t « : SSs }&? i] ; 3$£gS 
 
 
Glass 
 
 Book 
 
 
 C 
 
ON THE RIGHT 
 OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
F rum a photograph by Aylett. 
 
 Captain Gilbert Nobbs. 
 
ON THE RIGHT 
 OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 BY 
 
 CAPTAIN GILBERT NOBBS 
 
 (late l. r. b.) 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 1917 
 
"31 
 
 Copyright, 1917, bt 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 Published September, 1917 
 Reprinted October, October, 1917 
 
 
BESIDES THE MAN WHO FIGHTS 
 THERE IS THE WOMAN WHO WAITS, AND 
 IN HUMBLE TRIBUTE TO HER SILENT HEROISM 
 I DEDICATE THIS BOOK 
 
PREFACE 
 
 This is my first book. It is also my last 
 But I have a record to make and a duty to per 
 form. I was five weeks on the firing line; fouf 
 weeks mourned as dead; and three months a 
 prisoner of war. 
 
 I have attempted to make a true record of all 
 that happened. The names alone are fictitious 
 (all except that of Saniez), for those days were 
 too full of stirring events which will long live in 
 my memory to need the aid of fiction. If I have 
 dwelt at some length upon my experience in 
 Germany, it is with the hope that the informa- 
 tion may be of interest to those who have rela- 
 tives and friends still in the hands of the enemy 
 and burn to know the truth. 
 
 I do not deplore the loss of my sight, for I can 
 
 say in all sincerity that I was never happier in 
 
 my life than I am to-day. 
 
 G. N. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. FOVANT I 
 
 ORDERLY ROOM. OFF TO THE FRONT. 
 
 II. The Silent Heroes 6 
 
 THE WOMAN WHO WAITS — AND SUFFERS IN 
 SILENCE. 
 
 III. Departure for the Front g 
 
 WATERLOO STATION. LUNCHEON ARGUMENTS. 
 THE BAGGAGE PROBLEM. 
 
 IV. Crossing the Channel 15 
 
 THE DOCK PORTER. A WHIFF OF BOND STREET. 
 
 V. Going up the Line 24 
 
 PERFIDIOUS GANG-PLANKS. d'ARCY STRANDED. 
 GUIDES WHO CANNOT GUIDE. A HEATED AR- 
 GUMENT. 
 
 VI. Rations 33 
 
 I LEARN TO HATE FOOD. MATHEMATICAL 
 PROBLEMS. 
 
 VII. St. Amand 37 
 
 I REPORT AT HEADQUARTERS. THE PROBLEM 
 OF VENTILATION. 
 
 VIII. Early Impressions 41 
 
 BILLETS. A STARTLING INCIDENT. REST 
 CAMP. 
 
 ix 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 IX. Departure for the Somme 48 
 
 CORBIE. HAPPY VALLEY. PASSING THROUGH 
 THE GUNS. 
 
 X. Arrival on the Somme 57 
 
 FEEDING THE GUNS. SEPTIMUS D'ARCY 
 ARRIVES. A CURIOUS KIT. 
 
 XI. Death Valley 66 
 
 moving over battle-fields. BAT- 
 TALION, LONDON REGIMENT, IN POSSES- 
 SION. THE MYSTERY TRENCH. FALFEMONT 
 FARM. 
 
 XII. Out in No Man's Land 71 
 
 SUDDEN ORDERS. THE BEGINNING OF A 
 GREAT ADVENTURE. DIGGING IN. 
 
 XIII. A Night of Alarm 82 
 
 SEPTIMUS IN A NEW ROLE. SAVING THE 
 AMMUNITION. THE LAST CARTRIDGE. 
 
 XIV. Next Morning 87 
 
 A COUNCIL OF WAR. OPERATION ORDERS. 
 A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 XV. The Advance through Leuze Wood . . 91 
 
 NEW OPERATION ORDERS. " AT ANY COST." 
 LIKE RATS IN A TRAP. 
 
 XVI. The Attack 101 
 
 A desperate situation, battle for- 
 mation. "FOR ENGLAND." 
 
 XVII. At Any Cost no 
 
 OVER THE TOP. MAD, FIGHTING MAD. 
 THE FINAL ASSAULT. 
 
 X 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XVIII. Left on the Field 116 
 
 THE MYSTERY OF DEATH. THE SECRET 
 CODE. TWO TERRIBLE DAYS. 
 
 XIX. The Jaws of Death 123 
 
 LONELINESS, DARKNESS, AND SILENCE. A 
 LAST EFFORT. I PREPARE FOR DEATH. 
 
 XX. At the Mercy of the Hun — and After 130 
 
 A BASIN OF SOUP. HOSPITAL AT ST. 
 QUENTIN. THE "open SESAME." 
 
 XXI. Alive 143 
 
 XXII. Blindness 147 
 
 XXIII. The Woman Who Waits 151 
 
 THE TELEGRAPH BOY'S RAT-TAT. KILLED 
 IN ACTION. WEEKS OF MOURNING. 
 
 XXIV. Ward 43, Reserve Lazarette 5, Hanover 156 
 
 OCCUPANTS OF THE WARD. CHIVALRY 
 OF THE AIR. 
 
 XXV. Saniez 160 
 
 XXVI. Life in Hanover Hospital 166 
 
 HOSPITAL DIET. INTERVIEWED BY A GER- 
 MAN DOCTOR. DISCHARGED FROM HOS- 
 PITAL. 
 
 XXVII. Observations and Impressions 176 
 
 EMPLOYMENT OF PRISONERS. PARCELS. 
 MEN OF MONS. 
 
 XXVIII. Stories of the Heroes of Mons ... 187 
 
 xi 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XXIX. OSNABRUCK 199 
 
 ARRIVAL IN CAMP. THE CANTEEN. DAILY 
 ROUTINE. RATIONS. PARCELS. NEWS. 
 
 XXX. Comedy and Drama 215 
 
 1 salute the wall, the story of an 
 egg. a novel banquet. joy ride on 
 a lorry. the swiss commission. 
 
 XXXI. Free 227 
 
 I BLUFF THE GERMAN SERGEANT. 
 AACHEN. TWO BOTTLES OF WINE. ACROSS 
 THE FRONTIER. GREAT SCOTT ! I AM 
 CHARGED FOR MY OWN DEATH EXPENSES. 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Captain Gilbert Nobbs Frontispiece 
 
 Captain Nobbs after his release from the German 
 
 prison Facing page 164 
 
ON THE RIGHT 
 OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
CHAPTER I 
 FOVANT 
 
 ORDERLY ROOM. OFF TO THE FRONT 
 
 <<r pHE C. O. wants to see you." 
 
 A "What for?" I asked. 
 
 "I don't know, but he is in the orderly room." 
 
 It was the adjutant who was speaking, and his 
 manner led me to think there was something in 
 the wind which he did not like to tell me. I left 
 the mess, and a few moments later I was standing 
 before the C. O. 
 
 ' ' I have just received a telegram from the War 
 Office ; you are included in the next reinforcements 
 for France." 
 
 "I am glad, sir." 
 
 "You've only forty-eight hours' notice. You 
 are to report at Southampton at 4. P. M. the day 
 after to-morrow." 
 
 "Very good, sir." 
 
 "Well, as your time is so short, you had better 
 go home and get things ready. The adjutant 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 will have your papers ready for you within half 
 an hour." 
 
 "Very good, sir." 
 
 The C. O. stood up, and in his cordial military 
 manner, which seemed to take you straight from 
 the orderly room into the mess, held out his hand 
 to bid me good-bye. 
 
 There is quite a difference between a C. O. in 
 the orderly room and a C. O. in the mess. I 
 mean those C. O.'s who are made of the right 
 stuff, and our C. O. was certainly one of them. 
 
 In the orderly room his presence keeps you at 
 arm's length and makes you feel that you want to 
 keep clicking your heels and coming to the salute. 
 You are conscious of the terrible crime you would 
 commit if you permitted your body to relax from 
 the position of attention; your conversational 
 powers are restricted; you fancy you have a 
 voice at the back of your head, saying: 
 
 "Don't argue, listen; digest, and get out." 
 
 It's a feeling which does not make the orderly 
 room a very pleasant place to go to; yet you have 
 an instinctive feeling of confidence. 
 
 The same C. O. in the mess, however, is a dif- 
 ferent man and creates quite a different atmos- 
 
 2 
 
FOVANT 
 
 phere. In the orderly room he holds you from 
 him; in the mess he pulls you to him. You have 
 the feeling that you can sit in an armchair, with 
 your feet on the coal-box, and talk to him round 
 the corner of your newspaper, like the very ordi- 
 nary human being he really is. 
 
 "Well, good-bye, and good luck." We shook 
 hands, I came to the salute, and the next moment 
 I found myself once more outside the orderly room 
 door. 
 
 Have you ever experienced the feeling ? Yes, 
 thousands have, for the despatch of reinforcing 
 officers to the front in this abrupt manner was 
 taking place daily throughout the empire. You 
 remember the feeling quite well; amazement at 
 its suddenness; eagerness for the adventure; 
 the prospect of the home parting; the sudden 
 change in the daily routine; the mystery of the 
 future — all swirling through your brain in a jum- 
 ble of thoughts. 
 
 Then the hasty despatch of telegrams, the ex- 
 amination of time-tables, and the feverish packing 
 of a kit which has grown to enormous proportions 
 and hopelessly defies the regulations for weight. 
 
 An hour later and I had made a quick sale of 
 3 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 my bicycle, distributed odds and ends of hut 
 furniture which I should no longer need, and was 
 sitting in a motor-car, outside the mess, grabbing 
 at hands which were outstretched in farewell. 
 
 Those who lived in camp at Fovant can re- 
 member what an uninteresting, dreary place it 
 seemed at the time, and how we cursed its mo- 
 notony. Rows upon rows of uninteresting and 
 uninviting looking huts ; the large, barren square ; 
 the heart-breaking trudge to the station; the 
 little village with the military policeman, who 
 stood at the fork of the roads, and whose job 
 seemed so easy, while ours seemed so hard; and 
 who always seemed so clean and cool, while we 
 seemed so hot and dusty. 
 
 The city of Salisbury, our one ray of hope, but 
 which was too far to walk to, and too expensive 
 to ride to — all these things we used to look upon 
 as sufferings which had to be put up with. But 
 we can look upon the picture now, and there are 
 few of us who can do so without a feeling of 
 affection, for there was a spirit of comradeship 
 there which links up the dreariness into pleasant 
 recollections. 
 
 Now that I have been through the mill I can 
 4 
 
fOVANf 
 
 look back at that parting scene, and as the caf 
 whirls away and my brother officers walk back 
 into the mess, I fancy I can hear the comment 
 of those who had not yet been out and those who 
 had: 
 
 "Lucky brute." 
 
 "Poor devil!" 
 
CHAPTER II 
 THE SILENT HEROES 
 
 THE WOMAN WHO WAITS AND SUFFERS IN 
 
 SILENCE 
 
 T WAS soon comfortably settled in a first-class 
 compartment and whirling towards Waterloo, 
 with the worst ordeal of all still before me: the 
 breaking of the news at home and the parting 
 while the shock is still fresh. 
 
 Who are the true heroes of the war ? 
 
 Our fighting men are cheered in the streets; 
 every newspaper and magazine sings their praise; 
 every shop-window reflects their needs ; in theatre, 
 pulpit, and workshop their praises are sung. 
 
 But are they the real heroes of the war ? 
 
 Ask the fighting man himself. Speak to him 
 of his wife or mother, and the expression on his 
 face will answer your question. 
 
 There is no one to sing her praise, no one to 
 paint the picture of her deeds; no one to tell of 
 that lonely feeling when her hero departs and 
 the door is closed behind him. 
 
 6 
 
THE SILENT HEROES 
 
 The fighting man looks upon his share of the 
 war with a light heart. Events come too rapidly 
 upon him to feel depressed. He does not feel the 
 gnawing hunger of the lonely wait ; the emptiness 
 of the world when the parting is over; the empty 
 chair at the table, and the rooms made cheerless 
 by his absence. 
 
 There is no one to describe the terrors of the 
 morning casualty list ; the hourly expectation and 
 frozen fear of the telegraph boy's "rat tat," 
 bringing some dreadful news. 
 
 There are no crowds to cheer her; no flags or 
 trumpets to rouse her enthusiasm and occupy her 
 thoughts. No constant activity, thrilling excite- 
 ment, desperate encounter. 
 
 Hers is a silent patriotism. She is the true 
 hero of the war. And in hundreds of thousands 
 of homes throughout the empire, her silent deeds, 
 her wonderful fortitude, are making the woman- 
 hood of Britain a history which medals will not 
 reward, nor scars display. 
 
 The fighting men know it, and when you cheer 
 them, they know that there is still one at home 
 who deserves your cheers, yet will not hear them; 
 and who will seek no greater reward than the 
 
 7 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 safe return of her own hero amid the applause 
 which greets their homecoming. 
 
 Fighting men acknowledge it ! And when your 
 ears are no longer deafened by the cheers of 
 others, take off your caps, fill your lungs, and 
 cheer to the echo the real heroes of the war. 
 
 All honour to the woman who waits. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 DEPARTURE FOR THE FRONT 
 
 WATERLOO STATION. LUNCHEON ARGUMENTS. 
 THE BAGGAGE PROBLEM 
 
 TITATERLOO STATION in war time pre- 
 sents a picture of unending interest. Here 
 it is that a thousand dramas are acted daily. 
 It is one huge scene of bustle and excitement. 
 The khaki of the soldier, the blue of the sailor; 
 the mother, the wife, the sweetheart; the sad 
 partings, the joyful greetings. The troops en- 
 training, spick and span in their new war kit; 
 the war-worn soldier home on leave, bespattered 
 with the soil of France; troops from the near-by 
 camps on week-end leave, tumbling out of the 
 carriages with the spirits of schoolboys, or look- 
 ing for standing-room in the overcrowded com- 
 partments on the last train back. 
 
 The scene is inspiring, depressing, historical. 
 
 Hear the noise and babble of the throng; the 
 sobs and the cheers; the last look, the last hand- 
 shake, the cheery greeting and the boyish laughter 
 
 9 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 — whilst out in the street, London continues its 
 unaltered ways, indifferent to the greatest war in 
 the world's history reflected within a stone's 
 throw, in Waterloo Station. 
 
 The Southampton train was rapidly filling, and 
 I just managed to secure a seat and take a last 
 look round. It needed a minute before the train 
 was due to depart. Every window was filled 
 with soldiers, and small groups were standing 
 round each carriage door. 
 
 Porters were hurrying backward and forward, 
 trying to find seats for late arrivals. Women 
 were sobbing, men were talking earnestly. Pres- 
 ently the shrill whistle of the guard ; hurried fare- 
 wells, spontaneous cheers, and the slowly moving 
 train gradually left the station, carrying its human 
 freight to an unknown destiny. 
 
 I turned from the window and settled myself 
 down in a corner. With me was Lieutenant 
 Collins of our regiment, and Second Lieutenants 
 Jones and Bailey of the London Regiment, while 
 between us was a table laid for lunch. 
 
 "Well!" said Collins, packing his kit which 
 had been dangling in a threatening manner from 
 the rack, "that's one job over. I'm not sorry 
 
 10 
 
DEPARTURE FOR THE FRONT 
 
 it's over, either. I wish we were coming back 
 instead of going. I wouldn't mind getting a 
 blighty wound in about a month's time. That 
 would suit me down to the ground." 
 
 "Looking for trouble already," said Jones. 
 
 "You don't call that trouble, a nice little 
 blighty wound, and then home." 
 
 "Don't be an idiot," I interrupted. "If every 
 one felt the same way, who do you think is going 
 to carry on the war?" 
 
 "Don't know. Never thought of it. But all 
 the same a blighty wound in about a month's 
 time will suit me down to the ground." 
 
 The conversation drivelled on in this way for 
 a few miles, and finally turned into a heated dis- 
 cussion of the wine-list at the back of the menu. 
 
 Luncheon was served, and we were soon heavily 
 engaged in a fierce attack on chicken and ham, 
 intermingled with joke and arguments. The 
 cause of the war and the prospect of its finish. 
 
 "Here's to a safe return," said Bailey, when 
 his ginger ale had ceased to erupt its displeasure 
 at being released from the bottle. 
 
 "And here's to an early blighty wound," said 
 Collins. 
 
 ii 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 "Hang it all," said Jones. "Can't you forget 
 it?" 
 
 The conversation was bursting out afresh, and 
 fortunately did not drift into politics or religion; 
 and arguments easily turned to jokes, and jokes 
 into a fresh onslaught on the chicken and ham. 
 
 There are some men who can argue best when 
 armed with a knife and fork, and a good meal in- 
 disputably in their possession. There are others 
 whose oratorical powers show greater promise 
 when liquid refreshment is within easy grasp. 
 In others yet again, the soothing influence of 
 the twisted weed develops extraordinary powers. 
 And before we arrived at Southampton town 
 station the gift of each had full play. 
 
 We soon found ourselves scrambling amongst 
 the heap of luggage which had been thrown in 
 confusion on to the platform, and commenced an 
 anxious search for our kits. 
 
 It is always the same at English railway sta- 
 tions, and our cousins from America and Canada 
 scorn our system, or rather lack of system, for 
 those who travel with baggage in England have 
 always the possibility in front of them of a free 
 fight to regain their possessions. 
 
 12 
 
DEPARTURE FOR THE FRONT 
 
 There seems to be only one thing to do if you 
 are going to travel with a trunk, and that is either 
 to paint it in rainbow colours, so that it will stand 
 out in striking contrast to the mountainous heap 
 of baggage thrown topsyturvy out of the wagon 
 on arrival at a terminus. Or, if not provided 
 with this forethought of imagination, it is best to 
 arrive at the starting station some hours ahead 
 of time, and sit down on the platform and study 
 the peculiarities of your trunk, its indentations 
 and scratchings, and other characteristics, and 
 committing all these details securely to your mem- 
 ory, so that when you arrive at the other end, 
 and you jostle among the crowd gathered around 
 the baggage-car, you can grab the collar of a 
 porter and frantically shout: "There it is!" as 
 it tumbles out of the wagon, to be finally sub- 
 merged at the extreme bottom of the heap. 
 
 Unfortunately, all military kit bags are exactly 
 the same. It is true you have your name painted 
 on the outside, but so has everybody, and when 
 fifty or sixty bags come tumbling out, they all 
 look exactly alike. 
 
 That is how it was at Southampton town sta- 
 tion, but we were all in good spirits, thanks to 
 
 *3 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 the wine-list before mentioned; and as all the 
 owners of the kit bags were carrying an uncom- 
 fortable amount of ordnance stores on their backs, 
 the heap of luggage soon became submerged be- 
 neath a still greater heap of energetic and per- 
 spiring humanity, until the scene looked net un- 
 like a very much disturbed ant-hill. 
 
 But I am exaggerating. Yet, the exaggeration 
 of my words, written in a calm moment of thought 
 is far less vociferous than the exaggerated words 
 used at the time during the frantic endeavour to 
 seek one's solitary kit bag, and extricate it in 
 such a scramble. 
 
 But at last the four of us, bent double by our 
 packs, and freely perspiring in the heat of an 
 August day, could be seen rolling, pushing, kick- 
 ing, and dragging our worldly belongings off the 
 platform towards the station entrance, to seek 
 the hospitality of an ancient hack. And then 
 we drove away, our kit and our equipments 
 stacked high around us at precarious angles, and 
 completely submerging the occupants, to the 
 delight of the people who stood and watched vs 
 in open-mouthed amazement. 
 
 14 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 CROSSING THE CHANNEL 
 
 THE DOCK PORTER. A WHIFF OF BOND STREET 
 
 A RRIVING at the dock we reported to the 
 embarkation officer, and were given a pass 
 to leave the dock, but bearing the strict injunc- 
 tion that we must embark at 6 p. m. 
 
 When you cross to France for the first time you 
 are so nervous about missing the boat and run- 
 ning the risk of a court-martial, or some other 
 such dreadful suggestion, that you hardly dare 
 to leave the dock gates, and you are certainly 
 waiting at the gang-plank a full fifteen minutes 
 before the appointed time. 
 
 But those who are no longer novices to the 
 mysterious calculation of those who regulate our 
 army traffic, would, on receiving such instruction, 
 immediately repair to the best hotel, there to 
 regale themselves in a glorified afternoon tea, and 
 afterwards seat themselves in the front row at 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 the local Empire; subsequently rolling up at the 
 ship's side shortly after 9 o'clock, to find that the 
 troop-ship is not due to sail for another hour at 
 least. 
 
 Having enjoyed all the pleasure of such disre- 
 gard to orders, and arriving in due course at the 
 ship's side, I searched around for my baggage 
 and for means of getting it on board. I had not 
 far to look, for there were a number of soldiers 
 standing about, whose evident duty it was to do 
 the necessary fatigue work. 
 
 I call them soldiers because they were dressed 
 in khaki; but the King's uniform could not dis- 
 guise the fact that they were the old-time dock 
 porters. There is something about the earnest, 
 anxious look of the dock porter, as he tenders you 
 his services, which even the martial cut of a mili- 
 tary uniform cannot hide. His adopted profes- 
 sion in peace, inscribed so deeply in his face and 
 bearing, cannot be hidden so easily by the cur- 
 tain of war. 
 
 A lance corporal approached me, and, assuring 
 me that nothing would go astray that was left 
 in his charge, slung my kit over his shoulder with 
 professional skill and followed me up the gang- 
 
 16 
 
CROSSING THE CHANNEL 
 
 plank, placing my belongings carefully down in 
 what may once have been the cabin of the ship. 
 He crossed his legs, leaned heavily with one arm 
 on my baggage, and tipping his cap on the back 
 of his head to enable me to see the exact amount 
 of perspiration upon his forehead, and breathing 
 heavily, so that I might form an exact estimate 
 of the fatigue he had undergone, he waited in 
 hopeful expectancy. 
 
 I gave him a tip. 
 
 It is against all regulations to tip a soldier; 
 but it seemed such a natural thing to do, for his 
 khaki uniform could not hide the habit of years. 
 
 He did not salute, but touched his cap. I 
 smiled to myself as I watched him depart. He 
 was a soldier now; but the uniform could not dis- 
 guise the fact that he was still a dock porter. 
 
 We had a splendid crossing, and I shall not 
 readily forget the romantic atmosphere of that 
 night. 
 
 The sea was calm, and a full moon cast a sil- 
 very, shimmering pathway across the water. 
 
 All lights on board the troop-ship were extin- 
 guished, and with black smoke belching from the 
 funnels, and the vibrations of the engines trem- 
 
 i7 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 bling through the ship, we made our dash across 
 the Channel. 
 
 Who but those whose duty it is to perform the 
 arduous task of protecting our troop-ships can 
 understand and appreciate what it means to live 
 the life of the sailor on those comfortless -looking 
 destroyers. 
 
 Night after night, week after week, throughout 
 the years, tearing frantically up and down, seek- 
 ing a hidden foe; daring the treacherous mines; 
 safeguarding their trust with apparent disregard 
 for their own safety. 
 
 The men who perform such duties are hidden 
 heroes; and the safe transportation of our fight- 
 ing millions across the seas is a silent tribute of 
 their bravery. 
 
 This work goes on, and will go on until the end 
 of the war, and the men who perform this great 
 task do so with the knowledge that only failure 
 can bring their names before the public. 
 
 I met many old friends on board, and several 
 new ones. But one man in particular attracted 
 my attention, for his appearance seemed so 
 strangely out of place with the surroundings. 
 
 Standing near the companionway, and looking 
 18 
 
CROSSING THE CHANNEL 
 
 upon the scene with a bored expression, was a 
 young man in the thirties, in a brand-new uni- 
 form, with a single star on his shoulder-strap, 
 which proclaimed him to the world as a second 
 lieutenant. 
 
 He was rather tubby in appearance, with a 
 round, chubby face, which was screwed up in a 
 frantic effort to retain within its grasp a mon- 
 ocle, through which he viewed his fellow beings 
 in mute astonishment ; and what is more, he wore 
 new kid gloves. It was Septimus D'Arcy, dressed 
 in immaculate neatness, radiating the atmosphere 
 of Bond Street; indifferent to everybody, yet 
 with a horrified look of discomfort at finding him- 
 self in such unusual surroundings. 
 
 I had hardly turned from the strange scene 
 when Collins caught hold of my arm. 
 
 "Come over here; I want to introduce you to 
 a friend of mine, who, I believe, is coming out 
 to be attached to us," he said. 
 
 We walked along the deck, and, to my em- 
 oarrassment, a few moments later I found myself 
 shaking the limp paw of Septimus D'Arcy, glove 
 and all. 
 
 I am not quite sure that Septimus, on my in- 
 19 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 traduction, did anything more than open his 
 mouth, while I raised and lowered his right fore- 
 arm. Septimus would have spoken, I am quite 
 sure, as the movement of his mouth indicated 
 that such was his intention; although the expres- 
 sion, or rather lack of expression, on his face, bore 
 no proof that his remarks, if uttered, would be 
 very interesting. In fact, Septimus needed en- 
 couragement. 
 
 "We are having a very pleasant crossing," I 
 ventured. 
 
 "Ye-s," he drawled, "but a demned over- 
 crowded one — what ? " 
 
 "I suppose so, but troop-ships are always over- 
 crowded." 
 
 "I say, though, where does one sleep?" 
 
 I rather suspected that what Septimus really 
 wanted to know was whether there was such a 
 thing to be had as a private cabin, where he could 
 disrobe his tubby figure in seclusion. 
 
 "There seems to be two places to sleep," 
 I replied; "either in the boiler-room or on 
 deck." 
 
 1 ' On deck ! Rather uncomfortable — what ? ' ' 
 
 "Well not nearly so uncomfortable as it may be 
 20 
 
CROSSING THE CHANNEL 
 
 later. I am just going down to get my kit and 
 lay it out on deck," I said. "Hadn't you better 
 get yours, too ?" 
 
 I went down below, leaving Septimus with his 
 mouth still open, and his round nose wrinkled up 
 with an expression of discomfort. But he made 
 no move to accept my invitation. 
 
 I unrolled my kit on the deck by the side of a 
 long row of officers who were already comfortably 
 settled for the night. On either side of each officer 
 were his war kit and a life-belt. 
 
 I got into my sleeping-bag, and not feeling very 
 sleepy, I lit a cigarette and looked upon my sur- 
 roundings. 
 
 The scene was a very inspiring one, and I 
 could not help dreaming of the future. What 
 had destiny in store for us ? Who would return 
 in glory ? And who would be called upon to pay 
 the great price — to come back bleeding and dis- 
 abled, dependent for future existence upon the 
 benevolence of a nation's gratitude ? 
 
 The ship sped onward, carrying its human 
 freight. Greater and greater grew the distance 
 from loved ones left behind. Nearer and nearer 
 we sped towards the unknown future. 
 
 21 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 How many of those lying around, silent com- 
 panions of their thoughts, were thinking the 
 same as I ? 
 
 What was the future ? Horror, anxiety, success, 
 failure, mutilation, death; which was it to be? 
 And what a change this was to the times we had 
 had in the past. 
 
 We were all civilian soldiers: lawyers, mer- 
 chants, bankers, and tradesmen. Fighting was 
 not our profession nor desire. 
 
 Whose power was it to transform these lives so 
 ruthlessly from the habits of peace to become 
 instruments of war ? Whose was the hand which 
 plucked us from homes and families, to hurl us 
 into the caldron of hell ? Was it the ambition 
 of a nation, guided by the despotic direction of a 
 tyrant ? 
 
 We knew it and believed it. We could not re- 
 main idle to see our homes and families suffering 
 the destruction and barbarities inflicted on Bel- 
 gium. The fire of hell blazed by the petrol of 
 German fury must not be wafted in the direction 
 of our beloved country. 
 
 The call had been answered, and these silent 
 forms of England's sons were speeding through 
 
 22 
 
CROSSING THE CHANNEL 
 
 the night in the direction of danger, at the bidding 
 of a nation in peril. 
 
 My cigarette was finished, and I was becoming 
 sleepy. I turned over to settle myself comfort- 
 ably, and turning my eyes in the direction of the 
 companionway, I saw the tubby figure of an 
 officer standing near the rail, immaculately dressed, 
 and in strange contrast to his surroundings. 
 
 It was Septimus D'Arcy, immaculate and in- 
 different. Septimus was at war; but Septimus 
 was still in Bond Street. 
 
 23 
 
CHAPTER V 
 GOING UP THE LINE 
 
 PERFIDIOUS GANG-PLANKS. D'ARCY STRANDED. 
 
 GUIDES WHO CANNOT GUIDE. 
 
 A HEATED ARGUMENT 
 
 ^TEXT morning we were disturbed early, and 
 rolled up our kits ready for disembarkation. 
 
 About 7 a. m. we pulled alongside the wharf, 
 and a light-hearted, jostling crowd struggled for 
 the gang-plank. 
 
 I have not yet been able to find out why gang- 
 planks are made so narrow, so that only one per- 
 son at a time dare undertake the passage. 
 
 Chaos seemed to prevail. The deck suddenly 
 became a struggling mass of humanity, struggling, 
 tugging, and dragging at valises and kit bags. 
 
 Officers were manfully shouldering their "march- 
 ing order," and struggling with their valises, 
 hoping that their turn would come to find a foot- 
 ing on the gang-plank. 
 
 The gang-plank was long and narrow, bending 
 and squeaking under its burden. There were two 
 
 24 
 
GOING UP THE LINE 
 
 gang-planks : one to go down and one to come up. 
 
 But we were not sailors, and did not know the 
 system; the inevitable result being that those 
 going up met those coming down, until they be- 
 came an unwieldy medley of men, baggage, pro- 
 tests, and apologies. 
 
 Gang-planks at the best of times appear struc- 
 tures of absurdity. They either appear to be 
 placed at an angle so dangerous that the only 
 safe way of getting ashore appears to be to sit 
 down and slide. At other times the gang-plank 
 has an unhappy knack of sagging in a precarious 
 manner as you approach the middle, while a 
 couple of sailors hold desperately on to the end 
 to prevent its slipping off the dock. 
 
 Here we reported to the landing officer, who 
 was making frantic endeavours to create order 
 from chaos. 
 
 In circumstances of this kind the best thing to 
 do with the landing officer is to keep clear of him. 
 So we seized the only hack available and drove 
 to one of the leading hotels, which had the repu- 
 tation of being popular. 
 
 I am not quite sure if these conveyances are 
 called hacks, but the name seems very appro- 
 
 25 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 priate; for carriage seems too dignified a term for 
 such dilapidated vehicles. 
 
 We were, however, too glad to get away as 
 rapidly as possible from the dusty deck, and it 
 was already getting very hot. 
 
 Turning into one of the side streets, we beheld 
 the immortal Septimus, looking like one who is 
 hopelessly lost in the middle of the Sahara Desert. 
 
 Now Septimus was not a born soldier, and he 
 had made no attempt to carry his equipment on 
 his back ; neither would it seem right for Septimus 
 to carry any greater burden on his podgy form 
 than his well-polished Sam Brown. So his equip- 
 ment lay on the pavement beside him. He had 
 evidently dragged it some little distance, and 
 looked upon it as a beastly nuisance, and was 
 standing there vainly hoping that a taxi would 
 come to his rescue and help him carry the beastly 
 thing away. 
 
 We gave Septimus a lift, as he evidently needed 
 looking after. 
 
 Arriving at the hotel, we all tumbled into the 
 dining-room for breakfast, all except Septimus 
 D'Arcy, who made straight for the nearest bar, 
 and was last heard of that day tapping a coin 
 
 26 
 
GOING UP THE LINE 
 
 vigorously on the counter, and with the perspira- 
 tion standing in beads on his nose, frantically 
 screeching for a whisky and soda. 
 
 Two days later I received a slip of paper which 
 warned me that I was to proceed up the line that 
 evening. 
 
 I was a senior officer, and would have charge 
 of all the troops departing that evening. If you 
 have never had that job, take my tip and avoid 
 it; for of all the thankless tasks the poor devil 
 who suddenly finds himself O. C. train, has the 
 most difficult one of all. 
 
 I reported to the camp adjutant, an awfully 
 decent sort of chap, and as a farewell gift he placed 
 in my hands a pile of documents and several 
 sheets of printed instructions. 
 
 "There you are, old chap, you will find every- 
 thing there." 
 
 "Why, what is all this about?" said I, holding 
 on to the mysterious bundle of papers which he 
 thrust into my hands. 
 
 "That is a complete record, in duplicate, of all 
 the troops in your charge. When you get to the 
 station hand those papers over to the R. T. O." 
 
 "How many men have I charge of?" 
 27 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 "Rather a big crowd going to-night — 38 
 officers and 1,140 other ranks." 
 
 "What regiments do they belong to?" 
 
 "Well, I think you have got men who belong 
 to nearly every regiment serving in France. 
 There are reinforcement draughts going to various 
 units, and numerous men returning from leave. 
 You've got English, Scotch, Canadians, and 
 Australians. You've got cavalrymen, artillery- 
 men, engineers, and infantrymen. Believe me, 
 you've got your hands full to-night. 
 
 "You will find a guide at the head of the 
 column who knows the way to the station. It's 
 a good five miles from here." 
 
 When I got outside I found the column nearly 
 a quarter of a mile long, formed up ready to 
 march off. 
 
 I gave the order to move to all those within 
 reach of my voice, and trusted to the remainder 
 to follow on. 
 
 It was quite dark as the long column moved 
 slowly down the long boulevards. I had not the 
 faintest notion where the station was. Wherever 
 I went that long, unwieldy column would slowly 
 follow me, and trust blindly to my direction. 
 
 28 
 
GOING UP THE LINE 
 
 I pinned my faith to the guide, and on we 
 went. 
 
 Before we had got half-way it became evident 
 that the guide had a very remote idea which was 
 the direction to take; and he began to make 
 anxious inquiries of passers-by as to the right 
 way. 
 
 I was beginning to feel anxious and lose patience. 
 
 ' ' What are you fussing about for ? Are you 
 taking us the right way?" I demanded. 
 
 "I think so, sir. I don't know." 
 
 "You don't know! But you are the guide, 
 aren't you ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. But I've never been to the station 
 before." 
 
 "But you are supposed to be the guide. Do 
 you mean to tell me that you are not sure of the 
 way?" 
 
 "Not quite, sir. But I am doing my best." 
 
 "Well, you are a fine sort of guide ! Who de- 
 tailed you?" 
 
 "The adjutant, sir." 
 
 "Well, did he know you had never been down 
 to the station before ?" 
 
 "He never asked me, sir. I was not doing any 
 29 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 other duty, so he detailed me to act as your 
 guide." 
 
 What staff work ! But it served me right ; 
 and we muddled along, and finally, to my great 
 relief, we entered the station yard. 
 
 I walked into the R. T. O.'s office and laid my 
 pile of papers on his desk. 
 
 The railway transport officer is an individual 
 who is prominent in the memory of all those who 
 have passed up the line; and many of us have 
 reason to remember at least one of them with 
 indignation. 
 
 There are two kinds of R. T. O.'s, and you have 
 met them both. 
 
 There is the one who has earned his job at the 
 front by hard work. He has been through the 
 thick of the fighting, and after months in the 
 trenches has been sent back to act as R. T. O. at 
 the rail-head or the base, to give him a well-earned 
 rest beyond the sound of the guns. We have no 
 unpleasant memories of him. He is a man; he 
 is human; he treats you as a comrade; he is 
 helpful and considerate. And you can spot such 
 men in a moment. 
 
 But R. T. O. No. 2 carries no sign of war on 
 30 
 
GOING UP THE LINE 
 
 his features. He has never heard the sound of 
 guns, and never intends to, if he can help it. 
 
 Look back upon the time when you left the 
 base, and you find him prominent in your mem- 
 ory. When you are huddled up in your dug- 
 out, how you wish he could be transferred to you 
 for a tour of duty in the trenches. 
 
 What a delight it would be to send him in his 
 immaculate uniform; his highly polished leggings 
 and boots, along the muddy communication 
 trenches. You know what the feeling is, for 
 oftentimes you have said to yourself in those 
 lonely night-watches: "How I wish I had him 
 here!" 
 
 It is 2 o'clock in the morning; the rain is 
 coming down in torrents; danger lurks in every 
 fire-bay; the loneliness and the weirdness give 
 you the creeps. 
 
 How you wish you could wake him up by dig- 
 ging him in the ribs, and telling him that it is 
 time to go on his tour of duty up and down those 
 clay-sodden trenches at the hour of the night 
 when his courage (if he ever had any) would be 
 at its lowest. 
 
 What a delight it would be if we only had him 
 
 3i 
 
 / 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 with us when we take over our trenches, to show 
 him that foul-smelling, rat-ridden dugout, and 
 tell him to curl himself up to sleep there. 
 
 How sweet would be the joy to see him in his 
 pale-coloured breeches, huddled up in a saphead, 
 trying to get a little comfort on a cold, raw De- 
 cember morning, from a drop of tea in a tin mug, 
 well smudged with the wet clay of numerous 
 fingers. 
 
 32 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 RATIONS 
 
 I LEARN TO HATE FOOD. MATHEMATICAL 
 PROBLEMS 
 
 TX7E arrived at Rouen at 7.30 the following 
 morning. I had to report to the R. T. O. 
 by 9.30, and in the meantime 3,534 rations had 
 to be cut up and distributed on the station plat- 
 form among 1,178 officers and men. 
 
 Have you ever had such a problem as that ? 
 If not, then avoid it, if it ever comes your way. 
 
 The train was about twice the length of the 
 platform, so on arrival it was broken in half, and 
 the rear half shunted on to another line. 
 
 The rations were contained in two trucks, at- 
 tached to the rear half of the train, so the con- 
 tents had to be carried by hand across several 
 sets of rails, to the end of the platform. 
 
 I had a fatigue party of 60 men at work, and 
 presently a huge quantity of provisions began 
 to pile up. There were chests of tea, cases of 
 
 33 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 biscuits, cases of jam, cases of bully beef, sugar, 
 and bacon sufficient to fill the warehouse of a 
 wholesale provision merchant. 
 
 Three days' rations for 1,178 officers and men, 
 in bulk; and 1,178 officers and men began to 
 gather around the stack, in hungry expectancy 
 of breakfast. 
 
 Now to issue rations to a battalion straight 
 from bulk is quite difficult enough, but to issue 
 rations from bulk to units of various strengths, 
 belonging to over fifty regiments is enough to 
 drive any one crazy. 
 
 Each man was entitled to two and one-fourth 
 ounces of tea, one-fourth ounce of mustard, two 
 and one-fourth pounds of biscuits, three-fourths 
 pound of cheese, twelve ounces of bacon, one tin 
 of bully beef, nine ounces of jam. 
 
 Each unit had to be dealt with separately, so 
 that each unit presented a mathematical problem 
 of the most perplexing kind. Each unit sent up 
 its fatigue party to draw rations, whilst I and 
 several officers who had volunteered to assist me 
 made a bold attempt at distribution. 
 
 ' ' Come along, first man, what's your regiment ? " 
 
 "Manchester, sir; 59 men." 
 34 
 
RATIONS 
 
 I looked through my volume of papers to check 
 his figures. 
 
 ' ' Quite right ! Fifty-nine men. ' ' 
 
 Fifty-nine men meant fifty-nine times two and 
 one-fourth ounces of tea, one-fourth ounce of 
 mustard, two and one-fourth pounds of biscuits, 
 three-fourths pound of cheese, twelve ounces of 
 bacon, one tin of bully beef, and nine ounces of 
 jam. My brain whirls when I think of those 
 problems. 
 
 The next unit consisted of o men; the next of 
 1; then came a long list of 2's, 5's, and 7's, and 
 so on; and in each case the mathematical prob- 
 lem had to be worked out; and when the figur- 
 ing was finished, the stuff had to be cut up. 
 
 Seventy-nine pounds of cheese for the Man- 
 chester; does any one know what seventy-nine 
 pounds of cheese looks like ? No one did ; we 
 had never seen so much cheese before in our lives. 
 
 "Give him a whole cheese and chance it. 
 And now tea; the Manchesters want one hun- 
 dred and thirty-two and three-fourths ounces of 
 tea. Give him about three handfuls and chance 
 it." 
 
 The next party consisted of 2 men. 
 35 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 "Six ounces of jam for the 19 Canadians; how 
 much is that ?" 
 
 "Nearly half a pot." 
 
 "What are you going to put it in ?" 
 
 "Got nothing." 
 
 "Can't have any, then"? 
 
 "Come on, next man." 
 
 When I saw the last of that stack of food it 
 was 11.30. We were hungry and tired, and we 
 made our way to the nearest hotel, fervently 
 hoping that we might never see food in bulk 
 again. 
 
 36 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 ST. AMAND 
 
 I REPORT AT HEADQUARTERS. THE PROBLEM 
 OF VENTILATION 
 
 W/"E made our way back to the station and 
 secured a very luxurious compartment; 
 and to my intense relief on this occasion I found 
 there was an officer senior to me present, who 
 succeeded to the duties of O. C. train. 
 
 The duties of 0. C. train are a new sensation 
 to most officers; and it is particularly difficult to 
 know just what to do, and how to do it, when 
 you have an unorganised body of men made up 
 of sundries from every part of the British army. 
 
 Our new 0. C. train evidently felt the difficul- 
 ties of his position, and came to me for assistance. 
 
 "Excuse me," he said, "but were you in charge 
 of the train last night ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. I'm sorry to say I was." 
 
 "Well, what does one have to do?" 
 37 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 "Well, but how does one keep order?" 
 
 "One doesn't keep order. But they've given 
 me a pile of printed instructions, and I don't see 
 how they can possibly be carried out. How can 
 I keep order in a train half a mile long with men 
 I know nothing about ?" 
 
 He was getting worried. I knew the feeling. 
 
 "Do you want a tip," I said. 
 
 "Yes, if you can give me one." 
 
 "Well, just walk along the train until you find 
 a very comfortable compartment marked, '0. C. 
 train.' Get inside, lock the door, pull down the 
 blinds and go to sleep." 
 
 "Thanks, awfully. I think I'll take that tip." 
 
 "By the way," I shouted after him, "what is 
 our destination ?" 
 
 "Haven't the faintest idea." 
 
 "Does anybody know?" 
 
 "I don't think so." 
 
 "Thanks, awfully." 
 
 The train journey was uneventful, save for 
 alternatively eating and sleeping, and two days 
 later I reported at battalion headquarters. 
 
 The battalion was in rest billets at St. Amand; 
 38 
 
ST. AMAND 
 
 and I was posted as second in command to B 
 Company. 
 
 The officers of B Company were just about to 
 begin their midday meal when I put in an ap- 
 pearance at the company mess. 
 
 Captain George commanded the company. He 
 was a splendid type of the righting man of the 
 present day — young, active, and clear-cut, boy- 
 ish, yet serious. Captain George was made of 
 the right stuff, and we became chums on the spot. 
 
 The other officers of the company were Second 
 Lieutenant Farman, who had just received his 
 commission in the field, Second Lieutenant Chisle- 
 hirst, and Second Lieutenant Day. 
 
 They were all splendid fellows, the type you 
 meet and take to at once; all as keen as ginger 
 when there is serious work to be done; and when 
 work is over are as light-hearted as schoolboys. 
 
 The mess consisted of a dilapidated kitchen, 
 with a stone floor, and ventilated by the simple 
 method of broken windows and a door removed 
 from the hinges. 
 
 In those northern farmhouses of France it is 
 purely a matter of opinion as to whether ventila- 
 tion is really an advantage; for from the yard 
 
 39 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 in front of the house the odour from the refuse 
 and manure of the farm, piled up in a heap out- 
 side your window, becomes very acute when the 
 wind is in the wrong direction, as it usually is. 
 
 40 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 EARLY IMPRESSIONS 
 
 BILLETS. A STARTLING INCIDENT. REST CAMP 
 
 T SHALL never forget the day I made my first 
 inspection of billets. 
 
 While walking through the village street I 
 noticed a structure which appeared to be inviting 
 some stray breath of wind to cause it to surrender 
 its last resistance by collapsing into a heap of 
 rubbish. 
 
 Many years ago, in days of prosperity, it had 
 served the purpose of a covering for cattle, for 
 I believe cattle are not very particular in northern 
 France. 
 
 It is quite within reason to suppose that, with 
 a view of misleading his cattle into a false sense 
 of security, the farmer may have called it a barn. 
 It had never been an expensive structure, nor 
 did it give any evidence of having ever laid claim 
 to architectural beauty. 
 
 But its simplicity of construction was a marvel 
 4i 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 of ingenuity. Yes, it was a barn, but who but 
 a genius of modern arts would have thought it 
 possible to build even a barn by the simple but 
 equally economical method of erecting a number 
 of props and simply sticking mud between? 
 
 But the stability of the barn was, as might 
 reasonably be supposed, subject to "wind and 
 weather permitting," and was now sorrowfully 
 deploring its advancing years, and anxiously 
 waiting an early opportunity to rest its weary 
 limbs in a well-earned rest in a shapeless heap 
 on the ground that gave it birth. 
 
 How very strange ! Out of the numerous holes 
 in the wall I saw familiar faces, while inside a 
 score of men were laughing and joking, playing 
 cards or lounging about in loose attire, as though 
 they were enjoying the freedom and comfort of 
 a West End club. 
 
 "But what are you men doing here ?" I asked. 
 
 "This is our billet, sir," answered a lance 
 corporal. 
 
 "Your billet ? Do you mean you sleep here ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, this was allotted to half my platoon." 
 
 "Comfortable?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. Quite a treat after the trenches." 
 42 
 
EARLY IMPRESSIONS 
 
 "A bit draughty, isn't it ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; but, like everything else, we have 
 to get used to it." 
 
 "But can't you find a better place than this, 
 and with more room ? You seem to be almost 
 on top of each other." 
 
 "There is no other place available. The men 
 are quite satisfied, sir." 
 
 I turned away thoughtfully. What magnificent 
 chaps ! And yet, when they were in comfortable 
 billets at Haywards Heath, or in well-built huts 
 at Fovant, they were far more particular; when 
 they were recruits and spent their first night in 
 the army, they looked with dismay at the pros- 
 pect of sleeping on a clean straw mattress in a 
 well-built modern English house. 
 
 War. makes men, and hardships breed content ! 
 
 I will pass over our life in the trenches in this 
 part of the line, but an incident worth recording 
 occurred while we were marching back after five 
 days amongst the rats and mud of the trenches 
 facing Gommecourt Wood. 
 
 It is interesting, by the way, to watch the 
 men leaving the trenches for their rest billets, 
 for, in addition to their packs, they carry many 
 
 43 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 an additional article of private belongings to add 
 to their comfort during these tedious days of 
 duty, and they emerge with all kinds of curious 
 packages and extra articles of clothing strapped 
 or tied to their equipment. They were covered 
 with mud and clay before they left the front-line 
 trenches, but the long journey along endless 
 communication trenches on their way out, gath- 
 ered up an additional covering of clay and mud 
 through their bulky attire, until they resembled 
 a curious assembly of moving debris. 
 
 But the incident I have referred to occurred 
 just as we were approaching a village. 
 
 An observation balloon was being drawn down, 
 but when within a hundred feet of the ground 
 suddenly broke away and began to rise rapidly 
 and drift towards the German lines. 
 
 I halted the men, and we watched in breathless 
 suspense the tragedy which was about to take 
 place before our eyes. There was some one in 
 the basket of the balloon. 
 
 It rose higher and higher. Nothing could save 
 it ! Presently the occupant was seen to lean over 
 the side and throw out a quantity of books and 
 papers. 
 
 44 
 
EARLY IMPRESSIONS 
 
 Still upward it went, and seemed to reach a 
 great height before the next sensation caused us 
 to thrill with amazement. 
 
 Something dropped like a stone from the 
 basket and then, with a sudden check, a para- 
 chute opened, and a man was seen dangling from 
 it. When he dropped, the balloon must have 
 been many thousand feet in the air, and both 
 balloon and parachute continued to drift towards 
 the German lines. 
 
 Then a flight of four or five British aeroplanes 
 went up and soared around the balloon, evidently 
 bent on its destruction. 
 
 As we watched we saw a flash and a puff of 
 smoke ! A bomb had struck the balloon, but 
 seemed to have no effect. 
 
 The aeroplanes withdrew, and a minute later 
 we heard the boom of the anti-aircraft guns. 
 
 The second shot was a dead hit, for we saw a 
 flash of fire clean through the centre, a volume of 
 blue smoke, and then it buckled in the middle. 
 The flame spread, and the blue smoke increased 
 in volume until the balloon resembled a curious 
 shapeless mass, twisting and turning and shrink- 
 ing as it quivered and fell to earth; meantime, 
 
 45 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 anxious eyes were also turned to the parachute, 
 which by this time had approached to within a 
 few hundred feet or so of the earth. 
 
 Both armies must have watched the spectacle 
 in silent wonder, for no shot was fired at the 
 falling figure from the German lines. 
 
 It was difficult to tell from where we were just 
 where it might fall. It seemed to me from where 
 I stood that the odds were in favour of it reaching 
 the ground in No Man's Land. 
 
 As it neared the earth it began to sway to and 
 fro, in ever-increasing violence, and finally dis- 
 appeared from view behind a clump of trees. 
 So far as I could observe, it did not seem in any 
 way possible for the parachute to have delivered 
 its human freight safely to the earth. 
 
 Next day we began a three days' march to a 
 village some thirty-eight miles back of the line. 
 
 We were to be rested and fattened for the 
 Somme. 
 
 The mention of rest camps to men at the front 
 generally raises a smile, for if there is one thing 
 more noticeable than anything else during a rest 
 period, it is the hard work which has to be done. 
 
 The long days of training, the unlimited fatigue 
 46 
 
EARLY IMPRESSIONS 
 
 work, and the never-ending cleaning of tattered 
 uniforms and trench-soiled boots are equalled 
 only by the fastidiousness of an Aldershot parade. 
 
 47 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 DEPARTURE FOR THE SOMME 
 
 CORBIE. HAPPY VALLEY. PASSING THROUGH 
 THE GUNS 
 
 /^\N Sunday, September 2, our so-called rest 
 came to an abrupt finish, and we entrained 
 for an unknown destination. Destinations are 
 always a mystery until the train pulls up with a 
 jerk, and peremptory orders are given to get 
 out. 
 
 The difference in travelling as a civilian and 
 travelling as a soldier is that in the former case 
 you choose your time of departure or arrival at 
 a convenient hour; while in the latter case the 
 most unearthly hour is selected for you. 
 
 We arrived at Corbie at 2 a. m. Not that we 
 knew it was Corbie at the time, or cared; and 
 even if we had known, we should have been little 
 the wiser. Still, I will say this about Corbie, 
 that it is pronounced in the way it is spelled, and 
 
 48 
 
DEPARTURE FOR THE SOMME 
 
 that relieves one of a sense of uneasiness. For, 
 as a general rule, no matter how you pronounce 
 the names of a French town, you will find some 
 one with an air of superior knowledge, or gifted 
 with a special twist of the tongue, who will find 
 a new pronunciation. 
 
 However, we detrained onto the line. The 
 night was as black as pitch. Sleepy soldiers, 
 struggling with their equipments, dropped out of 
 the carriages; and after a great deal of shouting 
 we got into some kind of formation, and the long 
 column slowly moved off into the night. 
 
 I dropped into position in the rear of the col- 
 umn, feeling very tired, and wondering where I 
 should find a place to sleep. The long column 
 wended its way through narrow streets and along 
 cobbled roads, and gradually seemed to melt into 
 mysterious doorways under the guiding influence 
 of quartermaster sergeants. 
 
 This process went on until I suddenly realised 
 that the whole column had disappeared, and I 
 was left alone in the streets of Corbie at 3 a. m. 
 in a steady downpour of rain, without the faintest 
 notion of where I was, or where my billet was. 
 I walked a little farther down the street, and 
 
 49 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 being very tired, wet, and sleepy, had almost de- 
 cided to lie in the street until the morning, when 
 I tumbled across Farman, Chislehirst, and Day 
 following the faithful quartermaster-sergeant to 
 an unknown billet. 
 
 The billet consisted of a bathroom in one of 
 the outbuildings of a large estate. The door of 
 the bathroom had been locked, and the water 
 had been turned off. However, we scrambled 
 through the window. The floor was hard, but 
 we had a roof above our heads, and we were all 
 soon snoring on the floor, fast asleep. 
 
 Next morning I took a walk around the estate 
 and found myself in a lovely orchard. It was de- 
 serted. An abundance of most delicious fruit 
 met my gaze wherever I went. I wandered up 
 and down, picking the apples and the pears, biting 
 the fruit and throwing it away. I felt like a bad 
 boy in an orchard; but the orchard was deserted 
 and the fruit was going to waste ; so if I was loot- 
 ing, I consoled myself with the thought that I 
 was preventing waste. 
 
 It was about 1.30 in the afternoon, and I had 
 just settled myself down in a comfortable seat 
 under an apple-tree, and had pulled a Sunday 
 
 50 
 
DEPARTURE FOR THE SOMME 
 
 newspaper out of my pocket ; it was a hot Septem- 
 ber day, and I was feeling lazy. 
 
 I was bound for the Somme. There was a 
 mysterious air about the place that seemed un- 
 natural. These beautiful gardens were deserted, 
 but the sound of the guns could be heard in the 
 distance. 
 
 I had settled myself comfortably, trying to 
 imagine with the aid of the Sunday paper and a 
 cigar that I was really sitting in my own gardens, 
 when I noticed a man filling his water-bottle. 
 
 "What are you filling your water-bottle for?" 
 I asked. 
 
 "We have got orders to parade at 2 o'clock, to 
 move off." 
 
 "Good Lord ! Who told you that ?" 
 
 "Captain Wilkie, sir. The orders have just 
 come down." 
 
 I never had such a scramble in my life. With 
 an appetite oversatisfied with apples; my kit 
 spread all over the floor; my company half a 
 mile away in all sorts of holes and corners — to 
 move out of the village in twenty minutes. 
 
 It's the same old thing in the army; you say 
 to yourself it can't be done; but it is done. And 
 
 Si 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 at five minutes past two the whole brigade was 
 moving out of Corbie, and was once more facing 
 towards the Somme. 
 
 Our destination was in Death Valley; but be- 
 fore going into the line we rested a few days in 
 Happy Valley. Happy Valley and Death Valley 
 — there is a touch of sarcasm about the names, 
 but they are, nevertheless, very appropriate. 
 
 Happy Valley is a peaceful spot where we 
 would sit contentedly in the afternoon purring at 
 our pipes, listening to the sound of the guns; 
 watching the shrapnel bursting in the air some 
 two or three miles away, and thanking our lucky 
 stars that we were watching it from a distance. 
 But we were resting. It was a lull before the storm, 
 and we were soon to march towards the storm. 
 
 Death Valley was three miles away, and to- 
 morrow the storm would break upon us ! We 
 were thinking; men everywhere were writing. 
 Why were they biting their pencils and thinking 
 so hard ? The padre was a busy man. Every- 
 thing was so quiet and mysterious : there was no 
 joking, no laughing, men were thoughtful and 
 pulled hard at their pipes. To-morrow the storm 
 would break ! To-morrow ! And what after ? 
 
 52 
 
DEPARTURE FOR THE SOMME 
 
 The following afternoon, after struggling across 
 a sea of shell-holes, we arrived at Death Valley 
 and halted by Trones Wood. Here hundreds of 
 our guns of all sizes were massed, wheel to wheel, 
 and row upon row; and every gun was being 
 worked as hard as possible. 
 
 A bombardment was taking place. And in 
 the midst of all these guns we were halted for two 
 hours until our trenches could be located. The 
 sight was wonderful. It was impressive. The 
 might of Britain was massed and belching forth 
 its concentrated fury. 
 
 As darkness came on the roar of the guns was 
 accentuated by the flash of the discharge. We 
 did not speak, for speaking was out of the ques- 
 tion; the noise was too terrific; and we lay on 
 the ground silenced by wonder and bewilder- 
 ment. 
 
 What was happening over yonder where those 
 shells were dropping? What was that droning, 
 whistling noise far overhead ? They were the 
 big guns: the 15-inch, five miles back; 16-pound- 
 ers, 4.9-inch, 6-inch, 9-inch, 12-inch, and 15- 
 inch. Guns here, guns there, guns everywhere; 
 all belching and flashing; all concentrating in a 
 
 S3 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 stupendous effort to pound some part of the Ger- 
 man line into confusion. 
 
 Ammunitions workers in England, and those 
 who should be munition workers, come right over 
 here; creep with us along the edge of Trones 
 Wood, and watch this amazing sight. You 
 miners, you tramway men, you boiler-makers ! 
 You, who would throw down your tools and 
 strike, look upon this sight ! 
 
 This is the voice of England. This is the stu- 
 pendous effort which is protecting you. On your 
 right, that dark, creepy, silent place, is Trones 
 Wood. Look across to your left, those sticks 
 showing on the sky-line, across the valley. In 
 those woods, churned up in the soil, lie the rot- 
 ting bodies of your comrades, your brothers, your 
 sons. They have sacrificed all; they have suf- 
 fered untold deaths. 
 
 The contrast between that thundering voice of 
 England and the silent mystery of those woods 
 causes a shudder. Bring out those strikers and 
 let them get a glimpse of this and realise their 
 danger, and the horrors which will come upon 
 them, their wives, their children, their homes, 
 if those guns fail. 
 
 54 
 
DEPARTURE FOR THE SOMME 
 
 What is their quarrel to this ? Shall we stop 
 those guns for a penny an hour ? Shall we leave 
 unprotected those desperate men across the valley, 
 who are hanging on tooth and nail to those last 
 trenches gained ? Shall we do these things for a 
 penny an hour ? Shall we do these things so 
 that we can stand up for these so-called rights in 
 England ? 
 
 No ! Our mines must be worked ; our boilers 
 must be made; and our munition machinery 
 must be run to its utmost capacity, or we are 
 traitors to those guns and our fighting men; our 
 brothers, our own sons, who are depending upon 
 the might of England for victory and their lives. 
 
 Throw down your tools, slacken your machin- 
 ery, and High Wood and Trones Wood will be- 
 come blacker still with the mutilated bodies of a 
 thousand men. A penny an hour! You, who 
 are being coddled under the protection of these 
 guns, what is your quarrel to this ? 
 
 If those desperate fellows on the other side of 
 the hill were to leave their tasks, they would be 
 called traitors. Yet, when men in England, 
 whom these fighters are dependent upon, and 
 whose work is just as necessary for the success 
 
 55 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 of the war, throw down their tools, they are only 
 called strikers. 
 
 The crime is the same; the punishment should 
 be the same. 
 
 56 
 
CHAPTER X 
 ARRIVAL ON THE SOMME 
 
 FEEDING THE GUNS. SEPTIMUS D'ARCY ARRIVES. 
 A CURIOUS KIT 
 
 TATE that evening orders came to move into 
 the trenches on the far slope of the Valley 
 of Death. Trenches here, trenches there, trenches 
 everywhere, while we groped around without 
 knowing where the trenches led to, or the posi- 
 tion of the German lines. 
 
 We spent an anxious night, the uncertainty of 
 our position and mystery of those massed guns, 
 thundering their wrath into the darkness of the 
 night, caused a tension which defied any desire 
 to sleep. 
 
 What was the meaning of it all ? What was 
 happening over yonder, where the iron of Eng- 
 land's anger was falling, bursting, tearing, killing ? 
 What was happening over there ? Would we re- 
 ceive a similar reply ? The signs were significant : 
 we were at last on the Somme ; we were in for it 
 with a vengeance. 
 
 57 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 The next morning broke bright and fair, and 
 found us still awake with eyes peering anxiously- 
 through the rising mist. We were evidently not 
 in the front line, but were there on the Somme; 
 and that sea of shell-holes which everywhere sur- 
 rounded us told its own story of what had been, 
 and what was yet to be. 
 
 At about 1 1 o'clock all eyes were turned towards 
 High Wood, on the crest of the hill to the left. 
 A burst of shells from the enemy's guns told that 
 a target had been found. We watched, and pres- 
 ently we could faintly see a column slowly moving 
 along the road through the wood. 
 
 Three ammunition wagons moved slowly to- 
 wards our guns. Crash! A 5.9 fell in front 
 of the leading horses; a cloud of dense, black 
 smoke arose and blotted the picture from view. 
 The smoke cleared, and the little column was still 
 moving slowly forward, undisturbed and indiffer- 
 ent. Crash ! Crash ! Two more shells burst by 
 the side of the second wagon ; the smoke cleared ; 
 the horses were startled and giving trouble, but 
 once again the defiant little column moved slowly 
 forward, indifferent and undismayed. 
 
 We continued to watch the plucky little column, 
 58 
 
ARRIVAL ON THE SOMME 
 
 now obscured by the black smoke of the bursting 
 shells, then again emerging from the smoke, heed- 
 less of danger. 
 
 Those men were human. How could they 
 stand it with such calm and determined indiffer- 
 ence ? The answer was the guns : the guns must 
 be fed; and British grit and discipline were un- 
 conquerable. The army is wonderful. 
 
 At this moment I received a message calling 
 me to headquarters, and I at once went to find 
 my C. O. 
 
 "Well, had a good rest ?" he asked. 
 
 "Not much, sir." 
 
 "Stuff and nonsense; get your map out." 
 
 I spread my map out on my knees and took a 
 note-book out of my pocket. 
 
 The CO. pointed on the map with his pen- 
 cil: 
 
 "We are here; the Regiment is there." 
 
 "Front line, sir?" 
 
 "Right bang up in the front line." 
 
 "What are the trenches like, sir?" 
 
 "No time to dig trenches; they're hanging on 
 to a few shell-holes, though they may have con- 
 nected them up by now. See, there's Combles, 
 
 59 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 and that's Leuze Wood. We shall be on the ex- 
 treme right' of the British army. B Company will 
 be on the right ; C Company in the centre, and A 
 Company on the left with D Company in support. 
 Headquarters will be close by Falfemont Farm." 
 
 "Very good, sir." 
 
 "You won't find any farm left; been blown to 
 dust. Men are to go in battle order; packs are 
 to be parked just outside here, by companies. 
 No. 5 platoon will move off at 7 p. m., the re- 
 mainder following in succession at fifty yards' 
 interval." 
 
 I understood, and turned to go. 
 
 "By the way, I am not sure whether the Ger- 
 mans are in that trench or the Battalion, 
 
 London Regiment. Anyhow, that's where we've 
 got to be to-night." 
 
 Half an hour later and the men were laying out 
 their packs in long rows, by companies. Strange 
 sight, all these packs laid out in neat rows. The 
 reason did not need explaining. There was work 
 at the other end of that Valley of Death; there 
 lay the pit of the Great Adventure. Perhaps to- 
 night we should look into it; but how many 
 would come back to claim their packs. 
 
 60 
 
ARRIVAL ON THE SOMME 
 
 We are in the soup with a vengeance ! Well, 
 who cares ? 
 
 Early that afternoon I went to my dugout, and 
 was just trying to get a little rest, when I was 
 disturbed by a voice outside, which sounded 
 strangely familiar. 
 
 "Sergeant, excuse me, but is this the beastly 
 hole where B Company is to be found ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, this is B Company's line." 
 
 "Ton me word, extraordinary place ! Demned 
 hot; walked nearly five miles. Where's the cap- 
 tain?" 
 
 "In his dugout, sir, near that shell-hole." 
 
 "I've got to report to him; will you tell him 
 I'm here?" 
 
 "Hadn't you better go to him, sir?" 
 
 "Oh ! Is that the thing to do ?" 
 
 At that moment, unable to restrain my curi- 
 osity, I came out of my dugout, and there, sure 
 enough, was none other than the irresistible pat- 
 tern of Bond Street, Septimus D'Arcy, by all that 
 was wonderful ! 
 
 There he was, with his monocle riveted in his 
 right eye, between the frown of his eyebrow and 
 the chubby fatness of his cheek, with the bored 
 
 61 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 expression of one who saw no reason for the neces- 
 sity of the fatigue which caused the undignified 
 beads of perspiration to assemble on an otherwise 
 unruffled countenance. A pair of kid gloves, but- 
 toned together, were hanging from the belt of his 
 Sam Brown, and four inches of a blue-bordered 
 silk handkerchief dangled from his sleeve. As 
 he approached he half carried on his arm and half 
 dragged along the ground, the burden that was 
 known as his full marching order. 
 
 "Hello, Septimus!" I said, as he came along, 
 dragging his things behind him. 
 
 "Ah! Hellow! Well, I'm demned! Never 
 expected to find you here; awfully glad to meet 
 you again." 
 
 "What are you doing here?" 
 
 "I'll be demned if I know ! Uninteresting spot 
 this — what?" 
 
 "Well, what have you come here for ?" 
 
 "Nothing much. I saw a fellow in that big 
 dugout in the valley, and he told me to report 
 to you. The fact is, you know, you are attached 
 to me, or I'm attached to you, or something of 
 that sort." 
 
 "Well, you are not in Havre now; there are 
 62 
 
ARRIVAL ON THE SOMME 
 
 snipers about, and if you stand up there like that, 
 you'll get hit." 
 
 "You don't mean to say so; that seems per- 
 fectly safe." 
 
 "Well, get down, and don't be a fool." 
 
 He carefully got down into the trench, leaving 
 his equipment behind, probably hoping it would 
 get lost, and we entered the dugout. 
 
 "I must tell you, captain, I am horribly fatigued. 
 I came through the guns; very interesting and 
 all that, but it's made my head ache." 
 
 "Have some water. It's rather muddy, but 
 better than nothing these days." 
 
 "No, thanks; doctor warned me against drink- 
 ing dirty water; dysentery and all that, don't you 
 know. Any whisky and soda ? " 
 
 "Look here, Septimus, now you are here, you 
 must drop that nonsense." 
 
 "All right, old thing. I rather doubted the 
 soda, but thank Heaven I've got a flask; a sort of 
 emergency ration. Help yourself and lets drink 
 it neat." 
 
 "How long have you been in the army, Septi- 
 mus?" 
 
 "Three months. Why?" 
 63 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 "Like it?" 
 
 "Not bad. Saluting seems rather absurd; but 
 it seems to please some. I longed to come out; 
 thought it would be interesting and all that sort 
 of thing. But so far I've had nothing to do but 
 get from place to place, carrying a beastly load 
 with me." 
 
 "Probably your own fault. I have never seen 
 a pack or haversack crammed so full. What have 
 you brought with you ?" 
 
 "Necessaries; but not half what I shall need. 
 Has my kit arrived?" 
 
 "My dear chap, you will never see your kit 
 up here; and what is more, you will have to leave 
 most of those things you have brought with you 
 behind, before you go up the front line. Dump 
 your things out here, and I will tell you what to 
 take." 
 
 We emptied his pack and haversack. I have 
 never in all my life seen such a lot of rubbish in 
 the war kit of a soldier. There seemed to be 
 nothing there he would really need ; but a curious 
 mixture of strange articles which would fill a 
 fancy bazaar. There were hair-brushes with 
 ebony backs and silver monograms, silk hand- 
 
 64 
 
ARRIVAL ON THE SOMME 
 
 kerchiefs with fancy borders, a pinky tooth-paste, 
 oozing out of a leaden tube; and crushed between 
 a comb and a pair of silk socks, a large bottle of 
 reddish tooth-wash, sufficient to last him three 
 years; and half of which had leaked through the 
 cork to the destruction of about a dozen silk 
 handkerchiefs, spotted and bordered in fanciful 
 shades. There was a box of cigars, a heavy china 
 pot of massage-cream, a pot of hair-pomade, a 
 leather writing-case, a large ivory-backed mirror, 
 which had lost its usefulness for ever, a bottle of 
 fountain-pen ink, two suits of silk pajamas, one 
 striped with pink and the other blue, a huge bath- 
 towel, a case containing seven razors, one for each 
 day in the week, and a sponge as big as his head. 
 Poor Septimus! in his simplicity and ignorance, 
 for the first time in his life he had packed his own 
 kit. 
 
 65 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 DEATH VALLEY 
 
 MOVING OVER BATTLE-FIELDS. BATTALION, 
 
 LONDON REGIMENT, IN POSSESSION. THE 
 MYSTERY TRENCH. FALFEMONT FARM 
 
 r I A HE final preparations completed, the first 
 platoon began to move off; other platoons 
 followed at intervals, the column slowly wending 
 its way through the Valley of Death to its mys- 
 terious destination. 
 
 We seemed to be going into the unknown; the 
 air was full of mystery ; it was uncanny, unnatural. 
 We were moving over battle-fields. The ground 
 was a mass of shell-holes; progress could only be 
 made by walking in single file along a narrow 
 footpath, which twisted in tortuous persistency 
 between the shell-holes, causing innumerable 
 halts and starts, until the column tailed off into 
 an endless line of shadowy figures. 
 
 Here and there the men became lost to view in 
 66 
 
DEATH VALLEY 
 
 some gun-ridden cavity; whilst there again they 
 appeared silhouetted against the moonlit sky, as 
 man by man they appeared and disappeared from 
 view over a rise in the ground. 
 
 Those who had fallen in the desperate struggle 
 of the previous week lay yet unburied. Friend 
 and foe alike shared the shelter of the heavens, 
 clutching at the soil of France in the agonies of 
 death. There are times when the sight of death 
 excuses the quivering step and the irrepressible 
 sob from the hearts of those who pass onward to 
 brave a similar fate. 
 
 The Valley of Death was a silent tomb of the 
 wrath of nations, that long, winding Valley of 
 Death, where the bodies of friend and foe lay side 
 by side, or clutched in a desperate embrace, 
 marked the line where the fury of nations found 
 its expression, like the scar of a devil's ven- 
 geance. 
 
 As I looked on the bodies of the dead, twisted 
 and mutilated, limbless and torn, some half buried 
 in debris — here and there lying doubled in un- 
 natural positions, while others yet, seemed to 
 be clutching at some mortal wound — I felt like 
 one who fearfully treads into the vortex of Dante's 
 
 67 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 inferno. Yes, this was the devil's own hell, but 
 a hell far more dreadful than I had ever imagined 
 it to be. 
 
 After a tiring, disheartening trudge, we found 
 the spot we were to occupy, and, to our intense 
 
 relief, the Battalion, London Regiment, were 
 
 in possession. 
 
 After the usual formalities of the relieving and 
 taking over of the line of shell-holes which marked 
 the position, I stopped for a final word with one 
 of the officers: 
 
 "How many casualties?" I asked. 
 
 "About fifty in two days — bit tough, eh?" 
 
 "Been attacked, then?" 
 
 "No; shelled like billyho. They've got the 
 range nicely." 
 
 "Where's theBoche?" 
 
 "Don't quite know; somewhere in front. 
 About eight hundred yards away there's a trench 
 which forms three sides of a square, each side 
 about three hundred yards, with the open side 
 resting on Leuze Wood, and the lower end ex- 
 tending into the wood." 
 
 "Fritz there?" 
 
 "In the upper part, yes; but the lower part is 
 68 
 
DEATH VALLEY 
 
 a bit of a mystery. The part that extends into 
 
 the wood the Regiment are holding; but the 
 
 rest of it the Boche seems to have. At least, 
 that's what I think. Awkward position ! Well, 
 cheer oh !" 
 
 After a sleepless night I anxiously waited the 
 rising mist to take a view of my surroundings. 
 There, on the right, was a high table-land, with a 
 frowning bluff overlooking the town of Combos, 
 which slowly emerged, house by house, from the 
 rising mist. 
 
 In the trench the right man of my company 
 was vigorously shaking the hand of a French sol- 
 dier, who marked the left of the French army. 
 
 There, straight in front, could be faintly seen 
 the trench formed in the shape of a square, and 
 left of it Leuze Wood. But what were those 
 peculiar stumps to the left of our trenches ? They 
 looked like the remains of a copse which had been 
 shelled until only the stumps of a few trees re- 
 mained. And where was Falfemont Farm ? There 
 was no sign of it anywhere. I was not sure of 
 my position on the map; it was puzzling. 
 
 I went over to consult the French officer on 
 my right : 
 
 69 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 "Morning, monsieur," I said, approaching a 
 smart young officer. 
 
 "Ah! Good morning; you relieve the 
 
 Battalion, London Regiment, already — yes?" 
 
 "Yes; last night. I came to ask you what 
 those stumps are over there ; they are not marked 
 on the map. Do you happen to know ?" 
 
 "Ah! Oui; zat is Falfemont Farm. Nothing 
 left now ; very bad place that farm. Zay say one 
 whole brigade of infantry was lost in storming 
 that farm. Yes, nasty place, that farm, M. le 
 Capitaine." 
 
 I went back to my trench. I didn't like the 
 look of things. If Falfemont Farm got blown to 
 smithereens like that, what chance did I stand ? 
 Whew ! I was getting the wind up. 
 
 70 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 OUT IN NO MAN'S LAND 
 
 SUDDEN ORDERS. THE BEGINNING OF A 
 GREAT ADVENTURE. DIGGING IN 
 
 A FTER a strenuous day's work, during which 
 I had only time to take a mouthful of bread 
 and cheese, which I carried in my pocket, I espied 
 an orderly making his way towards me. 
 
 "The C. 0. sent me, sir; you're wanted at 
 once." 
 
 "Oh! any news?" 
 
 " I think we are in for a binge, sir." 
 
 "Which is the way to headquarters?" 
 
 "About two hundred yards back. Follow that 
 narrow little track which winds around the shell- 
 holes, and you can't miss it. Don't leave the 
 track, or you will lose your way." 
 
 On arriving at H. Q. I found a small group of 
 officers bending anxiously over a map. The 
 C. O. turned to me as I approached: 
 
 "Ah! There you are. Get your books out, 
 71 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 and take down your orders — ready ! You are to 
 take command of B Company. Well, now, here's 
 our position; there's Combles and there's Leuze 
 Wood. Take your company out into 'No Man's 
 Land,' and extend along a line facing half right 
 to our present position, with your left resting on 
 the wood. C Company will be in the wood on 
 your left; and A Company will be on your right 
 — understand?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "You'll dig in to-night, and to-morrow we are 
 going to take that trench that's formed like a 
 square, to prepare the way for a frontal attack 
 on Combles by the French. You'll take the up- 
 per portion of that perpendicular trench, passing 
 the wood on your left." 
 
 "Then, I shall have to cross over the lower 
 trench; isn't that occupied, sir?" 
 
 "The battalion bombers will clear that out for 
 you during the night." 
 
 "When is zero hour, sir?" 
 
 "Don't know; I've told you all I know at 
 present. Take ten flares, and send up two when 
 you arrive at your objective, and send up another 
 two at 6 o'clock the following morning." 
 
 72 
 
OUT IN NO MAN'S LAND 
 
 "What about ammunition and water, sir?" 
 
 "The water you've already got is supposed to 
 last forty-eight hours. I don't know about am- 
 munition; I think there's an ammunition dump 
 in the wood, but I will find that out and let you 
 know. All right; it's dark enough now." 
 
 Sch ! — Crash ! — Zug ! A 5.9 burst on the 
 parapet a few yards away. The thud of an awky 
 bit was felt in our midst, and the sergeant- 
 major jumped up, holding his foot. The C. O. 
 looked up without turning a hair: 
 
 "Any one hurt ?" he asked. 
 
 "Only my boots, sir," replied the sergeant- 
 major, suspiciously feeling his heel. 
 
 I took my departure and began to grope around 
 in the dark in search of the narrow track which 
 would guide me back to my company. I searched 
 for about ten minutes, but in vain, and I became 
 for a while hopelessly lost in a mass of shell-holes. 
 I knew the direction roughly, but direction was 
 of little use in that wild confusion of broken 
 ground and debris. 
 
 What if I should be lost all night? What 
 would they think ? It would be put down to 
 funk. A cold perspiration came over me. I felt 
 
 73 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 an overwhelming sense of loneliness amidst that 
 gruesome scene of destruction; and to crown it 
 all, a feeling of responsibility and anxiety which 
 made the craters seem deeper as I frantically 
 scrambled out of one and into another. At last, 
 to my intense relief, I found the little footpath 
 and reached my trench safely. 
 
 Time was getting on. I gave orders for the 
 men to dress and lie flat on the parados, ready for 
 the word to move. When all preparations were 
 completed, and bombs, picks, and shovels issued 
 to each man, I signalled the advance, and with a 
 few scouts in front and on the flanks, we slowly 
 moved in single file into the unknown. 
 
 It was a pitch-black night, intensified by a 
 slight fog, and I took my direction by compass 
 bearing, wondering all the while if it would lead 
 me right. 
 
 The men marched in silence. Nothing could 
 be heard but the muffled footsteps over the soft 
 ground, and occasional jingling of a spade or pick 
 against the butt of a rifle. 
 
 Distance became exaggerated, and fifty paces 
 seemed like five hundred, until I began to get a 
 horrible fear that my compass had misled me, 
 
 74 
 
OUT IN NO MAN'S LAND 
 
 and that countless German eyes were watching 
 me leading my men into the midst of their guns. 
 Where were we going ? When would we get 
 back, and how many of us ? Call it funk or what 
 you like, but whatever it is, it's a devilishly 
 creepy feeling; and when at last I found myself 
 close to the edge of the wood, I felt as if I were 
 arriving home. 
 
 But the real job had not yet begun. I signalled 
 the halt to the leading file, and passed the word 
 to turn to the right and extend two paces to the 
 right and lie down. I next ordered a sentry 
 group, consisting of one section to be sent out by 
 each platoon to occupy shell-holes fifty yards in 
 front as a protection against surprise. 
 
 The platoon on the left was to bend its flank 
 to face the edge of the wood, and get in touch 
 with C Company in the wood; while the platoon 
 on the right secured connection with A Company. 
 One Lewis-gun section took up position on the left 
 flank at the corner of the wood, whilst the other 
 Lewis gun protected my right. 
 
 These precautions against surprise being com- 
 pleted, I ordered the men to dig for all they were 
 worth; rifles with bayonets fixed, and magazines 
 
 75 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 charged to be placed within arm's reach at the 
 back of the trench, the earth to be thrown in 
 front until the parapet became bullet-proof. 
 
 I spotted one man leaning on his shovel, and 
 looking vacantly into the darkness. 
 
 "Dig, man! Don't stand looking about you," 
 I whispered hoarsely. 
 
 "The ground's hard, sir; it's all chalk here." 
 
 "Don't be a fool! Dig! I tell you we may 
 be discovered any minute. If we get shelled 
 you'll be glad enough of a hole to lie in." 
 
 Passing along the line, I overheard two men 
 talking in an undertone: 
 
 "How do you like it, Timmy?" 
 
 "Fed to the teeth. It's all very well for the 
 skipper to say : ' Dig like hell ! ' — Seems quiet 
 enough here." 
 
 ' ' Heard about Bill ? Went balmy just after 
 we started. He began by laughing and crying; 
 he was as mad as a hatter. He nearly put the 
 wind up us in the rear. The skipper sent him 
 back with a couple of stretcher-bearers." 
 
 ' ' Poor old Bill, hard luck. Thought he couldn't 
 stand much. Got any water ? " 
 
 "Not a drop; I'm as dry as a brick." 
 76 
 
OUT IN NO MAN'S LAND 
 
 "Shut up; there's the skipper standing there." 
 
 The conversation stopped; but the latter part 
 worried me not a little. Water-bottle empty, 
 good Lord ! and no more water for forty-eight 
 hours. 
 
 All of a sudden the sky was illuminated. Half 
 a dozen Very lights went up in rapid succession: 
 we were discovered ! 
 
 A moment or two later from two different 
 points, three reds and a green light went up, fall- 
 ing in our direction. Every man stopped work 
 and looked up in amazement. We were in for 
 it; we wanted no telling. 
 
 "Dig like hell !" I whispered hoarsely, hurrying 
 along the line of wondering men. 
 
 But they wanted no urging this time, and every 
 man set to work with feverish energy. 
 
 Then the bombardment commenced, and in a 
 few minutes the air was filled with whistling 
 shells, screeching through the night and making 
 the darkness hideous. 
 
 We were only a foot below the surface of the 
 ground. Once again I hastened along the line: 
 
 "Dig like hell!" 
 
 Lights were going up in rapid succession, and 
 77 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 the German line whence they came appeared 
 only a couple of hundred yards in front, and 
 seemed to form a semicircle around my left flank. 
 
 Clack ! Clack ! Clack ! What was that ? — 
 Rifles ! My sentry groups were firing. Again 
 the rattle of rifles, this time all along the line of 
 sentry groups. 
 
 "Stand to!" 
 
 Every man seized his rifle and crouched in the 
 pit he had dug and faced his front. We waited: 
 the bombardment had stopped, and the crack of 
 the rifles alone disturbed the night. 
 
 I drew my revolver and waited in breathless 
 suspense for the sudden rush which seemed im- 
 minent. 
 
 Were our preparations to be nipped in the bud, 
 after all ? Would it be a sudden rush ; a desperate 
 hand-to-hand fight ? — and then, what then ? 
 
 The minutes passed like hours in an agony of 
 suspense, and then, unable to bear the strain any 
 longer, I crept cautiously forward into the inky 
 darkness towards one of the sentry groups to 
 find out what was amiss. 
 
 "Halt! Who is there?" 
 
 "O. C, B Company." 
 78 
 
OUT IN NO MAN'S LAND 
 
 "Advance!" 
 
 "What's up?" I asked, sliding into the shell- 
 hole beside the corporal. 
 
 "There seemed to be a patrol moving about in 
 front; it's all quiet now, sir." 
 
 "All right; double the sentries for the next 
 hour." 
 
 I returned to the line and ordered the men to 
 continue digging. 
 
 The bombardment continued, but by and by 
 we began to grow accustomed to the din. Sev- 
 eral casualties occurred; but still the work of 
 digging in continued. 
 
 Time was getting on, and I must make my 
 plans for to-morrow's attack. 
 
 A few minutes later I chanced to notice a figure 
 sitting leisurely in a shell-hole. 
 
 "Why, Septimus, is that you?" 
 
 ' ' I think so ; I say, I think so. Unearthly row ; 
 devilishly dangerous place, this — what?" 
 
 "But what are you doing in there ?" 
 
 "I was just coming to talk to you about am- 
 munition. A shell burst, and my face is simply 
 covered with dust. Has the ammunition arrived 
 yet?" 
 
 79 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 "No; there's an ammunition dump in the wood 
 somewhere." 
 
 "Like me to go and find it ?" 
 
 I looked at him in amazement. It wasn't funk 
 then, that made him seek safety in that shell-hole. 
 Was it possible that dear old Septimus, this bland, 
 indifferent tubby, blase old thing of Bond Street, 
 was anxious to go into that creepy, mysterious 
 wood to look for ammunition ? 
 
 "All right; take a corporal and 12 men, and 
 bring back six boxes. Don't take unnecessary 
 risks; we shall need every man to-morrow." 
 
 Septimus sprang out of the shell-hole, saluted 
 in the most correct manner — something quite 
 new for him — and disappeared in the darkness. 
 
 This was a new side of Septimus's character 
 which had not shown itself before. Only the 
 stoutest heart would have chosen to wander about 
 in that wood at midnight, with enemy patrols 
 lurking about. Septimus was a man, after all. 
 
 Five minutes later he passed me, leading his 
 men. He gripped my hand as he passed, with 
 the remark: "Well ! Ta-ta, old thing." 
 
 "Cheer oh!" 
 
 And Septimus was gone. We may call men 
 80 
 
OUT IN NO MAN'S LAND 
 
 fops, simple vacant fools, or what we like; but 
 the war has proved over and over again that the 
 man within the man is merely disguised by his 
 outer covering. Many a Bond Street Algy, or 
 ballroom idol has proved amidst the terrors of 
 war that the artificial covering of a peace-time 
 habit is but skin-deep ; and the real man is under- 
 neath. 
 
 81 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 A NIGHT OF ALARM 
 
 SEPTIMUS IN A NEW R6LE. SAVING THE 
 AMMUNITION. THE LAST CARTRIDGE 
 
 TUST then a movement in the rear of my posi- 
 tion attracted my attention. A number of 
 men were approaching; then halting, they sat on 
 the ground, while two figures continued on 
 towards me. 
 
 They were Second Lieutenant Wade, the in- 
 trepid scout officer, and Second Lieutenant Brady, 
 in command of the battalion bombers. It was 
 Brady who spoke first: 
 
 "Hullo! Getting peppered pretty hot, aren't 
 you?" 
 
 "Rather lively ! Where are you off to ?" 
 
 "I've got orders to bomb out that mysterious 
 trench you've heard so much about, in order to 
 clear the way for your attack to-morrow. I'm 
 going in front of your line and along the edge of 
 the wood." 
 
 82 
 
A NIGHT OF ALARM 
 
 I despatched a runner to warn the sentry- 
 groups, and presently the little group of bombers 
 disappeared round the edge of the wood into the 
 darkness on their adventurous errand, the success 
 of which would mean so much to me on the 
 morrow. 
 
 All this time the work of digging is continued 
 with unabated anxiety, shells dropping around 
 unceasingly. 
 
 All of a sudden I was startled by a rattle of 
 musketry in the direction of the wood. There 
 was silence; then several more shots followed by 
 a rushing, tearing noise, and yells. 
 
 Almost at the same moment the ammunition 
 party emerged breathlessly from the wood. 
 
 I ran forward to where the men were dropping 
 the ammunition boxes on the ground, and falling 
 exhausted. For a moment or two they were too 
 breathless to speak. I counted the men: there 
 were 12 of them, and the six boxes of ammuni- 
 tion had safely arrived. 
 
 But where were Septimus and the corporal ? 
 All was silent in the wood. I turned to the near- 
 est man who was by this time sitting up, hold- 
 ing his head in his hands. 
 
 83 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 "Where is Mr. D'Arcy and Corporal Brown?" 
 I asked. 
 
 "God knows, sir! They stayed to cover our 
 retirement." 
 
 "What happened?" 
 
 "We found the ammunition dump, sir, and 
 were just beginning to move the boxes when we 
 heard some one moving. We grabbed our rifles 
 and waited. There seemed to be quite a number 
 crawling around us. Mr. D'Arcy ordered us to 
 retire at once, and get the ammunition away at 
 any cost ; he said he would stay behind and cover 
 our retreat, and Corporal Brown offered to stay 
 with him. We hadn't got far, sir, when they 
 opened fire; bullets hit the trees and whizzed 
 over our heads. Then we heard a rush and some 
 yells. I distinctly heard something in German, 
 and Mr. D'Arcy's voice shout back: 'Kamarade 
 be damned ! ' Then there was a scuffle ; that's all 
 I know." 
 
 My heart beat wildly as I listened to this story. 
 Good God ! what did that silence mean ? There 
 was no further time to be lost. 
 
 I ordered a relief party and led the way into 
 the wood. There was not a sound to be heard 
 
 84 
 
A NIGHT OF ALARM 
 
 as we crept forward on our hands and knees 
 towards the spot where the ammunition had been 
 found. 
 
 What was that ? We listened breathlessly, and 
 again we heard a low groan almost in our midst. 
 There was a shell-hole just in front, and crawling 
 along on all fours, I found Septimus D'Arcy, 
 wounded and helpless, with his left leg almost 
 blown away, and bleeding from the head. 
 
 "What's up, D'Arcy? What has happened?" 
 I whispered hoarsely. 
 
 A faint smile of recognition came over his 
 pale face as I supported him in my arms. His 
 words came painfully: 
 
 "The ammunition — is it — safe ?" 
 "Yes, quite safe." 
 
 "But what happened after they left?" 
 "I stayed behind — with the corporal — to 
 protect their retirement. We opened rapid fire 
 — to draw German fire on to us. I saw six creep- 
 ing forward. They called to us — to surrender. 
 I refused — demn them ! They threw bombs — 
 killed the corporal — dirty dogs ! smashed my 
 leg — nothing much. I picked off three — with 
 my revolver — never used beastly thing before; 
 
 85 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 two bolted — last one jumped at me — with 
 bayonet. That's him there — just got him — 
 last cartridge." 
 
 Septimus was lying heavily on my arms. 
 Nothing could be done for him; I saw the end 
 was at hand. 
 
 "Good-bye, captain ! Knew you'd come. Don't 
 know much about soldiering — good sport ; shan't 
 have to carry that — demned pack again." 
 
 A placid smile came over his chubby face as 
 he gasped out the last words. His monocle was 
 still firmly fixed between his fat cheek and his 
 eyebrow. Once more he seemed indifferent to 
 his surroundings. 
 
 In front of him, the silent evidence of his plucky 
 stand, were the dead bodies of four Germans. 
 By his side lay a revolver. I picked up and ex- 
 amined the chamber; the last cartridge had been 
 fired ! 
 
 The men had gathered around ; their caps were 
 off. Septimus seemed to be looking up smilingly 
 into their faces. 
 
 Septimus was dead ! But Septimus was still 
 in Bond Street ! 
 
 86 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 NEXT MORNING 
 
 A COUNCIL OF WAR. OPERATION ORDERS. 
 A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT 
 
 HpHREE A. M. Heavy shell-fire still contin- 
 ues. I have just ordered the men to cease 
 work and take rest. Trench is about two feet 
 deep; men are dead beat. 
 
 4 a. m. Have just received three pages of 
 operation orders. We are to attack at 4.45 p. m. 
 in four ways, starting from the trenches we have 
 been digging, and advancing diagonally from the 
 corner of the wood across the open; passing over 
 the mystery trench and taking the central trench. 
 
 I have only a vague idea at present where that 
 is. Am fervently hoping that the battalion 
 bombers have solved the mystery trench and 
 cleared it. No news from them yet. God knows 
 what has been happening there during the night. 
 
 5 a. m. Have just held a council of war with 
 my officers and N. C. O.'s, and explained in detail 
 my plans for the attack. Very impressive sight, 
 
 87 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 seeing them all crouching around me in a shell- 
 hole, with shells bursting around us, while they 
 listened intently to my orders. 
 
 "Each officer is to carry his papers in lower 
 right-hand hip pocket ; and if he fails, the nearest 
 man is to search the pocket and hand the con- 
 tents on to the next senior. I intend to attack 
 in the following order: 
 
 First wave No. 5 Platoon 
 Second No. 6 
 
 Third No. 7 and 
 
 Fourth wave No. 8 " 
 
 Eighty yards interval between each wave. Bomb- 
 ing sections of Nos. 5 and 7 to be on the right, 
 and Nos. 6 and 8 on the left of their respective 
 platoons. 
 
 "No. 1 Lewis Gun to be on the right of the 
 second wave; No. 2 Lewis Gun to be on the left 
 of the fourth wave. 
 
 "Two runners from each platoon to report to 
 me five minutes before zero hour. My position, 
 accompanied by the runners, will be between the 
 third and fourth wave. 
 
 88 
 
NEXT MORNING 
 
 "On arrival at objective Lewis Gunners to 
 establish strong points, assisted by bombers at 
 each end of objective. Each man to carry two 
 hundreds rounds of ammunition and three bombs; 
 also three sand-bags in his belt, and a pick or 
 shovel tucked through his belt behind. Bombers 
 to carry each a sack, containing twelve bombs, 
 but no tools." 
 
 Strange warfare this, going into a fight like a 
 navvy. 
 
 5.30 a. m. Plans have been explained in detail 
 to every man, and orders given that if all officers 
 and N. C. O.'s are knocked out, the men are to 
 carry on and finish the job themselves. 
 
 Very foggy morning; we are able to finish dig- 
 ging trench. 
 
 6 a. m. Astounding news. The battalion 
 bombers have failed. A few survivors, after 
 fighting all night, have been driven into the wood. 
 The mystery trench over which I must cross is 
 in the hands of the Boches. Could we hope to 
 accomplish the double task ? 
 
 The men heard the news in silence. 
 
 7 a. m. Breakfast consists of some dirty bread 
 and cheese, and a little water. 
 
 89 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 8. a. m. Fog lifted. Our position is correct. 
 Can see objective plainly about four hundred 
 yards off. We can also be seen plainly, and 
 snipers are busy trying to pick us off. 
 
 Have made a reconnaissance, and find inter- 
 vening ground a mass of shell-holes. Looks like 
 a rough sea. The advance will be difficult; the 
 ground is so churned up. Not a square yard of 
 unbroken ground. 
 
 2. p. m. Everything is now in readiness, with 
 nearly three hours to spare. 
 
 Have ordered men to eat their dinners, which 
 consists of bread and cheese at 3 p. m., so that they 
 will go into the fight on full stomachs. 
 
 I have had no sleep or proper food for nearly 
 two days. Will lie down and get an hour's rest 
 before the attack. 
 
 90 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE ADVANCE THROUGH LEUZE 
 WOOD 
 
 NEW OPERATION ORDERS. "AT ANY COST." 
 LIKE RATS IN A TRAP 
 
 HAD hardly closed my eyes when a runner 
 from headquarters came hurrying along the 
 line, and was directed to where I was dozing at 
 the bottom of a trench. 
 
 "Message from the C. 0., sir, very urgent." 
 
 I signed the receipt and tore the envelope 
 open. Good heavens ! new operation orders ! I 
 was astounded. I looked again, hardly daring to 
 believe my eyes. Sure enough, there was no 
 mistake about it, three pages of closely written 
 operation orders. The head-line seemed to be 
 mocking me : 
 
 "Fresh operation orders, cancelling those issued 
 this morning." 
 
 I read on: "You are to advance on through 
 91 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 Leuze Wood, and attack from that part of the 
 wood which forms the fourth side of the square- 
 shaped trench, thus attacking the inside of the 
 square; B Company taking the lower half, and 
 C Company the upper half; A Company to be in 
 support." 
 
 A cold shiver ran down my back. What a 
 calamity ! and after all the pains I had taken to 
 work out the details of the attack, and that 
 dreadful night spent in digging these trenches 
 to jump off from. Every man knew what to 
 do, and now at the eleventh hour the whole plan 
 was altered. 
 
 I glanced again at the new orders: 
 
 "You are to be at the new place of assembly 
 by 3.30 p. m.; zero hour is 4.45." 
 
 I looked at my watch — Great Scott ! it was 
 already 2.15; at 3 p.m. I must commence the 
 advance through the wood. 
 
 The men had not yet commenced their dinners. 
 What time was there ? and how was it possible 
 to sit down quietly and digest those three pages 
 of new orders and understand their meaning ? 
 What time had I to make new plans and explain 
 to each man his new task ? 
 
 92 
 
ADVANCE THROUGH LEUZE WOOD 
 
 There was not a moment to be lost; I turned 
 to my two runners: 
 
 "Dinners to be eaten at once. Platoon com- 
 manders wanted at the double." 
 
 I waited, and by and by the platoon com- 
 manders, Second Lieutenant Farman and Chisle- 
 hirst, and Sergeants Blackwell and Barnes, came 
 running along the top, snipers shooting at them 
 as they ran along. They halted on the parados, 
 saluting as they came up, and, still standing up, 
 awaited orders, seemingly indifferent to the ex- 
 cellent target which they presented. 
 
 "Lie down flat," I ordered. 
 
 They did as I directed, their faces turned 
 anxiously toward me, wondering what was up. 
 
 "New operation orders just arrived from head- 
 quarters; previous orders cancelled. We are to 
 advance through the wood and attack from the 
 inside of the square." 
 
 I hurriedly read the whole of the orders over 
 to them, and they listened silently. 
 
 "Go back to your platoons. The men are to 
 be dressed in battle order by 2.50 — it's now 2.30 
 — by 3 p. m the platoons are to be closed up 
 along the trench, and the leading platoon will 
 
 93 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 enter the wood in single file, other platoons fol- 
 lowing." 
 
 As I glanced up I noticed their faces were pale; 
 they were listening intently, but uttering no 
 sound. They were receiving orders; they real- 
 ised their responsibility, and they knew their 
 duty. 
 
 The last paragraph was underlined. I hurriedly 
 read it and looked up at them again: 
 
 "Just one more thing," I said. " These are 
 my orders underlined: 
 
 "you must reach your objective at any 
 cost. If driven back, you are to make a 
 stand at the edge of the wood, and hold out 
 till the last man falls." 
 
 It sounded like a death sentence, a forecast of 
 the hour of trial which we were to face. Only 
 those who have received such orders on the field 
 of battle can realise what it feels like. 
 
 In those few dramatic moments we counted 
 our lives as lost. We recognised how desperate 
 was our task. Success we might hope for; but 
 failure we must pay the price of. We must fight 
 till the last man falls — and yet we were merely 
 civilian soldiers. 
 
 94 
 
ADVANCE THROUGH LEUZE WOOD 
 
 I looked into their faces; our eyes met. I un- 
 derstood; I could trust them; they could trust 
 me. 
 
 "That's all; return to your platoons and pre- 
 pare to move." 
 
 They had not uttered a word through all this; 
 no words were necessary. They jumped to their 
 feet; saluted as though we were back on Salis- 
 bury Plain, and the next moment ran along the 
 parados to their platoons. 
 
 I watched them, and saw them kneel down on 
 the top of their trench, indifferent to the snipers' 
 bullets whistling about their heads, hurriedly ex- 
 plaining the situation to their men. 
 
 By 3 p. m. the men were ready and had closed 
 along the trench to the wood. 
 
 The movement had been seen by the enemy, and 
 a terrific burst of firing commenced; although, 
 at the time I could not see what effect it was 
 having. 
 
 I waited several minutes, but there was no 
 further movement along the trench to indicate 
 that the first platoon had entered the wood. I 
 sent forward the message, "Carry on," but still 
 no movement resulted. 
 
 95 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 At last, feeling something was wrong and un- 
 able to restrain my impatience any longer, I 
 jumped out of the trench and ran along the 
 parados. 
 
 What I saw there appalled me for the moment ; 
 the wood in front of me was filled with bursting 
 shells; a continuous pr-r-r-r-r seemed to be mov- 
 ing backward and forward, and bullets were 
 whistling in all directions. 
 
 Good God ! what a hell ! No wonder the men 
 hesitated ! What was to be done ? My orders 
 left me no alternative. I must advance through 
 the wood. My brain kept repeating the words, 
 "At any cost!" What a cost it would be to 
 enter that hell ! It was now, or never ! 
 
 We were hesitating; something must be done, 
 and done quickly. I looked at Farman, and I 
 knew I could count on him. 
 
 The next moment I leaped into a newly made 
 shell-hole, about five yards in the wood; called 
 upon Farman to follow, and a moment later he 
 came jumping after. 
 
 The noise was terrific. We yelled at the top 
 of our voices for the next man to follow. 
 
 The next man to take the leap was the com- 
 96 
 
ADVANCE THROUGH LEUZE WOOD 
 
 pany sergeant-major. A piece of shell struck 
 him in the side, and he rolled over on the ground, 
 clutching at his tunic. 
 
 Again we yelled for the men to come along; 
 and one by one they took the leap. 
 
 When six of us were in the shell-hole it was 
 time for us to empty it to make room for others. 
 Farman and I took it in turns to lead the way, 
 and this process went on through the wood, leap- 
 ing from hole to hole, and yelling at the top of our 
 lungs for the others to follow us. 
 
 By this time the scene inside the wood was in- 
 describable. Machine-gun bullets were spraying 
 backward and forward; 6 -inch shells were ex- 
 ploding in all directions; and the din was intensi- 
 fied by the crashing of trees uprooted by the ex- 
 plosions, and the dull thud of the missiles striking 
 the ground. 
 
 Through the dull light of that filthy wood we 
 frequently cast an anxious glance towards the 
 red rockets being sent up from the German lines, 
 directing the fire of their artillery towards us. 
 
 Sometimes, in leaping forward, we would land 
 beside the dead and mutilated carcass of a Ger- 
 man soldier who had fallen a week before. It 
 
 97 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 was ghastly, terrible; and the millions of flies 
 sucking at his open wounds would swarm about 
 us, seemingly in a buzz of anger at our distur- 
 bance. But sickly and ghastly as the scene was, 
 farther and farther into this exaggerated hell we 
 must go. 
 
 By this time the cries of the wounded added to 
 the terrors of the scene. Each time we jumped 
 into a shell-hole, we turned to watch the men 
 leap in. Each time it seemed that a new face 
 appeared, and the absence of those who had 
 jumped into the last shell-hole was only too 
 significant. 
 
 But, undaunted by their falling comrades, each 
 man, in his turn, leaped forward and would lie 
 gasping for breath until his turn came for another 
 effort. 
 
 Farman was the first to speak. It was his turn 
 to take the next leap: 
 
 "I don't think it really matters. There's a 
 hole about thirty yards away; I think I'll go 
 straight for that." 
 
 He got up and walked leisurely across, as 
 though inviting the death which seemed inevita- 
 ble. He stopped at the shell-hole, and for a 
 
 98 
 
ADVANCE THROUGH LEUZE WOOD 
 
 moment seemed to be looking down undecided 
 whether to jump in or not. 
 
 I shouted at him: 
 
 "Don't be a damned fool; jump!" 
 
 The next moment a shell burst between us, 
 and I fell back into the shell-hole. When I 
 again looked out and my eyes could penetrate 
 the smoke, I saw no sign of Farman. I yelled, 
 and to my intense relief I saw his head appear. 
 He was safe ! 
 
 Again and again the last paragraph of my 
 orders seemed to be blazing in front of me, and 
 like a hidden hand from that dark inferno of hor- 
 rors, kept beckoning me forward, "At any cost! 
 At any cost !" 
 
 Yes; this must be the end; but it's hell to die 
 in a wood. 
 
 The men used to call it Lousy Wood. What 
 do they call it now ? They were brave fellows ; 
 and they were only civilian soldiers, too ! They 
 used to be volunteers once. People would laugh, 
 and call them Saturday afternoon soldiers. 
 
 Reviews in Hyde Park used to be a joke, and 
 the comic papers caricatured these men, and used 
 them as material for their jests. 
 
 99 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 They were only Territorials ! That man, pant- 
 ing hard at the bottom of the shell-hole, and still 
 clutching at his rifle, is a bank clerk; that man who 
 fell at the last jump, with his stomach ripped up, 
 was a solicitor's clerk. 
 
 Look at the others. Their faces are pale ; their 
 eyes are bulging. But they are the same faces 
 one used to see in Cornhill and Threadneedle 
 Street. 
 
 Yes, they are only Territorials ! But here in 
 this filthy wood they are damned proud of it. 
 
 And what is taking place in England to-day ? 
 
 Is it really true that while all this is going on 
 in Leuze Wood, orchestras are playing sweet music 
 in brilliantly lighted restaurants in London — 
 while a gluttonous crowd eat of the fat of the 
 land ? Is it really true that women in England 
 are dressing more extravagantly than ever ? Is 
 it really true that some men in England are un- 
 able or unwilling to share the nation's peril — 
 are even threatening to strike ? 
 
 No ! No ! Do not let us think that this is 
 the true picture of England. If it is, then, Terri- 
 torials, let us die in Leuze Wood ! 
 
 ioo 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE ATTACK 
 
 a desperate situation. battle formation, 
 "for England" 
 
 TOY ! The last leap I took landed me in a 
 trench, and I found to my great relief that 
 it was the lower part of the square which ran 
 through the wood. A few yards along this trench 
 it emerged into the open, where it was in posses- 
 sion of the Germans. 
 
 Farman and I sat down, side by side, breathing 
 heavily from our exertions. 
 
 "That was hell, Farman," I said, hardly dar- 
 ing to trust my voice. 
 
 "Awful!" 
 
 "I hope the men are still following." 
 
 "Those that are left." 
 
 "Have a cigarette; it will buck the men up to 
 see us smoking." 
 
 "Thanks, I will, though I'm as dry as a bone." 
 
 IOI 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 "Save your water; we've still got the attack 
 to do. We've got an hour yet; that will give 
 the men time to recover." 
 
 By this time, one by one, the men began to 
 jump into the trench. As the men arrived, their 
 faces pale and eyes started, we called them by 
 name. They looked up and smiled with relief at 
 seeing us sitting there, side by side. They rec- 
 ognised that the last jump had been made, and 
 for the time being, at any rate, they were safe. 
 
 We had started through the wood, about one 
 hundred and thirty strong, and barely eighty 
 mustered for the final attack. 
 
 Some men of C Company appeared, threading 
 their way along the trench. Farther in the wood, 
 the commander, Lieutenant Barton, came up to 
 arrange details for the attack. 
 
 "You got your new orders in time, then," I 
 remarked. 
 
 "Just in time. It's hell, isn't it? I've lost 
 heavily already, and we've still got to go over 
 the top." 
 
 "I've got orders to take half the battalion 
 bombers from you; where are they?" 
 
 "I would like to keep them; there are not 
 102 
 
THE ATTACK 
 
 many left, and they are badly broken up — been 
 fighting all night." 
 
 "All right, you keep them. I'm going to form 
 up between here and that broken tree. Will you 
 form up farther to the left ?" 
 
 "All right. Well, I'll be off; cheer oh! old 
 chap. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Good-bye, Barton. Good luck ! ' ' 
 
 I never saw Barton again ! I heard some 
 months afterwards that he fell, riddled with ma- 
 chine-gun bullets whilst leading his men into the 
 subsequent attack. 
 
 "Pass the word for No. 8 Platoon commander," 
 I ordered, wishing to ascertain if the last platoon 
 had arrived. 
 
 A young sergeant came up at the double, and 
 saluted. 
 
 "I am in command, sir." 
 
 His tone and manner inspired me immensely. 
 Notwithstanding all the danger we had passed 
 through, he seemed to be full of ginger and 
 pride at finding himself in command of the 
 platoon. 
 
 "Where is Mr. Chislehirst, then?" I asked. 
 
 "Wounded, sir, in the wood; shot through the 
 103 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 chest. The last I saw of him he was giving an- 
 other wounded man a drink from his water- 
 bottle." 
 
 "All right; do you understand your orders r" 
 
 "Yes, sir, quite." 
 
 "Return to your platoon, and await orders to 
 form up." 
 
 He saluted and doubled back to his men. I 
 forget his name, but he was a fine fellow, that 
 sergeant; quite cool, and evidently pleased at 
 his new responsibility. 
 
 So poor old Chislehirst was hit; fine fellow; 
 very young, only about twenty; good company 
 in the mess; reliable in the field. Just like him 
 to give his water-bottle to some one else when 
 he could go no farther. 
 
 Farman was my only subaltern left. Sud- 
 denly he gripped my arm and pointed into the 
 wood: 
 
 "Look over there. Who are those fellows 
 creeping along that trench ?" 
 
 I looked in the direction he was pointing, and 
 there, to my astonishment, on the very ground 
 just vacated by C Company, about a dozen fig- 
 ures in bluish grey were creeping along a shallow 
 
 104 
 
THE ATTACK 
 
 trench. I thought at first they were coming in 
 to surrender; but they made no signs, but were 
 evidently making the best of cover. 
 
 What were they up to ? There were only about 
 12 of them, and I had between 70 and 80 men. 
 For such a small number to come out alone and 
 attack us seemed absurd, and I waited, expect- 
 ing them to throw up their hands and come in. 
 Perhaps they thought they had not been seen. 
 I picked up a rifle, and taking aim, fired at the 
 last man but one; I missed. 
 
 Still they kept creeping on. I fired a second 
 time at the same man, and he dropped. The 
 thing didn't seem real, seeing those heads bob- 
 bing along a trench ; I felt for a moment as though 
 I were shooting rabbits. 
 
 The next moment I realised their object. By 
 this time they had worked well round my flanks. 
 They were evidently a few daring men, who were 
 trying to creep up unnoticed, with the intention 
 of throwing bombs while we were in a congested 
 area, occupied in forming up for the attack. A 
 daring ruse, but a clever one; for a dozen men 
 throwing bombs at close quarters could wipe us 
 off the map, or, at any rate, could do enough 
 
 105 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 damage by shock action of this kind to prevent 
 our attack starting. 
 
 I dared not give any order to fire for fear of 
 hitting the men of C Company. The situation 
 was desperate. I had no time to spare, for zero 
 hour was close at hand. The same thoughts were 
 running through Farman's mind. 
 
 "Shall I have a go at them ?" he said. 
 
 "Yes; form up your platoon, and stick them 
 with the bayonet ; then join the attack as a fourth 
 wave." 
 
 I watched Farman and his platoon with bay- 
 onets fixed, creeping on all fours towards the 
 German bombers. That was the last I saw of 
 them, as it was within 10 minutes of zero hour, 
 and we were not yet in battle formation. 
 
 I heard afterwards that they did the job well. 
 But to part with the platoon and my only re- 
 maining officer at this critical moment was a 
 great loss to me; for I could not count upon them 
 in the attack for which I had now only three 
 platoons left — about sixty men. 
 
 Half my strength had gone, and the real attack 
 had not yet begun. I sent for the remaining pla- 
 toon commanders and explained the situation: 
 
 106 
 
THE ATTACK 
 
 "No. 6 Platoon will now become the first wave. 
 Form up and extend along the edge of the wood 
 and await my signal to advance into the open. 
 No. 7 Platoon, form up immediately in rear; 
 and No. 8 Platoon, assemble in the trench close 
 up. Bombing section of No. 6 will proceed 
 along the trench parallel with the advance, 
 bombing it out as they go along." 
 
 The men formed up. The minutes seemed to 
 be like hours. We were facing the inside of the 
 square trench, which was a mass of shell-holes, 
 and as though anticipating our intention, shells 
 were bursting and bullets whistling on all sides. 
 
 How peaceful England must be at this moment ; 
 how pretty the villages! And how wicked this 
 hell seemed in front of us! And these were the 
 men of England — nice chaps, only Territo- 
 rials. 
 
 One used to meet them in the city every day. 
 Some were awful nuts. See them at lunch ; watch 
 them pouring out of Liverpool Street Station 
 between g and io o'clock in the morning, with 
 newspaper and walking-stick; see them in the 
 banks, bending over ledgers. You could hardly 
 believe it; but these were the same men. 
 
 107 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 They were not very trim just now; their hands 
 are grimy as they clutch at their rifles, undaunted 
 by the terrors they have already passed through 
 and the sight of their fallen comrades left groan- 
 ing in the wood. 
 
 There they are, extended and lying flat on the 
 ground, waiting further orders. They have come 
 through one hell by the skin of their teeth, and 
 are patiently looking into another hell ; their lives 
 were counted by minutes, these office men. But 
 their eyes were fixed on the far side of the square 
 trench which was to be their objective; unless by 
 God's will, and for the sake of England, they 
 found an earlier one. 
 
 London men ! Some may call you ' ' only Terri- 
 torials." Training has been your hobby; but 
 fighting was never your profession. 
 
 What will England think of this? England 
 may never know. 
 
 Who ever heard of Leuze Wood before ? If a 
 man is killed in England there is an inquest. 
 People read about it in the papers. 
 
 Are the people left behind in England suffering 
 hardships uncomplainingly, and gritting their 
 teeth like you are ? You are only getting a bob 
 
 108 
 
THE ATTACK 
 
 a day. England needs you; you are masters. 
 Why don't you strike at this critical moment ? 
 
 No, my lads; you are made of different stuff. 
 You are men ! There are those in England this 
 day who work for England's cause; there are 
 others who are enriching themselves by your 
 absence; there are homes which will feel your 
 sacrifice. 
 
 You have seen the wasted homes and the 
 ghastly outrages in France; and between that 
 picture and the green fields of England you must 
 make your stand; those in England will depend 
 upon you this day. 
 
 Zero hour is at hand. Agonies, mutilation, and 
 death are within a few yards of you. There will 
 be no pictures of your deeds; there are no flags 
 or trumpets to inspire you; you are lying on the 
 dirty ground on the edge of Leuze Wood, with 
 hell in front of you, and hell behind you — hell 
 in those trenches on the left, hell in those trenches 
 on the right. 
 
 One more minute and you will stand up and 
 walk into it. My lads ! It's for England ! 
 
 109 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 AT ANY COST 
 
 OVER THE TOP. MAD, FIGHTING MAD. THE 
 FINAL ASSAULT 
 
 AT last the th tinder of our guns towards the 
 German lines confirmed the hour. Zero 
 hour had arrived; the barrage had begun. 
 
 "No. 6 Platoon will advance." 
 
 The front line jumped up and walked into the 
 open. Wonderful ! Steady as a rock ! The line 
 was perfect. 
 
 On the left the front line of C Company has 
 also emerged from the wood; the bombers of 
 No. 6 Platoon disappeared along the mystery 
 trench. 
 
 The tut-ut-ut-ut of machine-guns developed 
 from several parts of the square, while the crack 
 of rifles increased in intensity. 
 
 No. 7 Platoon jumped up and advanced into 
 the open, followed by the third wave. 
 
 no 
 
AT ANY COST 
 
 I extended my runners and followed. 
 
 What followed next beggars description. As 
 I write these lines my hand hesitates to describe 
 the hell that was let loose upon those men. No 
 eye but mine could take in the picture so com- 
 pletely. 
 
 Will the world ever know what these men faced 
 and fought against — these men of the City of 
 London ? Not unless I tell it, for I alone saw all 
 that happened that day; and my hand alone, 
 weak and incapable though it feels, is the only 
 one that can do it. 
 
 Barely had I emerged from the wood with my 
 ten runners when a perfect hurricane of shells 
 were hurled at us, machine-guns from several 
 points spraying their deadly fire backward and 
 forward, dropping men like corn before the reaper. 
 From all three sides of the square a hurricane of 
 fire was poured into the centre of the square upon 
 us, as we emerged from the wood. 
 
 In far less time than it takes to record it, the 
 attacking waves became a mere sprinkling of 
 men. They went on for a yard or two, and then 
 all seemed to vanish; and even my runners, whom 
 I had extended into line, were dropping fast. 
 
 in 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 The situation was critical, desperate. Fearful 
 lest the attack should fail, I ran forward, and 
 collecting men here and there from shell-holes 
 where some had taken refuge, I formed them 
 into a fresh firing-line, and once more we pressed 
 forward. 
 
 Again and again the line was thinned; and 
 again the survivors, undaunted and unbeaten, 
 reformed and pressed forward. 
 
 Men laughed, men cried in the desperation of 
 the moment. We were grappling with death; 
 we were dodging it, cheating it; we were mad, 
 blindly hysterical. What did anything matter ? 
 Farther and farther into the inferno we must 
 press, at any cost, at any cost; leaping, jumping, 
 rushing, we went from shell-hole to shell-hole; 
 and still the fire continued with unrelenting fury. 
 
 I jumped into a shell-hole, and found myself 
 within ten yards of my objective. My three re- 
 maining runners jumped in alongside of me. 
 They were Arnold, Dobson, and Wilkinson. 
 
 Arnold was done for ! He looked up at me 
 with eyes staring and face blanched, and panted 
 out that he could go no farther, and I realised 
 that I could count on him no more. 
 
 112 
 
AT ANY COST 
 
 I glanced to the left, just in time to see three 
 Germans not five yards away, and one after the 
 other jump from a shell-hole which formed a sort 
 of bay to their trench, and run away. 
 
 Wishing to save the ammunition in my re- 
 volver for the hand-to-hand scuffle which seemed 
 imminent, I seized the rifle of Arnold and fired. 
 I missed all three; my hand was shaky. 
 
 What was I to do next ? The company on 
 my left had disappeared; the trench just in front 
 of me was occupied by the Boches. I had with 
 me three runners, one of whom was helpless, and 
 in the next shell-hole about six men, the sole sur- 
 vivors of my company. 
 
 Where were the supports ? Anxiously I glanced 
 back toward the wood ; why did they not come ? 
 
 Poor fellows, I did not know it at the time, but 
 the hand of death had dealt with them even more 
 heavily in the wood than it had with us. 
 
 My position was desperate. I could not re- 
 tire. My orders were imperative: "You must 
 reach your objective at any cost." I must get 
 there somehow. But even if we got there, how 
 long could I hope to hold out with such a hand- 
 ful of men ? 
 
 "3 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 Immediate support I must have; I must take 
 risks. I turned to brave Dobson and Wilkin- 
 son: 
 
 "Message to the supports: 'Send me two pla- 
 toons quickly; position critical.'" 
 
 Without a moment's hesitation they jumped 
 up and darted off with the message which might 
 save the day. 
 
 Dobson fell before he had gone two yards; 
 three paces farther on I saw Wilkinson, the pet 
 of the company, turn suddenly round and fall 
 on the ground, clutching at his breast. All hope 
 for the supports was gone. 
 
 At this moment the bombing section, which 
 by this time had cleared the mystery trench, 
 arrived on the right of the objective; and to my 
 delirious joy, I noticed the Germans in the trench 
 in front of me running away along the trench. 
 
 It was now, or never ! We must charge over 
 that strip of land and finish them with the bay- 
 onet. A moment's hesitation and the tables 
 might again be turned, and all would be lost. 
 The trench in front must be taken by assault; 
 it must be done. There were six or seven of us 
 left, and we must do it. 
 
 114 
 
AT ANY COST 
 
 I yelled to the men: 
 
 "Get ready to charge, they are running. Come 
 on ! Come on !" 
 
 I jumped out of the shell-hole, and they fol- 
 lowed me. Once again I was mad. I saw noth- 
 ing, I heard nothing ; I wanted to kill ! kill ! 
 
 Pf— ung ! 
 
 Oh ! My God ! I was hit in the head ! I was 
 blind ! 
 
 ii5 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 LEFT ON THE FIELD 
 
 THE MYSTERY OF DEATH. THE SECRET CODE. 
 TWO TERRIBLE DAYS 
 
 T WAS wounded ! I was blind ! But the mo- 
 ments that followed are clear in my memory. 
 The brain shocked by a blow works quickly and 
 actively in its excited effort to hold its own. 
 
 I was quite conscious and thinking clearly: I 
 knew what had happened and what would hap- 
 pen; I remembered every detail. 
 
 My head at the moment was inclined to the 
 right, for I was shouting to the men. Like a 
 flash I remembered that about fifty yards to the 
 left of me there was a "German strong point" 
 still occupied by the Germans. A bullet had 
 entered my left temple; it must have come from 
 a sniper in that strong point. The bullet had 
 passed clean through my head; I thought it had 
 emerged through my right temple. I was mis- 
 taken on that point, for I found some days later 
 
 116 
 
LEFT ON THE FIELD 
 
 that it had emerged through the centre of my 
 right eye. 
 
 I remember distinctly clutching my head and 
 sinking to the ground, and all the time I was 
 thinking ' ' so this is the end — the finish of it 
 all ; shot through the head, mine is a fatal wound." 
 
 Arnold jumped up, and catching me in his 
 arms, helped me back into the shell-hole. 
 
 I hesitate to tell what followed. But as I am 
 trying to record the sensations experienced at the 
 time of receiving a head wound, I will describe 
 the next experience simply, and leave the reader 
 to form his own conclusions. 
 
 I was blind then, as I am now; but the black- 
 ness which was then before me underwent a 
 change. A voice from somewhere behind me 
 said: "This is death; will you come?" 
 
 Then gradually the blackness became more 
 intense. A curtain seemed to be slowly falling; 
 there was space ; there was darkness, blacker than 
 my blindness; everything was past. There was 
 a peacefulness, a nothingness; but a happiness 
 indescribable. 
 
 I seemed for a moment somewhere in the empti- 
 ness looking down at my body, lying in the shell- 
 
 117 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 hole, bleeding from the temple. I was dead ! 
 and that was my body; but I was happy. 
 
 But the voice I had heard seemed to be wait- 
 ing for an answer. I seemed to exert myself by 
 a frantic effort, like one in a dream who is trying 
 to awaken. 
 
 I said: "No, not now; I won't die." Then 
 the curtain slowly lifted; my body moved and I 
 was moving it. I was alive ! 
 
 There, my readers, I have told you, and I have 
 hesitated to tell it before. More than that, I 
 will tell you that I was not unconscious; neither 
 did I lose consciousness until several minutes 
 later, and then unconsciousness was quite different. 
 
 I have told you how clear was my brain the 
 moment I was hit, and I tell you also that after 
 the sensation I have just related, my brain was 
 equally clear, as I will show you, until I became 
 unconscious. 
 
 Call it a hallucination, a trick of the brain, 
 or what you will. I make no attempt to influence 
 you ; I merely record the incident — but my own 
 belief I will keep to myself. 
 
 Whatever it was, I no longer feel there is any 
 mystery about death. Nor do I dread it. 
 
 118 
 
LEFT ON THE FIELD 
 
 Arnold was busy tearing open the field dressing 
 which I carried in a pocket of my tunic. 
 
 "Use the iodine first, Arnold; it's in the pocket 
 in a glass phial." 
 
 "The glass is broken, sir." 
 
 "In a piece of paper there are two morphia 
 tablets — quick, better give them to me." 
 
 "They are not here, sir." And he bound the 
 dressing round my eyes as the blood trickled 
 down my face. 
 
 "Quick, Arnold, my right pocket — feel in it; 
 some papers there — a secret code — take them 
 out — tear them up — quickly ; tell me have you 
 done it?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, I have done it." 
 
 I was sinking; I felt myself going; I felt that 
 the end was at hand. I clutched his shoulder 
 and pulled him towards me: 
 
 "Arnold, I'm going. If you get back — tell 
 my — wife — " But the message that was on 
 my lips was not finished; I could speak no 
 more. I was dropping into space, dropping, 
 dropping; everything disappeared, I remembered 
 no more. 
 
 I do not know how long I remained in this 
 119 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 condition. I remember gaining consciousness and 
 finding Arnold by my side. 
 
 Something terrible was happening. I gradu- 
 ally began to realise that another attack was 
 taking place over my head. This time the fire 
 was coming from both sides. A stream of bul- 
 lets seemed to be pouring over the shell-hole. 
 The meaning was obvious: a machine-gun had 
 been placed in the trench ten yards away, and 
 its deadly fire was pouring over the shell-hole 
 in which we lay. Loud explosions were taking 
 place all round us, and with each explosion the 
 earth seemed to upheave, and I felt the thug, 
 thug of pieces of metal striking the earth close 
 by; whilst showers of earth kept falling on my 
 body. I couldn't last long. The guns of both 
 sides seemed to be searching for us; we must 
 soon be blown to pieces. 
 
 How long this lasted I cannot say. I was weak; 
 my shattered nerves could not stand such a ter- 
 rible ordeal. I lay huddled and shivering at the 
 bottom of the shell-hole, waiting for the jagged 
 metal to strike my body, or be hurled, mutilated, 
 into the air. 
 
 Again I became unconscious. When I next 
 120 
 
LEFT ON THE FIELD 
 
 recovered my senses Arnold was trying to lift 
 me, to carry me away, but his strength was not 
 equal to it. He laid me down again. 
 
 The firing had ceased. He seemed to be peer- 
 ing out of the shell-hole and talking to me. I 
 think he was planning escape. It must have been 
 dark, for he seemed uncertain about the direction. 
 
 Then I began to vomit; I seemed to be vomit- 
 ing my heart out, while Arnold seemed to be 
 trying to comfort me. 
 
 I again became unconscious. When I regained 
 consciousness for the third time it seemed to me 
 that I had been insensible for a great length of 
 time. But I seemed to be much refreshed, al- 
 though very weak. 
 
 Everything was silent, uncanny; I could see 
 nothing, hear nothing. Yes, I remembered; I 
 was shot blind, and I was still in the shell-hole. 
 I felt my head; there was a rough bandage 
 round it, covering my eyes. The bandage over 
 my right eye was hardened with blood, and dried 
 blood covered my left cheek. My hair was 
 matted with clay and blood; and my clothes 
 seemed to be covered with loose earth. 
 
 But what did this uncanny silence mean ? — 
 
 121 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 Arnold, where was he ? I called him by name, 
 but there was no response. I remembered the 
 firing I had heard: yes, he must be dead. 
 
 In my blindness and despair I groped on my 
 hands and knees around the shell-hole to find 
 his body. He was not there. / was alone ! 
 
 122 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 THE JAWS OF DEATH 
 
 LONELINESS, DARKNESS, AND SILENCE. A LAST 
 EFFORT. I PREPARE FOR DEATH 
 
 DID not know at the time, of course, what 
 
 had become of Arnold; but I found out later. 
 
 Fearing I was dying when I lapsed into uncon- 
 sciousness again, after my fit of vomiting, he 
 decided under cover of darkness to try and find 
 his way back to the British lines to bring me aid. 
 
 After stumbling about in and out of shell- 
 holes, he suddenly saw the barrel of a rifle point- 
 ing at him from a trench close by, and following 
 him as he moved; and a moment later he was a 
 prisoner. 
 
 Understanding German, he told his captors 
 that I was lying out in No Man's Land, and 
 begged them to send me medical aid; and they 
 answered that stretcher-bearers would be sent 
 to make a search. 
 
 Whether the stretcher-bearers were sent or not 
 I do not know; but if they were, they were not 
 
 123 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 successful in finding me; for to the best of my 
 belief it was on the Monday morning that I again 
 regained consciousness, to find myself alone — 
 two days after I had been shot. 
 
 It is difficult for me to describe my feelings 
 when I found myself alone. I had no pain, I 
 seemed to feel very small and the world very 
 large. I sat up and felt my head; my face felt 
 twice its usual size, and seemed sticky and clammy 
 with earth and blood. 
 
 Everything was so silent. 
 
 There was a great lump of hardened blood 
 where the rough field dressing covered my right 
 eye; my left cheek, nose, and lips were swollen 
 tremendously. 
 
 Whether it was night or day I did not know. 
 But I knew I was blind. I tried to collect my 
 thoughts and to reason out my position. 
 
 Where was the German line, and where was the 
 British ? I knew that I must be a considerable 
 distance from the British line; but which direc- 
 tion it was in, I could not tell. 
 
 If I were to crawl, which way should I go and 
 where should I find myself ? Better to make the 
 attempt and take my chance, than lie where I 
 
 124 
 
THE JAWS OF DEATH 
 
 was. On my hands and knees I tried to crawl 
 up the side of the shell-hole. But I had not 
 reckoned on my weakness ; the world was so large 
 and I was so small. 
 
 Before I could reach the top my strength gave 
 out, and I slid to the bottom. Again and again 
 I tried, and with each attempt I kept slipping 
 back, each time, bringing with me a pile of loose 
 earth. 
 
 At last I realised how hopeless it all was, with 
 so little strength. And unable even to reach to 
 the top of the shell-hole, how could I hope ever 
 to reach the British line across the sea of shell- 
 holes which intervened ? I seemed so far from 
 everything; though little did I dream at the time 
 that German soldiers were within a few yards of 
 me in the trench from which I had driven them 
 by such desperate efforts two days before — two 
 days ! Surely it was two years ! 
 
 Then my fate dawned upon me. Of course the 
 end was quite logical. This was the end; it 
 could not be otherwise. Had I not made up my 
 mind it would come ? Surely I did before I 
 started ? Was I not shot through the head and 
 left to die? Well, this was the proper place to 
 
 125 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 die. But what surprised me was that the thought 
 of dying seemed so comforting. I was so weary, 
 and death seemed so peaceful. 
 
 I have heard people say that when a person is 
 drowning, after the first frantic struggles are 
 over, a delightful sensation of peacefulness comes 
 over him, and he ceases to desire to help himself. 
 That was how I felt at that moment. This shell- 
 hole was my grave. Well, it seemed quite right 
 and proper. 
 
 The idea of getting back to life after suffering 
 so many deaths seemed very unreasonable. My 
 sensations were those of one who had awakened 
 to find himself buried alive. To be alive at all 
 was cheating death, which held me firmly in its 
 grip. Better to accept it and wait calmly for the 
 end. 
 
 The life of the world seemed so far away from 
 me. My family, my home, my friends and scenes 
 that I used to know so well seemed in a misty 
 past, a long, long way away — a different age. 
 
 After all, it did not matter very much. It 
 was all so very long ago. It had all happened 
 long ago. My absence was an accepted fact; I 
 was now a memory. 
 
 126 
 
THE JAWS OF DEATH 
 
 Now, I have already said that I awoke refreshed. 
 I will say, further, that I was never so clear- 
 headed in my life. I had little power in my 
 limbs. My brain was never more calm and cal- 
 culating and indifferent to the death which I 
 knew was at hand. 
 
 It was not nerve, because I had none. It had 
 nothing to do with the question of pluck or cow- 
 ardice. It was simply the state of the brain 
 before its last kick. I had ceased to resist my 
 fate; I accepted it. I was not dead yet — but 
 I was to die there, and that was to be my grave. 
 
 I began to think out calmly in what way my 
 life would nicker out, and I concluded that it 
 would come as a result of my wound during a 
 period of unconsciousness, or by the slower proc- 
 ess of thirst, starvation, and exposure. In the 
 latter case I should probably have violent spasms 
 or struggles. I had better prepare myself. 
 
 I was lying in a very uncomfortable position. 
 There was a pile of loose earth, which stuck 
 against my body awkwardly. With my hands 
 and feet I scooped it out until my body lay com- 
 fortably in a hollow, with the loose earth forming 
 a sort of bed. In doing this I found a water- 
 
 127 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 bottle. Arnold must have left it behind for me. 
 There was only a drain in it, which I drank, 
 and threw the bottle away. 
 
 I next searched my pockets for food and found 
 a small crust, the remains of what had been my 
 food the day before the attack. I placed this 
 carefully in my pocket for use at the time when 
 I should experience the final pangs of starvation. 
 My own water-bottle still contained about half 
 a pint of water. I placed this on the ground, 
 close to where my face would be, so that I could 
 clutch it readily. 
 
 These preparations over, my brain began to 
 get tired. There was nothing else to be done; 
 everything was ready. I would lie down now 
 and wait for the end. I laid my head on the 
 ground, using the side of the shell-hole as a 
 pillow. 
 
 I was very comfortable, the soft earth seemed 
 almost like a bed. After all, I was a lucky fellow 
 to be able to die in a comfortable way like this. 
 I wondered how long it would really be — days 
 more, perhaps, but still I could wait. Yes, the 
 life of the world was a very long way away; 
 after all, it did not matter. 
 
 128 
 
THE JAWS OF DEATH 
 
 How long I waited in this position I do not 
 know, but it suddenly occurred to me that I 
 was passing away, and for a moment all the old 
 scenes came closer. They were passing by in a 
 sort of procession. 
 
 A sudden impulse caused me to raise myself 
 into a sitting position. I waved my hand above 
 my head and shouted out, "Good-bye." The 
 procession was over. I lay down again and waited 
 for the end. 
 
 129 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 AT THE MERCY OF THE HUN — 
 AND AFTER 
 
 A BASIN OF SOUP. HOSPITAL AT ST. QUENTIN. 
 THE "OPEN SESAME" 
 
 A MOMENT or two later something occurred 
 which caused my wearied brain to be roused 
 again into activity. What could it mean ? 
 
 I was again thinking hard, listening intently; 
 something undefinable had happened to suddenly 
 revive my mental condition. Had I passed away, 
 and was this the next life? I felt like one who 
 had awakened out of a dream in the dead of night, 
 conscious that some one or something was mov- 
 ing near him. 
 
 1 ' Englishman ! Kamarade ! ' ' 
 
 Great God ! I was found ! 
 
 Had I the strength I should probably have 
 screamed with joy, for that was my impulse at 
 hearing a human voice. A second later and my 
 feeling was to shrink from discovery. Surrender ? 
 Was it then to come to this, after all ? 
 
 130 
 
AT THE MERCY OF THE HUN 
 
 I did not answer; it was not necessary. 
 
 He must have heard me shout; he must know 
 where I am. I was unarmed and helpless; what 
 need to answer such a call ? He would probably 
 seek me, and I should be found without need to 
 foul my lips with an answer. 
 
 And then I felt that it was not my life that 
 was being saved, but a lingering death avoided 
 by a murderous, but quick despatch. Well, per- 
 haps it was better it should come that way. 
 
 Presently I heard some one crawling towards 
 me. A few pebbles rolled down the slope, and 
 there was silence again. I felt that he was look- 
 ing down at me. Again a shuffle, and a quantity 
 of loose earth rolled down the slope, and he was 
 sliding down towards me. 
 
 The supreme moment had arrived. Would it 
 be a bullet or a bayonet thrust ; and where would 
 it strike me ? 
 
 I lay perfectly still. He seemed to be bending 
 over me undecidedly. I thought he might be- 
 lieve me dead and go away without finishing me 
 off, to seek the cause of the shout elsewhere. 
 
 I raised myself on my elbow and turned my 
 face towards him. Then, to my astonishment he 
 
 131 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 put his arms around my body and raised me up. 
 What strange wonder was this ? He put my arm 
 around his neck, and with his own arm around 
 my body, he raised me to my feet. But I could 
 not stand. Then, placing both arms firmly 
 around me, he dragged me out of the shell-holes. 
 I felt myself being dragged several yards, and 
 then he stopped. 
 
 I heard many voices talking below me. What 
 would happen next. Then several hands caught 
 hold of me, and I was lifted into a trench. 
 
 Some one gave an order, and I was dragged 
 along the trench and around a corner. More 
 voices seemed to come from still farther below. 
 Some one picked hold of my feet, and I was car- 
 ried down several steps. I was in a dugout. 
 
 It seemed warm and cosy. There were officers 
 around me. Here must be the company com- 
 mander whom I had driven away two days be- 
 fore. Now he could take his revenge. What 
 mercy could I hope from him? 
 
 A voice asked me a question in English. But 
 by this time I had collapsed completely. I tried 
 to speak, but no sound would come from my 
 throat. My head seemed to be an enormous 
 
 132 
 
AT THE MERCY OF THE HUN 
 
 size; my jaw would not move. I felt some one 
 examine my tunic and examine my pockets. 
 No, there were no papers there. I heard some 
 one say "Hauptmann." Then more talking. 
 
 A cigarette was put in my mouth. I held it 
 between my swollen lips, but could not inhale. 
 A sharp command was given, and once more I 
 was lifted up on to some one's back, and was 
 being dragged down a long communication 
 trench. 
 
 I was able presently to realise that I was in a 
 dressing-station, for I was laid on a stretcher. 
 Some one bent over me, evidently a medical 
 officer. 
 
 My throat was parched. Oh, how thirsty I 
 was ! He was saying something to me in English 
 in a very kindly manner. He opened a bottle 
 of Seltzer water, and, lifting me up, placed it to 
 my lips. Oh, how thirsty I was ! I held out 
 my hand for more. Bottle after bottle of Seltzer 
 water was opened, and I drank one after the 
 other. In my haziness I seemed to be wonder- 
 ing how they came to be supplied with such 
 quantities of Seltzer water so close up to the 
 front line. 
 
 133 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 He opened up my tunic and rubbed something 
 on my chest. I heard him say, very gently: 
 
 "Injection against tetanus. It won't hurt 
 you"; and then I felt a very slight pin prick. 
 He laid me down again. My head was throbbing. 
 
 How hot and stuffy it was! I heard some 
 groans, voices were speaking in a low tone. I 
 again heard the word, "Hauptmann." 
 
 Of the days which followed I have only a hazy 
 recollection. My brain and body sustained dur- 
 ing the period of danger and strain, collapsed 
 completely, and during the next six days I had 
 only occasional periods of sensibility. 
 
 I can, therefore, only recall the facts between 
 the time of my being picked up and my arrival 
 at Hanover, six days later, in a disjointed manner. 
 
 Telling only of incidents, which stand out here 
 and there in my memory, it must be borne in 
 mind that during the operations of September 
 the 8th and 9th I had felt the weight of my 
 responsibility ; and the great shock caused by my 
 wound and the two days' exposure and suffering 
 that followed, imposed a great strain upon my 
 system, and reaction had now set in. 
 
 134 
 
AT THE MERCY OF THE HUN 
 
 My wound had received no attention, and my 
 right eye was hopelessly mutilated. The optic 
 nerve of my left eye was damaged beyond repair, 
 and the eye itself was obscured by an enormous 
 swelling. My sense of smell was gone, and my 
 cheeks, nose, and mouth were swollen and numbed 
 to a painful degree. 
 
 I had lost power in my lower jaw, which would 
 barely move. My nerves were completely shat- 
 tered, and the mere touch of a hand would make 
 me shrink with fright. 
 
 I had lost my voice, and during the occasional 
 periods of sensibility, I could only speak in a 
 startled whisper, while my brain in hideous de- 
 lirium would constantly take me back to the 
 scenes through which I had just passed. 
 
 I remember my stretcher being lifted and being 
 placed in a horse-drawn ambulance with several 
 others. Before leaving, the M. 0. gave me a 
 bottle of water, and so great was my thirst that 
 for several days I kept this tightly gripped in 
 my hand, and would not part with it except to 
 get it refilled. 
 
 I have a hazy idea of being transferred from 
 one ambulance to another, and several journeys. 
 
 i3S 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 The ground was very rough, and the shaking of 
 the wagon seemed to cause great pain to other 
 occupants. The bumping to my own head com- 
 pelled me to raise it from the pillow and resist 
 the jolts by resting it on my hand. 
 
 Where I spent Monday night I do not know, 
 but on Tuesday night I found myself in what 
 must have been a small hospital in a town I do 
 not remember. 
 
 It seemed to me that I was in a sort of basement 
 of a private house, and that a man and woman 
 were watching over me, exhibiting very great 
 kindness and compassion. 
 
 I seemed to awaken from my stupor, and re- 
 member some snatches of conversation, as they 
 bent over me, for they could both speak a little 
 English. 
 
 Blood and clay were still caked on my face and 
 hair; and my uniform was sticky with blood and 
 grime. Oh, how I wished I could take it off 
 and be put into clean clothes and a bed! 
 
 The man was taking off my boots: 
 
 "Dese very goot boots, yah?" 
 
 I assented in a whisper. 
 
 "You have dem give you, yah?" 
 136 
 
AT THE MERCY OF THE HUN 
 
 'No," I whispered, "bought therr myself." 
 
 "Where do you buy such goot boots ?" 
 
 "London." 
 
 "Ah, yah. I thought you would not get such 
 goot boots for nothings. Look after dem well; 
 we don't get goot boots like dat here." 
 
 I whispered to him: 
 
 "What is that noise?" 
 
 "Ah, it is a pity. Ze English zey have been 
 firing ze long-range guns here, big guns. Zay 
 carry twenty-seven miles. Ve moved dis hos- 
 pital two times, yah." 
 
 The woman came up to my stretcher with a 
 basin of soup. I shall never forget that basin of 
 soup. It was probably very ordinary soup, but 
 when I tasted the first spoonful I devoured it 
 ravenously, for all this time I had not realised 
 that I was suffering from starvation. For the 
 past three days not an atom of food had passed 
 my lips, and for two days previous to that an 
 occasional bite of bread and cheese was my only 
 ration. Even now I was not destined to receive 
 the nourishment my body craved for; for one 
 basin of soup per day was all I received during 
 the remainder of that week. 
 
 137 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 Still grasping my bottle of water under my 
 blanket, I was removed next morning and placed 
 in a freight truck with two others, one a sergeant 
 
 in theGuards, and the other a private in the , 
 
 London Regiment. We were locked in the truck, 
 and kept there for many hours without food or 
 conveniences of any kind, and finally arrived at 
 St. Quentin. 
 
 Some one removed the blanket from my face 
 and examined my shoulder-straps. I heard him 
 say "Hauptmann," and after that I seemed to 
 be treated with some consideration. 
 
 I did not understand a single word of German, 
 and the repetition of this word puzzled me. It 
 must have been some connection with my rank. 
 I would try it on the next person who came near 
 me and see what happened. 
 
 I had not long to wait, for by and by the 
 stretchers were lifted and we were carried into 
 the hospital at St. Quentin. I was placed along- 
 side a large number of others, and the place cre- 
 ated a very unpleasant impression of the atten- 
 tion I was likely to receive. 
 
 The place seemed like Bedlam. All round me 
 I heard the groans and cries of the wounded. 
 How long would I be left here unattended ? How 
 
 138 
 
AT THE MERCY OF THE HUN 
 
 I longed to have my clothes removed ! And what 
 of my wound — how much longer must I go 
 before it was attended to ? And what was hap- 
 pening to it all this time? 
 
 I heard some voices near me speaking in Ger- 
 man. Now was the time I would test that magic 
 word, and see what would happen. Removing 
 the blankets from my face, and lifting my arm to 
 attract attention, I whispered hoarsely: 
 
 "Hauptmann !" 
 
 Some one stooped down over me, examined my 
 shoulder-strap, and said, "Huhzo!" He then 
 gave an order, and my stretcher was again picked 
 up, and I was carried up-stairs to a room reserved 
 for officers. 
 
 That "Open Sesame" served me in good stead 
 on several occasions. 
 
 But the hospital at St. Quentin was a horrible 
 place. There was a Frenchman in the ward who 
 was raving mad, and between his yells and shrieks 
 of laughter, the moaning of the wounded, and 
 the fitful awakenings from my own delirium I 
 spent a most unhappy time. I think I must have 
 been there about two days, and on the morning 
 after my arrival I was sensible for a while. 
 
 Adjoining the ward and only separated by an 
 i39 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 open doorway was the operating-room, where first 
 operations were taking place hurriedly. The 
 scene was something I can never forget. One by 
 one we were being taken in, and the shrieks of 
 pain which followed were too shocking for descrip- 
 tion. To hear strong men howl with pain is 
 agonising enough; but to hear them shriek, and 
 for those shrieks to fall upon the ears of nerve- 
 broken men awaiting their turn just outside the 
 open door was terrifying, appalling. 
 
 As the shrieks subsided into weakened groans 
 the stretcher would come back into the ward, 
 and the next man be moved in ; and so we waited 
 in an agony of suspense, horror, and dread as 
 nearer and nearer we came to our turn. 
 
 I do not wish to harrow my readers' feelings any 
 more by describing how I felt when my stretcher 
 was at last lifted and I was laid on the operating- 
 table. I could not see the bloodiness of my sur- 
 roundings, but I murmured to myself, as I had 
 occasion to do on subsequent and similar occa- 
 sions : 
 
 "Thank God I'm blind." 
 
 There was a nurse at St. Quentin whose devo- 
 tion and humanity will be long remembered by 
 
 140 
 
AT THE MERCY OF THE HUN 
 
 the many British and French wounded officers 
 who have passed through that ward. In my 
 half-dazed condition I seemed to have an idea 
 that she was some sort of angel, whose gentle 
 voice and comforting words were so soothing to 
 the wounded, and inspired us with confidence in 
 our painful conditions and surroundings. 
 
 On Friday, still greedily hugging my bottle of 
 water, I was removed from St. Quentin and placed 
 in a hospital-train bound for Hanover. I was told 
 it was a splendidly appointed train, with every 
 modern appliance. 
 
 The journey to Hanover occupied two days 
 and two nights, but I remember nothing of it, 
 as I believe I was unconscious the whole time. 
 
 I do remember just before leaving being pre- 
 sented with a haversack from the French Red 
 Cross Society, and it was full of things which were 
 extremely useful: a sleeping-shirt, handkerchiefs, 
 biscuits, and similar articles. I have the haver- 
 sack still. I carried it wherever I went in Ger- 
 many, and never allowed it to leave my possession. 
 
 On Sunday morning, September 17, the train 
 pulled into Hanover, and the wounded were car- 
 ried out and left for a time on the platform. 
 
 141 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 Some girls seemed to be busy giving refresh- 
 ment to the wounded. A girl came to my 
 stretcher, pulled down the blanket which cov- 
 ered my face, and clumsily pushed the spout of 
 a drinking-cup, containing coffee, into my mouth. 
 I thought she was trying to feed me from some 
 kind of teapot. The pot fell out of my mouth, 
 and the coffee ran down my neck. 
 
 A man picked it up, and holding it to my lips, 
 enabled me to sip it. I felt very grateful to him, 
 for I was badly in need of sustenance. He spoke 
 to me very kindly. 
 
 I thanked him in a whisper, and asked him if 
 he was an officer. 
 
 He replied in English: "No, I am a waiter." 
 
 I think I became unconscious again. Rather 
 unfortunate, for had I been stronger the humour 
 of the remark would have amused me. 
 
 142 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 ALIVE 
 
 TT was the first night after my arrival at Han- 
 over that I really fully recovered a state of 
 consciousness. 
 
 Although I have recorded several incidents of 
 the week which had just passed, they were only 
 occasional glimpses from which I would relapse 
 again into unconsciousness, and it only comes 
 back to me in a hazy sort of way, like dreams 
 through a long night of sleep. 
 
 But I remember well the moment when I finally 
 awoke and took in my surroundings. It was 
 early in the morning. I seemed to have had 
 frightful dreams ; the horror of what I had passed 
 through had been a frightful nightmare, mocking 
 at me, laughing at me, blowing me to pieces. 
 
 I turned over on my side. Strange place this 
 shell-hole; it seemed very comfortable. What 
 was this I was touching — a pillow, bedclothes. 
 Good God ! I was in a bed ! As my thoughts 
 
 143 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 became clearer I lay perfectly still, almost in fear 
 that any movement I might make would awaken 
 me from this beautiful dream. 
 
 A long, long time ago something frightful had 
 happened from which rescue was impossible. 
 Yet, surely this was a bed. 
 
 Then I remembered the attack which had taken 
 place over my body while I lay out in No Man's 
 Land; of the shells which had burst around me 
 in violent protest to my presence. I could not 
 possibly have escaped; I must be maimed. 
 
 Cautiously I began to feel my limbs, my arms, 
 my body, my feet, my fingers; they were all 
 there, untouched. The whole truth dawned upon 
 me : My God ! I was alive ! 
 
 I sat up in my bed; I wanted to shout and 
 dance for joy. There was a bandage round my 
 head : I was blind ! Yes, I knew that, but there 
 was nothing really the matter with me except 
 that. The mere fact of being only blind seemed 
 in comparison a luxury. 
 
 I was blind ! But joy indescribable — what was 
 that triviality — I was alive ! alive ! 
 
 Oh, my ! I never knew before that life was so 
 wonderful. Did other people understand what 
 
 144 
 
ALIVE 
 
 life was ? No ; you must be dead to understand 
 what life was worth. I must tell every one how 
 wonderful it all is. 
 
 But where was I ? I could hear no guns — a 
 bed ? There were no beds at the front. I 
 couldn't have dreamed it all; it must have been 
 true; otherwise I should have been able to see. 
 
 Where then could I be? Oh, God! Yes, I 
 know — I am a prisoner of war ! 
 
 But even this knowledge, which for the moment 
 quieted me, could not suppress my exaltation. 
 I was saved ! I was alive ! No pain racked my 
 limbs; no terror prodded my brain. 
 
 But I was weak and wasted. Oh, how weak I 
 was ! How hungry ! But what of that, I was 
 alive ! 
 
 And where was England — such a long, long 
 way off. I must go there at once, this minute. 
 No, I. can't; I'm a prisoner. 
 
 How miserable some people are who have no 
 right to be. They cannot know how wonderful 
 life is. Oh, how wonderful it is to die, and then 
 to come to life again. 
 
 I'm only blind ! Just imagine it ! What is 
 that ? — it's nothing at all, compared with life ; 
 
 145 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 and when I get well and strong I won't be a blind 
 man. 
 
 I may not recover my sight, but that doesn't 
 matter a bit, I will laugh at it, defy it. I will 
 carry on as usual; I will overcome it and live the 
 life that has been given back to me. 
 
 I will be happy, happier than ever. I'm in a 
 bed alive. Oh, God ! I am grateful ! 
 
 146 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 BLINDNESS 
 
 TTOW reckless we are in referring to death j 
 There are many people who would say 
 they would prefer death to blindness; but the 
 nearer the approach of death, the greater becomes 
 the comparison between the finality of the one 
 and the affliction of the other. 
 
 Those men, however, who have faced death in 
 many frightful forms, and dodged it; suffered 
 the horrors of its approach, yet cheated it; who 
 have waited for its inevitable triumph, then 
 slipped from its grasp; who have lived with it 
 for days, parrying its thrust, evading its clutch; 
 yet feeling the irresistible force of its power; men 
 who have suffered these horrors and escaped with- 
 out more than the loss of even the wonderful 
 gift of sight, can afford to treat this affliction in a 
 lesser degree, holding the sanctity of life as a 
 thing precious and sacred beyond all things. 
 
 Even the loss of God's great gift of sight ceases 
 to become a burden or affliction in comparison 
 
 147 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 with the indescribable joy of life snatched from 
 death. 
 
 There are men, and we know them by the score, 
 who are constantly looking out on life through 
 the darkened windows of a dissatisfied existence; 
 whose conscience is an enemy to their own happi- 
 ness ; who look only on the dark side of life, made 
 darker by their own disposition. 
 
 Such men, and you can pick them out by their 
 looks and expression, who build an artificial wall 
 of trouble, to shut out the natural paradise of 
 existence; these men who juggle with the joy of 
 life until they feel they would sooner be dead, 
 do not know, and do not realise the meaning of 
 the life and death with which they trifle. 
 
 Let us think only of the glory of life ; not of the 
 trivial penalties which may be demanded of us 
 in payment, and which we are so apt to magnify 
 until we wonder whether the great gift of life is 
 really worth while. 
 
 Let us think not of our disadvantages, but of 
 these great gifts which we are fortunate enough 
 to possess; let us school ourselves to a high sense 
 of gratitude for the gifts we possess, and even 
 an affliction becomes easy to bear. 
 
 148 
 
BLINDNESS 
 
 Here I am, thirty-six years of age, in the prime 
 of health, strength, and energy, and suddenly 
 struck blind ! 
 
 And what are my feelings ? Even such a seem- 
 ing catastrophe does not appall me. I can no 
 longer drive, run, or follow any of the vigorous 
 sports, the love for which is so insistent in healthy 
 manhood. I shall miss all these things, yet I 
 am not depressed. 
 
 Am I not better off, after all, than he who was 
 born blind? With the loss of my sight I have 
 become imbued with the gift of appreciation. 
 What is my inconvenience compared with the 
 affliction of being sightless from birth. 
 
 For thirty-six years I had become accustomed 
 to sights of the world, and now, though blind, I 
 can walk in the garden in a sunny day; and my 
 imagination can see it and take in the picture. 
 
 I can talk to my friends, knowing what they 
 look like, and by their conversation read the ex- 
 pression on their faces. I can hear the traffic of 
 a busy thoroughfare, and my mind will recognise 
 the scene. 
 
 I can even go to the play; hear the jokes and 
 listen to the songs and music, and understand what 
 
 149 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 is going on without experiencing that feeling of 
 mystery and wonder which must be the lot of 
 him who has always been blind. 
 
 And the greatest gift of all, my sense of grati- 
 tude, that after passing through death, I am 
 alive ! 
 
 150 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 THE WOMAN WHO WAITS 
 
 THE TELEGRAPH BOY'S RAT-TAT. KILLED IN 
 ACTION. WEEKS OF MOURNING 
 
 TVTEANWHILE, what was transpiring at home ? 
 What interpretation had been put upon my 
 absence ? 
 
 Many weeks later, after my first letter had 
 reached home like a message from the dead, a 
 post-card was handed to me from my father, 
 which seemed to echo the sob of a broken heart. 
 It was the first message to arrive from the Eng- 
 land I loved so much, and my home, which I 
 yearned for. 
 
 Letters from every member of my family were 
 hastening towards me; but all were delayed ex- 
 cept the single post-card, which told me only too 
 plainly of the tragedy at home which was the re- 
 sult of my absence. 
 
 The message, written in a shaky hand, ran 
 151 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 briefly, thus: "My son, for four weeks we have 
 mourned you as dead; God bless you!" 
 
 In the despair of my heart my blindness and 
 my bonds of captivity seemed to grow greater. 
 In that simple message I realised the terrible 
 truth, the full significance of the tragedy which 
 had followed my fall. 
 
 What had been my suffering to theirs ? After 
 all I was a soldier, and mine was a duty. But 
 those who wait at home — what of them ? 
 
 The letters which followed confirmed my worst 
 fears. I trembled and cried like a child. 
 
 How brave they had all been ! How unworthy 
 seemed my life to warrant the heroic fortitude 
 and silent suffering which these letters unfolded ! 
 What were a few bullets compared with the pluck 
 and silent self-sacrifice of the women of Britain, 
 who were untrained to bear such shocks ? What 
 physical pain could compare with such anguish as 
 theirs ? 
 
 The first intimation reached my home by a 
 letter returned from France, undelivered, and 
 bearing a slip containing these words, type- 
 written: "Killed in action September 9." 
 
 Three days later a knock at the door, and 
 152 
 
THE WOMAN WHO WAITS 
 
 a telegraph boy handed in a telegram which 
 read: 
 
 "Most deeply regret inform you Cap. H. G. 
 
 Nobbs London Regiment, Killed in Action 
 
 Sep. 9." 
 
 and also another telegram: 
 
 "The King & Queen deeply regret loss you 
 and the Army have sustained by the death of 
 Cap. Nobbs, in the service of his Country. 
 Their Majestys deeply sympathise with you in 
 your sorrow. 
 
 "Keeper of the Privy Purse." 
 
 Next morning my name appeared in the official 
 casualty list under the heading: "Killed in 
 Action." 
 
 Letters followed from the front confirming my 
 death, and even describing the manner of my death. 
 
 Such things are unavoidable in modern war- 
 fare; and only those who understand the condi- 
 tions and the difficulties can appreciate the 
 possibility of avoiding occasional errors. It is 
 surprising to me that the errors in reporting 
 casualties are not more frequent, and it speaks 
 
 153 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 well of the care given by those responsible for 
 this task. 
 
 It is extremely difficult, and occasional mis- 
 takes are only too apt to be widely advertised 
 and give a wrong impression. Think of the task 
 of the hundreds and thousands of casualties ; and 
 the errors, terrible though the suffering entailed 
 may be, are comparatively insignificant. 
 
 But I have led the reader away from my story. 
 
 They thought me dead. Yes; killed in action. 
 There was no getting away from it; no need for 
 me to describe the tears and sorrow. Those who 
 suffer must bear their sorrow in silence — more 
 honour to them. 
 
 Obituary notices appeared in the newspapers, 
 and letters and telegrams of condolence poured in. 
 
 My solicitors took possession of my belongings 
 and explained their contents to my family. 
 
 A firm of photographers who generously in- 
 vite officers to have their portraits taken free of 
 charge, now offered the plate for a consideration 
 to the illustrated papers; and even as I write 
 these lines many months later, my picture is 
 dished up again in this week's issue of an illus- 
 trated magazine as among the dead. 
 
 iS4 
 
THE WOMAN WHO WAITS 
 
 In short, during those few weeks which fol- 
 lowed my fall, I became as dead and completely 
 buried as modern conventions demanded. 
 
 It is expensive to die and not be dead, for 
 clothes of mourning cannot afterwards be hidden 
 under any other disguises; and it is a peculiar 
 feeling to be called upon to pay for your own 
 funeral expenses. 
 
 And when once you are officially dead it is 
 very difficult to come officially to life again. 
 Months have passed, and I am still waiting for 
 the official correction to appear. 
 
 As I walk through the streets of London my 
 friends stare at me as though I were a ghost. I 
 feel as though I am a living apology for the mis- 
 take of others. 
 
 To the illustrated magazine I have just referred 
 to I wrote assuring the editor that I had every 
 reason to believe he was wrong in his contention. 
 He replied, enclosing my photograph, and asking 
 me if I was sure I was not some other person, 
 as the picture referred to an officer who was 
 surely dead. 
 
 Perhaps even now I am wrong. Yet, I ought to 
 know. 
 
 *55 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 WARD 43, RESERVE LAZARETTE 5, 
 HANOVER 
 
 OCCUPANTS OF THE WARD. CHIVALRY OP 
 THE AIR 
 
 "OEFORE the war Reserve Lazarette 5 at 
 Hanover was a military school. It is now 
 used for wounded military prisoners, and for 
 German soldiers suffering from venereal disease. 
 
 The same operating-room is used for all pa- 
 tients; the wounded prisoners receiving treat- 
 ment in the morning, and the Germans in the 
 afternoon. 
 
 There is a fair-sized garden, not unattractive, 
 and the wounded are permitted to take the fresh 
 air, and to walk about freely, if they are able 
 to do so. So are the German patients, and so 
 are their visitors, on Tuesdays and Saturdays, 
 from 2 till 4 in the afternoon. There is no sepa- 
 ration of the two classes of patients, and honour 
 must share the company of disgrace in her cap- 
 tivity. 
 
 1S6 
 
WARD 43, RESERVE LAZARETTE 5 
 
 Ward 43 was a billiard-room in the old days, 
 and the small-sized billiard-table is pushed against 
 the wall and used as a table. There were nine 
 beds in the ward; and four British and four 
 French officers lay side by side in captivity. 
 
 The friendship of the two great nations was 
 reflected in the maimed and pain-ridden bodies 
 of these soldiers lying side by side, helpless, un- 
 complaining, but still champions of Anglo-French 
 unity. Their cause is the same; their pain is 
 the same; and side by side they lay, as side by 
 side they had fallen. 
 
 Of the French officers I got to know but little, 
 for they could speak no English, and the English 
 could speak no French. 
 
 On my left was an officer of the Royal Flying 
 Corps, Lieutenant Donelly. He had been brought 
 to earth after a fight thirteen thousand feet in 
 the air, against five German planes. With his 
 left arm disabled and three fingers shot off his 
 right hand, and his engine out of action, he nose- 
 dived to the ground. A German aeroplane nose- 
 dived after him, all the while firing as it dropped. 
 
 With only a finger and thumb to manipulate 
 his machine, he managed to effect a landing. 
 
 i57 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 The moment earth was struck the firing ceased, 
 and the Germans landing from their machines 
 approached him and treated him courteously. 
 
 There is a spirit of chivalry among those who 
 fight in the air, as both sides can testify. The 
 air alone is their arena, and neither side will 
 continue a combat on terra firma. 
 
 On my right was Lieutenant Rogan of the 
 Royal Irish Regiment, a sturdy fellow, who had 
 been in the Guards. 
 
 He was attacking some Germans, who were 
 putting up a stout resistance during the fight for 
 Guinchy; and as he was rushing forward, a Ger- 
 man threw a hand-grenade, which exploded in 
 his face. His right eye was removed at St. 
 Quentin, and he was slowly recovering the sight 
 of the left. 
 
 In the bed next to his was another young 
 officer of the Royal Flying Corps, a boy about 
 eighteen, very small, and only weighing about 
 eight stone. Mabbitt was his name, Second 
 Lieutenant Mabbitt; and he, too, had fought 
 many thousand feet in the air against desperate 
 odds, fracturing his leg in the fall. 
 
 German airmen seem to make a practice of 
 158 
 
WARD 43, RESERVE LAZARETTE 5 
 
 waiting until a single English aeroplane appears 
 in sight; then they ascend in a flight of five to 
 attack, and woe betide the English airman who 
 happens to be soaring above in a slow machine. 
 
 Deeds of pluck are common on land and sea; 
 but the heroic combats in the air are a new sen- 
 sation, with unknown terrors realised in a single 
 gasp; and the youth of our country defy it. Yet, 
 who is there to tell their deeds if they fall ? 
 
 Shortly after I arrived two British officers were 
 brought in, Lieutenant Wishart of the Canadians, 
 who had a bullet wound through his leg; and 
 Second Lieutenant Parker, who had a hole in his 
 leg as big as an apple, and who spent most of the 
 day in declaring that he was as fit as a fiddle. 
 
 But the occupant of the remaining bed was one 
 who endeared himself to the hearts of all. He 
 was Saniez (pronounced Sanyea), our orderly. 
 But Saniez must have a chapter to himself. 
 
 159 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 SANIEZ 
 
 jy ESERVE LAZARETTE 5, Hanover, boasted 
 of no hospital nurses. There was no tender 
 touch of a feminine hand to administer to the 
 comfort and alleviate the distress of the wounded. 
 There was no delicate and nourishing diet to 
 strengthen the weak; neither did we expect it. 
 We were prisoners of war, and though our suffer- 
 ings were great, we were still soldiers. 
 
 But those who have passed through Ward 43 
 will always look back with gratitude and admira- 
 tion on one whose unselfish devotion, tender care, 
 and magnificent spirit was an example and in- 
 spiration to all of us. 
 
 His name was Saniez, the orderly in charge of 
 the ward; a Florence Nightingale, whose unceas- 
 ing attention day and night, whose tender watch- 
 fulness and devoted care and kindness made him 
 loved and worshipped by the maimed and help- 
 less prisoners who were placed under his charge. 
 
 Saniez was no ordinary man. No reward was 
 160 
 
SANIEZ 
 
 his, except the heartfelt gratitude of those whom 
 he tended. The wounded who passed through 
 the ward left behind a debt of gratitude which 
 could never be paid, and with a spirit of fortitude 
 and courage created by his noble example. 
 
 There are compensations for all suffering; and 
 no greater compensation could any wish for than 
 the devotion of Saniez. 
 
 Saniez had suffered too, but would never speak 
 of it. He had his moments of anguish and 
 despair. He had a home, too; but his dreams 
 he kept to himself, and his care he gave to 
 others. 
 
 Saniez was a Frenchman, a big, burly artillery- 
 man, with eyes bright, laughing, and sympathetic. 
 
 He had been captured nearly two years before; 
 and suffered severely from the effects of frozen 
 feet. Yet, painful as it must have been to get 
 about, he seldom sat down. 
 
 All through those long days and nights weak 
 voices would call him: it was always, "Saniez, 
 Saniez!" and slop, slop, slop, we would hear 
 him in his slippered feet, moving down the ward, 
 attending to one and then another. 
 
 Saniez would be quiet and sympathetic, with 
 161 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 a voice soft and soothing; and the next moment, 
 cheerful and boisterous. Captivity could not 
 subdue Saniez, or make him anything else than a 
 loyal French soldier. 
 
 He would guard his patients against the clumsy 
 touch of a German orderly like a tiger guarding 
 its young. He would bribe or steal to obtain a 
 little delicacy for his patients. 
 
 He seemed to know but a single German word, 
 which he used on every possible occasion to ex- 
 press his disgust of the Germans. It was a slang 
 word, but when Saniez used it, its single utter- 
 ance was a volume of expression. It was nix, 
 and when Saniez said nix, I knew he was shaking 
 his woolly head in disgust. 
 
 Saniez had a marvellous voice, and when he 
 sang he held us spell-bound, and he knew it. I 
 do not speak French, and could not understand 
 his words, but his expression was wonderful; 
 and he would fling his arms about in frantic ges- 
 ticulation. 
 
 When Saniez sang he seemed to lift himself 
 into a different atmosphere; he was back again 
 in France; his songs all seemed about his country 
 and his home. He seemed to rouse himself into 
 
 162 
 
SANIEZ 
 
 a sudden spirit of defiance, and then his voice 
 would grow soft and pathetic; and then slop, slop, 
 slop, in his slippered feet, he would hurry off to 
 a bedside to fix a bandage or administer a drink 
 of water. 
 
 Every morning German soldiers could be heard 
 marching past our windows, singing their national 
 songs. We listened; Saniez would stop his work. 
 What we wanted to say we would leave to Saniez, 
 as broom in hand and eyes of fire he would wait 
 until their voices died away in the distance, and 
 then, with a fierce shake of his head he would 
 shout: "Boche! Nix!" and, flinging his arms 
 about his head, would sing the "Marseillaise." 
 
 One evening, and I remember it well, though 
 no pen of mine can adequately describe the soul- 
 stirring picture — we had a concert in Ward 43. 
 Four British and four French officers — a symbol 
 of the Entente Cordiale — lay side by side in 
 their cots, while convalescent prisoners from other 
 wards sat in front to cheer them with song and 
 music. 
 
 The Allies seemed well represented: An Eng- 
 lish Tommy with a guitar sang a comic song; a 
 Russian soldier with a three-cornered string in- 
 
 163 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 strument, sang a folk-song of his native land; a 
 Belgian soldier played the violin; and Saniez 
 sang for France. 
 
 The applause that greeted the finish of each 
 song was of a mixed kind; for those whose arms 
 were maimed would shout, and those who could 
 not shout would bang a chair or clap their hands. 
 It was a patriotic and inspiring scene, and even 
 the German orderly, coming in to see what was 
 going on, was tempted to stop and listen. 
 
 We felt we were no longer prisoners; the spirit 
 of the Allies was unconquerable. 
 
 Enthusiasm reached its highest pitch when 
 Saniez brought it to a dramatic conclusion. 
 Saniez had just finished a soul-inspiring song of 
 his homeland. His audience could not withhold 
 their applause until he finished, and Saniez could 
 not restrain his spirit until the end of the ap- 
 plause. He suddenly threw up his arms, and at 
 the top of his voice burst forth into the "Mar- 
 seillaise," and the German orderly bolted out of 
 the door. 
 
 Then the concert party ran to their dormitories ; 
 the lights were turned out, and we sought safety 
 in sleep. 
 
 164 
 
Captain Nobbs after his release from the German prison. 
 
SANIEZ 
 
 We used to ask Saniez about his home; and he 
 seemed to grow quiet and confident. His home, 
 he said, was about three miles behind the German 
 line. 
 
 Some one suggested that it was in a dangerous 
 place, as the British were advancing, and no 
 house near the line could escape untouched; but 
 Saniez was confident. 
 
 No ! shells could not possibly harm it. His 
 wife and sister lived there; it was his home. He 
 was a prisoner, but whatever happened to him, the 
 combined fury of the nations could not touch 
 his home. 
 
 Saniez ! Saniez ! May you never awaken from 
 your dream ! 
 
 165 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 LIFE IN HANOVER HOSPITAL 
 
 HOSPITAL DIET. INTERVIEWED BY A GERMAN 
 DOCTOR. DISCHARGED FROM HOSPITAL 
 
 npHE diet in hospital can hardly be described 
 as suitable for invalids. At the same time 
 it was substantial as compared with what is re- 
 ceived in prison camps. For breakfast we re- 
 ceived coffee, with two very small, crusty rolls, 
 each about the size of a tangerine orange; each 
 roll cut in half, and a slight suspicion of jam placed 
 between; for dejeuner one cup of coffee, one roll, 
 and some very strong cheese, quite unfit to eat. 
 The dinner was usually quite good, consisting of 
 soup, a little meat and vegetables, and stewed 
 apples or gooseberries. At 3 o'clock a cup of 
 coffee and a small roll; at 6 o'clock supper, con- 
 sisting of tea without milk, strong cheese, or Ger- 
 man sausage or brawn, and a slice of bread. 
 
 For this diet we paid eighty marks per month. 
 
 An officer receives pay from the German Gov- 
 166 
 
LIFE IN HANOVER HOSPITAL 
 
 ernment on the following scale: lieutenant, sixty- 
 marks per month; captain, one hundred marks 
 per month. The German Government recover 
 the payments from the English Government, and 
 it is charged against the officers ' pay in England. 
 
 No food is supplied free to officers either in 
 hospital or camp; and they cannot purchase 
 anything beyond the regular issue. 
 
 With the exception of the dinner, I found the 
 food of very little use to me for the first week or 
 two, as having lost the power in my jaw, and being 
 unable to open it more than half an inch, I couldn't 
 tackle the rolls, and what couldn't be eaten had 
 to be left; there was no substitute. 
 
 There was another diet, in which the coffee 
 was replaced by hot milk, which would have been 
 very desirable, except that the dinner consisted 
 of some filthy substance, which was very unpala- 
 table. 
 
 For the first week, therefore, I had practically 
 only one meal a day, the dinner; but afterwards, 
 by dint of changing from one diet to another I 
 managed to get the dinner of No. i diet, and 
 the milk of No. 2. 
 
 There was a canteen in the hospital where 
 167 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 cigarettes, chocolates, biscuits, and eggs were 
 offered for sale. 
 
 The biscuits were never in stock; the chocolate, 
 though high in price, was so thin that there was 
 nothing of it; and the cigarettes were unsmokable. 
 
 It was a sorry day when we could get no more 
 eggs. We used to depend upon the eggs for sup- 
 per; for the cheese was uneatable, the brawn 
 suspicious, and the sausage like boiled linoleum. 
 German sausage at the best of time is open to 
 argument; but German sausage in a country 
 which has been blockaded for two and a half 
 years is worthy of serious thought. 
 
 The surgical attention was good, though the 
 Russian prisoners who assisted were apt to be 
 rough; and as neither the German doctor nor his 
 Russian assistant could understand each other, 
 and the wounded could understand neither, nor 
 be understood in turn, the situation was some- 
 times difficult. 
 
 The doctor visited each bed at 8 a. m. every 
 morning to inquire the condition of the wounded ; 
 but whatever you had to say — which of course 
 he did not understand — the reply was always : 
 "Goot, Goot." 
 
 168 
 
LIFE IN HANOVER HOSPITAL 
 
 On one occasion we saw flags flying over the 
 city, and that evening for supper we were given 
 a hard-boiled egg. We were told it was the 
 Empress's birthday. We made anxious inquiries 
 as to when the Kaiser and the Crown Prince 
 would have a birthday. 
 
 A few days after I arrived at Hanover, my right 
 eye was removed, and the following day the 
 doctor told me, through an interpreter, that I 
 should be sent back to England. I asked when 
 I should be sent, and was told in three or four 
 weeks. 
 
 It was about this time that I began to develop 
 an unsatiable appetite for sweet things. I have 
 found that many have had the same experience, 
 after a period of privation following upon their 
 wounds. I would buy up all the jam, chocolate, 
 and toffy I could lay my hands on, which came 
 in parcels to other prisoners. When I wrote home 
 for parcels to be sent to me, I hardly mentioned 
 food, which afterwards became so necessary, 
 but asked for sweet stuff. 
 
 But what I needed more urgently than any- 
 thing else was money. When I was picked up 
 the only cash I had on me was two francs, and this 
 
 169 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 I exchanged for a mark and sixty pfennigs, 
 which, with five marks I was able to borrow, 
 kept me going for a while. But it was soon gone, 
 and I found myself without a sou, and no pay 
 due for six weeks. 
 
 About ten days after I arrived at Hanover I 
 was able to sit out in the garden, and from then 
 on I began to mend. 
 
 Saniez used to dress me, and his watchful eye 
 was upon me wherever I went. 
 
 Sometimes of an afternoon I used to sit by the 
 fire. I used to like sitting by the fire, because its 
 warmth misled me into thinking I could distin- 
 guish the light. If I happened to be rather quiet 
 Saniez would come to my side, and I would feel 
 that he was watching me. Then he would speak, 
 and each would find some word to make the other 
 understand : 
 
 ' ' Cigarette, Capitaine ? ' ' 
 
 "Oui, Saniez." 
 
 He would take one of his own cigarettes, put it 
 in my mouth and light it. 
 
 I could neither taste nor smell it ; but it pleased 
 Saniez, so I took it. 
 
 "Tres bien, Capitaine, puff, puff!" 
 170 
 
LIFE IN HANOVER HOSPITAL 
 
 "Oui, Saniez, tres bien." 
 
 "Tres bien, good. Monsieur Parker says, 
 'Trays beens.' Joke, ah, good joke!" 
 
 He would go away, but still watching me from 
 a distance, would presently come back again, and 
 placing his large hand on my shoulder, would 
 say: 
 
 "Couche, Capitaine?" and leading me to my 
 bed would lay me on it, and carefully tuck me in 
 for the night. 
 
 There was a German non-commissioned officer 
 employed in the hospital who was really a good 
 sort. He could speak good English, having 
 worked in English hotels before the war. 
 
 He would sometimes sit by my bed for a 
 chat : 
 
 "Where were you wounded, Captain?" he 
 asked one day. 
 
 "Leuze Wood on the Somme," I replied. 
 
 "Somme dreadful place, dreadful war, Captain." 
 
 "Very!" 
 
 "It is not fighting now; it is murder, both sides 
 murder — yah." 
 
 "Have you been to the front yet ?" 
 "No; don't want to, either; don't like soldier- 
 171 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 ing. German people sick of war; but got to do 
 what we are told. Captain, you and I could set- 
 tle it in five minutes." 
 
 "I'm not so sure; it's nearly settled me." 
 
 As the weeks passed by I began anxiously and 
 earnestly to wait for news of my exchange; but 
 three weeks went, and the fourth and fifth week 
 passed, and still no news. About the seventh 
 week Saniez burst into the ward one morning and 
 rushed up to my bed. 
 
 1 ' Bon jour, Capitaine. Good, good ! Office, 
 quick," and he began hurriedly dressing me. 
 
 I was to report to the office at once. I had been 
 waiting for this, and dreaming of this moment for 
 weeks. 
 
 Saniez knew it too, and as I went through the 
 door I heard him shout: 
 
 ' ' Angleterre, Capitaine ; tres bien ! ' ' 
 
 I waited outside the office for about half an 
 hour. Wishart of the Canadians was inside, and 
 presently he came out to fetch me: 
 
 'They want to see you inside. Who do you 
 think is in there?" 
 
 "I don't know — who?" 
 
 "Doctor Pohlmann. He supervises all the 
 172 
 
LIFE IN HANOVER HOSPITAL 
 
 prison camps belonging to the Tenth Army. 
 We've got to go to a prisoners' camp." 
 
 My hopes were dashed to the ground. 
 
 He led me in, and I sat down before Doctor 
 Pohlmann, who spoke excellent English, and ex- 
 plained that he was a doctor of languages. 
 
 He filled up a form, taking from me particulars 
 of my name, regiment, and the usual details; and 
 then, turning to Wishart, told him to go. 
 
 I began to feel that I was in for a rough time. 
 Why did Doctor Pohlmann wish to speak to me 
 alone. 
 
 I sat before him in silence, too disappointed at 
 the turn events had taken to care what happened. 
 But as soon as the door had closed he turned 
 towards me, and his remarks surprised me beyond 
 measure. Not a single question did he put to 
 me to elicit information. 
 
 "Captain, you are quite blind?" 
 
 "Yes, quite." 
 
 "I am sorry; I did not know you were blind." 
 
 He seemed quite sympathetic. Not that I 
 wanted it from him, yet so relieved was I to escape 
 cross-examination that I felt quite bucked. 
 
 He continued: "The hospital people say you 
 173 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 are ready to be sent away. When you leave here 
 you come under my charge. They did not tell 
 me you were blind. I have no proper place to 
 put you; I do not know where to send you." 
 
 "If you will allow me, I can suggest a 
 place." 
 
 "Ah, yes, I know, England. Of course you will 
 be sent there in time, but in the meantime I must 
 take charge of you. I will send you wherever 
 you like. You can choose your own camp. What 
 camp would you like to go to ?" 
 
 "What camps have you got ?" 
 
 "I have Gottisleau, Osnabruck, Blenhorst." 
 
 "Well, it's very good of you to give me the 
 choice; but they all sound alike to me. How can 
 I choose ?" 
 
 "Have you any friends in either of them?" 
 
 "Well, really the names are unintelligible; I 
 couldn't even repeat them. Lieutenant Rogan 
 was sent away last week. Where did he go ?" 
 
 "Ah, he went to Osnabruck. Good camp! 
 Good commandant ! I will send you and Wishart 
 there, and I will arrange to put you three in one 
 room together. If I can do anything for you at 
 any time, let me know." 
 
 174 
 
LIFE IN HANOVER HOSPITAL 
 
 The interview was over. He was a plausible 
 fellow, and he probably knew his job. 
 
 When I was getting ready to leave the hospital 
 Saniez insisted on packing my clothes himself. I 
 thought nothing about it at the time, but when I 
 unpacked my clothes in camp I found concealed 
 inside a small packet of sugar. Then I under- 
 stood Saniez. 
 
 Wishart and I were told we could either walk 
 to the station or pay for the hire of a motor-car. 
 We rode to the station, laughing and talking, and 
 smoking cigars which we obtained from the can- 
 teen. 
 
 175 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 OBSERVATIONS AND IMPRESSIONS 
 
 EMPLOYMENT OF PRISONERS. PARCELS. MEN OF 
 MONS 
 
 T T 7*HEN I first became aware that there was a 
 probability of my being exchanged I set to 
 work to gather what information I could. 
 
 I came into contact with a good many private 
 soldiers, and in conversation with them I became 
 deeply interested in the commercial value of pris- 
 oners of war ; for it appeared to me clearly evident 
 that in a country where there were over a million 
 prisoners, possibilities were unlimited; and the 
 German authorities appeared, with businesslike 
 organisation, to be taking the fullest advantage 
 of their opportunities. 
 
 The unprecedented scale upon which prisoners 
 have been made during the present war has 
 opened up a problem unique in the annals of his- 
 tory. The more prisoners you take the more 
 mouths you have to feed; and the greater be- 
 
 176 
 
OBSERVATIONS AND IMPRESSIONS 
 
 comes the man power necessary for their super- 
 vision. 
 
 With the ever-increasing number of prisoners 
 the problem grows in enormity, and can either 
 develop into embarrassing proportions, or by sci- 
 entific handling can be turned to advantage. 
 
 In England for over two years we have herded 
 our prisoners behind bayonets and barbed wire. 
 The financial resources of the country have been 
 poured out to feed idle hands, supplying food 
 without repayment, at a time when the food and 
 labour problems of the nation are becoming its 
 most serious problems. 
 
 For over two years we have allowed the 
 question to slide into obscurity, until to-day in 
 our own country the only part of the commu- 
 nity which has no anxiety or participation in 
 the problem of living and daily sustenance is the 
 German prisoner in our midst; and yet to-day a 
 large part of what should be our fighting power 
 is kept from the firing-line to supply the needs 
 of the nation and feed the mouths of our idle 
 prisoners. 
 
 It has never occurred to us, or if it has we 
 have ignored it, that without contravening the 
 
 177 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 law of nations, prisoners can be made to feed 
 themselves, and be employed in any industry, 
 provided they are not put to work connected 
 with the war. 
 
 It has never occurred to us that we have in 
 our midst many of the trade secrets of a country 
 which for generations has been our rival in com- 
 merce. 
 
 It has never occurred to us that Germany has 
 in her midst men who hold the trade secrets of 
 our empire, and is learning them day by day by 
 the employment of our men in her industries. 
 
 If we neglect this problem any longer we may 
 find that when the world resumes its normal 
 trade activity Germany, on this point at any rate, 
 will have scored a commercial victory. 
 
 The nations of the world are at war. But the 
 armies of to-day are civilian armies, comprising 
 men of industrial and commercial education, and 
 the prisoners of to-day are men of commercial and 
 industrial value. 
 
 Our adversaries have been quick to recognise 
 this. We seem to be still imbued with the idea 
 that the German soldier in our midst is simply a 
 fighting machine ! 
 
 178 
 
OBSERVATIONS AND IMPRESSIONS 
 
 So he is. But when the time came for the civilian 
 to take up arms and supplement the professional 
 fighting force, there fell into our hands an indus- 
 trial fighting machine in the guise of a military 
 prisoner. 
 
 We have the impression that a military prisoner 
 is an individual whose one desire is to escape and 
 jump at our throats; and that the safety of the 
 nation compels us to stand over him with a bay- 
 onet and regard his every movement with sus- 
 picion. 
 
 Yes, I do not deny that a very large number 
 of prisoners in our midst would be glad to get 
 back to their homeland, especially if there was 
 no further prospect of having to face the British 
 in the firing-line. But keep a man idle for months 
 behind barbed wire, like an animal in a cage, and 
 you encourage his desire to escape far more than 
 if you diverted his mind by industrial employ- 
 ment. 
 
 Have we not a barbed wire supplied by nature 
 completely surrounding our country ? Are we not 
 on an island ? 
 
 I had many opportunities of talking with our 
 men in Germany and of gaining information as 
 
 179 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 to the manner in which the German authorities 
 were taking advantage of the problem we avoid, 
 or occupy our time in idle discussion. 
 
 I will take one concrete example. In Hameln 
 Lager the commandant has charge of 50,000 pris- 
 oners, of which 30,000 are "living out" ! They 
 are working out in commandos on the farms, in 
 the factories, in the workshops; in large batches, 
 small batches, and even singly. 
 
 I met one man who had been employed alone 
 in a wheelwright's shop. He was a wheelwright 
 by trade. How many wheelwrights' shops are 
 there in England which could do to-day with one 
 of the wheelwrights we are keeping idle behind 
 barbed wire ? 
 
 What information did that man's employer gain 
 by the way the work was done ? How simple the 
 method of obtaining the labour: simply go to the 
 labour bureau attached to the imprisonment camp 
 nearest to your workshop, and ask for a wheel- 
 wright. You keep your industry going, and thus 
 in the only practical way keep open the job for 
 the man who is called to the colours. 
 
 The employer pays the man no wages, but the 
 local trade-union rate of wage is paid to the com- 
 
 180 
 
OBSERVATIONS AND IMPRESSIONS 
 
 mandant who supplies him. Thirty thousand 
 prisoners from a single camp contributing to the 
 industry of the nation, and the wages of 30,000 
 prisoners contributing to the cost of the war. 
 The prisoner receives through the commandant 30 
 pfennigs (3d.) per day, and is glad of the em- 
 ployment. 
 
 A very large number of prisoners are employed 
 as agricultural labourers, and it is quite reasonable 
 to suppose that all the food supplied to the pris- 
 oners, such as it is, is grown by prisoner labour. 
 
 I was told by men who had worked on farms 
 that they were compelled to work from 4 in the 
 morning until 9 at night. In some cases only 
 one or two were employed on small farms. 
 
 I asked those men why they did not embrace 
 the opportunity to make their escape. But they 
 said that while the work was hard they preferred 
 it ; as they lived with the farmer, who treated them 
 well if they worked well. They ate at the farm- 
 er's table, and had no non-commissioned officers 
 to bully them; whereas, if they attempted to 
 escape and were caught they would be sent to 
 work in the mines or other equally unpopular 
 task. 
 
 181 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 Large numbers are employed in the sugar-re- 
 fineries, coal-mines, and salt-mines, the latter task 
 being the most dreaded; for with the food they 
 were given their health broke down within a few 
 months. 
 
 The English prisoner said that when the party 
 he was with first arrived at the mine and saw 
 what they had to do they refused to work. Their 
 guard thereupon threatened them, and when they 
 still refused they were taken outside one by one, 
 and the remainder would hear a shot fired, and 
 then another would be taken out. 
 
 It was a fake. The men could not be intimi- 
 dated, and they were sent back to the Lager. 
 
 It was on another occasion that the man I am 
 referring to was put to work in the mine. 
 
 I was asked by another if I knew anything 
 about 200 German prisoners being sent back to 
 work in France, because they were not allowed 
 to work in England. He said that when the 
 Germans heard about it they took 200 of our men 
 from Doberitz camp and sent them to work in 
 Poland as a reprisal. 
 
 The work there may not have been very much 
 harder, but it was a great hardship upon our men, 
 
 182 
 
OBSERVATIONS AND IMPRESSIONS 
 
 because there would be a considerable delay in 
 their parcels of food reaching them from England, 
 and meantime they had to subsist on the scanty 
 fare supplied by their captors. 
 
 The men seemed to be getting parcels on a very 
 liberal scale. Some were getting more than others, 
 but they divided up by eating in messes of four 
 or six, or some such number. 
 
 I did not hear of many complaints of parcels 
 being undelivered, though in some cases parcels 
 were missed. But so far as I could ascertain they 
 were not withheld in any deliberate or systematic 
 manner; and when one comes to consider the 
 enormous number handled and the probability of 
 parcels getting lost through insecure packing, the 
 number of complaints I heard of seemed com- 
 paratively insignificant. 
 
 The Russian prisoners seemed to be the least 
 provided for, and parcels for them were very rare. 
 They lived or rather starved on the German ra- 
 tions ; and when men have to work or remain in the 
 open air all day such a ration was a form of torture. 
 
 When the watery liquid of potato water called 
 soup was issued from the kitchens fatigue parties 
 were paraded to draw the issue for each mess. 
 
 183 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 The British prisoners were not altogether de- 
 pendent on this ration, and would let the Russian 
 prisoners carry the dixy for them, and in return 
 they would be given a cup of soup by the British 
 Tommies. So hungry were the Russians for this 
 little "extra" that hundreds of them would wait 
 for hours in the cold on the off-chance of a few 
 getting the job. 
 
 One cannot speak with these British Tommies 
 and hear of their hardships without feeling a 
 profound admiration for their indomitable spirit. 
 You can take a British soldier prisoner, send him 
 far from the protection of his country, but he is 
 British wherever he goes and his courage and re- 
 sourcefulness cannot be broken. 
 
 Whenever I met a man who had been a prisoner 
 since the beginning of the war, I made a point of 
 getting his story to ascertain the truth about the 
 barbarities I had read of. 
 
 There was no mistaking these men. I could 
 not see them but I seemed instinctively to recog- 
 nise, and whether it was my imagination or not 
 I cannot tell ; but their manner seemed distinctive 
 and they spoke like men who had suffered much 
 and were harbouring a just grievance, and lived 
 
 184 
 
OBSERVATIONS AND IMPRESSIONS 
 
 for the day when they would revenge themselves. 
 As one man put it to me: 
 
 "If we ever see a German in England when we 
 get back we will kill him." 
 
 These men were taken at Mons; captured, most 
 of them, by sacrificing themselves in rear-guard 
 fighting to save the main British army. 
 
 These men have been in captivity for two and 
 a half years. Just think of it ! But do we think 
 of it enough, or have we forgotten it ? 
 
 The British Tommy has an individuality which 
 is not always understood. Ask him in an official 
 way to give evidence of his treatment, and he will 
 sit tight and say not a word. Take out your note- 
 book to write down his evidence and he can think 
 of nothing, but all the same he knows a lot. 
 
 I know this to be true ; for after I was exchanged 
 I spoke to a soldier who had been exchanged at 
 the same time, and he said that a Government 
 official had been round to question the men on 
 the treatment they had received in Germany. 
 During our conversation he told me that 200 of 
 our men had been put to work in a Zeppelin fac- 
 tory. I asked him if he had given this in evi- 
 dence, but he said: 
 
 185 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 "No, not likely; they got nothing out of me." 
 
 I asked him why not, for it was his duty. But 
 he said they would only have asked him a lot 
 more questions to try and tie him up in a knot. 
 
 When I came across a soldier who was captured 
 at the beginning of the war I used to invite him 
 to my room when no one was about. We would 
 sit in front of the fire and drink a cup of cocoa 
 and smoke a pipe. 
 
 I never asked him questions, but let him talk 
 as he felt like it. There were generally one or 
 two others in the room, and when we began to 
 feel we knew each other and were chums together 
 in adversity, he would tell his story in his own 
 way. 
 
 I met these men in Hanover Hospital, Osna- 
 bruck camp, and Blenhorst camp. I will not 
 publish their names for fear of paining their rela- 
 tives; but I have their names and the names of 
 witnesses who heard the stories, which I will re- 
 late in my next chapter. 
 
 186 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 STORIES OF THE HEROES OF MONS 
 
 ''I A HE statements which follow, and which were 
 made to me while I was a prisoner of war in 
 Germany, are not from picked soldiers who hap- 
 pened to have sensational stories. They were the 
 only men whom I met who were prisoners in the 
 early days. 
 
 Being blind myself, I could not, of course, see 
 the men I was speaking to, but their tone im- 
 pressed me very much as being men who had suf- 
 fered in silence. 
 
 It was necessary for me to study very carefully 
 what they said and impress it on my memory ; and 
 I have committed their statements to writing im- 
 mediately on my release, for to carry written 
 statements over the frontier was entirely out of 
 the question. 
 
 I have put down nothing which was not told 
 to me ; neither have I tried to embellish or enlarge 
 upon the statements made, or frame the words 
 
 187 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 of the men in any way that might give an exag- 
 gerated impression of what occurred. 
 
 It is quite possible, however, that one or two 
 incidents which I have reported from one man 
 may be part of the story of one of the others. But 
 it can be taken as an absolute fact that, taken as 
 a whole, the statements are a true recital of these 
 men's own description of their experience. 
 
 The men were in no way excited. I obtained 
 the information when chatting in the ordinary 
 way over a pipe of tobacco, whenever the men 
 had an opportunity of coming to my room to have 
 a chat. 
 
 The Story of Private , West Kent 
 
 Regiment 
 
 "I was captured at Mons, sir. Been here over 
 two years now. Things are not so bad now as 
 they were at first. 
 
 "I've seen some things which I shan't easily 
 forget. I've been keeping them to myself because 
 we dare not talk of them. 
 
 "Some of the fellows have had a terrible time. 
 When the war is over any German who is met in 
 England by any prisoners of war will have a 
 
 188 
 
STORIES OF THE HEROES OF MONS 
 
 rough passage. There won't be any need to hold 
 ourselves back any longer. My goodness, sir, 
 they'll never get away alive ! 
 
 "Not long after I was captured 70 English sol- 
 diers were taken away from the Lager one day. 
 They never knew where they were going. They 
 were taken to a munition factory; and when they 
 found out where they were they passed the word 
 along to refuse to work. 
 
 "When the Germans told them what they had 
 to do, they refused. Their guards threatened 
 them, and said it would be the worse for them if 
 they didn't; but they wouldn't budge. 
 
 "Then they were taken out and made to stand 
 in a row against a wall; and a firing-party was 
 drawn up in front of them with loaded rifles, but 
 not one of them flinched. 
 
 "They were told that unless they went to 
 work they would be shot, and although the firing- 
 party was standing in front of them not one of 
 them would budge. 
 
 "The threat was not carried out, and they were 
 sent back to the Lager. 
 
 "Before we started getting parcels we had a 
 terrible time trying to live on the food they gave 
 
 189 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 us. All they gave us was a cup of coffee and two 
 slices of black bread in the morning; and for din- 
 ner and supper a basin of hot potato water. It 
 was so thin and weak it was just like water that 
 potatoes had been boiled in." 
 
 The soldier whose statement is given above 
 has since been exchanged to Switzerland, owing 
 to an injury to his sight, caused by the work he 
 was employed upon while a prisoner. 
 
 The Story of Private of the Leicester 
 
 Regiment 
 
 "I was captured during the retreat in August, 
 1914. 
 
 1 ' My Company was left behind as a rear-guard, 
 to enable the rest of the battalion to get away. 
 Our trench was only about two feet deep. Al- 
 though the Germans were coming on very fast 
 and in enormous numbers, we were not allowed 
 to retire. 
 
 "The Germans charged us three times. We 
 lost all our officers, and although we kept on 
 fighting they came on in such large numbers it 
 must have been the main body, for they were all 
 
 190 
 
STORIES OF THE HEROES OF MONS 
 
 round us, and most of the fellows were killed or 
 wounded. 
 
 "They had their revenge on us, too, when they 
 got us, for the German soldiers who were told to 
 look after us did terrible things. They took us 
 one by one and made us run the gauntlet. 
 
 "I was bruised all over when I got through, 
 and so were the other fellows. 
 
 "One chap when he was running the gauntlet 
 was struck in the face by the butt of a rifle; his 
 nose was smashed and his face covered in blood, 
 and he fell to the ground insensible. They threw 
 him in a ditch, because they thought he was 
 dead; but he was able to crawl out next morn- 
 ing. 
 
 "It was awful, that first night, and they didn't 
 know what to do with us. They made us stand 
 the whole night through in a loose wire entangle- 
 ment, so that we couldn't walk about or sit down; 
 and it rained like anything all night long. 
 
 "Then we were put in cattle trucks and sent 
 into Germany, and for the first two days they 
 did not give us any food or water. 
 
 "On the second day we stopped at a station 
 and a woman came towards us with a large can 
 
 191 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 of soup, and we thought we were going to be 
 fed; but she brought it right up to us, and said: 
 'Ugh, dirty Englanders,' and poured it on to the 
 line. 
 
 "I was taken to Soltau Lager; and the food 
 they gave us consisted of a cup of acorn coffee 
 in the morning and a small piece of black bread, 
 which had to last all day, and wouldn't make 
 more than two good slices. 
 
 ' ' For dinner we got a basin of very thin potato 
 soup ; sometimes we got a potato in it, and some- 
 times we didn't. For supper we got a cup of 
 coffee, and we were supposed to make the bread 
 do for both breakfast and supper. 
 
 "The prisoners were sent out from Soltau in 
 working parties to farmers, factories, and coal 
 mines and salt mines. The salt mines were 
 dreaded most, and fellows who had been working 
 there for two or three months looked dreadful. 
 In fact, they could not keep up there longer than 
 that; they got too ill. 
 
 "I was sent into a salt mine myself. The hours 
 are not long, because it is impossible to stay down 
 many hours at a time, and we were generally 
 brought up about one o'clock. They did not keep 
 
 192 
 
STORIES OF THE HEROES OF MONS 
 
 me in the mine long, because they found I was of 
 no use for the work. 
 
 "It's not so bad on the farms, although you 
 have to work from about 4 o'clock till 8 or 9 at 
 night. But the food is better, as you generally 
 live at the farmer's table, and have the same as 
 he does. 
 
 "When prisoners are sent in working parties, 
 the employers have to pay the German Govern- 
 ment the same wages he usually pays a man, and 
 the prisoners receive from the German Govern- 
 ment 30 pfennings (about 3d.) per day." 
 
 "Did the American Consul ever visit the 
 lagar? " I asked. 
 
 "Yes, but only once when I was there." 
 
 "Were you free to make any complaints to 
 him if you wished ?" 
 
 "Two of the fellows did; but they got punished 
 for it. 
 
 "Before he visited the lager a notice was put 
 up that the Commandant did not consider there 
 was any reason for complaint, and any man 
 making a complaint would be given 14 days' 
 imprisonment. 
 
 "When he called we were drawn up on parade 
 i93 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 in four companies, and stood to attention, while 
 he passed down the line, asking if there were any 
 complaints. 
 
 1 ' By his side was the Commandant and another 
 German officer." 
 
 The Story of Private op the Norfolk 
 
 Regiment 
 
 "I came out with the original Expeditionary 
 Force, and was in the retreat from Mons, but was 
 not captured until October, 19 14. 
 
 ' ' The German soldiers who captured me treated 
 me quite well. They gave me some of their ra- 
 tions, and allowed me to attend to our wounded. 
 
 "I had just bandaged up the leg of a man in 
 the Cheshire Regiment, who had half his foot 
 blown off, when all the prisoners were ordered to 
 the rear. 
 
 "A German officer came up and ordered us both 
 to get back; but I pointed out that the Cheshire 
 man was too badly wounded to be moved without 
 help. He ordered me to undo the bandage, and 
 when he saw the condition of the wound, he drew 
 his revolver and shot him dead. He then ordered 
 me to get back. 
 
 194 
 
STORIES OF THE HEROES OF MONS 
 
 "We were then sent into Germany, and when 
 we stopped at the Railway Stations school chil- 
 dren were paraded on the platform and threw 
 things at us. 
 
 "We were given nothing to eat, and at one 
 station we appealed to a clergyman, who spoke 
 English; but he said that only German soldiers 
 should be fed, and turned away. 
 
 "I was sent to Hameln Lager. I was several 
 times sent out with working parties, and we were 
 sometimes treated very roughly, especially when 
 there was only an under officer in charge of us. 
 
 "The job I liked best was working for a farmer. 
 Sometimes you get hold of a decent chap, who 
 will treat you well, if you suit him. The work is 
 hard and the hours very long, but you live with 
 the family, and food is much better than what 
 you get in camp; especially as some of the farm- 
 ers have food concealed. 
 
 "The under officers are very rough, and stop 
 at nothing. 
 
 ' ' There was a notice up in the lager which said 
 that no man has any right to refuse to work, and 
 that only the laws of the Imperial German Gov- 
 ernment were recognised; and if any man refused 
 
 195 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 to do what he was told, the guards had authority 
 to use their rifles." 
 
 "Did they ever use them ?" I asked. 
 
 "I never saw them myself; but a man came 
 into the lager one day who said that just before 
 he was moved one of the men was being badgered 
 about by his guards, until he at last turned round 
 and knocked one down. The guards immediately 
 ran their bayonets into him, and he died next day. 
 
 "The American Consul visited our camp shortly 
 afterwards, and this man told him about it, and 
 was informed the matter was already known, and 
 was being investigated. I do not know if any- 
 thing came of it. 
 
 "Another little trick which they used to em- 
 ploy to force men to work in the mines and other 
 places was to take them out one by one under an 
 armed guard. The rest of us would hear a shot 
 fired, and then they would take another; a shot 
 would be fired, and so on. But we soon got on 
 to that, because we found it was a fake. 
 
 "About ioo men were taken away from the 
 lager in the early part of the war to work in a 
 factory, but when they found it was a munition 
 factory they refused to work. They were each 
 
 196 
 
STORIES OF THE HEROES OF MONS 
 
 sentenced to twelve or fifteen months' imprison- 
 ment. I know this for a fact, because I have 
 spoken to the men. They were very badly 
 treated, and one of them is in hospital to-day, 
 insane." 
 
 The Story of Private of the Middle- 
 sex Regiment, Told Me in 
 Blenhurst Camp 
 
 "I was at Soltau Lager for a long time before 
 we came here. We used to get one loaf of black 
 bread a day (2 lbs.) between 10 men. The 
 only food we got was some sort of coffee for 
 breakfast, and the same for supper. For dinner 
 we had a basin of soup, which was almost undrink- 
 able, some thin washy stuff; occasionally we got 
 some potatoes. 
 
 "In the early part of the war there were about 
 60 of our fellows sent to work in a munition fac- 
 tory. But when they got there and saw what 
 they had to do, they refused. They were threat- 
 ened with all kinds of things to make them work, 
 and then they were lined up against a wall, and 
 a number of German soldiers stood in front of 
 them, and told them that if they didn't work, they 
 
 197 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 would be shot. Then they made a show of load- 
 ing, and brought their rifles up to the shoulders. 
 When our men still refused they were taken into 
 a building and locked up two or three in a room; 
 and left there for 3 or 4 days without food or 
 water or convenience of any kind." 
 
 I asked Private if he was quite sure of 
 
 this statement and the length of time, as the 
 men would be reduced to a state of absolute 
 starvation. 
 
 "I am quite sure about it," he said, "and as 
 for the men being starved, I can only tell you 
 that they were found curled up on the floor, 
 gnawing at their finger-nails. 
 
 "When the Commandant let them out he said 
 he was going to send them back to their lager, 
 as he admired their pluck, and didn't think 
 Englishmen had so much in them." 
 
 198 
 
CHAPTER XXIX 
 OSNABRUCK 
 
 ARRIVAL IN CAMP. THE CANTEEN. DAILY 
 ROUTINE. RATIONS. PARCELS. NEWS 
 
 T T TE looked forward to the journey with a great 
 deal of pleasure, not that I could see where 
 I was going, but the sensation of travelling was 
 a pleasant change. 
 
 We had about half an hour to wait for our 
 train at the station, to the intense interest of a 
 crowd of 60 or 70 peasants, who gathered around 
 us and gazed in open-mouthed wonder. 
 
 As a matter of fact I was quite unaware that 
 we were the centre of attraction. I thought we 
 were standing quite alone. It is not a disadvan- 
 tage to be blind sometimes. 
 
 We had a guard with us of one soldier with a 
 revolver in his belt, which no doubt was fully 
 loaded, though we did not trouble him to prove 
 it. 
 
 We were placed in a very comfortable second- 
 199 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 class carriage, quite equal to an English first-class 
 carriage. German officers also appear to travel 
 second class; and on all the journeys I made in 
 Germany, I was always treated on an equality 
 in this respect. 
 
 Half-way through the journey we had to 
 change, and had to wait about three-quarters of 
 an hour for a connection. We were glad of this, 
 as we were looking forward to a meal in the sta- 
 tion restaurant. But we were doomed to dis- 
 appointment. On entering the restaurant there 
 were plenty of tables and chairs, but to all appear- 
 ances nothing to eat. 
 
 We sat down at a table in company with our 
 escort, and Wishart went over to the counter to 
 order a hot meal, but could not make himself 
 understood. After energetically ordering every 
 dish he could think of, including eggs and bacon, 
 and emphasising his wishes by violent gesticula- 
 tions, he returned unhappily to the table and 
 sought the assistance of the guard, who was made 
 to understand that in England the object of en- 
 tering a restaurant is for the purpose of getting 
 something to eat. 
 
 We were finally provided with a cup of coffee, 
 200 
 
OSNABRUCK 
 
 a piece of cheese, and a slice of very stale and un- 
 interesting bread. 
 
 We arrived at Osnabruck station at about o 
 p. m., and were placed in a four-wheel cab, our 
 guards sitting opposite us, with another soldier, 
 who met us at the station, sitting on the box 
 seat, thus attracting the attention of the passers- 
 by and conjecture as to the distinguished occu- 
 pants of the cab, whose cigars by this time were 
 unfortunately exhausted. 
 
 We had a drive of about four miles, for Osna- 
 bruck camp is situated on the outskirts of the 
 town; and we were greeted on arrival by a re- 
 quest from the cabby for ten marks. 
 
 After having been in daily expectation of a 
 voyage to England, my arrival at Osnabruck 
 camp gave me a fit of the blues; and I felt like 
 one who enters a prison to undergo a term of 
 penal servitude. 
 
 We knocked at the outer gate, which was se- 
 curely locked, and were challenged by a sentry, 
 who was answered by our guard. There was 
 really no need to challenge us, for as far as Wishart 
 and I were concerned, we were perfectly willing 
 to remain outside the domain of his authority. 
 
 201 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 We heard a clatter of rifles, as the guard was 
 turned out to welcome our visit, and after an 
 examination of our papers to make sure that 
 we had the right to enter, we were marched 
 across the courtyard and stopped before a very 
 large door. More knocking and a noise as of 
 bolts being drawn back, and we entered the 
 building. 
 
 As the door was closed and bolted behind me, 
 I felt like one who was losing his freedom for 
 ever in the dungeons of a mighty fortress. 
 
 We were led into the canteen, and the canteen 
 manager supplied us with a cup of tea and a 
 slice of bread and margarine — the margarine 
 being a rare luxury for a prison camp. 
 
 We were next taken into an office and searched 
 and our money exchanged for canteen money. 
 This precaution is always taken, so that if a pris- 
 oner escapes he is not likely to have any nego- 
 tiable money upon him. 
 
 I thought the soldiers who searched us were 
 very fair, for seeing I was blind, they allowed 
 Wishart to see exactly the money I had upon 
 me, so that there could be no dispute. As a mat- 
 ter of fact I handed out the money myself. 
 
 202 
 
OSNABRUCK 
 
 They did not search me, but asked me if I had 
 anything on me which should be given up, and 
 now I come to think of it, although others were 
 always rigorously searched, I do not ever remem- 
 ber having been searched myself. They always 
 took my word for it; perhaps it was because I 
 was blind and they thought I was harmless. 
 
 We were then taken up to a room on the second 
 floor. Doctor Pohlmann was as good as his 
 word, and a room for three was provided, Rogan 
 being in possession. 
 
 Osnabruck camp is part of a cavalry barracks, 
 and the accommodation, therefore, is what one 
 would expect in English barracks, and quite suit- 
 able for soldiers. 
 
 The rooms are comfortable; there is a small 
 stove with coal provided, and the furniture con- 
 sists of camp-beds with two blankets each, a 
 chest of drawers and a small table and chair- 
 Some of the rooms contain as many as seven beds, 
 but the rooms are fairly large and do not appear 
 to be overcrowded. 
 
 Doctor Pohlmann told us that the camp 
 boasted, among other attractions, a billiard-room. 
 Probably he was right, but he must have forgot- 
 
 203 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 ten to add that there was no billiard-table or 
 other article of furniture in it. 
 
 A large room was set aside for the British pris- 
 oners, and another for the Russian prisoners; these 
 were furnished at the prisoners' expense with a 
 piano and card-tables, and used as anterooms. 
 The British anteroom, however, never seemed 
 popular, as the officers preferred their own living- 
 rooms, which were warmer. 
 
 The French had no anteroom, although I think 
 they could have secured one had they desired it. 
 
 There were about 250 prisoners in the build- 
 ing, about 200 of whom were Russian and French. 
 
 There was a canteen, where almost everything 
 but food could be obtained. The beer was not 
 bad, and fairly cheap; but the only other drinks 
 obtainable were a yellow fluid and a reddish fluid, 
 which was given by the canteen manager the 
 humorous description of sherry and port wine. 
 
 He was a wise man, that canteen manager, for 
 under what strategical device could he have ex- 
 tracted one mark per glass from his customers, 
 and at the same time supply a "have another" 
 atmosphere to his establishment ? But he was a 
 good fellow, and added greatly to the comfort 
 
 204 
 
OSNABRUCK 
 
 of the officers (and to the comfort of his own 
 banking-account) . 
 
 You could buy anything from him (except food), 
 from a toothpick (which he never caused us to 
 need) to a grand piano (which he did not keep 
 in stock). 
 
 He would purchase on commission, and the 
 latter part of the purchase he gave particular 
 attention to. But he sought custom, and it made 
 him civil and obliging. He would supply you 
 with a kettle of boiling water for 5 pfennigs; or, 
 for a larger consideration, would cook the pheas- 
 ant which came in your last parcel. 
 
 The grounds outside the building were very 
 small, although just before I left a field was 
 thrown open, where the officers could kick a ball 
 about. There were also two tennis-courts built 
 by the officers. 
 
 The picture does not seem an unpleasant one; 
 and I do not think the officers imprisoned there 
 ever complain of their treatment. But if it were 
 a marble palace, that would not alter the fact 
 that it was a prisoners' camp; and two hours was 
 about as long as anybody would stay without 
 being bored. 
 
 205 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 If the description I have given leaves the im- 
 pression that the prisoners have a good time in 
 such seclusion, a stroll around the building a few 
 times, avoiding the barbed wire; or a few nights' 
 sleep disturbed by the frequent challenge of the 
 sentry and the barking of the watch-dogs would 
 disillusion them, and make them realise what it 
 means to feel the strong fetters of captivity. 
 
 In England we treat German officers very 
 liberally; and if we ever allow this to arouse our 
 indignation, we should pause to remember that 
 this generous treatment has induced the German 
 authorities to grant favours to British officers. 
 
 Our officers, for instance, on signing a parole, 
 are allowed once or twice each week to go for a 
 long country walk in company with only one 
 German officer; and this privilege is at any rate 
 worth an equal amount of consideration being 
 shown towards the German officers in England. 
 
 A medical officer is present each morning, and 
 if it is necessary to attend hospital, or the dentist, 
 or if you have permission to go down for any 
 other purpose, you are allowed the privilege of 
 hiring a conveyance for what the cabby probably 
 flatters himself is a moderate charge; but if you 
 
 206 
 
OSNABRUCK 
 
 do not wish to pay for this privilege, you can walk 
 — in the gutter. 
 
 The dentist was not a popular man to visit, 
 although a prisoner is often tempted to sacrifice 
 a tooth in order to enjoy the privilege of a ride 
 down-town. But he was apt to use his profes- 
 sional skill as an instrument to his patriotic 
 ardour, and appeared to aspire to the removal 
 of the jaw instead of the tooth. 
 
 During the time I was at Osnabruck, there was 
 a good commandant in charge. He was a gentle- 
 man, fair-minded, and considerate, notwithstand- 
 ing the fact that he was a professional soldier 
 of the old school. 
 
 When I speak of the old school, it leads me to 
 express an opinion that the brutalities perpe- 
 trated upon our soldiers who fell into their hands 
 in the early part of the war were due to profes- 
 sional military hatred more than to popular 
 intention. At the commencement of the war, the 
 professional German soldier seemed to be imbued 
 with the sole idea, which was no doubt fostered 
 by the system of training, to get to England, 
 and satisfy his hunger by murder and pillage; 
 and the first prisoners who saved the people of 
 
 207 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 this country by their heroic self-sacrifice received 
 the first experience of their intentions. 
 
 My contention is borne out by the fact that 
 these brutalities are not practised to-day in any- 
 thing like the same degree, for the old army has 
 become more or less extinct, and a new army of 
 civilians has taken its place. With the exception, 
 perhaps, of certain elements of the higher com- 
 mands, there is a decreasing element of the "top 
 dog" spirit, and an undercurrent of feeling that 
 it may not be wise to be too overbearing. 
 
 To-day it is the German civilian fighting the 
 British civilian, and the German who has a home, 
 family, and business has not the same hatred as 
 his professional predecessor. 
 
 The German professional soldier is unapproach- 
 able; but the German civilian soldiers seemed 
 reasonable and anxious for peace, and even to 
 deplore the domineering authority which com- 
 pelled him to take up arms. 
 
 At Osnabruck the roll-call was made by the 
 officers simply parading outside of their re- 
 spective rooms and coming to the salute as the 
 German officer passed him, and he, in passing by, 
 would answer the salute. The morning roll-call 
 
 208 
 
OSNABRUCK 
 
 was at 9 a. m., so at one minute to nine it was 
 necessary to tumble out of bed. 
 
 The curious raiment frequently donned more 
 with a view to speed than dignity prompted an 
 order being issued that officers should parade fully 
 dressed. The ingenuity of the British soldier, 
 however, could soon overcome a requirement of 
 this kind. One minute to nine still prevailed, 
 but the wearing of overcoats for early morning 
 roll-call grew in popularity. 
 
 I was very much impressed with the fair and 
 systematic handling of our parcels, letters, and 
 money; and even letters and post-cards which 
 arrived for me after I had been sent back to Eng- 
 land were readdressed and sent back. A remit- 
 tance of five pounds, which arrived for me after 
 I had left was even returned to me in England, 
 instead of being applied to the pressing need of 
 the German War Loan. 
 
 Letters are distributed each morning. Parcels 
 arrive on Mondays and Thursdays, and a list is 
 made out and sent round the same afternoon, 
 from which each prisoner can ascertain the number 
 of parcels awaiting him. He thereupon appears 
 at an appointed hour the following day to receive 
 
 209 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 his parcels, which are opened by the German 
 censor in his presence. 
 
 All tin food has to be opened, but if it is not 
 required for immediate consumption, it is placed 
 unopened in a locker, and he can draw what he 
 requires on any day he wishes to use it. 
 
 The American Express Company was permitted 
 to cash officers' cheques through the paymaster, 
 who kept a proper account of the debits and 
 credits against each prisoner; so that he could 
 draw money at any time from the funds standing 
 to his credit. These accounts were kept in a 
 very businesslike manner, and a prisoner was per- 
 mitted to go into the paymaster's office and 
 examine his books whenever he wished. I know 
 of at least one instance in which a prisoner had 
 been permitted to overdraw his account. 
 
 The prisoners spent most of their time at 
 Osnabruck in playing tennis, football, walking up 
 and down the yard, learning French or Russian, 
 playing cards, or reading. 
 
 The books which prisoners receive from time to 
 time from England are passed round, thus form- 
 ing a sort of circulating library. 
 
 In living a life of this kind one cannot help but 
 210 
 
OSNABRUCK 
 
 develop the habits of school-days, and become 
 boyish in many things. 
 
 One lives for letters and parcels. It is not the 
 length of letters or size of parcels which count so 
 much as the number; and when the parcel list 
 comes round, he is a lucky fellow who finds four 
 or five parcels awaiting him, even though their 
 total contents amount to no more than that of 
 the man who receives a single parcel. 
 
 On Tuesdays and Fridays the number of par- 
 cels was an absorbing topic, and one would turn 
 to another in schoolboy fashion, and say: 
 
 "How many parcels have you got to-day?" 
 
 "Only one — how many have you ?" 
 
 "Six." 
 
 "Lucky devil!" 
 
 In each room the men throw their parcels into 
 one mess, and share alike; and if a new prisoner 
 arrives, who would not be receiving parcels, he 
 shares with the others in his room. 
 
 If several prisoners just arriving are put in a 
 room by themselves, they do not, of course, fare 
 so well, and until their parcels arrive, many weeks 
 later, they are more or less dependent upon the 
 food issued to them; although presents of food 
 
 211 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 are frequently sent in by the others, and articles 
 of clothing are loaned. 
 
 The charge made to the prisoners for food was 
 forty-five marks per month. We were afterwards 
 informed that by a new regulation the charge, 
 by some international arrangement, had to be 
 reduced to thirty marks per month. And the 
 commandant explained that for this sum he could 
 only supply the same ration which the men re- 
 ceived; but would continue to supply the old 
 ration if the officers would voluntarily agree to 
 continue paying forty-five marks, and extra for 
 their bread — which, of course, they did. 
 
 This ration consisted of imitation coffee for 
 breakfast and no food. A plate of washy stuff 
 called soup, for dinner, followed by some sloppy 
 mashed potatoes, and sometimes green stuff; and 
 for supper, more sloppy potatoes. 
 
 To satisfy one's hunger on a cold day with such 
 food — which is only fit for pigs — can only be 
 done by loosening the waistcoat, and half an 
 b*)ur afterwards one feels as though he had never 
 had a meal. 
 
 Prisoners were allowed to receive as many 
 letters as they were lucky enough to have sent 
 
 212 
 
OSNABRUCK 
 
 them; and there does not appear to be any re- 
 striction as to the length of the letter. 
 
 They are allowed to write two letters of four 
 pages each, and four post -cards each month. All 
 letters are censored by a staff of censors in the 
 camp. Outgoing letters and post-cards are held 
 for ten days, with a view of ascertaining, I be- 
 lieve, whether invisible ink had been used. 
 
 News arrives in the camp principally by the 
 arrival of new prisoners, who are kept in quar- 
 antine for about ten days. 
 
 German official bulletins are posted in the 
 anteroom; and the Continental News, which is 
 published in the English language, or rather dis- 
 graces the English language by using it, is deliv- 
 ered daily. By the bye, the Continental News is 
 a rag of the worst kind, and contains lies of the 
 worst description. 
 
 My orderly came to me one day, and after 
 carefully closing the door, he drew from under 
 his tunic a few scraps of an English newspaper a 
 month old. 
 
 We devoured the news eagerly, as well as the 
 advertisements, and passed it quietly around to 
 the other officers. 
 
 213 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 He had been sweeping up the canteen after the 
 censor had finished opening up the parcels. One 
 parcel had been wrapped up in the newspaper, 
 and unthinkingly the censor overlooked it, and 
 tore the paper into fragments and threw it on the 
 floor. 
 
 My orderly, while sweeping, noticed the pieces 
 on the floor. The censor was in the room, and 
 he went on sweeping until, when the censor's 
 head was turned, he stooped and, snatching it 
 up, stuffed it into his tunic. 
 
 214 
 
CHAPTER XXX 
 COMEDY AND DRAMA 
 
 I SALUTE THE WALL. THE STORY OF AN EGG. 
 
 A NOVEL BANQUET. JOY RIDE ON A LORRY. 
 
 THE SWISS COMMISSION 
 
 TIT'HEN I arrived at Osnabruck, I found three 
 English orderlies, and to my surprise and 
 delight, two were men of my own regiment who 
 had been captured at Gommecourt Wood on 
 July i. 
 
 The commandant came up to visit me the fol- 
 lowing morning, something very unusual; but 
 no blind prisoner had ever been confined within 
 the walls of Osnabruck before, and I suppose I 
 was an object of interest. 
 
 I heard Rogan say, "Commandant," and click 
 his heels. 
 
 I stood up and saluted. I was turned around, 
 for, unknowingly, I had gravely saluted the wall. 
 
 He spoke fairly good English: 
 
 215 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 "You quite blind?" 
 
 "Yes, quite." 
 
 "See no light — nothing, no ?" 
 
 "Nothing whatever." 
 
 "Your health, vot, is your health goot — yah ? " 
 
 "Very weak and shaky; I cannot sleep at 
 night." 
 
 "Is there anything you want ?" 
 
 "There are two orderlies here from my own 
 regiment. Can I have one as my personal at- 
 tendant ? Otherwise I am helpless ; I am not 
 yet accustomed to blindness, and among so many 
 people and in strange surroundings, I shall be- 
 come a nuisance." 
 
 "Yah; I will make arrangements." 
 
 That was how I came to get Private Cotton 
 as my orderly. Cotton was a fine lad; a well- 
 educated, superior type of fellow, and we became 
 very much attached to each other during those 
 long, dreary days. 
 
 He could speak French, and although he could 
 speak no German, he possessed that wonderful 
 faculty peculiar to the private soldier, of under- 
 standing and making himself understood in a 
 language he did not know. 
 
 216 
 
COMEDY AND DRAMA 
 
 He had been a civil servant in the War Office; 
 but in the early part of the war had volunteered 
 his services with the colours, and fought night and 
 day in the trenches for a shilling a day; while 
 the young man who took his place in the War 
 Office drew one and sixpence an hour overtime 
 after 4 o'clock. Yet Cotton never complained. 
 But his duty was the other man's opportunity. 
 
 As I write these lines Cotton is still a prisoner. 
 I wonder if the other man is still drawing over- 
 time, and wearing a war-service badge ? 
 
 Now Cotton was a gentleman both by birth 
 and education; but he was a private soldier, and 
 seemed to make a hobby of being one. He was 
 a private, and I was a captain, and he insisted 
 on that gulf being maintained. 
 
 Whenever he bade me good-night, after he 
 had laid me in my bed and made me some cocoa 
 — generally from his own supplies, for my par- 
 cels went astray — I could always hear him click 
 his heels, and I knew he had saluted. 
 
 The second day after I had arrived at Osna- 
 bruck, he took me for exercise up and down the 
 yard outside the canteen. This was my first 
 appearance, and I was evidently an object of 
 
 217 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 some curiosity, for wind had got round the camp 
 that a blind prisoner had been brought in. 
 
 As the French officers passed me, I used to 
 hear them say: "Good morning, Capitaine," or 
 "Bon jour, mon camarade." 
 
 The English officers were splendid and always 
 anxious to help me, and many a welcome supper 
 of cocoa and cake I used to have in their rooms 
 before going to bed. 
 
 I am afraid, though, that I used to make rather 
 a big meal of it, as for the first two weeks I had 
 to exist on the German rations. 
 
 When I took my first walk in the yard the can- 
 teen manager, his wife, and daughter were evi- 
 dently watching out for me; for by and by, as 
 a sign of their good-will, the daughter came run- 
 ning out after me with a present. It was an 
 
 egg! 
 
 Cotton and I had a serious talk about this 
 egg. He thought I should save it, and have half 
 for supper and half for breakfast; but I settled 
 the matter by eating it at once. 
 
 I think I have forgotten to mention that we 
 were allowed to buy for half a mark, a loaf of 
 bread every five days. I had no idea how far 
 
 218 
 
COMEDY AND DRAMA 
 
 a loaf would go; I had never before given it a 
 thought. 
 
 But Cotton had it down to a science; and 
 worked it out that two small slices for breakfast, 
 and the same for supper would carry me through, 
 and he kept me to it. 
 
 "Cotton," I would say, after I had breakfasted 
 on the two slices, "I could eat another slice." 
 
 "Better not, sir." 
 
 "Why not, Cotton ? It's my loaf." 
 
 "This is the fourth day, sir, and if you have 
 another slice, there will only be a small piece of 
 crust for to-morrow's breakfast." 
 
 "All right, Cotton, I will sleep to dinner-time 
 instead." 
 
 It was a joyful day when my first parcels ar- 
 rived in camp. I was too excited about it to eat 
 alone that day; and I invited young Martell of 
 the R. N. A. S. to come and dine with me in my 
 room. 
 
 There was a tin of soup and a tin of tripe and 
 onions, and some biscuits and cheese. What a 
 banquet ! Martell and I decided to do ourselves 
 in style. We even went so far as to send Cotton 
 to the canteen for two glasses of what we in- 
 
 219 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 diligently patronised the canteen manager's hu- 
 mour by calling port wine. 
 
 Martell cooked the tripe and onions, after 
 opening the tin with his penknife, and boiled it 
 on the stove. The more we thought of that 
 meal, the more we schemed to make a spread 
 of it. 
 
 Cotton, too, rose to the occasion. From the 
 canteen he obtained a sheet of white paper for a 
 table-cloth, and by the side of each plate he 
 placed a clean white handkerchief for servi- 
 ettes. 
 
 The table was just a little rough, wooden one, 
 about two feet square. The room was swept and 
 the beds made to give the room a tidy appear- 
 ance, and then we sat down. 
 
 Yes, Cotton understood. He knew that that 
 meal was taking our thoughts back to England. 
 It was taking him back, too. He knew that we 
 imagined we were back again in the mess; and 
 he imagined the same thing himself. 
 
 In that little room, and in the presence of that 
 tin of tripe and onions we forget we were pris- 
 oners; we forgot that rows and rows of barbed 
 wire bound us in captivity; we ignored the foot- 
 
 220 
 
COMEDY AND DRAMA 
 
 steps of the sentry pacing up and down outside 
 our window, and the sharp yelping of the dogs. 
 
 We were back in the mess, and we chatted and 
 laughed during the meal as we had done in the 
 old days, while our spirits rose with the aroma of 
 the tripe and onion; and Cotton stood behind 
 me silent and attentive, removing the plates, 
 washing them, and replacing them ready for the 
 next course, pretending he was drawing plates 
 from a well-filled pantry. 
 
 We finished our repast with biscuits and 
 cheese, and then we solemnly stood, and raising 
 our glasses, toasted the King. 
 
 Then we drew our chairs round the fire, and 
 heating the coffee which was left over from break- 
 fast, we bathed our thoughts in the aroma of two 
 cigars which Cotton had thoughtfully provided 
 for the occasion from the canteen. 
 
 Yes, people of England, living at home in 
 luxury, by the protection of a thin line of khaki; 
 when you become anxious at the prospect of one 
 meatless day per week, try living for a fortnight 
 on slops, and then appreciate the glories of a tin 
 of tripe and onions. 
 
 Still, one can live on slops, and improve a meal 
 221 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 by a vivid imagination. In fact, imagination is 
 a distinct advantage when sitting down hungrily 
 to a plate of thin watery soup and sloppy potatoes 
 for dinner. 
 
 When the door used to open and Cotton ap- 
 peared with this unsavoury repast, which was 
 always the same each day, I would say to him in 
 the most indifferent tone I could assume: 
 
 ''Well, Cotton, what kind of soup is it to-day ?" 
 
 "Well, sir; I really don't know. It might be 
 anything; it looks like hot water." 
 
 "Why, my dear Cotton, this soup is salt. 
 How dull you are ! There must have been a bat- 
 tle in the North Sea!" 
 
 "How do you know that, sir?" 
 
 "It's the way the Germans have. This soup 
 is hot sea- water; it is to celebrate a victory." 
 
 The next day there would be a slight difference 
 in the soup, and again Cotton would gravely 
 shake his head, unable to fathom its mystery. 
 
 "My dear Cotton, when will you learn to 
 gather information from your rations by a method 
 of deduction?" 
 
 "Has there been another battle in the North 
 Sea, sir?" 
 
 222 
 
COMEDY AND DRAMA 
 
 "No, my dear Cotton, the soup is thicker; the 
 German fleet is back in the Kiel Canal." 
 
 It was the beginning of the third week of my 
 sojourn in Osnabruck, when I was told one day 
 that I was to proceed next morning to Blenhorst 
 camp to appear before the Swiss Commission. 
 Three other officers were also to go, including 
 Rogan. 
 
 Cotton was to accompany me, and we made 
 great preparation for the journey, packing in a 
 tin box biscuits and cheese, chocolate and sar- 
 dines; for although an officer is charged just the 
 same for his full day's ration, the Germans have 
 a habit of sending him on a long day's journey 
 without food. 
 
 We started off at about 6 o'clock the next 
 morning in high glee; for whatever the result of 
 the Swiss Commission might be, there was the 
 journey to Blenhorst to break the monotony of 
 Osnabruck. 
 
 We had to change trains several times, and in 
 the station restaurants we had much the same 
 experience as I have described on my journey 
 from Hanover. 
 
 In one restaurant we could only obtain a slice 
 223 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 of ham as thin as tissue-paper, and in another a 
 very small sausage; and yet the German people 
 we passed in the streets had no appearance of 
 being short of food, or suffering any hardships in 
 this respect. The people in the streets, I under- 
 stand, looked just as contented and well fed as 
 the people in England. 
 
 The station for Blenhorst is about eight miles 
 from the camp. A large flat, open lorry was 
 sent to meet us to carry our baggage, but as our 
 belongings were for the most part carried in our 
 pockets, it was unnecessary for that purpose. 
 
 It then dawned upon our two guards, who had 
 no more desire to walk than we had, that we 
 might ride on the lorry ourselves. They obtained 
 a form to hold four, and we four officers occupied 
 this seat on the open lorry, Cotton sitting on the 
 floor, while the two guards sat together behind 
 us, with their feet dangling over the side. 
 
 That ride I shall never forget. Perhaps it 
 was because I was blind that the situation seemed 
 so ridiculously funny. The single-horsed lorry 
 was pulled slowly through the rough, cobbled 
 streets in sudden jerks, which sent our legs flying 
 in the air, giving the form a tilt; and I expected 
 
 224 
 
COMEDY AND DRAMA 
 
 every minute that we would all four turn a double 
 somersault over the heads of our guards behind, 
 and fall into the road like clowns at a circus. 
 
 Imagine the picture, an open lorry on a bitterly 
 cold day going through the streets of a small 
 German town with four British officers in uniform ; 
 two with their heads bandaged, another with an 
 arm in a sling, and a fourth with a lame leg, all 
 sitting on a form, shivering with cold — all smok- 
 ing cigars; while people came out and gazed in 
 open-mouthed wonder at the strange spectacle; 
 and a crowd of little urchins came running be- 
 hind, yelling at the top of their voices. 
 
 All this was explained to me ; and I imagined a 
 great deal more, for the ridiculous situation could 
 only be complete if a shower of rotten eggs were 
 hurled at us as we passed by. 
 
 The following morning the Swiss Commission 
 arrived, and all those who wished to appear be- 
 fore it were ordered to assemble in the yard. 
 
 It was a pathetic assembly, officers and men 
 maimed and afflicted beyond repair, waited in a 
 long queue for their turn to go in and hear their 
 fate. 
 
 There were a number of Tommies acting as 
 225 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 orderlies in the camp who had been prisoners 
 since Mons. There was nothing physically the 
 matter with them; yet the silent and hopeful 
 manner in which they took their position in the 
 line, knowing as they must have done, that their 
 chances were hopeless, was most pitiful to witness. 
 
 Yet, the same men, on appearing before the 
 Commission, and being immediately rejected, 
 laughed and joked as they returned to their work. 
 
 The British Tommy is heroic, and rough though 
 his language sometimes is, he is a man, and 
 Britain is his debtor. 
 
 226 
 
CHAPTER XXXI 
 FREE 
 
 I BLUFF THE GERMAN SERGEANT. AACHEN. TWO 
 BOTTLES OF WINE. ACROSS THE FRONTIER. 
 GREAT SCOTT ! I AM CHARGED FOR MY OWN 
 DEATH EXPENSES 
 
 T WAS passed for England ! 
 
 The Examination Board consisted of a 
 Swiss doctor, a German doctor, and the camp 
 commandant. The Swiss doctor was provided 
 with a schedule of disablements under which pris- 
 oners could be passed for exchange to their own 
 country, and partial disablements for Switzer- 
 land, and frequently objections to a prisoner's 
 application would be made by the German rep- 
 resentative. 
 
 Of our party from Osnabruck, one was rejected, 
 two were passed for Switzerland, and I was passed 
 for England. 
 
 The decision of the Swiss Commission is not 
 final, for, on being sent to the border, all prison- 
 
 227 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 ers are again examined — this time by German 
 doctors only — and by their decision prisoners 
 are frequently rejected and sent back to camp. 
 
 The final examination for those going to Swit- 
 zerland takes place at Konstanz, and for those 
 going to England, at Aachen. 
 
 I knew of one British Tommy who, during 
 eighteen months had been twice passed for Eng- 
 land and once for Switzerland, and each time 
 rejected at the border, and he is to-day still in 
 Germany. 
 
 It was about two weeks after I had been passed 
 by the Swiss Commission that a German non- 
 commissioned officer came to my room, and told 
 me that I was to leave at 4 a. m. the next morn- 
 ing for England. 
 
 I had waited for this moment for three long 
 months; I had no occupation of any kind, and 
 spent most of my time lying on my bed or sitting 
 on an uncomfortable chair before the fire, in 
 hourly expectation of the door opening to tell 
 me of my freedom. 
 
 Permission had been granted me to take Cot- 
 ton with me to the border, so we packed all the 
 food we had in stock and prepared for the jour- 
 
 228 
 
FREE 
 
 ney. After travelling for some hours, we ar- 
 rived at Hameln camp, where we were to stay the 
 night. There was no accommodation for officers 
 in the camp, and they apparently did not know 
 what to do with me, or how to provide me with 
 food, as they had never been called upon before 
 to take charge of an officer. 
 
 The only spare hut was some distance down 
 the road, but as this was outside the camp, a 
 special guard had to be mounted outside my 
 door. The question of feeding me was evidently 
 found to be rather a perplexing one, and a German 
 N. C. O., who could speak English, came to see 
 me about it. 
 
 "You do not get the same rations at Osna- 
 bruck as private soldiers ? No ?" 
 
 I saw an opportunity and took it. 
 
 "No, special food is always provided for offi- 
 cers." 
 
 "What do you usually get ?" 
 
 "Meat, vegetables, pudding or fruit, and 
 coffee." 
 
 "Zo! But how much do you get? Do you 
 get all that ? 
 
 "Yes. As much as we like to pay for." 
 229 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 "But the money. How do you pay ?" 
 
 "Oh, I will pay cash before I leave." 
 
 "Goot. I will send you a dinner." 
 
 "By the way, what about my orderly? Bring 
 in the same for him." 
 
 "Is dot usual? I vill gif him rations mit der 
 men." 
 
 "That's against regulations in Osnabruck. 
 Officers pay for their orderlies' food. Bring him 
 the same as me. By the way, sausages and coffee 
 for breakfast for both." 
 
 The meals were excellent, and I was glad we were 
 moved off next day before the commandant came 
 back to discover that I had bluffed the sergeant. 
 
 At the end of the following day we arrived in 
 Aachen, and again, being the only officer, the 
 difficulty arose about my accommodation. 
 
 This time I was placed in a real hospital which 
 was used for German officers, and the accommoda- 
 tion was quite as good as I would expect in Eng- 
 land. There were six nurses in this hospital, 
 kind and generous in their treatment, and they 
 fed me with every delicacy they could find, and 
 waited upon me hand and foot. 
 
 Cotton was ordered to return to Osnabruck, 
 23,0 
 
FREE 
 
 and was replaced by a German orderly. An armed 
 guard was placed outside my bedroom door, day 
 and night, and whenever I took exercise in the 
 garden, I could hear his footsteps behind me, 
 following me wherever I went, and spitting on the 
 ground every two or three yards. 
 
 On the second day after my arrival, I went for 
 my final examination, and the medical officer told 
 me he would send his sergeant-major, who could 
 speak good English, to have a talk with me that 
 evening. What did that mean ? Why should 
 he want to talk to me ? I became suspicious and 
 awaited his coming with some uneasiness. 
 
 He arrived about 7 o'clock that evening, bring- 
 ing a friend and two bottles of wine. They 
 opened the wine and we smoked together. Con- 
 versation was going to be very difficult. I felt 
 I was going to be pumped for information. 
 
 It was going to be a battle of wits — I could 
 feel it in my veins. 
 
 I made up my mind to be pleasant and tact- 
 ful and meet every question by asking one. 
 
 As a matter of fact, I was mistaken. They were 
 Germans who had lived in England and worked 
 at the Deutsche Bank in George Yard, Lombard 
 
 231 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 Street, until war broke out, and had lived in High- 
 bury. I soon found out that they were not bad 
 fellows at all, although their opening conversa- 
 tion did put my back up, and make me suspicious. 
 
 "London must be full of soldiers?" 
 
 I replied cautiously: 
 
 "Well, I suppose the big cities, London, Paris, 
 Berlin, Vienna, must all be full of soldiers these 
 days." 
 
 "But what do the English people really think 
 about the cause of the war ?" 
 
 "Well," I replied evasively, "it's difficult to 
 say, because people in England who talk, don't 
 think; and people who think, don't talk." 
 
 "Well, do you think when the war is over there 
 will be any hard feeling? Do you think things 
 will settle down, and we shall be able to live there 
 again as we did before ?" 
 
 "Well, that depends upon the people's feelings 
 after the war." 
 
 "You know, we cannot understand the English 
 people; you are very hard to understand, the 
 way you do things." 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 "Well, look at the way you have got your 
 232 
 
FREE 
 
 army together. It's marvellous; we all admit 
 it. It surprised us. 
 
 "Look at your colonies. We thought Canada 
 and Australia would break away; or at the very 
 best, would not send over more than about 
 50,000 men. 
 
 "But what we cannot understand is why a 
 country which can organise and handle such an 
 enormous army, is unable to manage its civilian 
 population." 
 
 "In what way do you mean?" 
 
 "Well, look at Ireland; fancy allowing that 
 sort of thing ! And the strikes you have ! You 
 build an army, and then allow your people to 
 hinder it by striking." 
 
 "How can you help it ?" 
 
 "You don't find strikes in Germany, because 
 we organise our civil population for war, as well 
 as the military population. 
 
 "There was one strike a little while ago, not 
 for more money, but because the men felt they 
 were not getting the food they were entitled to. 
 Do you know what we did ? — We put them all 
 in uniform, and sent them on to the Somme, 
 and we sent back from the Somme an equal 
 
 233 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 number of soldiers to replace them in the fac- 
 tory." 
 
 "When do you think the war will be over?" I 
 asked. 
 
 "When each side realises that it can't exter- 
 minate the other. Look what we've done on the 
 Somme ! You've lost, let us say, 700,000 men, 
 and we have lost, say 500,000; and how far have 
 you got ? You'll never beat us. If you bend us 
 back more, all we shall have to do is to retire to 
 a new line, and you will have to begin your work 
 all over again. You can bend, but you can't 
 break us." 
 
 "Well, you tried it, and now it's our turn." 
 
 "Yes; but it will never end that way. Do you 
 know that for months past we've been digging a 
 new line, a straight line between Lille and Ver- 
 dun, which will shorten our line by half ? And if 
 you bend that we will build another farther back. 
 It can go on for ever at that rate." 
 
 "What about the blockade?" 
 
 "Of course, that's a farce. You've been doing 
 your best to starve us for over two years. Do 
 I look starved ? We may not get as good food 
 as we should like, but we get enough to live on, 
 
 234 
 
FREE 
 
 because we've got it properly systemised ; whereas 
 you let your people eat what they like." 
 
 Yes, there was truth in that; and after drink- 
 ing all his wine, I turned into bed; for to-morrow 
 I was to be free ! 
 
 At 7 o'clock on the following evening motor- 
 cars, each with two trailers, went towards the 
 station, filled with totally disabled soldiers, en 
 route for England. 
 
 Even their captors thought it was not worth 
 while to keep them. 
 
 War is a monstrous machine of the devil. At 
 one end the manhood of Britain was pouring 
 into its fiery cauldron; and here at the other 
 end the devil was raking out the cinders. 
 
 My story is drawing to a close. 
 
 The hospital-train, bearing its human freight, 
 passed through Namur, Liege, Brussels, and Ant- 
 werp to the Dutch frontier. 
 
 All who could do so looked eagerly out of the 
 window for the moment when they would pass 
 into freedom. 
 
 The train stopped at a small station right on 
 the frontier, and some formalities were gone 
 through. It started again — there was a German 
 
 235 
 
RIGHT OF THE BRITISH LINE 
 
 sentry — there was a Dutch sentry — we were 
 over. Hurrah ! ! ! 
 
 Cheer after cheer rang out from that long line 
 of prostrate men. 
 
 The train pulled up at a little station just 
 across the border. The door of my carriage was 
 flung open and a number of Dutch girls came to 
 my bed, and a shower of things came tumbling 
 all about me as they passed one after the other, 
 saying : 
 
 "Cigarettes, pleeze; apple, pleeze; cigar, pleeze; 
 cake, pleeze; sweets, pleeze " 
 
 I was in heaven. 
 
 My story is told. 
 
 I am back in my own home now; and as I 
 conclude this record the postman brings me a 
 letter. It is from my solicitors; I have torn it 
 open, and find an account. The irony of fate 
 closes the chapter: 
 
 "To services rendered in connection with the 
 death of Captain Nobbs!" 
 
 236 
 
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