- by Harry E. Brittain
An Anglo American Glimpse of the Great Advance
Our Headquarters
The sun was well upon its way towards the horizon as we completed the last stage of our journey through rich and productive land. The ripening crops looked as if they would be heavy, and doubtless labour will be duly forthcoming to deal with them, though there is, of course, no superabundance for the fields in these days when the world's busiest harvester is Death, and the Great Harvest—men.
But our attention was riveted on something other than the growing crops of grain, for we were passing the first British Regiment we had seen on its way to the Front, a sight which was enough to thrill the coldest-blooded neutral, and none of that kind were in the Daimler.
At a cross-road we pulled up and watched the brisk battalions pass. Theirs was a line regiment, just a line regiment from the Midlands, probably made up of men who, a few months before, were pursuing peaceful civilian careers as clerks, farmers, and shop- assistants.
Merely clerks, farmers, shop-assistants—but that particular line regiment has since met and defeated the pride of Germany's great Standing Army—the famous Prussian Guards.
Splendidly fit the marching men seemed, burnt, as they were, to the colour of the setting sun. They thrilled us as they swung along the white highway, with that careless look of you-be-damnedness which the British soldier wears so well.
On a strategic line which ran through the rippling waves of corn, crawled a troop train of tremendous length, and hearty cheers for the boys upon the march rolled out from their comrades on the rail.
From a third direction appeared a contingent of the strange and mighty caterpillars. Curious things these are, and slow of progress, but they make up for their appearance and lack of pace by their ability to drag what looks like inconceivable weight over what seems like quite impossible country.
As a climax to the busy scene upon the surface of the earth, some ten or twelve aeroplanes suddenly appeared and like a flight of duck headed to the East to pay their oft-recurring compliments to Fritz.
The City of A----- at last. The waving of a red paper before the guards at once passed us through, and a few minutes after it had waved we were receiving a cordial welcome at our hotel from Colonel-----, who very kindly had made all possible arrangements for our comfort.
This hotel, together with one or two others, in the city, must be doing an enormous business, for rooms and restaurants are perpetually in demand to the last available square inch of space. At our hotel were numerous officers who combined to work the two available bath-rooms overtime. To see the long line waiting for the next vacancy was almost reminiscent of "early doors" at a popular play.
After a somewhat lengthy dinner, for the reduced hotel staff could not cope effectively with the increased custom, we strolled out to look at the fine old cathedral, or what we could see of it, for now our only light came from the stars, the town being as dusky as in mediaeval days.
Early to bed is the rule in A., for on our return, which was certainly no later than 10.30, the sole inhabitant whom we encountered was an excellent gendarme, accompanied by his large and faithful police dog. This dog, so his master told us, lived in the hope of one day tracking down a Hun, and so careful had been his training that our friendly gendarme was willing to wager a year's pay that the intelligent animal would succeed in scenting an intruder of this sort from anywhere to anywhere else within the City limits.
The Somme
At an early hour in the morning our officer guide was waiting for us, and no time was wasted in loading up the car with steel helmets, each one accompanied by its differing brother designed to guard from gas, and, finally, ourselves.
Our driver was a sturdy son of the County Palatine who reeled off to me his version of the names of the villages we passed, many of which, in this valley of the Somme, are now, and for ever will be, household words.
He never shied at a single name, and as French does not always glide, as she is spelt, into broad Lancashire, his results occasionally were curious.
Being a native of the adjoining County of Yorks I was successful with most of his villages, but was badly left behind on the recital of an interesting incident he had witnessed at " Meeooww." In vain I studied the map in the effort to get upon the trail of the settlement with the name like a cat's wail, but all in vain. It was not until next day, when our way took us through Meault, that a great light burst upon me.
I don't defend my somewhat dull perception, for it was really a very mild example of Anglicisation. Some heard later were entirely untamed.
As we gradually approached our lines the scene became more and more animated. Nor were the evidences of greater activity merely visual. The roar of the guns, which we had heard for several miles, increased in intensity, though one seemed more conscious of a feeling than of a sound.
Sentries were everywhere and we were inspected courteously but firmly on many occasions, convincing us, who needed no persuasion, that our progress would have been but slow had we not come as guests of the British Army.
Our first experience of a screened road was on the summit of a good-sized hill where several hundred yards of canvas, sometimes fifteen feet in height, stretched along the near side, successfully interfering with the too inquisitive German's view of the traffic. At least we hoped so.
We were pointed out a brigade which was resting in a great hollow far below us, that is to say it was supposed to be at rest but really the "rest" took the form of games of football and other equally strenuous relaxations under the roasting sun.
But the men all looked as hard as nails. Plainly a little additional sun was as unlikely to worry them as a few bucketsful of rain would have been. Through Albert we went.
Street signs in large clear letters gave needful information, and if, when the inhabitants return, they find that we, the British military occupants, have altered the familiar names of their old roads and streets to such curious titles as Piccadilly, Shoe Lane, and Cheapside, they surely will forgive us—for c'est la guerre. In the meantime the man in khaki finds it easier to navigate a certain High Street than a possible Rue de Meault.
Now few of the old residents are in their homes, and the little town bears many marks of Kultur. The most amazing sight is the church spire, on the summit of which the great statue of the Virgin has fallen to a horizontal position. She now rests thus, holding The Child out over the stricken town.
One is quite familiar with this extraordinary picture, which photography has made known throughout the world, but actually to stand below and gaze up at this work of a German shell gives quite a new and strange impression.
If it is possible, that statue should be allowed to remain for all time in the position it now holds, as a reminder to generations yet unborn of the meaning of a visit from the Huns.
For another mile or two we went forward on a rising road until we were pulled up at the edge of a fair-sized wood. At this point, we were told, the judicious motorist left his car. So, disembarking, we advanced on foot.
War traffic of every kind was wending its way between the trees down a steep hill, and over the frequently rough ground, by the side of an ever-crowded road, we made our way through clouds of choking dust.
Near the bottom of the hill a portion of the wood had been cut away and in its place we gazed upon one of the sad reminders of the War, the last resting-place of many a British hero.
In days to come this little cemetery, tended with everlasting affection and care, will surely be a peaceful spot in one of the quiet back-waters of rural France, significant to coming generations of the brotherhood of combat established between two great free peoples, the brotherhood of combat of free peoples against aggression and oppression. To-day the little cemetery is on War's high-road, shaken day and night by the terrific and incessant vibration from the guns. Its meaning was perhaps less clear to us, who stood with bared heads beside it whilst occupants for other similarly sacred spots were being made by German guns within eye-range, than it will be to our children, who will read of it, or, mayhap, visit it by chance when on a holiday in distant summer times; but it had its very great significance. One looked up quickly, almost with a furtive eye, from the roughly glorious little earthen mounds to the faces of the soldiery about and wondered if among the living men that day were any whom to-morrow would find "sleeping out" in deathless glory; one fiercely marvelled at the horror of the minds steeped in militarism which had imposed on the poor fellows who lay there the necessity of death in manhood's prime to save the freedom of the world; one thought about the mothers, wives, and children of the men who had trudged bravely over the road of Supreme Sacrifice to find its end was here! One breathed a little harder, too, at thinking of the needlessness of all this tragedy; above all, one was thrilled with wonder at the calm of all the fighting men about who knew their turn might come to-morrow— or to-day—and yet went on so cheerily, with such fine determination, so modestly, so irresistibly! This was the first soldiers' cemetery we had seen, and all this wondering and more held us there in reverent curiosity for some little time. The graves, arranged in rows, were marked by simple crosses oh which were inscribed the name and rank of the brave men who slept there. Placed on the cross in many instances were the caps which never would be worn again and many a gallant Scotsman's bonnet.
There was a deep appeal, a thrilling inspiration about this little graveyard seen as we saw it when the roaring of the guns was in our ears, which could not fail to bring home to the least thoughtful in the group not more the tragedy than the glory of this war; not more the sacrifice than the privilege of the volunteers of Britain, who had laid them down to rest upon this hillside, wearied, but faltering only when their lives were forfeit.
Behind The Firing Line
Beyond this valley with its pathetic little Ground of Glory the road ascended for two or three hundred yards and then the wood abruptly ended.
We were at the Front at last, gazing upon a scene which we are in no wise likely ever to forget.,
A great open country stretched before us, alternate hill and dale like the rolling prairies of Alberta, and until lately quite as fertile as those grand Canadian Plains. But now this splendid country formed a scene of utter desolation.
There was not the faintest sign of any kind of vegetation except a few rank weeds; and as for trees—all that remained of yesterday's fine thickets were charred and broken stumps.
As if stricken with a plague—as indeed, it had been—the harassed earth was pitted with thousands of shell-holes, while here and there a mighty crater reminded us of the colossal nature of this war.
Across the dust-coloured surface of the earth no green was left upon these fields— trenches old and new zigzagged in all directions and from right and left—from everywhere, it seemed—guns of every calibre were belching flame and shell in the direction of the enemy.
The Boche, in his turn, seemed to be in just about the middle of his morning hymn of hate, for shells galore from his artillery were screaming through the air and throwing up gigantic clouds of dust.
We made our way into the valley. Involuntarily I kept my eyes so firmly fixed upon the wonderful scenes ahead that more than one shell-hole was necessary to persuade me that some attention was required for the immediate foreground. To fall into a shell-hole is a disconcerting business.
A North Country Regiment was in that valley, its temporary Colonel being an entirely delightful Scot who kindly volunteered to take us round and show us what he could.
As useless, wondering and wandering civilians, we apologised sincerely for intruding, and he explained at once that we quite failed to realise how great a treat we really were. At first we were not sure just how he meant this. Civilians undeniably look bizarre in the midst of countless uniforms. But then he made it clear that what he meant was that, after many months of soldiers only, a visit from travellers in ordinary clothes gives almost a touch of Home!
In a large shell-hole where one poor fellow's life had been ended the night before, we sat while Colonel M-----described the recent fighting.
Time moves fast and now those days are history, but it was our first experience of explanation on the spot, and we listened spell-bound to the simple, calm, and soldierly account of how one section of the British Army bore itself at the beginning of the "Big Push."
On our way up the southern slope of the hill the Colonel introduced us to his dug-out, which was of severe simplicity, the four or five of us who wormed our way in seemed to adequately fill it, so much so, that our sympathies were all with the brave six, whom we were told, had perforce to tuck up there at night.
Strange contrast this grim, war-days' home formed to the lovely peace-time mansion of the genial British gentleman who was our host! We commented on this.
"Oh, this is not even a war-time home," he answered. "This is my temporary place of business."
Grim business!
Not long afterwards his business moved. Moved forward! He was, and still is (God be thanked!), a splendid business man—at that particular grim business!
From the top of the adjacent rise we had a marvellous all-round view, with every detail wonderfully defined, and were in no way surprised when we were told that from the point of view of visibility no better day had been experienced for months.
Our guns were taking full advantage of it, and although we could see a goodly array of German shells falling on the slopes to the north-west, and on La Boisselle to the north, we had the satisfaction of perceiving that our own artillery was sending a continuous stream of steel on to the German line.
During the walk I picked up German trophies of varied interest. An Australian we met added to my little horde by presenting me with a brand new specimen of the latest German gas helmet. All these things I lugged along in the heat and dust for some little time, then I gave away the gas helmet and gradually began to moult the least precious of my remaining treasures. Heavens! How do fighting men go forward with equipment!
Often have I heard of our men on the march getting rid by degrees of all but their entirely essential impedimenta. As my load was a mere shadow of what even the bare essentials of a soldier's kit amounts to, whatever I may have previously thought of that aspect of the wastefulness of war now resolves itself into whole-hearted sympathy with and some understanding of the wastrels.
On our way back to the wood we watched some wonderful manoeuvring on the part of two or three good British aeroplanes, which suddenly appeared, apparently born from the void, to inform a German prospector that he must let our lines alone.
Through a pair of powerful glasses (made, I regret to say, in Germany) I was just devouring this exciting spectacle when to it was added the thrilling sensation of seeing a Boche machine suddenly brought down, whether by one of our guns or by a fighting plane I could not tell. But the result was all we cared for, for the enemy machine turned over and, like a stone, fell to the ground.
The number of aeroplanes in flight throughout this brilliant summer day was not less than amazing: but almost all were marked with the white circles of the Allies and very few were decorated with the Iron Cross.
I could not help recalling the flamboyant language I had heard at a fairly recent East End election gathering when a certain gentleman whose meteoric career has since ceased to illuminate, vividly portrayed the British Flying Corps as a thing of the past, and generously handed the palm to the Fokker as the all-conquering King of the air. A long- continued exhibition of air-facts exactly as they were was by no means the least pleasant of our amateur war experiences.
From what we personally witnessed in our incomplete and rapid tour, it would be difficult to exaggerate the superiority of the Allies in the air; and this we plainly saw, not only in the fighting on the Somme, but equally in our later journey along the lines to Verdun.
The sporting instinct, individual nerve, and, it must be added, machine-excellence of the British and French service, have made it so uncomfortable for the soaring Boche that he does not dare to initiate one fight in twenty.
On the other hand, the Allied airman (and this has been admitted by the Germans themselves, who usually do not lavish praise upon us) will never shirk a fight when challenged, whatever may be the odds against him.
One of the many proofs of our supremacy in this direction lies in the unbroken sequence of our observation balloons, curious sausage-like creations which festoon the Allied Front with the regularity of telegraph poles. Much would the Hun give for the privilege of taking down that harassing festoon.
On the other hand, our boys and the French have had the greatest possible success in annihilating German "Ruperts" Even my very limited experience at the front revealed wide gaps in the German line of air observers.
With the utmost sang froid our aviators drop their bombs on these ungainly Boche machines and if a miss is scored, dive down till the distance makes the next trial almost a certain hit. Such terror have they driven into the Hun observers' hearts that I was told on fairly good authority that more than one German has been observed shaking out his parachute for an instant drop to earth on the mere appearance of an approaching Allied airman.
On returning again to the wood, we were overtaken by a long line of ambulances, filled with our wounded, who were being carried to a temporary hospital behind the trees. The arrangement seemed quite perfect; nothing that modern science and skill has evolved to alleviate suffering was missing; but how we felt for those splendid fellows, as they were slowly driven with the tenderest care over a road of necessity imperfect, and through almost tropical heat!
War, like life in general, is full of contrasts, and in that wood we came across a vivid illustration of the light and shade of this existence.
Behind us was the never-ceasing roar of German shells and the strident answers from our own big guns, beside us many a car-load of our splendid wounded, all helpless, some, alas! forever broken in that morning's fight; whilst, somewhere hidden in the wood a military band reeled out the latest rag-time tunes!
For a moment it all seemed unbelievably incongruous, but the stirring music certainly brought happiness to a very large audience, and a contented mind meant much that day in the valley of the Somme!
An Hour's Rest
Hpw good the breeze felt after the stifling heat of the dusty tramp as, once more in the car, we made for a ridge some three or four miles behind the guns, where we were to take our short al-fresco lunch!
A large camp was near the spot we finally settled upon; not that there was anything particularly unusual in this, for in that region at that time it would have been extremely difficult to have settled anywhere far from large camps.
A large and shady tree also was there, a fact far more remarkable than the nearness of the camp, for the gunners of this war have been like maniacal lumbermen.
While we were enjoying our simple repast and a following mild cigar, thousands of men passed us in a never-ending stream. Some were going backward to well-earned repose, some were going forward to heroic death, and all were cheery, business-like, and brave.
To the ignorant outsider who has the privilege of taking but a glimpse at it, a great deal of this war appears to be a wondrously casual business. In all directions one sees little groups of men who seem to be mere aimless wanderers, doing a bit of something here and there, perhaps, but moving with no desperately definite purpose as men in warfare are instinctively believed ever to move.
One just looks at them, and wonders, very naturally not venturing to ask, what specific job any particular contingent may happen to be engaged upon; but, if such a query chances to be made and answered, one invariably discovers that all are working cogs in this very great machine so wonderfully and fearfully constructed, the power of which is generated by the burning up of human lives and high explosives,
But it all is so infinitely wide-spread that to the lay mind the theory of sheer- haphazardness continually recurs.
Artillery
Luncheon over, we decided to leave the car where it was standing and to walk across the great level plateau in front of us, from the edge of which (a mile or so away) we were told that we would find a fine view of the surrounding country.
This particular plateau, apparently neglected by the gods of war, appeared to be the happy growing ground for thistles. There were acres of them, of the tallest and most violently aggressive kind.
Even the most patriotic Scot would have had enough of his national emblem after a very short promenade through that vast prickly thicket.
But the panorama was well worth the effort, for the atmosphere was clear as crystal, and far below us we could see spread out all those famous little villages, or what was left of them, which have figured so intensely in the epoch-making stories of the great battle of the Somme.
As I sat beside my friend-Beck and gazed upon this enthralling scene, I could not help reflecting how in his intense keenness for the Allies' cause, he was so entirely representative of the best elements of the United States.
In his country the Germans have done all they could to put us in the wrong, and in untold directions have carried on a wondrously skilful campaign. But all their machinations failed to turn aside the real America from its profound belief in the eternal justice of our struggle on behalf of Democracy and Freedom.
The thought also occurred to me that if any of the hostile batteries before us had known that the brilliant author of the "Evidence in the Case was at that moment well within range of their guns, the little patch of earth upon which we stood would have become most unhealthy; for no written word ever hit the German harder than did the damning verdict arrived at in this judicial work, after its clear, concise, and detached consideration of all the arguments on either side.
For a long time we sat on that hill's crest listening to the rumble of the guns. Never for three consecutive seconds was there a cessation of their firing, and the great variety of their angry voices told us that the chorus came from Artillery of almost every kind known to modern warfare.
Between the rattle of the small stuff and the deep dull tone of the heavies a vast range of man's most terribly destructive genius was represented. I could not help wondering whether some one with a discriminating ear and a thorough knowledge of music might not be found, in days to come, to translate these tones into an inspired, inspiring score. He would need to do far more than that, however—he would need to fashion instruments unknown to any orchestra at present, were he really to tell the tonal story.
While we were watching the eternal line of smoke which stretched from North to South as far as the eye could follow, we heard and saw a terrific explosion in the midst of Delville Wood. Whether it was that of a gigantic shell or marked havoc done by one of ordinary calibre which had found its way into an ammunition store, we could only guess, but the appalling crash of the report put all ordinary bursts into the shade, whilst the dense, white mass of smoke which instantly rushed upwards through the trees and drifted slowly off, formed a fair counterfeit of one of Nature's clouds against a sky to which, that day, she had sent none.
On our return we inspected a compound full of German prisoners, most of whom were Rhine-landers. A bedraggled lot they were and sour of face.
However, they seemed thoroughly comfortable, if not contented, and doubtless life, there in that compound, passed by with fewer shocks than lately had been falling to their lot from the massed artillery of the "Contemptible Little British Army." Yet one could not help but wonder whether the average German prisoner really appreciated the very humane treatment he received in that compound behind the Allied Line. We cannot play the low-down game of retaliation upon men helpless to defend themselves, but an inspection of our methods of dealing with the Hun, accompanied by some reflection upon the treatment which at that very moment he was meting out to our poor men at Ruhleben, at Wittenburg, and elsewhere, left one feeling strongly that England never must agree to any formal terms of peace until the actual criminals have been brought to justice and have suffered the punishment they so richly deserve.
Chaplains and Others
At our hotel that evening we had quite a little gathering for dinner, and we were delighted when a certain General came in to join us. He helped us to interpret and understand things; he amplified our knowledge of the day's events; he stirred us, cheered us, fixed in our hearts determination which we could carry back to those at home. After we had commented on the oppressive weight of the steel helmet on a sultry summer day, the General informed us that he had just seen one which had gone through a very useful form of test.
One of our Tommies, it appeared, had been surprised by a Boche at quarters too close for the immediate use of the bayonet. The Boche, who held his rifle by the barrel, swung it high in air and brought it down on Tommy's helmet with such terrific force as to immediately transform the headgear into a very sorry imitation of a Homberg hat. But notwithstanding change of shape the steel held firm, and that particular Boche was promptly added to the German Casualty List. We decided that steel hats were not oppressive even in hot weather when the wearers had such work to do.
The General also had a lot to say about the splendid work of British chaplains. They had acquitted themselves, he said, with the very best along the Western front, seeming to be entirely oblivious of any sense of danger. On Sundays, he declared, they were extra busily engaged upon their rounds, each frequently dragging a harmonium about in an ambulance car, putting in as many as seven or eight services during the day, and as often as not praying, singing, preaching, joking, comforting in a neighbourhood which was receiving the most careful of attentions from the enemy.
There is no doubt that the "Padre" in general —and at the front are those of every faith—has made good in this war. Many are the stories grave and gay of which he is the hero.
There are no “frills" on the chaplains of the forces and, as good men and good sportsmen, they are eager to play in the great combat against evil, or if their especial work is not required at any particular moment, to do any other needful thing which lies within their power.
Sympathetic and broadgauged, they are ready to overlook little slips in the vernacular on the part of fighting men. They plainly fully realise that war cannot be carried on with strict adherence to the "Young Man's Book of Etiquette," and that at all times a ready reply is apt to carry more weight than tons of offended dignity.
Somewhere in France I heard a story of one parson, as popular as a man could be, who had a little dug-out in a pretty hot section of the line. This dug-out he had neatly labelled "The Vicarage.”
Drafts had come in one day, and two cockneys, fresh to the front, crawled past. At the strange sign the first pulled up and, turning to his pal, remarked: "Blimy, Bill, if this 'ere ain't a blank-blanked Vicarage." This remark rolled inward to the parson, who at once stuck out a tanned and smiling face, half covered with fresh lather. He greeted jovially the startled Tommies, with: "That's quite right, my lads, and here's the blank-blanked Vicar. Is there anything that I can do for you?"
That evening I happened to meet a young man of quite another kind, but for whom I also conceived a very sincere respect. He was one of the special Official Cinematographers from the War Office, and a very tired man he looked.
We had had some particularly roasting days, and these he had spent at the frontest front of all fronts, taking every risk and as many films as possible, so that the Britisher at home might realise how gloriously his fellow-countryman upon the Somme was upholding the honour of the British flag.
He was a quiet, modest fellow and would tell us little more than that the heat had rather knocked him out for that day; but from more than one who had seen him at work I learnt something of the risks he continually took in order to carry out his job.
Those who know anything of photography will realise that he must have sought the warmest of corners to obtain effective results, and must constantly have undergone the experience of being shelled by long-distance guns, and shot at, at close range, with short-distance rifles, while, in the meantime, having none of the pleasurable and oft- recurring satisfaction of being able to strike back. Even the mere physical effort of transporting a cinematograph through narrow trenches during the preceding tropical days must have been considerable; often the placing of his camera so that it would "see" good pictures meant agility and real endurance in addition to professional skill and judgment of a rare order.
May he entirely succeed in the task of putting together a series of pictures which shall mirror every phase of the great advance, and which will be shown not only at home and in the lands of our Allies, but in neutral countries also, and especially throughout the United States!
When in America on a somewhat lengthy mission last year, there was nothing more disheartening than to see advertised on every hand cinema pictures of the German Army under every conceivable condition of work and play and rest and fight, while nothing worth looking at was shown anywhere in the way of pictures of our troops. Certain superior people still smile when moving-pictures are referred to, but whether we like them or not they have come to stay and represent a great and ever-increasing power.
It is difficult to realise that this invention, almost of yesterday, has made such gigantic strides that last year it succeeded in climbing up to fourth position among all the mighty industries of the United States, and so from the triple point of view of interest at home, propaganda work abroad and living history for future generations, that plucky "Movie Man" had all my most sincere good wishes.
On the Peronne Road
The thermometer had not fallen by so much as one degree when we took to the road next morning for another visit to the Somme Front; but if it had risen another ten it would not have succeeded in destroying our keenness to go on, if only as humble spectators, to the line where the re-shaping of the world's future was in progress.
On our arrival in France, having been shown the wonderful programme which had been sketched out for us, those responsible for the arrangements laid us under a still deeper debt of gratitude by suggesting that if there was any other part of the line we wished to see, or anything else we cared to do, we had but to name the fact to make it sure that the suggestion, if feasible, would be carried out.
Naturally, we realised that our kind hosts knew better than we could what would be the most effective programme. In the flat lands of Flanders, the civilian observer can see but little, but in the hilly country of the Somme possibilities for observation are everywhere, and in these valleys one of the world's greatest battles was at that moment being fought. Imagine our self-congratulation when we found that at this very crisis of the War, during the first real turning of the tide, we should be afforded the wondrous privilege of seeing history made in the most interesting sectors of the British and French lines!
We were soon out of the City, on the road, driving through clouds of dust, churned up by untold numbers of lorries.
Constant reiteration had accustomed one to the statement that this was a Petrol War, but a few hours of experience were more persuasive than months of reading.
Never had I realised that there were so many lorries in the world as we had set eyes on during the last few days. And not only lorries rattled along, propelled by the same rare and useful spirit, but 'buses, mobile batteries, ambulances, caterpillars, and every shape and kind of car, all passed us, bound both ways and every way, helping to make breathing difficult, and successfully making roads more dusty, and less firm of surface.
So presently we were impressed by the insistent fact that this is a veritable war of petrol. Petrol has captured war as, during the past few years it captured peace.
To a degree amazing to the average man this war is one of machines, but given something like a balance between mechanical engines of destruction on either side, then the human element begins to count, and the man who has the "biggest heart" becomes again the final factor. He is tried and he is tested, and presently the world finds out what he is made of both in body and in soul.
For several miles we followed the route of the previous day until we took a south- easterly turn and ran into Méault—our chauffeur's "Meeooww." Then we pushed ahead en route for Fricourt, upon a road crowded with wheels and troops, but never so crowded as to interfere with the very finest traffic arrangement. The last mile into this now famous little spot was a fairly steep down gradient, and the first sight of the ruined village and desolated valley was vividly striking, reminding me for all the world of the view from Bethany across the parched and dreary wilderness to the Dead Sea Valley far below.
Wilderness indeed was that strange stretch of waste and arid land in France, a type of hopeless panorama which might have given Doré inspiration for new "Inferno" drawings, and might have given Dante inspiration for a fresh canto.
At the bottom of the hill we stopped, and, taking the advice of a military policeman, tucked away the car behind what once had been a village cemetery. Then, through the heat and dust, we walked slowly up the wrecked main street, between the little piles of brick and stones which used to be Fricourt.
One did not have to be a Napoleon to realise what terrific fighting must have been necessary to the capture of this place. The lines of German trenches across the road below, the thousands of yards of wire entanglements (formidable obstacles even yet), the village built on a steep slope which made of every house a fort, and the whole place bristling with machine guns, completed an ensemble which, it was quite plain, even to an amateur, would be easy to defend and deadly difficult to conquer.
But nothing had been able to defy that khaki wave, and Fricourt is ours to-day.
In the terrible fighting for this village many a gallant English Regiment suffered heavily. The decimation of the olden days was practically inverted, for I believe that more than one battalion came through with barely ten per cent, of its strength intact.
Having carefully scanned that hillside from below, having seen the endless strands of German wire entanglements and pictured the guns behind every pile of stones, one realised a tithe of what it must have meant to rush that slope.
Occasional walls showed the lines of former cottages, but for the most part even the walls had disappeared. Household goods and bits of twisted metal were mixed up with the ruins, traces of an occasional harrow or plough were still about; but nothing valuable remained of the possessions of the once prosperous and happy village.
Behind us our big guns were busy, and the roar of the great shells as they soared over our heads toward the enemy's lines was constant.
Some way further up we came across an anti-air-craft battery, quiet for the moment, but very much on the qui vive.
Also I ran into an old friend from Toronto, who took us over to a recently captured dug- out which had been for many months the luxurious and doubtless happy resting-place of several German officers.
Taken over by our R.A.M.C, it now was used as a forward dressing-station behind the lines to give first aid to the wounded.
We were cordially invited to have a look round, and found this subterranean home a truly wondrous example of German thoroughness.
Two long flights of well-made steps led to a number of dry and perfectly ventilated rooms, while a series of additional apartments were entered from a corridor which ran the entire length below.
In the lower room, which was the largest, and which we took to have been planned for the German Officers' Mess, were signs of every comfort. There were good rooms for the officers' servants and an excellent kitchen. Electric lights and bells, large easy-chairs, a well-fitted book-case with a glass front, wall-paper, and many other things were there, certainly sufficiently elaborate to have made resident Germans, or any other type of citizen, extremely comfortable. Doubtless it all had been worked out for a tenure of three years, or the duration of the War. At least eight "bolt-holes" had been provided for escape in case of that entirely inconceivable event of a direct attack.
I was told that when this abode de luxe was surrounded the Germans poured out of it like rabbits; however, the warren was so deep and held so many Huns that the majority could find no exit through these bolt-holes, but were captured without a possible chance of escape.
On reaching the earth's surface after inspection of this extraordinary place, we found the anti-air-craft battery loosing off shell as rapidly as possible, and firing almost perpendicularly.
Looking upwards, we saw the object of attraction, which, despite its terrible height, was being rapidly festooned with beautiful, snow-white smoke rings.
There is a gripping fascination about a fight in the air, and I noticed that many an old hand dropped his job for the moment and joined us as a spectator of the (upon the Somme) not unusual sight.
Through the glasses I watched shells burst round the German plane, and then saw an Allied machine make its appearance from nowhere out of the blue. At this the Boche steered off, but not before he dropped three bombs.
The first fell fairly near our car, whereupon the driver very sensibly tucked himself into a dug-out, from which he was slowly emerging on our return. He brought with him a German newspaper of very recent date, and also a report that at the far end of the long cave was the body of a poor French soldier, which apparently had been overlooked.
The remaining bombs exploded a few yards further on, one, unhappily in the midst of a little group of men, several of whom were badly injured.
Shrapnel
Into the car we got again, and went through Mametz to the Peronne road, wasting as few moments as possible in the process, for we were none too far from the German lines, and the German guns were attending to that district fairly systematically.
The desolation which had been so impressive at Fricourt ran right down the valley and showed more vividly than any words could describe how keenly every square yard had been contested.
These positions the Germans had laboriously fortified with every engine of defence that modern science has produced. They had had months in which to perfect their laborious efforts, and surely looked on the results as impregnable.
It was no surprise attack which carried them, for surprises are now almost things of the past, but the irresistible élan of British regiments of the line, after an intense and stupendous preparation by British artillery.
The groundwork of success was laid in the workshops of Britain, and that fact is one which jumps to the eye wherever one watches the fighting on the Western Front, or wanders through the country where an advance has been made.
Would that every munition shop in the land could send out one well-chosen representative to see for himself the amazing proof of the labour of the workers; a representative who would take home to each of his comrades a vivid story of what the shell they manufacture means for the boys in the field.
Great as is the work of our factories to-day, the pressure must be kept up to the highest pitch. No encouragement to persevere in the stern nerve-racking job of ceaseless manufacture could equal that which inevitably would be exerted by a popular fellow- worker who had seen and knew.
For some time we stood enthralled, watching a number of our heavy howitzers which were growling fiercely at the enemy. Wonderfully disguised by means of shrewd devices were these monsters, as with unerring scientific accuracy they dropped their tons of steel on unseen targets behind the hill, or, may be, sent them on into a further valley.
A little later we had climbed a neighbouring crest, from the edge of which we had an all- embracing view of the country, stretched from Fricourt to Longeval, including Contalmaison, Pozières, Mametz, and Delville Wood, the last-named being in the centre of a literal inferno of high explosives.
My American friend, Beck, who is physically short-sighted, though of a penetrating legal vision, thinking he might get a better view on the left of the ridge, walked off, to try. I was wholly satisfied with the aspect of proceedings as visible from where we stood, and sat down behind the car, grateful for even its slight shade.
For some minutes I sat listening to the eternal roll of the guns, watching the firing of our own and the bursting of the enemy's shells. We were sitting, the chauffeur and myself, as in the dress-circle of the theatre of war—fascinated spectators.
But presently it dawned on us that things were changing. It was as if we had transferred our seats from the dress-circle to the stage. We were not actors, but it seemed as if we might be reckoned part and parcel of the play—that dreadful play of countless tragic episodes. For the Germans had commenced an unpleasant operation in our very neighbourhood: that operation which is known, I think, as "searching the slope." And the slope thus suddenly beginning to be searched was that on which we rested.
It started, as a matter of fact, on the southerly brow of our particular hill, not more than some 500 yards away, and then at sixty-second intervals followed successive applications of shrapnel, each bursting about fifty yards nearer to us than that which had preceded it.
For a little time we found a curious fascination in watching the carefully calculated methodical plan of fire, which constantly was bringing the explosion closer, but when the distance had decreased until little lumps of steel commenced to sing somewhat close to us, bouncing through the air with that peculiar and unmistakable "ping" which ricochetting steel adopts, I shared the chauffeur's feeling that "it was getting a bit too warm to be healthy."
In the meantime, our gallant escort was bringing back his other charge, who had wanted to see more. The military man was waving to us energetically to drop back.
We did so with no hesitation.
The region round that hill presented a busy scene, and men of many regiments were hard at work doing many things we did not understand, and doing them with boundless energy. I listened for some time to a rapid round of repartee, much of it carried on on true Bairnsfather lines, and again felt how quite impossible it is to exaggerate the downright cheerfulness of the British soldier, whatever difficulties confront him.
One round and ruddy-faced driver I watched starting off with a heavy load of ammunition for what was doubtless a dangerous point.
"Where are you off to, Bill, this bright sunny day?" called out a pal.
"Oh, I'm just aht for a bit of a drive for the benefit of my 'ealth," came the reply, followed by a hearty laugh.
The All Highest's Great General Staff may sit up late at night working out new and awesome frightfulness to launch in the Valley of the Somme, but the man in khaki will remain, as he always is, entirely irrepressible.
Tommy Atkins
On our return journey we passed through a village full of Highlanders, who turned out to be the South African Scots. They were enjoying a little well-earned rest. They had done magnificently in recent fighting, and had been somewhat badly knocked about a week or two before. A splendid sturdy body of men they looked, the picture of keenness and ready whenever asked, to again do credit to the two great countries of their origin.
In a neighbouring village we found ourselves at the —th Army headquarters, where that Army, or much of it, was likewise resting, after great work beautifully done.
In a little villa serving as the Officers' Mess, we were welcomed by Major-----, the brother of a distinguished and gallant Admiral, and by him presented to General-----and two or three members of the staff. We were readily persuaded that a cup of China tea was exactly what we needed, and discovered that Cooper's marmalade is none the worse out of a tin.
As a Yorkshireman, I was interested in hearing that more than one of the West Riding Regiments, which had taken so glorious a part in the capturing of Fricourt, were having a short rest in and around the village. Major-----was full of praise for the fine fighting they had done, and said the Yorkshire boys were "just straining like hounds in leash to get back at the Boche."
Through the middle of this selfsame village ran a somewhat murky canal, upon either side of which I noticed a long line of Tommies almost shoulder to shoulder, each one undoubtedly full of hope and sure of catching fish. I had no opportunity of speaking to them as we drove by, but will venture a small wager that in civilian life more than one had belonged to a Sheffield Fishing Club.
The name of Tommy Atkins has insinuated itself so deeply into our daily speech as to make it almost difficult to realise the time when the British soldier was known by any other.
Although, as a name, it may not be one replete with dignity, yet it is one which has endeared itself to all within that far-flung area of thirteen million square miles which calls itself Britain, and to a good many others who dwell outside.
The first T. A. is said to have been a certain gunner in the Royal Artillery, who achieved fame by inventing a pocket-ledger of such utility that it became known far and wide as a Thomas Atkins; at what period the name fell from the ledger and descended upon all the original T. A.'s brothers-in-arms is beyond my limited knowledge.
But there is no uncertainty in the fact that Tommy, as we have known him now for many years, has been, and is regarded by the world at large as every inch a soldier and a man.
Up to this present War he has always been looked upon as rather a separate entity, somewhat of a thing apart; but in this gigantic struggle he is of the very nation, of the very Empire itself.
Cool and unperturbed, he refuses to give way to extremes, and just as he declined to be depressed in the harrowing days from Mons, so to-day he declines to be over-elated when victory begins to dawn.
Like a real sportsman, he has played the game from the start, and will continue to do so to the finish.
But notwithstanding his splendid cheerfulness and his perpetual jests, no one must imagine for a moment that his life at the Front has not been one continued super-hell on earth; even the flash of things which the onlooker gets during his brief inspection, is sufficient to drive home that fact, and to cause him to try and understand what must be meant by the stern reality of month after month of this appalling life in the trenches.
If under such conditions the gallant lads can force themselves to see the brighter side of things, it is in spite of the horrors by which they ever are surrounded, and is born of a spirit which naught on earth can daunt.
It was my good fortune on this visit to see contingents from each of our great Dominions, In many ways they differ from one another, but they were uniformly alike in the magnificence of their fighting and their grim determination to overwhelm the Boche.
The British Empire was great before this War,— so great that the German Higher Command decreed it must be broken; but the Sons of the Motherland knew how to fight for their freedom and liberties, and the tyrant of Potsdam will surely find that instead of breaking up the British Empire, as he had fondly hoped, he has succeeded in welding it together for all time in bonds far stronger than steel.
On arrival, hot and dusty, at our hotel, it fell to my lot to earn the sincere gratitude of a great husky Australian, who in his vain endeavours to get a bath was carrying on an energetic pantomime with a perplexed femme de chambre. When I asked if I could help him, he told me that all the French he knew was "bon jour," which had so far proved entirely useless in getting a bath filled for him.
G.H.Q. Again
In the cool of the evening we set out for G.H.Q, to dine with General X and his Staff, and an entirely delightful experience followed. A finer and more interesting group of men it would be impossible to meet; for nearly all have been out from the first days of the War, when one man had to do the work of ten.
All too modest to speak of their own achievements, we did learn from them something of the work done by others in these historic early days, and it was with sincere reluctance that we left that little villa for our long ride home.
After the scorching heat of the day, nothing is more exhilarating than a drive through a perfect starlit night, and we pushed along at a good pace over the well-kept roads with full headlights burning: somewhat of a contrast to our darkened lamps in England.
There appears to be no rest at night, even behind the lines, for twinkling lights were everywhere in evidence as well as signs of varied and unending movement.
On our arrival at the hotel we met a little group of officers just in, who told us that the valley in which we had spent an interesting hour or two the day before had been very heavily shelled that day, and we sincerely hoped that our good friends of the____th Regiment, who had looked after us so well, might still be cheery and uninjured.
For a long time I sat out on the balcony of my room and watched the flashes of the guns which lit up the horizon from North to South as far as one could see.
It was an endless pyrotechnical display, but to me it seemed curiously noiseless, and led me to puzzle over the vagaries of sound; for here was I, within a few miles of the front, looking at the flashes from the very guns themselves, or at least at excellent reflections, and hearing practically no hint of the reports, whereas a week or so before, when staying with friends on the Sussex coast, in far-off England, not only did I hear the booming of the guns by day and night, but the windows rattled constantly and the vibration was of the kind which could be felt. I presume there is a scientific explanation for such apparently eccentric behaviour on the part of sound-waves.
