was 
a  long  time  before  I  grasped  even  the  first  principles. 
The  driving  drill  part  of  it  didn't  worry  me.  The  Cavalry 
had  taught  me  to  feel  at  home  in  the  saddle  and  the 
drawing  of  intricate  patterns  on  the  open  country  with 
a  battery  of  four  guns  was  a  delightful  game  soon  learnt. 
But  once  they  were  in  action  I  was  lost.  It  annoyed  me 
to  listen  helplessly  while  children  of  nineteen  with  squeaky 
voices  fired  imaginary  salvos  on  imaginary  targets  and 


T8  The  Grey  Wave 

got  those  gunners  jumping.  So  I  besought  the  Colonel 
to  send  me  on  a  course  to  Shoebury  and  he  did. 

Work  ?  I'd  never  known  what  it  meant  till  I  went 
to  Shoebury  and  put  on  a  canvas  duck  suit.  We  paraded 
at  ungodly  hours  in  the  morning,  wet  or  fine,  took  guns 
to  bits  and  with  the  instructor's  help  put  them  together 
again  ;  did  gun  drill  by  the  hour  and  learnt  it  by  heart 
from  the  handbook  and  shouted  it  at  each  other  from  a 
distance  ;  spent  hours  in  the  country  doing  map-reading 
and  re-section  ;  sat  through  hours  of  gunnery  lectures 
where  the  mysteries  of  a  magic  triangle  called  T.O.B. 
became  more  and  more  unfathomable  ;  knocked  out 
countless  churches  on  a  miniature  range  with  a  precision 
that  was  quite  Boche-like  ;  waded  through  a  ghastly 
tabloid  book  called  F.A.T.  and  flung  the  thing  in  despair 
at  the  wall  half  a  dozen  times  a  day  ;  played  billiards  at 
night  when  one  had  been  clever  enough  to  arrive  first  at  the 
table  by  means  of  infinite  manoeuvring  ;  ate  like  a  Trojan, 
got  dog-tired  by  9  p.m.,  slept  like  a  child  ;  dashed  up  to 
London  every  week-end  and  went  to  the  theatre,  and 
became  in  fact  the  complete  Shoebury  it  e. 

Finally  I  returned  to  the  brigade  extraordinarily  fit, 
very  keen  and  with  perhaps  the  first  glimmerings  of  what 
a  gun  was.  A  scourge  of  a  mysterious  skin  disease  ran 
through  the  horses  at  that  time.  It  looked  like  ringworm 
and  wasn't, — according  to  the  Vet.  But  w^e  subalterns 
vied  with  each  other  in  curing  our  sections  and  worked 
day  and  night  on  those  unfortunate  animals  with  tobacco 
juice,  sulphur  and  every  unpleasant  means  available  until 
they  looked  the  most  wretched  brutes  in  the  world. 

Little  by  little  the  training  built  itself  up.  From 
standing  gun  drill  we  crept  to  battery  gun  drill  and 
then  took  the  battery  out  for  the  day  and  lost  it  round 
Aldershot  in  that  glorious  pine  country,  coming  into 
action  over  and  over  again. 


Ubique  79 

The  Colonel  watched  it  all  from  a  distance  with  a 
knowledgeable  eye  and  at  last  took  a  hand.  Brigade 
shows  then  took  place,  batteries  working  in  conjunction 
with  each  other  and  covering  zones. 

Those  were  good  days  in  the  early  spring  with  all  the 
birds  in  full  chorus,  clouds  scudding  across  a  blue  sky, 
and  the  young  green  feathering  all  the  trees,  days  of  hard 
physical  work  with  one's  blood  running  free  and  the  com- 
panionship of  one's  own  kind  ;  inspired  by  a  friendly 
rivalry  in  doing  a  thing  just  a  little  bit  better  than  the 
other  fellow — or  trying  to  :  with  an  occasional  week- 
end flung  in  like  a  sparkling  jewel. 

And  France  ?  Did  we  think  about  it  ?  Yes,  when 
the  lights  were  turned  out  at  night  and  only  the  point  of 
the  final  cigarette  like  a  glowworm  marked  the  passage 
of  hand  to  mouth.  Then  the  talk  ran  on  brothers  "  out 
there  "  and  the  chances  of  our  going  soon.  None  of 
them  had  been  except  me,  but  I  could  only  give  them 
pictures  of  star-shell  at  night  and  the  heart-breaking 
mud,  and  they  wanted  gunner  talk. 

It  was  extraordinary  what  a  bond  grew  up  between 
us  all  in  those  days,  shared,  I  think,  by  the  senior  officers. 
We  declared  ourselves  the  first  brigade  in  the  Division,  and 
each  battery  was  of  course  hotly  the  finest  in  the 
brigade ;  our  Colonel  was  miles  above  any  other 
Colonel  in  the  Army  and  our  Battery  Commanders 
the  best  fellows  that  ever  stepped.  By  God,  we'd 
show  Fritz  ! 


We  had  left  Fleet  and  the  golf  club  and  moved  into 
hutments  at  Deepcut  about  the  time  I  returned  from  the 
gunnery  course.     Now  the  talk  centred  round  the  firing 


80  The  Grey  Wave 

practice  when  every  man  and  officer  would  be  put  to  the 
test  and  one  fine  morning  the  order  came  to  proceed  to 
Trawsfynydd,  Wales. 

We  "  proceeded  "  by  train,  taking  only  guns,  firing 
battery  wagons  and  teams  and  after  long,  long  hours 
found  ourselves  tucked  away  in  a  camp  in  the  mountains 
with  great  blankets  of  mist  rolling  down  and  blotting 
everything  out,  the  ground  a  squelching  bog  of  tussocks 
with  outcrops  of  rock  sprouting  up  everywhere.  A 
strange,  hard,  cold  country,  with  unhappy  houses,  grey 
tiled  and  lonely,  and  peasants  whose  faces  seemed 
marked  by  the  desolation  of  it  all. 

The  range  was  a  rolling  stretch  of  country  falling  away 
from  a  plateau  high  above  us,  reached  by  a  corkscrew 
path  that  tore  the  horses  to  pieces,  and  cut  up  by  stone 
walls  and  nullahs  which  after  an  hour's  rain  foamed  with 
brown  water.  Through  glasses  we  made  out  the  targets — 
four  black  dots  representing  a  battery,  a  row  of  tiny 
figures  for  infantry,  and  a  series  of  lines  indicating 
trenches.  For  three  days  the  weather  prevented  us  from 
shooting  but  at  last  came  a  morning  when  the  fog  blanket 
rolled  back  and  the  guns  were  run  up,  and  little  puffs 
of  cotton  wool  appeared  over  the  targets,  the  hills  ringing 
with  countless  echoes  as  though  they  would  never  tire 
of  the  firing. 

Each  subaltern  was  called  up  in  turn  and  given  a 
target  by  the  Colonel  who,  lying  silently  on  his  stomach, 
watched  results  through  his  glasses  and  doubtless  in  his 
mind  summed  each  of  us  up  from  the  methods  of  our  orders 
to  the  battery,  the  nimbleness  and  otherwise  with  which 
we  gauged  and  corrected  them.  A  trying  ordeal  which 
was,  however,  all  too  short.  Sixteen  rounds  apiece  were 
all  that  we  were  allowed.  We  would  have  liked  six 
hundred,  so  fascinating  and  bewildering  was  the  new 
game.   It  seemed  as  if  the  guns  took  a  malignant  pleasure 


Ubique  81 

in  disobeying  our  orders,  each  gun  having  its  own  par- 
ticular devil  to  compete  with. 

In  the  light  of  to-day  the  explanation  is  simple.  There 
was  no  such  thing  as  calibration  then,  that  exorciser  of 
the  evil  spirit  in  all  guns. 

And  so,  having  seen  at  last  a  practical  demonstration 
of  what  I  had  long  considered  a  fact — that  the  Gunners' 
Bible  F.A.T.  (the  handbook  of  Field  Artillery  Training) 
was  a  complete  waste  of  time,  we  all  went  back  to  Deepcut 
even  more  than  ever  convinced  that  we  were  the  finest 
brigade  in  England.  And  all  on  the  strength  of  sixteen 
rounds  apiece  ! 

Almost  at  once  I  was  removed  from  the  scientific 
activities  necessitated  by  being  a  battery  subaltern.  An 
apparently  new  establishment  was  made,  a  being  called 
an  Orderly  Officei,  whose  job  was  to  keep  the  Colonel  in 
order  and  remind  the  Adjutant  of  all  the  things  he  forgot. 
In  addition  to  those  two  matters  of  supreme  moment 
there  were  one  or  two  minor  duties  like  training  the  brigade 
signallers  to  lay  out  cables  and  buzz  messages,  listen  to 
the  domestic  troubles  of  the  regimental  sergeant-major, 
whose  importance  is  second  only  to  that  of  the  Colonel, 
look  after  some  thirty  men  and  horses  and  a  cable  wagon 
and  endeavour  to  keep  in  the  good  books  of  the  Battery 
Commanders. 

I  got  the  job — and  kept  it  for  over  a  year. 

Colonel,  didn't  I  keep  you  in  order  ? 

Adj,  did  I  ever  do  any  work  for  you  ? 

Battery  Commanders,  didn't  I  come  and  cadge  drinks 
daily — and  incidentally  wasn't  that  cable  which  I  laid 
from  Valandovo  to  Kajali  the  last  in  use  before  the 
Bulgar  pushed  us  oft  the  earth  ? 


82  The  Grey  Wave 


So  I  forgot  the  little  I  ever  knew  about  gunnery  and 
laid  spiders'  webs  from  my  cable  wagon  all  over  Deepcut, 
and  galloped  for  the  Colonel  on  Divisional  training 
stunts  with  a  bottle  of  beer  and  sandwiches  in  each  wallet 
against  the  hour  when  the  General,  feeling  hungry, 
should  declare  an  armistice  with  the  opposing  force  and 
Colonels  and  their  Orderly  Officers  might  replenish  their 
inner  men.  Brave  days  of  great  lightheartedness,  un- 
touched by  the  shadow  of  what  was  to  come  after. 

May  had  put  leaves  on  all  the  trees  and  called  forth 
flowers  in  every  garden.  Then  came  June  to  perfect  her 
handiwork  and  with  it  the  call  to  lay  aside  our  golf  clubs 
and  motor-cycles,  to  say  good-bye  to  England  in  all  her 
beauty  and  go  out  once  more  to  do  our  bit. 

There  was  much  bustle  and  packing  of  kits  and  writing 
of  letters  and  heartburnings  over  last  week-end  leaves 
refused  and  through  it  all  a  thirst  for  knowledge  of  where 
we  were  going.  Everything  was  secret,  letters  severely 
censored.  Rumour  and  counter-rumour  chased  each 
other  through  the  camp  until,  an  hour  before  starting,  the 
Captain  in  whose  battery  I  had  begun  appeared  with  a 
motor  car  full  of  topees. 

Then  all  faces  like  true  believers  were  turned  towards 
the  East  and  on  every  tongue  was  the  word  Gallipoli. 

Avonmouth  was  the  port  of  embarkation  and  there 
we  filled  a  mass  of  waiting  boats,  big  and  little. 

The  Colonel,  the  Adjutant  and  I  were  on  one  of  the 
biggest.  My  horses  had  been  handed  over  to  a  battery 
for  the  voyage  and  I  had  only  the  signallers  to  look 
after.  Everything  was  complete  by  ten  o'clock  in  the 
morning.     The  convoy  would  not  sail  till  midnight,  so 


Ubique  88 

some  of  us  got  leave  to  explore  and  took  train  to  Bristol, 
lunching  royally  for  the  last  time  in  a  restaurant,  buying 
innumerable  novels  to  read  on  board,  sending  final 
telegrams  home. 

How  very  different  it  was  to  the  first  going  out  I  No 
red  lead.  No  mud.  The  reality  had  departed.  It 
seemed  like  going  on  a  picnic,  a  merry  outing  with  cheery 
souls,  a  hot  sun  trickling  down  one's  back ;  and  not 
one  of  us  but  heard  the  East  a-calling. 

A  curious  voyage  that  was  when  we  had  sorted  our- 
selves out.  The  mornings  were  taken  up  with  a  few 
duties, — ^physical  jerks,  chin  inspection  and  Grand 
Rounds  when  we  stood  stiffly  to  attention,  rocking  with 
the  sway  of  the  boat  while  the  two  commanders  of  the 
sister  services  inspected  the  ship  ;  life-boat  drill,  a  little 
signalling  ;  and  then  long  hours  in  scorching  sunshine, 
to  lie  in  a  deck  chair  gazing  out  from  the  saloon  deck 
upon  the  infinite  blue,  trying  to  find  the  answer  to  the 
why  of  it  all,  arguing  the  alpha  and  omega  with  one's 
pals,  reading  the  novels  we  had  bought  in  Bristol,  writing 
home,  sleeping.  Torpedoes  and  mines  ?  We  never 
thought  about  them. 

Boxing  competitions  and  sports  were  organized  for 
the  men  and  they  hammered  each  other's  faces  to  pulp 
with  the  utmost  good  fellowship. 

Then  we  passed  The  Rock  and  with  our  first  glimpse 
of  the  African  coast — a  low  brown  smudge — ^we  began 
to  stir  restlessly  and  think  of  terra  firma.  It  broke  the 
spel)  of  dreams  which  had  filled  the  long  days.  Maps 
were  produced  and  conferences  held,  and  we  studied 
eagerly  the  contours  of  Gallipoli,  discussed  the  detail 
of  landings  and  battery  positions,  wagon  lines  and  sig- 
nalling arrangements,  even  going  so  far  as  to  work  off  our 
bearing  of  the  line  of  fire.  Fragments  of  war  news  were 
received  by  wireless  and  a  communique  was  posted  daily, 

6* 


84  The  Grey  Wave 

but  it  all  seemed  extraordinarily   unreal,   as  though  it 
were  taking  place  in  another  world. 

One  night  we  saw  a  fairyland  of  piled-up  lights  which 
grew  swiftly  as  we  drew  nearer  and  took  shape  in  filigreed 
terraces  and  arcades  when  our  anchor  at  last  dropped 
with  a  mighty  roar  in  Valetta  harbour.  Tiny  boats 
like  gondolas  were  moored  at  the  water's  edge  in  tight 
rows,  making  in  the  moon-light  a  curious  scalloped 
fringe.  People  in  odd  garments  passed  in  noiseless 
swarms  up  and  down  the  streets,  cabs  went  by,  shop 
doors  opened  and  shut,  and  behind  all  those  lights 
loomed  the  impenetrable  blackness  of  the  land  towering 
up  like  a  mountain.  From  the  distance  at  which  we 
were  anchored  no  sound  could  be  heard  save  that  of 
shipping,  and  those  ant-sized  people  going  about  their 
affairs,  regardless  of  the  thousands  of  eyes  watching 
them,  gave  one  the  effect  of  looking  at  a  stage  from  the 
gallery  through  the  wrong  end  of  an  opera  glass. 

Coaling  began  within  an  hour,  and  all  that  night 
bronze  figures  naked  to  the  w^aist  and  with  bare  feet 
slithered  up  and  down  the  swaying  planks,  tireless, 
unceasing,  glistening  in  the  arc  light  which  spluttered 
from  the  mast  of  the  coaling  vessel ;  the  grit  of  coal 
dust  made  one's  shoes  crunch  as  one  walked  the  decks  in 
pyjamas,  filled  one's  hair  and  neck,  and  on  that  stifling 
night  became  as  one  of  the  plagues  of  Pharaoh. 

A  strange  discordant  chattering  waked  one  next 
morning  as  though  a  tribe  of  monkeys  had  besieged  the 
ship.  Then  one  leaped  to  the  port-hole  to  get  a  glimpse 
of  Malta,  to  us  the  first  hint  of  the  mysterious  East. 
There  it  was,  glistening  white  against  the  turquoise  blue, 
built  up  in  fascinating  tiers  with  splashes  of  dark  green 
trees  clinging  here  and  there  as  though  afraid  of  losing 
their  hold  and  toppling  into  the  sea.  All  round  the  ship 
the  sea  was  dotted  with  boats  and  dark  people  yelling  and 


Ubique  85 

shouting,  all  reds  and  blues  and  bright  yellows  ;  piles 
of  golden  fruit  and  coloured  shawls  ;  big  boats  with  high 
snub  noses,  the  oarsmen  standing,  showing  rows  of 
gleaming  teeth  ;  baby  boats  the  size  of  walnut  shells 
with  naked  brown  babies  uttering  shrill  cries  and  diving 
like  frogs  for  silver  coins. 

Was  it  possible  that  just  a  little  farther  on  we  should 
meet  one  end  of  the  line  of  death  that  made  a  red  gash 
right  across  Europe  ? 

We  laughed  a  little  self-consciously  under  the  un- 
usual feel  of  our  topees  and  went  ashore  to  try  and  get 
some  drill  khaki.  Finding  none  we  drank  cool  drinks 
and  bought  cigars  and  smiled  at  the  milk  sellers  with 
their  flocks  of  goats  and  the  cafe  au  lait  coloured  girls, 
some  of  whom  moved  with  extraordinary  grace  and 
looked  very  pretty  under  their  black  mantillas.  The 
banks  distrusted  us  and  would  give  us  no  money,  and  the 
Base  cashier  refused  to  undo  his  purse  strings.  We 
cursed  him  and  tried  unsuccessfully  to  borrow  from 
each  other,  having  only  a  few  pounds  in  our  pockets. 
Down  a  back  street  we  found  a  Japanese  tattooist  and 
in  spite  of  the  others'  ridicule  I  added  a  highly  coloured 
but  pensive  parrot  to  my  collection.  But  the  heat  was 
overwhelming  and  our  puttees  and  tunics  became 
streaked  with  sweat.  We  were  glad  to  get  back  to  the 
boat  and  lie  in  a  cold  bath  and  cHmb  languidly  into  the 
comparative  coolness  of  slacks.  The  men  had  not  been 
allowed  ashore  but  hundreds  of  them  dived  overboard 
and  swam  round  the  boat,  and  the  native  fruit  sellers 
did  a  thriving  trade. 

After  dinner  we  went  ashore  again.  It  was  not  much 
cooler.  We  wandered  into  various  places  of  amusement. 
They  were  all  the  same,  large  dirty  halls  with  a  small 
stage  and  a  piano  and  hundreds  of  marble-topped  tables 
where    one    sat    and    drank.     Atrociously    fat    women 


86  The  Grey  Wave 

appeared  on  the  stage  and  sang  four  songs  apiece  in  bad 
French.  It  didn't  matter  whether  the  first  song  was 
greeted  with  stony  silence  or  the  damning  praise  of  one 
sarcastic  laugh.  Back  came  each  one  until  she'd  finished 
her  repertoire.  Getting  bored  with  that  I  collected  a 
fellow  sufferer  and  together  we  went  out  and  made  our 
way  to  the  top  of  the  ramparts.  The  sky  looked  as  if  a 
giant  had  spilt  all  the  diamonds  in  the  world.  They 
glittered  and  changed  colour.  The  sea  was  also  powdered 
as  if  little  bits  of  diamond  dust  had  dropped  from  the 
sky.  The  air  smelled  sweet  and  a  little  strange,  and  in 
that  velvety  darkness  which  one  could  almost  touch 
one's  imagination  went  rioting. 

As  if  that  were  not  enough  a  guitar  somewhere  down 
below  was  suddenly  touched  with  magic  fingers  and  a 
little  love  song  floated  up  in  a  soft  lilting  tenor. — We 
were  very  silent  on  the  old  wall. 


The  next  morning  on  waking  up,  that  song  still  echoing 
in  our  ears,  we  were  hull  down.  Only  a  vague  distur- 
bance in  the  blue  showed  where  Malta  had  been,  and  but 
for  the  tattoo  which  irritated  slightly,  it  might  have  been 
one  of  the  Thousand  and  One  Nights.  We  arrived  at 
last  at  Alexandria  instead  of  Gallipoli.  The  shore 
authorities  lived  up  to  the  best  standards  of  the 
Staff. 

They  said,  "  Who  the  devil  are  you  ?  " 

And  we  replied,  '*  The  —  Division." 

And  they  said,  "  We've  never  heard  of  you,  don't 
know  where  you  come  from,  have  no  instructions  about 
you,  and  you'd  better  buzz  off  again." 


Ublque  87 

But  we  beamed  at  them  and  said,  *'  To  hell  with  you. 
We're  going  to  land/' — and  landed. 

There  were  no  arrangements  for  horses  or  men  ;  and 
M.L.O.'s  in  all  the  glory  of  staff  hats  and  armlets  chat- 
tered like  impotent  monkeys.  We  were  busy,  however, 
improvising  picketing-ropes  from  ships'  cables  borrowed 
from  the  amused  ship's  commander  and  we  smiled 
politely  and  said,  "  Yes,  it  is  hot,"  and  went  on  with 
the  work.     Never  heard  of  the  —  Division  ?     Well,  well ! 

Hot  ?  We  had  never  known  what  heat  was  before. 
We  thought  we  did  lying  about  on  deck,  but  when  it 
came  to  working  for  hours  on  end, — tunics  disappeared 
and  collars  and  ties  followed  them.  The  horses  looked 
as  if  they  had  been  out  in  the  rain  and  left  a  watery  trail 
as  we  formed  up  and  marched  out  of  the  harbour  and 
through  the  town.  We  bivouacked  for  the  night  in  a 
rest  camp  called  Karaissi  where  there  wasn't  enough 
room  and  tempers  ran  high  until  a  couple  of  horses  broke 
loose  in  the  dark  and  charged  the  tent  in  which  there 
were  two  Colonels.  The  tent  ropes  went  with  a  ping 
and  camp  beds  and  clothing  and  Colonels  were  mixed 
up  in  the  sand.  No  one  was  hurt,  so  we  emptied  the 
Colonels'  pyjamas,  called  their  servants  and  went  away 
and  laughed. 

Then  we  hooked  in  and  marched  again,  and  in  the 
middle  of  the  afternoon  found  Mamoura — a  village  of 
odd  smells,  naked  children,  filthy  women  and  pariah 
dogs — and  pitched  camp  on  the  choking  sand  half  a  mile 
from  the  seashore. 

By  this  time  the  horses  were  nearly  dead  and  the  only 
water  was  a  mile  and  a  half  away  and  full  of  sand.  But 
they  drank  it,  poor  brutes,  by  the  gallon, — and  two  days 
after  we  had  our  first  case  of  sand  colic. 

The  Staff  were  in  marquees  on  the  seashore.  Pre- 
sumably  being   bored,   having   nothing   earthly   to   do. 


88  The  Grey  Wave 

they  began  to  exhibit  a  taste  for  design  and  each  day  the 
camp  was  moved,  twenty  yards  this  way,  fifteen  that, 
twelve  and  a  half  the  other,  until,  thank  God,  the  sun 
became  too  much  for  them  and  they  retired  to  suck  cool 
drinks  through  straws  and  think  up  a  new  game. 

By  this  time  the  Colonel  had  refused  to  play  and  re- 
moved himself,  lock,  stock  and  barrel,  to  the  hotel  in 
the  village.  The  Adjutant  was  praying  aloud  for  the  mud 
of  Flanders.  The  Orderly  Officer  made  himself  scarce 
and  the  Battery  Commanders  were  telling  Indian  snake 
stories  at  breakfast.  The  sergeants  and  the  men,  half 
naked  and  with  tongues  hanging  oui,  were  searching  for 
beer. 

The  days  passed  relentlessly,  scorching  hot,  the  only 
work,  watering  the  horses  four  times  a  day,  leaving 
everybody  weak  and  exhausted.  At  night  a  damp  breeze 
sighed  across  the  sand  from  the  sea,  soaking  everything 
as  though  it  had  rained.  The  busiest  men  in  the  camp 
were  the  Vet.  and  the  doctor. 

Sand  colic  ran  through  the  Division  like  a  scourge, 
and  dysentery  began  to  reduce  the  personnel  from  day 
to  day.  The  flies  bred  in  their  billions,  in  spite  of  all 
the  doctor's  efforts,  lo57ally  backed  up  by  us.  The 
subalterns'  method  of  checking  flies  was  to  catch  sala- 
manders and  walk  about,  holding  them  within  range  of 
guy  ropes  and  tent  roofs  where  flies  swarmed,  and  watch 
their  coiled  tongues  uncurl  like  a  flash  of  lightning  and 
then  trace  the  passage  of  the  disgruntled  fly  down  into 
the  salamander's  interior.  Battery  Commanders  waking 
from  a  fly-pestered  siesta  would  lay  their  piastres  eagerly 
on  **  Archibald  "  versus  "  Yussuf."  Even  Wendy  would 
have  admitted  that  it  was  **  frightfully  fascinating." 

Every  morning  there  was  a  pyjama  parade  at  six 
o'clock  when  we  all  trooped  across  to  the  sea  and  went 
in  as  nature  made  us.     Or  else  we  rode  the  horses  with 


Ubique  89 

snorts  and  splashings.  The  old  hairy  enjoyed  it  as  much 
as  we  did  and,  once  in,  it  was  difficult  to  get  him  out 
again,  even  with  bare  heels  drumming  on  his  ribs. 

The  infantry,  instead  of  landing  at  Alexandria,  had 
gone  straight  to  the  Dardanelles,  and  after  we  had  been 
in  camp  about  a  fortnight  the  two  senior  brigades  of 
Gunners  packed  up  and  disappeared  in  the  night,  leaving 
us  grinding  our  teeth  with  envy  and  hoping  that  they 
wouldn't  have  licked  the  Turk  until  we  got  there  too. 

Five  full  months  and  a  half  we  stayed  in  that  camp  ! 
One  went  through  tjwo  distinct  phases. 

The  first  was  good,  when  everything  was  new,  different, 
romantic,  delightful,  from  the  main  streets  of  Alexandria 
with  European  shops  and  Oriental  people,  the  club  with 
its  white-burnoused  waiters  with  red  sash  and  red  fez, 
down  to  the  unutterable  filth  and  foul  smells  of  the  back 
streets  where  every  disease  lurked  in  the  doorways. 
There  were  early  morning  rides  to  sleepy  villages  across 
the  desert,  pigeons  fluttering  round  the  delicate  minarets, 
one's  horse  making  scarcely  any  sound  in  the  deep  sand 
until  startled  into  a  snort  by  a  scuttling  salamander 
or  iguana  as  long  as  one's  arm.  Now  and  then  one 
watched  breathless  a  string  of  camels  on  a  distant  skyline 
disappearing  into  the  vast  silence.  Then  those  dawns, 
with  opal  colours  like  a  rainbow  that  had  broken  open 
and  splashed  itself  across  the  world  !  What  infinite  joy 
in  all  that  riot  of  colour.  The  sunsets  were  too  rapid  : 
one  great  splurge  of  blood  and  then  darkness,  followed 
by  a  moonlight  that  was  as  hard  as  steel  mirrors.  Build- 
ings and  trees  were  picked  out  in  ghostly  white  but  the 
shadows  by  contrast  were  darker  than  the  pit,  made 
gruesome  by  the  howling  of  pariah  dogs  which  flitted 
silently  like  damned  souls. 

The  eternal  mystery  of  the  yashmak  caught  us  all, — 
two  deep  eyes  behind  that  little  veil,  the  lilting,  sensuous 


90  The  Grey  Wave 

walk,  the  perfect  balance  and  rhythm  of  those  women 
who  worshipped  other  gods. 

Then  there  was  the  joy  of  mail  day.  Letters  and 
papers  arrived  regularly,  thirteen  days  old  but  more 
precious  because  of  it.  How  one  sprang  to  the  mess- 
table  in  the  big  marquee,  open  to  whatever  winds  that 
blew,  when  the  letters  were  dumped  on  it,  and  danced 
with  impatience  while  they  were  being  sorted,  and  retired 
in  triumph  to  one's  reed  hut  like  a  dog  with  a  bone  to 
revel  in  all  the  little  happenings  at  home  that  interested 
us  so  vitally,  to  marvel  at  the  amazingly  different  points 
of  view  and  to  thank  God  that  although  thousands  of 
miles  away  one  "  belonged." 

Then  came  the  time  when  we  had  explored  every- 
thing, knew  it  all  backwards,  and  the  colours  didn^t 
seem  so  bright.  The  sun  seemed  hotter,  the  flies  thicker 
and  the  days  longer.  Restlessness  attacked  everybody 
and  the  question  **  What  the  devil  are  we  doing  here  ?  '* 
began  to  be  asked,  only  to  draw  bitter  answers.  Humour 
began  to  have  a  tinge  of  sarcasm,  remarks  tended  to  be- 
come personal  and  people  disappeared  precipitately  after 
mess  instead  of  playing  the  usual  rubbers.  The  un- 
fortunate subaltern  who  was  the  butt  of  the  mess — a 
really  excellent  and  clever  fellow — relapsed  into  a  morose 
silence,  and  every  one  who  had  the  least  tendency  to 
dysentery  went  gladly  to  hospital.  Even  the  brigade 
laughter-maker  lost  his  touch.  It  had  its  echo  in  the 
ranks.  Sergeants  made  more  frequent  arrests,  courts- 
martial  cropped  up  and  it  was  more  difficult  to  get  the 
work  done  in  spite  of  concerts,  sports  and  boxing  con- 
tests. Interest  flagged  utterly.  Mercifully  the  Staff  held 
aloof. 

The  courts-martial  seemed  to  me  most  Hogarthian 
versions  of  justice,  satirical  and  damnable.  One  in 
particular  was  held  on  a  poor  little  rat  of  an  infantry- 


Ubique  91 

man  who  had  missed  the  boat  for  Gallipoli  and  was 
being  tried  for  desertion.  The  reason  of  his  missing 
the  boat  was  that  she  sailed  before  her  time  and  he, 
having  had  a  glass  or  two — and  why  not  ? — found  that 
she  had  already  gone  when  he  arrived  back  in  the  harbour 
five  minutes  before  the  official  time  for  her  departure. 
He  immediately  reported  to  the  police. 

I  am  convinced  that  she  was  the  only  boat  who 
ever  sailed  before  her  time  during  the  course  of  the 
war  ! 

However,  I  was  under  instruction — and  learnt  a  great 
deal.  The  heat  was  appalling.  The  poor  little  prisoner, 
frightened  out  of  his  life,  utterly  lost  his  head,  and  the 
Court,  after  hours  of  formal  scribbling  on  blue  paper, 
brought  him  in  guilty.  Having  obtained  permission  to 
ask  a  question  I  requested  to  know  whether  the  Court 
was  convinced  that  he  had  the  intention  of  deserting. 

The  Court  was  quite  satisfied  on  that  point  and,  besides, 
there  had  been  so  many  cases  of  desertion  lately  from 
the  drafts  for  Gallipoli  that  really  it  was  time  an  example 
was  made  of  some  one.     He  got  three  years  ! 

Supposing  I'd  hit  that  bullying  sergeant  in  the  eye  in 
Flanders  ? 


Two  incidents  occurred  during  that  lugubrious  period 
that  helped  to  break  the  dead  monotony. 

The  first  was  the  sight  of  a  real  live  eunuch  according 
to  all  the  specifications  of  the  Arabian  Nights.  We  were 
to  give  a  horse  show  and  as  the  flag  of  residence  was 
flying  from  the  Sultan's  palace  I  asked  the  Colonel  if 
I  might  invite  the  Sultan.  The  Colonel  was  quite  in 
favour  of  it.     So  with  an  extra  polish  on  my  buttons 


92  The  Grey  Wave 

and  saddlery  I  collected  a  pal  and  together  we  rode 
through  the  great  gateway  into  the  grounds  of  the 
palace,  ablaze  with  tropical  vegetation  and  blood-red 
flowers.  Camped  among  the  trees  on  the  right  of  the 
drive  was  a  native  guard  of  about  thirty  men.  They 
rose  as  one  man,  jabbered  at  the  sight  of  us  but  remained 
stationary.  We  rode  on  at  a  walk  with  all  the  dignity 
of  the  British  Empire  behind  us.  Then  we  saw  a  big 
Arab  come  running  towards  us  from  the  palace,  uttering 
shrill  cries  and  waving  his  arms.  We  met  him  and  would 
have  passed  but  he  made  as  though  to  lay  hands  upon 
our  bits.  So  we  halted  and  listened  to  a  stream  of  Arabic 
and  gesticulation. 

Then  the  eunuch  appeared,  a  little  man  of  immense 
shoulders  and  immense  stomach,  dressed  in  a  black 
frock  coat  and  stiff  white  collar,  yellow  leather  slippers 
and  red  fez  and  sash.  He  was  about  five  feet  tall  and 
addressed  us  in  a  high  squeaky  voice  like  a  fiddle  string 
out  of  tune.  His  dignity  was  surprising  and  he  would 
have  done  justice  to  the  Court  of  Haroun  al  Raschid. 
We  were  delighted  with  him  and  called  him  Morgiana. 

He  didn't  understand  that  so  I  tried  him  in  French, 
whereupon  he  clapped  his  hands  twice,  and  from  an 
engine  room  among  the  outbuildings  came  running  an 
Arab  mechanic  in  blue  jeans.  He  spoke  a  sort  of  hybrid 
Levantine  French  and  conveyed  our  invitation  of  the 
Sultan  to  the  eunuch  who  bowed  and  spoke  again.  The 
desire  to  laugh  was  appalling. 

It  appeared  that  the  Sultan  was  absent  in  Alexandria 
and  only  the  Sultana  and  the  ladies  were  here  and  it 
was  quite  forbidden  that  we  should  approach  nearer 
the  palace. 

Reluctantly,  therefore,  we  saluted,  which  drew  many 
salaams  and  bowings  in  reply,  and  rode  away,  followed 
by  that  unforgettable  little  man's  squeaks. 


Ubique  98 

The  other  incident  covered  a  period  of  a  week  or  so. 
It  was  a  question  of  spies. 

The  village  of  Mamoura  consisted  of  a  railway  terminus 
and  hotel  round  which  sprawled  a  dark  and  smelly  con- 
glomeration of  hovels  out  of  which  sprouted  the  inevitable 
minaret.  The  hotel  was  run  by  people  who  purported 
to  be  French  but  who  were  of  doubtful  origin,  ranging 
from  half-caste  Arab  to  Turk  by  way  of  Greek  and 
Armenian  Jew.  But  they  provided  dinner  and  cooling 
drinks  and  it  was  pleasant  to  sit  under  the  awninged 
verandah  and  listen  to  the  frogs  and  the  sea  or  to  play 
their  ramshackle  piano  and  dance  with  the  French  resi- 
dents of  Alexandria  who  came  out  for  week-ends  to 
bathe. 

At  night  we  used  to  mount  donkeys  about  as  big  as 
large  beetles  and  have  races  across  the  sands  back  to 
camp,  from  which  one  could  see  the  lights  of  the  hotel. 
Indeed  we  thought  we  saw  what  they  didn't  intend  us 
to  see,  for  there  were  unmistakable  Morse  flashings  out 
at  sea  from  that  cool  verandah.  We  took  it  with  grim 
seriousness  and  lay  for  hours  on  our  stomachs  with 
field  glasses  glued  to  our  eyes.  I  posted  my  signalling 
corporal  in  a  drinking  house  next  door  to  the  hotel, 
gave  him  late  leave  and  paid  his  beer  so  that  he  might 
watch  with  pencil  and  notebook.  But  always  he  reported 
in  the  morning  that  he'd  seen  nothing. 

The  climax  came  when  one  night  an  orderly  burst 
into  the  hut  which  the  Vet.  and  I  shared  and  said,  "  Mr. 

wants  you  to  come  over  at  once,  sir.     He's  taken 

down  half  a  message  from  the  signalling  at  the  hotel."' 

I  leapt  into  gum  boots,  snatched  my  glasses  and  ran 
across  to  the  sand  mound  from  where  we  had  watched. 

The  other  subaltern  was  there  in  a  great  state  of 
excitement. 

"  Look  at  it,"  he  said.     "  Morsing  like  mad." 


94  The  Grey  Wave 

I  looked, — and  looked  again. 

There  was  a  good  breeze  blowing  and  the  flag  on  the 
verandah  was  exactly  like  the  shutter  of  a  signalling 
lamp  ! 


Having  sat  there  all  those  months,  the  order  to  move, 
when  it  did  finally  come,  was  of  the  most  urgent  nature. 
It  was  received  one  afternoon  at  tea  time  and  the  next 
morning  before  dawn  we  were  marching  down  the  canal 
road. 

Just  before  the  end  we  had  done  a  little  training, 
more  to  get  the  horses  in  draught  than  anything  else. 
With  that  and  the  horse  shows  it  wasn't  at  all  a  bad 
turnout. 

Once  more  we  didn't  know  for  certain  where  we  were 
bound  for,  but  the  betting  was  about  five  to  four  on 
Greece.  How  these  things  leak  out  is  always  a  puzzle, 
but  leak  out  they  do.  Sure  enough  we  made  another 
little  sea  voyage  and  in  about  three  days  steamed  up  the 
iEgean,  passing  many  boats  loaded  with  odd  looking 
soldiers  in  khaki  who  turned  out  to  be  Greek,  and  at  last 
anchored  outside  Salonica  in  a  mass  of  shipping,  French 
and  English  troopships,  destroyers  and  torpedo  boats 
and  an  American  battleship  with  Eiffel-tower  masts. 

From  the  sea  Salonica  was  a  flashing  jewel  in  a  perfect 
setting.  Minarets  and  mosques,  white  and  red,  sprouted 
everywhere  from  the  white,  brown  and  green  buildings. 
Trees  and  gardens  nestled  within  the  crumbling  old  city 
wall.  Behind  it  ran  a  line  of  jagged  peaks,  merging 
with  the  clouds,  and  here  and  there  ran  a  little  winding 
ribbon  of  road,  climbing  up  and  up  only  to  lose  itself 
suddenly  by  falling  over  a  precipice. 


Ubique  95 

Here  again  the  M.L.O.  had  not  quite  the  Pubhc  School 
and  Varsity  manner  and  we  suffered  accordingly.  How- 
ever, they  are  a  necessary  evil  presumably,  these  quay- 
side warriors.  The  proof  undoubtedly  lies  in  the  number 
of  D.S.O.'s  they  muster, — but  I  don't  remember  to  have 
seen  any  of  them  with  wound  stripes.     Curious,  that. 

We  marched  through  mean  streets,  that  smelled  worse 
than  Egypt,  and  a  dirty  populace,  poverty-stricken 
and  covered  with  sores  ;  the  soldiers  in  khaki  that  looked 
like  brown  paper  and  leather  equipments  that  were  a 
good  imitation  of  cardboard.  Most  of  the  officers  wore 
spurs  like  the  Three  Musketeers  and  their  little  tin 
swords  looked  as  if  they  had  come  out  of  toy  shops. 
None  of  them  were  shaved.  If  first  impressions  count 
for  anything  then  God  help  the  Greeks. 

Our  camp  was  a  large  open  field  some  miles  to  the 
north-west  of  the  town  on  the  lower  slopes  of  a  jagged 
peak.  The  tinkle  of  cow  bells  made  soft  music  every- 
where. Of  accommodation  there  was  none  of  any  sort, 
no  tents,  nothing  but  what  we  could  improvise.  The 
Colonel  slept  under  the  lee  of  the  cook's  cart.  The 
Adjutant  and  the  doctor  shared  the  Maltese  cart  and  the 
Vet.  and  I  crept  under  the  forage  tarpaulin,  from  which 
we  were  awakened  in  the  dark  by  an  unrestrained  cursing 
and  the  noise  of  a  violent  rainfall. 

Needless  to  say  everybody  was  soaked,  fires  wouldn't 
light,  breakfast  didn't  come,  tempers  as  well  as  appetites 
became  extremely  sharp  and  things  were  most  unpleasant, 
— the  more  so  since  it  went  on  raining  for  three  weeks 
almost  without  stopping.  Although  we  hadn't  seen 
rain  for  half  a  year  it  didn't  take  us  five  minutes  to  wish 
we  were  back  in  Egypt.  Fortunately  we  drew  bell  tents 
within  forty-eight  hours  and  life  became  more  bearable. 
But  once  more  we  had  to  go  through  a  sort  of  camp 
drill    by    numbers, — odd    numbers    too,    for   the    order 


96  The  Grey  Wave 

came  round  that  tents  would  be  moved  first,  then  vehicles, 
and  lastly  the  horses. 

Presumably  we  had  to  move  the  guns  and  wagons 
with  drag-ropes  while  the  horses  watched  us,  grinning 
into  their  nose  bags. 

Anyhow,  there  we  were,  half  the  artillery  in  Greece, 
all  eighteen-pounders,  the  other  half  and  the  infantry 
somewhere  in  the  Dardanelles.  It  appeared,  however, 
that  the  —  Division  had  quite  a  lot  of  perfectly  good 
infantry  just  up  the  road  but  their  artillery  hadn't  got 
enough  horses  to  go  round.  So  we  made  a  sort  of  Jack 
Sprat  and  his  wife  arrangement  and  declared  ourselves 
mobile. 

About  four  days  after  we'd  come  into  camp  the  Mar- 
quette was  wrecked  some  thirty  miles  off  Salonica.  It 
had  the  —  Divisional  Ammunition  Column  on  board 
and  some  nurses.  They  had  an  appalUng  time  in  the 
water  and  many  were  lost.  The  surviving  officers, 
who  came  dressed  in  the  most  motley  garments,  poor 
devils,  were  split  up  amongst  the  brigade. 

On  the  Headquarters  Staff  we  took  to  our  bosoms 
a  charming  fellow  who  was  almost  immediately  given 
the  name  of  Woodbine, — jolly  old  Woodbine,  one  of  the 
very  best,  whom  we  left  behind  with  infinite  regret  while 
we  went  up  country.  I'd  hke  to  know  what  his  golf 
handicap  is  these  days. 

The  political  situation  was  apparently  delicate.  Greece 
was  still  sitting  on  the  fence,  waiting  to  see  which  way 
the  cat  would  jump,  and  here  were  we  and  our  AlHes, 
the  French,  marching  through  their  neutral  country. 

Shght  evidences  of  the  "  delicacy  "  of  the  times  were 
afforded  by  the  stabbing  of  some  half  dozen  Tommies 
in  the  dark  streets  of  the  town  and  by  the  fact  that  it 
was  only  the  goodly  array  of  guns  which  prevented  them 
from  interning  us.     I  don't  think  we  had  any  ammuni- 


Ubique  97 

tion  as  yet,  so  we  couldn't  have  done  very  much.  How- 
ever that  may  be  and  whatever  the  poHtical  reasons, 
we  sat  on  the  roadside  day  after  day,  watching  the  French 
streaming  up  country, — infantry,  field  guns,  mountain 
artillery  and  pack  transport, — ^heedless  of  Tino  and  his 
protests.  Six  months  in  Egypt,  and  now  this !  We 
were  annoyed. 

However,  on  about  the  twentieth  day  things  really 
happened.  "  Don "  battery  went  off  by  train,  their 
destination  being  some  unpronounceable  village  near  the 
firing  line.  We,  the  Headquarters  Staff,  and  "  AC " 
battery  followed  the  next  day.  The  railway  followed  the 
meanderings  of  the  Vaidar  through  fertile  land  of  amazing 
greenness  and  passed  mountains  of  stark  rock  where 
not  even  live  oak  grew.  The  weather  was  warm  for 
November,  but  that  ceaseless  rain  put  a  damper  on  every- 
thing, and  when  we  finally  arrived  we  found  "  Don  " 
battery  sitting  gloomily  in  a  swamp  on  the  side  of  the 
road.     We  joined  them. 


The  weather  changed  in  the  night  and  we  were  greeted 
with  a  glorious  sunshine  in  the  morning  that  not  only 
dried  our  clothes  but  filled  us  with  optimism. 

Just  as  were  were  about  to  start  the  pole  of  my  G.S. 
wagon  broke.  Everybody  went  on,  leaving  me  in  the 
middle  of  nowhere  with  a  broken  wagon,  no  map,  and 
instructions  to  follow  on  to  the  "  i  "  of  Causli  in  a  country 
whose  language  I  couldn't  speak  and  with  no  idea  of  the 
distance.  Fortunately  I  kept  the  brigade  artificer  with 
me  and  a  day's  bully  beef  and  biscuits,  for  it  was  not  tiD 
two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  that  we  at  last  got  that 
wagon  mended,  having  had  to  cut  down  a  tree  and  make 

7 


98  The  Grey  Wave 

a  new  pole  and  drive  rivets.  Then  we  set  off  into  the 
unknown  through  the  most  glorious  countryside  imagin- 
able. The  autumn  had  stained  all  the  trees  red  and  the 
fallen  leaves  made  a  royal  carpet.  Vaguely  I  knew 
the  direction  was  north  by  east  and  once  having  struck 
the  road  out  of  the  village  which  led  in  that  direction  I 
found  that  it  went  straight  on  through  beds  of  stieams, 
between  fields  of  maize  and  plantations  of  mulberries 
and  tumbled  villages  tenanted  only  by  starving  dogs. 
The  doors  of  nearly  every  house  were  splashed  with  a 
blue  cross, — ^reminiscences  of  a  plague  of  typhus.  From 
time  to  time  we  met  refugees  trudging  behind  ox-drawn 
wagons  laden  with  everything  they  possessed  in  the  world, 
including  their  babies, — sad-faced,  wild-looking  peasants, 
clad  in  picturesque  rags  of  all  colours  with  eyes  that  had 
looked  upon  fear.  I  confess  to  having  kept  my  revolver 
handy.  For  all  I  knew  they  might  be  Turks,  Bulgars 
or  at  least  brigands. 

The  sense  of  solitude  was  extraordinary.  There  was 
no  sign  of  an  army  on  the  march,  not  even  a  bully  beef 
tin  to  mark  the  route,  nothing  but  the  purple  hills  re- 
maining always  far  away  and  sending  out  a  faint  muttering 
like  the  beating  of  drums  heard  in  a  dream.  The  road 
ahead  was  always  empty  when  I  scanned  it  through 
my  glasses  at  hour  intervals,  the  sun  lower  and  lower 
each  time.  Darkness  came  upon  us  as  it  did  in  Egypt, 
as  though  some  one  had  flicked  off  the  switch.  There 
was  no  sign  of  the  village  which  might  be  Causli  and  in 
the  dark  the  thought  which  had  been  uneasily  twisting 
in  my  brain  for  several  hours  suddenly  found  utterance 
in  the  mouth  of  the  artificer  sergeant. 

"  D'you  think  we're  on  the  right  road,  sir  ?  " 
The  only  other  road  we  could  have  taken  was  at  the 
very  start.     Ought  I  to  have  taken  it  ?     In  any  case  there 
was  nothing  to   be  done   but  go  on  until  we  met  some 


Ubique  99 

one,  French  or  English,  but  the  feehng  of  uncertainty 
was  distinctly  unpleasant.  I  sent  the  corporal  on  ahead 
scouting  and  we  followed  silently,  very  stiff  in  the  saddle. 

At  last  I  heard  a  shout,  "  Brigade  'Eadquarters  ?  *' 
I  think  both  the  team  drivers  and  myself  answered 
"  Yes  "  together. 

The  corporal  had  found  a  guide  sent  out  by  the  Ad- 
jutant, who  turned  us  off  across  fields  and  led  us  on  to 
another  road,  and  round  a  bend  we  saw  lights  twinkling 
and  heard  the  stamp  and  movement  of  picketed  horses 
and  answered  the  challenge  of  sentries.  Dinner  was 
over,  but  the  cook  had  kept  some  hot  for  me,  and  my 
servant  had  rigged  up  my  bivvy,  a  tiny  canvas  tent 
just  big  enough  to  take  a  camp  bed.  As  there  was  a 
touch  of  frost  I  went  to  the  bivvy  to  get  a  woollen  scarf, 
heard  a  scuffle,  and  saw  two  green  eyes  glaring  at  me. 

I  whipped  out  my  revolver  and  flicked  on  an  electric 
torch.  Crouched  down  on  the  bed  was  a  Httle  tortoise- 
shell  kitten  so  thin  that  every  rib  stood  out  and  even 
more  frightened  than  I  was.  I  caught  it  after  a  minute. 
It  was  ice  cold  so  I  tucked  it  against  my  chest  under  the 
British  warm  and  went  to  dinner.  After  about  five 
minutes  it  began  to  purr  and  I  fed  it  with  some  bits  of 
meat  which  it  bolted  ravenously.  It  followed  that  up 
by  standing  in  a  saucer  of  milk,  growling  furiously  and 
lapping  for  dear  life.  Friendship  was  established.  It 
slept  in  the  British  warm,  purring  savagely  when  I 
stroked  it,  as  though  starved  of  affection  as  well  as  food  ; 
followed  close  to  my  heels  when  I  went  out  in  the  morning 
but  fled  wildly  back  to  the  bivvy  if  any  one  came  up  to 
me,  emerging  arched  like  a  little  caterpillar  from  under 
the  bed,  uttering  cries  of  joy  when  I  lifted  the  bivvy  flap. 

It  was  almost  like  finding  a  refugee  child  who  had 
got  frightened  and  lost  and  trusted  only  the  hand  that 
had  done  it  a  kindness. 

7* 


100  The  Grey  Wave 


8 

The  "  i "  of  Causli  showed  itself  in  the  morning  to  be 
a  stretch  of  turf  in  a  broad  green  trough  between  two 
rows  of  steep  hills.  Causli  was  somewhere  tucked 
behind  the  crest  in  our  rear  and  the  road  on  which  I 
had  travelled  ran  back  a  couple  of  miles,  doubled  in  a 
hairpin  twist  and  curved  away  on  the  other  side  of  the 
valley  until  it  lost  itself  behind  a  belt  of  trees  that  leaped 
out  of  the  far  hill.  Forward  the  view  was  shut  in  by  the 
spur  which  sheltered  us,  but  our  horses  were  being  saddled 
and  after  breakfast  the  Colonel  took  me  with  him  to 
reconnoitre.  Very  soon  the  valley  ceased  and  the  road 
became  a  mountain  path  with  many  stone  bridges  taking 
it  over  precipitous  drops.  Looking  over,  one  saw  little 
streams  bubbling  in  the  sunlight.  After  about  three 
miles  of  climbing  we  came  upon  a  signal  station  on  the 
roadside  with  linesmen  at  work.  It  was  the  first  sign 
of  any  troops  in  all  that  country,  but  miles  behind  us, 
right  back  to  Salonica,  the  road  was  a  long  chain  of  troops 
and  transport.  Our  brigade  was  as  yet  the  only  one 
up  in  action. 

The  signal  station  proved  to  be  infantry  headquarters. 
It  was  the  summit  of  the  pass,  the  mountains  opening 
like  a  great  V  in  front  through  which  further  moun- 
tains appeared,  with  that  one  endless  road  curling  up 
like  a  white  snake.  There  was  a  considerable  noise 
of  firing  going  on  and  we  were  just  in  time  to  see  the 
French  take  a  steep  crest, — an  unbelievable  sight.  We 
lay  on  our  stomachs  miles  behind  them  and  through 
glasses  watched  puffs  of  cotton  wool,  black  and  white, 
sprout  out  of  a  far-away  hill,  followed  by  a  wavering  line 
of  blue  dots.     Presently  the  cotton  wool  sprouted  closer 


Ubique  mi 

to  the  crest  and  the  blue  dots  climbed  steadily.  Then 
the  cotton  wool  disappeared  over  the  top  and  the  blue 
dots  gave  chase.  Now  and  then  one  stumbled  and  fell. 
Breathless  one  watched  to  see  if  he  would  get  up  again. 
Generally  he  didn't,  but  the  line  didn't  stop  and  presently 
the  last  of  it  had  disappeared  over  the  crest.  The  in- 
visible firing  went  on  and  the  only  proof  that  it  wasn't 
a  dream  was  the  motionless  bundles  of  blue  that  lay  out 
there  in  the  sun. — 

It  was  the  first  time  I'd  seen  men  killed  and  it  left 
me  silent,  angry.  Why  "  go  out  "  like  that  on  some 
damned  Serbian  hill  ?  What  was  it  all  about  that 
everybody  was  trying  to  kill  everybody  else  ?  Wasn't 
the  sun  shining  and  the  world  beautiful  ?  What  was 
this  disease  that  had  broken  out  like  a  scab  over  the 
face  of  the  world  ? — why  did  those  particular  dots  have 
to  fall  ?  Why  not  the  ones  a  yard  away  ?  What 
was  the  law  of  selection  ?  Was  there  a  law  ?  Did 
every  bullet  have  its  billet  ?  Was  there  a  bullet  for  the 
Colonel  ? — For  me  ? — No.  It  was  impossible  !  But 
then,  why  those  others  and  which  of  us  ? — 

I  think  I've  found  the  answer  to  some  of  those  ques- 
tions now.  But  on  that  bright  November  day,  1915,  I 
was  too  young.  It  was  all  in  the  game  although  from 
that  moment  there  was  a  shadow  on  it. 


*'  Don  "  battery  went  into  action  first. 

The  Headquarters  moved  up  close  to  the  signalling 
station — and  I  lost  my  kitten — but  "  Don  "  went  down 
the  pass  to  the  very  bottom  and  cross-coimtry  to  the 
east,  and  dug  themselves  in  near  a  deserted  farmhouse 
on   the    outskirts   of   Valandovo.     "Beer "    and   "  C " 


Ji0^  -The  Grey  Wave 

batteries  came  up  a  day  or  two  later  and  sat  down 
with  "  AC/'  There  seemed  to  be  no  hmry.  Our  own 
infantry  were  not  in  the  line.  They  were  in  support 
of  the  French  and  with  supine  ignorance  or  amazing 
pluck,  but  anyhow  a  total  disregard  of  the  laws  of  war- 
fare, proceeded  to  dig  trenches  of  sorts  in  full  daylight 
and  in  full  view  of  the  Bulgar.  We  shouldn't  have 
minded  so  much  but  our  O.P.  happened  to  be  on  the  hill 
where  most  of  these  heroes  came  to  dig. 

The  troops  themselves  were  remarkably  ill-chosen. 
Most  of  those  who  were  not  Irish  were  flat-footed 
"  brickees  "  from  Middlesex,  Essex  and  the  dead-level 
east  coast  counties,  so  their  own  officers  told  me,  where 
they  never  raise  one  ankle  above  the  other.  Now  they 
were  chosen  to  give  imitations  of  chamois  in  these  endless 
hills.  Why  not  send  an  aviator  to  command  a  tank  ? 
Furthermore,  the  only  guns  were  French  75 's  and  our 
eighteen-pounders  and,  I  think,  a  French  brigade  of 
mountain  artillery,  when  obviously  howitzers  were  in- 
dicated. And  there  were  no  recuperators  in  those  days. 
Put  a  quadrant  angle  of  28^  and  some  minutes  on  an  old 
pattern  eighteen-pounder  and  see  how  long  you  stay 
in  action, — ^with  spare  springs  at  a  premium  and  the 
nearest  workshops  sixty  miles  away.  My  own  belief 
is  that  a  couple  of  handfuls  of  Gurkhas  and  French 
Tirailleurs  would  have  cleaned  up  Serbia  in  a  couple  of 
months.     As  it  was. — 

The  French  gave  us  the  right  of  the  line  from  north- 
west of  Valandovo  to  somewhere  east  of  Kajali  in  the 
blue  hills,  over  which,  said  the  Staff,  neither  man  nor 
beast  could  pass.  We  needn't  worry  about  our  right, 
they  said.  Nature  was  doing  that  for  us.  But  appar- 
ently Nature  had  allowed  not  less  than  eight  Greek 
divisions  to  march  comfortably  over  that  impassable 
right  flank  of  ours  in  the  previous  Graeco-Bulgarian  dust- 


Ubique  108 

up.  Of  course  the  Staff  didn't  find  it  out  till  afterwards. 
It  only  cost  us  a  few  thousand  dead  and  the  Staff  were 
all  right  in  Salonica,  so  there  was  no  great  harm  done  ! 
Till  then  the  thing  was  a  picnic.  On  fine  mornings 
the  Colonel  and  I  rode  down  the  pass  to  see  Don  battery, 
climbed  the  mountain  to  the  stone  sangar  which  was 
their  O.P.  and  watched  them  shoot — they  were  a  joyous 
unshaven  crowd — went  on  down  the  other  side  Xo  the 
French  front  line  and  reconnoitred  the  country  for 
advanced  positions  and  generally  got  the  hang  of  things. 

As  I  knew  French  there  were  occasions  when  I  was 
really  useful,  otherwise  it  was  simply  a  joy-ride  for  me 
until  the  rest  of  the  batteries  came  into  action.  One 
morning  the  Colonel  and  I  were  right  forward  watching 
a  heavy  barrage  on  a  village  occupied  by  the  Bulgar. 
The  place  selected  by  the  Colonel  from  which  to  enjoy 
a  really  fine  view  was  only  ten  yards  from  a  dead  Bulgar 
who  was  in  a  kneeling  position  in  a  shallow  trench  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  keeled  over  at  an  angle.  He'd 
been  there  many  days  and  the  wind  blew  our  way.  But 
the  Colonel  had  a  cold.  I  fled  to  a  flank.  While  we 
watched,  two  enemy  batteries  opened.  For  a  long  time 
we  tried  to  locate  their  flash.  Then  we  gave  it  up  and 
returned  up  the  pass  to  where  a  French  battery  was 
tucked  miraculously  among  holly  bushes  just  under  the 
crest.  One  of  their  officers  was  standing  on  the  sky 
line,  also  endeavouring  to  locate  those  new  batteries. 
So  we  said  we'd  have  another  try,  climbed  up  off  the  road, 
lay  upon  our  stomachs  and  drew  out  our  glasses.  Im- 
mediately a  pip-squeak  burst  in  the  air  about  twenty 
yards  away.  Another  bracketed  us  and  the  empty  shell 
went  whining  down  behind  us.  I  thought  it  was  rather 
a  joke  and  but  for  the  Colonel  would  have  stayed  there. 

He,  however,  was  a  regular  Gunner,  thank  God,  and 
slithered  off  the  mound  like  an  eel.     I  followed  him  like 


104  The  Grey  Wave 

his  shadow  and  we  tucked  ourselves  half  crouching, 
half  sitting,  under  the  ledge,  with  our  feet  on  the  road. 
For  four  hours  the  Bulgar  tried  to  get  that  French 
battery.  If  he'd  given  five  minutes  more  right  he'd 
have  done  it, — and  left  us  alone.  As  it  was  he  plastered 
the  place  with  battery  fire  every  two  seconds. — Shrapnel 
made  pockmarks  in  the  road,  percussion  bursts  filled  our 
necks  with  dirt  from  the  ledge  and  ever  the  cases 
whined  angrily  into  the  ravine.  We  smoked  many 
pipes. 

It  was  my  first  experience  under  shell  fire.  I  found 
it  rather  like  what  turning  on  the  quarter  current  in 
the  electric  chair  must  be, — most  invigorating,  but  a 
little  jumpy.  One  never  knew.  Thank  heaven  they 
were  only  pip-squeaks.  During  those  crouching  hours 
two  French  poilus  walked  up  the  pass — it  was  impossible 
to  go  quickly  because  it  was  so  steep — and  without 
turning  a  hair  or  attempting  to  quicken  or  duck  walked 
through  that  barrage  with  a  sangfroid  that  left  me  gasping. 
Although  in  a  way  I  was  enjoying  it,  I  was  mighty  glad 
to  be  under  that  ledge,  and  my  heart  thumped  when  the 
Colonel  decided  to  make  a  run  for  it  and  went  on  thump- 
ing till  we  were  a  good  thousand  yards  to  a  flank. 

The  worst  of  it  was,  it  was  the  only  morning  that 
I  hadn't  brought  sandwiches. 


10 

When  the  other  three  batteries  went  into  action  and 
the  ammunition  column  tucked  itself  into  dry  nullahs 
along  the  road  we  moved  up  into  Valandovo  and  estab- 
lished Brigade  Headquarters  in  a  farmhouse  and  for  many 
days  the  signallers  and  I  toiled  up  and  down  mountains, 
laying  air  lines.    It  was  an  elementary  sort  of  war. 


Ubique  105 

There  were  not  balloons,  no  aeroplanes  and  camouflage 
didn't  seem  to  matter.  Infantry  pack  transport  went 
up  and  down  all  day  long.  It  was  only  in  the  valley 
that  the  infantry  were  able  to  dig  shallow  trenches. 
On  the  hills  they  built  sangars,  stone  breastwork  affairs. 
Barbed  wire  I  don't  remember  to  have  seen.  There 
were  no  gas  shells,  no  5.9's,  nothing  bigger  than  pip- 
squeaks. The  biggest  artillery  the  Allies  possessed 
were  two  120-centimetre  guns  called  respectively  Crache 
Mort  and  Chasse  Boche.  One  morning  two  Heavy 
Gunners  blew  in  and  introduced  themselves  as  being 
on  the  hunt  for  sixty-pounder  positions.  They  were 
burning  to  lob  some  over  into  Strumnitza.  We  assisted 
them  eagerly  in  their  reconnaissance  and  they  went 
away  delighted,  promising  to  return  within  three  days. 
They  were  still  cursing  on  the  quayside  when  we  came 
limping  back  to  Salonica.  Apparently  there  was  no 
one  qualified  to  give  them  the  order  to  come  up  and 
help.  In  those  days  Strumnitza  was  the  Bulgar  rail- 
head, and  they  could  have  pounded  it  to  bits. 

As  it  was,  our  brigade  was  the  only  EngHsh  Gunner 
unit  in  action,  and  the  Battery  Commanders  proved 
conclusively  to  the  French  (and  the  Bulgar)  that  the 
eighteen-pounder  was  a  handy  little  gun.  The  French 
General  ordered  one  of  the  75  batteries  to  advance  to 
Kajali.  They  reconnoitred  the  hills  and  reported  that 
it  was  impossible  without  going  ten  miles  round.  The 
General  came  along  to  see  for  himself  and  agreed.  The 
Captain  of  "  C  "  battery,  however,  took  a  little  walk 
up  there  and  offered  to  get  up  if  the  Colonel  would  lend 
him  a  couple  of  hundred  infantry.  At  the  same  time 
he  pointed  out  that  coming  down  in  a  hurry  was  another 
story,  absolutely  impossible.  However,  it  was  dis- 
cussed by  the  powers  that  were  and  the  long  and  short 
of  it  was  that  two  of  our  batteries  were  ordered  forward. 


106  The  Grey  Wave 

"  C "  was  the  pioneer ;  and  with  the  two  hundred 
infantry, — ^horses  were  out  of  the  question — and  all 
the  gunners  they  laboured  from  4.30  p.m.  to  6  a.m. 
the  next  morning,  at  which  hour  they  reported  themselves 
in  action  again.  It  was  a  remarkable  feat,  brought  about 
by  sheer  muscle  and  will  power,  every  inch  of  the  way  a 
battle,  up  slopes  that  were  almost  vertical,  over  small 
boulders,  round  big  ones  with  straining  drag  ropes  for 
about  two  miles  and  a  half.  The  75's  refused  to  believe 
it  until  they  had  visited  the  advanced  positions.  They 
bowed  and  said  "  Touch^  I  " 


II 

Then  the  snow  came  in  blinding  blizzards  that  blotted 
out  the  whole  world  and  everybody  went  underground 
and  lived  in  overcoats  and  stoked  huge  fires, — every- 
body except  the  infantry  whose  rifle  bolts  froze  stiff, 
whose  rations  didn't  arrive  and  who  could  only  crouch 
behind  their  stone  sangars.  The  cold  was  intense  and 
they  suffered  terribly.  When  the  blizzard  ceased  after 
about  forty-eight  hours  the  tracks  had  a  foot  of 
snow  over  them  and  the  drifts  were  over  one's 
head. 

Even  in  our  little  farmhouse  where  the  Colonel  and  I 
played  chess  in  front  of  a  roaring  fire,  drinks  froze  solid 
on  the  mantelpiece  and  we  remained  mufiied  to  the  eyes. 
Thousands  of  rock  pigeons  appeared  round  the  horse 
lines,  fighting  for  the  dropped  grain,  and  the  starving 
dogs  became  so  fierce  and  bold  that  it  was  only  wise  to 
carry  a  revolver  in  the  deserted  villages.  Huge  brutes 
some  of  them,  the  size  of  Arab  donkeys,  a  cross  between 
a  mastiff  and  a  great  Dane.  Under  that  clean  garment 
of  snow  which  didn't  begin  to  melt  for  a  fortnight,  the 


Ubique  107 

country  was  of  an  indescribable  beauty.  Every  leaf 
on  the  trees  bore  its  little  white  burden,  firm  and  crisp, 
and  a  cold  sun  appeared  and  threw  most  wonderful 
lights  and  shadows.  The  mountains  took  on  a  virgin 
purity. 

But  to  the  unfortunate  infantry  it  was  one  long  stretch 
of  suffering.  Hundreds  a  day  came  down  on  led  mules 
in  an  agonised  string,  their  feet  bound  in  straw,  their 
faces  and  hands  blue  like  frozen  meat.  The  hospitals 
were  full  of  frost-bite  cases,  and  dysentery  was  not 
unknown  in  the  brigade.  Pot-face  in  particular  behaved 
like  a  hero.  He  had  dysentery  very  badly  but  absolutely 
refused  to  let  the  doctor  send  him  down. 

Our  rations  were  none  too  good,  and  there  were  inter- 
minable spells  of  bully  beef,  fried,  hashed,  boiled,  rissoled, 
au  naturel  with  pickles,  and  bread  became  a  luxury. 
We  reinforced  this  with  young  maize  which  grew  every- 
where in  the  valley  and  had  wonderful  soup  and  corn 
on  the  cob,  boiled  in  tinned  milk  and  then  fried.  Then 
too  the  Vet.  and  I  had  a  wonderful  afternoon's  wild  bull 
hunting  with  revolvers.  We  filled  the  wretched  animal 
with  lead  before  getting  near  enough  to  give  the  coup  de 
grace  beside  a  little  stream.  The  Vet.  whipped  off 
his  tunic,  turned  up  his  sleeves  and  with  a  long  trench 
knife  conducted  a  masterly  post  mortem  which  resulted 
in  about  forty  pounds  of  filet  mignon.  The  next  morning 
before  dawn  the  carcase  was  brought  in  in  the  cook's 
cart  and  the  Headquarters  Staff  lived  on  the  fat  of  the 
land  and  invited  all  the  battery  commanders  to  the 
discussion  of  that  excellent  bull. 

From  our  point  of  view  it  wasn't  at  all  a  bad  sort  of 
war.  We  hadn't  had  a  single  casualty.  The  few  rounds 
which  ever  came  anywhere  near  the  batteries  were  greeted 
with  ironic  cheers  and  the  only  troubles  with  telephone 
lines  were  brought  about  by  our  own  infantry  who  re- 


108  The  Grey  Wave 

moved  lengths  of  five  hundred  yards  or  so  presumably 
to  mend  their  bivvies  with. 

But  about  the  second  week  of  December  indications 
were  not  wanted  of  hostile  activity.  Visibility  was  very 
bad  owing  to  early  morning  fogs,  but  odd  rounds  began 
to  fall  in  the  valley  behind  us  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  the  advancing  wagon  lines,  and  we  fired  on  infantry 
concentrations  and  once  even  an  S.O.S.  Rifle  fire  began 
to  increase  and  stray  bullets  hummed  like  bees  on  the 
mountain  paths. 

In  the  middle  of  this  I  became  ill  with  a  temperature 
which  remained  for  four  days  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  104°.  The  doctor  talked  of  hospital  but  I'd  never 
seen  the  inside  of  one  and  didn't  want  to. 

However,  on  the  fourth  day  it  was  the  Colonel's  order 
that  I  should  go.  It  transpired  afterwards  that  the 
doctor  diagnosed  enteric.  So  away  I  went  labelled  and 
wrapped  up  in  a  four-mule  ambulance  wagon.  The  cold 
was  intense,  the  road  appalling,  the  pip-squeaks  not  too 
far  away  until  we  got  out  of  the  valley,  and  the  agony 
unprintable.  That  night  was  spent  in  a  Casualty  Clear- 
ing Station  in  the  company  of  half  a  dozen  infantry 
subalterns  all  splashed  with  blood. 

At  dawn  next  morning  when  we  were  in  a  hospital 
train  on  our  way  to  Salonica,  the  attack  began.  The 
unconsidered  right  flank  was  the  trouble.  Afterwards 
I  heard  about  a  dozen  versions  of  the  show,  all  much  the 
same  in  substance.  The  Bulgars  poured  over  the  right 
in  thousands,  threatening  to  surround  us.  Some  of  the 
infantry  put  up  a  wonderful  fight.  Others — didn't. 
Our  two  advanced  batteries  fired  over  open  sights  into 
the  brown  until  they  had  exhausted  their  ammunition, 
then  removed  breech  blocks  and  dial  sights,  destroyed 
the  pieces  and  got  out,  arming  themselves  with  rifles 
and  ammunition  picked  up  ad  lib.  on  the  way  down. 


Ubique  109 

"  Don  "  and  "  AC  "  went  out  of  one  end  of  the  village 
of  Valandovo  while  the  enemy  were  held  up  at  the 
other  by  the  Gunners  of  the  other  two  batteries.  Then 
two  armies,  the  French  and  English,  got  tangled  up  in 
the  only  road  of  retreat,  engineers  hastening  the  stragglers 
and  then  blowing  up  bridges.  **  Don "  and  "  AC " 
filled  up  with  ammunition  and  came  into  action  in  sup- 
port of  the  other  brigades  at  Causli  which  now  opened 
fire  while  "  Beer  "  and  *'C  "  got  mounted  and  chased 
those  of  our  infantry  who  "  didn't,"  rounded  them  up, 
and  marched  them  back  to  face  the  enemy.  Meanwhile 
I  was  tucked  away  in  a  hospital  bed  in  a  huge  marquee, 
trying  to  get  news  from  every  wounded  officer  who  was 
brought  in.  The  wildest  rumours  were  going  about 
but  no  one  knew  anything  officially.  I  heard  that  the 
infantry  were  wiped  out,  that  the  gunners  had  all  been 
killed  or  captured  to  a  man,  that  the  remnants  of  the 
French  were  fighting  desperately  and  that  the  whole 
thing  was  a  debacle. 

There  we  aU  were  helpless  in  bed,  with  nurses  looking 
after  us,  splendid  English  girls,  and  all  the  time  those 
infernal  guns  coming  nearer  and  nearer. — ^At  night, 
sleepless  and  in  a  fever,  one  could  almost  hear  the  rumble 
of  their  wheels,  and  from  the  next  tent  where  the  wounded 
Tommies  lay  in  rows,  one  or  two  would  suddenly  scream 
in  their  agony  and  try  and  stifle  their  sobs,  calling  on 
Jesus  Christ  to  kill  them  and  put  them  out  of  their  pain. — 

The  brigade,  when  I  rejoined,  was  in  camp  east  of 
Salonica,  under  the  lee  of  Hortiac,  knee-deep  in  mud  and 
somewhat  short  of  kit.  It  was  mighty  good  to  get  back 
and  see  them  in  the  flesh  again,  after  all  those  rumours 
which  had  made  one  sick  with  apprehension. 

Having  pushed  us  out  of  Serbia  into  Greece  the  Bulgar 
contented  himself  with  sitting  on  the  frontier  and  making 
rude  remarks.    The  Allies,  however,  silently  dug  them- 


110  The  Grey  Wave 

selves  in  and  prepared  for  the  defence  of  Salonica  in 
case  he  should  decide  to  attack  again.  The  Serbs  retired 
to  Corfu  to  reform,  and  although  Tino  did  a  considerable 
amount  of  spluttering  at  this  time,  the  only  sign  of  in- 
terest the  Greeks  showed  was  to  be  more  insolent  in  the 
streets. 

We  drew  tents  and  moved  up  into  the  hills  and  Wood- 
bine joined  us  again,  no  longer  a  shipwrecked  mariner 
in  clothes  off  the  peg,  but  in  all  the  glory  of  new  uniform 
and  breeches  out  from  home,  a  most  awful  duke.  Pot- 
face  and  the  commander  of  "  C  "  battery  went  to  hospital 
shortly  afterwards  and  were  sent  home.  Some  of  the 
Brass  Hats  also  changed  rounds.  One,  riding  forth  from 
a  headquarters  with  cherry  brandy  and  a  fire  in  each 
room,  looked  upon  our  harness  immediately  on  our 
return  from  the  retreat  and  said  genially  that  he'd  heard 
that  we  were  a  '*  rabble."  When,  however,  the  com- 
mander of  "  Don  "  battery  asked  him  for  the  name  and 
regiment  of  his  informant,  the  Brass  Hat  rode  away 
muttering  uncomfortably.    Things  were  a  httle  strained  ! 


12 

However,  Christmas  was  upon  us  so  we  descended 
upon  the  town  with  cook's  carts  and  visited  the  Base 
cashier.  Salonica  was  a  modern  Babel.  The  cobbles 
of  the  Rue  Venizelos  rang  with  every  tongue  in  the  world, 
— ^Turkish,  Russian,  Yiddish,  Serbian,  Spanish,  Levan- 
tine, Arabic,  English,  French,  Italian,  Greek  and  even 
German.  Little  tin  swords  clattered  everywhere  and  the 
place  was  a  riot  of  colour,  the  Jew  women  with  green 
pearl-sewn  headdresses,  the  Greek  peasants  in  their 
floppy-seated  trousers  elbowing  enormous  Russian  sol- 
diers in  loose  blouses  and  jack  boots  who  in  turn  elbowed 


Ubique  ill 

small-waisted  Greek  highlanders  in  kilts  with  puffballs 
on  their  curly-toed  shoes.  There  were  black-robed 
priests  with  long  beards  and  high  hats,  young  men  in 
red  fezzes,  civilians  in  bowlers,  old  hags  who  gobbled 
like  turkeys  and  snatched  cigarette  ends,  all  mixed  up 
in  a  kaleidoscopic  jumble  with  officers  of  every  country 
and  exuding  a  smell  of  garlic,  fried  fish,  decaying  vegetable 
matter,  and  those  aromatic  eastern  dishes  which  fall 
into  no  known  category  of  perfume.  Fling  into  this 
chaos  numbers  of  street  urchins  of  untold  dirt  chasing 
turkeys  and  chickens  between  one's  legs  and  you  get 
a  slight  idea  of  what  sort  of  place  we  came  to  to  do  our 
Christmas  shopping. 

The  best  known  language  among  the  shopkeepers  was 
Spanish,  but  French  was  useful  and  after  hours  of  strug- 
gling one  forced  a  passage  out  of  the  crowd  with  barrels 
of  beer,  turkey,  geese,  pigs,  fruit  and  cigarettes  for  the 
men,  and  cigars  and  chocolates,  whisky.  Grand  Marnier 
and  Cointreau  for  the  mess.  Some  fund  or  other  had 
decided  that  every  man  was  to  have  a  plum  pudding, 
and  these  we  had  drawn  from  the  A. B.C.  on  Christmas 
Eve. 

In  Egypt  letters  had  taken  thirteen  days  to  arrive. 
Here  they  took  from  fifteen  to  seventeen,  sometimes 
twenty-one.  Christmas  Day,  however,  was  one  of  the 
occasions  when  nothing  came  at  all  and  we  cursed  the 
unfortunate  post  office  in  chorus.  I  suppose  it's  the 
streak  of  childhood  in  every  man  of  us  that  makes  us 
want  our  letters  on  the  day.  So  the  morning  was  a  little 
chilly  and  lonely  until  we  went  round  to  see  that  the 
men's  dinner  was  all  right.     It  was,  with  lashings  of  beer. 

This  second  Christmas  on  active  service  was  a  tremen- 
dous contrast  to  the  first.  Then  there  was  the  service 
in  the  barn  followed  by  that  depressing  lonely  day  in 
the  fog  and  fiat  filth  of  Flanders.    Now  there  was  a  clear 


112  The  Grey  Wave 

sunny  air  and  a  gorgeous  view  of  purple  mountains  with 
a  glimpse  of  sea  far  off  below. 

In  place  of  Mass  in  the  barn  Woodbine  and  I  went  for 
a  walk  and  climbed  up  to  the  White  Greek  church  above 
the  village,  surrounded  by  cloisters  in  which  shot  up 
cypress  trees,  the  whole  picked  out  in  relief  against  the 
brown  hill.  We  went  in.  The  church  was  empty 
but  for  three  priests,  one  on  the  altar  behind  the  screen, 
one  in  a  pulpit  on  each  side  in  the  body  of  the  church. 
For  a  long  time  we  stood  there  listening  as  they  flung 
prayers  and  responses  from  one  to  another  in  a  high, 
shrill,  nasal  minor  key  that  had  the  wail  of  lost  souls 
in  it.  It  was  most  un-Christmassy  and  we  came  out 
with  a  shiver  into  the  sun. 

Our  guest  at  dinner  that  night  was  a  Serbian  liaison 
officer  from  Divisional  Headquarters.  We  stuffed  him 
with  the  usual  British  food  and  regaled  him  with  many 
songs  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  banjo  and  broke 
up  still  singing  in  the  small  hours  but  not  having  quite 
cured  the  ache  in  our  hearts  caused  by  "  absent  friends.*' 


13 

The  second  phase  of  the  campaign  was  one  of  endless 
boredom,  filthy  weather  and  the  nuisance  of  changing 
camp  every  other  month.  The  boredom  was  only 
slightly  relieved  by  a  few  promotions,  two  or  three  full 
lieutenants  becoming  captains  and  taking  command 
of  the  newly  arranged  sections  of  D.A.C.,  and  a  few  second 
lieutenants  getting  their  second  pip.  I  was  one.  The 
weather  was  characteristic  of  the  country,  unexpected, 
violent.  About  once  a  week  the  heavens  opened  them- 
selves. Thunder  crashed  round  in  circles  in  a  black 
sky  at  midday,  great  tongues  of  lightning  lit  the  whole 


Ubique  lis 

world  in  shuddering  flashes.  The  rain  made  every 
nullah  a  roaring  waterfall  with  three  or  four  feet  of  muddy 
water  racing  down  it  and  washing  away  everything  in 
its  path.  The  trenches  round  our  bell  tents  were  of 
little  avail  against  such  violence.  The  trench  sides 
dissolved  and  the  water  poured  in.  These  storms  lasted 
an  hour  or  two  and  then  the  sky  cleared  almost  as  quickly 
as  it  had  darkened  and  the  mountain  peaks  gradually 
appeared  again,  clean  and  fresh.  On  one  such  occasion, 
but  much  later  in  the  year,  the  Adjutant  was  carught 
riding  up  from  Salonica  on  his  horse  and  a  thunderbolt 
crashed  to  earth  about  thirty  yards  away  from  him.  The 
horse  stood  trembling  for  full  two  minutes  and  then 
galloped  home  in  a  panic. 

The  changing  of  camps  seemed  to  spring  from  only 
one  reason, — the  desire  for  "  spit  and  polish  "  which 
covers  a  multitude  of  sins.  It  doesn't  matter  if  your 
gunners  are  not  smart  at  gun  drill  or  your  subalterns 
in  utter  ignorance  of  how  to  lay  out  lines  of  fire  and 
make  a  fighting  map.  So  long  as  your  gun  park  is 
aligned  to  the  centimetre,  your  horse  lines  supplied 
conspicuously  with  the  type  of  incinerator  fancied  by 
your  Brigadier-General  and  the  whole  camp  liberally 
and  tastefully  decorated  with  white  stones, — then  you 
are  a  crack  brigade,  and  Brass  Hats  ride  round  you  with 
oily  smiles  and  pleasant  remarks  and  recommend  each 
other  for  decorations. 

But  adopt  your  own  incinerator  (infinitely  more 
practical  as  a  rule  than  the  Brigadier-General's)  and  let 
yourself  be  caught  with  an  untidy  gun  park  and  your 
life  becomes  a  hell  on  earth.  We  learnt  it  bitterly, 
until  at  last  the  Adjutant  used  to  ride  ahead  with  the 
R.S.M.,  a  large  fatigue  party  and  several  miles  of  string 
and  mark  the  position  of  every  gun  muzzle  and  wagon 
wheel  in  the  brigade.    And  when  the  storms  broke  and 

..8 


114  The  Grey  Wave 

washed  away  the  white  stones  the  Adjutant  would  dash 
out  of  his  tent  immediately  the  rain  ceased,  calling  upon 
God  piteously,  the  R.S.M.  irritably,  and  every  man  in 
the  brigade  would  collect  other  stones  for  dear  life. 

Time  hung  very  heavy.  The  monotony  of  week 
after  week  of  brigade  fatigues,  standing  gun  drill,  exer- 
cising and  walking  horses,  inspecting  the  men's  dinners, 
with  nothing  to  do  afterwards  except  play  cards,  read, 
write  letters  and  curse  the  weather,  and  the  war  and 
all  Brass  Hats.  Hot  baths  in  camp  were,  as  usual,  as 
diamonds  in  oysters.  Salonica  was  about  twelve  miles 
away  for  a  bath,  a  long  weary  ride  mostly  at  a  walk  on 
account  of  the  going.  But  it  was  good  to  ride  in  past 
the  village  we  used  to  call  Peacockville,  for  obvious 
reasons,  put.  the  horses  up  in  a  Turkish  stable  in  a  back 
street  in  Salonica,  and  bathe  and  feed  at  the  "  Tour 
Blanche,"  and  watch  the  crowd.  It  was  a  change,  at 
least,  from  the  eternal  sameness  of  camp  and  the  cramped 
discomfort  of  bell  tents,  and  there  was  always  a  touch 
of  mystery  and  charm  in  the  ride  back  in  the  moonlight. 

The  whole  thing  seemed  so  useless,  such  an  utter 
waste  of  life.  There  one  sat  in  the  mud  doing  nothing. 
The  war  went  on  and  we  weren't  helping.  All  our  civil 
ambitions  and  hopes  were  withering  under  our  very 
eyes.  One  hopeless  dawn  succeeded  another.  I  tried 
to  write,  but  my  brain  was  like  a  sponge  dipped  into 
khaki  dye.  One  yearned  for  France,  where  at  least 
there  was  fighting  and  leave,  or  if  not  leave  then  the 
hourly  chance  of  a  "  blighty  "  wound. 

About  April  there  came  a  welcome  interlude.  The 
infantry  had  also  chopped  and  changed,  and  been  moved 
about  and  in  the  intervals  had  been  kept  warm  and 
busy  in  digging  a  chain  of  defences  in  a  giant  hundred- 
mile  half-circle  around  Salonica,  the  hub  of  our  existence. 
The  weather  still  didn't  seem  to  know  quite  what  it 


Ubique  115 

wanted  to  do.  There  was  a  hint  of  spring  but  it  varied 
between  blinding  snowstorms,  bursts  of  warm  sun  and 
torrents  of  rain. 

"  Don  "  battery  had  been  moved  to  Stavros  in  the 
defensive  chain,  and  the  Colonel  was  to  go  down  and  do 
Group  Commander.  The  Adjutant  was  left  to  look  after 
the  rest  of  the  brigade.  I  went  with  the  Colonel  to  do 
Adjutant  in  the  new  group.  So  we  collected  a  handful 
of  signallers,  a  cart  with  our  kits  and  servants,  and  set 
out  on  a  two-day  trek  due  east  along  the  line  of  lakes 
to  the  other  coast. 

The  journey  started  badly  in  a  howling  snow-storm. 
To  reach  the  lake  level  there  was  a  one-way  pass  that 
took  an  hour  to  go  down,  and  an  hour  and  a  half  to 
climb  on  the  return  trip.  The  Colonel  went  on  ahead 
to  see  the  General.  I  stayed  with  the  cart  and  fought 
my  way  through  the  blizzard.  At  the  top  of  the  pass 
was  a  mass  of  Indian  transport.  We  all  waited  for 
two  hours,  standing  still  in  the  storm,  the  mud  belly- 
deep  because  some  unfortunate  wagon  had  got  stuck  in 
the  ascent.  I  remember  having  words  with  a  Captain 
who  sat  hunched  on  his  horse  like  a  sack  the  whole  two 
hours  and  refused  to  give  an  order  or  lend  a  hand  when 
every  one  of  his  teams  jibbed,  when  at  last  the  pass  was 
declared  open.     God  knows  how  he  ever  got  promoted. 

However,  we  got  down  at  last  and  the  sun  came  out 
and  dried  us.  I  reported  to  the  Colonel,  and  we  went 
on  in  a  warm  golden  afternoon  along  the  lake  shore 
with  ducks  getting  up  out  of  the  rushes  in  hundreds, 
and,  later,  woodcock  flashing  over  our  heads  on  their 
way  to  water.  As  far  as  I  remember  the  western  lake 
is  some  eight  miles  long  and  about  three  wide  at  its  widest 
part,  with  fairy  villages  nestling  against  the  purple 
mountain  background,  the  sun  glistening  on  the 
minarets  and  the  faint  sound  of  bells  coming  across  the 

8* 


116  The  Grey  Wave 

water.  We  spent  the  night  as  guests  of  a  battery  which 
we  found  encamped  on  the  shore,  and  on  the  following 
morning  trekked  along  the  second  lake,  which  is  about 
ten  miles  in  length,  ending  at  a  jagged  mass  of  rock  and 
thick  undergrowth  which  had  split  open  into  a  wild, 
wooded  ravine  with  a  river  winding  its  way  through  the 
narrow  neck  to  the  sea,  about  five  miles  farther  on. 

We  camped  in  the  narrow  neck  on  a  sandy  bay  by  the 
river,  rock  shooting  up  sheer  from  the  back  of  the  tents, 
the  horses  hidden  under  the  trees.  The  Colonel's  com- 
mand consisted  of  one  6o-pounder — brought  round  by 
sea  and  thrown  into  the  shallows  by  the  Navy,  who  said 
to  us,  "  Here  you  are,  George.  She's  on  terra  firma. 
It's  up  to  you  now  " — two  naval  6-inch,  one  eighteen- 
pounder  battery,  "  Don,"  one  4.5  howitzer  battery,  and 
a  mountain  battery,  whose  commander  rode  about  on  a 
beautiful  white  mule  with  a  tail  trimmed  like  an  hotel 
bell  pull.  *'  AC  "  battery  of  ours  came  along  a  day  or 
two  later  to  join  the  merry  party,  because,  to  use  the 
vulgar  but  expressive  phrase,  the  Staff  "  got  the  wind 
up/'  and  saw  Bulgars  behind  every  tree. 


14 

In  truth  it  was  a  comedy, — though  there  were  elements 
of  tragedy  in  the  utter  inefficiency  displayed.  We  rode 
round  to  see  the  line  of  our  zone.  It  took  two  days, 
because,  of  course,  the  General  had  to  get  back  to  lunch. 
Wherever  it  was  possible  to  cut  tracks,  tracks  had  been 
cut,  beautiful  wide  ones,  making  an  enemy  advance  easy. 
They  were  guarded  by  isolated  machine-gun  posts  at 
certain  strategic  points,  and  in  the  nullahs  was  a  little 
barbed  wire  driven  in  on  wooden  stakes.  Against  the 
barbed  wire,  however,  were  piled  masses  of  dried  thorn, 


Ubique  117 

— ^utterly  impassable  but  about  as  inflammable  as  gun- 
powder. This  was  all  up  and  down  the  wildest  country. 
If  a  massacre  had  gone  on  fifty  yards  to  our  right  or  left 
at  any  time,  we  shouldn't  have  been  able  to  see  it.  And 
the  line  of  infantry  was  so  placed  that  it  was  impossible 
to  put  guns  anywhere  to  assist  them. 

It  is  to  be  remembered  that  although  I  have  two  eyes, 
two  ears,  and  a  habit  of  looking  and  listening,  I  was  only 
a  lieutenant  with  two  pips  in  those  days,  and  therefore 
my  opinion  is  not,  of  course,  worth  the  paper  it  is  written 
on.    Ask  any  Brass  Hat ! 

An  incident  comes  back  to  me  of  the  action  before 
the  retreat.  I  had  only  one  pip  then.  Two  General 
Staffs  wished  to  make  a  reconnaissance.  I  went  off  at 
3  a.m.  to  explore  a  short  way,  got  back  at  eight  o'clock, 
after  five  hours  on  a  cold  and  empty  stomach,  met  the 
Staffs  glittering  in  the  winter  sun,  and  led  them  up  a  goat 
track,  ridable,  of  course.  They  left  the  horses  eventually, 
and  I  brought  them  to  the  foot  of  the  crest,  from  which 
the  reconnaissance  was  desired.  The  party  was  some 
twenty  strong,  and  walked  up  on  to  the  summit  and 
produced  many  white  maps.  I  was  glad  to  sit  down, 
and  did  so  under  the  crest  against  a  rock.  Searching  the 
opposite  sky  line  with  my  glasses,  I  saw  several  parties 
of  Bulgars  watching  us, — only  recognisable  as  Bulgars 
because  the  little  of  them  that  I  could  see  moved  from 
time  to  time.  The  Colonel  was  near  me  and  I  told  him. 
He  took  a  look  and  went  up  the  crest  and  told  the 
Staffs.  The  Senior  Brass  Hat  said,  "  Good  God  !  What 
are  you  all  doing  up  here  on  the  crest  ?  Get  under  cover 
at  once," — and  he  and  they  all  hurried  down.  The 
reconnaissance  was  over  I 

On  leading  them  a  short  way  back  to  the  horses  (it 
saved  quite  twenty  minutes'  walk)  it  became  necessary 
to  pass  through  a  wet,  boggy  patch  about  four  yards 


118  The  Grey  Wave 

across.  The  same  Senior  Brass  Hat  stopped  at  the  edge 
of  it,  and  said  to  me,  "  What  the  devil  did  you  bring  us 
this  way  for  ?  You  don't  expect  me  to  get  my  boots 
dirty,  do  you  ? — Good  God  !  " 

I  murmured  something  about  active  service, — but, 
as  I  say,  I  had  only  one  pip  then. — 

It  isn't  that  one  objects  to  being  cursed.  The  thing 
that  rankles  is  to  have  to  bend  the  knee  to  a  system 
whose  slogan  is  efficiency,  but  which  retains  the  dodder- 
ing and  the  effete  in  high  commands  simply  because  they 
have  a  quarter  of  a  century  of  service  to  their  records. 
The  misguided  efforts  of  these  dodderers  are  counter- 
acted to  a  certain  extent  by  the  young,  keen  men  under 
them.  But  it  is  the  dodderers  who  get  the  credit,  while 
the  real  men  lick  their  boots  and  have  to  kowtow  in  the 
most  servile  manner.  Furthermore,  it  is  no  secret. 
We  know  it  and  yet  we  let  it  go  on  :  and  if  to-day  there 
are  twenty  thousand  unnecessary  corpses  among  our 
million  dead,  after  all,  what  are  they  among  so  many  ? 
The  dodderers  have  still  got  enough  life  to  parade  at 
Buckingham  Palace  and  receive  another  decoration,  and 
we  stand  in  the  crowd  and  clap  our  hands,  and  say, 
"  Look  at  old  so-and-so  !  Isn't  he  a  grand  old  man  ? 
Must  be  seventy-six  if  he's  a  day  !  " 

So  went  the  comedy  at  Stavros.  One  Brass  Hat 
dug  a  defence  line  at  infinite  expense  and  labour.  Along 
came  another,  just  a  pip  senior,  looked  round  and  said, 
"  Good  God  !  You've  dug  in  the  wrong  place. — Must 
be  scrapped."  And  at  more  expense  and  more  labour 
a  new  line  was  dug.  And  then  a  third  Brass  Hat  came 
along  and  it  was  all  to  do  over  again.  Men  filled  the 
base  hospitals  and  died  of  dysentery ;  the  national 
debt  added  a  few  more  insignificant  millions, — and  the 
Brass  Hats  went  on  leave  to  Alexandria  for  a  well- 
earned  rest. 


Ubique  119 

Notjonly  at  Stavros  did  this  happen,  but  all  round 
the  half  circle  in  the  increasingly  hot  weather,  as  the 
year  became  older  and  disease  more  rampant. 

After  we'd  been  down  there  a  week  and  just  got  the 
hang  of  the  country  another  Colonel  came  and  took  over 
the  command  of  the  group,  so  we  packed  up  our  traps 
and  having  bagged  many  woodcock  and  duck,  went  away, 
followed  after  a  few  days  by  "  AC  "  and  "  Don." 

About  that  time,  to  our  lasting  grief,  we  lost  our 
Colonel,  who  went  home.  It  was  a  black  day  for  the 
brigade.  His  thoughtfulness  for  every  officer  under 
him,  his  loyalty  and  unfailing  cheeriness  had  made  him 
much  loved.  I,  who  had  ridden  with  him  daily,  trekked 
the  snowy  hills  in  his  excellent  company,  played  chess 
with  him,  strummed  the  banjo  while  he  chanted  half- 
remembered  songs,  shared  the  same  tent  with  him  on 
occasions  and  appreciated  to  the  full  his  unfailing  kind- 
ness, mourned  him  as  my  greatest  friend.  The  day  he 
went  I  took  my  last  ride  with  him  down  to  the  rest- 
camp  just  outside  Salonica,  a  wild,  threatening  after- 
hoon,  with  a  storm  which  burst  on  me  in  all  its  fury  as 
I  rode  back  miserably,  alone. 

In  due  course  his  successor  came  and  we  moved  to 
Yailajik — well  called  by  the  men.  Yellow- Jack — and 
the  hot  weather  was  occupied  with  training  schemes  at 
dawn,  officers'  rides  and  drills,  examinations  A  and  B 
(unofficial,  of  course),  horse  shows  and  an  eternity  of 
unnecessary  work,  while  one  gasped  in  shirt  sleeves 
and  stupid  felt  hats  after  the  Anzac  pattern ;  long, 
long  weeks  of  appalling  heat  and  petty  worries,  until  it 
became  a  toss-up  between  suicide  or  murder.  The  whole 
spirit  of  the  brigade  changed.  From  having  been  a 
happy  family  working  together  like  a  perfect  team,  the 
spirit  of  discontent  spread  like  a  canker.  The  men  looked 
sullen  and  did  their  work  grudgingly,  going  gladly  to 


120  The  Grey  Wave 

hospital  at  the  first  signs  of  dysentery.  Subalterns  put 
in  applications  for  the  Flying  Corps, — I  was  one  of  their 
number, — and  ceased  to  take  an  interest  in  their  sections. 
Battery  Commanders  raised  sarcasm  to  a  fine  art,  and 
cursed  the  day  that  ever  sent  them  to  this  ghastly  back- 
water. 

I  left  the  headquarters  and  sought  relief  in  "  C " 
battery,  where,  encouraged  by  the  sympathetic  command- 
ing officer,  I  got  nearer  to  the  solution  of  the  mysterious 
triangle  T.O.B.  than  I'd  ever  been  before.  He  had  a 
way  of  talking  about  it  that  the  least  intelligent  couldn't 
fail  to  grasp. 

At  last  I  fell  ill  and  with  an  extraordinary  gladness 
went  down  to  the  5th  Canadian  hospital,  on  the  eastern 
outskirts  of  Salonica,  on  the  seashore.  The  trouble 
was  an  ear.  Even  the  intensest  pain,  dulled  by  frequent 
injections  of  morphia,  did  not  affect  my  relief  in  getting 
away  from  that  brigade,  where,  up  to  the  departure  of 
the  Colonel,  I  had  spent  such  a  happy  time.  The  pity 
of  it  was  that  everybody  envied  me. 

They  talked  of  an  operation.  Nothing  would  have 
induced  me  to  let  them  operate  in  that  country  where 
the  least  scratch  turned  septic.  After  several  weeks  I 
was  sent  to  Malta,  where  I  was  treated  for  twenty-one 
days.  At  the  end  of  that  time  the  speciahst  asked  me 
if  my  career  would  be  interfered  with  if  he  sent  me  home 
for  consultation  as  to  an  operation.  One  reason  he  could 
not  do  it  was  that  it  was  a  long  business,  six  weeks  in 
bed,  at  least,  and  they  were  already  overfull.  The 
prison  door  was  about  to  open  !  I  assured  him  that  on 
the  contrary  my  career  would  benefit  largely  by  a  sight 
of  home,  and  to  my  eternal  joy  he  then  and  there,  in 
rubber  gloves,  wrote  a  recommendation  to  send  me 
to  England.  His  name  stands  out  in  my  memory  in 
golden  letters. 


Ubique  121 

Within  twenty-four  hours  I  was  on  board. 

The  fact  that  all  my  kit  was  still  with  the  battery  was 
a  matter  of  complete  indifference.  I  would  have  left 
a  thousand  kits.  At  home  all  the  leaves  were  turning, 
blue  smoke  was  filtering  out  of  red  chimneys  against 
the  copper  background  of  the  beech  woods — and  they 
would  be  waiting  for  me  in  the  drive. 


PART    III 

THE  WESTERN  FRONT 


ENGLAND  had  changed  in  the  eighteen  months 
since  we  put  out  so  joyously  from  Avonmouth. 
Munition  factories  were  in  full  blast,  food  restrictions 
in  force,  women  in  all  kinds  of  uniforms,  London  in 
utter  darkness  at  night,  the  country  dotted  with  hutted 
training  camps.  Everything  was  quiet.  We  had  taken 
a  nasty  knock  or  two  and  washed  some  of  our  dirty  linen 
in  public,  not  too  clean  at  that.  My  own  lucky  star 
was  in  the  ascendant.  The  voyage  completely  cured 
me,  and  within  a  week  I  was  given  a  month's  sick  leave 
by  the  Medical  Board, — a  month  of  heaven  more  nearly 
describes  it,  for  I  passed  my  days  in  a  state  of  bliss  which 
nothing  could  mar,  except  perhaps  the  realisation,  to- 
towards  the  end,  of  the  fact  that  I  had  to  go  back  and 
settle  into  the  collar  again. 

My  mental  attitude  towards  the  war  had  changed. 
Whatever  romance  and  glamour  there  may  have  been 
had  worn  off.  It  was  just  one  long  bitter  waste  of  time, 
— our  youth  killed  like  flies  by  "  dug-outs,"  at  the  front, 
so  that  old  meh  and  sick  might  carry  on  the  race,  while 
profiteers  drew  bloated  profits  and  politicians  exuded 
noxious  gas  in  the  House.  Not  a  comforting  point  of 
view  to  take  back  into  harness.  I  was  told  on  good 
authority  that  to  go  out  to  France  in  a  field  battery 
was  a  certain  way  of  finding  death.  They  were  being 
flung  away  in  the  open  to  take  another  thousand  yards 
of  trench,  so  as  to  make  a  headline  in  the  daily  papers 
which  would  stir  the  drooping  spirits  of  the  old,  the  sick, 
and  the  profiteer  over  their  breakfast  egg.    The  embusque 

125 


126  The  Grey  Wave 

was  enjoying  those  headlines  too.  The  combing-out 
process  had  not  yet  begun.  The  young  men  who  had 
never  been  out  of  England  were  Majors  and  Colonels 
in  training  camps.  It  was  the  officers  who  returned  to 
duty  from  hospital,  more  or  less  cured  of  wounds  or 
sickness,  who  were  the  first  to  be  sent  out  again.  The 
others  knew  a  thing  or  two. 

That  was  how  it  struck  me  when  I  was  posted  to  a 
reserve  brigade  just  outside  London. 

Not  having  the  least  desire  to  be  "  flung  away  in  the 
open,"  I  did  my  best  to  get  transferred  to  a  6-inch 
battery.  The  Colonel  of  the  reserve  brigade  did  his 
best,  but  it  was  queered  at  once,  without  argument  or 
appeal,  by  the  nearest  Brass  Hat,  in  the  following 
manner.  The  Colonel  ha\dng  signed  and  recommended 
the  formal  application,  spoke  to  the  General  personally 
on  my  behalf. 

"  What  sort  of  a  fellow  is  he  ?  '*  asked  the  General. 

*'  Seems  a  pretty  useful  man,"  said  the  Colonel. 

"  Then  we'll  keep  him,"  said  the  General. 

"  The  pity  of  it  is,"  said  the  Colonel  to  me  later,  "  that 
if  I'd  said  you  were  a  hopeless  damned  fool,  he  would 
have  signed  it." 

On  many  subsequent  occasions  the  Colonel  flung 
precisely  that  expression 'at  me  so  he  might  just  as  well 
have  said  it  then. 

However,  as  it  seemed  that  I  was  destined  for  a  short 
life,  I  determined  to  make  it  as  merry  as  possible,  and 
in  the  company  of  a  kindred  spirit,  who  was  posted  from 
hospital  a  couple  of  days  after  I  was,  and  who  is  now  a 
Bimbashi  in  the  Soudan,  I  went  up  to  town  about  three 
nights  a  week,  danced  and  did  a  course  of  theatres.  By 
day  there  was  no  work  to  do  as  the  brigade  already  had 
far  too  many  officers,  none  of  whom  had  been  out.  The 
battery  to  which  we  were  both  posted  was  composed  of 


The  Western  Front  127 

category  Ci  men, — flat-footed  unfortunates,  unfit  to 
fight  on  medical  grounds,  not  even  strong  enough  to 
groom  horses  properly. 

A  futile  existence  in  paths  of  unintelligence  and 
unendeavour  worshipping  perforce  at  the  altar  of 
destruction,  creating  nothing,  a  slave  to  dishonesty  and 
jobbery, — a  waste  of  life  that  made  one  mad  with  rage 
in  that  everything  beautiful  in  the  world  was  snapped 
in  half  and  flung  away  because  the  social  fabric  which 
we  ourselves  had  made  through  the  centuries,  had  at 
last  become  rotten  to  the  core  and  broken  into  flaming 
slaughter,  and  was  being  fanned  by  yellow  press  hypocrisy. 
Every  ideal  cried  out  against  it.  The  sins  of  the  fathers 
upon  the  wilfully  blind  children.  The  Kaiser  was  only 
the  most  pitch-covered  torch  chosen  by  Nemesis  to  set 
the  bonfire  of  civilisation  ablaze.  But  for  one  branch 
in  the  family  tree  he  would  have  been  England's  monarch, 
and  then ? 

There  have  been  moments  when  I  have  regretted  not 
having  sailed  to  New  York  in  August,  19 14, — bitter 
moments  when  all  the  dishonesty  has  beaten  upon  one's 
brain,  and  one  has  envied  the  pluck  of  the  honest  con- 
scientious objector  who  has  stood  out  against  the  ridicule 
of  the  civilised  world. 

The  only  thought  that  kept  me  going  was  "  suppose 
the  Huns  had  landed  in  England  and  I  had  not  been 
fighting  ?  "     It  was  unanswerable, — as  I  thought  then. 

Now  I  wish  that  the  Hun  had  landed  in  England  in  f 
force  and  laid  waste  the  East  coast,  as  he  has  devastated  ^ 
Belgium  and  the  north  of  France.  There  would  have 
been  English  refugees  with  perambulators  and  babies, 
profiteers  crying  "  Kamerad  !  "  poHticians  fleeing  the 
House.  There  would  have  been  some  hope  of  England's 
understanding.  But  she  doesn't  even  now.  There  were 
ill  XQ18,  before  the  armistice,  men — men  ! — who,  because 


128  The  Grey  Wave 

their  valets  failed  to  put  their  cuff  links  in  their  shirts  one 
morning,  were  sarcastic  to  their  war-working  wives,  and 
talked  of  the  sacrifices  they  had  made  for  their  country. 

How  dared  they  have  valets,  while  we  were  lousy  and 
unshaved,  with  rotting  corpses  round  our  gun  wheels  ? 
How  dared  they  have  wives,  while  we  "  unmarried  and 
without  ties  "  were  either  driven  in  our  weakness  to 
licensed  women,  or  clung  to  our  chastity  because  of  the 
one  woman  with  us  every  hour  in  our  hearts,  whom  we 
meant  to  marry  if  ever  we  came  whole  out  of  that  hell  ? 


Christmas  came.  They  would  not  let  me  go  down 
to  that  little  house  among  the  pines  and  beeches,  which 
has  ever  been  "  home  "  to  me.  But  the  day  was  spent 
quietly  in  London  with  my  best  pal.  Seven  days  later 
I  was  on  my  way  to  Ireland  as  one  of  the  advance  repre- 
sentatives of  the  Division.  The  destination  of  m}^ 
brigade  was  Limerick,  that  place  of  pigs,  and  smells, 
and  pretty  girls  and  schoolboy  rebels,  who  chalked  on 
every  barrack  wall,  "  Long  live  the  Kaiser  !  Down  with 
the  King  !  "  Have  you  ever  been  driven  to  the  depths 
of  despair,  seen  your  work  go  to  pieces  before  your  eyes, 
and  spent  the  dreadful  days  in  dishonest  idleness  on  the 
barrack  square,  hating  it  all  the  while,  but  unable  to 
move  hand  or  foot  to  get  out  of  the  mental  morass  ? 
That  is  what  grew  up  in  Limerick.  Even  now  my  mind 
shivers  in  agony  at  the  thought  of  it. 

Reinforcements  had  poured  into  the  battery  of  cripples, 
and  the  order  came  that  from  it  a  fighting  battery  should 
be  formed.  As  senior  subaltern,  who  had  been  promised 
a  captaincy,  I  was  given  charge  of  them.  The  only  other 
officer  with  me  was  the  loyalest  pal  a  man  ever  had. 
He  had  been  promoted  on  the  field  for  gallantry,  having 


The  Western  Front  129 

served  ten  years  in  the  ranks  as  trumpeter,  gunner, 
corporal  and  sergeant.  Needless  to  say,  he  knew  the 
game  backwards,  and  was  the  possessor  of  amazing 
energy  and  efficiency.  He  really  ought  to  have  had  the 
command,  for  my  gunnery  was  almost  nil,  but  I  had  one 
pip  more  than  he,  and  so  the  system  put  him  under  my 
orders.  So  we  paraded  the  first  men,  and  told  them  off 
into  sections  and  were  given  a  horse  or  two,  gradually 
building  up  a  battery  as  more  reinforcements  arrived. 

How  we  worked  !  The  enthusiasm  of  a  first  command  ! 
For  a  fortnight  we  never  left  the  barracks, — drilling, 
marching,  clothing  and  feeding  the  fighting  unit  of  which 
we  hoped  such  great  things.  All  our  hearts  and  souls 
were  in  it,  and  the  men  themselves  were  keen  and  worked 
cheerily  and  well.  One  shook  off  depressing  philosophies 
and  got  down  to  the  solid  reality  of  two  hundred  men. 
The  early  enthusiasm  returned,  and  Pip  Don — as  my 
pal  was  called — and  I  were  out  for  glory  and  killing  Huns. 

The  Colonel  looked  us  over  and  was  pleased.  Life 
wasn't  too  bad,  after  all. 

And  then  the  blight  set  in.  An  officer  was  posted  to 
the  command  of  the  little  fighting  unit. 

In  a  week  all  the  fight  had  gone  out  of  it.  In  another 
week  Pip  Don  and  I  declared  ourselves  beaten.  All  our 
interest  was  killed.  The  sergeant-major,  for  whom  I 
have  a  lasting  respect,  was  like  Bruce's  spider.  Every 
time  he  fell,  he  at  once  started  reclimbing.  He  alone  was 
responsible  for  whatever  discipline  remained.  The  cap- 
taincy which  I  had  been  promised  on  certain  conditions 
was  filled  by  some  one  else  the  very  day  I  carried  out 
the  conditions.  It  didn't  matter.  Everything  was  so 
hopeless  that  the  only  thing  left  was  to  get  out, — and 
that  was  the  one  thing  we  couldn't  do,  because  we  were 
more  or  less  under  orders  for  France.  It  reached  such 
a  pitch  that  even  the  thought  of  being  flung  away  in  the 

9 


180  The  Grey  Wave 

open  was  welcome.  At  least  it  would  end  it  all.  There 
was  no  secret  about  it.  The  Colonel  knew.  Didn't  he 
come  to  my  room  one  night,  and  say,  "  Look  here,  Gibbs, 
what  is  the  matter  with  your  battery  ?  "  And  didn't 
we  have  another  try,  and  another  ? 

So  for  a  time  Rp  Don  and  I  smoked  cigarettes  on  the 
barrack  square,  strolling  listlessly  from  parade  to  parade, 
cursing  the  fate  that  should  have  brought  us  to  such 
dishonour.  We  went  to  every  dance  in  Limerick, 
organised  concerts,  patronised  the  theatre  and  filled  our 
lives  as  much  as  we  could  with  outside  interests  until 
such  time  as  we  should  go  to  France.  And  then. — It 
woiild  be  different  when  shells  began  to  burst ! 


In  the  ranks  I  first  discovered  that  it  was  a  struggle 
to  keep  one's  soul  alive.  That  struggle  had  proved 
far  more  difficult  as  an  officer  in  the  later  days  of  Salonica. 
The  bitterness  of  Limerick,  together  with  the  reason,  as 
I  saw  it,  of  the  wholesale  slaughter,  made  one's  whole 
firmament  tremble.  Rough  hands  seemed  to  tear  down 
one's  ideals  and  fling  then  in  the  mud.  One's  picture  of 
God  and  religion  faded  under  the  red  light  of  war.  One's 
brain  flickered  in  the  turmoil,  seeking  something  to  cling 
to.  What  was  there  ?  Truth  ?  There  was  none. 
Duty  ?  It  was  a  farce.  Honour  ?  It  was  dead.  There 
was  only  one  thing  left,  one  thing  which  might  give  them 
all  back  again, — Love. 

If  there  was  not  that  in  one's  heart  to  keep  fragrant, 
to  cherish,  to  run  to  for  help,  to  look  forward  to  as  the 
sunshine  at  the  end  of  a  long  and  awful  tunnel,  then  one's 
soul  would  have  perished  and  a  bullet  been  a  merciful 
thing. 


The  Western  Front  131 

I  was  all  unconscious  that  it  had  been  my  salvation 
in  the  ranks,  in  Salonica.  Now,  on  the  eve  of  going 
out  to  the  Western  Front  I  recognized  it  for  the  first  time 
to  the  full.  The  effect  of  it  was  odd, — a  passionate 
longing  to  tear  off  one's  khaki  and  leave  all  this  unclean- 
ness,  and  at  the  same  time  the  certain  knowledge  that 
one  must  go  on  to  the  very  end,  otherwise  one  would 
lose  it.  If  I  had  been  offered  a  war  job  in  New  York, 
how  could  I  have  taken  it,  un wounded,  the  game  un- 
finished, much  as  New  York  called  me  ?  So  its .  third 
effect  was  a  fierce  impatience  to  get  to  France,  making  at 
least  one  more  battery  to  help  to  end  the  war. 

The  days  dragged  by,  the  longer  from  the  new  know- 
ledge within  me.  From  time  to  time  the  Sinn  Fein 
gave  signs  of  renewed  activity,  and  either  we  were  all 
confined  to  barracks  in  consequence,  presumably  to 
avoid  street  fighting,  or  else  we  hooked  into  the  guns 
and  did  route  marches  through  and  round  about  the 
town.  From  time  to  time  arrests  were  made,  but  no 
open  conflict  recurred.  Apart  from  our  own  presence 
there  was  no  sign  of  war  in  Ireland.  Food  of  all  kinds 
was  plentiful  and  cheap,  restrictions  nil.  The  streets 
were  well  lit  at  night.  Gaiety  was  the  keynote.  No 
aeroplanes  dropped  bombs  on  that  brilliant  target.  The 
Hun  and  pro-Hun  had  spent  too  much  money  there. 

Finally  our  training  was  considered  complete.  The 
Colonel  had  laboured  personally  with  aU  the  subalterns, 
and  we  had  benefited  by  his  caustic  method  of  impart- 
ing knowledge.  And  so  once  more  we  sat  stifliy  to 
attention  while  Generals  rode  round  us,  metaphorically 
poking  our  ribs  to  see  if  we  were  fat  enough  for  the 
slaughter.  Apparently  we  were,  for  the  fighting  units 
said  good-bye  to  their  parent  batteries — ^how  gladly  ! 
— and  shipped  across  to  England  to  do  our  firing 
practice. 

9* 


132  The  Grey  Wave 

The  camp  was  at  Heytesbury,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  vast  plain  which  I  had  learnt  so  well  as  a  trooper. 
We  were  a  curious  medley,  several  brigades  being  repre- 
sented, each  battery  a  little  distrustful  of  the  next,  a 
little  inclined  to  turn  up  its  nose.  Instead  of  being 
"  AC,"  "  Beer,"  "  C  "  and  "  Don,"  as  before,  we  were 
given  consecutive  numbers,  well  into  the  hundreds,  and 
after  a  week  or  so  of  dislocation  were  formed  into 
brigades,  and  each  put  under  the  command  of  a  Colonel. 
Then  the  stiffness  wore  off  in  friendly  competition  of 
trying  to  pick  the  best  horses  from  the  remounts.  Our 
men  challenged  each  other  to  football,  sergeant-majors 
exchanged  notes.  Subalterns  swapped  lies  about  the 
war  and  Battery  Commanders  stood  each  other  drinks 
in  the  mess.  Within  a  fortnight  we  were  all  certain  we'd 
got  the  best  Colonel  in  England,  and  congratulated  our- 
selves accordingly. 

Meanwhile  Pip  Don  and  I  were  still  outcasts  in  our 
own  battery,  up  against  a  policy  of  continual  distrust, 
suspicion,  and  scarcely  veiled  antagonism.  It  was  at 
the  beginning  of  April,  191 7,  that  we  first  got  to  Heytes- 
bury, and  snow  was  thick  upon  the  ground.  Every  day 
we  had  the  guns  out  behind  the  stables  and  jumped  the 
men  about  at  quick,  short  series,  getting  them  smart 
and  handy,  keeping  their  interest  and  keeping  them 
warm.  When  the  snow  disappeared  we  took  the  battery 
out  mounted,  taking  turns  in  bringing  it  into  action, 
shooting  over  the  sights  on  moving  targets — other 
batteries  at  work  in  the  distance — or  laying  out  lines 
for  indirect  targets.  We  took  the  staff  out  on  cross- 
country rides,  scouring  the  country  for  miles,  and  chasing 
hares — ^it  shook  them  down  into  the  saddle — carrying  out 
little  signalling  schemes.  In  short,  we  had  a  final  polish 
up  of  all  the  knowledge  we  had  so  eagerly  begun  to  teach 
them  when  he  and  I  had  been  in  sole  command.     I  don't 


The  Western  Front  188 

think  either  of  us  can  remember  any  single  occasion  on 
which  the  commanding  officer  took  a  parade. 

Embarkation  leave  was  in  full  swing,  four  days  for 
all  ranks,  and  the  brigade  next  to  us  was  ordered  to 
shoot.  Two  range  officers  were  appointed  from  our 
brigade.  I  was  one.  It  was  good  fun  and  extremely 
useful.  We  took  a  party  of  signallers  and  all  the  rations 
we  could  lay  hands  on,  and  occupied  an  old  red  farm- 
house tucked  away  in  a  fold  of  the  plain,  in  the  middle 
of  all  the  targets.  An  old  man  and  his  wife  lived  there, 
a  quaint  old  couple,  toothless  and  irritable,  well  versed 
in  the  ways  of  the  army  and  expert  in  putting  in  claims 
for  fictitious  damages.  Our  job  was  to  observe  and 
register  each  round  from  splinter  proofs,  send  in  a  signed 
report  of  each  series,  stop  the  firing  by  signalling  if  any 
stray  shepherd  or  wanderer  were  seen  on  the  range, 
and  to  see  that  the  targets  for  the  following  day's  shoot 
had  not  been  blown  down  or  in  any  other  way  rendered 
useless.  It  was  a  four-day  affair,  firing  ending  daily 
between  three  and  four  p.m.  This  left  us  ample  time 
to  canter  to  all  the  battery  positions  and  work  out  ranges, 
angle  of  sight  and  compass  bearings  for  every  target, — 
information  which  would  have  been  invaluable  when 
our  turn  to  fire  arrived.  Unfortunately,  however, 
several  shght  alterations  were  intentionally  made,  and 
all  our  labour  was  wasted.  Still,  it  was  a  good  four 
days  of  bracing  weather,  with  little  clouds  scudding  across 
a  blue  sky,  never  quite  certain  whether  in  ten  minutes' 
time  the  whole  world  would  be  blotted  out  in  a  blizzard. 
The  turf  was  springy,  miles  upon  endless  miles,  and  we 
had  some  most  wonderful  gallops  and  practised  revolver 
shooting  on  hares  and  rooks,  going  back  to  a  huge  tea 
and  a  blazing  wood  fire  in  the  old,  draughty  farm- 
house. 

The  practice  over,  we  packed  up  and  marched  back 


134  The  Grey|Wave 

to  our  respective  batteries.  Events  of  a  most  cata- 
clysmic nature  piled  themselves  one  upon  the  other, — 
friction  between  the  commanding  officer  and  myself, 
orders  to  fire  on  a  certain  day,  orders  to  proceed  over- 
seas on  a  certain  later  day,  and  my  dismissal  from  the 
battery,  owing  to  the  aforesaid  friction,  on  the  opening 
day  of  the  firing.  Pip  Don  was  furious,  the  command- 
ing officer  wasn't,  and  I  **  pursued  a  policy  of  masterly 
inactivity."  The  outcome  of  the  firing  was  not  without 
humour,  and  certainly  altered  the  whole  future  career 
of  at  least  two  of  us.  The  Captain  and  the  third  subaltern 
left  the  battery  and  became  *'  details."  The  command- 
ing officer  became  second  in  command  under  a  new 
Major,  who  dropped  out  of  the  blue,  and  I  was  posted 
back  to  the  battery,  together  with  a  new  third  subaltern, 
who  had  just  recovered  from  wounds. 

The  business  of  getting  ready  was  speeded  up.  The 
Ordnance  Department,  hitherto  of  miserly  reluctance, 
gave  us  lavishly  of  their  best.  Gas  masks  were  dished 
out,  and  every  man  marched  into  a  gas  chamber, — ^there 
either  to  get  gassed  or  come  out  with  the  assurance  that 
the  mask  had  no  defects  !  Final  issues  of  clothing  and 
equipment  kept  the  Q.M.S.  sweating  from  dawn  to  dusk, 
and  the  Major  signed  countless  pay  books,  indents  and 
documents  generally. 

Thus  we  were  ready  and  eager  to  go  and  strafe  the  Hun 
in  the  merry  month  of  May,  1917. 


The  personnel  of  the  battery  was  odd  but  extremely 
interesting.  Pip  Don  and  myself  knew  every  man, 
bombardier,  corporal  and  sergeant,  what  he  had  done. 


The  Western  Front  135 

tried  to  do,  or  could  do.  In  a  word  we  knew  the  battery 
inside  out  and  exactly  what  it  was  worth.  Not  a  man 
of  them  had  ever  been  on  active  service,  but  we  felt 
quite  confident  that  the  test  of  shell  fire  would  not  find 
them  wanting.  The  great  majority  of  them  were  Scots' 
and  they  were  all  as  hard  as  nails. 

The  third  subaltern  was  an  unknown  quantity,  but 
all  of  us  had  been  out.    The  Captain  hadn't. 

The  Major  had  been  in  every  battle  in  France  since 
1914,  but  he  didn't  know  us  or  the  battery,  and  if  we 
felt  supremely  confident  in  him,  it  was,  to  say  the  least 
of  it,  impossible  for  him  to  return  the  compliment.  He 
himself  will  tell  you  that  he  didn't  win  the  confidence  of 
the  battery  until  after  a  bold  and  rapidly-decided  move 
in  full  light  of  day,  which  put  us  on  the  flank  of  a  per- 
fectly hellish  bombardment.  That  may  be  true  of  some 
of  the  men,  but  as  far  as  Pip  Don  and  myself  went,  we 
had  adopted  him  after  the  first  five  minutes,  and  never 
swerved, — Shaving,  incidentally,  some  wonderful  argu- 
ments about  him  in  the  sleeping  quarters  at  Heytesbury 
with  the  subalterns  of  other  batteries. 

It  is  extraordinary  how  the  man  at  the  head  of  a  little 
show  like  that  remains  steadily  in  the  lime-light.  Every- 
thing he  does,  says  or  looks  is  noted,  commented  on  and 
placed  to  either  his  credit  or  debit  until  the  men  have 
finally  decided  that  he's  all  right  or — not.  If  they  come 
to  the  first  decision,  then  the  Major's  life  is  not  more  of 
a  burden  to  him  than  Divisional  and  Corps  Staffs  and 
the  Hun  can  make  it.  The  battery  will  do  anything  he 
asks  of  it,  at  any  hour  of  day  or  night,  and  wiU  go  on 
shooting  till  the  last  man  is  knocked  out.  If,  on  the 
other  hand,  they  decide  that  he  is  not  all  right,  God 
help  him.  He  gives  orders.  They  are  not  carried  out. 
Why  ?  An  infinite  variety  of  super-excellent  excuses. 
It  is  a  sort  of  passive  resistance,  and  he  has  got  to  be  a 


136  The  Grey  Wave 

mighty  clever  man  to  unearth  the  root  of  it  and  kill  it 
before  it  kills  him. 

We  went  from  Southampton  to  Havre — it  looked 
exactly  the  same  as  when  I'd  landed  there  three  years 
previously — and  from  Havre  by  train  to  Merville.  There 
a  guide  met  us  in  the  chilly  dawn  and  we  marched  up  to 
Estaires,  the  guide  halting  us  at  a  mud  patch  looking 
like  the  abomination  of  desolation,  which  he  said  was  our 
wagon  hne.  It  was  only  about  seven  miles  from  the 
place  where  I'd  been  in  the  cavalry,  and  just  as  muddy, 
but  somehow  I  was  glad  to  be  back.  None  of  those 
side  shows  at  the  other  end  of  the  map  had  meant  any- 
thing. France  was  obviously  where  the  issue  would 
ultimately  be  decided,  and,  apart  from  the  Dardanelles, 
where  the  only  real  fighting  was,  or  ever  had  been.  Let 
us,  therefore,  get  on  with  the  war  with  all  speed.  Every 
year  had  brought  talk  of  peace  before  Christmas,  soon 
dwindling  into  columns  about  preparations  for  another 
winter  campaign.  Even  our  own  men  just  landed 
discussed  the  chances  of  being  back  in  Scotland  for  the 
New  Year  ! 

We  were  an  Army  brigade, — one  of  a  series  of  ille- 
gitimate children  working  under  Corps  orders  and  lent 
to  Divisions  who  didn't  evince  any  friendliness  when 
it  came  to  leave  allotments,  or  withdrawn  from  our 
Divisional  area  to  be  hurried  to  some  other  part  of  the 
line  and  flung  in  in  heaps  to  stiffen  the  barrage  in  some 
big  show.  Nobody  loved  us.  Divisions  saved  their 
own  people  at  our  expense, — it  was  always  an  Army 
brigade  which  hooked  in  at  zero  hour  and  advanced  at 
zero  +  15,  until  after  the  Cambrai  show.  Ordnance 
wanted  to  know  who  the  hell  we  were  and  why  our 
indents  had  a  Divisional  signature  and  not  a  Corps  one, 
or  why  they  hadn't  both,  or  neither  ;  A.S.C.  explained 
with  a  straight  face  how  we  always  got  the  best  fresh 


The  Western  Front  137 

meat  ration  ;  Corps  couldn't  be  bothered  with  us,  until 
there  was  a  show  brewing  ;  Army  were  polite  but  in- 
credulous. 

The  immortal  Pyecroft  recommends  the  purchase 
of  a  ham  as  a  sure  means  of  seeing  life.  As  an  alterna- 
tive I  suggest  joining  an  Army  brigade. 


In  the  old  days  of  trench  warfare  the  Armentieres 
front  was  known  as  the  peace  sector.  The  town  itself, 
not  more  than  three  thousand  yards  from  the  Hun, 
was  full  of  happy  money-grubbing  civilians  who  served 
you  an  excellent  dinner  and  an  equally  excellent  bottle 
of  wine,  or,  if  it  was  clothes  you  sought,  directed  you  to 
Burberry's,  almost  as  well  installed  as  in  the  Haymarket. 
Divisional  infantry  used  it  as  a  rest  billet.  Many  cook's 
carts  ambled  peacefully  along  the  cobbled  streets  laden 
with  eggs,  vegetables  and  drinks  for  officers'  messes. 
Now  and  then  a  rifle  was  fired  in  the  front  line  resulting, 
almost,  in  a  Court  of  Enquiry.  Three  shells  in  three 
days  was  considered  a  good  average,  a  trench  mortar 
a  gross  impertinence. 

Such  was  the  delightful  picture  drawn  for  us  by 
veterans  who  heard  we  were  going  there. 

The  first  step  was  the  attaching  of  so  many  officers 
and  N.C.O.'s  to  a  Divisional  battery  in  the  line  for 
"  instruction."  The  Captain  and  Pip  Don  went  up 
first  and  had  a  merry  week.  The  Major  and  I  went 
up  next  and  heard  the  tale  of  their  exploits.  The  battery 
to  which  we  were  attached,  in  command  of  a  shell- 
shocked  Major,  was  in  a  row  of  houses,  in  front  of  a 
smashed  church  on  the  fringe  of  the  town,  and  I  learnt 


138  The  Grey  Wave 

to  take  cover  or  stand  still  at  the  blast  of  a  whistle  which 
meant  aeroplanes  ;  saw  a  fighting  map  for  the  first  time  ; 
an  S.O.S.  board  in  a  gun  pit  and  the  explanation  of  re- 
taliation targets  ;  read  the  Divisional  Defence  Scheme 
through  all  its  countless  pages  and  remained  in  statu  quo  ; 
went  round  the  front-line  trench  and  learned  that  a 
liaison  officer  didn't  take  his  pyjamas  on  raid  nights  ; 
learned  also  that  a  trench  mortar  bombardment  was  a 
messy,  unpleasant  business ;  climbed  rung  by  rung 
up  a  dark  and  sooty  chimney,  or  was  hauled  up  in  a  coffin- 
Hke  box,  to  a  wooden  deck  fitted  with  seats  and  director 
heads  and  telescopes  and  gazed  down  for  the  first  time 
on  No  Man's  Land  and  the  Hun  trench  system  and  as 
far  as  the  eye  could  reach  in  his  back  areas,  learning 
somewhat  of  the  difficulties  of  flank  observation.  Every 
day  of  that  week  added  depths  to  the  conviction  of  my 
exceeding  ignorance.  Serbia  had  been  nothing  like  this. 
It  was  elementary,  child's  play.  The  Major  too  uttered 
strange  words  like  calibration,  meteor  corrections,  charge 
corrections.  A  memory  of  Salonica  came  back  to  me  of 
a  huge  marquee  in  which  we  had  all  sat  and  listened  to 
a  gilded  staff  officer  who  had  drawn  diagrams  on  a  black- 
board and  juggled  with  just  such  expressions  while  we 
tried  hard  not  to  go  to  sleep  in  the  heat ;  and  afterwards 
the  Battery  Commanders  had  argued  it  and  decided  almost 
unanimously  that  it  was  "  all  right  for  schools  of  gunnery 
but  not  a  damn  bit  o'  use  in  the  field."  To  the  Major, 
however,  these  things  seemed  as  ordinary  as  whisky 
and  pickles. 

I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  sooner  I  began 
to  learn  something  the  better.  It  wasn't  easy  because 
young  Pip  Don  had  the  hang  of  it  all,  so  he  and  the  Major 
checked  each  other's  figures  while  I  looked  on,  vainly 
endeavouring  to  follow.  There  was  never  any  question 
as  to  which  of  us  ought  to  have  had  the  second  pip.     How- 


The  Western  Front  139 

ever  it  worked  itself  out  all  right  because,  owing  to  the 
Major,  he  got  his  captaincy  before  I  did,  which  was 
the  best  possible  thing  that  could  have  happened,  for  I 
then  became  the  Major's  right-hand  man  and  felt  the 
responsibility  of  it. 

At  the  end  of  our  week  of  instruction  the  brigade 
went  into  action,  two  batteries  going  to  the  right  group, 
two  to  the  left.  The  group  consisted  of  the  Divisional 
batteries,  trench  mortar  batteries,  the  6o-pounders  and 
heavy  guns  attached  like  ourselves.  We  were  on  the 
left,  the  position  being  just  in  front  of  a  4.5  howitzer  bat- 
tery and  near  the  Lunatic  Asylum. 

It  was  an  old  one,  four  gun  pits  built  up  under  a  row 
of  huge  elms,  two  being  in  a  row  of  houses.  The  men 
slept  in  bunks  in  the  pits  and  houses  ;  for  a  mess  we 
cleaned  out  a  room  in  the  chateau  at  the  corner  which 
had  been  sadly  knocked  about,  and  slept  in  the  houses 
near  the  guns.  The  chateau  garden  was  full  of  lilac 
and  roses,  the  beds  all  overgrown  with  weeds  and  the 
grass  a  jungle,  but  still  very  beautiful.  Our  zone  had 
been  allotted  and  our  own  private  chimney  O.P. — the 
name  of  which  I  have  forgotten — ^and  we  had  a  copy 
of  that  marvellous  defence  scheme. 

Then  for  a  little  we  found  ourselves  in  the  routine 
of  trench  warfare, — tours  of  duty  at  the  O.P.  on  alter- 
nate days  and  keeping  a  detailed  log  book  in  its  swaying 
deck,  taking  our  turn  weekly  to  supply  a  liaison  officer 
with  the  infantry  who  went  up  at  dark,  dined  in  their 
excellent  mess,  slept  all  night  in  the  signalling  officer's 
bimk,  and  returned  for  a  shave  and  a  wash  after  break- 
fast next  morning  ;  firing  retaliation  salvos  at  the  call 
of  either  the  O.P.  or  the  infantry  ;  getting  up  rations  and 
ammunition  and  letters  at  a  regular  hour  every  night ; 
sending  off  the  countless  "  returns  "  which  are  the  curse 
of  soldiering  ;  and  quietly  feeling  our  feet. 


140  The  Grey  Wave 

The  O.P.  was  in  an  eastern  suburb  called  Houplines, 
some  twenty  minutes'  walk  along  the  tram  lines.  At 
dawn  one  had  reached  it  with  two  signallers  and  was 
looking  out  from  the  upper  deck  upon  an  apparently 
peaceful  countryside  of  green  fields  splashed  yellow  with 
mustard  patches,  dotted  with  sleepy  cottages,  from  whose 
chimneys  smoke  never  issued,  woods  and  spinneys  in 
all  the  glory  of  their  spring  budding  running  up  on  to  the 
ridge,  the  Aubers  ridge.  The  trenches  were  an  intricate 
series  of  gashes  hidden  by  Nature  with  poppies  and 
weeds.  Then  came  a  grim  brown  space  unmarked 
by  any  trench,  tangled  with  barbed  wire,  and  then  began 
the  repetition  of  it  all  except  for  the  ridge  at  our  own 
trenches.  The  early  hours  were  chilly  and  misty  and 
one  entered  in  the  log  book,  "  6  a.m.     Visibility  nil." 

But  with  the  sun  the  mist  rolled  up  like  a  blind  at 
one's  window  and  the  larks  rocketed  into  the  clear  blue 
as  though  those  trenches  were  indeed  deserted.  Away 
on  the  left  was  a  town,  rising  from  the  curling  river  in 
terraces  of  battered  ruins,  an  inexpressible  desolation, 
silent,  empty,  dead.  Terrible  to  see  that  gaping  skeleton 
of  a  town  in  the  flowering  countryside.  Far  in  the 
distance,  peeping  above  the  ridge  and  visible  only  through 
glasses,  was  a  faint  pencil  against  the  sky — the  great  fac- 
tory chimney  outside  Lille. 

Peace  seemed  the  keynote  of  it  all  in  the  soft  per- 
fumed heat  of  that  early  summer.  Yet  eyes  looked 
steadily  out  from  every  chimney  and  other  eyes  from 
the  opposite  ridge ;  and  with  just  a  word  down  the 
wire  trenches  went  in  smoking  heaps,  houses  fell  like 
packs  of  cards  touched  by  a  child's  finger,  noise  beat 
upon  the  brain  and  Death  was  the  master  whom  we 
worshipped,  upon  whose  altar  we  made  bloody  sacrifice. 

We  hadn't  been  there  much  more  than  a  week  when 
we  had  our  first  hint  of  the  hourly  reality  of  it.    The 


The  Western  Front  141 

third  subaltern,  who  hadn't  properly  recovered  from  the 
effect  of  his  wound,  was  on  his  way  up  to  the  O.P.  one 
morning  and  had  a  misadventure  with  a  shell.  He  heard 
it  coming,  a  big  one,  and  sought  refuge  in  the  nearest 
house.     The  shell  unfortunately  selected  the  same  house. 

When  the  dust  had  subsided  and  the  ruins  had  as- 
sumed their  final  shape  the  subaltern  emerged,  un- 
wounded,  but  unlike  his  former  self. —  The  doctor  diag- 
nosed shell  shock  and  the  work  went  on  without  him. 

It  seemed  as  though  that  were  the  turning  point  in 
the  career  of  the  peace  sector. 

The  Hun  began  a  leisurely  but  persistent  destruction 
of  chimneys  with  five-nines.  One  heard  the  gun  in  the 
distance,  not  much  more  than  the  popping  of  a  cham- 
pagne cork  at  the  other  end  of  the  Carlton  Grill.  Some 
seconds  later  you  thought  you  heard  the  inner  circle 
train  come  in  at  Baker  Street.  Dust  choked  you,  the 
chimney  rocked  in  the  frightful  rush  of  wind,  followed 
by  a  soul-shaking  explosion, — and  you  looked  through 
the  black  aperture  of  the  chimney  to  see  a  pillar  of  smoke 
and  falling  earth  spattering  down  in  the  sunshine.  And 
from  the  lower  deck  immediately  beneath  you  came  the 
voice  of  the  signaller,  "  They  ought  to  give  us  sailor  suits 
up  'ere,  sir  !  " 

And  passing  a  finger  round  the  inside  of  your  sticky 
collar  which  seemed  suddenly  a  little  tight,  you  sat  down 
firmly  again  and  said,  "  Yes. —    Is  the  steward  about  ?  " 

Within  sixty  seconds  another  champagne  cork  popped. 
Curse  the  Carlton  Grill ! 

In  addition  to  the  delights  of  the  O.P.  the  Hun  "  found  " 
the  battery.  It  happened  during  the  week  that  the 
Captain  came  up  to  have  a  look  roimd  and  in  the  middle 
of  the  night.  I  was  sleeping  blissfully  at  liaison  and 
returned  next  morning  to  find  a  most  unpleasant  smell 
of  cordite  hanging  about,  several  houses  lying  on  the 


142  The  Grey  Wave 

pavement,  including  the  one  Pip  Don  and  I  shared,  great 
branches  all  over  the  road  and  one  gun  pit  looking  some- 
what bent.  It  appeared  that  Pip  Don  had  spent  the 
remainder  of  the  night  rounding  up  gunners  in  his  pyjamas. 
No  one  was  hurt.  The  Captain  returned  to  the  wagon 
line  during  the  course  of  the  morning. 

Having  found  us,  the  Hun  put  in  a  few  hundred  rounds 
whenever  he  felt  bored, — during  the  9  a.m.  parade,  at 
lunch  time,  before  tea  and  at  the  crack  of  dawn.  The 
old  red  garden  wall  began  to  look  like  a  Gruyere  cheese, 
the  road  was  all  pockmarked,  the  gun  pits  caught  fire 
and  had  to  be  put  out,  the  houses  began  to  fall  even 
when  there  was  no  shelling  and  it  became  a  very  un- 
healthy corner.  Through  it  all  the  Major  was  a  tower 
of  strength.  So  long  as  he  was  there  the  shelling  didn't 
seem  to  matter,  but  if  he  were  absent  one  didn't  quite 
know  whether  to  give  the  order  to  clear  for  the  time  being 
or  stick  it  out.  The  Hun's  attentions  were  not  by  any 
means  confined  to  our  position.  The  systematic  bom- 
bardment of  the  town  had  begun  and  it  became  the  usual 
thing  to  hear  a  horrible  crackling  at  night  and  seethe 
whole  sky  red.  The  Major  of  one  of  our  batteries  was 
killed,  the  senior  subaltern  badly  wounded  and  several 
of  their  guns  knocked  out  by  direct  hits.     We  were  lucky. 


Meanwhile  the  Right  Group,  who  had  been  watching 
this  without  envy  from  the  undisturbed  calm  of  the 
countryside,  decided  to  make  a  daylight  raid  by  way 
of  counter-attraction  and  borrowed  us  for  the  occasion. 
The  Major  and  I  went  down  to  reconnoitre  a  battery  posi- 
tion and  found  a  delightful  spot  behind  a  hedge  under  a 


The  Western  Front  148 

row  of  spreading  elms.  Between  the  two,  camouflage 
was  unnecessary  and,  as  a  cobbled  road  ran  immediately 
in  front  of  the  hedge,  there  was  no  danger  of  making  any 
tracks.  It  was  a  delightful  position  with  a  farmhouse 
two  hundred  yards  along  the  road.  The  relief  of  getting 
out  of  the  burning  city,  of  not  having  to  dodge  shells 
at  unexpected  moments,  of  knowing  that  the  rations 
and  ammunition  could  come  up  without  taking  a  twenty 
to  one  chance  of  being  scuppered  ! 

The  raid  was  just  like  any  other  raid,  except  that 
it  happened  to  be  the  first  barrage  we  fired,  the  first 
barrage  table  we  worked  out,  the  first  time  we  used 
the  io6  fuse,  and  the  first  time  that  at  the  eleventh 
hour  we  were  given  the  task,  in  which  someone  else 
had  failed,  of  cutting  the  wire.  I  had  been  down  with 
the  Major  when  he  shot  the  battery  in, — and  hadn't 
liked  it.  In  places  there  was  no  communication  trench 
at  all  and  we  had  to  crawl  on  our  bellies  over  a  chaos  of 
tumbled  earth  and  revetments  in  full  view  of  any  sniper, 
and  having  to  make  frequent  stops  because  the  infernal 
signaller  would  lag  behind  and  turn  off.  And  a  few  hours 
before  the  show  the  Major  was  called  upon  to  go  down  there 
and  cut  the  wire  at  all  costs.  Pip  Don  was  signalling 
officer.  He  and  every  available  signaller,  stacks  of 
wire  and  lamps,  spread  themselves  in  a  living  chain 
between  the  Major  and  the  front-line  trench  and  me  at 
the  battery.  Before  going  the  Major  asked  me  if  I  had 
the  barrage  at  my  finger  tips.  I  had.  Then  if  he  didn't 
get  back  in  time,  he  said,  I  could  carry  out  the  show 
all  right  ?  I  could, — and  watched  him  go  with  a  mouth 
full  of  bitter  curses  against  the  Battery  Commander  who 
had  failed  to  cut  that  wire.  My  brain  drew  lurid  pictures 
of  stick-bombs,  minnies,  pineapples,  pip  squeaks  and 
five-nines  being  the  reason  why  the  Major  wouldn't 
get  back  "  in  time."     And  I  sat  down  by  the  telephonist, 


144  The  Grey  Wave 

praying  for  the  call  that  would  indicate  at  least  his  safe 
arrival  in  the  front-line  trench. 

Beside  every  gun  lay  a  pile  of  io6  fuses  ready.  Orders 
were  to  go  on  firing  if  every  German  plane  in  the  entire 
Vaterland  came  over. —  Still  they  weren't  through  on 
the 'phone  1 

I  went  along  from  gun  to  gun,  making  sure  that  every- 
thing was  all  right  and  insisting  on  the  necessity  of  the 
most  careful  laying,  stopping  from  time  to  time  to  yell 
to  the  telephonist  "  Through  yet  ?  "  and  getting  a  "  No, 
sir  "  every  time  that  almost  made  me  hear  those  cursed 
minnies  dropping  on  the  Major.  At  last  he  called  up. 
The  tension  was  over.  We  had  to  add  a  little  for  the  io6 
fuze  but  each  gun  was  registered  on  the  wire  within 
four  rounds.  The  Major  was  a  marvel  at  that.  Then  the 
shoot  began. 

Aeroplanes  came  winging  over,  regardless  of  our 
Archies.  But  we,  regardless  of  the  aeroplanes,  were 
doing  *'  battery  fire  3  sees."  as  steadily  as  if  we  were 
on  Salisbury  Plain,  getting  from  time  to  time  the  order, 
'  *  Five  minutes  more  right . ' '  We  had  three  hundred  rounds 
to  do  the  job  with  and  only  about  three  per  gun  were  left 
when  the  order  "  Stop  "  arrived.  I  stopped  and  hung 
on  to  the  'phone.  The  Major's  voice,  coming  as  though 
from  a  million  miles  away,  said,  "  Napoo  wire.  How 
many  more  rounds  ?  " 

"  Three  per  gun,  sir." 

"  Right. —  All  guns  five  degrees  more  rigl^t  for 
the  onlooker,  add  two  hundred,  three  rounds  gun  fire." 

I  made  it  so,  received  the  order  to  stand  down,  put 
the  fitter  and  the  limber  gunners  on  to  sponging  out, — 
and  tried  to  convince  myself  that  all  the  noise  down 
in  front  was  miles  away  from  the  Major  and  Pip  Don. — 
It  seemed  years  before  they  strolled  in,  a  little  muddy 
but  as  happy  as  lambs. 


The^Western  Front  145 

It  occurred  to  me  then  that  I  knew  something  at 
least  of  what  our  women  endured  at  home  every  day 
and  all  day, — just  one  long  suspense,  without  even  the 
compensation  of  doing  anything. 

The  raid  came  off  an  hour  or  so  later  like  clockwork, 
without  incident.  Not  a  round  came  back  at  us  and  we 
stood  down  eventually  with  the  feeling  of  having  put  in 
a  good  day's  work. 

We  were  a  very  happy  family  in  those  days.  The 
awful  discouragement  of  Limerick  had  lifted.  Bom- 
bardments and  discomforts  were  subjects  for  humour, 
work  became  a  joy,  "  crime  "  in  the  gun  line  disap- 
peared and  when  the  time  arrived  for  sending  the  gunners 
down  to  the  wagon  Hne  for  a  spell  there  wasn't  one  who 
didn't  ask  if  he  might  be  allowed  to  stay  on.  It  was  due 
entirely  to  the  Major.  For  myself  I  can  never  be  thankful 
enough  for  having  served  under  him.  He  came  at  a  time 
when  one  didn't  care  a  damn  whether  one  were  court- 
martialled  and  publicly  disgraced.  One  was  "  through  " 
with  the  Army  and  cared  not  a  curse  for  discipline  or 
appearances.  With  his  arrival  all  that  was  swept  away 
without  a  word  being  said.  Unconsciously  he  set  a 
standard  to  which  one  did  one's  utmost  to  live,  and  that 
from  the  very  moment  of  his  arrival.  One  found  that 
there  was  honour  in  the  world  and  loyalty,  that  duty 
was  not  a  farce.  In  some  extraordinary  way  he  em- 
bodied them  all,  forcing  upon  one  the  desire  for  greater 
self-respect ;  and  the  only  method  of  acquiring  it  was 
effort,  physical  and  mental,  in  order  to  get  somewhere 
near  his  high  standard.  I  gave  him  the  best  that  was  in 
me.  When  he  left  the  brigade,  broken  in  health  by  the 
ceaseless  call  upon  his  own  effort,  he  wrote  me  a  letter. 
Of  all  that  I  shall  take  back  with  me  to  civil  life  from 
the  Army  that  letter  is  what  I  value  most. 


ic 


146  The  Grey  Wave 


We  had  all  cherished  the  hope  that  we  had  seen  the 
last  of  the  town  ;  that  Right  Group,  commanded  by  our 
own  colonel,  would  keep  us  in  our  present  position. 

There  was  a  distinct  drop  in  the  mental  temperature 
when,  the  raid  over,  we  received  the  order  to  report 
back  to  Left  Group.  But  we  still  clung  to  the  hope  that 
we  might  be  allowed  to  choose  a  different  gun  position. 
That  avenue  of  trees  was  far  too  accurately  pin-pointed 
by  the  Hun.  Given,  indeed,  that  there  were  many  other 
places  from  which  one  could  bring  just  as  accurate  and 
concentrated  fire  to  bear  on  our  part  of  the  zone,  it  was 
criminal  folly  to  order  us  back  to  the  avenue.  That, 
however,  was  the  order.  It  needed  a  big  effort  to  find 
any  humour  in  it. 

We  hooked  in  and  pulled  out  of  that  peaceful  raid 
position  with  a  sigh  of  regret  and  bumped  our  way  back 
over  the  cobbles  through  the  burning  town,  keeping 
a  discreet  distance  between  vehicles.  The  two  houses 
which  had  been  the  emplacements  of  the  left  section 
were  unrecognizable  as  gun  pits,  so  we  used  the  other 
four  pits  and  put  the  left  section  forward  in  front  of  the 
Asylum  under  camouflage.  Not  less  than  ten  balloons 
looked  straight  down  on  the  gun  muzzles.  The  detach- 
ment lived  in  a  cellar  under  the  Asylum  baths. 

Then  Pip  Don  got  his  captaincy  and  went  to  another 
battery,  to  the  safety  and  delights  of  the  wagon  line. 
One  missed  him  horribly.  We  got  a  new  subaltern  who 
had  never  been  out  before  but  who  was  as  stout  as  a  lion. 
Within  a  few  days  our  Captain  was  sent  back  ill  and  I 
followed  Pip  Don  to  the  wagon  lines  as  Captain  in  my 
own  battery,  a  most  amazing  stroke  of  luck.     We  fore- 


The  Western  Front  147 

gathered  in  a  restaurant  at  Estaires  and  held  a  cele- 
bration dinner  together,  swearing  that  between  us  we 
would  show  the  finest  teams  and  the  best  harness  in 
France,  discussing  the  roads  we  meant  to  build  through 
the  mud,  the  improvements  we  were  instantly  going  to 
start  in  the  horse  standings. 

Great  dreams  that  lasted  just  three  days !  Then 
his  Major  went  on  leave  and  he  returned  to  command 
the  battery,  within  five  hundred  yards  of  ours.  The 
following  day  I  was  hurriedly  sent  for  to  find  the  whole 
world  reeking  with  gas,  mustard  gas.  Everybody  had 
streaming  eyes  and  noses.  Within  three  minutes  I  was 
as  bad  as  the  rest. 

How  anybody  got  through  the  next  days  I  don't 
know.  Four  days  and  nights  it  lasted,  one  curious 
hissing  rain  of  shells  which  didn't  burst  with  a  crash 
but  just  uttered  a  little  pop,  upon  which  the  ground 
became  spattered  with  yellow  liquid  and  a  greyish  fog 
spread  round  about.  Five-nines,  seventeen-inch,  high 
explosive  and  incendiary  shells  were  mixed  in  with  the 
gas.  Communications  went  wholesale.  Fires  roared  in 
every  quarter  of  the  town.  Hell  was  let  loose  and  always 
the  gas  choked  and  blinded.  Hundreds  of  civilians  died 
of  it  although  they  had  previously  been  warned  repeatedly 
to  clear  out.  The  conviction  was  so  strong  that  Armen- 
tieres  was  the  peace  sector  that  the  warnings  were  dis- 
regarded. 

The  howitzer  battery  behind  us  had  been  reinforced 
with  ninety  men  and  two  officers  the  day  before  the  show 
started.  After  that  first  night  one  officer  was  left. 
He  had  been  up  a  chimney  O.P.  all  night.  The  rest  went 
away  again  in  ambulance  wagons.  It  was  a  holocaust, 
a  shambles.  A  colossal  attack  was  anticipated,  and  as  all 
communications  had  gone  the  signallers  were  out  in  gas 
masks  all  over  the  town,  endeavouring  to  repair  lines 

lO* 


148  The  Grey  Wave 

broken  in  a  hundred  places,  and  a  constant  look-out  was 
kept  for  S.O.S.  signals  from  the  infantry. 

Except  when  shooting  all  our  men  were  kept  under- 
ground in  gas  masks,  beating  the  gas  away  with  "  flap- 
pers.'* The  shelling  was  so  ceaseless  and  violent  round 
about  the  position  that  when  men  were  sent  from  one  sec- 
tion to  another  with  messages  they  went  in  couples,  their 
departure  being  telephoned  to  the  section.  If  their 
arrival  was  not  reported  within  ten  minutes  a  search 
party  was  sent  to  find  them.  To  put  one's  head  above 
ground  at  any  moment  of  day  or  night  was  to  take  one's 
life  in  one's  hands.  Ammunition  went  up,  and  gun 
pits  caught  fire  and  the  rain  of  shells  never  ceased.  To  get 
to  the  O.P.  one  had  to  fling  oneself  fiat  in  a  ditch  count- 
less times,  always  with  an  ear  stretched  for  the  next  shell. 
From  minute  to  minute  it  was  a  toss-up,  and  blackened 
corpses  and  screaming,  mangled  wounded  left  a  bloody 
trail  in  the  stinking,  cobbled  streets.  The  peace 
sector ! 

Was  it  just  a  Boche  measure  to  prevent  us  from 
using  the  town  as  billets  any  more  ?  Or  was  it  a  retalia- 
tion for  the  taking  of  the  Messines  Ridge  which  we  had 
watched  from  our  chimney  not  many  weeks  before, 
watched  in  awe  and  wonder,  thanking  God  we  were  not 
taking  part  in  that  carnage  ?  The  unhealthy  life  and 
the  unceasing  strain  told  even  on  the  Major.  We  were 
forced  to  live  by  the  light  of  candles  in  a  filthy  cellar 
beneath  the  chateau,  snatching  uneasy  periods  of  rest 
when  one  lay  on  a  bunk  with  goggles  on  one's  smarting 
eyes,  breathing  with  labour,  listening  to  the  heavy  thud 
of  shells  up  above  and  the  wheezing  and  sneezing  of  the 
unfortunate  signallers,  getting  up  and  going  about 
one's  work  in  a  sort  of  stupor,  dodging  shells  rather 
by  instinct  than  reason  and  tying  up  wounded  with  a 
dull  sickness  at  the  pit  of  one's  stomach. 


The  Western  Front  149 

But  through  it  all  one's  thoughts  of  home  intertwined 
with  the  reek  of  death  like  honeysuckle  with  deadly 
nightshade,  as  though  one's  body  were  imprisoned  in  that 
foul  underground  hole  while  one's  mind  soared  away  and 
refused  to  come  back.  It  was  all  a  strange  dream,  a 
clammy  nightmare.  Letters  came,  filled  with  all  the 
delicious  everyday  doings  of  another  world,  filling  one's 
brain  with  a  scent  of  verbena  and  briar  rose,  like  the  cool 
touch  of  a  woman's  hands  on  the  forehead  of  a  man  in 
delirium. 


8 

On  the  morning  of  the  fifth  day  the  gas  shelling  ceased 
and  the  big  stuff  became  spasmodic, — concentrations  of 
twenty  minutes'  duration. 

One  emerged  into  the  sun,  sniffing  carefully.  The 
place  was  even  more  unrecognizable  than  one  had  ima- 
gined possible.  The  chateau  still  stood  but  many  direct 
hits  had  filled  the  garden  with  blocks  of  stone.  The 
Asylum  was  a  mass  of  ruins,  the  grounds  pitted  with  shell 
holes.  The  town  itself  was  no  longer  a  place  to  dine  and 
shop.  A  few  draggled  inhabitants  slunk  timidly  about 
like  rats,  probing  the  debris  of  what  had  once  been  their 
homes.  The  cobbled  streets  were  great  pits  where  seven- 
teen-inch  shells  had  landed,  half  filled  again  with  the 
houses  which  had  toppled  over  on  either  side.  The 
hotels,  church  and  shops  in  the  big  square  were  gutted 
by  fire,  great  beams  and  house  fronts  blocking  the  road- 
way. Cellars  were  blown  in  and  every  house  yawned  open 
to  the  sky.  In  place  of  the  infantry  units  and  transports 
clattering  about  the  streets  was  a  desolate  silent  emp- 
tiness punctuated  by  further  bombardments  and  the 
echoing  crash  of  faUing  walls.  And,  over  all,  that  sickly 
smell  of  mustard. 


150  The  Grey  Wave 

It  was  then  that  the  Left  Group  Commander  had 
a  brain  wave  and  ordered  a  trial  barrage  on  the  river 
Lys  in  front  of  Frehnghein.  It  was  about  as  mad  a  thing 
as  making  rude  noises  at  a  wounded  rhinoceros,  given  that 
every  time  a  battery  fired  the  Boche  opened  a  con- 
centration. 

Pip  Don  had  had  three  seventeen-inch  in  the  middle 
of  his  position.  Nothing  much  was  found  of  one  gun 
and  its  detachment  except  a  head  and  a  boot  containing 
a  human  foot. 

The  Group  Commander  had  given  the  order,  how- 
ever, and  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  get  on  with 
it.— 

The  barrage  was  duly  worked  out.  It  was  to  last 
eighteen  minutes  with  a  certain  number  of  lifts  and 
switches.  The  Group  Commander  was  going  to  observe  it 
from  one  of  the  chimneys. 

My  job  was  to  look  after  the  left  section  in  the  open 
in  front  of  the  Asylum.  Ten  minutes  before  zero  I  dived 
into  the  cellar  under  the  baths  breathless,  having  dodged 
three  five-nines.  There  I  collected  the  men  and  gathered 
them  under  cover  of  the  doorway.  There  we  waited 
for  a  minute  to  see  where  the  next  would  burst.  It  hit 
a  building  twenty-five  yards  away. 

"  Now  !  "  said  I,  "  double  !  "  and  we  ran,  jumping 
shell  holes  and  flinging  ourselves  flat  for  one  more  five- 
nine.  The  guns  were  reached  all  right,  the  camouflage 
pulled  back  and  everything  made  ready  for  action.  Five 
Hun  balloons  gazed  down  at  us  straight  in  front,  and  three 
of  his  aeroplanes  came  and  circled  low  over  our  heads, 
and  about  every  minute  the  deafening  crash  of  that  most 
demorahzing  five-nine  burst  just  behind  us.  I  lay 
down  on  the  grass  between  the  two  guns  and  gazed 
steadfastly  at  my  wrist  watch. 

"  Stand  by  !  " 


The  Western  Front  161 

The  hands  of  the  Numbers  3  stole  out  to  the  handles 
of  the  firing  lever. 

"  Fire  !  " 

The  whole  of  Armentieres  seemed  to  fire  at  once. 
The  Group  Commander  up  in  his  chimney  ought  to 
have  been  rather  pleased.  Four  rounds  per  gun  per 
minute  was  the  rate.  Then  at  zero  plus  one  I  heard 
that  distant  pop  of  Hun  artillery  and  with  the  usual 
noise  the  ground  heaved  skyward  between  the  two 
guns  just  in  front.  It  wasn't  more  than  twelve  and  a 
half  yards  away.  The  temptation  to  run  made  me  itch 
all  over. 

Pop  !  it  went  again.  My  forehead  sank  on  to  my 
wrist  watch. 

A  good  bracket,  twelve  and  a  half  yards  behind,  and 
again  lumps  of  earth  spattered  on  to  my  back.  The  itch 
became  a  disease.  The  next  round,  according  to  all 
the  laws  of  gunnery,  ought  to  fall  between  my  collar  and 
my  waist. — 

I  gave  the  order  to  lift,  straining  my  ears. 

There  came  no  pop.  I  held  my  breath  so  that  I  might 
hear  better, — and  only  heard  the  thumping  of  my  heart. 
We  lifted  again  and  again. — 

I  kept  them  firing  for  three  full  seconds  after  the 
allotted  time  before  I  gave  the  order  to  cease  fire.  The 
eighteen  minutes — lifetimes — ^were  over  and  that  third 
pop  didn't  come  till  we  had  stopped.  Then  having 
covered  the  guns  we  ran  helter-skelter,  each  man  finding 
his  own  way  to  the  cellar  through  the  most  juicy  bombard- 
ment we'd  heard  for  quite  twenty-four  hours. 

Every  man  answered  to  his  name  in  the  cellar  darkness 
and  there  was  much  laughter  and  tobacco  smoke  while 
we  got  back  our  breath. 

Half  an  hour  later  their  bombardment  ceased.  The 
sergeant  and  I  went  back  to  have  a  look  at  the  guns. 


152  The  Grey  Wave 

Number  5  was  all  right.  Number  6,  however,  had  had 
a  direct  hit,  one  wheel  had  burnt  away  and  she  lay  on 
her  side,  looking  very  tired. 

I  don't  know  how  many  other  guns  had  been  knocked 
out  in  the  batteries  taking  part,  but,  over  and  above 
the  value  of  the  ammunition,  that  trial  barrage  cost  at 
least  one  eighteen-pounder  !  And  but  for  a  bit  of  luck 
would  have  cost  the  lives  of  the  detachment. 


The  Major  decided  to  move  the  battery  and  gained 
the  reluctant  consent  of  the  Group  Commander  who 
refused  to  believe  that  there  had  been  any  shelling 
there  till  he  saw  the  gun  lying  burnt  and  smashed  and 
the  pits  burnt  and  battered.  The  Hun  seemed  to  take 
a  permanent  dislike  to  the  Asylum  and  its  neighbourhood. 
It  may  have  been  coincidence  but  any  time  a  man  showed 
there  a  rain  of  shells  chivvied  him  away.  It  took  the  fitter 
and  the  detachment  about  seven  trips  before  they  got  a  new 
wheel  on,  and  at  any  hour  of  day  or  night  you  could  bet 
on  at  least  a  handful  of  four-twos.  The  gas  was  inter- 
mittent. 

At  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  after  a  worrying  night 
when  I  had  gone  out  twice  to  extinguish  gun  pits  reported 
on  fire,  the  Major  announced  that  he  was  going  to  get  the 
gim  out  and  disappeared  out  of  the  cellar  into  the  shell- 
lit  darkness. 

Two  hours  later  he  called  up  from  Group  Headquarters 
and  told  me  to  get  the  other  out  and  take  her  to  Archie 
Square,  a  square  near  the  station,  so-called  because  a 
couple  of  anti-aircraft  guns  had  used  it  as  an  emplace- 
ment|in  thefpeace  days.     With  one  detachment  on  each 


The  Western  Front  158 

drag  rope  we  ran  the  gauntlet  in  full  daylight  of  a  four- 
two  bombardment,  rushing  shell  holes  and  what  had 
once  been  flower  beds,  keeping  at  a  steady  trot,  the  sweat 
pouring  off  us. 

The  Major  met  us  in  Archie  Square  and  we  went 
back  to  our  cellar  for  breakfast  together. 

Of  the  alternative  positions  one  section  was  in  Chapelle 
d'Armenti^res.  We  hoped  great  things  of  it.  It  looked 
all  right,  pits  being  built  in  the  back  yards  of  a  row  of 
small  houses,  with  plenty  of  trees  for  cover  and  lots  of 
fruit  for  the  men, — raspberries,  plums,  and  red  currants. 
Furthermore  the  shell  holes  were  all  old.  The  only  crab 
about  it  was  getting  there.  Between  us  and  it  were  two 
much-shelled  spots  called  Sandbag  Corner  and  Snow 
Corner.  Transports  used  to  canter  past  them  at  night 
and  the  Hun  had  an  offensive  habit  of  dropping  barrages 
on  both  of  them  any  time  after  dark.  But  there  was  a 
place  called  Crown  Prince  House  at  Sandbag  Corner 
and  I  fancy  he  used  this  as  a  datum  point.  While  the 
left  section  went  straight  on  to  the  Chapelle  the  other 
two  turned  to  the  right  at  Snow  Corner  and  were  to 
occupy  some  houses  just  along  the  road  and  a  garden 
next  to  them  under  camouflage. 

I  shall  not  forget  the  night  of  that  move  in  a  hurry. 
In  the  afternoon  the  Major  returned  to  the  battery  at 
tea  time.  There  was  no  shelling  save  our  own  anti- 
aircraft, and  perfect  sunshine. 

"  The  teams  are  due  at  ten  o'clock,"  said  he.  "  The 
Hun  will  start  shelling  precisely  at  that  time.  We  will 
therefore  move  now.  Let  us  function."  We  func- 
tioned 1 

The  battery  was  called  together  and  the  nature  of  the 
business  explained.  Each  detachment  pulled  down  the 
parados  in  the  rear  of  the  gim  pits  and  such  part  of  the 
pit  itself  as  was  necessary  to  allow  the  gun  to  come  out. 


154  The  Grey  Wave 

— ^no  light  task  because  the  pits  had  been  built  to  admit 
the  gun  from  the  front.  As  soon  as  each  reported  ready 
double  detachments  were  told  off  to  the  drag  ropes  and 
the  gun,  camouflaged  with  branches,  was  run  out  and 
along  the  lane  and  round  the  corner  of  the  chateau. 
There  they  were  all  parked,  one  by  one.  Then  the 
ammunition  was  brought,  piles  of  it.  Then  all  the 
gun  stores  and  kits. 

At  ten  o'clock  the  teams  were  heard  at  the  other 
end  of  the  cobbled  street.  A  moment  later  shells  began 
to  burst  on  the  position,  gun  fire.  From  the  cover 
afforded  by  the  chateau  and  the  wall  we  loaded  up 
without  casualty  and  hooked  in,  bits  of  shell  and  wall 
flying  over  our  heads  viciously. 

I  took  charge  of  the  left  section  in  Archie  Square. 
The  vehicles  were  packed,  dixies  tied  on  underneath. 
The  Major  was  to  follow  with  the  four  guns  and  the 
other  subaltern  at  ten  minutes'  interval. 

Keeping  fifty  yards  between  vehicles  I  set  off,  walking 
in  front  of  the  leading  gun  team.  We  clattered  along  the 
cobbled  streets,  rattling  and  banging.  The  station  was 
being  bombarded.  We  had  to  go  over  the  level  crossing 
a  hundred  yards  or  so  in  rear  of  it.  I  gave  the  order  to 
trot.  A  piece  of  shell  sent  up  a  shower  of  sparks  in  front 
of  the  rear  gun  team.  The  horses  bucked  violently 
and  various  dixies  fell  off,  but  I  kept  on  until  some 
distance  to  a  flank  under  the  houses.  The  dixies  were 
rescued  and  re-tied.  There  was  Sandbag  Corner  to  navi- 
gate yet,  and  Snow  Corner.  It  was  horribly  dark,  im- 
possible to  see  shell  holes  until  you  were  into  them,  and 
all  the  time  shells  were  bursting  in  every  direction.  The 
road  up  to  the  two  Corners  ran  straight  towards  the  Hun, 
directly  enfiladed  by  him.  We  turned  into  it  at  a  walk 
and  were  half-way  along  when  a  salvo  fell  round  Crown 
Prince  House  just  ahead.     I  halted  immediately,   won- 


The  Western  Front  155 

dering  where  in  heaven's  name  the  next  would  fall, 
the  horses  snorting  and  prancing  at  my  back.  For 
a  couple  of  minutes  there  was  a  ragged  burst  of  gun 
fire  while  we  stood  with  the  bits  missing  us.  Then 
I  gave  the  order  to  trot.  The  horses  needed  no  en- 
couragement. I  could  only  just  keep  in  front,  carrying 
maps  and  a  torch  and  with  most  of  my  equipment  on. 
We  carried  on  past  Crown  Prince  House,  past  Sandbag 
Corner  and  walked  again,  blown  and  tottering,  towards 
Snow  Corner,  and  only  just  got  past  it  when  a  barrage 
dropped  right  on  the  cross-roads.  It  was  there  that  the 
Major  would  have  to  turn  to  the  right  with  his  four  guns 
presently.  Please  God  it  would  stop  before  he  came 
along. 

We  weren't  very  far  behind  the  support  lines  now 
and  the  pop-pop-pop,  pop-pop-pop  of  machine  guns 
was  followed  by  the  whistling  patter  of  bullets.  I 
kept  the  teams  as  close  under  the  houses  as  I  dared. 
There  was  every  kind  of  devilment  to  bring  a  horse 
down,  open  drains,  coils  of  tangled  wire,  loose  debris. 
Eventually  we  reached  the  Chapelle  and  the  teams 
went  off  at  the  trot  as  soon  as  the  ammunition  was 
dumped  and  the  kits  were  off. 

Then  in  the  black  night  we  heaved  and  hauled  the 
guns  into  their  respective  pits  and  got  them  on  to  their 
aiming  posts  and  S.O.S.  lines. 

It  was  3  a.m.  before  I  got  back  to  the  new  headquarters, 
a  house  in  an  orchard,  and  found  the  Major  safe  and  sound. 

A  couple  of  days  later  the  Major  was  ordered  to  a  rest 
camp  and  at  a  moment's  notice  I  found  myself  in  com- 
mand of  the  battery.  It  was  one  of  the  biggest  moments 
of  my  life.  Although  I  had  gone  down  to  take  the  Cap- 
tain's place  my  promotion  hadn't  actually  gone  through 
and  I  was  still  a  subaltern,  faced  with  the  handling  of  six 
guns  at  an  extremely  difficult  moment  and  with  the  lives 


156  The  Grey  Wave 

of  some  fifty  men  in  my  hands,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
perpetual  responsibility  to  the  infantry  in  the  front  line. 

It  was  only  when  the  Major  had  said  good-bye  and 
I  was  left  that  I  began  to  realize  just  how  greatly  one 
had  depended  on  him.  All  the  internal  arrangements 
which  he  had  handled  so  easily  that  they  seemed  no 
trouble  loomed  up  as  insurmountable  difficulties — 
returns,  ammunition,  rations,  relieving  the  personnel — 
all  over  and  above  the  constant  worry  of  gun  detachments 
being  shelled  out,  lines  being  cut,  casualties  being  got 
away.  It  was  only  then  that  I  realized  what  a  frightful 
strain  he  must  have  endured  during  those  days  of  con- 
tinual gas  and  bombardment,  the  feeling  of  personal 
responsibility  towards  every  single  man,  the  vital  necessity 
through  it  all  of  absolute  accuracy  of  every  angle  and 
range,  lest  by  being  flustered  or  careless  one  should  shoot 
one's  own  infantry,  the  nights  spent  with  one  ear  eternally 
on  the  telephone  and  the  added  strain  of  sleeplessness. — 
A  lonely  job,  Battery  Commander. 

I  realized,  too,  what  little  use  I  had  been  to  him. 
Carrying  out  orders,  yes,  but  not  really  taking  any  of  the 
weight  off  his  shoulders. 

The  insignificance  of  self  was  never  so  evident  as  that 
first  night  with  my  ear  to  the  'phone,  all  the  night  noises 
accentuated  in  the  darkness,  the  increasing  machine-gun 
fire  which  might  mean  an  attack,  the  crashing  of  shells 
which  might  get  my  supply  wagons  on  their  way  back, 
the  jump  when  the  'phone  buzzed  suddenly,  making  my 
heart  leap  against  my  ribs,  only  to  put  me  through  to 
Group  for  an  order  to  send  over  thirty  rounds  on  a  minnie 
firing  in  C  i6  d  o  4. —  It  was  good  to  see  the  blackness 
turn  to  grey  and  recognize  objects  once  more  in  the  room, 
to  know  that  at  last  the  infantry  were  standing  down 
and  to  sink  at  last  into  deep  sleep  as  the  grey  became 
rose  and  the  sun  awoke. 


The  Western  Front  157 

Do  the  men  ever  realize,  I  wonder,  that  the  Major 
who  snaps  out  orders,  who  curses  so  freely,  who  gives 
them  extra  guards  and  docks  their  pay,  can  be  a  human 
being  like  themselves  whose  one  idea  is  their  comfort 
and  safety,  that  they  may  strafe  the  Hun  and  not  get 
strafed  ? 

It  was  my  first  experience  in  handling  subalterns, 
too,  and  I  came  to  see  them  from  a  new  point  of  view. 
Hitherto  one's  estimation  of  them  had  been  limited 
by  their  being  good  fellows  or  not.  The  question  of 
their  knowledge  or  ignorance  hadn't  mattered.  One 
could  always  give  them  a  hand  or  do  the  thing  oneself. 
Now  it  was  reversed.  Their  knowledge,  working  capa- 
bilities and  st out-heart edness  came  first.  Their  being 
good  fellows  was  secondary,  but  helpful.  The  most  ig- 
norant will  learn  more  in  a  week  in  the  line  than  in  ten 
weeks  in  a  gunnery  school. 


10 

The  first  few  days  in  the  new  position  were  calm. 
It  gave  one  time  to  settle  down.  We  did  a  lot  of  shooting 
and  apart  from  a  spare  round  or  two  in  our  direction 
nothing  came  back  in  return.  The  Hun  was  still  plaster- 
ing the  Asylum  and  the  avenue  at  all  times  of  day,  to 
our  intense  joy.  The  more  he  shelled  it  the  more  we 
chuckled.  One  felt  that  the  Major  had  done  Fritz  in 
the  eye.  So  we  gathered  plums  and  raspberries  in  the 
warm  sun,  rejoicing  that  the  horrible  smell  of  mustard 
gas  was  no  more.  There  was  a  fly  in  the  ointment,  of 
course.  It  consisted  of  several  thousand  rounds  of  am- 
munition in  the  Asylum  which  we  were  ordered  to  salvage. 
The  battery  clerk,  a  corporal  of  astounding  stout-hearted- 


158  The  Grey  Wave 

ness  who  had  had  countless  escapes  by  an  inch  already 
in  the  handling  of  it,  and  who  subsequently  became  one 
of  the  best  sergeants  in  the  battery,  undertook  to  go  and 
see  what  could  be  done.  He  took  with  him  the  fitter, 
a  lean  Scot,  who  was  broken-hearted  because  he  had  left 
a  file  there  and  who  wanted  to  go  and  scratch  about  the 
ruins  to  try  and  recover  it.  These  two  disappeared  into 
the  Asylum  during  a  momentary  lull.  Before  they  re- 
turned the  Hun  must  have  sent  in  about  another  fifteen 
hundred  rounds,  all  big  stuff.  They  came  in  hot  and 
covered  with  brick  dust.  The  fitter  had  got  his  file  and 
showed  it  with  joy  and  affection.  The  corporal  had  made 
a  rough  count  of  the  rounds  and  estimated  that  at  least 
a  couple  of  hundred  had  "  gone  up  "  or  were  otherwise 
rendered  useless. 

To  my  way  of  thinking  it  would  have  been  man- 
slaughter to  have  sent  teams  to  get  the  stuff  away,  so 
I  decided  to  let  time  solve  the  problem  and  leave  well 
alone.  Eventually  it  did  solve  itself.  Many  weeks  later 
another  battery  occupied  the  position  (Poor  devils.  It 
still  reeked  of  gas)  and  I  had  the  pleasure  of  showing 
the  Battery  Commander  where  the  ammunition  was  and 
handing  it  over. 

Meanwhile  the  Boche  had  "  found  "  the  left  and  centre 
sections.  In  addition  to  that  the  Group  Commander 
conceived  a  passion  to  experiment  with  guns  in  the  front- 
line trenches,  to  enfilade  the  enemy  over  open  sights 
at  night  and  generally  to  put  the  fear  of  God  into  him. 
Who  more  suitable  than  the  Army  brigade  battery  com- 
manded by  that  subaltern  ? 

I  was  sent  for  and  told  all  about  it,  and  sent  to  re- 
connoitre suitable  positions.  Seeing  that  the  enemy 
had  all  the  observation  and  a  vast  preponderance  of 
artillery  I  did  all  in  my  power  to  dissuade  the  Com- 
mander.   He  had  been  on  active  service,  however,  before 


The  Western  Front  159 

I  was  bom — ^he  told  me  so — and  had  forgotten  more 
things  than  I  should  ever  know.  He  had,  indeed, 
forgotten  them. 

The  long  and  short  of  it  was  that  I  took  a  subaltern 
with  me,  and  armed  with  compasses  and  trench  maps, 
we  studied  the  whole  zone  at  distances  varying  from 
three  to  five  hundred  yards  from  the  enemy  front-line 
trench.  The  best  place  of  all  happened  to  be  near 
Battalion  Headquarters.  Needless  to  say,  the  Colonel 
ordered  me  off. 

**  You  keep  your  damn  things  away.  There's  quite 
enough  shelling  here  without  your  planting  a  gun.  Come 
and  have  a  drink." 

Eventually,  however,  we  got  two  guns  "  planted " 
with  cover  for  the  detachments.  It  was  an  absolute 
waste  of  guns.  The  orders  were  only  to  fire  if  the  enemy 
came  over  the  top  by  day  and  on  special  targets  by  night. 
The  difficulty  of  rationing  them  was  extreme,  it  made 
control  impossible  from  battery  headquarters,  because 
the  lines  went  half  a  dozen  times  a  day  and  left  me  only 
two  sections  to  do  all  the  work  with. 

The  only  thing  they  ever  fired  at  was  a  very  near 
balloon  one  afternoon.  Who  gave  the  order  to  fire 
remains  a  mystery.  The  sergeant  swore  the  infantry 
Colonel  gave    it. 

My  own  belief  is  that  it  was  a  joy  shoot  on  the  sergeant's 
part.  He  was  heartily  cursed  for  his  pains,  didn't  hit 
the  balloon,  and  within  twenty-four  hours  the  gun  was 
knocked  out.  The  area  was  hberally  shelled,  to  the 
discomfort  of  the  infantry,  so  if  the  Colonel  did  give  the 
order,  he  had  only  himself  to  thank  for  the  result. 

The  headquarters  during  this  time  was  an  odd  round 
brick  building,  like  a  pagoda  in  the  middle  of  a  narrow 
orchard.  A  high  red  brick  wall  surrounded  the  orchard 
which  ran  down  to  the  road.     At  the  road  edge  were 


160  The  Grey  Wave 

two  houses  completely  annihilated.  Plums,  greengages, 
raspberries  and  red  currants  were  in  abundance.  The 
signallers  and  servants  were  in  dug-outs  outside  the  wall. 
Curiously  enough,  this  place  was  not  marked  on  the 
map.  Nor  did  the  Hun  seem  to  have  it  on  his  aeroplane 
photographs.  In  any  case,  although  he  shelled  round 
about,  I  can  only  remember  one  which  actually  burst 
inside  the  walls. 

Up  at  Chapelle  d'Armentieres  the  left  section  was 
almost  unrecognizable.  Five-nines  had  thumped  it  out 
of  all  shape,  smashed  down  the  trees,  ploughed  up  the 
garden  and  scattered  the  houses  into  the  street.  The 
detachment  spent  its  time  day  and  night  in  clearing  out 
into  neighbouring  ditches  and  dug-outs,  and  coming 
back  again.  They  shot  between  whiles,  neither  of  the 
guns  having  been  touched,  and  I  don't  think  they  slept 
at  all.     None  of  them  had  shaved  for  days. 

As  regards  casualties  we  were  extraordinarily  lucky. 
Since  leaving  the  town  not  a  man  had  been  hit  or  gassed. 
For  the  transport  at  night  I  had  reconnoitred  a  road 
which  avoided  the  town  entirely  and  those  dangerous 
cross-roads,  and  took  them  right  through  the  support 
line,  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  the  Boche.  The  road 
was  unshelled,  and  only  a  few  machine-gun  bullets  spat 
on  it  from  time  to  time.  So  they  used  it  nightly,  and 
not  a  horse  or  driver  was  touched. 

Then  the  Right  Group  had  another  raid  and  borrowed 
us  again.  The  white  house  and  the  orchard  which  we 
had  used  before  were  unoccupied.  I  decided  to  squeeze 
up  a  bit  and  get  all  six  guns  in.  The  night  of  the  move 
was  a  colossal  undertaking.  The  teams  were  late,  and 
the  Hun  chose  to  drop  a  gas  barrage  round  us.  More 
than  that,  in  the  afternoon  I  had  judged  my  time  and 
dodged  in  between  two  bombardments  to  visit  the  left 
section.     They  were  absolutely  done  in,  so  tired  that 


The  Western  Front  I6l 

they  could  hardly  keep  their  eyes  open.  The  others 
were  little  better,  having  been  doing  all  the  shooting  for 
days.  However,  I  ordered  them  to  vacate  the  left 
section  and  come  along  to  me  at  Battery  Headquarters 
for  a  rest  before  the  night's  work.  They  dragged  them- 
selves there,  and  fell  asleep  in  heaps  in  the  orchard  in 
the  wet.  The  subaltern  and  the  sergeant  came  into  the 
building,  drank  a  cup  of  tea  each  and  filled  the  place 
with  their  snores.  So  I  sent  for  another  sergeant  and 
suggested  that  he  and  his  men,  who  had  had  a  brief 
rest  that  day,  should  go  and  get  the  left  section  guns 
out  while  these  people  handled  his  as  best  they  could. 
He  jumped  at  it  and  swore  he'd  get  the  guns  out,  begging 
me  to  keep  my  teams  well  to  the  side  of  the  road.  If  he 
had  to  canter  they  were  coming  out,  and  he  was  going 
to  ride  the  lead  horse  himself, — splendid  fellow. 

Then  I  collected  the  subalterns  and  detailed  them 
for  the  plan  of  campaign.  The  left  section  man  said  he 
was  going  with  his  guns.  So  I  detailed  the  junior  to 
see  the  guns  into  the  new  positions,  and  send  me  back  the 
ammunition  wagons  as  he  emptied  them.  The  third  I  kept 
with  the  centre  section.  The  corporal  clerk  was  to  look 
after  the  headquarters.    I  was  to  function  between  the  lot. 

The  teams  should  have  been  up  at  9  p.m.  They 
didn't  arrive  till  ten,  by  which  time  the  gas  hung  about 
thick,  and  people  were  sneezing  right  and  left.  Then 
they  hung  up  again  because  of  a  heavy  shelling  at  the 
corner  on  the  way  to  the  left  section.  However,  they  got 
through  at  last,  and  after  an  endless  wait,  that  excellent 
sergeant  came  trotting  back  with  both  guns  intact.  We 
had,  meanwhile  yanked  out  the  centre  section  and  sent 
them  back.  The  forward  guns  came  back  all  right 
from  the  trenches,  but  no  ammunition  wagons  or  G.S. 
returned  from  the  position,  although  filled  by  us  ages 
before  and  sent  off. 

II 


162  The  Grey  Wave 

So  I  got  on  a  bicycle  and  rode  along  to  see  what  the 
trouble  was.  It  was  a  poisonous  road,  pitch  dark,  very 
wet  and  full  of  shell  holes.  I  got  there  to  find  a  column 
of  vehicles  standing  waiting  all  mixed  up,  jerked  the 
bicycle  into  a  hedge  and  went  downstairs  to  find  the 
subaltern. 

There  was  the  Major  !  Was  I  pleased  ? — I  felt  years 
younger.  However,  this  was  his  night  off.  I  was 
running  the  show.     '*  Carry  on,  Old  Thing,"  said  he. 

So  I  went  out  into  the  chaotic  darkness  and  began 
sorting  things  out.  Putting  the  subaltern  in  charge 
of  the  ammunition  I  took  the  guns.  It  was  a  herculean 
task  to  get  those  six  bundooks  through  the  wet  and 
spongy  orchard  with  men  who  were  fresh.  With  these 
men  it  was  asking  the  impossible.  But  they  did  it,  at 
the  trot. 

You  know  the  sort  of  thing —  "  Take  the  strain — 
together — Sheave  !  Together — Sheave  !  Now  keep  her 
going  !  Once  more — Sheave  !  Together — Sheave  !  and 
again — Sheave  !  Easy  all !  Have  a  blow — Now  look 
here,  you  fellows,  you  must  wait  for  the  word  and  put 
your  weight  on  together.  Heels  into  the  mud  and  lean 
on  it,  but  lean  together,  all  at  the  same  moment,  and 
she'll  go  like  a  baby's  pram.  Now  then,  come  on  and 
I'll  bet  you  a  bottle  of  Bass  all  round  that  you  get  her 
going  at  a  canter  if  only  you'll  heave  together —  Take 
the  strain — together — Sheave  !  Ter-rot !  Canter  !  Come 
on  now,  like  that — splendid, — and  you  owe  me  a  bottle 
of  Bass  all  round." 

Sounds  easy,  doesn't  it  ?  but  oh,  my  God,  to  see 
those  poor  devils,  dropping  with  fatigue,  putting  their 
last  grunting  ounce  on  to  it,  with  always  just  one  more 
heave  left !  Magnificent  fellows,  who  worked  till  they 
dropped,  and  then  staggered  up  again,  in  the  face  of  gas 
and  five-nines,  and  went  on  shooting  till  they  werejdead, 


The  Western  Front  163 

— they*ve  won  this  war  for  us  if  anybody  has,  these 
Tommies  who  don't  know  when  they're  beaten,  these 
"  simple  soldiers,"  as  the  French  call  them,  who  grouse 
like  hell  but  go  on  working  whether  the  rations  come 
up  or  whether  they  don't,  until  they're  senseless  from 
gas  or  stop  a  shell  and  get  dropped  into  a  hole  in  an  army 
blanket.  These  are  the  men  who  have  saved  England 
and  the  world,  these, — and  not  the  gentlemen  at  home 
who  make  fortunes  out  of  munitions  and  "  war  work," 
and  strike  for  more  pay,  not  the  embusque  who  cannot 
leave  England  because  he's  "  indispensable  "  to  his  job, 
not  the  politicians  and  vote-seekers,  who  bolster  up  their 
parties  with  comfortable  lies  more  dangerous  than 
mustard  gas,  not  the  M.L.O.'s  and  R.T.O.'s  and  the 
rest  of  the  alphabetic  fraternity  and  Brass  Hats,  who  live 
in  comfort  in  back  areas,  doing  a  lot  of  brain  work  and 
filling  the  Staff  leave  boat, — ^not  any  of  these,  but  the 
cursing,  spitting,  lousy  Tommy,  God  save  him  ! 


II 

The  last  of  the  guns  was  in  by  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  but  there  wasn't  a  stitch  of  camouflage  in  the 
battery.  However,  I  sent  every  last  man  to  bed,  having 
my  own  ideas  on  the  question  of  camouflage.  The 
subaltern  and  I  went  back  to  the  house.  The  ammuni- 
tion was  also  unloaded  and  the  last  wagon  just  about 
to  depart.  The  servants  had  tea  and  sandwiches  waiting, 
a  perfect  godsend. 

"  What  about  tracks  ?  "  The  Major  cocked  an  eye 
in  my  direction.  He  was  fully  dressed,  lying  on  his 
valise.  I  stifled  a  million  yawns,  and  spoke  round  a 
sandwich.  "  Old  Thing  and  I  are  looking  after  that 
when  it  gets  light." 


164  The  Grey  Wave 

"  Old  Thing "  was  the  centre  section  commander, 
blinking  like  a  tired  owl,  a  far-away  expression  on  his 
face. 

"  And  camouflage  ?  **  said  the  Major.  ^ 

"  Ditto,"  said  I. 
The  servants  were  told  to  call  us  in  an  hour's  time. 
I  was  asleep  before  I'd  put  my  empty  tea-cup  on  the 
ground.  A  thin  grey  light  was  creeping  up  when  I  was 
roughly  shaken.  I  put  out  a  boot  and  woke  Old  Thing. 
Speechless,  we  got  up  shivering,  and  went  out.  The 
tracks  through  the  orchard  were  feet  deep. 

We  planted  irregular  branches  and  broke  up  the 
wheel  tracks.  Over  the  guns  was  a  roof  of  wire  netting 
which  I'd  had  put  up  a  day  previously.  Into  these  we 
stuck  trailing  vine  branches  one  by  one,  wet  and  cold. 
The  Major  appeared  in  the  middle  of  the  operation  and 
silently  joined  forces.  By  half-past  four  the  camouflage 
was  complete.     Then  the  Major  broke  the  silence. 

"  I'm  going  up  to  shoot  'em  in,"  he  said. 

Old  Thing,  dozing  on  a  gun  seat,  woke  with  a  start 
and  stared.  He  hadn't  been  with  the  Major  as  long  as  I 
had. 

"  D'you  mind  if  one  detachment  does  the  whole 
thing  ?  "  said  I.  "  They're  all  just  about  dead,  but  C's 
got  a  kick  left." 

The  Major  nodded.  Old  Thing  staggered  away, 
collected  two  signallers  who  looked  like  nothing  human, 
and  woke  up  C  sub-section.  They  came  one  by  one, 
like  silent  ghosts  through  the  orchard,  tripping  over 
stumps  and  branches,  sightless  with  sleep  denied. 

The  Major  took  a  signaller  and  went  away.  Old  Thing 
and  I  checked  aiming  posts  over  the  compass. 

Fifteen  minutes  later  the  O.P.  rangfthrough,  and  I 
reported  ready. 

The  sun  came  out  warm  and  bright,  and  at  nine  o'clock 


The  Western  Front  165 

we  "  stood  down."  Old  Thing  and  I  supported  each 
other  into  the  house  and  fell  on  our  valises  with  a  laugh. 
Some  one  pulled  off  our  gum  boots.  It  must  have  been 
a  servant  but  I  don't  know.  I  was  asleep  before  they 
were  off. 

The  raid  came  ofi  at  one  o'clock  that  night  in  a  pouring 
rain.  The  gunners  had  been  carrying  ammunition  all 
day  after  about  four  hours'  sleep.  Old  Thing  and  I  had 
one.  The  Major  didn't  have  any.  The  barrage  lasted  an 
hour  and  a  half,  during  which  one  sub-section  made  a 
ghastly  mistake  and  shot  for  five  full  minutes  on  a  wrong 
switch. 

A  raid  of  any  size  is  not  just  a  matter  of  saying,  '*  Let's 
go  over  the  top  to-night,  and  nobble  a  few  of  'em  ! 
Shall  us  ?  " 

And  the  other  fellow  in  the  orthodox  manner  says, 
"  Let's  " — ^and  over  they  go  with  a  lot  of  doughty 
bombers,  and  do  a  lot  of  dirty  work.     I  wish  it  were. 

What  really  happens  is  this.  First,  the  Brigade  Major, 
quite  a  long  way  back,  undergoes  a  brain-storm  which 
sends  showers  of  typewritten  sheets  to  all  sorts  of 
Adjutants,  who  immediately  talk  of  transferring  to  the 
Anti- Aircraft.  Other  sheets  follow  in  due  course,  con- 
tradicting the  first  and  giving  also  a  long  list  of  code  words 
of  a  domestic  nature  usually,  with  their  key.  These  are 
hotly  pursued  by  maps  on  tracing  paper,  looking  as 
though  drawn  by  an  imaginative  child. 

At  this  point  Group  Commanders,  Battalion  Com- 
manders, and  Battery  Commanders  join  in  the  game, 
taking  sides.  Battery  Commanders  walk  miles  and 
miles  daily  along  duck  boards,  and  shoot  wire  in  all  sorts 
of  odd  places  on  the  enemy  front  trench,  and  work  out 
an  exhaustive  barrage. 

Then  comes  a  booklet,  which  is  a  sort  of  revision  of  all 
that  has  gone  before,  and  alters  the  task  of  every  battery. 


166  The  Grey  Wave 

A  new  barrage  table  is  worked  out.  Follows  a  single 
sheet  giving  zero  day. 

The  raiders  begin  cutting  ofi  their  buttons  and  blacking 
their  faces  and  putting  oil  drums  in  position. 

Battery  wagon  hues  toil  all  night,  bringing  up  countless 
extra  rounds.  The  trench  mortar  people  then  try  and 
cut  the  real  bit  of  wire,  at  which  the  raiders  will  enter 
the  enemy  front  line.  As  a  rule  they  are  unsuccessful, 
and  only  provoke  a  furious  retaliatory  bombardment 
along  the  whole  sector. 

Then  Division  begins  to  get  excited  and  talks  rudely 
to  Group.  Group  passes  it  on.  Next  a  field  battery  is 
ordered  to  cut  that  adjective  wire  and  does. 

A  Gunner  officer  is  detailed  to  go  over  the  top  with  the 
raid  commander.  He  writes  last  letters  to  his  family, 
drinks  a  last  whisky,  puts  on  all  his  Christmas-tree,  and 
says,  "  Cheero  "  as  though  going  to  his  own  funeral.  It 
may  be. 

Then  telephones  buzz  furiously  in  every  brigade,  and 
everybody  says  "  Carrots  "  in  a  whisper. 

You  look  up  '*  Carrots  "  in  the  code  book,  and  find 
it  means  "  raid  postponed  24  hours."  Everybody  sits 
down  and  curses. 

Another  paper  comes  round  saying  that  the  infantry 
have  changed  the  colours  of  all  the  signal  rockets  to  be 
used.     All  gunners  go  on  cursing. 

Then  comes  the  night !  Come  up  to  the  O.P.  and 
have  a  dekko  with  me,  but  don't  forget  to  bring  your 
gas  mask. 

Single  file  we  zigzag  down  the  communication  trenches. 
The  O.P.  is  a  farmhouse,  or  was,  in  which  the  sappers 
have  built  a  brick  chamber  just  under  the  roof.  You 
climb  up  a  ladder  to  get  to  it,  and  find  room  for  just  the 
signaller  and  ourselves,  with  a  long  slit  through  which 
you  can  watch  Germany.     The  Hun  knows  it's  an  O.P. 


The  Western  Front  167 

He's  got  a  similar  one  facing  you,  only  built  of  concrete, 
and  if  you  don't  shell  him  he  won't  shell  you.  But  if 
you  do  shell  him  with  a  futile  i8-pounder  H.E.  or  so,  he 
turns  on  a  section  of  five-nines,  and  the  best  thing  you 
can  do  is  to  report  that  it's  "  snowing,"  clear  out  quick 
and  look  for  a  new  O.P.  The  chances  are  you  won't 
find  one  that's  any  good. 

It's  frightfully  dark  ;  can't  see  a  yard.  If  you  want 
to  smoke,  for  any  sake  don't  strike  matches.  Use  a 
tinder.  See  that  sort  of  extra  dark  lump,  just  behind 
those  two  trees — all  right,  poles  if  you  like.  They 
were  trees  ! — Well,  that's  where  they're  going  over. 

Not  a  sound  anywhere  except  the  rumble  of  a  battle 
away  up  north.     Hell  of  a  strafe  apparently. 

Hullo  !  What's  the  light  behind  that  bank  of  trees  ? 
— Fritz  started  a  fire  in  his  own  lines  ?  Doesn't  look 
like  a  fire. — It's  the  moon  coming  up,  moon,  moon,  so 
brightly  shining.  Pity  old  Pelissier  turned  up  his  toes. 
— ^Ever  heard  the  second  verse  of  "  Au  Clair  de  la  Lune  ?  " 

(singing) 

Au  clair  de  la  lune 
Pierrot  repondit, 
"  Je  n'ai  pas  de  plume, 
Je  suis  dans  mon  lit." 

"  Si  tu  es  done  couch6," 
Chuchotta  Pierrette, 
"  Ouvre-moi  ta  porte 
Pour  que  je  m'y  mette.'* 

Tts  the  moon  all  right,  a  corker  too. — What  do  you 
make  the  time  ? — A  minute  to  go,  eh  ?  Got  your  gas 
mask  at  the  alert  ? 

The  moon  came  out  above  the  trees  and  shed  a  cold 
white  Hght  on  the  countryside.  On  our  side,  at  least, 
the  ground  was  aUve  with  men,  although  there  wasn't  a 


168  The  Grey  Wave 

sound  or  a  movement.  Tree  stumps,  blasted  by  shell 
j&re,  stood  out  stark  naked.  The  woods  on  the  opposite 
ridge  threw  a  deep  belt  of  black  shadow.  The  trenches 
were  vague  uneven  lines,  camouflaging  themselves 
naturally  with  the  torn  ground. 

Then  a  mighty  roar  that  rocked  the  O.P.,  made  the 
ground  tremble  and  set  one's  heart  thumping,  and  the 
peaceful  moonlight  was  defiled.  Bursts  of  flame  and  a 
thick  cloud  of  smoke  broke  out  on  the  enemy  trenches. 
Great  red  flares  shot  up,  the  oil  drums,  staining  all  the 
sky  the  colour  of  blood.  Rifle  and  machine-gun  fire 
pattered  like  the  chattering  of  a  thousand  monkeys, 
as  an  accompaniment  to  the  roaring  of  lions.  Things 
zipped  past  or  struck  the  O.P.  The  smoke  out  there 
was  so  thick  that  the  pin-points  of  red  fire  made  by  the 
bursting  shells  could  hardly  be  seen.  The  raiders  were 
entirely  invisible. 

Then  the  noise  increased  steadily  as  the  German  sky 
was  splashed  with  all-coloured  rockets  and  Verey  lights 
and  star  shells,  and  their  S.O.S.  was  answered.  There's 
a  gun  flash !  What's  the  bearing  ?  Quick. — There 
she  goes  again ! — Nine-two  magnetic,  that's  eighty 
true.  Signaller  !  Group. — There's  another  1  By  God, 
that's  some  gun.  Get  it  while  I  bung  this  through. — 
Hullo  !  Hullo,  Group  !  O.P.  speaking.  Flash  of  enemy 
gun  eight — 0  degrees  true.  Another  flash,  a  hell  of  a 
big  one,  what  is  it  ? — One,  one,  two  degrees. — Yes,  that's 
correct.     Good-bye. 

Then  a  mighty  crash  sent  earth  and  duckboards 
spattering  on  to  the  roof  of  the  O.P.,  most  unpleasantly 
near.  The  signaller  put  his  mouth  to  my  ear  and 
shouted,  "  Brigade  reports  gas,  sir.'*  Curse  the  gas. 
You  can't  see  anything  in  a  mask. — Don't  smell  it  yet, 
anyhow. 

Crash  again^  and  the  O.P.  rocked.    Damn  that  five- 


The  Western  Front  169 

nine.  Was  he  shooting  us  or  just  searching  ?  Anyhow, 
the  line  of  the  two  bursts  doesn't  look  quite  right  for  us, 
do  you  think  ?  If  it  hits  the  place,  there's  not  an  earthly. 
Tiles  begin  rattling  down  off  the  roof  most  suggestively. 
It's  a  good  twenty-foot  drop  down  that  miserable  ladder. 
Do  you  think  his  line. — Look  out !  She's  coming. — 
Crash  ! 

God,  not  more  than  twenty  yards  away !  However, 
we're  all  right.  He's  searching  to  the  left  of  us.  Where 
is  the  blighter  ?  Can  you  see  his  flash  ?  Wonder  how 
our  battery's  getting  on  ? — 

Our  people  were  on  the  protective  barrage  now,  much 
slower.  The  infantry  had  either  done  their  job  or  not. 
Anyhow  they  were  getting  back.  The  noise  was  dis- 
tinctly tailing  off.  The  five-nine  was  searching  farther 
and  farther  behind  to  our  left.  The  smell  of  gas  was 
very  faint.  The  smoke  was  clearing.  Not  a  sign  of 
life  in  the  trenches.     Our  people  had  ceased  fire. 

The  Hun  was  still  doing  a  ragged  gun  fire.  Then  he 
stopped. 

A  Verey  light  or  two  went  sailing  over  in  a  big  arc. 

The  moon  was  just  a  little  higher,  still  smiling  in- 
scrutably. Silence,  but  for  that  sustained  rumble  up 
north.  How  many  men  were  lying  crumpled  in  that 
cold  white  light  ? 

Division  reported  *'  Enemy  front  line  was  found  to  be 
unoccupied.  On  penetrating  his  second  line  slight 
resistance  was  encountered.  One  prisoner  taken.  Five 
of  the  enemy  were  killed  in  trying  to  escape.  Our 
causalties  slight." 

At  the  end  of  our  barrage  I  called  that  detachment  up, 
reduced  three  of  them  to  tears  and  in  awful  gloom  of 
spirit  reported  the  catastrophe  to  the  Major.  He  passed 
it  on  to  Brigade  who  said  they  would  investigate. 

A  day  later  Division  sent  round  a  report  of  the  "  highly 


170  The  Grey  Wave 

successful  raid  which  from  the  adverse  weather  con- 
ditions owed  its  success  to  the  brilUance  of  the  artillery 
barrage.  ..." 

That  same  morning  the  Colonel  went  to  Division,  the 
General  was  on  leave.  The  Major  was  sent  for  to  com- 
mand the  Group,  and  my  secret  hopes  of  the  wagon  line 
were  dashed  to  the  ground.  I  was  a  Battery  Commander 
again  in  deed  if  not  in  rank. 


12 

The  wagon  line  all  this  while  had,  in  the  charge  of  the 
sergeant-major,  been  cursed  most  bitterly  by  horse 
masters  and  A.D.V.S.'s  who  could  not  understand  how 
a  sergeant-major,  aged  perhaps  thirty-nine,  could 
possibly  know  as  much  about  horse  management  as  a 
new-fledged  subaltern  anywhere  between  nineteen  and 
twenty-one. 

From  time  to  time  I  pottered  down  on  a  bicycle  for 
the  purpose  of  strafing  criminals  and  came  away  each 
time  with  a  prayer  of  thanks  that  there  was  no  new- 
fledged  infant  to  interfere  with  the  sergeant-major's 
methods. 

On  one  occasion  he  begged  me  to  wait  and  see  an 
A.D.V.S.  of  sorts  who  was  due  at  two  o'clock  that 
afternoon  and  who  on  his  previous  tour  of  inspection 
had  been  just  about  as  nasty  as  he  could  be.  I 
waited. 

Let  it  be  granted  as  our  old  enemy  Euclid  says  that 
the  horse  standings  were  the  worst  in  France — the 
Division  of  course  had  the  decent  ones — and  that  every 
effort  was  being  made  to  repair  them.  The  number  of 
shelled  houses  removed  bodily  from  the  firing  line  to 
make  brick  standings  and  pathways  through  the  mud 


The  Western  Front  171 

would  have  built  a  model  village.  The  horses  were 
doing  this  work  in  addition  to  ammunition  fatigues, 
brigade  fatigues  and  every  other  sort  of  affliction. 
Assuming  too  that  a  sergeant-major  doesn't  carry  as 
much  weight  as  a  Captain  (I'd  got  my  third  pip)  in  con- 
fronting an  A.S.C.  forage  merchant  with  his  iniquities, 
and  I  think  every  knowledgeable  person  admitted  that 
our  wagon  line  was  as  good  as,  if  not  better  than,  shall 
we  say,  any  Divisional  battery.  Yet  the  veterinary 
expert  (?)  crabbed  my  very  loyal  supporter,  the  sergeant- 
major,  who  worked  his  head  and  his  hands  off  day  in, 
day  out.     It  was  displeasing, — more,  childish. 

In  due  course  he  arrived, — in  a  motor  car.  True,  it 
wasn't  a  Rolls-Royce,  but  then  he  was  only  a  Colonel. 
But  he  wore  a  fur  coat  just  as  if  it  had  been  a  Rolls-Royce. 
He  stepped  dehcately  into  the  mud,  and  left  his  temper 
in  the  car.  To  the  man  who  travels  in  motors,  a  splash 
of  mud  on  the  boots  is  as  offensive  as  the  sight  of  a  man 
smoking  a  pipe  in  Bond  Street  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the 
morning.     It  isn't  done. 

I  saluted  and  gave  him  good  morning.  He  grunted 
and  flicked  a  finger.     Amicable  relations  were  established. 

"  Are  you  in  charge  of  these  wagon  lines  ?  "  said  he. 

"  In  theory,  yes,  sir." 

He  didn't  quite  understand,  and  cocked  a  doubtful 
eye  at  me. 

I  explained.  "  You  see,  sir,  the  B.C.  and  I  are  carry- 
ing on  the  war.  He's  commanding  Group  and  I'm 
commanding  the  battery.  But  we've  got  the  fullest 
confidence  in  the  sergeant-maj . — " 

Was  it  an  oath  he  swallowed  ?  Anyhow,  it  went 
down  like  an  oyster. 

The  Colonel  moved  thus  expressing  his  desire  to  look 
round. 

I  fell  into  step. 


172  The  Grey|Wave 

"  Have  you  got  a  hay  sieve  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Sergeant-Major,  where's  the  hay  sieve  ?  "  said  I. 

"  This  way,  sir,"  said  the  sergeant-major. 

Two  drivers  were  busily  passing  hay  through  it.  The 
Colonel  told  them  how  to  do  it. 

'*  Have  you  got  wire  hay  racks  above  the  horses  ?  " 

"  Sergeant-Major,"  said  I,  "  have  we  got  wire  hay 
racks  ?  " 

"  This  way,  sir,"  said  the  sergeant-major. 

Two  drivers  were  stretching  pieces  of  bale  wire  from 
pole  to  pole. 

The  Colonel  asked  them  if  they  knew  how  to  do  it. 

"  How  many  horses  have  you  got  for  casting  ?  "  said 
the  Colonel. 

"  Do  w^e  want  to  cast  any  horses,  Sergeant-Major  ?  '* 
said  I. 

*'  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  Sergeant-Major.  "  We've  got 
six." 

It  was  a  delightful  morning.  Every  question  that 
the  Colonel  asked  I  passed  on  to  the  sergeant-major, 
whose  answer  was  ever  ready.  Wherever  the  Colonel 
wished  to  explore,  there  were  men  working. 

Could  a  new-fledged  infant  unversed  in  the  ways  of 
the  Army  have  accomplished  it  ? 

One  of  the  sections  was  down  the  road,  quite  five 
minutes  away.  During  the  walk  we  exchanged  views 
about  the  war.  He  confided  to  me  that  the  ideal  was 
to  have  in  each  wagon  line  an  officer  who  knew  no  more 
about  gunnery  than  that  turnip,  but  who  knew  enough 
about  horses  to  take  advice  from  veterinary  officers. 

In  return  I  told  him  that  there  ought  not  to  be  any 
wagon  lines,  that  the  horse  was  effete  in  a  war  of  this 
nature,  that  over  half  the  man-power  of  the  country  was 
employed  in  grooming  and  cleaning  harness,  half  the 
tonnage  of  the  shipping  taken  up  in  fetching  forage,  and 


The  Western  Front  178 

that  there  was  more  strafing  over  a  bad  turn-out  than  if 
a  battery  had  shot  its  own  infantry  for  four  days 
running. 

The  outcome  of  it  all  was  pure  farce.  He  inspected 
the  remaining  section  and  then  told  me  he  was  immensely 
pleased  with  the  marked  improvement  in  the  condition 
of  the  animals  and  the  horse  management  generally 
(nothing  had  been  altered),  and  that  if  I  found  myself 
short  of  labour  when  it  came  to  building  a  new  wagon 
line,  he  thought  he  knew  where  he  could  put  his  hand  on 
a  dozen  useful  men.  Furthermore,  he  was  going  to  write 
and  tell  my  Colonel  how  pleased  he  was. 

The  sergeant-major's  face  was  a  study  ! 

The  psychology  of  it  is  presumably  the  same  that 
brings  promotion  to  the  officer  who,  smartly  and  with 
well-polished  buttons,  in  reply  to  a  question  from  the 
General,  "  What  colour  is  black  ?  "  whips  out  like  a 
flash,  "  White,  sir  !  " 

And  the  General  nods  and  says,  "  Of  course  I — Smart 
young|officer  that !     What's  his  name  ?  " 

Infallible ! 


13 

It  is  difficult  to  mark  the  exact  beginnings  of  mental 
attitudes  when  time  out  there  is  one  long  action  of  nights 
and  days  without  names.  One  keeps  the  date,  because 
of  the  orders  issued.  For  the  rest  it  is  all  one.  One  can 
only  trace  points  of  view,  feelings,  call  them  what  you 
will,  as  dating  before  or  after  certain  outstanding  events. 
Thus  I  had  no  idea  of  war  until  the  gas  bombardment  in 
Armentieres,  no  idea  that  human  nature  could  go  through 
such  experiences  and  emotions  and  remain  sane.  So, 
once  in  action^  I  had  not  bothered  to  find  the  reason  of 


174  The  Grey  Wave 

it  all,  contenting  myself  merely  with  the  profound  con- 
viction that  the  world  was  mad,  that  it  was  against 
human  nature, — but  that  to-morrow  we  should  want  a 
full  echelon  of  ammunition.  Even  the  times  when  one 
had  seen  death  only  gave  one  a  momentary  shock.  One 
such  incident  will  never  leave  me,  but  I  cannot  feel  now 
anything  of  the  horror  I  experienced  at  the  moment. 

It  was  at  lunch  one  day  before  we  had  left  the  chateau. 
A  trickle  of  sun  filtered  down  into  the  cellar  where  the 
Major,  one  other  subaltern  and  myself  were  lunching  off 
bully  beef  and  ration  pickles.  Every  now  and  again  an 
H.E.  shell  exploded  outside,  in  the  road  along  which 
infantry  were  constantly  passing.  One  burst  was 
followed  by  piercing  screams.  My  heart  gave  a  leap 
and  I  sprang  for  the  stairs  and  out.  Across  the  way 
lay  three  bodies,  a  great  purple  stain  on  the  pavement, 
the  mark  of  a  direct  hit  on  the  wall  against  which  one 
was  huddled.  I  ran  across.  Their  eyes  were  glassy, 
their  faces  black.  Grey  fingers  curled  upwards  from  a 
hand  that  lay  back  down.  Then  the  screams  came 
again  from  the  comer  house.  I  dashed  in.  Our  corporal 
signaller  was  tr5dng  to  bandage  a  man  whose  right  leg 
was  smashed  and  torn  open,  blood  and  loose  flesh  every- 
where. He  lay  on  his  back,  screaming.  Other  screams 
came  from  round  the  corner.  I  went  out  again  and 
down  the  passage  saw  a  man,  his  hands  to  his  face,  sway- 
ing backwards  and  forwards. 

I  ran  to  him.     "  Are  you  hit  ?  " 

He  fell  on  to  me.  "  My  foot !  Oh,  my  foot ! 
Christ !  " 

Another  officer,  from  the  howitzer  battery,  came 
running.  We  formed  a  bandy  chair  and  began  to  carry 
him  up  towards  the  road. 

'*  Don't  take  me  up  there,"  he  blubbered.  "  Don't 
take  me  there  I  " 


The  Western  Front  175 

We  had  to.  It  was  the  only  way,  to  step  over  those 
three  black-faced  corpses  and  into  that  house,  where 
there  was  water  and  bandages.  There  was  a  padre 
there  now  and  another  man.  I  left  them  and  returned 
to  the  cellar  to  telephone  for  an  ambulance.  I  was  cold, 
sick.  But  they  weren't  oar  dead.  They  weren't  our 
gunners  with  whose  faces  one  was  familiar,  who  were 
part  of  our  daily  life.  The  feeling  passed,  and  I  was 
able  to  go  on  with  the  bully  beef  and  pickles  and  the 
war. 

During  the  weeks  that  followed  the  last  raid  I  was  to 
learn  differently.  They  were  harassing  weeks  with 
guns  dotted  all  over  the  zone.  The  luck  seemed  to  have 
turned,  and  it  was  next  to  impossible  to  find  a  place  for 
a  gun  which  the  Hun  didn't  immediately  shell  violently. 
Every  gun  had,  of  course,  a  different  pin-point,  and  map 
work  became  a  labour,  map  work  and  the  difficulty  of 
battery  control  and  rationing.  One's  brain  was  keyed 
incessantly  up  to  concert  pitch. 

Various  changes  had  taken  place.  We  had  been 
taken  into  Right  Group  and  headquarters  was  estabhshed 
in  a  practically  unshelled  farm  with  one  section  beside  it. 
Another  section  was  right  forward  in  the  Brickstack. 
The  third  was  away  on  the  other  side  of  the  zone,  an 
enfilade  section  which  I  handed  over,  lock,  stock  and 
barrel,  to  the  section  commander,  who  had  his  own  O.P. 
in  Moat  Farm,  and  took  on  his  own  targets.  We  were 
all  extremly  happy,  doing  a  lot  of  shooting. 

One  morning,  hot  and  sunny,  I  had  to  meet  the  Major 
to  reconnoitre  an  alternative  gun  position.  So  I  sent 
for  the  enfilade  section  commander  to  come  and  take 
charge,  and  set  out  in  shorts  and  shirt  sleeves  on  a  bicycle. 
The  Major,  another  Headquarters  officer  and  myself  had 
finished  reconnoitring,  and  were  eating  plums,  when  a 
heavy  bombardment  began  in  the  direction  of  the  battery 


ire  The  Grey  Wave 

farm.  Five-nines  they  were  in  section  salvos,  and  the 
earth  went  up  in  spouts,  not  on  the  farm,  but  mighty 
close.  I  didn't  feel  anxious  at  first,  for  that  subaltern 
had  been  in  charge  of  the  Chapelle  section  and  knew  all 
about  clearing  out.  But  the  bombardment  went  on. 
The  Major  and  the  other  left  me,  advising  me  to  "  give 
it  a  chance  "  before  I  went  back. 

So  I  rode  along  to  an  O.P.  and  tried  to  get  through 
to  the  battery  on  the  'phone.    The  line  was  gone. 

Through  glasses  I  could  see  no  signs  of  life  round 
about  the  farm.  They  must  have  cleared,  I  thought. 
However,  I  had  to  get  back  some  time  or  other,  so  I  rode 
slowly  back  along  the  road.  A  track  led  between  open 
fields  to  the  farm.  I  walked  the  bicycle  along  this  until 
bits  of  shell  began  flying.  I  lay  fiat.  Then  the  bom- 
bardment slackened.  I  got  up  and  walked  on.  Again 
they  opened,  so  I  lay  fiat  again. 

For  perhaps  half  an  hour  bits  came  zooming  like 
great  stagbeetles  all  round,  while  I  lay  and  watched. 

They  were  on  the  gun  position,  not  the  farm,  but 
somehow  my  anxiety  wouldn't  go.  After  all,  I  was  in 
charge  of  the  battery,  and  here  I  was,  while  God  knew 
what  might  have  happened  in  the  farm.  So  I  decided 
to  make  a  dash  for  it,  and  timed  the  bursts.  At  the  end 
of  five  minutes  they  slackened  and  I  thought  I  could  do 
it.  Two  more  crashed.  I  jumped  on  the  bike,  pedalled 
hard  down  the  track  until  it  was  blotted  out  by  an 
enormous  shell  hole  into  which  I  went,  left  the  bike 
lying  and  ran  to  the  farm  gate,  just  as  two  pip-squeaks 
burst  in  the  yard.  I  fell  into  the  door,  covered  with 
brick  dust  and  tiles,  but  unhurt. 

The  sound  of  singing  came  from  the  cellar.  I  called 
down,  "  Who's  there  ?  "  The  servants  and  the  corporal 
clerk  were  there.  And  the  officer  ?  Oh,  he'd  gone  over 
to  the  guns  to  see  if  everybody piad  cleared  the  position. 


The  Western  Front  177 

He'd  given  the  order  as  soon  as  the  bombardment 
began.  But  over  at  the  guns  the  place  was  being  chewed 
up. 

Had  he  gone  alone  ?  No.  One  of  the  servants  had 
gone  with  him.  How  long  ago  ?  Perhaps  twenty 
minutes.  Meanwhile,  during  question  and  answer,  four 
more  pip-squeaks  had  landed,  two  at  the  farm  gate,  one 
in  the  yard,  one  just  over. 

It  was  getting  altogether  too  hot.  I  decided  to  clear 
the  farm  first.  Two  at  a  time,  taking  the  word  from 
me,  they  made  a  dash  for  it  through  the  garden  and  the 
hedge  to  a  flank,  till  only  the  corporal  clerk  and  myself 
were  left.  We  gathered  the  secret  papers  the  *'  wind 
gadget,"  my  compass  and  the  telephone  and  ran  for  it 
in  our  turn. 

We  caught  the  others  who  were  waiting  round  the 
corner  well  to  a  flank.  I  handed  the  things  we'd  brought 
to  the  mess  cook,  and  asked  the  corporal  clerk  if  he'd 
come  with  me  to  make  sure  that  the  subaltern  and  the 
gunners  had  got  away  all  right. 

We  went  wide  and  got  round  to  the  rear  of  the  position. 
Not  a  sign  of  any  of  the  detachments  in  any  houses  round 
about.  Then  we  worked  our  way  up  a  hedge  which  led 
to  the  rear  of  the  guns,  dropping  fiat  for  shells  to  burst. 
They  were  more  on  the  farm  now  than  the  guns.  We 
reached  the  signal  pit, — a  sort  of  dug-out  with  a  roof 
of  pit  props,  and  earth  and  a  trench  dug  to  the  entrance. 

The  corporal  went  along  the  trench.  "  Christ !  "  he 
said,  and  came  blindly  back. 

For  an  instant  the  world  spun.  Without  seeing  I  saw. 
Then  I  climbed  along  the  broken  trench.  A  five-nine 
had  landed  on  the  roof  of  the  pit  and  crashed  everything 
in. 

A  pair  of  boots  was  sticking  out  of  the  earth. — 

He  had  been  in  charge  of  the  Jjattery  lor  me.    From 

12 


178  The  Grey  Wave 

the  safety  of  the  cellar  he  had  gone  out  to  see  if  the  men 
were  all  right.     He  had  done  my  job  \ 

Gunners  came  with  shovels.  In  five  minutes  we  had 
him  out.  He  was  still  warm.  The  doctor  was  on  his 
way.  We  carried  him  out  of  the  shelling  on  a  duck 
board.  Some  of  the  gunners  went  on  digging  for  the 
other  boy.  The  doctor  was  there  by  the  time  we'd 
carried  him  to  the  road.    He  was  dead. 


14 

A  pair  of  boots  sticking  out  of  the  earth. 

For  days  I  saw  nothing  else.  That  jolly  fellow  whom 
I'd  left  laughing,  sitting  down  to  write  a  letter  to  his 
wife, — a  pair  of  boots  sticking  out.     Why  ?     Why  ? 

We  had  laid  him  in  a  cottage.  The  sergeant  and  I 
went  back,  and  by  the  light  of  a  candle  which  flickered 
horribly,  emptied  his  pockets  and  took  off  his  ring.  How 
cold  Death  was.     It  made  him  look  ten  years  younger.. 

Then  we  put  him  into  an  army  blanket  with  his  boots 
on  and  all  his  clothes.  The  only  string  we  had  was 
knotted.  It  took  a  long  time  to  untie  it.  At  last  it 
was  done. 

A  cigarette  holder,  a  penknife,  a  handkerchief,  the 
ring.  I  took  them  out  with  me  into  the  moonlight,  all 
that  King  and  country  had  left  of  him. 

What  had  this  youngster  been  born  for,  sent  to  a 
Public  School,  earned  his  own  living  and  married  the 
pretty  afrl  whose  photo  I  had  seen  in  the  dug-out  ? 
To  die  like  a  rat  in  a  trap,  to  have  his  name  one  day  in 
the  Roll  of  Honour  and  so  break  two  hearts,  and  then  be 
forgotten  by^  his  country  because  he  was  no  more  use  to 
it.    What  was  the  worth  of  Public  School  education 


r' 


The  Western  Front  179 

if  it  gave  the  country  no  higher  ideal  than  war  ? — to 
kill  or  be  killed.  Were  there  no  brains  in  England  big 
enough  to  avert  it  ?  He  hadn't  wanted  it.  He  was  a 
representative  specimen.  What  had  he  joined  for  ? 
Because  all  his  pals  had.  He  didn't  want  them  to  call 
him  coward.  For  that  he  had  left  his, wife  and  his  home, 
and  to-morrow  he  would  be  dropped  into  a  hole  in  the 
ground  and  a  parson  would  utter  words  about  God  and 
eternal  life. 

What  did  it  all  mean  ?  Why,  because  it  was  the 
"  thing  to  do,"  did  we  all  join  up  like  sheep  in  a  Chicago 
packing  yard  ?  What  right  had  our  country — the 
"  free  country  " — to  compel  us  to  live  this  life  of  filth 
and  agony  ? 

The  men  who  made  the  law  that  sent  us  out,  they 
dind't  come  too.  They  were  the  **  rudder  of  the  nation," 
steering  the  "  Ship  of  State."  They'd  never  seen  a  pair 
of  boots  sticking  out  of  the  earth.  Why  did  we  bow 
the  neck  and  obey  other  men's  wills  ? 

Surely  these  conscientious  objectors  had  a  greater 
courage  in  withstanding  our  ridicule  than  we  in  wishing 
to  prove  our  possession  of  courage  by  coming  out.  What 
was  the  root  of  this  war, — honour  ?  How  can  honour 
be  at  the  root  of  dishonour,  and  wholesale  manslaughter  ? 
What  kind  of  honour  was  it  that  smashed  up  home- 
steads, raped  women,  crucified  soldiers,  bombed  hospitals, 
bayoneted  wounded  ?  What  idealism  was  ours  if  we 
took  an  eye  for  an  eye  ?  What  was  our  civilization,  twenty 
centuries  of  it,  if  we  hadn't  reached  even  to  the  bar- 
baric standards, — for  no  barbarian  could  have  invented 
these  atrocities.  What  was  the  festering  pit  on  which 
our  social  system  was  built  ? 

And  the  parson  who  talked  of  God, — is  there  more 
than  one  God,  then,  for  the  Germans  quoted  him  as  being 
on  their  side  with  as  much  fervour  and  sincerity  as  the 

12* 


180  The  Grey  Wave 

parson  ?  How  reconcile  any  God  with  this  devastation 
and  deliberate  killing  ?  This  war  was  the  proof  of  the 
failure  of  Christ,  the  proof  of  our  own  failure,  the  failure 
of  the  civilized  world.  For  twenty  centuries  the  world 
had  turned  a  blind  eye  to  the  foulness  stirring  inside  it, 
insinuating  itself  into  the  main  arteries  ;  and  now  the  lid 
was  wrenched  off  and  all  the  foul  stench  of  a  humbug 
Christian  civilization  floated  over  the  poisoned  world. 

One  man  had  said  he  was  too  proud  to  fight.  We, 
filled  with  the  lust  of  slaughter,  jeered  him  as  we  had 
jeered  the  conscientious  objectors.  But  wasn't  there 
in  our  hearts,  in  saner  moments,  a  respect  which  we  were 
ashamed  to  admit, — because  we  in  our  turn  would  have 
been  jeered  at  ?  Therein  lay  our  cowardice.  Death 
we  faced  daily,  hourly,  with  a  laugh.  But  the  ridicule 
of  our  fellow  cowards,  that  was  worse  than  death.  And 
yet  in  our  knowledge  we  cried  aloud  for  Peace,  who  in 
our  ignorance  had  cried  for  War.  Children  of  impulse 
satiated  with  new  toys  and  calling  for  the  old  ones  !  We 
would  set  back  the  clock  and  in  our  helplessness  called 
upon  the  Christ  whom  we  had  crucified. 

And  back  at  home  the  law-makers  and  the  old  men 
shouted  patriotically  from  their  club  fenders,  "  We  will 
fight  to  the  last  man  1  *' 

The  utter  waste  of  the  brown-blanketed  bundle  in  the 
cottage  room  ! 

What  would  I  not  have  given  for  the  one  woman 
to  put  her  arms  round  me  and  hide  my  face  against 
her  breast  and  let  me  sob  out  all  the  bitterness  in  my 
heart  ? 


The  Western  Front  181 


15 

From  that  moment  I  became  a  conscientious  objector, 
a  pacifist,  a  most  bitter  hater  of  the  Boche  whose  hand 
it  was  that  had  wrenched  the  Hd  off  the  European  cesspit. 
Illogical  ?  If  you  like,  but  what  is  logic  ?  Logically 
the  war  was  justified.  We  crucified  Christ  logically  and 
would  do  so  again. 

From  that  moment  my  mind  turned  and  twisted 
like  a  compass  needle  that  had  lost  its  sense  of  the 
north.  The  days  were  an  endless  burden  blackened 
by  the  shadow  of  death,  filled  with  emptiness,  bitter- 
ness and  despair. 

The  day's  work  went  on  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 
A  new  face  took  his  place  at  the  mess  table,  the  routine 
was  exactly  the  same.  Only  a  rough  wooden  cross 
showed  that  he  had  ever  been  with  us.  And  all  the  time 
we  went  on  shooting,  killing  just  as  good  fellows  as  he, 
perhaps,  doing  our  best  to  do  so  at  least.  Was  it  honest, 
thinking  as  I  did  ?  Is  it  honest  for  a  convict  who  doesn't 
beheve  in  prisons  to  go  on  serving  his  time  ?  There  was 
nothing  to  be  done  but  go  on  shooting  and  try  and 
forget. 

But  war  isn't  like  that.  It  doesn't  let  you  forget. 
It  gives  you  a  few  days,  or  weeks,  and  then  takes  some 
one  else.  "  Old  Thing  "  was  the  next,  in  the  middle 
of  a  shoot  in  a  front  line  O.P. 

I  was  lying  on  my  bed  playing  with  a  tiny  kitten 
while  the  third  subaltern  at  the  'phone  passed  on  the 
corrections  to  the  battery.  Suddenly,  instead  of  saying 
*'  Five  minutes  more  right,"  he  said,  "  What's  that  ? 
— Badly  wounded  ?  "  and  the  line  went. 


182  The  Grey  Wave 

I  was  on  the  'phone  in  a  flash,  calling  up  battalion 
for  stretcher  bearers  and  doctors. 

They  brought  me  his  small  change  and  pencil-ends 
and  pocketbook, — and  the  kitten  came  climbing  up  my 
leg. 

The  Major  came  back  from  leave — ^which  he  had  got 
on  the  Colonel's  return — in  time  to  attend  Old  Thing's 
funeral  with  the  Colonel  and  myself.  Outside  the  ceme- 
tery a  football  match  was  going  on  all  the  time.  They 
didn't  stop  their  game.  Why  should  they  ?  They  were 
too  used  to  funerals, — and  it  might  be  their  turn  in  a 
day  or  two. 

Thanks  to  the  Major  my  leave  came  through  within 
a  week.  It  was  like  the  answer  to  a  prayer.  At  any 
price  I  wanted  to  get  away  from  the  responsibility,  away 
from  the  sight  of  khaki,  away  from  everything  to  do  with 
war. 

London  was  too  full  of  it,  of  immaculate  men  and  filmy 
girls  who  giggled.     I  couldn't  face  that. 

I  went  straight  down  to  the  Httle  house  among  the 
beeches  and  pines, — an  uneasy  guest  of  long  silences, 
staring  into  the  fire,  of  bursts  of  violent  argument,  of 
rebellion  against  all  existing  institutions. 

But  it  was  good  to  watch  the  river  flowing  by,  to 
hear  it  lapping  against  the  white  yacht,  to  hear  the 
echo  of  rowlocks,  flung  back  by  the  beech  woods,  and 
the  wonderful  whir  !  whir !  whir  !  of  swans  as  they 
flew  down  and  down  and  away ;  to  see  little  cottages 
with  wisps  of  blue  smoke  against  the  brown  and  purple 
of  the  distant  woods,  not  lonely  ruins  and  sticks  ;  to 
see  the  feathery  green  moss  and  the  watery  rays  of  a 
furtive  sun  through  the  pines,  not  smashed  and  torn  by 
shells ;  at  night  to  watch  the  friendly  lights  in  the  cur- 
tained windows  and  hear  the  owls  hooting  to  each  other 
unafraid  and  let  the  rest  and  peace  sink  into  one's  soul ; 


The  Western  Front  188 

to  shirk  even  the  responsibiUty  of  deciding  whether  one 
should  go  for  a  walk  or  out  in  the  dinghy,  or  stay  indoors, 
but  just  to  agree  to  anything  that  was  suggested. 

To  decide  anything  was  for  out  there,  not  here  where 
war  did  not  enter  in. 

Fifteen  dream  days,  like  a  sudden  strong  whiff  of 
verbena  or  honeysuckle  coming  out  of  an  envelope. 
For  the  moment  one  shuts  one's  eyes, — and  opens 
them  again  to  find  it  isn't  true.  The  sound  of  guns 
is  everywhere. 

So  with  that  leave.  I  found  myself  in  France  again, 
trotting  up  in  the  mud  and  rain  to  report  my  arrival  as 
though  Fd  never  been  away.  It  was  all  just  a  dream  to 
try  and  call  back. 


i6 

Everything  was  well  with  the  battery.  My  job  was 
to  function  with  all  speed  at  the  building  of  the  new 
horse  lines.  Before  going  on  leave  I  had  drawn  a  map 
to  scale  of  the  field  in  which  they  were  to  be.  This  had 
been  submitted  to  Corps  and  approved,  and  work  had 
started  on  it  during  my  leave. 

My  kit  followed  me  and  I  installed  myself  in  a  small 
canvas  hut  with  the  acting-Captain  of  another  of  our 
batteries  whose  fines  were  belly  deep  in  the  next  field. 
He  had  succeeded  Pip  Don  who  went  home  gassed  after 
the  Armentieres  shefiing  and  who,  on  rcovering,  had 
been  sent  out  to  Mesopotamia. 

The  work  was  being  handled  under  rather  adverse 
conditions.  Some  of  the  men  were  from  our  own  battery, 
others  from  the  Brigade  Ammunition  Column,  more 
from  a  Labour  Company,  and  there  was  a  full-blown 
Sapper  private  doing  the  scientific  part.     They  were 


184  The  Grey  Wave 

all  at  loggerheads ;  none  of  the  N.C.O/s  would  take 
orders  from  the  Sapper  private,  and  the  Labour  Company 
worked  Trades  Union  hours,  although  dressed  in  khaki 
and  calling  themselves  soldiers.  The  subaltern  in 
charge  was  on  the  verge  of  putting  every  one  of  them 
under  arrest, — ^not  a  bad  idea,  but  whatjabout  the 
standings  ? 

By  the  time  I'd  had  a  look  round  tea  was  ready. 
At  least  there  seemed  to  be  plenty  of  material. 

At  seven  next  morning  I  was  out.  No  one  else  was. 
So  I  took  another  look  round,  did  a  little  thinking,  and 
came  and  had  breakfast.  By  nine  o'clock  there  seemed 
to  be  a  lot  of  cigarette  smoke  in  the  direction  of  the  works. 

I  began  functioning.  My  servant  summoned  all  the 
heads  of  departments  and  they  appeared  before  me  in 
a  sullen  row.  At  my  suggestion  tongues  wagged  freely 
for  about  half  an  hour.  I  addressed  them  in  their  own 
language  and  then,  metaphorically  speaking,  we  shook 
hands  all  round,  sang  hymn  number  44  and  standings 
suddenly  began  to  spring  up  like  mushrooms. 

It  was  really  extraordinary  how  those  fellows  worked 
once  they'd  got  the  hang  of  the  thing.  It  left  me  free 
to  go  joy-riding  with  my  stable  companion  in  the  after- 
noons. We  carried  mackintoshes  on  the  saddle  and 
scoured  the  country,  splashing  into  Bailleul — ^it  was  odd 
to  revisit  the  scene  of  my  trooper  days  after  three  years — 
for  gramophone  records,  smokes,  stomachic  delicacies 
and  books.  We  also  sunk  a  lot  of  francs  in  a  series  of 
highly  artistic  picture  postcards  which,  pinned  all  round 
the  hut  at  eye  level,  were  a  constant  source  of  admiration 
and  delight  to  the  servants  and  furnished  us  with  a  splash 
of  colour  which  at  least  broke  the  monotony  of  khaki 
canvas.  These  were — it  goes  without  saying — supple- 
mented from  time  to  time  with  the  more  reticent  efforts 
of  La  Vie:Parisienne, 


The  Western  Front  185 

All  things  being  equal  we  were  extremely  comfortable, 
and,  although  the  stove  was  full  of  surprises,  quite  suffi- 
ciently frowzy  during  the  long  evenings,  which  were  filled 
with  argument,  invention,  music  and  much  tobacco. 
The  invention  part  of  the  programme  was  supplied  by 
my  stable  companion  who  had  his  own  theories  con- 
cerning acetylene  lamps,  and  who,  with  the  aid  of  a  couple 
of  shell  cases  and  a  little  carbide  nearly  wrecked  the 
happy  home.     Inventions  were  therefore  suppressed. 

They  were  tranquil  days,  in  which  we  built  not  only 
book  shelves,  stoves  and  horse  standings  but  a  great 
friendship, — ended  only  by  his  death  on  the  battlefield. 
He  was  all  for  the  gun  line  and  its  greater  strenuousness. 

As  for  me,  then,  at  least,  I  was  content  to  lie  fallow. 
I  had  seen  too  much  of  the  guns,  thanked  God  for  the 
opportunity  of  doing  something  utterly  different  for  a 
time  and  tried  to  conduct  a  mental  spring-clean  and  re- 
arrangement. As  a  means  to  this  I  found  myself  putting 
ideas  on  paper  in  verse — a  thing  I'd  never  done  in  all  my 
live — ^bad  stuff  but  horribly  real.  One's  mind  was  tied 
to  war,  like  a  horse  on  a  picketing  rope,  and  could  only 
go  round  and  round  in  a  narrow  circle.  To  break  away 
was  impossible.  One  was  saturated  with  it  as  the  country 
was  with  blood.  Every  cog  in  the  machinery  of  war 
was  like  a  magnet  which  held  one  in  spite  of  all  one's 
struggles,  giddy  with  the  noise,  dazed  by  its  enormity, 
nauseated  by  its  results. 

The  work  provided  one  with  a  certain  amount  of  comic 
relief.  Timber  ran  short  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  standings 
would  be  denied  completion.  Stones,  gravel  and  cinders 
had  been  already  a  difficulty,  settled  only  by  much  im- 
portuning. Bricks  had  been  brought  from  the  gun  line. 
But  asking  for  timber  was  like  trying  to  steal  the  chair 
from  under  the  General.  I  went  to  Division  and  was 
promptly  referred  to  Corps,  who  were  handling  the  job. 


186  The  Grey  Wave 

Corps  said,  "  YouVe  had  all  that's  allowed  in  the  R.E. 
handbook.  Good  morning."  I  explained  that  I  wanted 
it  for  wind  screens.  They  smiled  politely  and  suggested 
my  getting  some  ladies'  fans  from  any  deserted  village. 
On  returning  to  Division  they  said/'  If  Corps  can't  help 
you,  how  the  devil  can  you  expect  us  to  ?  " 

I  went  to  Army.  They  looked  me  over  and  asked 
me  where  I  came  from  and  who  I  was,  and  what  I  was 
doing,  and  what  for  and  on  what  authority,  and  why 
I  came  to  them  instead  of  going  to  Division  and  Corps  ? 
To  all  of  which  I  replied  patiently.  Their  ultimate  answer 
was  a  smile  of  regret.  There  wasn't  any  in  the  country, 
they  said. 

So  I  prevailed  upon  my  brother  who,  as  War  Correspon- 
dent, ran  a  big  car  and  no  questions  asked  about  petrol, 
to  come  over  and  lunch  with  me.  To  him  I  put  the 
case  and  was  immediately  whisked  off  to  O.C.  Forests, 
the  Timber  King.  At  the  Uft  of  his  little  finger  down 
came  thousands  of  great  oaks.  Surely  a  few  branches 
were  going  begging  ? 

He  heard  my  story  with  interest.  His  answer  threw 
beams  of  light.  "  Why  the  devil  don't  Division  and  Corps 
and  all  the  rest  of  them  ask  for  it  if  they  want  it  ?  I've 
got  tons  of  stuff  here.     How  much  do  you  want  ?  " 

I  told  him  the  cubic  stature  of  the  standings. 

He  jotted   abstruse   calculations   for   a   moment. 
^  Twenty   tons,"   said   he.     *'  Are   you   anywhere   near 
he  river  "  ? 

The  river  flowed  at  the  bottom  of  the  lines. 

"  Right.  I'll  send  you  a  barge.  To-day's  Monday. 
Should  be  with  you  by  Wednesday.     Name  ?     Unit  ?  " 

He  ought  to  have  been  commanding  an  army,  that  man. 

We  lunched  most  triumphantly  in  Hazebrouck,  had 
'  ea  and  dinner  at  Cassel  and  I  was  dropped  on  my  own 
doorstep  well  before  midnight. 


The  Western  Front  isr 

It  was  not  unpleasing  to  let  drop,  quite  casually  of 
course,  to  Division  and  Corps  and  Army,  that  twenty 
tons  of  timber  were  being  delivered  at  my  lines  in  three 
days  and  that  there  was  more  where  that  came  from.  If 
they  wanted  any,  they  had  only  to  come  and  ask  me 
about  it. 


17 

During  this  period  the  Major  had  handed  over  the 
eighteen-pounders,  receiving  4.5  howitzers  in  exchange, 
nice  little  cannons,  but  apparently  in  perpetual  need  of 
caHbration.  None  of  the  gunners  had  ever  handled  them 
before  but  they  picked  up  the  new  drill  with  extraordinary 
aptitude,  taking  the  most  unholy  delight  in  firing  gas 
shells.     They  hadn't  forgotten  Armentieres  either. 

My  wagon  line  repose  was  roughly  broken  into  by  an 
order  one  afternoon  to  come  up  immediately.  The 
Colonel  was  elsewhere  and  the  Major  had  taken  his  place 
once  more. 

Furthermore,  a  raid  was  to  take  place  the  same  night 
and  I  hadn't  the  foggiest  idea  of  the  numberless  4.5 
differences.  However  we  did  our  share  in  the  raid  and 
at  the  end  of  a  couple  of  days  I  began  to  hope  we  should 
stick  to  howitzers.  The  reasons  were  many, — a  bigger 
shell  with  more  satisfactory  results,  gas  as  well  as  H.E., 
four  guns  to  control  instead  of  six,  far  greater  ease  in 
finding  positions  and  a  longer  range.  This  was  in  October, 
'17.  Things  have  changed  since  then.  The  air  re- 
cuperator with  the  new  range  drum  and  fuse  indicator 
have  made  the  i8-pounder  a  new  thing. 

Two  days  after  my  going  up  the  Hun  found  us.  Be- 
tween II  a.m.  and  4  p.m.  he  sent  over  three  hundred 
five-nines,  but  as  they  fell  between  two  of  the  guns  and 
the  billet,  and  he  didn't  bother  to  switch,  we  were  per- 


188  The  Grey  Wave 

fectly  happy.  To  my  way  of  thinking  his  lack  of  imagina- 
tion in  gunnery  is  one  of  the  factors  which  has  helped  him 
to  lose  the  war.  He  is  consistent,  amazingly  thorough 
and  amazingly  accurate.  We  have  those  qualities  too, 
not  quite  so  marked  perhaps,  but  it  is  the  added  touch  of 
imagination,  of  sportingness,  which  has  beaten  him. 
What  English  subaltern  for  instance  up  in  that  Hun 
O.P.  wouldn't  have  given  her  five  minutes  more  right  for 
luck, — and  got  the  farm  and  the  gun  and  the  ammu- 
nition ?  But  because  the  Boche  had  been  allotted  a 
definite  target  and  a  definite  number  of  rounds  he  just 
went  on  according  to  orders  and  never  thought  of  budging 
off  his  line.  We  all  knew  it  and  remained  in  the  farm 
although  the  M.P.I,  was  only  fifty  yards  to  a  flank. 

The  morning  after  the  raid  I  went  the  round  of  the 
guns.  One  of  them  had  a  loose  breechblock.  When  fired 
the  back  flash  was  right  across  the  gun  pit.  I  put  the 
gun  out  of  action,  the  chances  being  that  very  soon  she 
would  blow  out  her  breech  and  kill  every  man  in  the 
detachment. 

As  my  knowledge  was  limited  to  eighteen-pounders, 
however,  I  sent  for  the  brigade  artificer.  His  opinion 
confirmed  mine. 

That  night  she  went  down  on  the  tail  of  a  wagon. 
The  next  night  she  came  back  again,  the  breech  just  as 
loose.  Nothing  had  been  done.  The  Ordnance  workshop 
sent  a  chit  with  her  to  say  she'd  got  to  fire  so  many 
hundred  more  rounds  at  4th  charge  before  she  could  be 
condemned. 

What  was  the  idea  ?  Surely  to  God  the  Hun  killed 
enough  gunners  without  our  trying  to  kill  them  our- 
selves ?  Assuming  that  a  4.5  cost  fifteen  hundred 
pounds  in  round  figures,  four  gunners  and  a  sergeant 
at  an  average  of  two  shillings  a  day  were  worth  econo- 
mising, to  say  nothing  of  the  fact  that  they  were  all 


The  Western  Front  189 

trained  men  and  experienced  soldiers,  or  to  mention 
that  they  were  human  beings  with  wives  and  famiHes. 
It  cannot  have  been  the  difficulty  of  getting  another 
gun.  The  country  was  stiff  with  guns  and  it  only  takes 
a  busy  day  to  fire  four  hundred  rounds. 

It  was  just  the  good  old  system  again  !  I  left  the 
gun  out  of  action. 

Within  a  couple  of  days  we  had  to  hand  over  again. 
We  were  leaving  that  front  to  go  up  into  the  salient, 
Ypres,  But  I  didn't  forget  to  tell  the  in-coming  Battery 
Commander  all  about  that  particular  gun. 

Ypres  !  One  mentions  it  quite  casually  but  I  don't 
think  there  was  an  officer  or  man  who  didn't  draw  a  deep 
breath  when  the  order  came.     It  was  a  death  trap. 

There  was  a  month's  course  of  gunnery  in  England 
about  to  take  place, — the  Overseas  Course  for  Battery 
Commanders.  My  name  had  been  sent  in.  It  was  at 
once  cancelled  so  that  the  Ypres  move  was  a  double 
disappointment. 

So  the  battery  went  down  to  the  wagon  line  and 
prepared  for  the  worst.  For  a  couple  of  days  we  hung 
about  uneasily.  Then  the  Major  departed  for  the  north 
in  a  motor  lorry  to  take  over  positions.  Having  seen  him 
off  we  foregathered  with  the  officers  of  the  Brigade  Am- 
munition Column,  cursed  with  uneasy  laughter  and  turned 
the  rum-specialist  on  to  brewing  flaming  toddy. 

The  next  day  brought  a  telegram  from  the  Major 
of  which  two  words  at  least  will  never  die :  "  Move 
cancelled." 

We  had  dinner  in  Estaires  that  night  ! 

But  the  brigade  was  going  to  move,  although  none 
of  us  knew  where.  The  day  before  they  took  the  road 
I  left  for  England  in  a  hurry  to  attend  the  Overseas 
Course.  How  little  did  I  guess  what  changes  were  destined 
to  take  place  before  I  saw  them  again  I 


190  The  Grey  Wave 


i8 

The  course  was  a  godsend  in  that  it  broke  the  back 
of  the  winter.  A  month  in  England,  sleeping  between 
sheets,  with  a  hot  bath  every  day  and  brief  week-ends 
with  one's  people  was  a  distinct  improvement  on  France, 
although  the  first  half  of  the  course  was  dull  to  despera- 
tion. The  chief  interest,  in  fact,  of  the  whole  course 
was  to  see  the  fight  between  the  two  schools  of  gunners, 
— the  theoretical  and  the  practical.  Shoebury  was  the 
home  of  the  theoretical.  We  filled  all  the  Westchff  hotels 
and  went  in  daily  by  train  to  the  school  of  gunnery,  there 
to  imbibe  drafts  of  statistics — ^not  excluding  our  old 
friend  T.O.B. — and  to  relearn  all  the  stuff  we  had  been 
doing  every  day  in  France  in  face  of  the  Hun,  a  sort  of 
revised  up-to-date  version,  including  witty  remarks 
at  the  expense  of  Salisbury  which  left  one  with  the  idea, 
*'  Well,  if  this  is  the  last  word  of  the  School  of  Gunnery, 
I'm  a  damned  sight  better  gunner  than  I  thought  I  was." 

Many  of  the  officers  had  brought  their  wives  down. 
Apart  from  them  the  hotels  were  filled  with  indescribable 
people, — dear  old  ladies  in  eighteenth-century  garments 
who  knitted  and  talked  scandal  and  allowed  their  giggling 
daughters  to  flirt  and  dance  with  all  and  sundry.  One 
or  two  of  the  more  advanced  damsels  had  left  their  parents 
behind  and  were  staying  there  with  '*  uncles," — rather 
lascivious-looking  old  men,  rapidly  going  bald.  Where 
they  all  came  from  is  a  mystery.  One  didn't  think 
England  contained  such  people,  and  the  thought  that  one 
was  fighting  for  them  was  intolerable. 

After  a  written  examination  which  was  somewhat 
of  a  farce  at  the  end  of  the  first  fortnight,  we  all  trooped 
down  to  Salisbury  to  see  the  proof  of  the  pudding  in  the 


The  Western  Front  I9i 

shooting.  Shoebury  was  routed.  A  couple  of  hundred 
burstmg  shells  duly  corrected  for  temperature,  barometer, 
wind  and  the  various  other  disabilities  attaching  to 
exterior  ballistics  will  disprove  the  most  likely-sounding 
theory. 

Salisbury  said,  "  Of  course  they  will  tell  you  this 
at  Shoebury.  They  may  be  perfectly  right.  I  don't 
deny  it  for  a  moment,  but  I'll  show  you  what  the  ruddy 
bundook  says  about  it."  And  at  the  end  of  half  an  hour's 
shooting  the  "  ruddy  bundook  "  behind  us  had  entirely 
disposed  of  the  argument.  We  had  calibrated  that  un- 
fortunate battery  to  within  half  a  foot  a  second,  fired  it 
with  a  field  clinometer,  put  it  through  its  paces  in  snow- 
storms and  every  kind  of  filthy  weather  and  went  away 
impressed.  The  gun  does  not  he.  Sahsbury  won  hands 
down. 

The  verdict  of  the  respective  schools  upon  my  work 
was  amusing  and  showed  that  at  least  they  had  fathomed 
the  psychology  of  me. 

Shoebury  said,  "  Fair.  A  good  second  in  command." 
Salisbury  said,  **  Sound  practical  work.  A  good  Battery 
Commander." 

Meanwhile  the  papers  every  day  had  been  ringing 
with  the  Cambrai  show.  November,  '17,  was  a  memorable 
month  for  many  others  besides  the  brigade.  Of  course 
I  didn't  know  for  certain  that  we  were  in  it,  but  it  wasn't 
a  very  difficult  guess.  The  news  became  more  and  more 
anxious  reading,  especially  when  I  received  a  letter  from 
the  Major  who  said  laconically  that  he  had  lost  all  his 
kit ;  would  I  please  collect  some  more  that  he  had  ordered 
and  bring  it  out  with  me  ? 

This  was  countermanded  by  a  telegram  saying  he  was 
coming  home  on  leave.  I  met  him  in  London  and  in 
the  luxury  of  the  Carlton  Grill  he  told  me  the  amazing 
story  of  Cambrai. 


192  The  Grey  Wave 

The  net  result  to  the  brigade  was  the  loss  of  the  guns 
and  many  officers  and  men,  and  the  acquiring  of  one 
D.S.O.  which  should  have  been  a  V.C.,  and  a  handful 
of  M.C/s,  Military  Medals,  and  Croix  de  Guerre. 

I  found  them  sitting  down,  very  merry  and  bright, 
at  a  place  called  Poix  in  the  Lines  of  Communication, 
and  there  I  listened  to  stories  of  Huns  shot  with  rifles 
at  one  yard,  of  days  in  trenches  fighting  as  infantry,  of 
barrages  that  passed  conception,  of  the  amazing  feats 
of  my  own  Major  who  was  the  only  officer  who  got  nothing 
out  of  it, — through  some  gross  miscarriage  of  justice  and 
to  my  helpless  fury. 

There  was  a  new  Captain  commanding  my  battery 
in  the  absence  of  the  Major.  But  I  was  informed  that  I 
had  been  promoted  Major  and  was  taking  over  another 
battery  whose  commander  had  been  wounded  in  the 
recent  show.  Somehow  it  had  happened  that  that  battery 
and  ours  had  always  worked  together,  had  almost  always 
played  each  other  in  the  finals  of  brigade  football  matches 
and  there  was  as  a  result  a  strong  liking  between  the  two. 
It  was  good  therefore  to  have  the  luck  to  go  to  them  instead 
of  one  of  the  others.  It  completed  the  entente  between 
the  two  of  us. 

Only  the  Brigade  Headquarters  was  in  Poix.  The 
batteries  and  the  Ammunition  Column  had  a  village  each 
in  the  neighbourhood.  My  new  battery,  my  first  com- 
mand, was  at  Bergicourt,  some  three  miles  away,  and 
thither  I  went  in  the  brigade  trap,  a  little  shy  and  over- 
whelmed at  this  entirely  unexpected  promotion,  not  quite 
sure  of  my  reception.  The  Captain  was  an  older  man 
than  I,  and  he  and  some  of  the  subalterns  had  all  been 
lieutenants  together  with  me  in  the  Heytesbury  days. 

From  the  moment  of  getting  out  of  the  trap,  as  mid- 
day stables  was  being  dismissed,  the  Captain's  loyalty 
to  me  was  of  the  most  exceptional  kind.     He  did  every- 


The  Western  Front  193 

thing  in  his  power  to  help  me  the  whole  time  I  remained 
in  command,  and  I  owe  him  more  gratitude  and  thanks 
than  I  can  ever  hope  to  repay.  The  subalterns  too 
worked  like  niggers,  and  I  was  immensely  proud  of  being 
in  command  of  such  a  splendid  fighting  battery. 

Bergicourt  was  a  picturesque  little  place  that  had 
sprung  up  in  a  hillside  cup.  A  tiny  river  ran  at  the 
bottom  of  the  hill,  the  cottages  were  dotted  with  charming 
irregularity  up  and  down  its  flank  and  the  surrounding 
woody  hills  protected  it  a  little  from  the  biting  winter 
winds.  The  men  and  horses  were  billeted  among  the 
cottages.  The  battery  office  was  in  the  Mairie,  and  the 
mess  was  in  the  presbytery.  The  Abbe  was  a  diminu- 
tive, round-faced,  blue-chinned  little  man  with  a  black 
skull  cap,  whose  simplicity  was  altogether  exceptional. 
He  had  once  been  on  a  Cook's  tour  to  Greece,  Egj^t 
and  Italy  but  for  all  the  knowledge  of  the  world  he  got 
from  it  he  might  as  well  have  remained  in  Bergicourt. 
He  shaved  on  Sundays  and  insinuated  himself  humbly 
into  the  mess  room — his  best  parlour — with  an  invariable 
"  Bonjour,  mon  commandant !  "  and  a  "  je  vous  remerc — 
ie,"  that  became  the  passwords  of  the  battery.  The 
S  sound  in  remercie  lasted  a  full  minute  to  a  sort  of  splash- 
ing accompaniment  emerging  from  the  teeth.  We  used 
to  invite  him  in  to  coffee  and  liqueurs  after  dinner  and 
his  round-eyed  amazement  when  the  Captain  and  one 
of  the  subalterns  did  elementary  conjuring  tricks,  pro- 
ducing cards  from  the  least  expected  portions  of  his 
anatomy  and  so  on  as  he  sat  there  in  front  of  the  fire 
with  a  drink  in  his  hand  and  a  cigarette  smouldering  in 
his  fingers,  used  to  send  us  into  helpless  shrieks  of  laughter. 

He  bestowed  on  me  in  official  moments  the  most 
wonderful  title,  that  even  Haig  might  have  been  proud  of. 
He  called  me  "  Monsieur  le  Commandant  des  armies 
anglaises  d  Bergicourt," — a  First  Command  indeed  ! 

13 


194  The  Grey  Wave 

Christmas  Day  was  a  foot  deep  in  snow,  wonderfully 
beautiful  and  silent  with  an  almost  canny  stillness.  The 
Colonel  and  the  Intelligence  Officer  came  and  had  dinner 
with  us  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  after  the  Colonel  had 
made  a  little  speech  to  the  men,  who  were  sitting  down 
to  theirs,  and  been  cheered  to  the  echo. 

At  night  there  was  a  concert  and  the  battery  got  royally 
tight.  It  was  the  first  time  they'd  been  out  of  action 
for  eight  months  and  it  probably  did  them  a  power  of 
good. 

Four  Christmases  back  I  had  been  in  Florida  splashing 
about  in  the  sea,  revelling  in  being  care  free,  deep  in  the 
writing  of  a  novel.  It  was  amazing  how  much  water 
had  flowed  under  the  bridges  since  then, — one  in  Fontaine- 
houck,  one  in  Salonica,  one  in  London,  and  now  this  one 
at  Bergicourt  with  six  guns  and  a  couple  of  hundred  men 
under  me.  I  wondered  where  the  next  would  be  and 
thought  of  New  York  with  a  sigh.  If  anyone  had  told 
me  in  Florida  that  I  should  ever  be  a  Major  in  the  British 
Army  I  should  have  thought  he'd  gone  mad. 


19 

The  time  was  spent  in  Poix  in  completing  ourselves 
with  all  the  things  of  which  the  batteries  were  short — 
technical  stores — in  making  rings  in  the  snow  and  exer- 
cising the  horses,  in  trying  to  get  frost  nails  without 
success,  in  a  comic  chasse  au  sanglier  organised  by  a  local 
sportsman  in  which  we  saw  nothing  but  a  big  red  fox 
and  a  hare  and  bagged  neither,  in  endeavouring  to  camou- 
flage the  fuel  stolen  by  the  men,  in  wondering  what  1918 
would  bring  forth. 

The  bitter  cold  lasted  day  after  day  without  any 


The  Western  Front  195 

sign  of  a  break  and  in  the  middle  of  it  came  the  order 
to  move.     We  were  wanted  back  in  the  Hne  again. 

I  suppose  there  is  always  one  second  of  apprehension 
on  receiving  that  order,  of  looking  round  with  the 
thought,  "  Whose  turn  this  time  ?  "  There  seemed  to 
be  no  hope  or  sign  of  peace.  The  very  idea  was  so 
remote  as  to  be  stillborn.  Almost  it  seemed  as  if  one 
would  have  to  go  on  and  on  for  ever.  The  machine 
had  run  away  with  us  and  there  was  no  stopping  it. 
Every  calendar  that  ran  out  was  another  year  of  one's 
youth  burnt  on  the  altar  of  war.  There  was  no  future. 
How  could  there  be  when  men  were  falling  like  leaves  in 
autumn  ? 

One  put  up  a  notice  board  on  the  edge  of  the  future. 
It  said,  '*  Trespassers  will  be  pip-squeaked."  The  present 
was  the  antithesis  of  everything  one  had  ever  dreamed, 
a  ghastly  slavery  to  be  borne  as  best  one  could.  One 
sought  distractions  to  stop  one's  thinking.  Work  was 
insufficient.  One  developed  a  literary  gluttony,  devour- 
ing cannibalistically  all  the  fiction  writers,  the  war  poets, 
everything  that  one  could  lay  hands  on,  developing  un- 
consciously a  higher  criticism,  judging  by  the  new  stan- 
dards set  by  three  years  of  war — that  school  of  post- 
impressionism  that  rubs  out  so  ruthlessly  the  essential, 
leaving  the  unessential  crowing  on  its  dunghill.  It  only 
left  one  the  past  as  a  mental  playground  and  even  there 
the  values  had  altered.  One  looked  back  with  a  different 
eye  from  that  with  which  one  had  looked  forward  only 
four  years  ago.  One  had  seen  Death  now  and  heard 
Fear  whispering,  and  felt  the  pulse  of  a  world  upheaved 
by  passions. 

The  war  itself  had  taken  on  a  different  aspect.  The 
period  of  peace  sectors  was  over.  Russia  had  had  enough. 
Any  day  now  would  see  the  released  German  divisions 
back  on  the  western  front.     It  seemed  that  the  new  year 

13* 


196  The  Grey  Wave 

must  inevitably  be  one  of  cataclysmic  events.  It  was 
not  so  much  **  can  we  attack  ?  "  as  "  will  they  break 
through  ?  ' '  And  yet  trench  warfare  had  been  a  stalemate 
for  so  long  that  it  didn't  seem  possible  that  they  could. 
But  whatever  happened  it  was  not  going  to  be  a  joyride. 

We  were  going  to  another  army.  That  at  least  was 
a  point  of  interest.  The  batteries,  being  scattered  over 
half  a  dozen  miles  of  country,  were  to  march  indepen- 
dently to  their  destinations.  So  upon  the  appointed  day 
we  packed  up  and  said  good-bye  to  the  little  priest  and 
interviewed  the  mayor  and  haggled  over  exorbitant  claims 
for  damages  and  impossible  thefts  of  wood  and  potatoes, 
wondering  all  the  while  how  the  horses  would  ever 
stand  up  on  the  frozen  roads  without  a  single  frost  nail 
in  the  battery.  It  was  like  a  vast  skating  rink  and  the 
farrier  had  been  tearing  his  hair  for  days. 

But  finally  the  last  team  had  slithered  down  to  the  gun 
park,  hooked  in  and  everything  was  reported  ready. 
Billeting  parties  had  gone  on  ahead. 

It  is  difficult  to  convey  just  what  that  march  meant. 
It  lasted  four  days,  once  the  blizzard  being  so  thick  and 
blinding  that  the  march  was  abandoned,  the  whole 
brigade  remaining  in  temporary  billets.  The  pace  was  a 
crawl.  The  team  horses  slid  into  each  other  and  fell, 
the  leads  bringing  the  centres  down,  at  every  twenty 
yards  or  so.  The  least  rise  had  to  be  navigated  by  im- 
provising means  of  foothold — scattering  a  near  manure 
heap,  getting  gunners  up  with  picks  and  shovels  and 
hacking  at  the  road  surface,  assisting  the  horses  with 
drag-ropes — and  all  the  time  the  wind  was  like  a  razor 
on  one's  face,  and  the  drivers  up  on  the  staggering  horses 
beat  their  chests  with  both  arms  and  changed  over  with 
the  gunners  when  all  feeling  had  gone  from  their  limbs. 
Hour  after  hour  one  trekked  through  the  blinding  white, 
silent  country,  stamping  up  and  down  at  the  halts  with 


The  Western  Front  197 

an  anxious  eye  on  the  teams,  chewing  bully  beef  and 
biscuits  and  thanking  God  for  coffee  piping  hot  out  of  a 
thermos  in  the  middle  of  the  day.  Then  on  again  in  the 
afternoon  while  the  light  grew  less  and  dropped  finally 
to  an  inky  grey  and  the  wind  grew  colder, — ^hoping  that  the 
G.S.  wagons,  long  since  miles  behind,  would  catch  up. 
Hour  after  hour  stiff  in  the  saddle  with  icy  hands  and  feet, 
one's  neck  cricked  to  dodge  the  wind,  or  sliding  off 
stiffly  to  walk  and  get  some  warmth  into  one's  aching 
limbs,  the  straps  and  weight  of  one's  equipment  becoming 
more  and  more  irksome  and  heavy  with  every  step  for- 
ward that  slipped  two  back.  To  reach  the  destination 
at  all  was  lucky.  To  get  there  by  ten  o'clock  at  night 
was  a  godsend,  although  watering  the  horses  and  feeding 
them  in  the  darkness  with  frozen  fingers  that  burned  on 
straps  and  buckles  drew  strange  Scotch  oaths.  For  the 
men,  shelter  of  sorts,  something  at  least  with  a  roof 
where  a  fire  was  lit  at  risk  of  burning  the  whole  place 
down.  For  the  officers  sometimes  a  peasant's  bed,  or 
valises  spread  on  the  floor,  unpacking  as  little  as  possible 
for  the  early  start  on  the  morning,  the  servants  cooking 
some  sort  of  a  meal,  either  on  the  peasant's  stove  or  over 
a  fire  of  sticks. 

The  snow  came  again  and  one  went  on  next  day, 
blinded  by  the  feathery  touch  of  flakes  that  closed  one's 
eyes  so  gently,  crept  down  one's  neck  and  pockets, 
lodged  heavily  in  one's  lap  when  mounted,  clung  in  a 
frozen  garment  to  one's  coat  when  walking,  hissed  softly 
on  one's  pipe  and  made  one  giddy  with  the  silent,  whirling, 
endless  pattern  which  blotted  out  the  landscape,  great 
flakes  like  white  butterflies,  soft,  velvety,  beautiful  but 
also  like  little  hands  that  sought  to  stop  one  persistently, 
insidiously.  **  Go  back,"  said  their  owner,  **  go  back. 
We  have  hidden  the  road  and  the  ditches  and  all  the 
country.    We  have  closed  your  eyelids  and  you  cannot 


198  The  Grey  Wave 

see.  Go  back  before  you  reach  that  mad  place  where 
we  have  covered  over  silent  things  that  once  were  men, 
trying  to  give  back  beauty  to  the  ugliness  that  you 
have  made.  Why  do  you  march  on  in  spite  of  us  ? 
Do  you  seek  to  become  as  they  ?  Go  back.  Go  back," 
they  whispered. 

But  we  pushed  blindly  through,  stumbling  to  another 
billet  to  hear  that  the  snow  had  stalled  the  motor  lorries 
and  therefore  there  were  no  rations  for  the  men  and  that 
the  next  day's  march  was  twenty  miles. 

During  the  night  a  thaw  set  in.  Snowflakes  turned 
to  cold  rain  and  in  the  dawn  the  men  splashed,  shivering, 
and  harnessed  the  shivering  horses.  One  or  two  may 
have  drunk  a  cup  of  coffee  given  them  by  the  villagers. 
The  rest  knew  empty  stomachs  as  well  as  shivering.  The 
village  had  once  been  in  the  war  zone  and  only  old  women 
and  children  clung  precariously  to  life.  They  had  no 
food  to  give  or  sell.  The  parade  was  ordered  for  six  o'clock . 
Some  of  the  rear  wagons,  in  difficulties  with  teams,  had 
not  come  in  till  the  dawn,  the  Captain  and  all  of  them 
having  shared  a  biscuit  or  two  since  breakfast.  But  at 
six  the  battery  was  reported  ready  and  not  a  man  was 
late  or  sick.     The  horses  had  been  in  the  open  all  night. 

So  on  we  went  again  with  pools  of  water  on  the  icy 
crust  of  the  road,  the  rain  dripping  off  our  caps.  Would 
there  be  food  at  the  other  end  ?  Our  stomachs  cried  out 
for  it. 

And  back  in  England  full-fed  fathers  hearing  the 
rain  splashing  against  the  windows  put  an  extra  coal 
on  the  fire,  crying  again,  "  We  will  fight  to  the  last  man  I  "; 
railway  men  and  munitioners  yelled,  "  Down  tools ! 
We  need  more  pay !  "  and  the  Government  flung  our  purses 
to  them  and  said,  "  Help  yourselves — of  course  we  shall 
count  on  you  to  keep  us  in  power  at  the  next  election  " 


The  Western  Front  199 


20 

The  village  of  ChuignoUes,  ice-bound,  desolate,  wood- 
patched  was  out  destination.  The  battles  of  the  Somme 
had  passed  that  way,  wiping  everything  out.  Old  shell 
holes  were  softened  with  growing  vegetation.  Farm 
cottages  were  held  together  by  bits  of  corrugated  iron. 
The  wind  whistled  through  them,  playing  ghostly  tunes 
on  splintered  trunks  that  once  had  been  a  wood. 

Two  prison  camps  full  of  Germans,  who  in  some 
mysterious  way  knew  that  we  had  been  in  the  Cambrai 
push  and  commented  about  it  as  we  marched  in,  were 
the  only  human  beings,  save  the  village  schoolmaster 
and  his  wife  and  child,  in  whose  cottage  we  shared  a  billet 
with  a  Canadian  forester.  The  schoolmaster  was  minus 
one  arm,  the  wife  had  survived  the  German  occupation, 
and  the  child  was  a  golden-haired  boy  full  of  laughter, 
with  tiny  teeth,  blue  eyes  and  chubby  fingers  that  curled 
roimd  his  mother's  heart.  The  men  were  lodged  under 
bits  of  brick  wall  and  felting  that  constituted  at  least 
shelter,  and  warmed  themselves  with  the  timber  that  the 
Canadian  let  them  remove  from  his  Deccaville  train  which 
screamed  past  the  horse  lines  about  four  or  five  times  a 
day.  They  had  stood  the  march  in  some  marvellous  way 
that  filled  me  with  speechless  admiration.  Never  a 
grouse  about  the  lack  of  rations,  or  the  awful  cold  and  wet, 
always  with  a  song  on  their  lips  they  had  paraded  to  time 
daily,  looked  after  the  horses  with  a  care  that  was  almost 
brotherly,  put  up  with  filthy  billets  and  the  extremes  of 
discomfort  with  a  readiness  that  made  me  proud.  What 
kept  them  going  ?  Was  it  that  vague  thing  patriotism, 
the  more  vague  because  the  war  wasn't  in  their  own 
eountry  ?     Was  it  the  ultimate  hope  of  getting  back  to 


200  The  Grey  Wave 

their  Flos  and  Lucys,  although  leave,  for  them,  was 
practically  non-existent  ?  What  had  they  to  look 
forward  to  but  endless  work  in  filth  and  danger,  heaving 
guns,  grooming  horses,  cleaning  harness  eternally? 
And  yet  their  obedience  and  readiness  and  courage  were 
limitless,  wonderful. 

We  settled  down  to  training  and  football  and  did  our 
best  to  acquire  the  methods  of  the  new  army.  My 
Major,  who  had  been  in  command  of  the  brigade,  had 
fallen  ill  on  the  march  and  had  been  sent  to  England. 
The  doctor  was  of  opinion  that  he  wouldn't  be  coming 
out  again.  He  was  worn  out.  How  characteristic  of  the 
wilfully  blind  system  which  insists  that  square  pegs 
shall  be  made  to  fit  round  holes  !  There  was  a  man  who 
should  have  been  commanding  an  army,  wasted  in  the 
command  of  a  battery,  while  old  men  without  a  millionth 
part  of  his  personality,  magnetism  or  knowledge  recklessly 
flung  away  lives  in  the  endeavour  to  justify  their  positions. 
In  the  Boer  War  if  a  General  lost  three  hundred  men 
there  was  an  inquiry  into  the  circumstances.  Now  if  he 
didn't  lose  three  hundred  thousand  he  was  a  bad  General. 
There  were  very  few  bad  ones  apparently  ! 

At  least  one  could  thank  God  that  the  Major  was  out 
of  it  with  a  whole  skin,  although  physically  a  wreck. 

The  guns  we  drew  from  Ordnance  at  Poix  and  Chuig- 
noUes  were  not  calibrated,  but  there  was  a  range  half  a 
day's  march  distant  and  we  were  ordered  to  fire  there 
in  readiness  for  going  back  into  the  line.  So  one  morning 
before  dawn  we  set  out  to  find  the  pin-point  given  us  on 
the  map.  Dawn  found  us  on  a  road  which  led  through  a 
worse  hell  than  even  Dante' visited.  Endless  desolation 
spread  away  on  every  side,  empty,  fiat,  filled  with  an 
infinite  melancholy.  No  part  of  the  earth's  surface 
remained  intact.  One  shell  hole  merged  into  another  in 
an  endless  pattern  of  pockmarks,  unexploded  duds  lying 


The  Western  Front  201 

in  hundreds  in  every  direction.  Bits  of  wreckage  lay 
scattered,  shell  baskets,  vague  shapes  of  iron  and  metal 
which  bespoke  the  one-time  presence  of  man.  Here  and 
there  steam  rollers,  broken  and  riddled,  stuck  up  Hke 
the  bones  of  camels  in  the  desert.  A  few  wooden  crosses 
marked  the  wayside  graves,  very  few.  For  the  most 
part  the  dead  had  lain  where  they  fell,  trodden  into  the 
earth.  Everywhere  one  almost  saw  a  hand  sticking  up, 
a  foot  that  had  worked  up  to  the  surface  again.  A  few 
bricks  half  overgrown  marked  where  once  maidens  had 
been  courted  by  their  lovers.  The  quiet  lane  ringing  with 
the  songs  of  birds  where  they  had  met  in  the  summer 
evenings  at  the  stroke  of  the  Angelus  was  now  one  jagged 
stump,  knee-high,  from  which  the  birds  had  long  since 
fled.  The  spirits  of  a  million  dead  wailed  over  that  ghastly 
graveyard,  unconsecrated  by  the  priests  of  God.  In 
the  grey  light  one  could  nearly  see  the  corpses  sit  up  in  their 
countless  hundreds  at  the  noise  of  the  horses'  feet,  and 
point  with  long  fingers,  screaming  bitter  ridicule  through 
their  shapeless  gaping  jaws.  And  when  at  last  we  found 
the  range  and  the  guns  broke  the  eerie  stillness  the  echo 
in  the  hills  was  like  bursts  of  horrible  laughter. 

And  on  the  edge  of  all  this  death  was  that  Httle  sturdy 
boy  with  the  golden  hair,  bubbling  with  life,  who  played 
with  the  empty  sleeve  of  his  young  father  spewed  out  of 
the  carnage,  mutilated,  broken  in  this  game  of  fools. 


21 


February  found  us  far  from  ChuignoUes.  Our  road 
south  had  taken  us  through  a  country  of  optimism  where 
filled-in  trenches  were  being  cultivated  once  more  by  old 
women  and  boys,  barbed  wire  had  been  gathered  in  hke 


202  The  Grey  Wave 

an  iron  harvest  and  life  was  trying  to  creep  back  again 
like  sap  up  the  stem  of  a  bruised  flower.  Their  homes  were 
made  of  empty  petrol  tins,  bits  of  corrugated  iron,  the 
wreckage  of  the  battlefield, — these  strange  persistent  old 
people,  clinging  desperately  to  their  clod  of  earth,  bent 
by  the  storm  but  far  from  being  broken,  ploughing  round 
the  lonely  graves  of  the  unknown  dead,  sparing  a  moment 
to  drop  a  bunch  of  green  stuff  on  them.  Perhaps  some 
one  was  doing  the  same  to  their  son's  grave. 

We  came  to  Jussy  and  Flavy-le-Martel,  an  undulating 
country  of  once-wooded  hillsides  now  stamped  under  the 
Hun's  heel  and  where  even  then  the  spiteful  long-range 
shell  came  raking  in  the  neatly  swept  muck  heaps  that 
once  had  been  villages.  The  French  were  there,  those 
blue-clad,  unshaven  poilus  who,  having  seen  their  land 
laid  waste,  turned  their  eyes  steadily  towards  Germany 
with  the  gleam  of  faith  in  them  that  moves  mountains, 
officered  by  men  who  called  them  "  mes  en f ants  "  and 
addressed  each  one  as  "  thou." 

We  had  reached  the  southern  end  of  the  British  line 
and  were  to  take  over  the  extra  bit  down  to  Barisis.  Our 
own  zone  was  between  Essigny  and  Benay  and  in  a 
morning  of  thick  fog  the  Divisional  Battery  Commanders 
and  ourselves  went  up  to  the  gun  positions  held  by  the 
slim  French  75 's.  They  welcomed  us  politely,  bowing  us 
into  scratches  in  the  earth  and  offering  sausages  and  red 
wine  and  cigarettes  of  Caporal.  It  appeared  that  peace 
reigned  on  that  front.  Not  a  shell  fell,  hardly  was  a 
round  ever  fired.  Then  followed  maps  and  technical 
details  of  pin-points  and  zero  lines  and  O.P.'s  and  the 
colour  of  S.O.S.  rockets.  We  visited  the  guns  and 
watched  them  fire  a  round  or  two  and  discussed  the 
differences  between  them  and  our  eighteen-pounders 
and  at  last  after  much  shaking  of  hands  bade  them 
au  revoir  and  left  them  in  the  fog. 


The  Western  Front  208 

The  relief  took  place  under  cover  of  night  without  a 
hitch,  in  a  silence  unbroken  by  any  gun,  and  finally, 
after  having  journeyed  to  the  O.P.  with  the  French 
Battery  Commander,  up  to  our  thighs  in  mud,  fired  on 
the  zero  point  to  check  the  line,  reported  ourselves  ready 
to  take  on  an  S.O.S.  and  watched  the  French  officer  dis- 
appear in  the  direction  of  his  wagon  line,  we  found  our- 
selves masters  of  the  position. 

The  fog  did  eventually  lift,  revealing  the  least  hopeful 
of  any  gun  positions  it  has  ever  been  my  lot  to  occupy. 
The  whole  country  was  green,  a  sort  of  turf.  In  this  were 
three  great  white  gashes  of  upturned  chalk  visible  to  the 
meanest  intelligence  as  being  the  three  battery  positions. 
True,  they  were  under  the  crest  from  any  Hun  O.P.,  but 
that  didn't  minimize  the  absurdity.  There  were  such 
things  as  balloons  and  aeroplanes.  Further  inspection 
revealed  shell  holes  neatly  bracketing  the  guns,  not  many, 
but  quite  sufficient  to  prove  that  Fritz  had  done  his  job 
well.  Beside  each  gun  pit  was  a  good  deep  dugout  for 
the  detachment  and  we  had  sleeping  quarters  that  would 
stop  at  least  a  four- two.  The  mess  was  a  quaint  little 
hut  of  hooped  iron  above  ground,  camouflaged  with 
chalky  earth,  big  enough  to  hold  a  table  and  four  officers, 
if  arranged  carefully.  We  rigged  up  shelves  and  hung 
new  fighting  maps  and  Kirchners  and  got  the  stove  to 
burn  and  declared  ourselves  ready  for  the  war  again. 
We  spent  long  mornings  exploring  the  trenches,  calling 
on  a  rather  peevish  infantry  whose  manners  left  much  to 
be  desired,  and  found  that  as  usual  the  enemy  had  all 
the  observation  on  the  opposite  ridge.  Behind  the 
trench  system  we  came  upon  old  gun  positions  shelled  out 
of  all  recognition,  and  looked  back  over  an  empty  country- 
side with  rather  a  gloomy  eye.  It  was  distinctly  un- 
prepossessing.    If  there  were  ever  a  show 

So  we  played  the  gramophone  by  night  and  invented  a 


204  The  Grey  Wave 

knife-throwing  game  in  the  door  of  the  hut  and  waited 
for  whatever  Fate  might  have  in  store  for  us.  The 
Captain  had  gone  on  leave  from  Chuignolles.  The  night 
after  his  return  he  came  up  to  the  guns  as  my  own  leave 
was  due  again.  So  having  initiated  him  into  the  defence 
scheme  and  the  S.O.S.  rules  I  packed  up  my  traps  and 
departed, — as  it  turned  out  for  good. 

Fate  decreed  that  my  lighting  was  to  be  done  with  the 
battery  which  I  had  helped  to  make  and  whose  dead  I 
had  buried. 

On  my  return  from  leave  fourteen  days  later,  towards 
the  end  of  February,  I  was  posted  back  to  them.  The 
end  of  February, — a  curious  period  of  mental  tightening 
up,  of  expectation  of  some  colossal  push  received  with  a 
certain  incredulity.  He'd  push  all  right,  but  not  here. 
And  yet,  in  the  depths  of  one's  being,  there  formed  a 
vague  apprehension  that  made  one  restless  and  took  the 
taste  out  of  everything.  The  work  seemed  unsatisfactory 
in  the  new  battle  positions  to  which  we  were  moved,  a 
side-step  north,  seven  thousand  yards  from  the  front  line, 
just  behind  Essigny  which  peeped  over  a  million  trenches 
to  St.  Quentin.  The  men  didn't  seem  to  have  their 
hearts  in  it  and  one  found  fault  in  everything.  The  new 
mess,  a  wooden  hut  under  trees  on  a  hilltop  with  a  deep 
dugout  in  it,  was  very  nice,  allowing  us  to  bask  in  the 
sun  whenever  it  shone  and  giving  a  wonderful  view  over 
the  whole  zone,  but  seemed  to  lack  privacy.  One 
yearned  to  be  alone  sometimes  and  always  there  was  some 
one  there.  The  subalterns  were  practically  new  to  me, 
and  although  one  laughed  and  talked  one  couldn't  settle 
down  as  in  the  old  days  with  the  Major  and  Pip  Don. 
The  Scots  Captain  was  also  occupying  the  hilltop.  It 
was  good  to  go  off  on  long  reconnaissances  with  him  and 
argue  violently  on  all  the  known  philosophies  and  litera- 
tures, to  challenge  him  to  revolver  shooting  competitions 


The  Western  Front  205 

and  try  and  escape  the  eternal  obsession  that  clouded  one's 
brain,  an  uneasiness  that  one  couldn't  place,  like  the 
feeling  that  makes  one  cold  in  the  pit  of  the  stomach 
before  going  down  to  get  ready  for  a  boxing  competition, 
magnified  a  million  times. 

The  weather  was  warm  and  sunny  after  misty  dawns 
and  the  whole  country  was  white  with  floating  cobwebs. 
The  last  touches  were  being  put  to  the  gun  position  and  a 
narrow  deep  trench  ran  behind  the  guns  which  were  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  beyond  the  hilltop,  down  beyond  the 
railway  line  under  camouflage  in  the  open.  Word  came 
round  that  "  The  Attack,"  was  for  this  day,  then  that, 
then  the  other,  and  the  heavy  guns  behind  us  made  the 
night  tremble  with  their  counter-preparation  work, 
until  at  last  one  said,  '*  Please  God,  they'll  get  on  with  it, 
and  let's  get  it  over  ! "  The  constant  cry  of  "  Wolf  ! 
Wolf  !  "  was  trying. 

Everybody  knew  about  it  and  all  arrangements  were 
made,  extra  ammunition,  and  extra  gunners  at  the  posi- 
tions, details  notified  as  to  manning  O.P.'s,  the  probable 
time  at  which  we  should  have  to  open  fire  being  given  as 
ten  o'clock  at  night  at  extreme  range. 

My  Captain,  a  bloodthirsty  Canadian,  had  gone  on 
leave  to  the  south  of  France,  which  meant  leaving  a 
subaltern  in  the  wagon  line  while  I  had  three  with  me. 

The  days  became  an  endless  tension,  the  nights  a 
jumpy  stretch  of  darkness,  listening  for  the  unknown. 
Matters  were  not  helped  by  my  brother's  rolling  up  one 
day  and  giving  out  the  date  definitely  as  the  twenty-first. 
It  was  on  the  ninth  that  he  arrived  and  took  me  for  a  joy- 
ride  to  Barisis  to  have  a  look  at  the  Hun  in  the  Foret  de 
St.  Gobain,  so  deeply  wooded  that  the  car  could  run  to 
within  a  hundred  yards  of  the  front-line  trench.  We 
dined  at  the  charming  old  town  of  Noyon  on  the  way 
back  and  bought  English  books  in  a  shop  there,  and 


206  The  Grey  Wave 

stayed  the  night  in  a  httle  inn  just  off  the  market  square. 
The  next  morning  he  dropped  me  at  the  battery  and  I 
watched  him  roll  away  in  the  car,  feeling  an  accentuated 
loneliness,  a  yearning  to  go  with  him  and  get  out  of  the 
damned  firing  line,  to  escape  the  responsibility  that  rode 
one  like  an  Old  Man  from  the  Sea. 

In  war  there  is  only  one  escape. 

The  nights  of  the  eighteenth  and  nineteenth  were  a 
continuous  roll  of  heavy  guns,  lasting  till  just  before  the 
dawn,  the  days  comparatively  quiet.  Raids  had  taken 
place  all  along  the  front  on  both  sides  and  identifications 
made  which  admitted  of  no  argument. 

On  the  night  of  the  twentieth  we  turned  in  as  usual 
about  midnight  with  the  blackness  punctuated  by  flashes 
and  the  deep-voiced  rumble  of  big  guns  a  sort  of  comfort 
in  the  background.  If  Brother  Fritz  was  massing  any- 
where for  the  attack  at  least  he  was  having  an  unpleasant 
time.  We  were  unable  to  join  in  because  we  were  in 
battle  positions  seven  thousand  yards  behind  the  front 
line.  The  other  eighteen-pounders  in  front  of  us  were 
busy,  however,  and  if  the  show  didn't  come  oE  we  were 
going  up  to  relieve  them  in  a  week's  time.  So  we  played 
our  goodnight  tune  on  the  gramophone,  the  junior 
subaltern  waiting  in  his  pyjamas  while  the  last  notes  were 
sung.  Then  he  flicked  out  the  light  and  hopped  into  bed, 
and  presently  the  hut  was  filled  by  his  ungentle  snores. 
Then  one  rang  through  a  final  message  to  the  signaller 
on  duty  at  the  guns  and  closed  one's  eyes. 


22 

The  twenty-first  of  March,  1918,  has  passed  into 
history  now,  a  page  of  disaster,  blood  and  prisoners,  a 
turning  point  in  the  biggest  war  in  history,  a  day  which 


The  Western  Front  207 

broke  more  hearts  than  any  other  day  in  the  whole  four 
and  a  half  years  ;  and  yet  to  some  of  us  it  brought  an 
infinite  relief.  The  tension  was  released.  The  fight 
was  on  to  the  death. 

We  were  jerked  awake  in  the  darkness  by  a  noise 
which  beat  upon  the  brain,  made  the  hill  tremble  and 
shiver,  which  seemed  to  fill  the  world  and  all  time  with 
its  awful  threat. 

I  looked  at  my  watch, — 4  a.m. 

The  subaltern  who  lay  on  the  bed  beside  mine  said, 
"  She's  off !  "  and  lit  a  candle  with  a  laugh.  He  was  dead 
within  six  hours.  We  put  coats  over  our  pyjamas  and 
went  out  of  the  hut.  Through  the  fog  there  seemed  to 
be  a  sort  of  glow  along  the  whole  front  right  and  left, 
like  one  continuous  gun  flash.  The  Scots  Captain  came 
round  with  his  subalterns  and  joined  us,  and  two  "  Archie*' 
gunners  who  shared  a  tent  under  the  trees  and  messed 
with  us.  We  stood  in  a  group,  talking  loudly  to  make 
ourselves  heard.  There  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to 
stand  by.  According  to  plan  we  should  not  come  into 
action  until  about  10  p.m.  that  night  to  cover  the  retreat, 
if  necessary,  of  the  gunners  and  infantry  in  the  line.  Our 
range  to  start  with  would  be  six  thousand  yards. 

So  we  dressed  and  talked  to  Brigade,  who  had  no  in- 
formation. At  six  o'clock  Brigade  issued  an  order, 
*'  Man  O.P.'s  at  once."  The  fog  still  hung  like  a  blanket, 
and  no  news  had  come  through  from  the  front  line.  The 
barrage  was  reported  thick  in  front  of  and  in  Essigny  with 
gas. 

The  signallers  were  ready,  three  of  them.  The  subal- 
tern detailed  had  only  to  fill  his  pockets  with  food. 

The  subaltern  detailed !  It  sounds  easy,  doesn't 
it  ?  But  it  isn't  any  fun  detailing  a  man  to  go  out  into 
a  gas  barrage  in  any  sort  of  a  show,  and  this  was  bigger 
than  the  wildest  imagination  could  conceive.     I  won- 


20S  The  Grey  Wave 

dered,  while  giving  him  instructions,  whether  I  should 
ever  see  him  again.  I  never  did.  He  was  taken  prisoner, 
and  the  signallers  too. 

They  went  out  into  the  fog  while  the  servants  lit  the 
fire  and  bustled  about,  getting  us  an  early  breakfast. 
The  Anti- Aircraft  discussed  the  advisability  of  withdraw- 
ing immediately  or  waiting  to  see  what  the  barrage  would 
do.  They  waited  till  about  9  a.m.  and  then  got  out. 
The  Scots  Captain  and  I  wished  them  luck  and  looked  at 
each  other  silently  and  refilled  pipes. 

There  was  a  hint  of  sun  behind  the  fog  now,  but 
visibility  only  carried  about  two  hundred  yards.  The 
Guns  reported  that  the  barrage  was  coming  towards 
them.  The  Orderly  Officer  had  been  down  and  found 
all  things  in  readiness  for  any  emergency.  None  of  the 
O.P.'s  answered.  Somewhere  in  that  mist  they  were 
dodging  the  barrage  while  we  sat  and  waited,  an  eye  on 
the  weather,  an  eye  on  the  time,  an  ear  always  for  the 
buzz  of  the  telephone  ;  box  respirators  in  the  alert  posi- 
tion, the  guns  laid  on  the  S.O.S.  loaded  with  H.E. 

Does  one  think  in  times  like  that  ?  I  don't  know. 
Only  little  details  stand  out  in  the  brain  like  odd  features 
revealed  in  a  flash  of  lightning  during  a  storm.  I  re- 
member putting  a  drawing-pin  into  the  corner  of  a 
Kirchner  picture  and  seeing  the  headlines  of  the  next 
day's  paper  at  home  ;  I  saw  the  faces  of  my  people  as 
they  read  them.  I  saw  them  just  coming  down  to 
breakfast  at  the  precise  moment  that  I  was  sticking  in 
the  drawing-pin,  the  door  open  on  to  the  lawn — in 
America,  still  asleep,  as  they  were  six  hours  behind,  or 
possibly  only  just  turning  in  after  a  dance — in  Etaples, 
where  perhaps  the  noise  had  already  reached  one  of  them. 
When  would  they  hear  from  me  again  ?  They  would  be 
worrying  horribly. 

The  'phone  buzzed.     "  Briga^^    sir  !  " 


The  Western  Front  209 

"  Right.  Yes  ? — S.O.S.  3000  !  Three  thousand  ? — 
Right !  Battery  !  Drop  to  three  thousand,  S.O.S. — 
Three  rounds  per  gun  per  minute  till  I  come  down." 

It  was  10  a.m.  and  that  was  the  range,  when  according 
to  plan  it  shouldn't  have  come  till  10  p.m.  at  double  the 
range. 

The  subalterns  were  already  out,  running  down  to  the 
guns  as  I  snatched  the  map  and  followed  after,  to  hear 
the  battery  open  fire  as  I  left  the  hut. 

The  greater  significance  of  this  S.O.S.  came  to  me  before 
Fd  left  the  hut.  At  that  range  our  shells  would  fall 
just  the  other  side  of  Essigny,  still  a  vague  blur  in  the 
mist.  What  had  happened  to  the  infantry  three  thousand 
yards  beyond  ?  What  had  become  of  the  gunners  ? 
There  were  no  signs  of  our  people  coming  back.  The 
country,  as  far  as  one  could  see  in  the  fog,  was  empty  save 
for  the  bursting  shells  which  were  spread  about  between 
Essigny  and  the  railway,  with  the  battery  in  the  barrage . 
The  noise  was  still  so  universal  that  it  was  impossible  to 
know  if  any  of  our  guns  farther  forward  were  still  in  action. 
They  couldn't  be  if  we  were  firing.  It  meant — God  knew 
what  it  meant ! 

The  subalterns  went  on  to  the  guns  while  I  stopped  in 
the  control  dug  into  the  side  of  the  railway  and  shed  my 
coat,  sweating  after  the  quarter-mile  run.  Five-nines 
and  pip-squeaks  were  bursting  on  the  railway  and  it 
seemed  as  if  they  had  the  battery  taped. 

To  get  off  my  coat  was  a  matter  of  less  than  half  a 
minute.  It  had  only  just  dropped  to  the  ground  when 
the  signaller  held  me  the  instrument.  "  Will  you  speak 
here,  sir  ?  "  ^ 

I  took  it. 

"  Is  that  the  Major  ?  " 

''  Yes." 

"  Will  you    come,    sir  ?     Mr.    B.'s    badly    wounded. 

14 


210  The  Grey  Wave 

Sergeant  has  lost  an  eye  and  there's  no  one  here 

to " 

"Go  on  firing.     I'm  coming  over."     Badly  wounded  ? 

I  leaped  up  out  of  the  dugout  and  ran.  There  was 
no  shell  with  my  name  on  it  that  morning.  The  ground 
went  up  a  yard  away  from  me  half  a  dozen  times  but  I 
reached  the  guns  and  dived  under  the  camouflage  into 
the  trench  almost  on  top  of  poor  old  B.  who  was  lying 
motionless,  one  arm  almost  smashed  off,  blood  everywhere. 
It  was  he  who  had  said  "  She's  off !  "  and  lit  the  candle 
with  a  laugh.  A  man  was  endeavouring  to  tie  him  up. 
Behind  him  knelt  a  sergeant  with  his  face  in  his  hands. 
As  I  jumped  down  into  the  trench  he  raised  it.  "I'm 
blind,  sir,"  he  said.     His  right  eye  was  shot  away. 

The  others  were  all  right.  I  went  from  gun  to  gun  and 
found  them  firing  steadily. 

Somehow  or  other  we  tied  up  the  subaltern  and  carried 
him  along  the  narrow  trench.  Mercifully  he  was  un- 
conscious. We  got  him  out  at  last  on  to  a  stretcher. 
Four  men  went  away  with  it,  the  sergeant  stumbling 
after.  The  subaltern  was  dead  before  they  reached  a 
dressing  station.     He  left  a  wife  and  child. 

There  were  only  the  junior  subaltern  and  myself  left 
to  fight  the  battery.  He  was  twenty  last  birthday  and 
young  at  that.  If  I  stopped  anything  there  was  only  that 
boy  between  King  and  country  and  the  Hun.  Is  any 
reward  big  enough  for  these  babes  of  ours  ? 

Perhaps  God  will  give  it.     King  and  country  won't. 

Vague  forms  of  moving  groups  of  men  could  be  seen 
through  my  glasses  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Essigny 
impossible  to  say  whether  British  or  German.  The  sun 
was  struggling  to  pierce  the  mist.  The  distance  was  about 
a  thousand  yards.  We  were  still  firing  on  the  S.O.S. 
range,  as  ordered. 


The  Western  Front  211 

I  became  aware  of  a  strange  subaltern  grinning  up  at 
me  out  of  the  trench. 

"  Where  the  devil  do  you  spring  from  ?  "  said  I. 

He  climbed  out  and  joined  me  on  the  top,  hatless, 
minus  box  respirator,  cheery.     Another  babe. 

"  I'm  from  the  six-inch  section  straight  in  front,  sir," 
he  said.  "  They've  captured  my  guns.  Do  you  think 
you  could  take  'em  on  ?  " 

They  were  Germans,  then,  those  moving  forms  ! 

I  swept  the  glasses  round  once  more  anxiously.  There 
were  six,  seven,  ten,  creeping  up  the  railway  embankment 
on  the  left  flank  behind  the  battery.  Where  the  hell 
were  our  infantry  reinforcements  ?  My  Babe  sent  the 
news  back  to  Brigade  while  I  got  a  gun  on  top  and  fired 
at  the  six-inch  battery  in  front  over  open  sights  at  a 
thousand  yards  with  fuse  4.  The  Hun  was  there  all  right. 
He  ran  at  the  third  round.  Then  we  switched  and  took 
on  individual  groups  as  they  appeared. 

The  party  on  the  railway  worried  me.  It  was  improper 
to  have  the  enemy  behind  one's  battery.  So  I  got  on  the 
'phone  to  the  Scots  Captain  and  explained  the  position. 
It  looked  as  if  the  Hun  had  established  himself  with 
machine  guns  in  the  signal  box.  The  skipper  took  it 
on  over  open  sights  with  H.E.  At  the  fourth  round  there 
was  only  a  settling  mass  of  red  brick  dust.  I  felt  easier 
in  my  mind  and  continued  sniping  groups  of  two  or  three 
with  an  added  zest  and  most  satisfactory  results.  The 
Hun  didn't  seem  to  want  to  advance  beyond  Essigny. 
He  hung  about  the  outskirts  and,  when  he  showed, 
ran,  crouching  low.  From  his  appearance  it  looked 
as  if  he  had  come  to  stay.  Each  of  them  had  a  complete 
pack  strapped  on  to  his  back  with  a  new  pair  of  boots 
attached.  The  rest  of  the  battery  dropped  their  range 
and  searched  and  swept  from  the  pits.  The  Skipper 
joined  in  the  sniping. 

^4* 


212  The  Grey  Wave 

A  half  platoon  of  infantry  came  marching  at  a  snail's 
pace  along  the  railway  behind  me, — on  the  top  of  course, 
in  full  view  !  I  wanted  to  make  sure  of  those  Huns  on 
the  embankment,  so  I  whistled  to  the  infantry  officer  and 
began  semaphoring,  a  method  of  signalling  at  which  I 
rather  fancied  myself. 

It  seemed  to  frighten  that  infantry  lad.  At  the  first 
waggle  he  stopped  his  men  and  turned  them  about.  In 
twenty  leaps  I  covered  the  hundred  yards  or  so  between 
us,  screaming  curses,  and  brought  him  to  a  halt.  He 
wore  glasses  and  looked  like  a  sucking  curate.  He  may 
have  been  in  private  life  but  I  gave  tongue  at  high 
pressure,  regardless  of  his  feelings,  and  it  was  a  very  red- 
faced  platoon  that  presently  doubled  along  the  other  side 
of  the  railway  under  cover  towards  the  embankment, 
thirsting  for  blood,  mine  for  choice,  Fritz's  from  embarras 
de  richesse. 

I  returned  to  my  sniping,  feeUng  distinctly  better, 
as  the  little  groups  were  no  longer  advancing  but  going 
back, — and  there  was  that  ferocious  platoon  chivvying 
them  in  the  rear  ! 
Things  might  have  been  much  worse. 
A  megaphone's  all  right,  but  scream  down  it  for  three 
hours  and  see  what  happens  to  your  voice.  Mine 
sounded  much  like  a  key  in  a  rusty  lock.  Hunger  too 
was  no  longer  to  be  denied  about  three  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon  after  breakfast  at  cock-crow.  The  six-inch 
subaltern  had  tried  unsuccessfully  to  get  back  to  his 
guns.  The  Hun,  however,  had  established  a  machine- 
gun  well  the  other  side  of  them  and  approach  single- 
handed  was  useless.  Lord  knew  where  his  gunners  were  ! 
Prisoners,  probably.  So  he  returned  and  asked  if  I  had 
any  use  for  him.  Stout  lads  of  his  kidney  are  not  met 
with  every  day.  So  I  sent  him  up  the  hill  to  get  food  and 
a  box  respirator.     He  returned,  grmning  more  cheerily 


The  Western  Front  213 

than  before,  so  I  left  him  and  the  Babe  to  fight  the  good 
fight  and  went  to  get  a  fresh  point  of  view  from  the  tree 
O.P.  up  the  hill.  They  seemed  to  be  doing  useful  work 
between  them  by  the  time  I  got  up  the  tree,  so  I  left  them 
to  it  and  went  to  the  mess  to  get  some  food. 

It  seemed  curiously  empty.  Kits,  half-packed,  lay 
about  the  floor.  The  breakfast  plates,  dirty,  were  still 
on  the  table.  I  called  each  servant  by  name.  No 
answer. 

The  other  battery's  servants  were  round  the  corner. 
I  interviewed  them.  They  had  seen  nothing  of  my 
people  for  hours.  They  thought  that  they  had  gone 
down  to  the  wagon  line.  In  other  words  it  meant  that 
while  we  were  stopping  the  Hun,  with  poor  old  B.  killed 
and  the  sergeant  with  an  eye  blown  out,  those  dirty 
servants  had  run  away  ! 

It  came  over  me  with  something  of  a  shock  that  if  I 
put  them  under  arrest  the  inevitable  sentence  was 
death. 

I  had  already  sent  one  officer  and  three  men  to  their 
death,  or  worse,  at  the  O.P.  and  seen  another  killed  at 
the  guns.  Now  these  four  1  Who  would  be  a  Battery 
Commander  ? 

However,  food  was  the  immediate  requirement.  The 
other  battery  helped  and  I  fed  largely,  eased  my  raw 
throat  with  pints  of  water  and  drank  a  tot  of  rum  for  luck. 
Those  precious  servants  had  left  my  even  more  precious 
cigars  unpacked.  If  the  Hun  was  coming  I'd  see  him 
elsewhere  before  he  got  those  smokes.  So  I  lit  one  and 
filled  my  pockets  with  the  rest,  and  laden  with  food  and  a 
flask  of  rum  went  back  to  the  guns  and  fed  my  subaltern. 
The  men's  rations  had  been  carried  over  from  the  cook 
house. 

A  few  more  infantry  went  forward  on  the  right  and 
started  a  bit  of  a  counter-attack  but  there  was  no  weight 


214  The  Grey  Wave 

behind  it.  They  did  retake  Essigny  or  some  parts  of  it, 
but  as  the  light  began  to  fail  they  came  back  again,  and 
the  Hun  infantry  hung  about  the  village  without  advanc- 
ing. 

With  the  darkness  we  received  the  order  to  retire  to 
Flavy  as  soon  as  the  teams  came  up.  The  barrage  had 
long  since  dropped  to  desultory  fire  on  the  Hun  side, 
and  as  we  were  running  short  of  ammunition,  we  only 
fired  as  targets  offered.  On  returning  up  the  hill  I  found 
it  strongly  held  by  our  infantry,  some  of  whom  inciden- 
tally stole  my  trench  coat. 

The  question  of  teams  became  an  acute  worry  as  time 
went  on.  The  Hun  wasn't  too  remote  and  one  never 
knew  what  he  might  be  up  to  in  the  dark,  and  our  infantry 
were  no  use  because  the  line  they  held  was  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  behind  the  nearest  battery.  The  skipper  and  I  sent 
off  men  on  bic^^cles  to  hurry  the  teams,  while  the  gunners 
got  the  guns  out  of  the  pits  in  the  darkness  ready  to  hook 
in  and  move  off  at  a  moment's  notice. 

Meanwhile  we  ate  again  and  smoked  and  summoned 
what  patience  we  could,  endeavouring  to  snatch  a  sleep. 
It  wasn't  till  ten  o'clock  that  at  last  we  heard  wheels, — 
the  gun  limbers,  cooks'  cart  and  a  G.S.  wagon  came  up 
with  the  wagon  line  officer  who  had  brought  the  servants 
back  with  him.  There  was  no  time  to  deal  with  them. 
The  officer  went  down  to  hook  in  to  the  guns  and  I  saw  to 
the  secret  papers,  money,  maps  and  office  documents 
which  are  the  curse  of  all  batteries.  The  whole  business 
of  packing  up  had  to  be  done  in  pitch  darkness,  in  all  the 
confusion  of  the  other  battery's  vehicles  and  personnel, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  infantry.  We  didn't  bother  about 
the  Hun.     Silence  reigned. 

It  was  not  till  midnight  that  the  last  of  the  guns  was 
up  and  the  last  of  the  vehicles  packed,  and  then  I  heard 
the  voice  of  the  Bdbe  calling  for  me.     He  crashed  up  on 


The  Western  Front  215 

a  white  horse    in    the   darkness  and  said  with  a  sob, 
"  Dickie's  wounded  !  " 

"  Dickie  "  was  the  wagon  hne  subaltern,  a  second 
Heutenant  who  had  got  the  D.S.O.  in  the  Cambrai  show, 
one  of  the  stoutest  lads  God  ever  made.  In  my  mind  I 
had  been  relying  on  him  enormously  for  the  morrow. 

"  Is  he  bad  ?     Where  is  he  ?  " 

"  Just  behind,  sir,"  said  the  Babe.  "  I  don't  know  how 
bad  it  is." 

Dickie  came  up  on  a  horse.  There  was  blood  down 
the  horse's  shoulder  and  he  went  lame  slightly. 

"  Where  is  it,  Dickie,  Old  Thing  ?  " 

His  voice  came  from  between  his  teeth.  "  A  shrapnel 
bullet  through  the  foot,"  he  said.  "  I'm  damn  sorry 
Major." 

"  Let's  have  a  look."  I  flashed  a  torch  on  it.  The 
spur  was  bent  into  his  foot  just  behind  the  ankle,  broken, 
the  point  sticking  in. 

There  was  no  doctor,  no  stretcher,  no  means  of  getting 
the  spur  out. 

"  Can  you  stick  it  ?  The  wagon  is  piled  mountains 
high.  I  can't  shove  you  on  that.  Do  you  think  you  can 
hang  on  till  we  get  down  to  Flavy  ?  " 

"  I  think  so,"  he  said. 

He  had  a  drink  of  rum  and  lit  a  cigarette  and  the 
battery  got  mounted.  I  kept  him  in  front  with  me 
and  we  moved  off  in  the  dark,  the  poor  little  horse, 
wounded  also,  stumbling  now  and  again.  What  that  boy 
must  have  suffered  I  don't  know.  It  was  nearty  three 
hours  later  before  the  battery  got  near  its  destination 
and  all  that  time  he  remained  in  the  saddle,  lighting 
one  cigarette  from  another  and  telling  me  he  was  '*  damn 
sorry."  I  expected  him  to  faint  every  moment  and  stood 
by  to  grab  him  as  he  fell. 

At  last  we  came  to  a  crossroads  at  which  the  battery 


216  The  Grey  Wave 

had  to  turn  off  to  reach  the  rendezvous.  There  was  a 
large  casualty  clearing  station  about  half  a  mile  on. 

So  I  left  the  battery  in  charge  of  the  Babe  and  took 
Dickie  straight  on,  praying  for  a  sight  of  lights. 

The  place  was  in  utter  darkness  when  we  reached  it, 
the  hut  doors  yawning  open,  everything  empty.  They 
had  cleared  out  I 

Then  round  a  corner  I  heard  a  motor  lorry  starting 
up.  They  told  me  they  were  going  to  Ham.  There  was 
a  hospital  there. 

So  Dickie  slid  off  his  horse  and  was  lifted  into  the  lorry. 

As  my  trench  coat  had  been  stolen  by  one  of  the 
infantry  he  insisted  that  I  should  take  his  British  warm, 
as  within  an  hour  he  would  be  between  blankets  in  a 
hospital. 

I  accepted  his  offer  gladly, — ^little  knowing  that  I  was 
not  to  take  it  off  again  for  another  nine  days  or  so  ! 

Dickie  went  off  and  I  mounted  my  horse  again,  cursing 
the  war  and  everything  to  do  with  it,  and  led  his  horse, 
dead  lame  now,  in  search  of  the  battery.  It  took  me  an 
hour  to  find  them,  parked  in  a  field,  the  gunners  rolled 
up  in  blankets  under  the  wagons. 

The  2ist  of  March  was  over.  The  battery  had  lost 
three  subalterns,  a  sergeant,  three  signallers  and  a 
gunner. 

France  lost  her  temper  with  England. 

Germany,  if  she  only  knew  it,  had  lost  the  war. 


23 

The  new  line  of  defence  was  to  be  the  canal  at  Flavy. 

After  two  hours'  sleep  in  boots,  spurs  and  Dickie's 
coat,  a  servant  called  me  with  tea  and  bacon.  Wash- 
ing or  shaving  was  out  of  the  question.     The  horses 


The  Western  Front  217 

were  waiting — ^poor  brutes,  how  they  were  worked  those 
days — and  the  Quartermaster  sergeant  and  I  got  mounted 
and  rode  away  into  the  unknown  dark,  flickering  a  torch 
from  time  to  time  on  to  the  map  and  finding  our  way  by  it. 

With  the  Captain  on  leave,  one  subaltern  dead,  another 
left  behind  in  Germany,  a  third  wounded,  one  good  ser- 
geant and  my  corporal  signaller  away  on  a  course,  it 
didn't  look  like  a  very  hopeful  start  for  fighting  an  in- 
definite rearguard  action. 

I  was  left  with  the  Babe,  keen  but  not  very  knowledge- 
able, and  one  other  subaltern  who  became  a  stand-by. 
They  two  were  coming  with  me  and  the  guns  ;  the 
sergeant-major  would  be  left  with  the  wagon  line.  Fur- 
thermore I  had  absolutely  no  voice  and  couldn't  speak 
above  a  whisper. 

Of  what  had  happened  on  the  flanks  of  our  army  and 
along  the  whole  front,  there  was  absolutely  no  news. 
The  Divisional  infantry  and  gunners  were  mostly  killed 
or  captured  in  the  mist.  We  never  saw  anything  of  them 
again  but  heard  amazing  tales  of  German  officers  walking 
into  the  backs  of  batteries  in  the  fog  and  saying,  "  Will 
you  cease  fire,  please  ?  You  are  my  prisoners,"  as  polite 
as  you  please. 

What  infantry  were  holding  the  canal,  I  don't  know, — 
presumably  those  who  had  held  our  hilltop  overnight. 
All  we  knew  was  that  our  immediate  job  was  to  meet  the 
Colonel  in  Flavy  and  get  a  position  in  the  Riez  de  Cugny 
just  behind  and  pump  shells  into  the  Germans  as  they 
advanced  on  the  canal.  The  Babe  and  the  Stand-by 
were  to  bring  the  battery  to  a  given  rendezvous.  Mean- 
while the  Colonel  and  all  of  us  foregathered  in  a  wrecked 
cottage  in  Flavy  and  studied  maps  while  the  Colonel 
swallowed  a  hasty  cup  of  tea.  He  was  ill  and  a  few  hours 
later  was  sent  back  in  an  ambulance. 

By  eight  o'clock  we  had  found  positions  and  the  guns 


218  The  Grey  Wave 

were  coming  in.  Camouflage  was  elementary.  Gun 
platforms  were  made  from  the  nearest  cottage  wall  or 
barn  doors.  Ammunition  was  dumped  beside  the  gun 
wheels. 

While  that  was  being  done  I  climbed  trees  for  an  O.P., 
finding  one  eventually  in  a  farm  on  a  hill,  but  the  mist  hid 
everything.  The  Huns  seemed  to  get  their  guns  up  as  if 
by  magic  and  already  shells  were  smashing  what  remained 
of  Flavy.  It  was  impossible  to  shoot  the  guns  in  properly. 
The  bursts  couldn't  be  seen  so  the  line  was  checked  and 
rechecked  with  compass  and  director,  and  we  opened  fire 
on  targets  ordered  by  Brigade,  shooting  off  the  map. 

Riez  de  Cugny  was  a  collection  of  cottages  with  a  street 
running  through  and  woods  and  fields  all  around  and 
behind.  The  inhabitants  had  fled  in  what  they  stood  up 
in.  We  found  a  chicken  clucking  hungrily  in  a  coop  and 
had  it  for  dinner  that  night.  We  installed  ourselves  in  a 
cottage  and  made  new  fighting  maps,  the  Scots  Captain  and 
I — his  battery  was  shooting  not  a  hundred  yards  from 
mine — and  had  the  stove  lit  with  anything  burnable  that 
came  handy,  old  chairs,  meat  rolling  boards,  boxes, 
drawers  and  shelves. 

It  seemed  that  the  attack  on  the  canal  was  more  or  less 
half-hearted.  The  bridges  had  been  blown  up  by  our 
sappers  and  the  machine  gunners  made  it  too  hot  for  the 
Hun.  Meanwhile  we  had  the  gun  limbers  hidden  near 
the  guns,  the  teams  harnessed.  The  wagon  line  itself 
was  a  couple  of  miles  away,  endeavouring  to  collect  rations, 
forage  and  ammunition.  The  sergeant-major  was  a 
wonder.  During  the  whole  show  he  functioned  alone  and 
never  at  any  time  did  he  fail  to  come  up  to  the  scratch. 

Even  when  I  lost  the  wagon  line  for  two  days  I  knew 
that  he  was  all  right  and  would  bring  them  through  safely. 
Meanwhile  aeroplanes  soared  over  and  drew  smoke  trails 
above  the  battery  and  after  a  significant  pause  five-nines 


The  Western  Front  219 

began  searching  the  fields  for  us.  Our  own  planes  didn't 
seem  to  exist  and  the  Hun  explored  at  will.  On  the  whole 
things  seemed  pretty  quiet.  Communication  was  main- 
tained all  the  time  with  Brigade  ;  we  were  quietly  getting 
rid  of  a  lot  of  ammunition  on  targets  indicated  by  the 
infantry  and  the  five-nines  weren't  near  enough  to  worry 
about.  So  the  Scot  and  I  went  off  in  the  afternoon  and 
reconnoitred  a  way  back  by  a  cross-country  trail  to  the 
wagon  line, — a  curious  walk  that,  across  sunny  fields 
where  birds  darted  in  and  out  of  hedges  in  utter  dis- 
regard of  nations  which  were  stamping  each  other  into  the 
earth  only  a  few  hedges  away.  Tiny  buds  were  on  the 
trees,  tingling  in  the  warmth  of  the  early  sun.  All  nature 
was  beginning  the  new  year  of  life  while  we  fools  in  our 
bhnd  rage  and  folly  dealt  open-handedly  with  death, 
heeding  not  the  promise  of  spring  in  our  veins,  with  its 
colour  and  tenderness  and  infinite  hope. 

Just  a  brief  pause  it  was,  like  a  fleecy  cloud  disappear- 
ing from  view,  and  then  we  were  in  the  wagon  lines, 
soldiers  again,  in  a  tight  position,  with  detail  trickling 
from  our  lips,  and  orders  and  arrangements.  Dickie  was 
well  on  his  way  to  England  now,  lucky  Dickie  !  And  yet 
there  was  a  fascination  about  it,  an  exhilaration  that  made 
one  "  fill  the  unforgiving  minute  with  sixty  seconds' 
worth  of  distance  run."  It  was  the  real  thing  this,  red 
war  in  a  moving  battle,  and  it  took  all  one's  brain  to 
compete  with  it.  I  wouldn't  have  changed  places  with 
Dickie.  A  "  Blighty  "  wound  was  the  last  thing  that 
seemed  desirable.  Let  us  see  the  show  through  to  the 
bitter  end. 

We  got  back  to  the  guns  and  the  cottage  and  in  front 
of  us  Flavy  was  a  perfect  hell.  Fires  in  all  directions  and 
shells  spreading  all  round  and  over  the  area.  Our  wagons 
returned,  having  snatched  ammunition  from  blazing 
dumps,  like  a  new  version  of  snapdragon,  and  with  the 


220  The  Grey  Wave 

falling  darkness  the  sky  flared  up  and  down  fitfully.  That 
night  we  dished  out  rum  all  round  to  the  gunners  and 
turned  half  of  them  in  to  sleep  beside  the  guns  while  the 
other  half  fought.  Have  you  ever  considered  sleeping 
beside  a  firing  eight een-pounder  ?  It's  easy — when 
you've  fought  it  and  carried  shells  for  forty-eight  hours. 

We  had  dinner  off  that  neglected  fowl,  both  batteries 
in  the  cottage,  and  made  absurd  remarks  about  the 
photos  left  on  the  mantelpiece  and  fell  asleep,  laughing, 
on  our  chairs  or  two  of  us  on  a  bed,  booted  and  spurred 
still,  taking  turns  to  wake  and  dash  out  and  fire  a  target, 
called  by  the  liaison  officer  down  there  with  the  infantry, 
while  the  others  never  moved  when  the  salvos  rocked 
the  cottage  to  its  foundations,  or  five-nines  dropped  in 
the  garden  and  splashed  it  into  the  street. 

The  Hun  hadn't  crossed  the  canal.  That  was  what 
mattered.  The  breakfast  was  very  nearly  cooked  next 
morning  about  seven  and  we  were  shooting  gun  fire 
and  salvos  when  the  order  came  over  the  'phone  to  retire 
immediately  and  rendezvous  on  the  Villeselve-Beau- 
mont  crossroads.  Fritz  was  over  the  canal  in  the  fog. 
The  Babe  dashed  round  to  warn  the  teams  to  hook  in. 
They  had  been  in  cottages  about  two  hundred  yards  from 
the  guns,  the  horses  harnessed  but  on  a  line,  the  drivers 
sleeping  with  them.  The  Stand-by  doubled  over  to  the 
guns  and  speeded  up  the  rate  of  fire.  No  good  leaving 
ammunition  behind.  The  signallers  disconnected  tele- 
phones and  packed  them  on  gun  limbers.  Both  gunners 
and  drivers  had  breakfasted.  We  ate  ours  half  cooked 
in  our  fingers  while  they  were  packing  up. 

The  mist  was  hke  a  wet  blanket.  At  twenty  yards 
objects  lost  their  shape  and  within  about  twenty  minutes 
of  receiving  the  order  the  battery  was  ready.  We  had 
the  other  battery  licked  by  five  good  minutes  and  pulled 
out  of  the  field  on  to  the  road  at  a  good  walk.     In  the  fog 


The  Western  Front  221 

the  whole  country  looked  different.  Direction  was 
impossible.  One  prayed  that  one  wasn't  marching 
towards  Germany — and  went  on.  At  last  I  recognised 
the  cross-country  track  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  It  was 
stiff  going  for  the  horses,  but  they  did  it  and  cut  off  a 
mile  of  road  echoing  with  shouts  and  traihc  in  confusion, 
coming  out  eventually  on  an  empty  main  road.  We 
thought  we  were  well  ahead  but  all  the  wagon  lines  were 
well  in  front  of  us.  We  caught  up  their  tail-ends  just 
as  we  reached  Beaumont,  which  was  blocked  with  every 
kind  of  infant'ry,  artillery  and  R.A.M.C.  transport,  mules, 
horses  and  motors.  However  there  was  a  Headquarters 
in  Beaumont  with  Generals  buzzing  about  and  signallers, 
so  I  told  the  Stand-by  to  take  the  battery  along  with 
the  traffic  to  the  crossroads  and  wait  for  me. 

Our  own  General  was  in  that  room.     I  cleaved  a 
passage  to  him  and  asked  for  orders.     He  told  me  that 
it  was  reported  that  the  Hun  was  in  Ham  —  right  round 
our  left  flank.     I  was,  therefore,  to  get  into  position  at 
the  crossroads  and  "  Cover  Ham." 
*'  Am  I  to  open  fire,  sir  ?  " 
"No.     Not  till  you  see  the  enemy." 
I'd  had  enough  of  "  seeing  the  enemy  "  on  the  first 
day.     It  seemed  to  me  that  if  the  Hun  was  in  Ham 
the  whole  of  our  little  world  was  bound  to  be  captured. 
There  wasn't  any  time  to  throw  away,  so  I  leaped  on  to 
my  horse  and  cantered  after  the  battery  followed  by  the 
groom.    At  the  crossroads  the  block  was  double  and 
treble  while  an  officer  yelled  disentangling  orders  and 
pushed  horses  in  the  nose. 

The  map  showed  Ham  to  be  due  north  of  the  cross- 
roads. There  proved  to  be  an  open  field,  turfed  just 
off  the  road  with  a  dozen  young  trees  planted  at  intervals. 
What  lay  between  them  and  Ham  it  was  impossible  to 
guess.    The  map  looked  all  right.      So  I  claimed  the 


222  The  Grey  Wave 

traffic  officer's  attention,  explained  that  a  battery  of 
guns  was  coming  into  action  just  the  other  side  and 
somehow  squeezed  through,  while  the  other  vehicles 
waited.  We  dropped  into  action  under  the  trees.  The 
teams  scattered  about  a  hundred  yards  to  a  flank  and  we 
laid  the  line  due  north. 

At  that  moment  a  Staff  subaltern  came  up  at  the 
canter.  '*  The  General  says  that  the  Hun  is  pretty 
near,  sir.     Will  you  send  out  an  officer's  patrol  ?  '' 

He  disappeared  again,  while  I  collected  the  Stand- 
by, a  man  of  considerable  stomach. 

The  orders  were  simply,  "  Get  hold  of  servants,  cooks, 
spare  signallers  and  clerks.  Arm  them  with  rifles  and 
go  off  straight  into  the  fog.  Spread  out  and  if  you  meet 
a  Hun  fire  a  salvo  and  double  back  immediately  to  a 
flank." 

While  that  was  being  done  the  Babe  went  round 
and  had  a  dozen  shells  set  at  fuse  4  at  each  gun.  It 
gives  a  lovely  burst  at  a  thousand  yards.  The  Stand-by 
and  his  little  army  went  silently  forth.  The  comer 
house  seemed  to  indicate  an  O.P.  I  took  a  signaller 
with  me  and  we  climbed  upstairs  into  the  roof,  knocked 
a  hole  in  the  tiles  and  installed  a  telephone  which  eventu- 
ally connected  with  Brigade. 

I  began  to  get  the  fidgets  about  the  Stand-by.  This 
cursed  fog  was  too  much  of  a  good  thing.  It  looked  as 
if  the  God  the  Huns  talked  so  much  about  was  distinctly 
on  their  side.  However,  after  an  agonising  wait,  with  an 
ear  strained  for  the  salvo  of  rifle  fire,  the  fog  rolled  up. 
Like  dots  in  the  distant  fields  I  saw  the  Stand-by  with 
two  rows  of  infantry  farther  on.  The  Stand-by  saw  them 
too  and  turned  about.  More  than  that,  through  glasses 
I  could  see  troops  and  horse  transports  advancing  quickly 
over  the  sky  fine  in  every  direction.  Columns  of  them, 
Germans,  far  out  of  range  of  an  eighteen-pounder.    As 


The  Western  Front  223 

near  as  I  could  I  located  them  on  the  map  and  worried 
Brigade  for  the  next  hour  with  pin-points. 

Ham  lay  straight  in  front  of  my  guns.  The  Germans 
were  still  shelling  it  and  several  waves  of  our  own  in- 
fantry were  lying  in  position  in  series  waiting  for  their 
infantry  to  emerge  round  the  town.  It  was  good  to  see 
our  men  out  there,  although  the  line  looked  dangerously 
bulgy. 

After  a  bit  I  cHmbed  down  from  the  roof.  The  road 
had  cleared  of  traffic  and  there  was  a  subaltern  of  the 
Scot's  battery  at  the  corner  with  the  neck  of  a  bottle 
of  champagne  sticking  out  of  his  pocket.  A  thoughtful 
fellow. 

So  was  I !  A  little  later  one  of  the  Brigade  Head- 
quarters officers  came  staggering  along  on  a  horse,  done 
to  the  world,  staying  in  the  saddle  more  by  the  grace 
of  God  than  his  own  efforts.  Poor  old  thing,  he  was 
all  in,  mentally  and  physically.  We  talked  for  a  while 
but  that  didn't  improve  matters  and  then  I  remembered 
that  bottle  of  fizz.  In  the  name  of  humanity  and  neces- 
sity I  commandeered  it  from  the  reluctant  subaltern  and 
handed  it  up  to  the  man  in  the  saddle.  Most  of  it  went 
down  his  unshaven  chin  and  inside  his  collar,  but  it  did 
the  trick  all  right. 

What  was  left  was  mine  by  right  of  conquest,  and 
I  lapped  it  down,  a  good  half  bottle  of  it.  There  were 
dry  biscuits  forthcoming  too,  just  as  if  one  were  in  town, 
and  I  was  able  to  cap  it  with  a  fat  cigar.    Happy  days  ! 

Then  the  Scot  arrived  upon  his  stout  little  mare  fol- 
lowed by  his  battery,  which  came  into  position  on  the 
same  crossroads  a  hundred  yards  away,  shooting  at  right 
angles  to  me,  due  east,  back  into  Cugny  from  where  we 
had  come.  Infantry  were  going  up,  rumours  of  cavalry 
were  about  and  the  bloodstained  Tommies  who  came  back 
were  not  very  numerous.     There  seemed  to  be  a  number 


224  The  Grey  Wave 

of  batteries  tucked  away  behind  all  the  hedges  and  things 
looked  much  more  hopeful.  Apart  from  giving  pin- 
points of  the  far  distant  enemy  there  was  nothing  to  be 
done  except  talk  to  all  and  sundry  and  try  and  get  news. 
Some  French  machine-gunner  officers  appeared  who  told 
us  that  the  entire  French  army  was  moving  by  forced 
marches  to  assist  in  stopping  the  advance  and  were  due 
to  arrive  about  six  o'clock  that  night.     They  were  late. 

Then  too,  we  found  that  the  cellar  of  the  O.P.  house 
was  stored  with  apples.  There  weren't  many  left  by 
the  time  the  two  batteries  had  helped  themselves.  As 
many  horses  as  the  farmyard  would  hold  were  cleared 
off  the  position  and  put  under  cover.  The  remainder 
and  the  guns  were  forced  to  remain  slap  in  the  open. 
It  was  bad  luck  because  the  Hun  sent  out  about  a  dozen 
low-flying  machines  that  morning  and  instead  of  going 
over  Ham,  which  would  have  been  far  more  interesting 
for  them,  they  spotted  us  and  opened  with  machine 
guns. 

The  feeling  of  helplessness  with  a  dozen  great  roaring 
machines  spitting  at  you  just  overhead  is  perfectly  exas- 
perating. You  can't  cock  an  eighteen-pounder  up  like 
an  Archie  and  have  a  bang  at  them,  and  usually,  as 
happened  then,  your  own  machine  gun  jams.  It  was 
a  comic  twenty  minutes  but  trying  for  the  nerves.  The 
gunners  dived  under  the  gun  shields  and  fired  rifles 
through  the  wheels.  The  drivers  stood  very  close  to  the 
horses  and  hoped  for  the  best.  The  signallers  struggled 
with  the  machine  gun,  uttering  a  stream  of  blasphemies. 
And  all  the  time  the  Hun  circled  and  emptied  drum 
after  drum  from  a  height  of  about  a  hundred  feet.  I 
joined  in  the  barrage  with  my  revolver. 

Two  horses  went  down  with  a  crash  and  a  scream. 
A  man  toppled  over  in  the  road.  Bullets  spat  on  the 
ground  like  little  puffs  of  smoke.    Two  went  through 


The  Western  Front  225 

my  map,  spread  out  at  my  feet,  and  at  last  away  they 
roared, — presumably  under  the  impression  that  they 
had  put  us  out  of  action.    The  horses  were  dead  ! 

The  man  was  my  servant,  who  had  run  away  on  the 
first  morning.  Three  through  his  left  leg.  Better 
than  being  shot  at  dawn,  anyhow. 

Curiously  enough,  the  mess  cook  had  already  become 
a  casualty.  He  was  another  of  the  faint-hearted  and 
had  fallen  under  a  wagon  in  the  fog  and  been  run  over. 
A  rib  or  two  went.  Poetic  justice  was  rampant  that 
morning.  It  left  me  two  to  deal  with.  I  decided  to  let 
it  go  for  the  time  and  see  if  fate  would  relieve  me  of  the 
job.  As  a  matter  of  fact  it  didn't,  and  many  many 
lifetimes  later,  when  we  were  out  of  action,  I  had  the 
two  of  them  up  in  a  room  with  a  ceihng  and  a  cloth  on 
the  table,  and  the  Babe  stood  at  my  elbow  as  a  witness. 

One  was  a  man  of  about  thirty-eight  or  forty,  a  long- 
nosed,  lazy,  unintelligent  bUghter.  The  other  was  a 
short,  scrubby.  Dago-looking,  bullet-headed  person, 
— poor  devils,  both  cannon  fodder.  My  face  may  have 
looked  like  a  bit  of  rock  but  I  was  immensely  sorry  for 
them.  Given  a  moment  of  awful  panic,  what  kind  of 
intelligence  could  they  summon  to  fight  it,  what  sort 
of  breeding  and  heredity  was  at  the  back  of  them  ? 
None.  You  might  as  well  shoot  two  horses  for  s'amped- 
ing  at  a  bursting  shell.  They  were  gripped  by  blind 
fear  and  ran  for  it.  They  didn't  want  to.  It  was  not 
*  a  reasoned  thing.     It  was  a  momentary  lack  of  control. 

But  to  shoot  them  for  it  was  absurd,  a  ridiculous 
parody  of  justice.  Supposing  I  had  lost  my  nerve  and 
cleared  out  ?  The  chances  are  that  being  a  senior  officer 
I  should  have  been  sent  down  to  the  base  as  R.T.O. 
or  M.L.O.  and  after  a  few  months  received  the  D.S.O. 
It  has  been  done.  They,  as  Tommies,  had  only  earned 
the  right  to  a  firing  party. 

15 


226  The  Grey  Wave 

It  seemed  to  me,  therefore,  that  my  job  was  to  prevent 
any  recurrence,  so  in  order  to  uproot  the  fear  of  death 
I  implanted  the  fear  of  God  in  them  both.  Sweat  and 
tears  ran  down  their  faces  at  the  end  of  the  interview, — 
and  I  made  the  Dago  my  servant  forthwith. 

He  has  redeemed  himself  many  times  under  worse 
shell  fire  than  that  barrage  of  the  21st  of  March. 


24 

Headquarters  gave  me  another  subaltern  during 
the  day.  He  had  been  with  the  battery  in  the  early 
days  at  Armentieres  but  for  various  reasons  had  drifted 
to  another  unit. 

He  joined  us  just  before  the  order  was  received  to 
take  up  another  position  farther  back  and  lay  out  a  line 
on  the  Riez  de  Cugny.  The  enemy  was  apparently 
coming  on.  So  we  hooked  in  once  more  about  4.30  in 
the  afternoon  and  trekked  up  the  road  on  to  a  ridge 
behind  which  was  the  village  of  Villeselve.  The  Hun 
seemed  to  have  taken  a  dislike  to  it.  Five-nines  went 
winging  over  our  heads  as  we  came  into  action  and  bumped 
into  the  village  about  two  hundred  yards  behind.  The 
Babe  rode  back  to  Brigade  to  report  and  ask  for  orders. 
There  were  no  means  of  knowing  where  our  infantry  were 
except  through  Brigade  who  were  at  infantry  head- 
quarters, and  obviously  one  couldn't  shoot  blind. 

Meanwhile  the  Dago  servant  collected  bread  and 
bully  and  a  Tommy's  water  bottle,  which  stank  of  rum 
but  contained  only  water,  and  the  Stand-by,  the  new 
lad  and  myself  sat  under  a  tree  watching  the  Hun  barrage 
splash  in  all  directions  and  made  a  meal. 

The  Babe  didn't  return  as  soon  as  he  ought  to  have 


The  Western  Front  227 

done.  With  all  that  shooting  going  on  I  was  a  little 
uneasy.  So  the  new  lad  was  told  to  go  to  Brigade  and 
collect  both  the  orders  and  the  Babe. 

It  was  getting  dark  when  the  Scot  brought  up  his 
battery  and  wheeled  them  to  drop  into  action  beside  us. 
As  he  was  doing  so  the  Babe  and  the  new  lad  returned 
together.  Their  news  was  uncomforting.  Brigade  Head- 
quarters had  retired  into  the  blue,  and  the  other  two 
batteries  which  had  been  on  the  road  had  also  gone. 
There  was  no  one  there  at  all. 

So  the  Scotsman  and  I  held  a  council  of  war,  while 
the  Stand-by  went  off  on  a  horse  to  reconnoitre  a  passable 
way  round  the  shelled  village.  The  light  had  gone  and 
the  sky  behind  us  was  a  red  glare.  The  village  was 
ablaze  and  at  the  back  of  it  on  the  next  ridge  some 
aeroplane  hangars  were  like  a  beacon  to  guide  storm- 
tossed  mariners.  The  crackling  could  be  heard  for 
miles. 

There  was  no  one  to  give  us  the  line  or  a  target,  no 
means  of  finding  where  the  headquarters  were  or  any 
likelihood  of  their  finding  us  as  we  hadn't  been  able  to 
report  our  position.    We  were  useless. 

At  the  back  of  my  brain  was  the  word  Guivry.  I 
had  heard  the  Adjutant  mention  it  as  a  rendezvous. 
On  the  map  it  seemed  miles  away,  but  there  was  always 
the  chance  of  meeting  some  one  on  the  way  who  would 
know.  So  while  the  other  people  snatched  a  mouthful 
of  ration  biscuit  we  brought  the  teams  up  and  hooked 
in. 

The  Scotsman  led  as  his  battery  was  nearest  the 
track  that  the  Stand-by  reported  passable.  The  only 
light  was  from  the  burning  hangars  and  we  ran  into  mud 
that  was  axle  deep.  Incidentally  we  ran  into  the  barrage. 
A  subaltern  of  the  other  battery  was  blown  off  his  feet 
and  deposited  in  a  sitting  position  in  a  mud  hole.     He 

15* 


228  The  Grey  Wave 

was  fished  out,  spluttering  oaths,  and  both  batteries 
went  off  at  a  trot  that  would  have  made  an  inspecting 
General  scream  unintelligible  things  in  Hindustani. 
Mercifully  they  don't  inspect  when  one  is  trying  to  hurry 
out  of  a  barrage,  so  we  let  it  rip  up  the  slope  until  we  had 
got  past  the  hangars  in  whose  glow  we  showed  up  most 
uncomfortably  on  the  top  of  the  ridge.  As  soon  as  we 
had  got  into  darkness  again  we  halted  and  took  stock 
of  ourselves.  No  one  was  hurt  or  missing,  but  all  the 
dismounted  men  were  puffing  and  using  their  sleeves 
to  wipe  the  sweat  off  their  faces.     I  was  one. 

It  was  from  this  point  that  the  second  phase  of  the 
retreat  began.  It  was  like  nothing  so  much  as  being 
in  that  half  dead  condition  on  the  operating  table  when 
the  fumes  of  ether  fill  one's  brain  with  phantasies  and 
flapping  birds  and  wild  flights  of  imagination  just  before 
one  loses  consciousness,  knowing  at  the  time  that  one 
hasn't  quite  "  gone."  Overfatigue,  strain,  lack  of  food 
and  above  all  was  a  craving  to  stop  everything,  lie  down, 
and  sleep  and  sleep  and  sleep.  One's  eyes  were  glued 
open  and  burnt  in  the  back  of  one's  head,  the  skin  of 
one's  face  and  hands  tightened  and  stretched,  one's  feet 
were  long  since  past  shape  and  feeling ;  wherever  the 
clothes  touched  one's  body  they  irritated — not  that 
one  could  realize  each  individual  ache  then.  The  effect 
was  one  ceaseless  dolour  from  which  the  brain  flung 
out  and  away  into  the  no  man's  land  of  semi-conscious- 
ness, full  of  thunder  and  vast  fires,  only  to  swing  back 
at  intervals  to  find  the  body  marching,  marching,  end- 
lessly, staggering  almost  drunkenly,  along  the  intermin- 
able roads  of  France  in  the  rain  and  cold.  Hour  after 
hour  one  rode  side  by  side  with  the  Scot,  silent,  swaying 
in  the  saddle,  staring  hollow-eyed  into  the  dark  ahead, 
or  sliding  with  a  stiff  crash  to  the  ground  and  blundering 
blindly  from  rut  to  rut,  every  muscle  bruised  and  torn. 


The  Western  Front  229 

Unconsciously  every  hour  one  gave  a  ten-minute  halt. 
The  horses  stood  drooping,  the  men  lay  down  on  the 
side  of  the  road,  motionless  bundles  like  the  dead,  or 
sprawled  over  the  vehicles,  limp  and  exhausted,  not 
smoking,  not  talking,  content  to  remain  inert  until  the 
next  word  of  command  should  set  them  in  motion  again  ; 
wonderful  in  their  recognition  of  authority,  their  instant 
unquestioning  obedience,  their  power  of  summoning 
back  all  their  faculties  for  just  one  more  effort,  and  then 
another  after  that. 

The  country  was  unknown.  Torches  had  given  out 
their  last  flicker.  Road  junctions  were  unmarked. 
We  struck  matches  and  wrestled  with  maps  that  refused 
to  fold  in  the  right  place,  and  every  time  Guivry  seemed 
a  milUon  miles  away.  The  noise  of  shelling  dropped 
gradually  behind  until  it  became  a  mere  soothing  lullaby 
like  the  breaking  of  waves  upon  a  pebble  beach  while 
we  rolled  with  crunching  wheels  down  the  long  incline 
into  Buchoire,  a  village  of  the  dead,  without  lights,  doors 
creaking  open  at  the  touch  of  the  wind. 

We  halted  there  to  water  the  horses  and  give  them  what 
forage  could  be  scraped  together.  The  Scot  and  I  rode 
on  alone  to  Guivry,  another  seven  kilometres.  As  we 
neared  it  so  the  sound  of  guns  increased  again  as  though 
a  military  band  had  died  away  round  one  comer  and 
came  presently  marching  back  round  another,  playing 
the  same  air,  getting  louder  as  it  came. 

In  a  small  room  lit  by  oil  lamps.  Generals  and  Staffs 
were  bending  over  huge  maps  scored  heavily  with  red 
and  blue  pencils.  Telephones  buzzed  and  half  conversa- 
tions with  tiny  voices  coming  from  back  there  kept  all 
the  others  silent.  OrderUes  came  in  motor  overalls 
with  all  the  dust  of  France  over  them. 

They  gave  us  food, — ^whisky,  bully  and  bread,  apples 
with  which  we  filled  our  pockets.     Of  our  Corps  they 


280  The  Grey  Wave 

knew    nothing,     but     after     much     telephoning     they 
"  thought  "  we  should  find  them  at  Chateau  Beines. 

The  Scot  and  I  looked  at  one  another.  Chateau 
Beines  was  ten  minutes  from  the  burning  hangars. 
We  had  passed  it  on  oiu*  way  down  empty,  silent,  hours 
ago,  in  another  liie.  Would  the  horses  get  us  back  up 
that  interminable  climb  ?  Who  should  we  find  when 
we  got  there — our  pe'..pie  or  Germans  ?  We  rode  back 
to  Buchoire  and  distributed  apples  to  the  Babe,  the 
Stand-by  and  the  others  and  broke  it  to  them  that  we 
had  to  go  back  on  the  chance  of  finding  our  brigade. 
The  horses  had  been  watered  but  not  fed. 

We  turned  about  and  caught  up  French  transport 
which  had  blocked  the  road  in  both  directions.  We 
straightened  them  out,  a  wagon  at  a  time,  after  endless 
wagging  of  hands  and  tongues  and  finally  got  to  Chateau 
Beines  to  find  a  French  Headquarters  installed  there 
who  knew  nothing  about  our  brigade.  There  were  English 
artillery  in  the  farm  a  mile  farther. 

We  went  there.  The  farm  was  a  ruin  wreathed  in 
fog,  but  from  beneath  the  now  smoking  hangars  a  battery 
of  ours  was  spitting  shells  into  the  night.  Headquarters 
was  somewhere  in  the  farm  cellar.  We  followed  up  a 
chink  of  light  to  its  source  and  found  a  row  of  ofiicers 
lying  on  wooden  beds  of  rabbit  netting,  a  signaller  squat- 
ting on  a  reel  of  wire  in  the  corner  over  a  guttering  candle, 
the  concrete  roof  dripping  moisture  upon  them.  It  was 
3  a.m. 

Orders  were  to  come  into  action  at  once  and  open 
fire  on  a  certain  main-road  junction. 

The  Scot  and  I  went  out  and  scoured  ploughed  fields 
waist-deep  in  drifting  mist,  looking  for  a  position,  found 
a  belt  of  turf  on  the  edge  of  a  road  and  fetched  the  guns 
up.  Locating  the  position  on  the  map,  working  out  the 
angle  of  the  fine  of  fire  and  the  range  with  protractors 


The  Western  Front  231 

took  us  back  to  the  cellar  where  those  lucky  devils  who 
were  not  commanding  batteries  were  lying  stertorous. 
Horses  and  men  sweated  their  heart's  blood  in  getting 
the  guns  into  position  on  the  spongy  ground  and  within 
an  hour  the  first  ear-splitting  cracks  joined  in  the  chorus 
of  screaming  resistance  put  up  by  the  other  two  batteries, 
with  gunners  who  lost  their  balance  at  the  weight  of  a 
shell  and  fell  upon  their  faces,  picking  themselves  up 
without  even  an  oath  and  loading  up  again  in  a  stupor 
by  a  process  of  sub-conscious  reflex  energy. 

What  are  the  limits  of  human  endurance  ?  Are 
there  any  ?  We  had  three  more  days  and  nights  of  it 
and  still  those  men  went  on. 


25 

Sometime  or  other  the  Babe,  the  Stand-by  and  the 
other  lad  got  some  tea  down  in  the  cellar  and  fell  asleep 
over  their  cups.  Sometime  or  other  I  too  got  some  tea, 
closed  my  eyes  and  fell  off  the  box  on  which  I  was  sitting. 
Sometime  or  other  we  got  the  order  to  cease  fire  and  seek 
covered  positions  for  the  day's  work.  Time,  as  one 
ordinarily  recognizes  it,  had  ceased.  There  was  no  night, 
marked  by  rest,  nor  day  divided  off  into  duties  and  meals. 
Time  was  all  one,  a  blurry  mixture  of  dark  and  cold  ; 
light,  which  hurt  one's  eyes,  and  sweat.  Sleep  and  rest 
were  not.  What  was  happening  we  did  not  know.  It 
might  have  been  the  end  of  the  world  and  we  shouldn't 
have  known  till  we  were  in  the  next.  There  were  just 
guns  to  be  fired  at  given  points  for  ever  and  ever,  always 
and  always,  world  with  or  without  end,  amen.  Guns, 
guns  and  nothing  but  guns,  in  front,  behind,  right  and 
left,  narrowing  down  to  those  of  mine  which  grew  hot 
and  were  sponged  out   and  went   on   again   and  still 


232  The  Grey  Wave 

on,  unhurriedly,  remorselessly  into  the  German  advance, 
and  would  go  on  long  and  long  after  I  was  dead. 

One's  mind  refused  to  focus  anything  but  angles 
and  ranges  and  ammunition  supply.  There  was  nothing 
of  importance  in  the  world  but  those  three  things,  whether 
we  moved  on  or  stayed  where  we  were,  whether  we  walked 
or  whether  we  rode,  whether  we  ate  or  whether  we 
starved.  In  a  sort  of  detached  fog  one  asked  questions 
and  gave  orders  about  food  and  forage  and  in  the  same 
fog  food  eventually  appeared  while  one  stared  at  the  map 
and  whispered  another  range  which  the  Stand-by  shouted 
down  the  Hne  of  guns. 

With  spades  we  cut  a  gap  in  a  hedge  which  shut  off 
an  orchard  from  the  road.  The  ditch  was  filled  with 
stones  and  bricks  from  the  farm.  The  horses  took  the 
guns  in  one  by  one,  and  other  gaps  were  cut  in  the  front 
hedge  for  the  gun  muzzles.  Platforms  were  dug  and 
trail  beds,  and  ammunition  began  to  pile  up  beside  each 
gun  as  the  sun  came  out  and  thinned  the  fog. 

A  telephone  line  ran  away  across  the  fields  and  a  new 
voice  came  through  the  receiver,  tickhng  one's  ear, — 
that  of  an  uncaptured  Colonel  of  a  captured  brigade  who 
honoured  us  by  taking  command  of  our  brigade.  With 
a  shaven  face  and  washed  hands  he  had  looked  upon  our 
bearded  chins  and  foul  appearance  and  talked  of  the 
condition  of  our  horses. 

In  front  of  the  guns  a  long  Hne  of  French  machine 
gunners  had  dug  themselves  in  and  we  were  on  the  top 
of  a  high  ridge.  Below  us  the  ground  sloped  immediately 
away  to  a  beautiful  green  valley  which  rose  up  again 
to  a  feathery  wood  about  to  burst  into  green  and  ran 
past  it  in  undulations  hke  the  green  rollers  of  the  Atlantic. 
Away  in  the  distance  were  the  great  bulbous  ever-watch- 
ing eyes  of  the  enemy, — ^balloons,  which  as  the  sun  came 
up,    advanced    steadily,    hypnotically,    many    of   them 


The  Western  Front  238 

strung  outjin'a  long  line.  Presently  from  the  wood  below 
came  trickling  streams  of  men,  like  brown  insects  coming 
from  a  dead  horse.  The  sun  glinted  on  their  rifles. 
Steadily  they  came,  unhurriedly,  plodding  up  to  the  ridge, 
hundreds  of  them,  heedless  of  the  enemy  barrage  which 
began  climbing  too  in  great  hundred-yard  jumps. 

"  What  news  ?  "  said  I,  as  one  trickle  reached  me. 
It  was  led  by  a  Colonel. 

He  shook  his  head.  "  We've  been  relieved  by  the 
French,"  said  he,  not  stopping. 

"  Reheved  ?  But  God's  truth,  isn't  there  a  war 
on?  " 

"  Who  the  hell  are  you  talking  to  ?  "  He  flung  it 
over  his  shoulder  and  his  men  followed  him  away. 

Somehow  it  didn't  seem  credible.  And  yet  there  all 
along  the  ridge  and  the  valley  was  the  entire  British 
infantry,  or  what  looked  like  it,  leisurely  going  back, 
while  the  French  machine  gunners  looked  at  them  and 
chattered.  I  got  on  the  'phone  to  Brigade  about  it. 
The  Colonel  said,  "  Yes,  I  know." 

We  went  on  firing  at  long  range.  The  teams  were 
just  behind  the  guns,  each  one  under  an  apple  tree, 
the  drivers  lying  beside  their  horses.  The  planes  which 
came  over  didn't  see  us.  The  other  batteries  were  in 
the  open  behind  the  crest  tucked  into  folds  of  the  ground, 
all  the  wagon  lines  clinging  to  a  farmhouse  about  a  mile 
back  where  the  headquarters  was.  The  Hun  barrage 
was  quickly  coming  nearer. 

A  troop  of  cavalry  trotted  down  into  it  and  took 
cover  under  one  end  of  the  wood.  They  had  only  one 
casualty.  A  shell  struck  a  tree  and  brought  it  crashing 
down  on  top  of  a  horse  and  rider.  The  last  of  our  in- 
fantry had  passed  behind  us  and  the  wood  was  empty 
again.  The  opposite  ridge  was  unoccupied ;  glasses 
showed  no  one  in  the  country  that  stretched  away  on 


284  The  Grey  Wave 

the  left.  Only  the  balloons  seemed  almost  on  top  of 
us.  The  cavalry  left  the  wood  and  trotted  over  the 
ridge  in  a  long  snake  of  half  sections,  and  then  the  fringe 
of  the  barrage  reached  us.  It  splashed  into  the  orchard. 
Drivers  leaped  to  the  horses'  heads.  No  man  or  animal 
was  touched.  Again  one  heard  it  coming,  instinctively 
crouching  at  its  shriek.  Again  it  left  us  untouched  as 
with  an  inattentive  eye  I  saw  the  cavalry  come  trotting 
quietly  back.  It  was  followed  by  a  chattering  of  the 
French.  The  reason  was  obvious.  Out  of  the  wood 
other  streams  came  trickling,  blue  this  time,  in  little 
parties  of  four  and  five,  momentarily  increasing  in  number 
and  pace. 

The  first  lot  reached  the  battery  and  said  they  were 
the  second  line.  The  Boche  was  a  "  sale  race,  b'en  zut 
alors  !  "  and  hitching  their  packs  they  passed  on. 

The  machine  gunners  began  to  get  ready.  The  battery 
began  to  look  at  me.  The  Stand-by  gave  them  another 
salvo  for  luck  and  then  ordered  ten  rounds  per  gun  to 
be  set  at  fuse  6 — the  edge  of  the  wood  was  about  fifteen 
hundred. 

The  next  stream  of  poilus  was  hotter.  They  sweated 
much  all  among  the  orchard  and  told  me  with  a  laugh 
that  the  Boche  would  be  here  in  five  minutes.  But 
when  I  suggested  that  they  should  stay  and  see  what 
we  could  do  together  they  shrugged  their  shoulders, 
spat,  said,  "  En  route  !  "  and  en  routed. 

The  gunners  had  finished  setting  the  fuses  and  were 
talking  earnestly  together.  The  machine  gunners  weren't 
showing  much  above  ground.  The  barrage  had  passed 
over  to  our  rear. 

I  called  up  the  Colonel  again  and  told  him.  He  told 
me  I  could  drop  the  range  to  three  thousand. 

The  Stand-by  passed  the  order.  It  got  about  as  far 
as  the  first  gun  and  there  died  of  inanition.    The  battery 


The  Western  Front  285 

was  so  busy  talking  about  the  expected  arrival  of  the 
Boche  that  orders  faded  into  insignificance.  The  Stand- 
by repeated  the  order.  Again  it  was  not  passed.  I 
tried  a  string  of  curses  but  nothing  more  than  a  whisper 
would  leave  my  throat.  The  impotence  of  it  was  the 
last  straw.  I  whispered  to  the  Stand-by  to  repeat  word 
for  word  what  I  said.  He  megaphoned  his  hands  and 
you  could  have  heard  him  across  the  Channel, — a  lovely 
voice,  a  bull  of  Bashan,  that  rose  above  the  crash  of 
shells  and  reached  the  last  man  at  the  other  end  of  the 
line  of  guns.  What  he  repeated  was  totally  unprintable. 
If  voice  failed  me,  vocabulary  hadn't.  I  rose  to  heights 
undreamed  of  by  even  the  Tidworth  sergeant-major. 

At  the  end  of  two  minutes  we  began  a  series  which 
for  smartness,  jump,  drive,  passing  and  execution  of 
orders  would  have  put  a  Salisbury  depot  battery  into 
the  waste-paper  basket.  Never  in  my  life  have  I  seen 
such  gunnery  as  those  fellows  put  up.  Salvos  went  over 
like  one  pistol  shot.  Six  rounds  battery  fire  one  second 
were  like  the  ticking  of  a  stop  watch.  Gun  fire  was  like 
the  stoking  of  the  fires  of  hell  by  demons  on  hot  cinders. 

One  forgot  to  be  tired,  one  forgot  to  look  out  for 
the  Hun  in  the  joy  of  that  masterly  performance,  a 
fortissima  cantata  on  a  six  pipe  organ  of  death  and  hate. 
Five  minutes,  ten  minutes  ?  I  don't  know,  but  the  pile 
of  empty  shell  cases  became  a  mountain  behind  each 
gun. 

A  signaller  tugged  at  my  arm  and  I  went  to  the 
'phone. 

"  Retire  immediately  !     Rendezvous  at  Buchoire  !  '* 

I  was  still  caught  up  with  the  glory  of  that  shooting. 

"  What  the  hell  for  ?  "  said  I.  "I  can  hang  on  here 
for  ages  yet." 

"  Retire  immediately  !  "  repeated  the  Colonel. 

I  came  to  earth  with  a  bang  and  began  to  apologize. 


286  The  Grey  Wave 

Somehow  it  doesn't  do  to  talk  like  that  to  one's  Colonel 
even  in  moments  of  spiritual  exaltation. 

We  ceased  fire  and  packed  up  and  got  mounted  and 
hooked  in  like  six  bits  of  black  ginger,  but  the  trouble 
was  that  we  had  to  leave  the  comparative  safety  of  our 
orchard  and  go  out  into  the  barrage  which  was  churning 
up  the  fields  the  other  side  of  the  hedge.  I  collected 
the  Stand-by  and  gave  him  the  plan  of  campaign.  They 
were  to  follow  me  in  column  of  route  at  a  trot,  with  twenty 
yards  between  guns, — that  is,  at  right  angles  to  the 
barrage,  so  as  to  form  a  smaller  target.  No  man  can 
have  failed  to  hear  his  voice  but  for  some  unknown  reason 
they  failed  to  carry  out  the  order.  The  leading  gun 
followed  me  over  the  ditch  on  to  the  field,  shells  bursting 
on  every  side.  About  sixty  yards  across  the  field  I  looked 
over  my  shoulder  and  saw  that  they  were  all  out  of  the 
orchard  but  wheeling  to  form  line,  broadside  on  to  the 
barrage. 

The  leading  gun,  which  the  Stand-by  took  on,  was  the 
only  one  that  got  safely  away.  The  five  others  all  stuck 
with  horses  dead  and  men  wounded,  and  still  that  barrage 
dropped  like  hail. 

We  cut  out  the  dead  horses  and  shot  the  badly  wounded 
ones  and  somehow  managed  a  four-horse  team  for  each 
gun.  The  wounded  who  couldn't  walk  were  lifted  on 
to  limbers  and  held  there  by  the  others,  and  the  four- 
horse  teams  nearly  broke  their  hearts  before  we  got  the 
guns  off  that  devilish  bit  of  ploughed  land  on  to  a  road, 
and  after  another  twenty  minutes  had  got  out  of  the 
shell  fire.  Three  sergeants  were  wounded,  a  couple  of 
drivers  and  a  gunner.  The  road  was  one  soUd  mass  of 
moving  troops,  French  and  English,  infantry,  gunners 
and  transport.  There  was  no  means  of  going  cross- 
country with  four-horse  teams.  One  had  to  follow  the 
stream.    Fortunately  there  were  some  R.A.M.C.  people 


The  Western  Front  2«7 

with  stretchers  and  there  was  a  motor  ambulance.  Be- 
tween the  two  we  got  all  our  casualties  bandaged  and 
away.  The  other  batteries  had  been  gone  already 
three  quarters  of  an  hour.  There  was  no  sign  of  them 
anywhere. 

My  own  battery  was  scattered  along  a  mile  of  traffic  ; 
one  gun  here,  another  there,  divided  by  field  kitchens 
and  French  mitrailleuse  carts,  marching  infantry  and 
limbered  G.S.  wagons.  Where  the  sergeant-major  was 
with  the  wagon  line  was  beyond  the  bounds  of  con- 
jecture. One  hoped  to  find  him  at  the  rendezvous  at 
Buchoire.  There  was  nothing  with  us  in  the  way  of 
rations  or  forage  and  we  only  had  the  limbers  full  of 
ammunition.  Fortunately  the  men  had  had  a  midday 
ration  issued  in  the  orchard,  and  the  horses  had  been 
watered  and  fed  during  the  morning.  In  the  way  of 
personnel  I  had  the  Quartermaster-sergeant,  and  two 
sergeants.  The  rest  were  bombardiers,  gunners,  and 
drivers, — about  three  men  per  gun  all  told.  The  outlook 
was  not  very  optimistic. 

The  view  itself  did  not  tend  to  lighten  one's  depression. 
We  climbed  a  fairly  steep  slope  which  gave  a  view  of  the 
country  for  miles  on  either  side.  The  main  roads  and 
every  little  crossroad  as  far  as  the  eye  could  carry  were 
all  massed  with  moving  troops  going  back.  It  looked 
like  the  Allied  armies  in  full  retreat,  quite  orderly  but 
none  the  less  routed.  Where  would  it  end  ?  From 
rumours  which  ran  about  we  were  almost  surrounded. 
The  only  way  out  was  south.  We  were  inside  a  bottle 
which  we  could  not  break,  all  aiming  for  the  neck. 

And  yet  everywhere  on  that  slope  French  infantry 
had  dug  themselves  in,  each  man  in  a  Uttle  hole  about 
knee-deep  with  a  tiny  bank  of  mud  in  front  of  him, 
separated  from  the  next  man  by  a  few  yards.  They  sat 
and  smoked  in  their  holes,  so  like  half-dug  graves,  waiting 


238  The  Grey  Wave 

for  the  enemy,  watching  us  go  back  with  a  look  in  their 
eyes  that  seemed  to  be  of  scorn.  Now  and  again  they 
laughed.  It  was  difficult  to  meet  those  quiet  eyes  with- 
out a  surge  of  rage  and  shame.  How  much  longer  were 
we  going  to  retreat  ?  Where  were  our  reinforcements  ? 
Why  had  our  infantry  been  *'  relieved  "  that  morning  ? 
Why  weren't  we  standing  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  those 
blue-clad  poilus  ?  What  was  the  brain  at  the  back  of 
it  all  ?  Who  was  giving  the  orders  ?  Was  this  the 
end  of  the  war  ?  Were  we  really  beaten  ?  Could  it 
be  possible  that  somewhere  there  was  not  a  line  of  de- 
fence which  we  could  take  up  and  hold,  hold  for  ever  ? 
Surely  with  magnificent  men  like  ours  who  fought  till 
they  dropped  and  then  picked  themselves  up  and  fought 
again,  surely  something  could  be  done  to  stop  this  appal- 
ling debacle  ! 


26 

The  tide  of ,  traffic  took  us  into  Guiscard  where  we 
were  able  to  pull  out  of  the  stream  one  by  one  and  collect 
as  a  battery, — or  at  least  the  gun  part  of  it.  While 
studying  the  map  a  mounted  orderly  came  up  and 
saluted. 

"  Are  you  the  —  Brigade,  sir  ?  "  he  said. 

I  said  yes. 

"  The  orders  are  to  rendezvous  at  Muiraucourt  instead 
of  Buchoire." 

To  this  day  that  man  remains  a  mystery.  The  rest 
of  the  brigade  did  rendezvous  at  Buchoire  and  fought 
twice  again  that  day.  The  Colonel  never  gave  any  order 
about  Muiraucourt  and  had  never  heard  of  the  place. 
Where  the  orderly  came  from,  who  he  was,  or  how  he 
knew  the  number  of  the  brigade  are  unsolved  problems. 


The  Western  Front  239 

I  never  saw  him  again.  Having  given  the  message  he 
disappeared  into  the  stream  of  traffic,  and  I,  finding 
the  new  rendezvous  to  be  only  about  three  kilometres 
away  in  a  different  direction  to  Buchoire  and  out  of  the 
traffic  road  led  on  again  at  once. 

We  passed  French  gunners  of  all  calibres  firing  at 
extreme  range  and  came  to  Muiraucourt  to  find  it  ab- 
solutely empty  and  silent.  While  the  horses  were 
being  watered  and  the  wounded  ones  bandaged  I  scouted 
on  ahead  and  had  the  luck  to  find  an  A.S.C.  officer  with 
forage  for  us  and  a  possibility  of  rations  if  we  waited  an 
hour.     It  was  manna  in  the  wilderness. 

We  drew  the  forage  and  fed  the  starving  horses.  At 
the  end  of  the  hour  an  A.S.C.  sergeant  rode  in  to  say  that 
the  ration  wagons  had  been  blown  up. — We  took  up  an 
extra  hole  in  our  Sam  Brownes.  It  appeared  that  he 
had  seen  our  headquarters  and  the  other  batteries  march- 
ing along  the  main  road  in  the  direction  of  Noyon,  to 
which  place  they  were  undoubtedly  going. 

The  Quartermaster  whispered  something  about  bread 
and  tea.  So  we  withdrew  from  the  village  and  halted 
on  a  field  just  off  the  road  and  started  a  fire.  The  bread 
ration  was  a  snare  and  a  delusion.  It  worked  out  at  about 
one  slice  per  every  other  man.  He  confided  this  to  me 
sadly  while  the  men  were  spread-eagled  on  the  bank 
at  the  roadside,  enjoying  all  the  anticipation  of  a  full 
stomach.  We  decided  that  it  wasn't  a  large  enough 
quantity  to  split  up  so  I  went  over  and  put  the  position 
to  them,  telHng  them  that  on  arrival  at  Noyon  we  hoped 
to  find  the  brigade  looking  out  for  us  with  a  meal  for 
everybody  ready.  Meanwhile  there  wasn't  enough  to 
go  round.  What  about  tossing  for  it  ?  .  .  .  The  ayes 
had  it.  They  tossed  as  if  they  were  going  to  a  football 
match,  the  winners  sending  up  a  cheer,  and  even  the 
losers  sitting  down  again  with  a  grin. 


240  The  Grey  Wave 

I  decided  to  ride  on  into  Noyon  and  locate  the  brigade 
and  find  out  where  to  get  rations.  So  I  handed  the 
battery  to  the  Stand-by  to  bring  on  when  ready,  left 
him  the  Babe  and  the  other  lad,  and  took  the  Quarter- 
master on  with  me. 

It  was  a  nightmare  of  a  ride  through  miles  and  miles 
of  empty  villages  and  deserted  country,  blown-up  bridges 
like  stricken  giants  blocking  every  way,  not  a  vehicle 
on  the  roads,  no  one  in  sight,  the  spirit  of  desertion 
overhanging  it  all,  with  the  light  failing  rapidly  and  Noyon 
apparently  as  far  off  as  ever.  The  horses  were  so  done 
that  it  was  difficult  to  spur  them  out  of  a  walk,  we  our- 
selves so  done  that  we  could  hardly  raise  the  energy  to 
spur  them.  At  last  after  hours  of  riding  we  came  to 
the  main  Roye-Noyon  road  but  didn't  recognize  it  in 
the  dark  and  turned  the  wrong  way,  going  at  least  half 
an  hour  before  we  discovered  our  mistake  I  It  was  the 
last  straw. 

A  thing  that  added  to  our  anxiety  was  the  sight  of 
big  guns  on  caterpillars  all  coming  away  from  the  place 
we  were  going  to  and  as  we  got  nearer  the  town  the 
roar  of  bursting  shells  seemed  to  be  very  near.  One  didn't 
quite  know  that  streams  of  the  enemy  would  not  pour 
over  the  crest  at  any  minute.  Deep  in  one's  brain  a 
vague  anxiety  formed.  The  whole  country  was  so 
empty,  the  bridges  so  well  destroyed.  Were  we  the 
last — ^had  we  been  cut  off  ?  Was  the  Hun  between  us 
and  Noyon  ?  Suppose  the  battery  were  captured  ? 
I  began  to  wish  that  I  hadn't  ridden  on  but  had  sent 
the  Stand-by  in  my  place.  For  the  first  time  since  the 
show  began,  a  sense  of  utter  loneliness  overwhelmed 
me,  a  bitter  despair  at  the  uselessness  of  individual  effort 
in  this  gigantic  tragedy  of  apocalyptic  destruction.  Was 
it  a  shadow  of  such  loneliness  as  Christ  knew  upon  the 
Cross  when  He  looked  out  upon  a  storm-riven  world  and 


The  Western  Front  «4l 

cried,  "  My  God,  my  God,  why  hast  Thou  forsaken  Me  ?  " 
All  the  evil  in  the  world  was  gathered  here  in  shrieking 
orgy,  crushing  one  to  such  mental  and  physical  tiredness 
that  death  would  only  have  been  a  welcome  rest. 

Unaided  I  should  not  have  regretted  that  way  out, 
God  knows.  But  two  voices  came  to  me  through  the 
night,— one  from  a  little  cottage  among  the  pine  trees  in 
England,  the  other  calling  across  the  Atlantic  with  the 
mute  notes  of  a  violin. 

"  Your  men  look  to  you,"  they  whispered.  "  We 
look  to  you " 


27 

We  came  to  Noyon  ! 

It  was  as  though  the  town  were  a  magnet  which  had 
attracted  all  the  small  traffic  from  that  empty  country- 
side, letting  only  the  big  guns  on  caterpillars  escape. 
The  centre  of  the  town,  like  a  great  octopus,  has  seven 
roads  which  reach  out  in  every  direction.  Each  of 
these  was  banked  and  double-banked  with  an  interlocked 
mass  of  guns  and  wagons.  Here  and  there  frantic 
officers  tried  to  extricate  the  tangle  but  for  the  most  part 
men  sat  silent  and  inert  upon  their  horses  and  vehicles 
beyond  effort  and  beyond  care. 

Army  Headquarters  told  me  that  Noyon  would  begin 
to  be  shelled  in  an  hour's  time  and  gave  me  maps  and 
a  chit  to  draw  food  from  the  station,  but  they  had  never 
heard  of  the  brigade  and  thought  the  Corps  had  been 
wiped  out.  As  I  left,  the  new  lad  came  up  and  reported 
that  the  battery  had  halted  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town. 
We  went  back  to  it  and  collected  the  limbers  and  tried 
to  take  them  with  us  to  the  station,  with  hearts  beating 
high  at  the  thought  of  food.     It  was  impossible,  so  we 

16 


242  The  Grey  Wave 

left  them  on  the  pavement  and  dodged  single  file  be- 
tween wagon  wheels  and  horses'  legs.  After  an  hoinr's 
fighting  every  yard  of  the  way  we  got  to  the  station 
to  find  a  screaming  mob  of  civilians  carrying  bundles, 
treading  on  each  other  in  their  efforts  to  enter  a  train, 
weeping,  praying,  cursing,  out  of  all  control. 

The  R.S.O.  had  gone.    There  was  no  food. 

We  fought  our  way  back  to  Army  Headquarters 
where  we  learned  that  a  bombardier  with  two  wagons 
of  rations  destined  to  feed  stray  units  like  us  had  gone 
to  Porquericourt,  five  kilometres  out.  If  we  found  him 
we  could  help  ourselves.  If  we  didn't  find  him — a 
charming  smile,  and  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

I  decided  to  try  the  hotel  where  I  had  spent  a  night 
with  my  brother  only  three  weeks  ago.  Three  weeks, 
was  it  possible  ?  I  felt  years  older.  The  place  was 
bolted  and  barred  and  no  amount  of  hammering  or  shout- 
ing drew  an  answer.  The  thought  of  going  back  empty- 
handed  to  my  hungry  battery  was  an  agony.  The  chances 
of  finding  that  bombardier  were  about  one  in  a  million, 
so  small  that  he  didn't  even  represent  a  last  hope.  In 
utter  despair  one  called  aloud  upon  Christ  and  started 
to  walk  back.  In  a  narrow  unlit  street  we  passed  a  black 
doorway  in  which  stood  a  soldier. 

"  Can  you  give  me  a  drink  of  water  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Yes,"  said  he.  *'  Come  in,  sir.  This  is  the  officers' 
club." 

Was  it  luck  ?  Or  did  Christ  hear  ?  You  may  think 
what  you  like  but  I  am  convinced  that  it  was  Christ. 

We  went  in.  In  one  room  were  sleeping  officers 
all  over  the  floor.  The  next  was  full  of  dinner  tables 
uncleared,  one  electric  light  burning.  It  was  long 
after  midnight.  We  helped  ourselves  to  bits  of  bread 
from  each  table  and  drank  the  leavings  of  milk  which 
had  been  served  with  the  coffee.    Then  a  waiter  came. 


The  Western  Front  243 

He  said  he  would  cook  us  some  tea  and  try  and  find  a 
cold  tongue  or  some  ham.  I  told  him  that  I  had  a 
starving  battery  down  the  road  and  wanted  more  than 
tea  and  ham.  I  wanted  food  in  a  sack,  two  sacks,  every- 
thing he  could  rake  up,  anything. 

He  blinked  at  me  through  his  glasses.  *'  I'll  see 
what  I  can  do,  sir,"  he  said  and  went  away. 

We  had  our  tea  and  tongue  and  he  brought  a  huge 
sack  with  loaves  and  tins  of  jam  and  bits  of  cheese  and 
biscuits  and  packets  of  cigarettes  and  tins  of  bully. 
Furthermore  he  refused  all  payment  except  two  francs 
for  what  we  had  eaten. 

"  That's  all  right,  sir,"  he  said.  '*  I  spent  three  days 
in  a  shell  hole  outside  Wipers  on  one  tin  o'  bully. — ^That's 
the  best  I  can  do  for  you." 

I  wrung  him  by  the  hand  and  told  him  he  was  a  brother 
and  a  pal,  and  between  us  the  lad  and  I  shouldered  the 
sack  and  went  out  again,  thanking  God  that  at  least  we 
had  got  something  for  the  men  to  eat. 

On  returning  to  the  battery  I  found  that  they  had 
been  joined  by  six  wagons  which  had  got  cut  off  from 
the  sergeant-major's  lot  and  the  entire  wagon  line  of  the 
Scots.  Captain's  battery  with  two  of  his  subalterns  in 
charge.     They,  too,  were  starving. 

The  sack  didn't  go  very  far.  It  only  took  a  minute 
or  so  before  the  lot  was  eaten.  Then  we  started  out, 
now  a  column  about  a  mile  long,  to  find  Porquericourt, 
a  tiny  village  some  two  kilometres  off  the  main  road,  the 
gunners  sleeping  as  they  walked,  the  drivers  rocking  in 
the  saddle,  the  horses  stumbling  along  at  a  snail's  pace. 
None  of  us  had  shaved  or  washed  since  the  2ist.  We  were 
a  hollow-eyed,  draggled  mob,  but  we  got  there  at  last 
to  be  challenged  by  sentries  who  guarded  sleeping  bits  of 
units  who  had  dropped  where  they  stood  all  over  the 
place.     While  my  two  units  fixed  up  a  wagon  line  I  took 

i6* 


244  The  Grey  Wave 

the  Quartermaster  with  me  and  woke  up  every  man 
under  a  wagon  or  near  one  asking  him  if  he  were  Bom- 
bardier So  and  So, — the  man  with  the  food.  How  they 
cursed  me.  It  took  me  an  hour  to  go  the  rounds  and  there 
was  no  bombardier  with  food.  The  men  received  the  news 
without  comment  and  dropped  down  beside  the  wagons. 
The  Babe  had  collected  a  wagon  cover  for  us  to  sleep  under 
and  spread  it  under  a  tree.  The  four  of  us  lay  on  it 
side  by  side  and  folded  the  end  over  ourselves.  There 
was  a  heavy  dew.  But  my  job  wasn't  over.  There 
was  to-morrow  to  be  considered.  I  had  given  orders  to 
be  ready  to  move  off  at  six  o'clock  unless  the  Hun  arrived 
before  that.     It  was  then  3  a.m. 

The  Army  had  told  me  that  if  our  Corps  was  not 
completely  wiped  out,  their  line  of  retreat  was  Buchoire, 
Crissolles  and  so  back  in  the  direction  of  Lassigny.  They 
advised  me  to  go  to  Crissolles.  But  one  look  at  the  map 
convinced  me  that  Crissolles  would  be  German  by  six 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  So  I  decided  on  Lagny  by  the 
secondary  road  which  went  straight  to  it  from  Porqueri- 
court.  If  the  brigade  was  not  there,  surely  there  would 
be  some  fighting  unit  who  would  have  heard  of  them, 
or  who  might  at  least  be  able  to  spare  us  rations,  or 
tell  us  where  we  could  get  some.  Fighting  on  scraps 
of  bread  was  all  right  but  could  not  be  prolonged  in- 
definitely. 

At  six  o'clock  we  set  out  as  a  squadron  of  cavalry 
with  slung  lances  trotted  like  ghosts  across  the  turf. 
We  had  only  been  on  the  march  five  minutes  when  a 
yell  from  the  rear  of  the  battery  was  passed  quickly 
up  to  me  as  I  walked  in  the  lead. 

"Halt!    Action  rear!" 

My  heart  stood  still.  Were  the  Germans  streaming 
up  in  the  mist  ?  Were  we  caught  at  last  like  rats  in  a 
trap  ?     It  couldn't  be.     It  was  some  fool  mistake.     The 


The  Western  Front  245 

Babe  was  riding  just  behind  me.  I  called  him  up.  "  Can- 
ter back  and  find  out  who  gave  that  order  and  bring 
him  here. — You,  lead  driver  !  Keep  on  walking  till 
I  give  you  the  order  to  do  anything  else.'' 

We  went  on  steadily.  From  moment  to  moment 
nothing  seemed  to  happen,  no  rifle  or  machine  gun  fire. 
— The  Babe  came  back  with  a  grin.  "The  order  was 
*  All  correct  in  rear,'  sir." 

Can  you  get  the  feeling  of  relief  ?  We  were  not 
prisoners  or  fighting  to  the  last  man  with  clubbed  rifles 
in  that  cold  grey  dawn  on  empty  stomachs. 

I  obeyed  the  natural  instinct  of  all  mothers  who 
see  their  child  snatched  from  destruction, — to  slap 
the  infant.  "  Find  out  the  man  who  passed  it  up  wrongly 
and  damn  his  soul  to  hell  ?  " 

"  Right,  sir,"  said  the  Babe  cheerily,  and  went  back. 
Good  Babe,  he  couldn't  damn  even  a  mosquito  properly  1 

The  road  was  the  most  ungodly  track  imaginable, 
blocked  here  and  there  by  6o-pounders  coming  into  action. 
But  somehow  the  horses  encompassed  the  impossible 
and  we  halted  in  the  lane  outside  the  village  at  about 
seven  o'clock.  The  Stand-by  remained  in  charge  of  the 
battery  while  the  Babe  and  I  went  across  gardens  to  get 
to  the  village  square.  There  was  an  old  man  standing  at 
a  door.  He  gazed  at  us  motionless.  I  gave  him  bon 
jour  and  asked  him  for  news  of  British  troops,  gunners. 
Yes,  the  village  was  full.  Would  we  care  for  some  cider  ? 
Wouldn't  we  !  He  produced  jugfuls  of  the  most  perfect 
cider  I've  ever  drunk  and  told  us  the  story  of  his  life. 
He  was  a  veteran  of  1870  and  wept  all  down  himself 
in  the  telHng.  We  thanked  him  profusely,  shook  his 
trembling  hand  and  went  out  of  his  front  door  into  the 
main  street. 

There  were  wagons  with  the  brigade  mark  !  I  could 
have  wept  with  joy. 


246  The  Grey  Wave 

In  a  couple  of  minutes  we  had  found  Headquarters. 
The  man  I'd  dosed  with  champagne  on  the  road  comer 
two  days  before  fell  on  my  neck  with  strong  oaths.  It 
appeared  that  I'd  been  given  up  as  wiped  out  with  the 
whole  battery,  or  at  least  captured.  He  looked  upon  me 
as  back  from  the  dead. 

The  Colonel  had  a  different  point  of  view.  He  was 
no  longer  shaved  and  washed,  and  threatened  to  put  me 
under  arrest  for  not  having  rendezvoused  at  Buchoire  ! 
Relations  between  us  were  strained,  but  everybody  was 
in  the  act  of  getting  mounted  to  reconnoitre  positions  so 
there  was  no  time  for  explanations  or  recriminations. 
Within  three-quarters  of  an  hour  the  battery  was  in  action, 
but  the  Quartermaster  had  found  the  sergeant-major, 
who,  splendid  fellow,  had  our  rations.  He  functioned 
mightily  with  cooks.  Tea  and  bacon,  bread  and  butter, 
— ^what  could  the  "  Carlton  "  have  done  better  than 
that? 

And  later,  when  the  sun  came  out,  there  was  no 
firing  to  be  done,  and  we  slept  beside  the  gun  wheels 
under  an  apple  tree,  slept  like  the  dead  for  nearly  a 
whole  hour. 


28 

The  Hun  was  indeed  at  CrissoUes,  for  the  brigade 
had  fought  there  the  previous  evening.  So  much  for 
Army  advice. 

The  day  was  marked  by  two  outstanding  events ; 
one,  the  return  of  the  Major  of  the  Scots.  Captain's 
battery,  his  wound  healed,  full  of  bloodthirst  and  cheeri- 
ness  ;  the  other,  that  I  got  a  shave  and  wash.  We  ad- 
vanced during  the  morning  to  cover  a  village  called 
Bussy.    We  covered  it, — ^with  gun  fire  and  salvos,  the 


The  Western  Front  247 

signal  for  each  salvo  being  a  wave  from  my  shaving 
brush.  There  was  a  hell  of  a  battle  in  Bussy,  street 
fighting  with  bayonets  and  bombs.  The  brigade  dropped 
a  curtain  of  fire  on  the  outer  fringe  of  the  village  and 
caught  the  enemy  in  full  tide.  Four  batteries  sending 
over  between  them  a  hundred  rounds  a  minute  of  high 
explosive  and  shrapnel  can  make  a  nasty  mess  of  a  pin- 
point.   The  infantry  gloated, — our  infantry. 

On  our  right  Noyon  was  the  centre  of  a  whirlwind 
of  Hun  shells.  We  were  not  out  any  too  soon.  The 
thought  added  zest  to  our  gun  fire.  Considering  the 
amount  of  work  those  guns  had  done  in  the  last  five  days 
and  nights  it  was  amazing  how  they  remained  in  action 
without  even  breaking  down.  The  fitter  worked  like  a 
nigger  and  nursed  them  like  infants.  Later  the  Army  took 
him  from  me  to  go  and  drive  rivets  in  ships  ! 

We  pulled  out  of  action  again  as  dusk  was  falling, 
and  the  word  was  passed  that  we  had  been  relieved 
and  were  going  out  of  the  line.  The  brigade  rendez- 
voused at  Cuy  in  a  field  off  the  road  while  the  traffic 
crept  forward  a  yard  and  halted,  waited  an  hour  and 
advanced  another  yard,  every  sort  of  gun,  wagon,  lorry, 
ambulance  and  car,  crawling  back,  blocked  at  every 
crossroads,  stuck  in  ditches,  sometimes  abandoned. 

All  round  the  sky  glared  redly.  Hour  after  hour 
we  sat  in  that  cup  of  ground  waiting  for  orders,  shivering 
with  cold,  sleeping  in  uneasy  snatches,  smoking  tobacco 
that  ceased  to  taste,  nibbling  ration  biscuits  until  the 
night  became  filled  with  an  eerie  strained  silence.  Jerky 
sentences  stopped.  Faint  in  the  distance  came  the  crunch 
of  wheels,  a  vague  undercurrent  of  sound.  The  guns  had 
stopped.  Now  and  again  the  chink  of  a  horse  mumbling 
his  bit.  The  tail  end  of  the  traffic  on  the  road  below  us 
was  silent,  waiting,  the  men  huddled,  asleep.  And 
through  it  alljone's  ear  listened  for  a  new  sound,  the  sound 


248  The  Grey  Wave 

of  marching  feet,  or  trotting  horses  which  might  mean  an 
Uhlan  patrol.     Bussy  was  not  far. 

Suddenly  one  voice,  far  away,  distinct;  pierced  the 
darkness  hke  a  thin  but  blinding  ray.  "  Les  Boches ! 
— Les  Boches  !  " 

A  sort  of  shivering  rustle  ran  over  the  whole  brigade. 
Men  stirred,  sat  up,  muttered.  Horses  raised  their  heads 
with  a  rattle  of  harness.  Hands  crept  to  revolvers. 
Every  breath  was  held  and  every  head  stared  in  the 
direction  of  the  voice. 

For  a  moment  the  silence  was  spellbound. 

Then  the  voice  came  again,  '*  A  gauche  !  A  gauche  ! 
Norn  de  Dieu  I  "  and  the  crunch  of  wheels  came  again. 

The  brigade  relaxed.  There  came  a  laugh  or  two,  a 
mumbled  remark,  a  settling  down,  a  muttered  curse  and 
then  silence  once  more. 

Eventually  came  a  stir,  an  order.  Voices  were  raised. 
Sleeping  figures  rolled  over  stiffly,  staggered  up.  Officers 
came  forward.  The  order  "  Get  mounted !  "  galvanized 
everybody. 

Wagon  by  wagon  we  pulled  out  of  the  field.  My 
battery  was  the  last.  No  sooner  on  the  road,  with 
our  noses  against  the  tailboard  of  the  last  vehicle  of 
the  battery  in  front,  than  we  had  to  halt  again  and 
wait  endlessly,  the  drivers  sleeping  in  their  saddles 
until  pulled  out  by  the  N.C.O.'s,  the  gunners  flinging  them- 
selves into  the  ditch.  At  last  on  again,  kicking  the  sleepers 
awake, — the  only  method  of  rousing  them.  It  was 
very  cold.  To  halt  was  as  great  an  agony  as  to  march, 
whether  mounted  or  on  foot.  For  five  days  and  nights 
one  had  had  one's  boots  on.  The  condition  of  feet  was 
indescribable.  In  places  the  road  was  blocked  by  aban- 
doned motor  lorries.  We  had  to  extemporize  bridges 
over  the  ditch  with  rocks  and  tins  and  whatever  was  in 
the  lorries  with  a  tailboard  placed  on  top,  to  unhook  lead 


The  Western  Front  249 

horses  from  a  four-horse  gun  team  and  hook  them  into 
a  loaded  wagon  to  make  a  six-horse  team,  to  rouse  the 
drivers  sufficiently  to  make  them  drive  properly  and  get 
the  full  team  to  work  together,  and  at  last,  having  reached 
a  good  metalled  road,  to  follow  the  battery  in  front, 
limping  and  blind,  hour  after  hour.  From  time  to  time 
the  gunners  and  drivers  changed  places.  For  the  most 
part  no  word  was  spoken.  We  halted  when  the  teams 
bumped  their  noses  on  the  wagon  in  front,  went  on  again 
when  those  in  front  did.  At  one  halt  I  sat  on  a  gun  seat, 
the  unforgivable  sin  for  a  gunner  on  the  line  of  march, 
— and  I  was  the  Battery  Commander.  Sprawled  over  the 
breech  of  the  gun  in  a  stupor  I  knew  no  more  for  an  in- 
definite period  when  I  woke  again  to  find  us  still  marching. 
The  sergeant-major  confided  to  me  afterwards  that  he 
was  so  far  my  accomplice  in  that  lack  of  discipline  that 
he  posted  a  gunner  on  either  side  to  see  that  I  didn't  fall 
off.  We  had  started  the  march  about  five  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon. 

We  didn't  reach  our  destination  till  nine  o'clock 
next  morning.  The  destination  consisted  of  halting 
in  the  road  outside  a  village  already  full  of  troops, 
Chevrincourt.  The  horses  were  unhooked  and  taken  off 
the  road,  watered,  and  tied  to  lines  run  up  between  the 
trees.  Breakfast  was  cooked,  and  having  ascertained 
that  we  were  not  going  to  move  for  the  rest  of  the  day  we 
spread  our  valises,  and  got  into  pyjamas,  not  caring  if  it 
snowed  ink. 


29 

We  stayed  there  two  days,  doing  nothing  but  water 
and  feed  the  horses  and  sleep.  I  succeeded  in  getting 
letters  home  the  first  morning,  having  the  luck  to  meet  a 


250  The  Grey  Wave 

junior  Brass  Hat  who  had  done  the  retreat  in  a  motor- 
car. It  was  good  to  be  able  to  put  an  end  to  their  anxiety. 
Considering  all  things  we  had  been  extraordinarily 
lucky.  The  number  of  our  dead,  wounded  and  missing 
was  comparatively  slight  and  the  missing  rolled  up  later, 
most  of  them.  On  the  second  night  at  about  two  in  the 
morning.  Battery  Commanders  were  summoned  urgently 
to  Brigade  Headquarters.  The  Colonel  had  gone,  leaving 
the  bloodthirsty  Major  in  command.  It  transpired  that 
a  Divisional  brigade  plus  one  battery  of  ours  was  to  go 
back  into  the  hue.  They  would  take  our  best  guns, 
some  of  our  best  teams  and  our  best  sergeants.  The 
exchanges  were  to  be  carried  out  at  once.    They  were. 

We  marched  away  that  day,  leaving  one  battery 
behind.  As  it  happened,  it  didn't  go  into  the  line  again 
but  rejoined  us  a  week  later. 

The  third  phase  of  the  retreat,  marching  back  to 
the  British  area — we  were  far  south  into  the  French 
area  at  Chevrincourt,  which  is  near  Compiegne,  and 
all  its  signboards  showed  Paris  so  many  kilometres 
away — gave  us  an  impression  of  the  backwash  of  war. 
The  roads  were  full,  not  of  troops,  but  of  refugees,  women, 
old  men,  girls  and  children,  with  what  possessions  they 
could  load  into  a  farm  wagon  piled  sky  high.  They  pulled 
their  cattle  along  by  chains  or  ropes  tied  round  their 
horns.  Some  of  them  pushed  perambulators  full  of 
packages  and  carried  their  babies.  Others  staggered  un- 
der bundles.  Grief  marked  their  faces.  The  hope  of 
return  kept  them  going.  The  French  have  deeper  roots 
in  the  soil  than  we.  To  them  their  "  patelin  "  is  the 
world  and  all  the  beauty  thereof.  It  was  a  terrible 
sight  to  see  those  poor  women  trudging  the  endless  roads, 
void  of  a  goal  as  long  as  they  kept  away  from  the  pur- 
suing death,  half  starved,  sleeping  unwashed  in  leaky 
barns,  regardless  of  sex,  begging  milk  from  the  inhabited 


The  Western  Front  261 

villages  they  passed  through  to  satisfy  their  unhappy 
babies,  managing  somehow  to  help  the  aged  and  infirm 
who  mumbled  bitter  curses  at  the  *'  sale  Boche  "  and 
"  soixante-dix."  I  heard  one  woman  say  "  Nous  savons 
cqu  c'est  que  la  guerre !  Nous  avons  tout  fait  excepts 
les  tranchees."  "  We  know  what  war  is.  We  have  done 
everything  except  the  trenches."  Bombarded  with  gas 
and  long-range  guns,  bombed  by  aeroplanes,  homeless, 
half  starved,  the  graves  of  their  dead  pillaged  by  ghoul- 
like Huns,  their  sons,  husbands,  and  lovers  killed,  indeed 
they  knew  the  meaning  of  war. 

England  has  been  left  in  merciful  ignorance  of  this 
side  of  war,  but  woe  unto  her  if  she  ever  forgets  that  these 
women  of  France  are  her  blood-sisters,  these  peasant 
women  who  later  gave  food  to  the  emaciated  Tommies 
who  staggered  back  starving  after  the  armistice,  food  hi 
which  they  denied  themselves  and  their  children. 

On  the  third  day  we  reached  Poix  where  only  three 
months  previously  we  had  spent  a  merry  Christmas  and 
drunk  the  New  Year  in,  the  third  day  of  ceaseless  marching 
and  finding  billets  in  the  middle  of  the  night  in  villages 
crowded  with  refugees.  The  whole  area  was  full,  British 
and  French  elbowing  each  other,  the  unfortunate  refugees 
being  compelled  to  move  on. 

Here  we  exchanged  old  guns  for  new,  received  rein- 
forcements of  men  and  horses,  drew  new  equipment  in 
place  of  that  which  was  destroyed  and  lost,  found  time  to 
ride  over  to  Bergicourt  to  pay  our  respects  to  the  little 
Abbe,  still  unshaved,  who  was  now  billeting  Moroccan 
troops,  and  who  kissed  us  on  both  cheeks  before  all  the 
world,  and  in  three  more  days  were  on  our  way  to  their 
firing  line  again. 

It  was  here  that  the  runaway  servants  were  dealt 
with  ;  here,  too,  that  my  brother  came  rolHng  up  in 
his  car  to  satisfy  himself  that  I  was  still  this  side  of 


252  The  Grey  Wave 

eternity  or  capture.  And  very  good  it  was  to  see  him. 
He  gave  us  the  number  of  divisions  engaged  against  us, 
and  we  marvelled  again  that  any  of  us  were  still  alive. 

We  went  north  this  time  for  the  defence  of  Amiens, 
having  been  joined  by  our  fourth  battery,  and  relieved 
a  brigade  in  action  behind  the  village  of  Gentelles.  The 
Anzacs  were  in  the  line  from  Villers  Brettoneux  to  Hangard 
where  their  flank  touched  the  French.  The  spire  of 
Amiens  cathedral  peeped  up  behind  us  and  all  day  long- 
range  shells  whizzed  over  our  heads  into  the  stricken  city. 

Some  one  was  dissatisfied  with  our  positions  behind 
the  village.  The  range  was  considered  too  long.  Ac- 
cordingly we  were  ordered  to  go  forward  and  relieve  some 
other  batteries  down  the  slope  in  front  of  Gentelles.  The 
weather  had  broken.  It  rained  ceaselessly.  The  whole 
area  was  a  mud  patch  broken  by  shell  holes.  The  Major, 
who  had  remained  behind  at  Chevrincourt,  and  I  went 
forward  together  to  locate  the  forward  batteries.  Dead 
horses  everywhere,  and  fresh  graves  of  men  marked  our 
path.  Never  have  I  seen  such  joy  on  any  faces  as  on 
those  of  the  officers  whom  we  were  coming  to  relieve. 

On  our  return  we  reported  unfavourably,  urging 
strongly  that  we  should  remain  where  we  were.  The 
order  was  inexorable.     That  night  we  went  in. 

We  stayed  there  three  days,  at  the  end  of  which  time 
we  were  withdrawn  behind  the  village  again.  Our  dead 
were  three  officers — one  of  whom  was  the  Babe — half  the 
gunners,  and  several  drivers.  Our  wounded  were  one 
officer  and  half  the  remaining  gunners.  Of  the  guns 
themselves  about  six  in  the  brigade  were  knocked  out 
by  direct  hits. 

Who  was  that  dissatisfied  "  some  one  "  who,  having 
looked  at  a  map  from  the  safety  of  a  back  area,  would  not 
listen  to  the  report  of  two  Majors,  one  a  regular,  who  had 
visited  the  ground  and  spoke  from  their  bitterly-earned 


The  Western  Front  B68 

experience  ?  Do  the  ghosts  of  those  officers  and  men, 
unnecessarily  dead,  disturb  his  rest  o'  nights,  or  is  he 
proudly  wearing  another  ribbon  for  distinguished  service  ? 
Even  from  the  map  he  ought  to  have  known  better.  It 
was  the  only  place  where  a  fool  would  have  put  guns. 
The  German  artillery  judged  him  well. 

Poor  Babe,  to  be  thrown  away  at  the  beginning  of 
his  manhood  at  the  dictate  of  some  ignorant  and  cowardly 
Brass  Hat ! 

"  Young,  unmarried  men,  your  King  and  country 
need  you  !  " 


30 

So  we  crawled  out  of  the  valley  of  death.  With 
what  remained  of  us  in  men  and  guns  we  formed  three 
batteries,  two  of  which  went  back  to  their  original  positions 
behind  the  village  and  in  disproof  of  their  uselessness 
fired  four  thousand  rounds  a  day  per  battery,  fifty-six 
wagon-loads  of  ammunition.  The  third  battery  tucked 
itself  into  a  corner  of  the  village  and  remained  there  till 
its  last  gun  had  been  knocked  out.  One  S.O.S.  lasted 
thirty-six  hours.  One  lived  with  a  telephone  and  a  map. 
Sleep  was  unknown.  Food  was  just  food,  eaten  when  the 
servants  chose  to  bring  it.  The  brain  reeled  under  the 
stupendousness  of  the  strain  and  the  firing.  For  cover 
we  lived  in  a  hole  in  the  ground,  some  four  feet  deep 
with  a  tarpaulin  to  keep  the  rain  out.  It  was  just  big 
enough  to  hold  us  all.  The  wings  of  the  angel  of  death 
brushed  our  faces  continuously.  Letters  from  home  were 
read  without  being  understood.  One  watched  men 
burned  to  death  in  the  battery  in  front,  as  the  result  of 
a  direct  hit,  without  any  emotion.  If  there  be  a  hell 
such  as  the  Church  talks  about,  then  indeed  we  had 
reached  it. 


254  The^Grey|Wave 

We  got  a  new  Colonel  here,  and  the  blood-thirsty 
Major  returned  to  his  battery,  the  Scots.  Captain 
having  been  one  of  the  wounded.  My  own  Captain 
rolled  up  again  too,  having  been  doing  all  sorts  of  weird 
fighting  up  and  down  the  line.  It  was  only  now  that 
we  learned  the  full  extent  of  the  retreat  and  received  an 
order  of  the  day  from  the  Commander  in  Chief  to  the  effect 
that  England  had  its  back  up  against  the  wall.  In  other 
words  the  Hun  was  only  to  pass  over  our  dead  bodies. 
He  attempted  it  at  every  hour  of  the  day  and  night.  The 
Anzacs  lost  and  retook  Villers  Brettoneux.  The  enemy 
got  to  Cachy,  five  hundred  yards  in  front  of  the  guns, 
and  was  driven  back  again.  The  French  Colonials  filled 
Hangard  Wood  with  their  own  and  German  dead,  the 
wounded  leaving  a  trail  of  blood  day  and  night  past  our 
hole  in  the  ground.  The  Anzacs  revelled  in  it.  They 
had  never  killed  so  many  men  in  their  Hves.  Their 
General,  a  great  tall  man  of  mighty  few  words,  was  round 
the  outpost  line  every  day.  He  was  much  loved.  Every 
officer  and  man  would  gladly  have  stopped  a  shell  for  him. 

At  last  we  were  pulled  out  of  the  line,  at  half  an 
hour's  notice.  Just  before  hooking  in — ^the  teams 
were  on  the  position — there  was  a  small  S.O.S.  lasting 
five  minutes.  My  battery  fired  four  hundred  rounds  in 
that  time, — ^pretty  good  going  for  men  who  had  come 
through  such  an  inferno  practically  without  sleep  for 
fifteen  days. 

We  sat  under  a  haystack  in  the  rain  for  forty-eight 
hours  and  the  Colonel  gave  us  lectures  on  caHbration. 
Most  interesting  ! 

I  confess  to  having  been  done  in  completely.  The 
Babe's  death  had  been  a  frightful  shock.  Hi5  shoulder 
was  touching  mine  as  he  got  it  and  I  had  carried  him 
spouting  blood  to  the  shelter  of  a  bank.  I  wanted  to 
get  away  and  hide.     I  was  afraid,  not  of  death,  but  of 


The  Western  Front  255 

going  on  in  that  living  hell.  I  was  unable  to  concentrate 
sufficiently  to  dictate  the  battery  orders.  I  was  unable 
to  face  the  nine  o'clock  parade  and  left  it  to  the  Orderly 
Officer.  The  day's  routine  made  me  so  jumpy  that  I 
couldn't  go  near  the  lines  or  the  horses.  The  sight  of  a 
gun  filled  me  with  physical  sickness.  The  effort  of  giving 
a  definite  order  left  me  trembling  all  over. 

The  greatest  comfort  I  knew  was  to  lie  on  my  valise 
in  the  wet  straw  with  closed  eyes  and  listen  to  "  Caprice 
Viennois "  on  the  gramophone.  It  lifted  one's  soul 
with  gentle  hands  and  bore  it  away  into  infinite  space 
where  all  was  quiet  and  full  of  eternal  rest  and  beauty. 
It  summed  up  the  youth  of  the  world,  the  springtime  of 
love  in  all  its  fresh  cleanness,  like  the  sun  after  an  April 
shower  transforms  the  universe  into  magic  colours. 

I  think  the  subalterns  guessed  something  of  my  trouble 
for  they  went  out  of  their  way  to  help  me  in  little 
things. 

We  marched  north  and  went  into  the  line  again  behind 
Albert,  a  murdered  city  whose  skeleton  melted  before  one's 
eyes  under  the  ceaseless  rain  of  shells  from  our  heavy 
artillery. 

During  and  since  the  retreat  the  cry  on  all  sides  was 
"  Where  the  devil  are  the  Americans  ?  " — those  mysteri- 
ous Americans  who  were  reported  to  be  landing  at  the 
rate  of  seven  a  minute.  What  became  of  them  after 
landing?  They  seemed  to  disappear.  Some  had  seen 
them  buying  up  Marseilles,  and  then  painting  Paris  all 
colours  of  the  rainbow,  but  no  one  had  yet  heard  of  them 
doing  any  fighting.  The  attitude  was  not  very  bright, 
until  Pershing's  offer  to  Foch.  Then  everybody  said, 
"  Ah  !  Now  we  shall  see  something."  Our  own  recruits 
seemed  to  be  the  dregs  of  England,  untrained,  weedy 
specimens  who  had  never  seen  a  gun  and  were  incapable 
of   learning.     Yet    we   held   the    Hun    all   right.     One 


256  The  Grey  Wave 

looked  for  the  huskies  from  U.S.A.,  however,  with  some 
anxiety. 

At  Albert  we  found  them,  specimens  of  them,  wedged 
in  the  hne  with  our  infantry,  learning  the  game.  Their 
one  desire  was  to  go  out  into  No  Man's  Land  and  get  to 
close  quarters.  They  brought  Brother  Boche  or  bits 
of  him  every  time.  One  overheard  talk  on  one's  way 
along  the  trenches  to  the  O.P.  "  Danger  ?  "  queried  one 
sarcastically,  "  Say,  I  ain't  bin  shot  at  yet."  And 
another  time  when  two  officers  and  I  had  been  shelled 
out  of  the  O.P.  by  a  pip-squeak  battery  to  our  extreme 
discomfort  and  danger,  we  came  upon  a  great  beefy 
American  standing  on  the  fire  step  watching  the  shells 
burst  on  the  place  we  had  just  succeeded  in  leaving.  "  If 
that  guy  don't  quit  foolin'  around  with  that  gun,"  he 
said  thoughtfully,  "  some  one'U  likely  get  hurt  in  a 
minute." 

Which  was  all  to  the  good.  They  shaped  well.  The 
trouble  apparently  was  that  they  had  no  guns  and  no 
rifles. 

Our  own  positions  were  another  instance  of  the  criminal 
folly  of  ignorance, — great  obvious  white  gashes  in  a  green 
field,  badly  camouflaged,  photographed  and  registered 
by  the  Hun,  so  placed  that  the  lowest  range  to  clear  the 
crest  was  3,500  and  the  S.O.S.  was  3,550.  It  meant  that 
if  the  Germans  advanced  only  fifty  yards  we  could  not 
bring  fire  to  bear  on  them. 

The  dawn  of  our  getting  in  was  enlivened  by  an  hour's 
bombardment  with  gas  and  four- twos.  Every  succeeding 
dawn  was  the  same. 

Fortunately  it  proved  to  be  a  peace  sector,  compara- 
tively speaking,  and  I  moved  out  of  that  unsavoury  spot 
with  no  more  delay  than  was  required  in  getting  the 
Colonel's  consent.  It  only  took  the  death  of  one  man  to 
prove  my  point.     He  was  a  mere  gunner,  not  even  on 


The  Western  Front  257 

proficiency  pay,  so  presumably  it  was  cheap  knowledge. 
We  buried  him  at  midnight  in  pouring  rain,  the  padre 
reading  the  service  by  the  light  of  my  electric  torch. 
But  the  Colonel  wasn't  there. 

From  the  new  position  so  reluctantly  agreed  to,  we  fired 
many  hundreds  of  rounds,  as  did  our  successors,  and  not 
a  single  man  became  a  casualty. 

What  is  the  psychology  of  this  system  of  insisting 
on  going  into  childishly  unsuitable  positions  ?  Do 
they  think  the  Battery  Commander  a  coward  who 
balks  at  a  strafed  emplacement  ?  Isn't  the  idea  of 
field  gunners  to  put  their  guns  in  such  a  place  as  will 
permit  them  to  remain  in  action  effectively  for  the  longest 
possible  time  in  a  show  ?  Why,  therefore,  occupy  a 
position  already  accurately  registered  by  the  enemy, 
which  he  can  silence  at  any  given  moment  ?  Do  they 
think  that  a  Major  of  two  years'  experience  in  command 
of  a  battery  in  the  Hne  has  not  learned  at  least  the  rudi- 
ments of  choosing  positions  for  his  guns  ?  Do  they  think 
it  is  an  attempt  to  resent  authority,  or  to  assert  their  own 
importance  ?  Do  they  think  that  the  difference  of  one 
pip  and  a  foot  of  braid  is  the  boundary  between  om- 
niscience and  crass  stupidity  ? 

In  civil  life  if  the  senior  partner  insists  on  doing  the 
junior's  job  and  bungles  it,  the  junior  can  resign, — 
and  say  things. 

While  we  were  outside  Albert  we  got  our  first  leave 
allotment  and  the  ranks  were  permitted  to  return  to 
their  wives  and  families  for  fourteen  days,  provided 
always  that  they  had  been  duly  vaccinated,  inoculated, 
and  declared  free  from  vermin  and  venereal  disease  by 
the  medical  officer. 

A  delightful  game,  the  inoculation  business.  Army 
orders  are  careful  not  to  make  it  compulsory,  but  if  any 
man  refuses  to  be  done  his  commanding  officer  is  expected 

17 


258  The  Grey  Wave 

to  argue  with  him  politely,  and,  if  that  fails,  to  hound 
him  to  the  needle.  If  he  shies  at  the  needle's  point  then 
his  leave  is  stopped, — although  he  has  sweated  blood 
for  King  and  country  for  eighteen  months  or  so,  on  a 
weekly  pay  with  which  a  munitioneer  daily  tips  the  waiter 
at  the  "  Carlton."  If  he  has  been  unlucky  enough  to  get 
venereal  disease  then  his  leave  is  stopped  for  a  year. 
In  the  next  war  every  Tommy  will  be  a  munition  maker. 


31 

The  desire  to  get  out  of  it,  to  hide,  refused  to  leave  me. 

I  wrote  to  my  brother  and  asked  him  if  he  could 
help  me  to  become  an  R.T.O.  or  an  M.L.O.  ;  failing  that, 
a  cushy  liaison  job  miles  away  from  shambles  and  re- 
sponsibility and  spit  and  polish.  He  knew  of  the  very 
thing,  and  I  was  duly  nominated  for  Haison.  The  weeks 
went  by  and  the  nomination  papers  became  a  mass  of 
illegible  recommendations  and  signatures  up  to  the 
highest  Generals  of  the  English  Army  and  a  Mar^chal  of 
France.  But  the  ultimate  reply  was  that  I  was  a  Battery 
Commander  and  therefore  far  too  important  to  be  al- 
lowed to  go.  Considering  that  I  was  half  dead  and  not 
even  allowed  an  opinion  in  the  choosing  of  a  position  for 
my  own  battery,  Gilbert  and  Sullivan  could  have  con- 
ceived no  more  priceless  paradox. 

Somewhere  about  the  end  of  May  we  were  reheved 
and  went  to  a  rest  camp  outside  Abbeville  which  was 
being  bombed  every  night.  A  special  week's  leave  to 
England  was  granted  to  "  war- weary  officers."  I  sent 
a  subaltern  and,  prepared  to  pawn  my  own  soul  to  see 
England  again,  asked  if  I  might  go  too. 

The  reply  is  worthy  of  quotation.  "  You  don't  seem 
to  understand  that  this  is  a  rest  camp,  the  time  when  you 


The  Western  Front  259 

are  supposed  to  train  your  battery.     You'll  get  your 
leave  in  the  line." 

The  camp  was  on  turf  at  the  edge  of  a  deep  lake. 
All  day  the  horses  roamed  free  grazing,  and  the  men 
splashed  about  in  the  water  whenever  they  felt  inclined. 
The  sun  shone  and  footballs  appeared  from  nowhere  and 
there  were  shops  in  the  village  where  they  could  spend 
money,  and  Abbeville  was  only  about  a  mile  and  a  half 
away.  In  the''morning  we  did  a  little  gun  drill  and  cleaned 
vehicles  and  harness.  Concerts  took  place  in  the  evenings. 
Leslie  Henson  came  with  a  theatrical  company  and  gave 
an  excellent  show.  The  battery  enjoyed  its  time  of 
training. 

Most  of  those  officers  who  weren't  sufficiently  war- 
weary  for  the  week  in  England,  went  for  a  couple  of 
days  to  Treport  or  Paris-Plage.  For  myself  I  got  forty- 
eight  hours  in  Etaples  with  my  best  pal,  who  was  giving 
shows  to  troops  about  to  go  up  the  line,  feeding  train- 
loads  of  refugees  and  helping  to  bandage  wounded  ;  and 
somehow  or  other  keeping  out  of  the  way  of  the  bombs 
which  Wrecked  the  hospital  and  drove  the  reinforcement 
camps  to  sleep  in  the  woods  on  the  other  side  of  the  river. 
We  drove  out  to  Paris-Plage  and  lunched  and  dined  and 
watched  the  golden  sea  sparkling  and  walked  back  in  a 
moonlight  filled  with  the  droning  of  Gothas,  the  crashing 
of  bombs  and  the  impotent  rage  of  an  Archie  barrage. 

Not  only  were  there  no  horses  to  look  after  nor  men 
to  handle  but  there  was  a  kindred  spirit  to  talk  with  when 
one  felt  like  it,  or  with  whom  to  remain  silent  when  one 
didn't.  Blessed  be  pals,  for  they  are  few  and  far  between, 
and  their  value  is  above  rubies. 

Our  rest  camp  came  to  an  end  with  an  inspection  from 
Field-Marshal  Sir  Douglas  Haig  and  once  more  we  took 
the  trail.  The  battery's  adventures  from  then  until  the 
first  day  of  the  attack  which  was  to  end  the  war  can  be 

17* 


260  The  Grey  Wave 

briefly  summed  up,  as  we  saw  hardly  any  fighting.  We 
went  back  to  Albert  and  checked  calibrations,  then  en- 
trained and  went  off  to  Flanders  where  we  remained  in 
reserve  near  St.  Omer  for  a  fortnight  or  so.  Then  we 
entrained  once  more  and  returned  to  Albert,  but  this  time 
south  of  it,  behind  Morlancourt. 

There  was  an  unusual  excitement  in  the  air  and  a 
touch  of  optimism.  Foch  was  said  to  have  something 
up  his  sleeve.  The  Hun  was  reported  to  be  evacuating 
Albert.  The  Americans  had  been  blooded  and  had 
come  up  to  expectations.  There  was  a  different  atmo- 
sphere about  the  whole  thing.  On  our  own  sector  the 
Hun  was  offensive.  The  night  we  came  in  he  made  a 
raid,  took  two  thousand  yards  of  front  line  on  our  right, 
and  plastered  us  with  gas  and  four- twos  for  several  hours. 
No  one  was  hurt  or  gassed  except  myself.  I  got  a  dose  of 
gas.  The  doctor  advised  me  to  go  down  to  the  wagon 
line  for  a  couple  of  days,  but  the  barrage  was  already  in 
for  our  attack  and  the  Captain  was  in  England  on  the 
Overseas  Course.  The  show  started  about  4  p.m.  right 
along  the  front. 

It  was  like  the  21st  of  March  with  the  positions  re- 
versed. South  of  us  the  whole  line  broke  through 
and  moved  forward.  At  Morlancourt  the  Hun  fought 
to  the  death.  It  was  a  sort  of  pivot,  and  for  a  couple 
of  days  we  pounded  him.  By  that  time  the  line  had 
ceased  to  bulge  and  was  practically  north  and  south. 
Then  our  infantry  took  Morlancourt  and  pushed  the  Hun 
back  on  to  the  Fricourt  ridge  and  in  wild  excitement  we 
got  the  order  to  advance.  It  was  about  seven  o'clock 
at  night.  All  Battery  Commanders  and  the  Colonel 
dashed  up  in  a  car  to  the  old  front  line  to  reconnoitre 
positions.  The  car  was  missed  by  about  twelve  yards 
with  high  explosive  and  we  advanced  in  the  dark,  falling 
over    barbed  wire,  tumbling  into  shell  holes,  jumping 


The  Western  Front  261 

trenches  and  treading  on  corpses  through  a  most  un- 
pleasant barrage.  The  Hun  had  a  distinct  sting  in  his 
tail. 

We  came  into  position  about  three  hundred  yards 
north-west  of  Morlancourt.  The  village  and  all  the 
country  round  stank  of  festering  corpses,  mostly  German, 
though  now  and  again  one  came  upon  a  British  pair  of 
boots  and  puttees  with  legs  in  them, — or  a  whole  soldier 
with  a  pack  on  his  back,  who  looked  as  if  he  were  sleeping 
until  one  saw  that  half  his  face  was  blown  away.  It 
made  one  sick,  sick  with  horror,  whether  it  was  our  own 
Tommies  or  a  long  trench  chaotic  with  rifles,  equipment, 
machine  guns  and  yellow,  staring  and  swollen  Germans. 

The  excitement  of  advancing  died  away.  The  "  glory 
of  victory  "  was  just  one  long  butchery,  one  awful  smell, 
an  orgy  of  appalling  destruction  unequalled  by  the 
barbarians  of  pre-civilization. 

Here  was  all  the  brain,  energy  and  science  of  nineteen 
hundred  years  of  *'  progress,"  concentrated  on  lust  and 
slaughter,  and  we  called  it  glorious  bravery  and  rang 
church  bells  !  Soldier  poets  sang  their  swan  songs  in 
praise  of  dying  for  their  country,  their  country  which 
gave  them  a  period  of  hell,  and  agonizing  death,  then 
wept  crocodile  tears  over  the  Roll  of  Honour,  and  finally 
returned  with  an  easy  conscience  to  its  money-grubbing. 
The  gladiators  did  it  better.  At  least  they  were  per- 
mitted a  final  sarcasm,  "  Morituri,  te  saPutant  I  " 

Even  gentle  women  at  home,  who  are  properly 
frightened  of  mice  and  spank  small  boys  caught  ill- 
treating  an  animal,  even  they  read  the  flaming  headlines 
of  the  papers  with  a  light  in  their  eyes,  and  said,  "  How 
glorious  !  We  are  winning  !  "  Would  they  have  said 
the  same  if  they  could  have  been  set  down  on  that  reeking 
battlefield  where  riddled  tanks  splashed  with  blood 
heaved  drunkenly,  ambulances  continuously  drove  away 


262  The  Grey  Wave 

with  the  smashed  wrecks  of  what  once  were  men,  leaving 
a  trail  of  screams  in  the  dust  of  the  road,  and  always 
the  guns  crashed  out  their  paean  of  hate  by  day  and  night, 
ceaselessly,  remorselessly,  with  a  terrible  trained  hunger 
to  kill,  and  maim  and  wipe  out  ? 

There  was  no  stopping.  I  was  an  insignificant  cog 
in  that  vast  machine,  but  no  man  could  stop  the  wheels 
in  their  mighty  revolutions.     Fate  stepped  in,  however. 

We  advanced  again  to  Mametz,  and  there,  mercifully, 
I  got  another  dose  of  gas.  The  effects  of  the  first  one, 
seven  days  previously,  had  not  worked  off.  This  was 
the  last  straw.  Three  days  later  it  toppled  me  over 
The  doctors  labelled  me  and  sent  me  home. 


PART  IV 
THE  ARMISTICE 


The  battery,  commanded  by  I  know  not  whom,  went 
on  to  the  bitter  end  in  that  sweeping  advance  which 
broke  the  Hindenburg  Hne  and  brought  the  enemy  to 
his  knees.  Their  luck  held  good,  for  occasional  letters 
from  the  subalterns  told  me  that  no  one  else  had  been 
killed.  The  last  I  heard  of  them  they  were  at  Treport, 
enjoying  life  with  the  hope  of  demobilization  dangling  in 
front  of  their  eyes.     May  it  not  dangle  too  long. 

For  me  the  war  was  over.  I  have  never  fired  a  gun 
again,  nor,  please  God,  will  I  ever  do  so. 

In  saying  the  war  was  over  I  was  wrong.  I  should 
have  said  the  fighting.  There  were  other  and  equally 
terrible  sides  of  this  world-tragedy  which  I  was  destined 
to  see  and  feel. 

Let  me  sketch  briefly  the  facts  which  led  to  my  return 
to  duty. 

The  Medical  Authorities  sent  me  to  a  place  called 
The  Funkhole  of  England,  a  seaside  town  where  never  a 
bomb  from  airships  or  raiding  Gothas  disturbed  the 
sunny  calm,  a  community  of  convalescent  hospitals 
with  a  list  of  rules  as  long  as  your  arm,  hotels  full  of 
moneyed  Hebrews,  who  only  journeyed  to  London  by 
day  to  make  more  money,  and  retired  by  night  to  the 
security  of  their  wives  in  the  Funkhole,  shop-keepers 
who  rejoiced  in  the  war  because  it  enabled  them  to  put 
up  their  prices  two  hundred  per  cent.,  and  indecent 

265 


266  The  Grey  Wave 

flappers  always  ready  to  be  picked  up  by  any  subal- 
tern. 

The  War  Office  authorities  hastened  to  notify  me 
that  I  was  now  reduced  to  subaltern,  but  somehow  I 
was  "  off  "  flappers.  Another  department  begged  me  to 
get  well  quickly,  because,  being  no  longer  fit  to  command 
a  battery,  I  was  wanted  for  that  long-forgotten  Haison 
job. 

The  explanation  of  degrading  from  Major  to  subaltern 
is  not  forthcoming.  Perhaps  the  Government  were 
thinking  of  the  rate  payers.  The  difference  in  pay  is 
about  two  shillings  and  sixpence  a  day,  and  there  were 
many  thousands  of  us  thus  reduced. — But  it  does  not 
make  for  an  exuberant  patriotism.  My  reply  was  that 
if  I  didn't  go  out  as  a  Major,  I  should  not  hurry  to  get 
well.  This  drew  a  telegram  which  stated  that  I  was 
re-appointed  acting-Major  while  employed  as  Haison 
officer,  but  what  they  gave  with  one  hand  they  took 
back  with  the  other,  for  the  telegram  ordered  me  to 
France  again  three  weeks  before  the  end  of  my  sick  leave. 

It  was  a  curious  return.  But  for  the  fact  that  I  was 
still  in  uniform  I  might  have  been  a  mere  tourist,  a 
spectator.  The  job  was  more  "  cushy "  even  than 
that  of  R.T.O.  or  M.L.O.  Was  I  glad  ?  Enormously. 
Was  I  sorry  ?  Yes,  for  out  there  in  the  thick  of  it  were 
those  men  of  mine,  in  a  sense  my  children,  who  had 
looked  to  me  for  the  food  they  ate,  the  clothes  they  wore, 
the  pay  they  drew,  the  punishments  they  received,  whose 
lives  had  been  in  my  keeping  so  long,  who,  for  two  years, 
had  constituted  all  my  life,  with  whom  I  had  shared  good 
days  and  bad,  short  rations  and  full,  hardships  innumer- 
able, suffering  indescribable.  It  was  impossible  to  live 
softly  and  be  driven  in  a  big  Vauxhall  car,  while  they 
were  still  out  there,  without  a  twinge  of  conscience, 
even  though  one  was  not  fit  to  go  back  to  them.     I  slept 


The  Armistice  267 

in  a  bed  with  sheets,  and  now  and  again  a  hot  bath, 
receiving  letters  from  home  in  four  days  instead  of  eight, 
and  generally  enjoying  all  the  creature  comforts  which 
console  the  back-area  officer  for  the  lack  of  excitement 
only  found  in  the  firing  line.  It  was  a  period  of  doing 
little,  observing  much  and  thinking  a  great  deal  among 
those  lucky  ones  of  the  earth,  whose  lines  had  been  cast 
in  peaceful  waters  far  behind  even  the  backwash  of  that 
cataclysmic  tidal  wave  in  which  so  many  less  fortunate 
millions  had  been  sucked  under. 

My  first  job  was  to  accompany  a  party  of  French 
war  correspondents  to  the  occupied  territory  which 
the  enemy  had  recently  been  forced  to  evacuate, — 
Dunkerque,  Ostend,  Bruges,  Courtrai,  Denain,  Lille. 
There  one  marvelled  at  the  courage  of  those  citizens 
who  for  four  years  had  had  to  bow  the  neck  to  the 
invader.  From  their  own  mouths  we  heard  stories  of 
the  systematic,  thought-out  cruelty  of  the  Germans  who 
hurt  not  only  the  bodies  of  their  victims,  but  their  self- 
respect,  their  decency,  their  honour,  their  souls.  How 
they  survived  that  interminable  hopeless  four  years  of 
exaggerated  brutality  and  pillage,  cut  off  from  all  commu- 
nication with  the  outside  world ;  fed  with  stories  of  ghastly 
defeats  inflicted  upon  their  countrymen  and  allies,  of 
distrust  and  revolt  between  England  and  France ;  fined 
and  imprisoned  for  uncommitted  offences  against  mihtary 
law,  not  infrequently  shot  in  cold  blood  without  trial ; 
their  women  submitted  to  the  last  indignities  of  the 
"  Inspection  sanitaire,"  irrespective  of  age  or  class, 
wrenched  from  their  homes  and  deported  into  the 
unknown  interior,  sent  to  work  for  the  hated  enemy 
behind  the  firing  line,  unprotected  from  the  assault  of 
any  German  soldier  or  officer, — for  those  women  there 
were  worse  things  than  the  firing  trenches. 

We  saw  the  results  of  the  German  Official  Department 


268  The  Grey  Wave 

of  Demobilization,  which  had  its  headquarters  in  Alsace- 
Lorraine  at  Metz,  under  a  General,  by  whose  direct 
orders  all  the  factories  in  the  occupied  regions  were  dis- 
mantled and  sent  back  piecemeal  to  Germany,  the  shells 
of  the  plant  then  being  dynamited  under  pretence  of 
military  necessity.  We  saw  a  country  stripped  of  its 
resources,  gutted,  sacked,  rendered  sterile. 

What  is  the  Kultur,  the  philosophy  which  not  only 
renders  such  conduct  thinkable,  but  puts  it  into  the  most 
thorough  execution  ?  Are  we  mad  to  think  that  such 
people  can  be  admitted  into  a  League  of  Nations  until 
after  hundreds  of  years  of  repentance  and  expiation  in 
sackcloth  and  ashes  ?  They  should  be  made  the  slaves 
of  Europe,  the  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of  water, 
the  road-sweepers  and  offal-burners,  deprived  of  a  voice 
in  their  own  government,  without  standing  in  the  eyes  of 
all  peoples. 


French  General  Headquarters,  to  which  I  was  then 
sent  as  liaison  officer,  was  established  in  a  little  old-world 
town,  not  far  from  Paris,  whose  walls  had  been  battered 
by  the  English  centuries  ago.  Curious  to  think  that 
after  hundreds  of  years  of  racial  antagonism  we  should 
at  last  have  our  eyes  opened  to  the  fact  that  our  one- 
time enemies  have  the  same  qualities  of  courage  and 
endurance,  a  far  truer  patriotism  and  a  code  of  honour 
which  nothing  can  break.  No  longer  do  we  think  of 
them  as  flippant  and  decadent.  We  know  them  for  a 
nation  of  big-hearted  men,  loyal  to  the  death,  of  lion- 
like courage,  with  the  capacity  for  hanging  on,  which  in 
our  pride  we  ascribed  only  to  the  British  bull  dog.  We 
have  seen  Verdun.     We  have  stood  side  by  side  with  them 


The  Armistice  26 1 

in  mud  and  blood,  in  fat  days  and  lean,  and  know  it  to  be 
true. 

In  this  little  town,  where  the  bells  chimed  the  swift 
hours,  and  market  day  drew  a  concourse  of  peasant 
women,  we  sat  breathless  at  the  'phone,  hourly  marking 
the  map  that  liberated  each  time  a  little  more  of  France. 
Days  of  wild  hope  that  the  end  was  at  hand,  the  end 
which  such  a  short  time  back  had  seemed  so  infinitely 
remote,  days  when  the  future  began  to  be  a  possibility, 
that  future  which  for  four  years  one  had  not  dared  to 
dream  about.  Will  the  rose  colours  ever  come  back  ? 
Or  will  the  memory  of  those  million  dead  go  down  with 
one  to  the  grave  ? 

The  Armistice  was  signed.  The  guns  had  stopped. 
For  a  breathless  moment  the  world  stood  still.  The 
price  was  paid.  The  youth  of  England  and  France  lay 
upturned  to  the  sky.  Three  thousand  miles  across  the 
ocean  American  mothers  wept  their  unburied  sons. 
Did  Germany  shed  tears  of  sorrow  or  rage  ? 

The  wdrld  travail  was  over,  and  even  at  that  sacred 
moment 'when  humanity  should  have  been  purged  of 
all  pettiness  and  meanness,  should  have  bowed  down  in 
humility  and  thankfulness,  forces  were  astir  to  try  and 
raise  up  jealousy,  hatred  and  enmity  between  England, 
France  and  America. 

Have  we  learnt  nothing?  Are  these  million  dead  in 
vain  ?  Are  we  to  let  the  pendulum  swing  back  to  the 
old  rut  of  dishonest  hypocritical  self-seeking,  disguised 
under  the  title  of  that  misunderstood  word  "  patriotism  ?  " 
Have  we  not  yet  looked  into  the  eyes  of  Truth  and  seen 
ourselves  as  we  are  ?  Is  all  this  talk  of  world  peace  and 
league  of  nations  mere  newspaper  cant,  to  disguise  the 
fear  of  being  out-grabbed  at  the  peace  conference  ? 
Shall  we  return  to  lying,  hatred  and  all  mahce  and  re- 
crucify  Christ  ?     What  is  the  world  travail  for  ?     To 


270  The  Grey  Wave 

produce  stillborn  through  our  own  negligence  the  hope 
of  Peace  ?  The  leopard  cannot  change  his  spots,  you 
say.  My  answer  is  that  the  leopard  does  not  want  to. 
What  does  the  present  hold  out  to  us  who  have  been 
through  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  ?  What  does  it  look 
like  to  us  who  gaze  down  upon  it  from  the  pinnacle  of 
four  years  upon  the  edge  of  eternity  ? 

Your  old  men  shall  see  visions  and  your  young  men 
shall  dream  dreams. 

The  vision  of  the  old  men  has  been  realized.  In  the 
orgy  of  effort  for  world  domination  they  have  dug  up  a 
world  unrest  fertilized  by  the  sightless  faces  of  youth 
upturned  to  the  sky.  Their  working  hypothesis  was 
false.  The  result  is  failure.  They  have  destroyed  them- 
selves also  in  the  conflagration  which  they  started.  It 
has  burnt  up  the  ancient  fetishes,  consumed  their 
shibboleths.  Their  day  is  done.  They  stand  among  the 
still-smoking  ruins,  naked  and  very  ugly. 

The  era  of  the  young  men  has  begun.  Bent  under 
the  Atlas-like  burden  loaded  upon  their  shoulders,  they 
have  stood  daily  for  five  years  upon  the  edge  of  eternity. 
They  have  stared  across  into  the  eyes  of  Truth,  some 
unrecognizing,  others  with  disdain,  but  many  there  are 
in  whose  returning  faces  is  the  dawn  of  wisdom.  They 
are  coming  back,  the  burden  exchanged.  On  them  rests 
the  fate  of  the  unborn.  Already  their  feet  are  set  upon 
the  new  way.  But  are  they  strong  enough  unaided  to 
keep  the  pendulum  from  swinging  back?  No.  It  is 
too  heavy.  Every  one  of  us  must  let  ourselves  hear  the 
new  note  in  their  voices,  calling  us  to  the  recognition  of 
the  ideal.  For  five  years  all  the  science,  philosophy  and 
energy  of  mankind  has  been  concentrated  on  the  art 
of  dealing  death.  The  young  men  ask  that  mankind 
should  now  concentrate  on  the  art  of  giving  life.  We 
have  proved  the  power  within  us^because  the  routine  of 


The  Armistice  271 

the  world's  great  sin  has  estabHshed  this  surprising 
paradox,  that  we  daily  gave  evidence  of  heroism,  tolerance, 
kindHness,  brotherhood. 

Shall  we,  like  Peter  who  denied  Christ,  refuse  to 
recognize  the  greatness  within  ourselves  ?  We  found 
truth  while  we  practised  war.  Let  us  carry  it  to  the 
practice  of  peace. 


THE  END 


•  printed  at 

the  chapel  river  press, 

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