On the right of the British line

Preface

This is my first book. It is also my last But I have a record to make and a duty to per form. I was five weeks on the firing line; fouf weeks mourned as dead; and three months a prisoner of war.

I have attempted to make a true record of all that happened. The names alone are fictitious (all except that of Saniez), for those days were too full of stirring events which will long live in my memory to need the aid of fiction. If I have dwelt at some length upon my experience in Germany, it is with the hope that the information may be of interest to those who have relatives and friends still in the hands of the enemy and burn to know the truth.

I do not deplore the loss of my sight, for I can

say in all sincerity that I was never happier in

my life than I am to-day.

G. N.

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I. FOVANT I

ORDERLY ROOM. OFF TO THE FRONT.

Chapter I Fovant

ORDERLY ROOM. OFF TO THE FRONT

<<r pHE C. O. wants to see you."

A "What for?" I asked.

"I don't know, but he is in the orderly room."

It was the adjutant who was speaking, and his manner led me to think there was something in the wind which he did not like to tell me. I left the mess, and a few moments later I was standing before the C. O.

' ' I have just received a telegram from the War Office ; you are included in the next reinforcements for France."

"I am glad, sir."

"You've only forty-eight hours' notice. You are to report at Southampton at 4. P. M. the day after to-morrow."

"Very good, sir."

"Well, as your time is so short, you had better go home and get things ready. The adjutant will have your papers ready for you within half an hour."

"Very good, sir."

The C. O. stood up, and in his cordial military manner, which seemed to take you straight from the orderly room into the mess, held out his hand to bid me good-bye.

There is quite a difference between a C. O. in the orderly room and a C. O. in the mess. I mean those C. O.'s who are made of the right stuff, and our C. O. was certainly one of them.

In the orderly room his presence keeps you at arm's length and makes you feel that you want to keep clicking your heels and coming to the salute. You are conscious of the terrible crime you would commit if you permitted your body to relax from the position of attention; your conversational powers are restricted; you fancy you have a voice at the back of your head, saying:

"Don't argue, listen; digest, and get out."

It's a feeling which does not make the orderly room a very pleasant place to go to; yet you have an instinctive feeling of confidence.

The same C. O. in the mess, however, is a different man and creates quite a different atmos-

FOVANT

phere. In the orderly room he holds you from him; in the mess he pulls you to him. You have the feeling that you can sit in an armchair, with your feet on the coal-box, and talk to him round the corner of your newspaper, like the very ordinary human being he really is.

"Well, good-bye, and good luck." We shook hands, I came to the salute, and the next moment I found myself once more outside the orderly room door.

Have you ever experienced the feeling ? Yes, thousands have, for the despatch of reinforcing officers to the front in this abrupt manner was taking place daily throughout the empire. You remember the feeling quite well; amazement at its suddenness; eagerness for the adventure; the prospect of the home parting; the sudden change in the daily routine; the mystery of the future — all swirling through your brain in a jumble of thoughts.

Then the hasty despatch of telegrams, the examination of time-tables, and the feverish packing of a kit which has grown to enormous proportions and hopelessly defies the regulations for weight.

An hour later and I had made a quick sale of 3 my bicycle, distributed odds and ends of hut furniture which I should no longer need, and was sitting in a motor-car, outside the mess, grabbing at hands which were outstretched in farewell.

Those who lived in camp at Fovant can remember what an uninteresting, dreary place it seemed at the time, and how we cursed its monotony. Rows upon rows of uninteresting and uninviting looking huts ; the large, barren square ; the heart-breaking trudge to the station; the little village with the military policeman, who stood at the fork of the roads, and whose job seemed so easy, while ours seemed so hard; and who always seemed so clean and cool, while we seemed so hot and dusty.

The city of Salisbury, our one ray of hope, but which was too far to walk to, and too expensive to ride to — all these things we used to look upon as sufferings which had to be put up with. But we can look upon the picture now, and there are few of us who can do so without a feeling of affection, for there was a spirit of comradeship there which links up the dreariness into pleasant recollections.

Now that I have been through the mill I can 4 fOVANf

look back at that parting scene, and as the caf whirls away and my brother officers walk back into the mess, I fancy I can hear the comment of those who had not yet been out and those who had:

"Lucky brute."

"Poor devil!"

Chapter II The Silent Heroes The Woman Who Waits And Suffers In

SILENCE

T WAS soon comfortably settled in a first-class compartment and whirling towards Waterloo, with the worst ordeal of all still before me: the breaking of the news at home and the parting while the shock is still fresh.

Who are the true heroes of the war ?

Our fighting men are cheered in the streets; every newspaper and magazine sings their praise; every shop-window reflects their needs ; in theatre, pulpit, and workshop their praises are sung.

But are they the real heroes of the war ?

Ask the fighting man himself. Speak to him of his wife or mother, and the expression on his face will answer your question.

There is no one to sing her praise, no one to paint the picture of her deeds; no one to tell of that lonely feeling when her hero departs and the door is closed behind him.

THE SILENT HEROES

The fighting man looks upon his share of the war with a light heart. Events come too rapidly upon him to feel depressed. He does not feel the gnawing hunger of the lonely wait ; the emptiness of the world when the parting is over; the empty chair at the table, and the rooms made cheerless by his absence.

There is no one to describe the terrors of the morning casualty list ; the hourly expectation and frozen fear of the telegraph boy's "rat tat," bringing some dreadful news.

There are no crowds to cheer her; no flags or trumpets to rouse her enthusiasm and occupy her thoughts. No constant activity, thrilling excitement, desperate encounter.

Hers is a silent patriotism. She is the true hero of the war. And in hundreds of thousands of homes throughout the empire, her silent deeds, her wonderful fortitude, are making the womanhood of Britain a history which medals will not reward, nor scars display.

The fighting men know it, and when you cheer them, they know that there is still one at home who deserves your cheers, yet will not hear them; and who will seek no greater reward than the safe return of her own hero amid the applause which greets their homecoming.

Fighting men acknowledge it ! And when your ears are no longer deafened by the cheers of others, take off your caps, fill your lungs, and cheer to the echo the real heroes of the war.

All honour to the woman who waits.

Chapter III Departure For The Front

WATERLOO STATION. LUNCHEON ARGUMENTS. THE BAGGAGE PROBLEM

TITATERLOO STATION in war time presents a picture of unending interest. Here it is that a thousand dramas are acted daily. It is one huge scene of bustle and excitement. The khaki of the soldier, the blue of the sailor; the mother, the wife, the sweetheart; the sad partings, the joyful greetings. The troops entraining, spick and span in their new war kit; the war-worn soldier home on leave, bespattered with the soil of France; troops from the near-by camps on week-end leave, tumbling out of the carriages with the spirits of schoolboys, or looking for standing-room in the overcrowded compartments on the last train back.

The scene is inspiring, depressing, historical.

Hear the noise and babble of the throng; the sobs and the cheers; the last look, the last handshake, the cheery greeting and the boyish laughter

— whilst out in the street, London continues its unaltered ways, indifferent to the greatest war in the world's history reflected within a stone's throw, in Waterloo Station.

The Southampton train was rapidly filling, and I just managed to secure a seat and take a last look round. It needed a minute before the train was due to depart. Every window was filled with soldiers, and small groups were standing round each carriage door.

Porters were hurrying backward and forward, trying to find seats for late arrivals. Women were sobbing, men were talking earnestly. Presently the shrill whistle of the guard ; hurried farewells, spontaneous cheers, and the slowly moving train gradually left the station, carrying its human freight to an unknown destiny.

I turned from the window and settled myself down in a corner. With me was Lieutenant Collins of our regiment, and Second Lieutenants Jones and Bailey of the London Regiment, while between us was a table laid for lunch.

"Well!" said Collins, packing his kit which had been dangling in a threatening manner from the rack, "that's one job over. I'm not sorry

DEPARTURE FOR THE FRONT

it's over, either. I wish we were coming back instead of going. I wouldn't mind getting a blighty wound in about a month's time. That would suit me down to the ground."

"Looking for trouble already," said Jones.

"You don't call that trouble, a nice little blighty wound, and then home."

"Don't be an idiot," I interrupted. "If every one felt the same way, who do you think is going to carry on the war?"

"Don't know. Never thought of it. But all the same a blighty wound in about a month's time will suit me down to the ground."

The conversation drivelled on in this way for a few miles, and finally turned into a heated discussion of the wine-list at the back of the menu.

Luncheon was served, and we were soon heavily engaged in a fierce attack on chicken and ham, intermingled with joke and arguments. The cause of the war and the prospect of its finish.

"Here's to a safe return," said Bailey, when his ginger ale had ceased to erupt its displeasure at being released from the bottle.

"And here's to an early blighty wound," said Collins.

ii

"Hang it all," said Jones. "Can't you forget it?"

The conversation was bursting out afresh, and fortunately did not drift into politics or religion; and arguments easily turned to jokes, and jokes into a fresh onslaught on the chicken and ham.

There are some men who can argue best when armed with a knife and fork, and a good meal indisputably in their possession. There are others whose oratorical powers show greater promise when liquid refreshment is within easy grasp. In others yet again, the soothing influence of the twisted weed develops extraordinary powers. And before we arrived at Southampton town station the gift of each had full play.

We soon found ourselves scrambling amongst the heap of luggage which had been thrown in confusion on to the platform, and commenced an anxious search for our kits.

It is always the same at English railway stations, and our cousins from America and Canada scorn our system, or rather lack of system, for those who travel with baggage in England have always the possibility in front of them of a free fight to regain their possessions.

DEPARTURE FOR THE FRONT

There seems to be only one thing to do if you are going to travel with a trunk, and that is either to paint it in rainbow colours, so that it will stand out in striking contrast to the mountainous heap of baggage thrown topsyturvy out of the wagon on arrival at a terminus. Or, if not provided with this forethought of imagination, it is best to arrive at the starting station some hours ahead of time, and sit down on the platform and study the peculiarities of your trunk, its indentations and scratchings, and other characteristics, and committing all these details securely to your memory, so that when you arrive at the other end, and you jostle among the crowd gathered around the baggage-car, you can grab the collar of a porter and frantically shout: "There it is!" as it tumbles out of the wagon, to be finally submerged at the extreme bottom of the heap.

Unfortunately, all military kit bags are exactly the same. It is true you have your name painted on the outside, but so has everybody, and when fifty or sixty bags come tumbling out, they all look exactly alike.

That is how it was at Southampton town station, but we were all in good spirits, thanks to

*3 the wine-list before mentioned; and as all the owners of the kit bags were carrying an uncomfortable amount of ordnance stores on their backs, the heap of luggage soon became submerged beneath a still greater heap of energetic and perspiring humanity, until the scene looked net unlike a very much disturbed ant-hill.

But I am exaggerating. Yet, the exaggeration of my words, written in a calm moment of thought is far less vociferous than the exaggerated words used at the time during the frantic endeavour to seek one's solitary kit bag, and extricate it in such a scramble.

But at last the four of us, bent double by our packs, and freely perspiring in the heat of an August day, could be seen rolling, pushing, kicking, and dragging our worldly belongings off the platform towards the station entrance, to seek the hospitality of an ancient hack. And then we drove away, our kit and our equipments stacked high around us at precarious angles, and completely submerging the occupants, to the delight of the people who stood and watched vs in open-mouthed amazement.

Chapter IV Crossing The Channel

THE DOCK PORTER. A WHIFF OF BOND STREET

A RRIVING at the dock we reported to the embarkation officer, and were given a pass to leave the dock, but bearing the strict injunction that we must embark at 6 p. m.

When you cross to France for the first time you are so nervous about missing the boat and running the risk of a court-martial, or some other such dreadful suggestion, that you hardly dare to leave the dock gates, and you are certainly waiting at the gang-plank a full fifteen minutes before the appointed time.

But those who are no longer novices to the mysterious calculation of those who regulate our army traffic, would, on receiving such instruction, immediately repair to the best hotel, there to regale themselves in a glorified afternoon tea, and afterwards seat themselves in the front row at the local Empire; subsequently rolling up at the ship's side shortly after 9 o'clock, to find that the troop-ship is not due to sail for another hour at least.

Having enjoyed all the pleasure of such disregard to orders, and arriving in due course at the ship's side, I searched around for my baggage and for means of getting it on board. I had not far to look, for there were a number of soldiers standing about, whose evident duty it was to do the necessary fatigue work.

I call them soldiers because they were dressed in khaki; but the King's uniform could not disguise the fact that they were the old-time dock porters. There is something about the earnest, anxious look of the dock porter, as he tenders you his services, which even the martial cut of a military uniform cannot hide. His adopted profession in peace, inscribed so deeply in his face and bearing, cannot be hidden so easily by the curtain of war.

A lance corporal approached me, and, assuring me that nothing would go astray that was left in his charge, slung my kit over his shoulder with professional skill and followed me up the gang-

CROSSING THE CHANNEL

plank, placing my belongings carefully down in what may once have been the cabin of the ship. He crossed his legs, leaned heavily with one arm on my baggage, and tipping his cap on the back of his head to enable me to see the exact amount of perspiration upon his forehead, and breathing heavily, so that I might form an exact estimate of the fatigue he had undergone, he waited in hopeful expectancy.

I gave him a tip.

It is against all regulations to tip a soldier; but it seemed such a natural thing to do, for his khaki uniform could not hide the habit of years.

He did not salute, but touched his cap. I smiled to myself as I watched him depart. He was a soldier now; but the uniform could not disguise the fact that he was still a dock porter.

We had a splendid crossing, and I shall not readily forget the romantic atmosphere of that night.

The sea was calm, and a full moon cast a silvery, shimmering pathway across the water.

All lights on board the troop-ship were extinguished, and with black smoke belching from the funnels, and the vibrations of the engines trem-

i7 bling through the ship, we made our dash across the Channel.

Who but those whose duty it is to perform the arduous task of protecting our troop-ships can understand and appreciate what it means to live the life of the sailor on those comfortless -looking destroyers.

Night after night, week after week, throughout the years, tearing frantically up and down, seeking a hidden foe; daring the treacherous mines; safeguarding their trust with apparent disregard for their own safety.

The men who perform such duties are hidden heroes; and the safe transportation of our fighting millions across the seas is a silent tribute of their bravery.

This work goes on, and will go on until the end of the war, and the men who perform this great task do so with the knowledge that only failure can bring their names before the public.

I met many old friends on board, and several new ones. But one man in particular attracted my attention, for his appearance seemed so strangely out of place with the surroundings.

Standing near the companionway, and looking 18

CROSSING THE CHANNEL

upon the scene with a bored expression, was a young man in the thirties, in a brand-new uniform, with a single star on his shoulder-strap, which proclaimed him to the world as a second lieutenant.

He was rather tubby in appearance, with a round, chubby face, which was screwed up in a frantic effort to retain within its grasp a monocle, through which he viewed his fellow beings in mute astonishment ; and what is more, he wore new kid gloves. It was Septimus D'Arcy, dressed in immaculate neatness, radiating the atmosphere of Bond Street; indifferent to everybody, yet with a horrified look of discomfort at finding himself in such unusual surroundings.

I had hardly turned from the strange scene when Collins caught hold of my arm.

"Come over here; I want to introduce you to a friend of mine, who, I believe, is coming out to be attached to us," he said.

We walked along the deck, and, to my emoarrassment, a few moments later I found myself shaking the limp paw of Septimus D'Arcy, glove and all.

I am not quite sure that Septimus, on my in- 19 traduction, did anything more than open his mouth, while I raised and lowered his right forearm. Septimus would have spoken, I am quite sure, as the movement of his mouth indicated that such was his intention; although the expression, or rather lack of expression, on his face, bore no proof that his remarks, if uttered, would be very interesting. In fact, Septimus needed encouragement.

"We are having a very pleasant crossing," I ventured.

"Ye-s," he drawled, "but a demned overcrowded one — what ? "

"I suppose so, but troop-ships are always overcrowded."

"I say, though, where does one sleep?"

I rather suspected that what Septimus really wanted to know was whether there was such a thing to be had as a private cabin, where he could disrobe his tubby figure in seclusion.

"There seems to be two places to sleep," I replied; "either in the boiler-room or on deck."

1 ' On deck ! Rather uncomfortable — what ? ' '

"Well not nearly so uncomfortable as it may be 20

CROSSING THE CHANNEL

later. I am just going down to get my kit and lay it out on deck," I said. "Hadn't you better get yours, too ?"

I went down below, leaving Septimus with his mouth still open, and his round nose wrinkled up with an expression of discomfort. But he made no move to accept my invitation.

I unrolled my kit on the deck by the side of a long row of officers who were already comfortably settled for the night. On either side of each officer were his war kit and a life-belt.

I got into my sleeping-bag, and not feeling very sleepy, I lit a cigarette and looked upon my surroundings.

The scene was a very inspiring one, and I could not help dreaming of the future. What had destiny in store for us ? Who would return in glory ? And who would be called upon to pay the great price — to come back bleeding and disabled, dependent for future existence upon the benevolence of a nation's gratitude ?

The ship sped onward, carrying its human freight. Greater and greater grew the distance from loved ones left behind. Nearer and nearer we sped towards the unknown future.

How many of those lying around, silent companions of their thoughts, were thinking the same as I ?

What was the future ? Horror, anxiety, success, failure, mutilation, death; which was it to be? And what a change this was to the times we had had in the past.

We were all civilian soldiers: lawyers, merchants, bankers, and tradesmen. Fighting was not our profession nor desire.

Whose power was it to transform these lives so ruthlessly from the habits of peace to become instruments of war ? Whose was the hand which plucked us from homes and families, to hurl us into the caldron of hell ? Was it the ambition of a nation, guided by the despotic direction of a tyrant ?

We knew it and believed it. We could not remain idle to see our homes and families suffering the destruction and barbarities inflicted on Belgium. The fire of hell blazed by the petrol of German fury must not be wafted in the direction of our beloved country.

The call had been answered, and these silent forms of England's sons were speeding through

CROSSING THE CHANNEL

the night in the direction of danger, at the bidding of a nation in peril.

My cigarette was finished, and I was becoming sleepy. I turned over to settle myself comfortably, and turning my eyes in the direction of the companionway, I saw the tubby figure of an officer standing near the rail, immaculately dressed, and in strange contrast to his surroundings.

It was Septimus D'Arcy, immaculate and indifferent. Septimus was at war; but Septimus was still in Bond Street.

Chapter V Going Up The Line

PERFIDIOUS GANG-PLANKS. D'ARCY STRANDED.

GUIDES WHO CANNOT GUIDE.

A HEATED ARGUMENT

^TEXT morning we were disturbed early, and rolled up our kits ready for disembarkation.

About 7 a. m. we pulled alongside the wharf, and a light-hearted, jostling crowd struggled for the gang-plank.

I have not yet been able to find out why gang-planks are made so narrow, so that only one person at a time dare undertake the passage.

Chaos seemed to prevail. The deck suddenly became a struggling mass of humanity, struggling, tugging, and dragging at valises and kit bags.

Officers were manfully shouldering their "marching order," and struggling with their valises, hoping that their turn would come to find a footing on the gang-plank.

The gang-plank was long and narrow, bending and squeaking under its burden. There were two

GOING UP THE LINE

gang-planks : one to go down and one to come up.

But we were not sailors, and did not know the system; the inevitable result being that those going up met those coming down, until they became an unwieldy medley of men, baggage, protests, and apologies.

Gang-planks at the best of times appear structures of absurdity. They either appear to be placed at an angle so dangerous that the only safe way of getting ashore appears to be to sit down and slide. At other times the gang-plank has an unhappy knack of sagging in a precarious manner as you approach the middle, while a couple of sailors hold desperately on to the end to prevent its slipping off the dock.

Here we reported to the landing officer, who was making frantic endeavours to create order from chaos.

In circumstances of this kind the best thing to do with the landing officer is to keep clear of him. So we seized the only hack available and drove to one of the leading hotels, which had the reputation of being popular.

I am not quite sure if these conveyances are called hacks, but the name seems very appropriate; for carriage seems too dignified a term for such dilapidated vehicles.

We were, however, too glad to get away as rapidly as possible from the dusty deck, and it was already getting very hot.

Turning into one of the side streets, we beheld the immortal Septimus, looking like one who is hopelessly lost in the middle of the Sahara Desert.

Now Septimus was not a born soldier, and he had made no attempt to carry his equipment on his back ; neither would it seem right for Septimus to carry any greater burden on his podgy form than his well-polished Sam Brown. So his equipment lay on the pavement beside him. He had evidently dragged it some little distance, and looked upon it as a beastly nuisance, and was standing there vainly hoping that a taxi would come to his rescue and help him carry the beastly thing away.

We gave Septimus a lift, as he evidently needed looking after.

Arriving at the hotel, we all tumbled into the dining-room for breakfast, all except Septimus D'Arcy, who made straight for the nearest bar, and was last heard of that day tapping a coin

GOING UP THE LINE

vigorously on the counter, and with the perspiration standing in beads on his nose, frantically screeching for a whisky and soda.

Two days later I received a slip of paper which warned me that I was to proceed up the line that evening.

I was a senior officer, and would have charge of all the troops departing that evening. If you have never had that job, take my tip and avoid it; for of all the thankless tasks the poor devil who suddenly finds himself O. C. train, has the most difficult one of all.

I reported to the camp adjutant, an awfully decent sort of chap, and as a farewell gift he placed in my hands a pile of documents and several sheets of printed instructions.

"There you are, old chap, you will find everything there."

"Why, what is all this about?" said I, holding on to the mysterious bundle of papers which he thrust into my hands.

"That is a complete record, in duplicate, of all the troops in your charge. When you get to the station hand those papers over to the R. T. O."

"How many men have I charge of?" 27

"Rather a big crowd going to-night — 38 officers and 1,140 other ranks."

"What regiments do they belong to?"

"Well, I think you have got men who belong to nearly every regiment serving in France. There are reinforcement draughts going to various units, and numerous men returning from leave. You've got English, Scotch, Canadians, and Australians. You've got cavalrymen, artillerymen, engineers, and infantrymen. Believe me, you've got your hands full to-night.

"You will find a guide at the head of the column who knows the way to the station. It's a good five miles from here."

When I got outside I found the column nearly a quarter of a mile long, formed up ready to march off.

I gave the order to move to all those within reach of my voice, and trusted to the remainder to follow on.

It was quite dark as the long column moved slowly down the long boulevards. I had not the faintest notion where the station was. Wherever I went that long, unwieldy column would slowly follow me, and trust blindly to my direction.

GOING UP THE LINE

I pinned my faith to the guide, and on we went.

Before we had got half-way it became evident that the guide had a very remote idea which was the direction to take; and he began to make anxious inquiries of passers-by as to the right way.