A Padre in France Part 4

Another private, an Irishman, arrived in the camp one day from the firing-line. Ours was the remotest base; two days' journey from the nearest trench. Between us and the fighting men was what seemed an impa.s.sable entanglement of regulations, guarded at every angle by R.T.O.'s and military police. It was, any one would agree about this, a flat impossibility for an unauthorised person to travel through the zone of the army's occupation.

Yet this man did it, and did it without in the least intending to. Up to a certain point his account of himself was clear. He had been sent off, one of a party under charge of an officer. He did not know--few people in the army ever do know--where he was going. He became detached from his party and found himself, a solitary unit, at what seems to have been a railhead. The colonel who dealt with him questioned:

"Why didn't you ask the R.T.O. where you were to go?"

"I did ask him, sir. The first thing ever I did was to ask him."

"And what did he say?"

"What he said, sir, was 'Go to the devil out of this.'"

The colonel checked a smile. He probably sympathised with the R.T.O.

"And what did you do then?" he asked.

"I got into the train, sir, and sure, here I am."

That particular colonel's temper was notoriously a little soured by long command. It was felt that the soldier had, after all, made a fair attempt to obey the orders of the R.T.O.

Another private--less innocent, I fear--caused me and a few other people some mild excitement. I was summoned to the orderly-room to answer a telephone call. I was told by some one, whose voice sounded as if he was much irritated, that he had caught the man who stole my s.h.i.+rt. No one, thanks to my servant's vigilance, had stolen any s.h.i.+rt of mine. I said so.

"Grey flannel s.h.i.+rt," said the voice, and I gathered that he was irritated afresh by my extreme stupidity. I disclaimed all knowledge of any stolen s.h.i.+rt, flannel or other.

An explanation followed. A deserter had been arrested. It was discovered that he was wearing four flannel s.h.i.+rts and three thick garments under them. "That," I said, "is good _prima facie_ evidence that he really is a soldier." I thought that a useful thing to say, and true. No one in the world except a British soldier would wear four s.h.i.+rts and three jerseys at the same time. The British soldier--it is one of his characteristics--puts on all the clothes he can get in any weather.

The voice at the other end of the wire swore--unnecessarily, I think.

Then it told me that one of the s.h.i.+rts was marked with my name and that I must identify it and the man. I refused, of course. The voice offered to send the s.h.i.+rt round for my inspection. I did not in the least want to inspect a s.h.i.+rt that had been worn, probably for a long time without was.h.i.+ng, along with six other thick garments by a deserter; but I consented to look at the thing from a distance.

In the end I did not even do that. The unfortunate man confessed to having stolen the s.h.i.+rt from an officer in the trenches near Ypres.

How it came to have my name on it I do not yet know. I did miss a couple of s.h.i.+rts from my store of civilian clothes when I got home.

But I am sure no officer stole them. Indeed I do not see how any officer could.

That voice--I do not know that I ever met its owner--had a wonderful power of language, strong, picturesque, and highly profane language, suitable for expressing violent emotion over a telephone wire. It was once rebuked by a very gentle captain with a remark that was widely quoted afterwards. The language had been unusually flamboyant and was becoming worse. "Hold on a minute," said the listener, "and let the line cool. It's nearly red hot at this end."

When life failed to provide a joke or two we fell back on rumours and enjoyed them thoroughly. They say that Fleet Street as a breeding-ground for rumour is surpa.s.sed only by the drawing-rooms of the wives of ministers of state. I have no experience of either; but a base camp in France would be hard to beat. The number of naval battles declared by the best authorities to have been fought during the early months of 1916 was amazing. We had them once a week, and torpedo-boat skirmishes on off days.

Men in "the signals"--all rumour goes back to the signals in the end--had lively imaginations. We mourned the loss of Kut months before General Townshend was forced to surrender. We revelled in extracts from the private letters of people like the Brazilian amba.s.sador in Berlin. We knew with absolute certainty the English regiments which were taking part in the defence of Verdun. The Guards, by a sudden move, seized the city of Lille, but owing to faulty staff work were cut off, hemmed in, and at last wiped out, the entire division. The last men, a mixed batch of Grenadiers, Coldstream, Scots, Irish, and Welsh, perished in a final glorious bayonet charge. It was a Guardsman who told me the story first, and he had it from what really was unimpeachable authority.

But there is no reason for railing against Rumour. She is a wild-eyed jade, no doubt, with disordered locks and a babbling tongue. But life at a base in France would be duller without her; and she does no one any real harm.

CHAPTER VII

COMING AND GOING

The camp in which I lived was the first in the series of camps which stretched along the whole winding valley. We were nearest to the entrance gates, at which military police were perpetually on guard; nearest to the railway station, a wayside _halte_ where few trains stopped; nearest to the road along which the trams ran into the town.

All who came and went in and out pa.s.sed by our camp, using a road, made, I think, by our men originally, which ran along the bottom of our parade ground and thence, with many side roads branching from it, through all the camps right along the valley. Our parade ground sloped down towards this road, ending in a steep bank which we tried to keep pleasantly gra.s.sy, which we crowned with flower-beds, so that new-comers might feel that they had arrived at a pleasant place.

Standing on this bank it was possible to watch all the entering and departing traffic of the camps, the motor lorries which rumbled by, the little road engines, always somewhat comic, which puffed and snorted, dragging trucks after them. Now and then came the motors of generals and other potentates, or the shabby, overworked Fords of the Y.M.C.A. Mounted officers, colonels, and camp commandants who were privileged to keep horses, trotted by. Orderlies on bicycles went perilously, for the road was narrow and motor lorries are big. A constant stream of officers and men pa.s.sed by; or parties, on their way up the hill, to one of the instruction camps marched along.

This went on all day from early dawn till the "Last Post" sounded and quiet came. To a new-comer, as I was, one unused to armies and their ways, this traffic was a source of endless interest; but I liked most to stand on the bank above the road during the later hours of the forenoon. It was then that the new drafts, men fresh from England, marched in.

The transports which brought them reached the harbour early in the morning. The men disembarked at 8 a.m. and marched out to the camps, a distance of four or five miles. They were often weary when they arrived, wet and muddy perhaps, or powdered with dust, unshaved, unwashed. Often their faces were still pallid after a long night of seasickness. Their rifles and kit seemed a burden to some of them.

They marched past our camp, and there were generally two or three of us who stood on the bank to watch and criticise.

Later on, when some of the camps had dealt with the music question, a band or a couple of pipers would go some distance along the road to meet the coming men and to play them into camp. Then, in spite of weariness and the effects of seasickness, the new drafts stepped out bravely and made a good show.

I had a friend, a sergeant who had seen much service, one of those N.C.O.'s of the old army to whom the empire owes a debt which will never be properly understood. He often stood beside me to watch the new men come in. He taught me to criticise their marching, to appreciate their bearing. He wore a South African ribbon then. He wears the Mons ribbon now and a couple of gold wound stripes and doubtless several chevrons, red and blue.

The skirl of pipes came to us, and a moment later the quick, firm tread of men marching.

"Guards, sir," said my friend.

They pa.s.sed, swinging along, a mixed draft of Grenadiers, Coldstream, Scots, Irish, Welsh. My friend straightened himself as they went by.

"The Guards, sir, is the Guards, wherever they are."

He was not himself a guardsman, but there was no trace of jealousy in his voice. I have noticed the same thing again and again. There are people who dislike the Guards, accusing them of conceit or resenting certain privileges. I never met any one who refused to give the Guards first place in battle, on the march, in camp. It is a magnificent record to have established in an army like ours, a wonderful record to have kept through a long-drawn war like this, when every regiment has been destroyed and remade of new material half a dozen times.

Another draft came by.

"Territorials, sir."

My friend was prejudiced; but he is not the only soldier of the old army who is prejudiced against territorials. Against new battalions, Kitchener battalions, of regular regiments there is no feeling. The old army took them to its heart, bullied them, taught them as if they were younger brothers. The Territorials are step-brothers at best.

Yet they have made good in France. I wonder that the prejudice persists. They do not march like the Guards. Even the London Territorials have not accomplished that. But they have established themselves as fighters, in the desperate holding of the Ypres salient in earlier days, and ever since everywhere in the long battle-line.

"R.F.A.," said my friend, "and the biggest draft of the lot. There must be a d.a.m.ned lot of guns at the front now. We could have done with a few more at Mons. It's guns that's wanted in this war. Guns and men behind them. And it's guns, and gunners anyway, we're getting. Look at those fellows now. You'll see worse drafts; though"--he surveyed the men carefully--"you might see better.

There's some of them now that's young, too young. They'll be sent back sick before they harden. Beg pardon, sir, but here's our lot at last. I must be going."

He saluted and turned. A body of men with an elderly officer at their head followed the gunners closely. They turned sharp to the left up the steep little road which leads into our camp. They halted in the middle of the parade ground. Salutes were given and returned. The draft was handed over. The elderly officer detached himself and made his way to the mess-room. I followed to greet him, and to hear the latest news from England.

"What sort of a pa.s.sage?"

"Vile. We crossed in a superannuated paddle-boat. Everybody sick. Not a spot to lie down in. My men were detailed to clean up the blessed packet afterwards. That's why we're late. Such a scene. Ugh! Can I get a drink?"

I do not know any one who has a more consistently disagreeable job than a draft-conducting officer. He crosses and recrosses the Channel under the most uncomfortable conditions possible. He has a lot of responsibility. He gets no praise and little credit. He is generally an elderly man. He has, most likely, been accustomed for years to an easy life. He is often an incurable victim to seasickness. There is no interest and no excitement about his work. He lives for the most part in trains and steamers. He s.n.a.t.c.hes meals in strange messes, railway refreshment rooms, and quayside restaurants. He may have to conduct his draft all the way from Cork or Wick. He may be kept waiting hour after hour for a train. He may be embarked and disembarked again three or four times before his steamer actually starts. The men of his draft are strangers to him. He does not know whether his sergeants are trustworthy or not. Yet there is no epidemic of suicide among draft-conducting officers, though there very well might be. Great and unconquerable is the spirit of the British dug-out officer.

The draft itself may have had a bad time too, especially in the matter of cleaning up the s.h.i.+p; but then the draft does not have it once a week. And the draft has not got to turn round and go straight back again. And for the draft the business has the advantage of novelty. It is exciting to land for the first time in France, to be pursued by little boys who say "Souvenir!" and "Good night!" early in the morning. And there is something about getting there at last, after months of weary training, which must stir the most sluggish imagination.

The draft is examined by the doctors. One way and another a doctor in a base camp has a busy time of it. He begins at 6 a.m., diagnosing the cases of the men who report sick. The hour at which it is possible to report sick is fixed inconveniently early in order, it is hoped, to discourage disease. Men who are not very bad may actually prefer the usual parades and fatigues to reporting sick at 6 a.m. For sickness is not even a sure way of escape. Doctors have a nasty trick of awarding "medicine and duty" in doubtful cases, which is distinctly more unpleasant than duty without medicine. From that on the doctor is kept busy, till he drops off to sleep for half an hour before dinner in the mess-room.

I thought at first that the doctors might have been spared the task of examining incoming drafts. The men have all been pa.s.sed fit at home before they start, and it does not seem reasonable to suppose that their const.i.tutions have seriously deteriorated on the journey.

But the new examination is really necessary. Doctors, according to the proverb, differ. They even seem to differ more widely than other men. The home doctor for some reason takes an optimistic view of human ailments, and is inclined to pa.s.s a man fit who will certainly collapse when he gets up the line. The doctor in the base camp knows that he will be abominably "strafed" if he sends "crocks" to the front. He does not want them returned and left on his hands at the base. So he picks the plainly unfit men out of the drafts, and, after a tedious round of form filling, sends them back to England.

There was, for instance, Private Buggins, whose case interested me so much that I should like very much to hear the end of his story.