Kiltie McCoy; an American boy with an Irish name fighting in France as a Scotch soldier

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I Calling John Bull's Bluf7 1

II From Mufti to Kilts 13

II

If I live a thousand years I'll never forget my feelings as I looked over my new uniform of the Cameronian Scottish Rifles.

Here was I, a big husky man who had always prided himself somewhat on being all man. Yet before me on the floor lay skirts, and I was expected to put them on.

Down at dear old 339, in Holland, Michigan, U. S. A., I have five sisters. Even so, I had never learned the intricacies necessary properly to robe one's self with skirts. One can never tell what one will be forced to undergo in this good old world.

I got into my clothes all right until it came to the skirts. I looked these over a long time wondering whether I was supposed to pull them on over my head or to step into them and yank them up. I was ashamed to ask anybody for I was ashamed to put them on anyway.

"Why, oh, why," I thought to myself, as I looked at that bunch of plaid, "did I ever enlist in a Scotch outfit ? Why didn't I join up with an English regiment where they wear pants? Gee, but it's going to be cold. I can feel my knees freezing already."

I had more than one mind to cut and run for it and get into some regiment where they dressed hke men.

"I suppose I'm in for it and must make good," I thought with a sigh, "but I'll gamble somebody'll be calling me Percy or Clarence or Molly or some other perfectly ladylike name when I get into these skirts — if ever I find out how to get into them."

Then I had a somewhat comforting thought. The kilties were usually called "Jock" or "Sandy" or some other equally masculine name and when I remembered the glorious record of the Scotch Highlanders, I began to feel a little less womanish about those skirts. At length I got up courage to ask a laddie how to get into the things.

It was Corporal Geordie Freeland who came to my aid. Now Geordie was the son of a Scotch Presbyterian minister and was himself a theological student when he joined up. Corporal Geordie was used to the kilts and when I said to him: "How do you get into these skirts? Do you pull 'em on over your head or step into *em?" he looked at me with real compassion in his eyes and answered:

"Nither, me bra laddie. Open 'em up in front and pull 'em around you."

Then it was I discovered the kilts did open in front and that all I had to do was to "pull them around" me like a coat and buckle them. Then there I was all dressed up like a perfect lady.

But my troubles were not yet ended, however. Before me lay a roll that looked like a bandage except that it was of wool and of the familiar khaki color. These, I discovered, were my puttees and were supposed to be wrapped spirally around my legs up to a little below the knees. No chance of keeping those knees under cover! I called Corporal Geordie again and he put them on me, explaining the method in his broad Scotch brogue, some of which I almost understood.

Geordie was my guardian angel, my dictionary and my know-it-all during the first two or three days while I was learning the ropes. In later weeks we became the closest friends. It was Geordie who is responsible for my crooked arm, the fact that I am out of the service for good and, perhaps, that I am alive.

It was more than two years after he had shown me how to get into my kilts and puttees that he caused me to become the target for one of Fritz's snipers. It was at Arras, Easter Monday morning, 19 17. We were advancing between the third and fourth line German trenches. Geordie, then a sergeant, was on the extreme left of our company. I was a corporal in charge of bombers and on the extreme right. We were losing men rapidly and the bombardment was so intense that you could hardly hear yourself think.

j6 KILTIE McCOY

Geordie, on the left, yelled to the man next on his right, ''How's Pat McCoy?" The question was passed along up the line of perhaps a hundred and fifty men until it reached me. Instead of sending back my reply by the same relay method, I stepped out in front of the line a bit so I could see Geordie. Then I lifted my arm and waved to him to let him know I was still alive and still in the game. Hardly had I done so when "crack" came a sniper's bullet. It caught me just below the left elbow and put me out of the war. But I'm still alive, while I hear poor Geordie's ticket is up and he's sleeping "somewhere in France."

But back there in Hamilton and Glasgow we didn't have to worry about snipers. The first thing we had to do was to learn how to get into our new duds and how to use the equipment handed out to us. Geordie was my standby on these points.

I was at last all dolled up in mine. Then it was up to me to break out into the public gaze in my new scenery including those skirts. I stood in the doorway of the billet a long time before I could get up the courage to venture forth. I was sure I would be arrested and I was equally sure my legs would freeze. At last I took a long breath, pulled down my kilts a bit and stepped out. Everybody was looking at me, I knew. I could feel the blood rushing to my face in spite of myself. The fact that thousands more were

L.

Kiltie McCoy Kilted dressed just like me didn't help at all, all eyes were centered on me and me alone.

Hardly had I stepped forth when a gust of wind whistled around my knees. Automatically I grabbed my skirts to hold them down. Then everybody laughed. I didn't know, as the others did, that there are twenty-four yards of cloth in those kilts and that they are so heavy that little short of a gale will blow them up. I braced and tried to walk as if I had worn kilts all my life. But every minute I would unconsciously reach down and try to pull the skirts over my knees. First I would grab at them behind, then in front, then on the sides. All the time a raw wind was whistling around my bare legs until I shivered with cold and nervousness.

The first time I sat down in those kilts, I acted like a little girl trying to pull her skirts down over her knees. I pulled mine down but as soon as I straightened up, the kilts straightened up, too. Many a time I said to myself : "I wish I had enlisted in a regiment that wears pants."

But you get used to anything and the novelty of the kilts wore off in a day or two. Besides we didn't have time to worry about whether we had kilts on or not, we were too busy. From five o'clock in the morning until nine at night we were on duty, and that duty with our big new boots and tender feet gave us all j8 KILTIE McCOY

the worry we could well attend to. You take a lot of store clerks, professional men and others unused to out-of-door life, load them down with the kind of boots we had to wear and drill them sixteen hours a day and they have little time to bother over kilts or anything else.

I didn't know anything at all about the military game when I joined up, and I'll never forget the mess I made of it and the bawling out I got when Sergeant Armstrong for the first time yelled at me : "R-r-right tur-r-rn," and I just naturally turned around.

For two weeks we did nothing but drill without arms, polish buttons and equipment and then be inspected and bawled out. You see, the English army way of inculcating the idea of discipline is to demand cleanliness of person and cleanliness of equipment carried to the extreme, with frequent inspections and fines if you fail to pass satisfactorily. Boots are black and must be polished. Buttons are bright and must be kept so. Cap badges are shining and must be kept shining. You must be shaved daily. Your hair must be cut according to regulation and frequently.

I got mine early. A veteran of many years' service in the English army quietly gave me the secret of a quick and easy polish for my cap badge. He confidentially informed me that if I would smear it with Brasso, known as "The soldier's friend," and then place it over a gas-jet until the paste had burned in, all I had then to do was to dust it off and I'd have a bright and shining cap badge. I fell for it. When I went out for inspection soon after, my cap badge was perfectly black, and I knew I was in for it. The only question in my mind was how heavy my fine would be and what particular part of the billets I would have the honor of scrubbing.

I stood stiffly at attention as Captain Hay, who long since has clicked it, passed down the line inspecting. He paused in front of me, sized me up and down with a keen eye. His gaze fell upon that cap badge and stopped right there :

"What's the matter wi' yer cap badge?" he demanded coldly. "Did yer use cherry black on it this mornin' ?"

*T was " I began.

"Step oot," bawled the sergeant, tO' add to my confusion, for when a soldier in the British army is spoken to by an officer and replies, he must step smartly two paces to the front. Promptly I did so and stood all alone out in front of the entire company, stuttering like a schoolboy and trying to present some sort of alibi.

Then I told him what had happened and how I came to try the gas-jet method of polishing my ^ap badge.

"That's a lazy man's way," came the sharp response. "I'll give you an order for a new cap badge and hereafter you polish it without the aid of the gas-jet."

He let me off easy — much easier than he did an American pal of mine, for there were five of us in that battalion. The English army officer is extremely lussy about the heels of your boots. If they are not well polished you are certain to get yours, good and plenty. Now my American pal had neglected to polish his heels. The officer had passed down the front of the line and was returning in the rear looking for unpolished heels.

He paused behind my friend.

"What's the matter with those heels?" he demanded severely.

Then it was the Yankee smart Alec cropped out and all to the woe of the Yank.

"Sir, a good soldier never looks behind," he said.

"Take his name, Sergeant," said the captain. "We'll give him seven days in billet, without pay, to find out whether a good soldier ever looks behind."

When 3^ou're working for a shilling a day, you need all you can get and a seven davs' fine puts a severe crimp in one's rating in Dun's.

The incident of the cap badge had not taught me my lesson, however. I guess I was not upholding the Yankee reputation for being smart.

Every article in your kit must be arranged in a certain order and a certain manner. Our knives, forks, spoons, razors, tooth-brushes, etc., must always be placed in just that order. I had again taken the advice of an old-timer and my kit was on the ground open for inspection with the position of the knife and fork reversed. I had been careful in arranging my things and was mentally pluming myself on the job.

Captain Hay came down the line with his little cane. He paused and looked at my kit critically.

"What's that fork doing there?" he said sharply, and with a sweep of his cane he mussed up all my things and the sergeant took my name.

For a time we put it over on the officers in one respect, but the first man caught may be scrubbing floors yet for all I know. It was required that our kits should be folded square and neat. Now this is not the easiest thing to do when you have all your junk to stow in it So we contrived a plan to leave out all the stuff and put in the place of it a pillow or a square paste-board box. By this means we were able to present the neatest sort of kit for inspection purposes and at the same time have no load upon our backs.

But one day Captain Hay stopped behind Fred Thompson. Thompson had rather overdone the squareness and neatness.

"There's a perfect kit," said the captain, and Thompson immediately began seeing visions of Victoria crosses and marshal's batons and all sorts of things.

But Captain Hay struck the kit with his knuckle. It gave forth a hollow boom. Then we all knew it had happened and began thinking of scrubbing brushes and no pay.

"Ah, ha. So that's it, is it?" sneered the captain. "What have you got in that kit?"

"My kit, sir," responded Thompson, for he was an old-timer and had nerve.

"Step oot," roared the sergeant, and Thompson promptly stepped forward his two paces.

"We'll have kit inspection immediately," said the captain.

In another moment all the kits were open on the ground and thirty-two of them, including my own, gave up paste-board boxes, pillows and other contrivances for making nice-looking kits without weight. Oh, we did a fine turn of scrubbing for that, and afterward the kits were opened every day for inspection.

We were forever polishing boots and buttons and cap badges and standing at attention for inspection. We learned over in France that it was not required to polish except when detailed for guard duty at headquarters. Accordingly our yearning for the trenches was accentuated each day. We were willing to take chances with shells and bullets if only to escape that eternal polishing.

Inspections came frequently from the very first, inspections by our own officers and by general officers who came for the purpose. Not long after we had begun training we were inspected by King George, and let me tell you something right here. I never was more willing to die than I was for that little man who occupies the throne of England and the British Empire. I'm proud, too, that I was able to do my bit for him, for he is the greatest little sportsman and gentleman in the world.

A short time before the king inspected us we were inspected by a general. He was due to arrive at a certain time and according to the British army regulations we were on the parade fully equipped, our ranks dressed straight as a string and at attention some minutes before the general was expected. For two hours we stood there, stiff as pokers, unable to relax even a little. The general was late. We were soft then, too, and that made the tension that much harder to bear. I never ached so in my life and I thought I never would get activity into my muscles again.

And when at last he came, we presented arms and he rode by on his horse, saluted the colonel and passed on without giving us a single look or acknowledging our salute.

Soon after this experience it was announced that the king was coming. With the remembrance of that other inspection still in our minds and muscles we began to grouse. Naturally I, an American, didn't have much use for that king job anyway and under the conditions most of the men in the battalion felt pretty much the same way about it.

So we sat around and polished buttons and boots and cap badges and rifles and cussed the kaiser, the war, the king and everybody else. If the general had been two hours late of course the king would exercise his divine prerogative and be at least four hours late. And if the general didn't notice us standing there at attention and half dead waiting for him, we had reason to expect the king would probably not even notice the colonel.

So we went out to the parade feeling anything but happy and not overly loyal toward King George. He was just a nuisance to us that morning. He was due to arrive at eleven a. m. We had been properly formed, our lines carefully dressed and had just taken our proper positions when, three minutes before the hour, he came upon the field.

I was in the front rank and had a good chance to see him. I had all sorts of ideas about what kings looked like but what I saw was a small, slight, unimpressive-looking man. There were no ermine robes about him, no lackeys fanning him, nobody kneeling in front of him. He was clad in a field uniform, just like the most ordinary English Tommy. He was somewhat stooped and looked just about as human and commonplace as any man could.

We were standing stiffly at attention when he walked upon the field. The colonel promptly ordered: "Present arms," and we executed it.

Did King George recognize us? Bet your life he did! He saluted the colonel, faced the battalion and smartly saluted the men. Then he spoke to the colonel and what do you think King George of England said:

"Have the men stand at ease, Colonel."

In that moment, George V of England had won the hearts of the Cameronian Scottish Rifles. But that was not all. He personally told the men they might smoke if they desired while he was making the inspection. Do you think a man "Ht up" ? Not on your life ! Every man there, whatever his feelings might have been before, had too much respect for that little man to smoke while he was making an inspection.

The king passed to the right of the line, and walking close up to the first man, stopped and said :

"You're a fine looking body of men. Are you being well cared for ?"

You could see that soldier grow as he replied to his sovereign. And do you think he would have made a complaint? Not much.

Then the king passed down the front of the line.

He stopped at about every fourth or fifth man and talked with him personally. He stopped in front of the man next on my right, I was always sore because he missed me.

"Are you well cared for?" he asked. *'How about your boots? Remember a soldier must have good boots, a good rifle and plenty of wholesome food. Are you getting all these things?"

I could feel that man swell up as he responded:

"Sir, yes, sir. Your Majesty."

As His Majesty walked along the line each man standing at ease, came to attention and so remained until the king had passed to the second man beyond him.

His Majesty looked over every man in the line and not until he had finished his inspection were we once more brought to attention to present arms in salute. The king saluted the colonel and again turned to salute us. I tell you he is the gamest little man in the world and when that battalion cut loose a cheer for him, if there was anybody who yelled any louder than I, it was because he had stronger lungs for I could say and still can say, "God save King George," and mean it with all my heart.

Ill

"Fall in."

The command was whispered in the darkness.

"No smoking and no talking."

This admonition was also given in a whisper.

"The wind is whistHng Yankee Doodle between my knees," I mumbled, as a cold gust caught me.

"Make it whistle TJi Bonnie Braes o' Scotland," said a big Scotchman near me.

"Silence," bawled somebody from out the darkness in tones that could be heard all over the British Isles.

"Forr-r-red," came the whispered command.

"Away we marched into the darkness, out of the billets and over to the beautiful estate of Lord Hamilton. It was so dark I could not see even my next man, for since the Zeps first raided England few lights are burned and these are carefully shaded.

Down along the road and through the beautiful woods of this fine old estate we tramped. The liquid mud sloshed around our feet and we had visions of boots to polish in the morning.

Somebody cursed gently.

"Silence, there," roared out of the darkness. 27

28 KILTIE AIcCOY

I reached out my hand to touch my next man. He was not there. I knew where he was. Up there in the angles of the old castle were the pretty maids of Lord Hamilton's household waiting for their soldier lovers.

We were in line advancing through the woods.

"Lie down," came the whispered order.

Around each of us were twenty-four yards of kilts, beneath us was mud and then more mud.

Lie down, and then spend all day to-morrow scrubbing kilts and ironing the pleats ? Not much. I squatted on my knees, holding my kilts up around me; and everybody else did the same.

"Lie down," bawled Colonel Dykes, a little fellow about sixty years old but with more pep than most of us youngsters had. "You're under fire."

We couldn't see any shells so nobody worried.

A hand caught me in the back of the head. With a shove it sent me sprawling flat upon my face, full length into the soft mud.

"Lie down. You'll go down quick enough when Fritz gets to tossing real shells at you," said a voice from the dark; and one man after another was pushed upon his face into the ooze.

I was down. My kilts were smeared. I had an all day's job ahead of me washing and ironing that twenty-four yards of plaid and cleaning all the rest of my equipment. It was not necessary for anybody to tell me to lie still. I lay there feeling the cold wet mud soak into my clothing and smear over my bare legs.

From somewhere a star shell went up. It looked like a sky-rocket left over from the first Fourth of July. The star shells we had when we first entered the war were so weak in comparison with those of the Germans that when we would send one up, Fritz used to light matches and hold them up above the parapet of his trenches in derision.

"Looks like Fourth of July," I said as I watched it.

"Shut up, you blooming Yank," said an Englishman next me as he reached over and kicked me.

"Fix bayonets," was the whispered order. We rolled over on our right sides in order to draw and fix the mud-covered bayonets.

Then came the order to move forward, crawling through the mud on our bellies. We moved. That is, most of us did. Some lay still there on the ground. They were not dead nor even theoretically wounded. A gentle snore from one showed what was the matter with all. A prodding with a mud-covered boot brought all to life in course of time.

So we crept forward, not knowing where we were going nor why. But we went.

"Charge!" bellowed the colonel; and with a yell we were up and rushing forward upon an unknown, unseen and purely mythical enemy located in an unknown position, and then it was all over.

Back to the billets we marched except those who had maneuvered out of the ranks and had gone home to sleep in warm soft beds and to sneak back into billets just before dawn in the morning.

It was a night maneuver, the kind we had frequently, in which we learned a vast number of things that we promptly unlearned as soon as we reached France and the real stuff.

It was good to get out of our wet and muddy clothes even if we couldn't forget that they must be washed in the morning. But the night was not over yet.

Hardly had we fallen asleep when we were turned out in a hurry again. Into those cold, wet, muddy clothes we climbed as fast as we could and turned out under arms.

"What's it all about ?" we shivered.

"Zep raid," was the information we got.

All eyes were turned heavenward and all ears were strained to catch the whir of a motor or the explosion of a bomb. We could see nothing. We could hear nothing. Next day we found out why. The raid was over London, some two hundred and fifty miles away, but it was orders that whenever a raid was on, the armed forces all over the British Isles must be turned out ready for eventualities. So we stood in the ranks a couple of hours more, cold and ugly — while the nearest excitement there was was down in London.

Next day we spent scrubbing, polishing and getting cleaned up and being inspected. That is, we occupied in this work all the time we had between the regular grind of drills.

That was only one kind of night maneuver. We had many. Perhaps the most heartbreaking kind was trench digging. Armed with picks and shovels we would go over to Lord Hamilton's estate and there in the darkness dig trenches. Next morning we would be marched back to look at our handiwork and — to fill them up again. We would find some of the trenches three feet deep and some of them only six inches. I noticed after we got into France, that the fellows who dug only six inches in Blighty could dig six feet in half the time when they had Fritz and shrapnel to cheer them on.

However, those six-inch trenches were always popular with us on the morning after. It was easy to fill them up while it took a lot of backache and agony of blistered hands to fill one three feet deep. And then there were the sand-bags! At night we filled hundreds of them to build our parapets. In the morning we emptied them again.

One day was pretty much Hke every other during those six months in the training camp.

At five A. M. reveille was sounded, and we had biscuits and tea.

At five-thirty we began our hour of Swedish drill.

Six-thirty we were dismissed.

Seven a. m. breakfast. This almost always consisted of bread, jam, either bacon or porridge without sugar, and tea. At breakfast, too, the English idea of a joke was perpetrated for the first time in the day.

Under the British army regulations, it is required that at each meal the men shall be asked it they have any complaints to make. The orderly officer of the day always came in, took his place at the end of each table and in loud voice demanded :

'"Any complaints?"

The orderly of the platoon addressed always jumped to his feet, stood at attention and we saw to it that he always had complaints to make.

"Sir, yes, sir," he would say, "we had not enough bacon."

"I'll see what can be done about it," was the stereotyped reply of the officer, as he passed on to the next table. But although we lay awake nights thinking of complaints to make, it was apparent the officer had mighty little influence with the powers-that-be for we

THE WINTER OF OUR DISCONTENT Z3

never got results from his promise to "see Avhat could be done about it."

Breakfast over, yvQ had time for a quick shave and to polish our boots and buttons.

At nine a. m. we fell in for inspection and woe be to the man who had failed to do a good job of polishing. We were paid a shilling a day for our service and the regulations require that no man shall receive less than one shilling a week. But it was perfectly easy to fine a man every cent of his pay except that one regulation shilling a week.

Inspection over, we were drilled. The captain would take a hand at it until he was tired, then he would command : *'Carry on, Sergeant," and the sergeant-major would take up the burden. Perhaps the lieutenants would like to try it, and so they relayed on us while we had to stand it all.

At twelve noon we would have battalion parade and then be dismissed. But that dismissing business frequently cut short our dinner hour. In the British army when the battalion is dismissed, each man turns to the right, salutes smartly, and then falls out. It w^as a mighty blind officer, I soon learned, who couldn't find some Jock down the line who didn't turn or that didn't salute to suit him and so he would keep us turning and saluting fifteen or twenty times before, at last, we were allowed to fall out.

At twelve-thirty w^e dined. This consisted of biscuits — and by biscuits I mean hardtack — stew, rice or sago pudding.