THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 |>ap 
 
 ALL IN IT: K I CARRIES ON. 
 
 PIP: A ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 GETTING TOGETHER. 
 
 THE FIRST HUNDRED THOUSAND. 
 
 SCALLY : THE STORY OF A PERFECT GENTLE- 
 
 MAN. With Frontispiece. 
 A KNISHT ON WHEELS. 
 
 HAPPY-CO-LUCKY. Illustrated by Charles E. Brock. 
 A SAFETY MATCH. With froctttpiec*. 
 A MAN'S MAN. With frontispiece. 
 THE RIGHT STUFF. With frontispiece. 
 
 BOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPACT 
 BOSTON AND NKW Your
 
 ALL IN IT 
 
 K(l)" Carries On
 
 TO 
 ALL SECOND LIEUTENANTS 
 
 AND IN PARTICULAR TO 
 THE MEMORY OF 
 
 ONE SECOND LIEUTENANT
 
 ALL IN IT 
 
 "K(0" 
 Carries On 
 
 Boston and New York 
 
 Houghton Mifflin Company 
 CambriH0e
 
 COFY1USHT, 1917, BV IAN HAY BEITH 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 Publithed Novimbtr zgrj
 
 Library 
 
 . b40 
 
 AUTHOR'S NOTE 
 
 The First Hundred Thousand closed with the 
 Battle of Loos. The present narrative follows 
 certain friends of ours from the scene of that 
 costly but valuable experience, through a win- 
 ter campaign in the neighbourhood of Ypres and 
 Ploegsteert, to profitable participation in the Bat- 
 tle of the Somme. 
 
 Much has happened since then. The initiative 
 has passed once and for all into our hands; so has 
 the command of the air. Russia has been reborn, 
 and, like most healthy infants, is passing through 
 an uproarious period of teething trouble; but now 
 America has stepped in, and promises to do more 
 than redress the balance. All along the Western 
 Front we have begun to move forward, without 
 haste or flurry, but in such wise that during the 
 past twelve months no position, once fairly cap- 
 tured and consolidated, has ever been regained 
 by the enemy. To-day you can stand upon cer- 
 tain recently won eminences Wytchaete Ridge, 
 Messines Ridge, Vimy Ridge, and Monchy 
 looking down into the enemy's lines, and looking 
 forward to the territory which yet remains to be 
 restored to France. 
 
 You can also look back not merely from 
 these ridges, but from certain moral ridges as 
 well over the ground which has been success- 
 fully traversed, and you can marvel for the hun-
 
 viii AUTHOR'S NOTE 
 
 dredth time, not that the thing was well or 
 badly done, but that it was ever done at all. 
 
 But while this narrative was being written, 
 none of these things had happened. We were 
 still struggling uphill, with inadequate resources. 
 So, since the incidents of the story were set down, 
 in the main, as they occurred and when they oc- 
 curred, the reader will find very little perspective, 
 a great deal of the mood of the moment, and none 
 at all of that profound wisdom which comes after 
 the event. For the latter he must look home 
 to the lower walks of journalism and the back 
 benches of the House of Commons. 
 
 It is not proposed to carry this story to a third 
 volume. The First Hundred Thousand, as such, 
 are no more. Like the " Old Contemptibles," they 
 are now merged hi a greater and more victori- 
 ous army in an armed nation, hi fact. And, 
 as Sergeant Mucklewame once observed to me, 
 "There's no that mony of us left now, onyways." 
 So with all reverence remembering how, when 
 they were needed most, these men did not pause 
 to reason why or count the cost, but came at 
 onee we bid them good-bye.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 I. WINTER QUARTERS 1 
 
 II. SHELL OUT! 18 
 
 III. WINTER SPORTS : VARIOUS 35 
 
 IV. THE PUSH THAT FAILED 62 
 
 V. UNBENDING THE BOW 70 
 
 VI. YE MERRIE BUZZERS 95 
 
 VII. PASTURES NEW 119 
 
 VIII. "THE NON-COMBATANT" 137 
 
 IX. TUNING UP 169 
 
 X. FULL CHORUS 186 
 
 XI. THE LAST SOLO 197 
 
 XII. RECESSIONAL 212 
 
 XIII. "TWO OLD SOLDIERS, BROKEN IN THE 
 
 WARS" 223
 
 All In It 
 
 "K (1) Carries On 
 I 
 
 WINTER QUARTERS 
 I 
 
 IT is late autumn in 1915, and we are getting 
 into our stride again. Two months ago we trudged 
 into Bethune, gaunt, dirty, soaked to the skin, 
 and reduced to a comparative handful. None of 
 us had had his clothes off for a week. Our ankle- 
 puttees had long dropped to pieces, and our hose- 
 tops, having worked under the soles of our boots, 
 had been cut away and discarded. The result was 
 a bare and mud-splashed expanse of leg from boot 
 to kilt, except in the case of the enterprising few 
 who had devised artistic spat-puttees out of an old 
 sandbag. Our headgear consisted in a few cases 
 of the regulation Balmoral bonnet, usually minus 
 "toorie" and badge; in a few more, of the battered 
 remains of a gas helmet; and in the great majority, 
 of a woollen cap-comforter. We were bearded like 
 that incomparable fighter, the poilu, and we were 
 separated by an abyss of years, so our stomachs 
 told us, from our last square meal. 
 
 But we were wonderfully placid about it all. 
 Our regimental pipers, who had come out to play
 
 2 ALL IN IT 
 
 us in, were making what the Psalmist calls "a 
 joyful noise " hi front; and behind us lay the recol- 
 lection of a battle, still raging, hi which we had 
 struck the first blow, and borne our full share for 
 three days and nights. Moreover, our particular 
 blow had bitten deeper into the enemy's line than 
 any other blow hi the neighbourhood. And, most 
 blessed thought of all, everything was over, and 
 we were going back to rest. For the moment, the 
 memory of the sights we had seen, and the tax we 
 had levied upon our bodies and souls, together 
 with the picture of the countless sturdy lads 
 whom we had left lying beneath the sinister shade 
 of Fosse Eight, were beneficently obscured by the 
 prospect of food, sleep, and comparative clean- 
 liness. 
 
 After restoring ourselves to our personal com- 
 forts, we should doubtless go somewhere to refit. 
 Drafts were already waiting at the Base to fill up 
 the great gaps in our ranks. Our companies hav- 
 ing been brought up to strength, a spate of pro- 
 motions would follow. We had no Colonel, and 
 only one Company Commander. Subalterns 
 what was left of them would come by then* 
 own. N.C.O.'s, again, would have to be created 
 by the dozen. While all this was going on, and the 
 old names were being weeded out of the muster- 
 roll to make way for the new, the Quartermaster 
 would be drawing fresh equipment packs, 
 mess-tins, water-bottles, and the hundred odd- 
 ments which always go astray in tunes of stress. 
 There would be a good deal of dialogue of this 
 sort:
 
 WINTER QUARTERS 3 
 
 "Private M'Sumph, I see you are down for a 
 new pack. Where is your old one? " 
 
 "Blawn off ma back, sirr!" 
 
 "Where are your puttees?" 
 
 "Blawn off ma feet, sirr!" 
 
 "Where is your iron ration?" 
 
 "Blawn oot o' ma pooch, sirr!" 
 
 "Where is your head?" 
 
 "Blawn I beg your pardon, sirr!" fol- 
 lowed by generous reissues all round. 
 
 After a month or so our beloved regiment, once 
 more at full strength, with traditions and morale 
 annealed by the fires of experience, would take its 
 rightful place in the forefront of "K (1)." 
 
 Such was the immediate future, as it presented 
 itself to the wearied but optimistic brain of Lieu- 
 tenant Bobby Little. He communicated his the- 
 ories to Captain Wagstaffe. 
 
 "I wonder!" replied that experienced officer. 
 
 n 
 
 The chief penalty of doing a job of work well is 
 that you are promptly put on to another. This is 
 supposed to be a compliment. 
 
 The authorities allowed us exactly two days' 
 rest, and then packed us off by train, with the new 
 draft, to a particularly hot sector of the trench- 
 line in Belgium there to carry on with the oper- 
 ation known in nautical circles as "executing 
 repairs while under steam." 
 
 Well, we have been in Belgium for two months 
 now, and, as already stated, are getting into our 
 stride again.
 
 4 ? ALL IN IT 
 
 There are new faces everywhere, and some of the 
 old faces are not quite the same. They are finer- 
 drawn; one is conscious of less chubbiness all 
 round. War is a great maturing agent. There is, 
 moreover, an air of seasoned authority abroad. 
 Many who were second lieutenants or lance cor- 
 porals three months ago are now commanding 
 companies and platoons. Bobby Little is in com- 
 mand of "A" Company: if he can cling to this 
 precarious eminence for thirty days that is, if 
 no one is sent out to supersede him he becomes 
 an "automatic" captain, aged twenty! Major 
 Kemp commands the battalion; Wagstaffe is his 
 senior major. Ayling has departed from OUT 
 midst, and rumour says that he is leading a sort of 
 Pooh Bah existence at Brigade Headquarters. 
 
 There are sad gaps among our old friends of the 
 rank and file. Ogg and Hogg, M'Slattery and 
 M'Ostrich, have gone to the happy hunting- 
 grounds. Private Dunshie, the General Specialist 
 (who, you may remember, found his true voca- 
 tion, after many days, as battalion chiropodist), is 
 reported "missing." But his comrades are posi- 
 tive that no harm has befallen him. Long experi- 
 ence has convinced them that in the art of landing 
 on his feet their departed friend has no equal. 
 
 "I doot he'll be a prisoner," suggests the faith- 
 ful Mucklewame to the Transport Sergeant. 
 
 "Aye," assents the Transport Sergeant bit- 
 terly; "he'll be a prisoner. No doot he'll try to 
 pass himself off as an officer, for to get better 
 quarters!" 
 
 (The Transport Sergeant, hi whose memory
 
 L WINTER QUARTERS 5 
 
 certain enormities of Dunshie had rankled ever 
 since that versatile individual had abandoned the 
 veterinary profession, owing to the most excus- 
 able intervention of a pack-mule's off hind leg, 
 was not far out in his surmise, as subsequent his- 
 tory may some day reveal. But the telling of that 
 story is still a long way off.) 
 
 Company Sergeant-Major Pumpherston is now 
 Sergeant-Major of the Battalion. Mucklewame is 
 a corporal in his old company. Private Tosh was 
 "offered a stripe," too, but declined, because the 
 invitation did not include Private Cosh, who, 
 owing to a regrettable lapse not unconnected with 
 the rum ration, had been omitted from the Hon- 
 ours' List. Consequently these two grim veterans 
 remain undecorated, but they are objects of great 
 veneration among the recently joined for all that. 
 
 So you see us once more in harness, falling into 
 the collar with energy, if not fervour. We no 
 longer regard War with the least enthusiasm: we 
 have seen It, face to face. Our sole purpose now is 
 to screw our sturdy followers up to the requisite 
 pitch of efficiency, and keep them remorselessly 
 at that standard until the dawn of triumphant 
 and abiding peace. 
 
 We have one thing upon our side youth. 
 
 "Most of our regular senior officers are gone, 
 sir," remarked Colonel Kemp one day to the 
 Brigadier "dead, or wounded, or promoted to 
 other commands; and I have something like 
 twenty new subalterns. When you subtract a cen- 
 tenarian like myself, the average age of our Bat- 
 talion Mess, including Company Commanders,
 
 6 ALL IN IT 
 
 works out at something under twenty-three. But 
 I am not exchanging any of them, thanks!" 
 
 in 
 
 Trench-life in Belgium is an entirely different 
 proposition from trench-life in France. The undu- 
 lating country in which we now find ourselves 
 offers an infinite choice of unpleasant surround- 
 ings. 
 
 Down south, Vermelles way, the trenches 
 stretch in a comparatively straight line for miles, 
 facing one another squarely, and giving little op- 
 portunity for tactical enterprise. The infantry 
 blaze and sputter at one another in front; the guns 
 roar behind; and that is all there is to be said 
 about it. But here, the line follows the curve of 
 each little hill. At one place you are hi a salient, 
 in a trench which runs round the face of a bulging 
 "knowe" a tempting target for shells of every 
 kind. A few hundred yards farther north, or 
 south, the ground is much lower, and the trench- 
 line runs back into a re-entrant, seeking for a posi- 
 tion which shall not be commanded from higher 
 ground in front. 
 
 The line is pierced at intervals by railway- 
 cuttings, which have to be barricaded, and canals, 
 which require special defences. Almost every spot 
 hi either line is overlooked by some adjacent ridge, 
 or enfiladed from some adjacent trench. It is dis- 
 concerting for a methodical young officer, after 
 cautiously scrutinising the trench upon his front 
 through a periscope, to find that the entire per- 
 formance has been visible (and his entire person
 
 WINTER QUARTERS 7 
 
 exposed) to the view of a Boche trench situated 
 on a hill-slope upon his immediate left. 
 
 And our trench-line, with its infinity of salients 
 and re-entrants, is itself only part of the great 
 salient of "Wipers." You may imagine with what 
 methodical solemnity the Boche " crumps" the 
 interior of that constricted area. Looking round 
 at night, when the star-shells float up over the 
 skyline, one could almost imagine one's self inside 
 a complete circle, instead of a horseshoe. 
 
 The machine-gunners of both sides are ex- 
 tremely busy. In the plains of France the pursuit 
 of their nefarious trade was practically limited to 
 front-line work. When they did venture to indulge 
 in what they called "overhead" fire, their friends 
 in the forefront used to summon them after the 
 performance, and reproachfully point out sundry 
 ominous rents and abrasions in the back of the 
 front-line parapet. But here they can withdraw 
 behind a convenient ridge, and strafe Boches a 
 mile and a half away, without causing any com- 
 plaints. Needless to say, Brother Boche is not 
 backward in returning the compliment. He has 
 one gun in particular which never tires in its ef- 
 forts to rouse us from ennui. It must be a long 
 way off, for we can only just hear the report. 
 Moreover, its contribution to our liveliness, when 
 it does arrive, falls at an extremely steep angle 
 so steep, indeed, that it only just clears the back 
 of the embankment under which we live, and falls 
 upon the very doorsteps of the dug-outs with 
 which that sanctuary is honeycombed. 
 
 This invigorating shower is turned on regularly
 
 8 ALL IN IT 
 
 for ten minutes, at three, six, nine, and twelve 
 o'clock daily. (Methodical regularity is the 
 most loveable feature of the German character.) 
 Its area of activity includes our tiny but, alas! 
 steadily growing cemetery. One evening a regi- 
 ment which had recently "taken over" selected 
 6 P.M. as a suitable hour for a funeral. The result 
 was a grimly humorous spectacle the mourn- 
 ers, including the Commanding Officer and of- 
 ficiating clergy, taking hasty cover in a truly 
 novel trench; while the central figure of the ob- 
 sequies, sublimely indifferent to the Hun and 
 all his frightfulness, lay on the grass outside, 
 calm and impassive amid the whispering hail of 
 bullets. 
 
 As for the trenches themselves well, hi the 
 first place, there is no settled trench-line at all. 
 The Salient has been a battlefield for twelve 
 months past. No one has ever had the time, or 
 opportunity, to construct anything hi the shape 
 of permanent defences. A shallow trench, trimmed 
 with an untidy parapet of sandbags, and there is 
 your stronghold! For rest and meditation, a hole 
 in the ground, half-full of water and roofed with 
 a sheet of galvanised iron; or possibly a glorified 
 rabbit-burrow in a canal-bank. These things, as 
 a modern poet has observed, are all right in the 
 summer-tune. But winter here is a disintegrating 
 season. It rams heavily for, say, three days. Two 
 days of sharp frost succeed, and the ram-soaked 
 earth is reduced to the necessary degree of friabil- 
 ity. Another day's rain, and trenches and dug- 
 outs come sliding down like melted butter. Even
 
 WINTER QUARTERS 9 
 
 if you revet the trenches, it is not easy to drain 
 them. The only difference is that if your line is 
 situated on the forward slope of a hill the support 
 trench drains into the firing-trench; if they are on 
 the reverse slope, the firing-trench drains into the 
 support trench. Our indefatigable friends Box 
 and Cox, of the Royal Engineers, assisted by 
 sturdy Pioneer Battalions, labour like heroes ; but 
 the utmost they can achieve, in a low-lying coun- 
 try like this, is to divert as much water as possible 
 into some other Brigade's area. Which they do, 
 right cunningly. 
 
 In addition to the Boche, we wage continuous 
 warfare with the elements, and the various de- 
 partments of Olympus render us characteristic 
 assistance. The Round Game Department has 
 issued a set of rules for the correct method of 
 massaging and greasing the feet. (Major Wag- 
 staff e refers to this as, " Sole-slapping; or What to 
 do in the Children's Hour; complete in Twelve 
 Fortnightly Parts.") The Fairy Godmother De- 
 partment presents us with what the Quartermas- 
 ter describes as "Boots, gum, thigh"; and there 
 has also been an issue of so-called fur jackets, in 
 which the Practical Joke Department has plainly 
 taken a hand. Most of these garments appear to 
 have been contributed by animals unknown to 
 zoology, or more probably by a syndicate thereof. 
 Corporal Mucklewame's costume gives him the 
 appearance of a St. Bernard dog with Astrakhan 
 fore legs. Sergeant Carfrae is attired in what 
 looks like the skin of Nana, the dog-nurse in 
 " Peter Pan. " Private Nigg, an undersized youth
 
 10 ALL IN IT 
 
 of bashful disposition, creeps forlornly about his 
 duties disguised as an imitation leopard. As he 
 passes by, facetious persons pull what is left of his 
 tail. Private Tosh, on being confronted with his 
 winter trousseau, observed bitterly 
 
 " I jined the Airmy for tae be a sojer ; but I doot 
 they must have pit me doon as a mountain goat ! " 
 
 Still, though our variegated pelts cause us to re- 
 semble an unsuccessful compromise between Esau 
 and an Eskimo, they keep our bodies warm. We 
 wish we could say the same for our feet. On good 
 days we stand ankle-deep; on bad, we are occa- 
 sionally over the knees. Thrice blessed then are 
 our Boots, Gum, Thigh, though even these cannot 
 altogether ward off frost-bite and chilblains. 
 
 Over the way, Brother Boche is having a bad 
 time of it: his trenches are in a worse state than 
 ours. Last night a plaintive voice cried out 
 
 "Are you dere, Jock? Haf you whiskey? We 
 haf plenty water! " 
 
 Not bad for a Boche, the platoon decided. 
 
 There is no doubt that whatever the German 
 General Staff may think about the war and the 
 future, the German Infantry soldier is "fed-up." 
 His satiety takes the form of a craving for social 
 intercourse with the foe. In the small hours, when 
 the vigilance of the German N.C.O.'s is relaxed, 
 and the officers are probably in their dug-outs, 
 he makes rather pathetic overtures. We are fre- 
 quently invited to come out and shake hands. 
 " Dis war will be ober the nineteen of nex' month ! " 
 (Evidently the Kaiser has had another revela- 
 tion.) The other morning a German soldier, with
 
 WINTER QUARTERS 11 
 
 a wisp of something white in his hand, actually 
 clambered out of the firing-trench and advanced 
 towards our lines. The distance was barely 
 seventy yards. No shot was fired, but you may 
 be sure that safety-catches were hastily released. 
 Suddenly, in the tense silence, the ambassador's 
 nerve failed him. He bolted back, followed by a 
 few desultory bullets. The reason for his sudden 
 panic was never rightly ascertained, but the 
 weight of public opinion inclined to the view that 
 Mucklewame, who had momentarily exposed 
 himself above the parapet, was responsible. 
 
 "I doot he thocht ye were a lion escapit from 
 the Scottish Zoo!" explained a brother corporal, 
 referring to his indignant colleague's new winter 
 coat. 
 
 Here is another incident, with a different end- 
 ing. At one point our line approaches to within 
 fifteen yards of the Boche trenches. One wet and 
 dismal dawn, as the battalion stood to arms in the 
 neighbourhood of this delectable spot, there came 
 a sudden shout from the enemy, and an outburst 
 of rapid rifle fire. Almost simultaneously two 
 breathless and unkempt figures tumbled over our 
 parapet into the firing-trench. The fusillade died 
 away. 
 
 To the extreme discomfort and shame of a re- 
 spectable citizen of Bannockburn, one Private 
 Buncle, the more hairy of the two visitors, upon 
 recovering his feet, promptly flung his arms 
 around his neck and kissed him on both cheeks. 
 The outrage was repeated, by his companion, upon 
 Private Nigg. At the same time both visitors
 
 12 ALL IN IT 
 
 broke into a joyous chant of "Russky! Russky!" 
 They were escaped Russian prisoners. 
 
 When taken to Headquarters they explained 
 that they had been brought up to perform fatigue 
 work near the German trenches, and had seized 
 upon a quiet moment to slip into some convenient 
 undergrowth. Later, under cover of night, they 
 had made their way in the direction of the firing- 
 line, arriving just in time to make a dash before 
 daylight discovered them. You may imagine 
 their triumphal departure from our trenches 
 loaded with cigarettes, chocolate, biscuits, but- 
 tons, bully beef, and other imperishable souvenirs. 
 
 We have had other visitors. One bright day a 
 Boche aeroplane made a reconnaissance of our 
 lines. It was a beautiful thing, white and birdlike. 
 But as its occupants were probably taking photo- 
 graphs of our most secret fastnesses, artistic ap- 
 preciation was dimmed by righteous wrath - 
 wrath which turned to profound gratification 
 when a philistine British plane appeared hi the 
 blue and engaged the glittering stranger in 
 battle. There was some very pretty aerial ma- 
 noeuvring, right over our heads, as the comba- 
 tants swooped and circled for position. We could 
 hear their machine-gun pattering away; and 
 the volume of sound was increased by the distant 
 contributions of "Coughing Clara" our latest 
 anti-aircraft gun, which appears to suffer from 
 chronic irritation of the mucous membrane. 
 
 Suddenly the German aeroplane gave a lurch; 
 then righted herself; then began to circle down, 
 making desperate efforts to cross the neutral line.
 
 WINTER QUARTERS 13 
 
 But the British airman headed her off. Next 
 moment she lurched again, and then took a " nose- 
 dive" straight into the British trenches. She fell 
 on open ground, a few hundred yards behind our 
 second line. The place had been a wilderness a 
 moment before; but the crowd which instantane- 
 ously sprang up round the wreck could not have 
 been less than two hundred strong. (One observes 
 the same uncanny phenomenon in London, when 
 a cab-horse falls down in a deserted street.) How- 
 ever, it melted away at the rebuke of the first offi- 
 cer who hurried to the spot, the process of dissolu- 
 tion being accelerated by several bursts of Ger- 
 man shrapnel. 
 
 Both pilot and observer were dead. They had 
 made a gallant fight, and were buried the same 
 evening, with all honour, in the little cemetery, 
 alongside many who had once been their foes, but 
 were now peacefully neutral. 
 
 IV 
 
 The housing question in Belgium confronts us 
 with several novel problems. It is not so easy to 
 billet troops here, especially in the Salient, as in 
 France. Some of us live in huts, others in tents, 
 others in dug-outs. Others, more fortunate, are 
 loaded on to a fleet of motor-buses and whisked 
 off to more civilised dwellings many miles away. 
 These buses once plied for hire upon the streets of 
 London. Each bus is in charge of the identical 
 pair of cross-talk comedians who controlled its 
 destinies in more peaceful days. Strangely attired 
 in khaki and sheepskin, they salute officers with
 
 14 ALL IN IT 
 
 cheerful bonhomie, and bellow to one another 
 throughout the journey the simple and primitive 
 jests of their previous incarnation, to the huge 
 delight of their fares. 
 
 The destination-boards and advertisements are 
 no more, for the buses are painted a neutral green 
 all over; but the conductor is always ready and 
 willing to tell you what his previous route was. 
 
 "That Daimler behind you, sir," he informs 
 you, "is one of the Number Nineteens. Set you 
 down at the top of Sloane Street many a time, I '11 
 be bound. Ernie" this to the driver, along the 
 side of the bus "you oughter have slowed 
 down when thet copper waved his little flag: he 
 wasn't pleased with yer, ole son!" (The "cop- 
 per" is a military mounted policeman, controlling 
 the traffic of a little town which lies on our way to 
 the trenches.) "This one we're on is a Number 
 Eight, sir. No, that dent in the staircase was n't 
 done by no shell. The ole girl got that through a 
 skid up against a lamp-post, one wet Saturday 
 night in the Vauxhall Bridge Road. Dangerous 
 place, London!" 
 
 We rattle through a brave little town, which is 
 "carrying on" in the face of paralysed trade and 
 perioolical shelling. Soldiers abound. All are 
 muddy, but some are muddier than others. The 
 latter are going up to the trenches, the former are 
 coming back. Upon the walls, here and there, we 
 notice a gay poster advertising an entertainment 
 organised by certain Divisional troops, which is to 
 be given nightly throughout the week. At the 
 foot of the bill is printed in large capitals, A 
 HOOGE SUCCESS! We should like to send a
 
 WINTER QUARTERS 15 
 
 copy of that plucky document to Brother Boche. 
 He would not understand it, but it would annoy 
 him greatly. 
 
 Now we leave the town behind, and quicken 
 up along the open road an interminable ribbon 
 of pave, absolutely straight, and bordered upon 
 either side by what was once macadam, but is 
 now a quagmire a foot deep. Occasionally there 
 is a warning cry of "Wire!" and the outside fares 
 hurriedly bow from the waist, in order to avoid 
 having their throats cut by a telephone wire 
 "Gunners, for a dollar!" surmises a strangled 
 voice tightly stretched across the road between 
 two poplars. Occasionally, too, that indefatiga- 
 ble humorist, Ernie, directs his course beneath 
 some low-spreading branches, through which the 
 upper part of the bus crashes remorselessly, while 
 the passengers, lying sardine-wise upon the roof 
 uplift their voices in profane and bloodthirsty 
 chorus. 
 
 "Nothing like a bit o' fun on the way to the 
 trenches, boys! It may be the last you'll get!" is 
 the only apology which Ernie offers. 
 
 Presently our vehicle bumps across a nubbly 
 bridge, and enters what was once a fair city. It is 
 a walled city, like Chester, and is separated from 
 the surrounding country by a moat as wide as the 
 upper Thames. In days gone by those ramparts 
 and that moat could have held an army at bay 
 and probably did, more than once. They have 
 done so yet again; but at what a cost! 
 
 We glide through the ancient gateway and
 
 16 ALL IN IT 
 
 along the ghostly streets, and survey the crowning 
 achievement of the cultured Boche. The great 
 buildings the Cathedral, the Cloth Hall are 
 jagged ruins. The fronts of the houses have long 
 disappeared, leaving the interiors exposed to view, 
 like a doll's house. Here is a street full of shops. 
 That heap of splintered wardrobes and legless 
 tables was once a furniture warehouse. That snug 
 little corner house, with the tottering zinc counter 
 and the twisted beer engine, is an obvious esta- 
 minet. You may observe the sign, "Aux Deux 
 Amis," in dingy lettering over the doorway. Here 
 is an oil-and-colour shop : you can still see the red 
 ochre and white lead splashed about among the 
 ruins. 
 
 In almost every house the ceilings of the upper 
 floors have fallen in. Chairs, tables, and bed- 
 steads hang precariously into the room below. 
 Here and there a picture still adheres to the wall. 
 From one of the bedposts flutters a tattered and 
 diminutive garment of blue and white check 
 some little girl's frock. Where is that little girl 
 now, we wonder; and has she got another frock? 
 
 One is struck above all things with the minute 
 detail of the damage. You would say that a party 
 of lunatics had been let loose on the city with coal- 
 hammers: there is hardly a square yard of any 
 surface which is not pierced, or splintered, or 
 dented. The whole fabric of the place lies pros- 
 trate, under a shroud of broken bricks and broken 
 plaster. The Hun has said in his majesty: " If you 
 will not yield me this, the last city hi the last 
 corner of Belgium, I can at least see to it that
 
 WINTER QUARTERS 17 
 
 not one stone thereof remains upon another. 
 So yah!" 
 
 Such is the appearance presented by the ven- 
 erable and historic city of Ypres, after fifteen 
 months of personal contact with the apostles of 
 the new civilisation. Only the methodical and 
 painstaking Boche could have reduced a town 
 of such a size to such a state. Imagine Chester in 
 a similar condition, and you may realise the num- 
 ber of shells which have fallen, and are still falling, 
 into the stricken city. 
 
 But the main point to observe is this. We 
 are inside, and the Boche is outside! Fenced by a 
 mighty crescent of prosaic trenches, themselves 
 manned by paladins of an almost incredible sto- 
 lidity, Ypres still points her broken fingers to the 
 sky shattered, silent, but inviolate still ; and 
 all owing to the obstinacy of a dull and unready 
 nation which merely keeps faith and stands by its 
 friends. Such an attitude of mind is incomprehen- 
 sible to the Boche, and we are well content that 
 it should be so.
 
 II 
 
 SHELL OUT I 
 I 
 
 THIS, according to our latest subaltern from home, 
 is the title of a revue which is running in Town; 
 but that is a mere coincidence. The entertain- 
 ment to which I am now referring took place in 
 Flanders, and the leading parts were assigned to 
 distinguished members of "K (1)." 
 
 The scene was the Chateau de Grandbois, or 
 some other kind of Bois; possibly Vert. Not that 
 we called it that : we invariably referred to it after- 
 wards as Hush Hall, for reasons which will be set 
 forth in due course. 
 
 One morning, while sojourning in what Olym- 
 pus humorously calls a rest-camp, a collection 
 of antiquated wigwams half submerged in a mud- 
 flat, intermittently shelled we received the in- 
 telligence that we were to extricate ourselves forth- 
 with, and take over a fresh sector of trenches. The 
 news was doubly unwelcome, because, in the first 
 place, it is always unpleasant to face the prospect 
 of trenches of any kind; and secondly, to take 
 over strange trenches in the dead of a winter night 
 is an experience which borders upon nightmare 
 the hot-lobster-and-toasted-cheese variety. 
 
 The opening stages of this enterprise are almost 
 ambassadorial in their formality. First of all, the 
 Brigade Staff which is coming in visits the Head-
 
 SHELL OUT! 19 
 
 quarters of the Brigade which is going out usu- 
 ally a chateau or farm somewhere in rear of the 
 trenches and makes the preliminary arrange- 
 ments. After that the Commanding Officers and 
 Company Commanders of the incoming battalions 
 visit their own particular section of the line. They 
 are shown over the premises by the outgoing ten- 
 ants, who make little or no attempt to conceal their 
 satisfaction at the expiration of their lease. The 
 Colonels and the Captains then return to camp, 
 with depressing tales of crumbling parapets, noi- 
 some dug-outs, and positions open to enfilade. 
 
 On the day of the relief various advance parties 
 go up, keeping under the lee of hedges and em- 
 bankments, and marching in single file. (At least, 
 that is what they are supposed to do. If not ruth- 
 lessly shepherded, they will advance in fours along 
 the skyline.) Having arrived, they take over such 
 positions as can be relieved by daylight in com- 
 parative safety. They also take over trench- 
 stores, and exchange trench-gossip. 
 
 The latter is a fearsome and uncanny thing. It 
 usually begins life at the ''refilling point," where 
 the A.S.C. motor-lorries dump down next day's ra- 
 tions, and the regimental transport picks them up. 
 
 An A.S.C. Sergeant mentions casually to a regi- 
 mental Quartermaster that he has heard it said at 
 the Supply Dep6t that heavy firing has been going 
 on in the Channel. The Quartermaster, on return- 
 ing to the Transport Lines, observes to his Quar- 
 termaster-Sergeant that the German Fleet has 
 come out at last. The Quartermaster-Sergeant, 
 when he meets the ration parties behind the lines
 
 20 ALL IN IT 
 
 that night, announces to a platoon Sergeant that 
 we have won a great naval victory. The platoon 
 Sergeant, who is suffering from trench feet and is a 
 constant reader of a certain pessimistic halfpenny 
 journal, replies gloomily: "We'll have had heavy 
 losses oorselves, too, I doot!" This observation is 
 overheard by various members of the ration party. 
 By midnight several hundred yards of the firing- 
 line know for a fact that there has been a naval 
 disaster of the first magnitude off the coast of a place 
 which every one calls Gaily Polly, and that the 
 whole of our Division are to be transferred forth- 
 with to the Near East to stem the tide of calamity. 
 Still, we must have something to chat about. 
 
 Meanwhile Brigade Majors and Adjutants, 
 holding a stumpy pencil in one hand and a burn- 
 ing brow in the other, are composing Operation 
 Orders which shall effect the relief, without 
 
 (1) Leaving some detail the bombers, or the 
 snipers, or the sock-driers, or the pea-soup experts 
 unrelieved altogether. 
 
 (2) Causing relievers and relieved to meet vio- 
 lently together in some constricted fairway. 
 
 (3) Trespassing into some other Brigade Area. 
 (This is far more foolhardy than to wander into 
 the German lines.) 
 
 (4) Getting shelled. 
 
 Pitfall Number One is avoided by keeping a 
 permanent and handy list of "all the people who 
 do funny things on their own" (as the vulgar 
 throng call the "specialists"), and checking it 
 carefully before issuing Orders.
 
 SHELL OUT! 21 
 
 Number Two is dealt with by issuing a strict 
 time-table, which might possibly be adhered to by 
 a well-drilled flock of archangels, in broad day- 
 light, upon good roads, and under peace condi- 
 tions. 
 
 Number Three is provided for by copious and 
 complicated map references. 
 
 Number Four is left to Providence and is 
 usually the best-conducted feature of the excur- 
 sion. 
 
 Under cover of night the Battalion sets out, in 
 comparatively small parties. They form a strange 
 procession. The men wear their trench-costume 
 - thigh-boots (which do not go well with a kilt), 
 variegated coats of skins, and woollen nightcaps. 
 Stuffed under their belts and through their packs 
 they carry newspapers, broken staves for fire- 
 wood, parcels from home, and sandbags loaded 
 with mysterious comforts. A dilapidated parrot 
 and a few goats are all that is required to complete 
 the picture of Robinson Crusoe changing camp. 
 
 Progress is not easy. It is a pitch-black night. 
 By day, this road (and all the countryside) is a 
 wilderness : nothing more innocent ever presented 
 itself to the eye of an inquisitive aeroplane. But 
 after nightfall it is packed with troops and trans- 
 port, and not a light is shown. If you can imagine 
 what the Mansion House crossing would be like if 
 called upon to sustain its midday traffic at mid- 
 night the Mansion House crossing entirely un- 
 illuminated, paved with twelve inches of liquid 
 mud, intersected by narrow strips of pav6, and 
 liberally pitted with "crump-holes" -you may
 
 22 ALL IN IT 
 
 derive some faint idea of the state of things at a 
 busy road-junction lying behind the trenches. 
 
 Until reaching what is facetiously termed "the 
 shell area" as if any spot in this benighted dis- 
 trict were not a shell area the troops plod along 
 in fours at the right of the road. If they can 
 achieve two miles an hour, they do well. At any 
 moment they may be called upon to halt, and 
 crowd into the roadside, while a transport- train 
 passes carrying rations, and coke, and what is 
 called "R.E. material" this may be anything 
 from a bag of nails to steel girders nine feet long 
 up to the firing-line. When this procession, con- 
 sisting of a dozen limbered waggons, drawn by 
 four mules and headed by a profane person on 
 horseback the Transport Officer has rum- 
 bled past, the Company, which has been standing 
 respectfully in the ditch, enjoying a refreshing 
 shower-bath of mud and hoping that none of the 
 steel girders are projecting from the limber more 
 than a yard or two, sets out once more upon its 
 way only to take hasty cover again as sounds 
 of fresh and more animated traffic are heard ap- 
 proaching from the opposite direction. There is 
 no mistaking the nature of this cavalcade: the 
 long vista of glowing cigarette-ends tells an unmis- 
 takable tale. These are artillery waggons, return- 
 nig empty from replenishing the batteries; scat- 
 tering homely jests like hail, and proceeding, 
 wherever possible, at a hand-gallop. He is a 
 cheery and gallant soul, the R.A. driver, but his 
 interpretation of the rules of the road requires 
 drastic revision.
 
 SHELL OUT! 23 
 
 Sometimes an axle breaks, or a waggon side- 
 slips off the pav into the morass reserved for 
 infantry, and overturns. The result is a block, 
 which promptly extends forward and back for a 
 couple of miles. A peculiarly British chorus of 
 inquiry and remonstrance a blend of biting 
 sarcasm and blasphemous humour surges up 
 and down the line; until plunging mules are un- 
 yoked, and the offending vehicle man-handled out 
 of sight into the inky blackness by the roadside; 
 or, in extreme cases, is annihilated with axes. 
 Everything has to make way for a ration train. 
 To crown all, it is more than likely that the calm- 
 ness and smooth working of the proceedings will 
 be assisted by a burst of shrapnel overhead. It is a 
 most amazing scrimmage altogether. One of those 
 members of His Majesty's Opposition who are 
 doing so much at present to save our country from 
 destruction, by kindly pointing out the mistakes 
 of the British Government and the British Army, 
 would refer to the whole scene as a pandemonium 
 of mismanagement and ineptitude. And yet, 
 though the scene is enacted night after night 
 without a break, there is hardly a case on record 
 of the transport being surprised upon these roads 
 by the coming of daylight, and none whatever 
 of the rations and ammunition failing to get 
 through. 
 
 It is difficult to imagine that Brother Boche, 
 who on the other side of that ring of star-shells is 
 conducting a precisely similar undertaking, is 
 able, with all his perfect organisation and cast- 
 iron methods, to achieve a result in any way su-
 
 24 ALL IN IT 
 
 perior to that which Thomas Atkins reaches by 
 rule of thumb and sheer force of character. 
 
 At length the draggled Company worms its 
 way through the press to the fringe of the shell- 
 area, beyond which no transport may pass. The 
 distance of this point from the trenches varies 
 considerably, and depends largely upon the ca- 
 price of the Boche. On this occasion, however, 
 we still have a mile or two to go across country 
 now, in single file, at the heels of a guide from the 
 battalion which we are relieving. 
 
 Guides may be divided into two classes 
 
 (1) Guides who do not know the way, and say 
 so at the outset. 
 
 (2) Guides who do not know the way, but leave 
 it to you to discover the fact. 
 
 There are no other kinds of guides. 
 
 The pace is down to a mile an hour now, except 
 in the case of men in the tail of the line, who are 
 running rapidly. It is a curious but quite inexpli- 
 cable fact that if you set a hundred men to march 
 in single file in the dark, though the leading man 
 may be crawling like a tortoise, the last man is 
 compelled to proceed at a profane double if he is 
 to avoid being left behind and lost. 
 
 Still, everybody gets there somehow, and in due 
 course the various Company Commanders are 
 enabled to telephone to their respective Battalion 
 Headquarters the information that the Relief is 
 completed. For this relief, much thanks! 
 
 After that the outgoing Battalion files slowly 
 out, and the newcomers are left gloomily con-
 
 SHELL OUT! 25 
 
 templating their new abiding-place, and observ- 
 ing 
 
 "I wonder if there is any Division in the whole 
 blessed Expeditionary Force, besides ours, which 
 ever does a single damn thing to keep its trenches 
 in repair!" 
 
 ii 
 
 All of which brings us back to Hush Hall, where 
 the Headquarters of the outgoing Brigade are 
 handing over to their successors. 
 
 Hush Hall, or the Chateau de Grandbois, is a 
 modern country house, and once stood up white 
 and gleaming in all its brave finery of stucco, con- 
 servatories, and ornamental lake, amid a pleasant 
 wood not far from a main road. It is such a house 
 as you might find round about Guildf ord or Hind- 
 head. There are many in this fair countryside, 
 but few are inhabited now, and none by their 
 rightful owners. They are all marked on the map, 
 and the Boche gunners are assiduous map-read- 
 ers. Hush Hall has got off comparatively lightly. 
 It is still habitable, and well furnished. The roof 
 is demolished upon the side most exposed to the 
 enemy, and many of the trees in the surrounding 
 wood are broken and splintered by shrapnel. Still, 
 provided the weather remains passable, one can 
 live there. Upon the danger-side the windows are 
 closed and shuttered. Weeds grow apace in the 
 garden. No smoke emerges from the chimneys. 
 (If it does, the Mess Corporal hears about it from 
 the Staff Captain.) A few strands of barbed wire 
 obstruct the passage of those careless or adven-
 
 26 ALL IN IT 
 
 turous persons who may desire to explore the for- 
 bidden side of the house. The front door is bolted 
 and barred: visitors, after approaching stealthily 
 along the lee of a hedge, like travellers of dubious 
 bona fides on a Sunday afternoon, enter unobtru- 
 sively by the back door, which is situated on the 
 blind side of the chateau. Their path thereto is 
 beset by imploring notices like the following: 
 
 THE SLIGHTEST MOVEMENT DRAWS SHELL 
 FIRE. KEEP CLOSE TO THE HEDGE 
 
 A later hand has added the following moving 
 postscript : 
 
 WE LIVE HERE. YOU DON'T 
 
 It was the Staff Captain who was responsible 
 for the rechristening of the establishment. 
 
 "What sort of place is this new palace we are 
 going to doss in?" inquired the Machine-Gun 
 Officer, when the Staff Captain returned from his 
 preliminary visit. 
 
 The Staff Captain, who was a man of a few 
 words, replied 
 
 "It's the sort of shanty where everybody goes 
 about in felt slippers, saying 'Hush!" 
 
 Brigade Headquarters this means the Briga- 
 dier, the Brigade Major, the Staff Captain, the
 
 SHELL OUT! 27 
 
 Machine-Gun Officer, the Signal Officer, mayhap 
 a Padre and a Liaison Officer, accompanied by a 
 mixed multitude of clerks, telegraphists, and scul- 
 lions arrived safely at their new quarters under 
 cover of night, and were hospitably received by 
 the outgoing tenants, who had finished their eve- 
 ning meal and were girded up for departure. In 
 fact, the Machine-Gun Officer, Liaison Officer, 
 and Padre had already gone, leaving their seniors 
 to hold the fort till the last. The Signal Officer 
 was down in the cellar, handling over ohms, am- 
 peres, short-circuits, and other mysterious trench- 
 stores to his " opposite number." 
 
 Upon these occasions there is usually a good 
 deal of time to fill in between the arrival of the 
 new brooms and the departure of the old. This 
 period of waiting may be likened to that some- 
 what anxious interval with which frequenters of 
 race-courses are familiar, between the finish of the 
 race and the announcement of the "All Right!" 
 The outgoing Headquarters are waiting for the 
 magic words "Relief Complete!" Until that 
 message comes over the buzzer, the period of ten- 
 sion endures. The main point of difference is that 
 the gentleman who has staked his fortune on the 
 legs of a horse has only to wait a few minutes for 
 the confirmation of his hopes; while a Brigadier, 
 whose bedtime (or even breakfast-time) is at the 
 mercy of an errant platoon, may have to sit up all 
 night. 
 
 "Sit down and make yourselves comfortable," 
 said A Brigade to X Brigade. 
 
 X Brigade complied, and having been furnished
 
 28 ALL IN IT 
 
 with refreshment, led off with the inevitable 
 question - 
 
 "Does one er get shelled much here?" 
 
 There was a reassuring coo from A Brigade. 
 
 "Oh, no. This is a very healthy spot. One has 
 to be careful, of course. No movement, or fires, or 
 anything of that kind. A sentry or two, to warn 
 people against approaching over the open by day, 
 and you '11 be as cooshie as anything ! " (" Cooshie' ' 
 is the latest word here. That and "crump.") 
 
 "I ought to warn you of one thing," said the 
 Brigadier. "Owing to the surrounding woods, 
 sound is most deceptive here. You will hear shell- 
 bursts which appear quite close, when hi reality 
 they are quite a distance away. That, for in- 
 stance!" as a shell exploded apparently just 
 outside the window. "That little fellow is a 
 couple of hundred yards away, in the corner of 
 the wood. The Boche has been groping about 
 there for a battery for the last two days." 
 
 "Is the battery there?" inquired a voice. 
 
 "No ; it is farther east. But there is a Gunner's 
 Mess about two hundred yards from here, in 
 that house which you passed on the way up." 
 
 "Oh!" observed X Brigade. 
 
 Gunners are peculiar people. When profes- 
 sionally engaged, no men could be more retiring. 
 They screen their operations from the public gaze 
 with the utmost severity, shrouding batteries in 
 screens of foliage and other rustic disguises. If a 
 layman strays anywhere near one of these arbo- 
 real retreats, a gunner thrusts out a visage en- 
 flamed with righteous wrath, and curses him for
 
 SHELL OUT! 29 
 
 giving the position away. But in his hours of re- 
 laxation the gunner is a different being. He billets 
 himself in a house with plenty of windows: he il- 
 luminates all these by night, and hangs washing 
 therefrom by day. When inclined for exercise, he 
 plays football upon an open space labelled 
 "Not to be used by troops during daylight." 
 Therefore, despite his technical excellence and 
 superb courage, he is an uncomfortable neighbour 
 for establishments like Hush Hall. 
 
 In this respect he offers a curious contrast to 
 the Sapper. Off duty, the Sapper is the most un- 
 obtrusive of men a cave-man, in fact. He bur- 
 rows deep into the earth, or the side of a hill, and 
 having secured the roof of this cavern against 
 direct hits by ingenious contrivances of his own 
 manufacture, constructs a suite of furniture of a 
 solid and enduring pattern, and lives the life of a 
 comfortable recluse. But when engaged in the 
 pursuit of his calling, the Sapper is the least retir- 
 ing of men. The immemorial tradition of the great 
 Corps to which he belongs has ordained that no 
 fire, however fierce, must be allowed to interfere 
 with a Sapper in the execution of his duty. This 
 rule is usually interpreted by the Sapper to mean 
 that you must not perform your allotted task un- 
 der cover when it is possible to do so under fire. 
 To this is added, as a rider, that in the absence of 
 an adequate supply of fire, you must draw fire. 
 So the Sapper walks cheerfully about on the tops 
 of parapets, hugging large and conspicuous pieces 
 of timber, or clashing together sheets of corru- 
 gated iron, as happy as a king.
 
 30 ALL IN IT 
 
 "You will find this house quite snug," contin- 
 ued the Brigadier. "The eastern suite is to be 
 avoided, because there is no roof there; and if it 
 rains outside for a day, it rains in the best bed- 
 room for a week. There is a big kitchen in the 
 basement, with a capital range. That's all, I 
 think. The chief thing to avoid is movement of 
 any kind. The leaves are coming off the trees 
 now " 
 
 At this moment an orderly entered the room 
 with a pink telegraph message. 
 
 "Relief complete, sir!" announced the Brigade 
 Major, reading it. 
 
 "Good work!" replied both Brigadiers, looking 
 at their watches simultaneously, "considering the 
 state of the country." The Brigadier of "A" rose 
 to his feet. 
 
 "Now we can pass along quietly," he said. 
 "Good luck to you. By the way, take care of 
 Edgar, won't you? Any little attention which you 
 can show him will be greatly appreciated." 
 
 "Who is Edgar?" 
 
 "Oh, I thought the Staff Captain would have 
 told you. Edgar is the swan the last of his race, 
 I 'm afraid, so far as this place is concerned. He 
 lives on the lake, and usually comes ashore to 
 draw his rations about lunch-time. He is inclined 
 to be stand-offish on one side, as he has only one 
 eye; but he is most affable on the other. Well, 
 now to find our horses!" 
 
 As the three officers departed down the back- 
 door steps, a hesitating voice followed them 
 
 "H'm! Is there any place where one can go
 
 SHELL OUT! 31 
 
 a cellar, or any old spot of that kind just in 
 case we are " 
 
 "Bless you, you'll be all right!" was the cheery 
 reply. (The outgoing Brigade is always exces- 
 sively cheery.) "But there are dug-outs over 
 there in the garden. They have n't been occu- 
 pied for some months, so you may find them a bit 
 ratty. You won't require them, though. Good- 
 night!" 
 
 in 
 
 Whizz! Boom! Bang! Crash! Wump! 
 
 "It's just as well," mused the Brigade Major, 
 turning in his sleep about three o'clock the follow- 
 ing morning, "that they warned us about the de- 
 ceptive sound of the shelling here. One would 
 almost imagine that it was quite close. . . . That 
 last one was heavy stuff : it shook the whole place! 
 . . . This is a topping mattress : it would be rotten 
 having to take to the woods again after getting 
 into really cooshie quarters at last. . . . There 
 they go again!" as a renewed tempest of shells 
 rent the silence of night. "That old battery must 
 be getting it in the neck! . . . Hallo, I could have 
 sworn something hit the roof that time! A loose 
 slate, I expect! Anyhow . . ." 
 
 The Brigade Major, who had had a very long 
 day, turned over and went to sleep again. 
 
 IV 
 
 The next morning, a Sunday, broke bright and 
 clear. Contrary to his usual habit, the Brigade 
 Major took a stroll in the garden before breakfast.
 
 32 ALL IN IT 
 
 The first object which caught his eye, as he came 
 down the back-door steps, was the figure of the 
 Staff Captain, brooding pensively over a large 
 crater, close to the hedge. The Brigade Major 
 joined him. 
 
 "I wonder if that was there yesterday!" he ob- 
 served, referring to the crater. 
 
 "Could n't have been," growled the Staff Cap- 
 tain. "We walked to the house along this very 
 hedge. No craters then!" 
 
 "True!" agreed the Brigade Major amiably. 
 He turned and surveyed the garden. "That lawn 
 looks a bit of a golf course. What lovely bunk- 
 ers!" 
 
 "They appear to be quite new, too," remarked 
 the Staff Captain thoughtfully. "Come to break- 
 fast!" 
 
 On their way back they found the Brigadier, 
 the Machine-Gun Officer, and the Padre, gazing 
 silently upward. 
 
 "I wonder when that corner of the house got 
 knocked off," the M.G.O. was observing. 
 
 "Fairly recently, I should say," replied the 
 Brigadier. 
 
 "Those marks beside your bedroom window, 
 sir, they look pretty fresh!" interpolated the 
 Padre, a sincere but somewhat tactless Christian. 
 
 Brigade Headquarters regarded one another 
 with dubious smiles. 
 
 "I wonder," began a tentative voice, "if those 
 fellows last night were indulging in a leg-pull 
 what is called in this country a tire-jambe when 
 they assured us "
 
 SHELL OUT! 33 
 
 WHOO-OO-OO-OO-UMP ! 
 
 A shell came shrieking over the tree-tops, and 
 fell with a tremendous splash into the geometrical 
 centre of the lake, fifty yards away. 
 
 For the next two hours, shrapnel, " whizz- 
 bangs," " Silent Susies," and other explosive wild- 
 fowl raged round the walls of Hush Hall. The 
 inhabitants thereof, some twenty persons in all, 
 were gathered in various apartments on the lee 
 side. 
 
 "It is still possible," remarked the Brigadier, 
 lighting his pipe, "that they are not aiming at us. 
 However, it is just as inconvenient to be buried 
 by accident as by design. As soon as the first 
 direct hit is registered upon this imposing fabric, 
 we will retire to the dug-outs. Send word to the 
 kitchen that every one is to be ready to clear out 
 of the house when necessary." 
 
 Next moment there came a resounding crash, 
 easily audible above the tornado raging in the 
 garden, followed by ithe sound of splintering glass. 
 Hush Hall rocked. The Mess waiter appeared. 
 
 "A shell has just came in through the dining- 
 room window, sirr," he informed the Mess Presi- 
 dent, "and broke three of they new cups!" 
 
 "How tiresome!" said the Brigadier. "Dug- 
 outs, everybody!" 
 
 There were no casualties, which was rather 
 miraculous. Late in the afternoon Brigade Head- 
 quarters ventured upon another stroll in the gar-
 
 34 ALL IN IT 
 
 den. The tumult had ceased, and the setting Sab- 
 bath sun glowed peacefully upon the battered 
 countenance of Hush Hall. The damage was not 
 very extensive, for the house was stoutly built. 
 Still, two bedrooms, recently occupied, were a 
 wreck of broken glass and splintered plaster, while 
 the gravel outside was littered with lead sheeting 
 and twisted chimney-cans. The shell which had 
 aroused the indignation of the Mess waiter by 
 entering the dining-room window, had in reality 
 hit the ground directly beneath it. Six feet higher, 
 and the Brigadier's order to clear the house would 
 have been entirely superfluous. 
 
 The Brigade Major and the Staff Captain sur- 
 veyed the unruffled surface of the lake a haunt 
 of ancient peace in the rays of the setting sun. 
 Upon the bosom thereof floated a single, majestic, 
 one-eyed swan, performing intricate toilet exer- 
 cises. It was Edgar. 
 
 "He must have a darned good dug-out some- 
 where!" observed the Brigade Major enviously.
 
 Ill 
 
 WINTER SPORTS: VARIOUS 
 i 
 
 HUSH HALL having become an even less desirable 
 place of residence than had hitherto been thought 
 possible, Headquarters very sensibly sent for 
 their invaluable friends, Box and Cox, of the 
 Royal Engineers, and requested that they would 
 proceed to make the place proof against shells and 
 weather, forthwith, if not sooner. 
 
 Those phlegmatic experts made a thorough in- 
 vestigation of the resources of the establishment, 
 and departed mysteriously, after the fashion of 
 the common plumber of civilisation, into space. 
 Three days later they returned, accompanied by a 
 horde of acolytes, who, with characteristic con- 
 tempt for the pathetic appeals upon the notice- 
 boards, proceeded to dump down lumber, sand- 
 bags, and corrugated iron roofing in the most 
 exposed portions of the garden. 
 
 This done, some set out to shore up the ceilings 
 of the basement with mighty battens of wood, and 
 to convert that region into a nest of cunningly de- 
 vised bedrooms. Others reinforced the flooring 
 above with a layer of earth and brick rubble three 
 feet deep. On the top of all this they relaid not 
 only the original floor, but eke the carpet. 
 
 "The only difference from before, sir," ex- 
 plained Box to the admiring Staff Captain, "is
 
 36 ALL IN IT 
 
 that people will have to walk up three steps to get 
 into the dining-room now, instead of going in on 
 the level." 
 
 "I wonder what the Marquise de Grandbois 
 will think of it all when she returns to her ances- 
 tral home," mused the Staff Captain. 
 
 "If anything," maintained the invincible Box, 
 "we have improved it for her. For example, she 
 can now light the chandelier without standing on 
 a chair without getting up from table, in fact ! 
 However, to resume. The fireplace, you will ob- 
 serve, has not been touched. I have left a sort of 
 well in the floor all round it, lined with some stuff 
 I found in Mademoiselle's room. At least," added 
 Box coyly, "I think it must have been Mademoi- 
 selle's room ! You can sit in the well every evening 
 after supper. The walls of this room" prod- 
 ding the same "are lined with sandbags, cov- 
 ered with tapestry. Pretty artistic what?" 
 
 "Extremely," agreed the Staff Captain. "You 
 will excuse my raising the point, I know, but can 
 the apartment now be regarded as shell-proof?" 
 
 "Against everything but a direct hit. I 
 would n't advise you to sleep on this floor much, 
 but you could have your meals here all right. 
 Then, if the Boche starts putting over heavy 
 stuff, you can pop down into the basement and 
 have your dessert in bed. You'll be absolutely 
 safe there. In fact, the more the house tumbles 
 down the safer you will be. It will only make your 
 protection shell thicker. So if you hear heavy 
 thuds overhead, don't be alarmed!" 
 
 "I won't," promised the Staff Captain. "I
 
 WINTER SPORTS: VARIOUS 37 
 
 shall lie in bed, drinking a nice hot cup of tea, and 
 wondering whether the last crash was the kitchen 
 chimney, or only the drawing-room piano coming 
 down another storey. Now show me my room." 
 
 "We have had to put you in the larder," ex- 
 plained Box apologetically, as he steered his guest 
 through a forest of struts with an electric torch. 
 "At least, I think it's the larder: it has a sort of 
 meaty smell. The General is in the dairy a 
 lovely little suite, with white tiles. The Brigade 
 Major has the scullery: it has a sink, so is practi- 
 cally as good as a flat in Park Place. I have run 
 up cubicles for the others in the kitchen. Here is 
 your little cot. It is only six feet by four, but you 
 can dress in the garden." 
 
 "It's a sweet little nest, dear!" replied the Staff 
 Captain, quite hypnotised by this time. "I '11 just 
 get my maid to put me into something loose, and 
 then I '11 run along to your room, and we'll have a 
 nice cosy gossip together before dinner!" 
 
 In due course we removed our effects from the 
 tottering and rat-ridden dug-outs in which we had 
 taken sanctuary during the shelling, and prepared 
 to settle down for the winter in our new quarters. 
 
 "We might be very much worse off!" we ob- 
 served the first evening, listening to the comfort- 
 ably muffled sounds of shells overhead. 
 
 And we were right. Three days later we re- 
 ceived an intimation from the Practical Joke De- 
 partment that we were to evacuate our present 
 sector of trenches (including Hush Hall) forth- 
 with, and occupy another part of the line.
 
 38 ALL IN IT 
 
 In all Sports, Winter and Summer, the suprem- 
 acy of the Practical Joke Department is unchal- 
 lenged. 
 
 Meanwhile, up in the trenches, the combatants 
 are beguiling the time in their several ways. 
 
 Let us take the reserve line first the lair of 
 Battalion Headquarters and its appurtenances. 
 Much of our time here, as elsewhere, is occupied 
 in unostentatious retirement to our dug-outs, to 
 avoid the effects of a bombardment. But a good 
 amount an increasing amount of it is de- 
 voted to the contemplation of our own shells 
 bursting over the Boche trenches. Gone are the 
 days during which we used to sit close and "stick 
 it out," consoling ourselves with the vague hope 
 that by the end of the week our gunners might 
 possibly have garnered sufficient ammunition to 
 justify a few brief hours' retaliation. The boot is 
 on the other leg now. For every Boche battery 
 that opens on us, two or three of ours thunder 
 back a reply and that without any delays other 
 than those incidental to the use of that maddening 
 instrument, the field-telephone. During the past 
 six months neither side has been able to boast 
 much in the way of ground actually gained; but 
 the moral ascendancy the initiative the of- 
 fensive call it what you will has changed 
 hands; and no one knows it better than the 
 Boche. We are the attacking party now. 
 
 The trenches in this country are not arranged 
 with such geometric precision as in France. For
 
 WINTER SPORTS: VARIOUS 39 
 
 instance, the reserve line is not always connected 
 with the firing-lines by a communication-trench. 
 Those persons whose duty it is to pay daily visits 
 to the fire-trenches Battalion Commanders, 
 Gunner and Sapper officers, an occasional Staff 
 Officer, and an occasional most devoted Padre 
 perform the journey as best they may. Sometimes 
 they skirt a wood or hedge, sometimes they keep 
 under the lee of an embankment, sometimes they 
 proceed across the open, with the stealthy caution 
 of persons playing musical chairs, ready to sit 
 down in the nearest shell-crater the moment the 
 music in the form of a visitation of " whizz- 
 bangs" - strikes up. 
 
 It is difficult to say which kind of weather is 
 least favourable to this enterprise. On sunny days 
 one's movements are visible to Boche observers 
 upon adjacent summits; while on foggy days the 
 Boche gunners, being able to see nothing at all, 
 amuse themselves by generous and unexpected 
 contributions of shrapnel in all directions. Stormy 
 weather is particularly unpleasant, for the noise of 
 the wind in the trees makes it difficult to hear the 
 shell approaching. Days of heavy rain are the 
 most desirable on the whole, for then the gunners 
 are too busy bailing out their gun-pits to worry 
 their heads over adventurous pedestrians. One 
 learns, also, to mark down and avoid particular 
 danger-spots. For instance, the southeast corner 
 of that wood, where a reserve company are dug in, 
 is visited by "Silent Susans" for about five min- 
 utes each noontide : it is therefore advisable to se- 
 lect some other hour for one's daily visit. (Silent
 
 40 ALL IN IT 
 
 Susan, by the way, is not a desirable member of 
 the sex. Owing to her intensely high velocity she 
 arrives overhead without a sound, and then bursts 
 with a perfectly stunning detonation and a shower 
 of small shrapnel bullets.) There is a fixed rifle- 
 battery, too, which fires all day long, a shot at a 
 time, down the main street of the ruined and de- 
 serted village named Vrjoozlehem, through which 
 one must pass on the way to the front-line 
 trenches. Therefore in negotiating this delect- 
 able spot, one shapes a laborious course through a 
 series of back yards and garden-plots, littered 
 with broken furniture and brick rubble, allowing 
 the rifle-bullets the undisputed use of the street. 
 The mention of Vrjoozlehem that is not its 
 real name, but a simplified form of it brings to 
 our notice the wholesale and whole-hearted fash- 
 ion in which the British Army has taken Belgian 
 institutions under its wing. Nomenclature, for 
 instance. In France we make no attempt to inter- 
 fere with this : we content ourselves with devising 
 a pronounceable variation of the existing name. 
 For example, if a road is called La Rue du Bois, 
 we simply call it "Roodiboys," and leave it at 
 that. On the same principle, Etaples is modified 
 to "Eatables," and Sailly-la-Bourse to "Sally 
 Booze." But in Belgium more drastic procedure is 
 required. A Scotsman is accustomed to pronounc- 
 ing difficult names, but even he is unable to con- 
 tend with words composed almost entirely of the 
 letters j, z, and v. So our resourceful Ordnance 
 Department has issued maps admirable maps 
 upon which the outstanding features of the
 
 WINTER SPORTS: VARIOUS 41 
 
 landscape are marked in plain figures. But in- 
 stead of printing the original place-names, they 
 put "Moated Grange," or "Clapham Junc- 
 tion," or "Dead Dog Farm," which simplifies 
 matters beyond all possibility of error. (The sys- 
 tem was once responsible, though, for an unjust if 
 unintentional aspersion upon the character of a 
 worthy man. The C.O. of a certain battalion had 
 occasion to complain to those above him of the 
 remissness of one of his chaplains. "He's a lazy 
 beggar, sir," he said. " Over and over again I have 
 told him to come up and show himself in the 
 front-line trenches, but he never seems to be able 
 to get past Leicester Square!") 
 
 The naming of the trenches themselves has 
 been left largely to local enterprise. An observant 
 person can tell, by a study of the numerous name- 
 boards, which of his countrymen have been occu- 
 pying the line during the past six months. 
 "Grainger Street" and "Jesmond Dene" give 
 direct evidence of "Canny N'castle." "Sher- 
 wood Avenue" and "Notts Forest" have a Mid- 
 land flavour. Lastly, no great mental effort is 
 required to decide who labelled two communica- 
 tion trenches "The Gorbals" and "Coocaddens" 
 respectively! 
 
 Some names have obviously been bestowed by 
 officers, as "Sackville Street," "The Albany," 
 and ' ' Burlington Arcade ' ' denote. ' ' Pinch-Gut ' ' 
 and " Crab-Crawl " speak for themselves. So does 
 "Vermin Villa." Other localities, again, have 
 obviously been labelled by persons endowed with 
 a nice gift of irony. "Sanctuary Wood " is the last
 
 42 ALL IN IT 
 
 place on earth where any one would dream of tak- 
 ing sanctuary; while " Lovers' Walk," which 
 bounds it, is the scene of almost daily expositions 
 of the choicest brand of Boche "hate." 
 
 And so on. But one day, when the War is over, 
 and this mighty trench-line is thrown open to the 
 disciples of the excellent Mr. Cook as undoubt- 
 edly it will be care should be taken that these 
 street-names are preserved and perpetuated. It 
 would be impossible to select a more characteristic 
 and fitting memorial to the brave hearts who con- 
 structed them too many of whom are sleeping 
 their last sleep within a few yards of their own 
 cheerful handiwork. 
 
 in 
 
 After this digression we at length reach the 
 firing-line. It is quite unlike anything of its kind 
 that we have hitherto encountered. It is situated 
 in what was once a thick wood. Two fairly well- 
 defined trenches run through the undergrowth, 
 from which the sentries of either side have been 
 keeping relentless watch upon one another, night 
 and day, for many months. The wood itself is a 
 mere forest of poles: hardly a branch, and not a 
 twig, has been spared by the shrapnel. In the no- 
 man's-land between the trenches the poles have 
 been reduced to mere stumps a few inches high. 
 
 It is behind the firing-trench that the most 
 unconventional scene presents itself. Strictly 
 speaking, there ought to be and generally is 
 a support-line some seventy yards in rear of the 
 first. This should be occupied by all troops not
 
 WINTER SPORTS: VARIOUS 43 
 
 required in the firing-trench. But the trench is 
 empty which is not altogether surprising, con- 
 sidering that it is half-full of water. Its rightful 
 occupants are scattered through the wood behind 
 in dug-outs, in redoubts, or en plein air 
 cooking, washing, or repairing their residences. 
 The whole scene suggests a gipsy encampment 
 rather than a fortified post. A hundred yards 
 away, through the trees, you can plainly discern 
 the Boche firing-trench, and the Boche in that 
 trench can discern you: yet never a shot comes. 
 It is true that bullets are humming through the air 
 and glancing off trees, but these are mostly due 
 to the enterprise of distant machine-guns and 
 rifle-batteries, firing from some position well 
 adapted for enfilade. Frontal fire there is little or 
 none. In the front-line trenches, at least, Brother 
 Boche has had enough of it. His motto now is, 
 " Live and let live ! " In fact, he frequently makes 
 plaintive statements to that effect in the silence 
 of night. Especially the Saxons, who appear to 
 dislike the Prussians even more than ourselves. 
 The other night a voice cried out to us: " Don't 
 shout at us, Jock! Ve vos der Saxons. Der Prus- 
 sians gomm in on Vriday!" 
 
 You might think, then, that life in Willow 
 Grove would be a tranquil affair. But if you look 
 up among the few remaining branches of that tall 
 tree in the centre of the wood, you may notice 
 shreds of some material flapping in the breeze. 
 Those are sandbags and parts of a uniform or 
 were. Last night, within the space of one hour, 
 seventy-three shells fell into this wood, and the 
 first of them registered a direct hit upon the dug-
 
 44 ALL IN IT 
 
 out of which the sandbags formed part. There 
 were eight men in that dug-out. The telephone- 
 wires were broken hi the first few minutes, and 
 there was some delay before news of the bombard- 
 ment could be transmitted back to Headquarters. 
 Then our big guns far hi rear spoke out, until the 
 enemy's batteries (probably in response to an 
 urgent appeal from their own front line) ceased 
 firing. Thereupon "A" Company, who at Bobby 
 Little's behest had taken immediate cover hi the 
 water-logged support-trench, returned stolidly to 
 their open-air encampment in Willow Grove. 
 Death, when he makes the mistake of raiding your 
 premises every day, loses most of his terrors and 
 becomes a bit of a bore. 
 
 This morning the Company presents its normal 
 appearance: its numbers have been reduced by 
 eight c'est tout ! It may be some one else's turn 
 to-morrow, but after all, that is what we are here 
 for. Anyhow, we are keeping the Boches out of 
 "Wipers," and a bit over. So we stretch our legs 
 in the wood, and keep the flooded trench for the 
 next emergency. 
 
 Let us approach a group of four which is squat- 
 ting sociably round a small and inadequate fire of 
 twigs, upon which four mess-tins are simmering. 
 The quartette consists of Privates Cosh and Tosh, 
 together with Privates Buncle and Nigg, prepar- 
 ing their midday meal. 
 
 "Tak' off yon damp chup, Jimmy," suggested 
 Tosh to Buncle, who was officiating as stoker. 
 "Ye mind what the Captain said aboot smoke?" 
 
 "It wasna the Captain: it was the Officer," 
 rejoined Buncle cantankerously.
 
 WINTER SPORTS: VARIOUS 45 
 
 (It may here be explained, at the risk of an- 
 other digression, that no length of association or 
 degree of intimacy will render the average British 
 soldier familiar with the names of his officers. The 
 Colonel is "The C.O. "; the Second in Command 
 is "The Major"; your Company Commander is 
 "The Captain," and your Platoon Commander 
 "The Officer." As for all others of commissioned 
 rank in the regiment, some twenty-four in all, 
 they are as nought. With the exception of the 
 Quartermaster, in whose shoes each member of 
 the rank and file hopes one day to stand, they 
 simply do not exist.) 
 
 "Onyway," pursued the careful Tosh, "he said 
 that if any smoke was shown, all fires was tae be 
 pitten oot. So mind and see no' to get a cauld 
 dinner for us all, Jimmy!" 
 
 "Cauld or het," retorted the gentleman ad- 
 dressed, "it's little dinner I'll be gettin' this day! 
 And ye ken fine why!" he added darkly. 
 
 Private Tosh removed a cigarette from his 
 lower lip and sighed patiently. 
 
 "For the last time," he announced, with the air 
 of a righteous man suffering long, "I did not lay 
 ma hand on your dirrty wee bit ham!" 
 
 "Maybe," countered the bereaved Buncle 
 swiftly, "you did not lay your hand upon it; but 
 you had it tae your breakfast for all that, Davie! " 
 
 "I never pit ma hand on it!" repeated Tosh 
 doggedly. 
 
 "No? Then I doot you gave it a bit kick with 
 your foot," replied the inflexible Buncle. 
 
 "Or got some other body tae luft it for him!"
 
 46 ALL IN IT 
 
 suggested Private Nigg, looking hard at Tosh's 
 habitual accomplice, Cosh. 
 
 "I had it pitten in an auld envelope from 
 hame, addressed with my name," continued the 
 mourner. "It couldna hae got oot o' that by 
 accident!" 
 
 " Weel," interposed Cosh, with forced geniality, 
 "it's no a thing tae argie-bargie aboot. Whatever 
 body lufted it, it's awa' by this time. It's a fine 
 day, boys!" 
 
 This flagrant attempt to raise the conversation 
 to a less controversial plane met with no encour- 
 agement. Private Buncle, refusing to be ap- 
 peased, replied sarcastically - 
 
 "Aye, is it? And it was a fine nicht last nicht, 
 especially when the shellin' was gaun on! Es- 
 pecially in number seeven dug-oot!" 
 
 There was a short silence. Number seven dug- 
 out was no more, and its late occupants were now 
 lying under their waterproof sheets, not a hun- 
 dred yards away, waiting for a Padre. Presently, 
 however, the pacific Cosh, who in his hours of 
 leisure was addicted to mild philosophical rumi- 
 nation, gave a fresh turn to the conversation. 
 
 "Mphm!" he observed thoughtfully. "They 
 say that in a war every man has a bullet waiting 
 for him some place or other, with his name on it ! 
 Sooner or later, he gets it. Aye! Mphm!" He 
 sucked his teeth reflectively, and glanced towards 
 the Field Ambulance. "Sooner or later!" 
 
 "What for would he pit his name on it, 
 Wully?" inquired Nigg, who was not very quick 
 at grasping allusions. 
 
 "He wouldna pit on the name himself," ex-
 
 WINTER SPORTS: VARIOUS 47 
 
 plained the philosopher. " What I mean is, there 's 
 a bullet for each one of us somewhere over there " 
 he. jerked his head eastward "in a Gairman 
 pooch." 
 
 "What way could a Gairman pit my name on 
 a bullet?" demanded Nigg triumphantly. "He 
 doesna ken it!" 
 
 "Man," exclaimed Cosh, shedding some of his 
 philosophic calm, "can ye no unnerstand that 
 what I telled ye was jist a mainner of speakin'? 
 When I said that a man's name was on a bullet, I 
 didna mean that it was written there." 
 
 "Then what the hell did ye mean?" inquired 
 the mystified disciple not altogether unreason- 
 ably. 
 
 Private Tosh made a misguided but well- 
 meaning attempt to straighten out the conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 "He means, Sandy," he explained in a soothing 
 voice, "that the name was just stampit on the 
 bullet. Like like like an identity disc!" he 
 added brilliantly. 
 
 The philosopher clutched his temples with both 
 hands. 
 
 "I dinna mean onything o' the kind," he 
 roared. "What I intend tae imply is this, Sandy 
 Nigg. Some place over there there is a bullet in a 
 Gairman's pooch, and one day that bullet will 
 find its way intil your insides as sure as if your 
 name was written on it! That's what I meant. 
 Jist a mainner of speakin'. Dae ye unnerstand me 
 thenoo?" 
 
 But it was the injured Buncle who replied 
 like a lightning-flash.
 
 48 ALL IN IT 
 
 " Never you fear, Sandy, boy ! " he proclaimed 
 to his perturbed ally. "That bullet has no' gotten 
 your length yet. Maybe it never wull. There's 
 mony a thing in this worrld with one man's name 
 on it that finds its way intil the inside of some 
 other man." He fixed Tosh with a relentless eye. 
 "A bit ham, for instance!" 
 
 It was a knock-out blow. 
 
 "For ony sake," muttered the now demoralised 
 Tosh, "drop the subject, and I'll gie ye a bit ham 
 o' ma ain! There's just time tae cook it " 
 
 "What kin' o' a fire is this?" 
 
 A cold shadow fell upon the group as a substan- 
 tial presence inserted itself between the debaters 
 and the wintry sunshine. Corporal Mucklewame 
 was speaking, in his new and awful official voice, 
 pointing an accusing finger at the fire, which, 
 neglected in the ardour of discussion, was smoking 
 furiously. 
 
 "Did you wish the hale wood tae be shelled?" 
 continued Mucklewame sarcastically. "Put oot 
 the fire at once, or I '11 need tae bring ye all before 
 the Officer. It is a cauld dinner ye '11 get, and 
 ye '11 deserve it! " 
 
 IV 
 
 In the fire-trench or perhaps it would be 
 more correct to call it the water-trench life 
 may be short, and is seldom merry; but it is not 
 often dull. For one thing, we are never idle. 
 
 A Boche trench-mortar knocks down several 
 yards of your parapet. Straightway your machine- 
 gunners are called up, to cover the gap until dark- 
 ness falls and the gaping wound can be stanched
 
 WINTER SPORTS: VARIOUS 49 
 
 with fresh sandbags. A mine has been exploded 
 upon your front, leaving a crater into which pred- 
 atory Bodies will certainly creep at night. You 
 summon a posse of bombers to occupy the cavity 
 and discourage any such enterprise. The heavens 
 open, and there is a sudden deluge. Immediately 
 it is a case of all hands to the trench-pump! A 
 better plan, if you have the advantage of ground, 
 is to cut a culvert under the parapet and pass the 
 inundation on to a more deserving quarter. In 
 any case you nev-d never lack healthful exercise. 
 
 While upon the subject of mines, we may note 
 that this branch of military industry has ex- 
 panded of late to most unpleasant dimensions. 
 The Boche began it, of course he always initi- 
 ates these undesirable pastimes, and now we 
 have followed his lead and caught him up. 
 
 To the ordinary mortal, to become a blind 
 groper amid the dark places of the earth, in search 
 of a foe whom it is almost certain death to en- 
 counter there, seems perhaps the most idiotic of 
 all the idiotic careers open to those who are idiotic 
 enough to engage in modern warfare. However, 
 many of us are as much at home below ground as 
 above it. In more peaceful times we were accus- 
 tomed to spend eight hours a day there, lying up 
 against the "face" in a tunnel perhaps four feet 
 high, and wielding a pick in an attitude which 
 would have convulsed any ordinary man with 
 cramp. But there are few ordinary men in "K 
 (1)." There is never any difficulty hi obtaining 
 volunteers for the Tunnelling Company. 
 
 So far as the amateur can penetrate its mys-
 
 50 ALL IN IT 
 
 teries, mining, viewed under our present heading 
 
 namely, Winter Sports offers the following 
 advantages to its participants: - 
 
 (1) In winter it is much warmer below the earth 
 than upon its surface, and Thomas Atkins is the 
 most confirmed "frowster" in the world. 
 
 (2) Critics seldom descend into mines. 
 
 (3) There is extra pay. 
 
 The disadvantages are so obvious that they 
 need not be enumerated here. 
 
 In these trenches we have beer engaged upon a 
 very pretty game of subterranean chess for some 
 weeks past, and we are very much on our mettle. 
 We have some small leeway to make up. When 
 we took over these trenches, a German mine, 
 which had been maturing (apparently unheeded) 
 during the tenancy of our predecessors, was 
 exploded two days after our arrival, inflicting 
 heavy casualties upon " D " Company. Curiously 
 enough, the damage to the trench was compara- 
 tively slight; but the tremendous shock of the 
 explosion killed more than one man by concus- 
 sion, and brought down the roofs of several dug- 
 outs upon their sleeping occupants. Altogether it 
 was a sad business, and the Battalion swore to be 
 avenged. 
 
 So they called upon Lieutenant Duff-Bertram 
 
 usually called Bertie the Badger, in reference 
 to his rodent disposition to make the first 
 move in the return match. Bertie and his trog- 
 lodyte assistants accordingly sank a shaft in a 
 retired spot of their own selecting, and proceeded 
 to burrow forward towards the Boche lines.
 
 WINTER SPORTS: VARIOUS 51 
 
 After certain days Bertie presented himself, 
 covered in clay, before Colonel Kemp, and made a 
 report. 
 
 Colonel Kemp considered. 
 
 "You say you can hear the enemy working?" 
 he said. 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Near?" 
 
 "Pretty near, sir." 
 
 "How near?" 
 
 "A few yards." 
 
 "What do you propose to do?" 
 
 Bertie the Badger in private life he was a 
 consulting mining engineer with a beautiful office 
 in Victoria Street and a nice taste in spats 
 scratched an earthy nose with a muddy forefinger. 
 
 "I think they are making a defensive gallery, 
 sir," he announced. 
 
 "Let us have your statement in the simplest 
 possible language, please," said Colonel Kemp. 
 "Some of my younger officers," he added rather 
 ingeniously, "are not very expert in these mat- 
 ters." 
 
 Bertie the Badger thereupon expounded the 
 situation with solemn relish. By a defensive gal- 
 lery, it appeared that he meant a lateral tunnel 
 running parallel with the trench-line, in such a 
 manner as to intercept any tunnel pushed out by 
 the British miners. 
 
 "And what do you suggest doing to this Picca- 
 dilly Tube of theirs?" inquired the Colonel. 
 
 "I could dig forward and break into it, sir," 
 suggested Bertie.
 
 52 ALL IN IT 
 
 "That seems a move in the right direction," 
 said the Colonel. "But won't the Boche try to 
 prevent you?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "He will wait until the head of my tunnel gets 
 near enough, and then blow it hi." 
 
 "That would be very tiresome of him. What 
 other alternatives are open to you?" 
 
 "I could get as near as possible, sir," re- 
 plied Bertie calmly, "and then blowup his gal- 
 lery." 
 
 "That sounds better. Well, exercise your own 
 discretion, and don't get blown up unless you 
 particularly want to. And above all, be quite sure 
 that while you are amusing yourself with the 
 Piccadilly Tube, the wily Boche is n't burrowing 
 past you, and under my parapet, by the Bakerloo! 
 Good luck! Report any fresh development at 
 once." 
 
 So Bertie the Badger returned once more to his 
 native element and proceeded to exercise his dis- 
 cretion. This took the form of continuing his ag- 
 gressive tunnel in the direction of the Boche de- 
 fensive gallery. Next morning, encouraged by the 
 absolute silence of the enemy's miners, he made a 
 farther and final push, which actually landed him 
 in the "Piccadilly Tube" itself. 
 
 "This is a rum go, Howie!" he observed in a 
 low voice to his corporal. "A long, beautiful gal- 
 lery, five by four, lined with wood, electrically 
 lighted, with every modern convenience and 
 not a Boche in it!"
 
 WINTER SPORTS: VARIOUS 53 
 
 "Varra bad discipline, sir!" replied Corporal 
 Howie severely. 
 
 "Are you sure it is n't a trap?" 
 
 "It may be, sirr; but I doot the oversman is 
 awa' to his dinner, and the men are back in the 
 shaft, doing naething." Corporal Howie had been 
 an "oversman" himself, and knew something of 
 subterranean labour problems. 
 
 "Well, if you are right, the Boche must be 
 getting demoralised. It is not like him to present 
 us with openings like this. However, the first 
 thing to do is to distribute a few souvenirs along 
 the gallery. Pass the word back for the stuff. 
 Meanwhile I shall endeavour to test your theory 
 about the oversman's dinner-hour. I am going to 
 creep along and have a look at the Boche en- 
 trance to the Tube. It's down there, at the south 
 end of his gallery, I think. I can see a break hi the 
 wood lining. If you hear any shooting, you will 
 know that the dinner-hour is over!" 
 
 At the end of half an hour the Piccadilly Tube 
 was lined with sufficient explosive material to 
 ensure the permanent closing of the line. Still no 
 Boche had been seen or heard. 
 
 "Now, Howie," said Bertie the Badger, finger- 
 ing the fuse,' " what about it? " 
 
 "About what, sirr?" inquired Howie, who was 
 not quite au fait with current catch-phrases. 
 
 "Are we going to touch off all this stuff now, 
 and clear out, or are we going to wait and see?" 
 
 "I would like fine "began the Corporal 
 wistfully.
 
 54 ALL IN IT 
 
 "So would I," said Bertie. "Tell the men to 
 get back and out; and you and I will hold on until 
 the guests return from the banquet." 
 
 "Varra good, sirr." 
 
 For another half-hour the pair waited Bertie 
 the Badger like a dog in its kennel, with his head 
 protruding into the hostile gallery, while his faith- 
 ful henchman crouched close behind him. Deathly 
 stillness reigned, relieved only by an occasional 
 thud, as a shell or trench-mortar bomb exploded 
 upon the ground far above their heads. 
 
 "I'm going to have another look round that 
 corner," said Bertie at last. "Hold on to the 
 fuse." 
 
 He handed the end of the fuse to his subordi- 
 nate, and having wormed his way out of the tun- 
 nel, proceeded cautiously on all-fours along the 
 gallery. On his way he passed the electric light. 
 He twisted off the bulb and crawled on hi the 
 dark. 
 
 Feeling his way by the east wall of the gallery, 
 he came presently to the break in the woodwork. 
 Very slowly, lying flat on his stomach now, he 
 wriggled forward until his head came opposite the 
 opening. A low passage ran away to his left, ob- 
 viously leading back to the Boche trenches. 
 Ihree yards from the entrance the passage bent 
 sharply to the right, thus interrupting the line of 
 sight. 
 
 " There 's a light burning just round that bend," 
 said Bertie the Badger to himself. "I wonder if it 
 would be rash to go on and have a look at it!" 
 
 He was still straining at this gnat, when sud-
 
 WINTER SPORTS: VARIOUS 55 
 
 denly his elbow encountered a shovel which was 
 leaning against the wall of the gallery. It tumbled 
 down with a clatter almost stunning. Next mo- 
 ment a hand came round the bend of the tunnel 
 and fired a revolver almost into the explorer's 
 face. 
 
 Another shot rang out directly after. 
 
 The devoted Howie, hastening to the rescue, 
 collided sharply with a solid body crawling to- 
 wards him in the darkness. 
 
 "Curse you, Howie!" said the voice of Bertie 
 the Badger, with refreshing earnestness. "Get 
 back out of this! Where's your fuse?" 
 
 The pair scrambled back into their own tunnel, 
 and the end of the fuse was soon recovered. Al- 
 most simultaneously three more revolver-shots 
 rang out. 
 
 "I thought I had fixed that Boche," mur- 
 mured Bertie in a disappointed voice. "I heard 
 him grunt when my bullet hit him. Perhaps this 
 is another one or several. Keep back in the 
 tunnel, Howie, confound you, and don't breathe 
 up my sleeve! They are firing straight along the 
 gallery now. I will return the compliment. 
 Ouch!" 
 
 "What's the matter, sirr?" inquired the anx- 
 ious voice of Howie, as his officer, who had tried 
 to fire round the corner with his left hand, gave a 
 sudden exclamation and rolled over upon his side. 
 
 "I must have been hit the first tune," he ex- 
 plained. "Collar-bone, I think. I didn't know, 
 till I rested my weight on my left elbow. . . . 
 Howie, I am going to exercise my discretion again.
 
 56 ALL IN IT 
 
 Somebody in this gallery is going to be blown up 
 presently, and if you and I don't get a move on, 
 p.d.q., it will be us! Give me the fuse-lighter, and 
 wait for me at the foot of the shaft. Quick!" 
 
 Very reluctantly the Corporal obeyed. How- 
 ever, he was in due course joined at the foot of the 
 shaft by Bertie the Badger, groaning profanely; 
 and the pair made their way to the upper regions 
 with all possible speed. After a short interval, a 
 sudden rumbling, followed by a heavy explosion, 
 announced that the fuse had done its work, and 
 that the Piccadilly Tube, the fruit of many toil- 
 some weeks of Boche calculation and labour, had 
 been permanently closed to traffic of all descrip- 
 tions. 
 
 Bertie the Badger received a Military Cross, 
 and his abettor the D.C.M. 
 
 But the newest and most fashionable form of 
 winter sport this season is The Flying Matine*e. 
 
 This entertainment takes place during the 
 small hours of the morning, and is strictly limited 
 to a duration of ten minutes quite long enough 
 for most matine'es, too. The actors are furnished 
 by a unit of "K (1) " and the r61e of audience is 
 assigned to the inhabitants of the Boche trenches 
 immediately opposite. These matine'es have 
 proved an enormous success, but require most 
 careful rehearsal. 
 
 It is two A.M., and comparative peace reigns up 
 and down the line. The rain of star-shells, always 
 prodigal in the early evening, has died down to a
 
 WINTER SPORTS: VARIOUS 57 
 
 mere drizzle. Working and fatigue parties, which 
 have been busy since darkness set in at five 
 o'clock, rebuilding parapets, repairing wire, 
 carrying up rations, and patrolling debatable 
 areas, have ceased their labours, and are sleep- 
 ing heavily until the coming of the wintry dawn 
 shall rouse them, grimy and shivering, to another 
 day's unpleasantness. 
 
 Private Hans Dumpkopf , on sentry duty in the 
 Boche firing-trench, gazes mechanically over the 
 parapet; but the night is so dark and the wind so 
 high that it is difficult to see and quite impossible 
 to hear anything. He shelters himself beside a 
 traverse, and waits patiently for his relief. It 
 begins to rain, and Hans, after cautiously recon- 
 noitring the other side of the traverse, to guard 
 against prowling sergeants, sidles a few yards to 
 his right beneath the friendly cover of an impro- 
 vised roof of corrugated iron sheeting, laid across 
 the trench from parapet to parados. It is quite 
 dry here, and comparatively warm. Hans closes 
 his eyes for a moment, and heaves a gentle 
 sigh. 
 
 Next moment there comes a rush of feet in the 
 darkness, followed by a metallic clang, as of hob- 
 nailed boots on metal. Hans, lying prostrate and 
 half-stunned beneath the galvanised iron sheeting, 
 which, dislodged from its former position by the 
 impact of a heavy body descending from above, 
 now forms part of the flooring of the trench, is 
 suddenly aware that this same trench is full of 
 men rough, uncultured men, clad in short pet- 
 ticoats and the skins of wild animals, and armed
 
 58 ALL IN IT 
 
 with knobkerries. The Flying Matinee has be- 
 gun, and Hans Dumpkopf has got in by the early 
 door. 
 
 Each of the performers there are fifty of 
 them all told has his part to play, and plays 
 it with commendable aplomb. One, having dis- 
 armed an unresisting prisoner, assists him over 
 the parapet and escorts him affectionately to his 
 new home. Another clubs a recalcitrant foeman 
 over the head with a knobkerry, and having thus 
 reduced him to a more amenable frame of mind, 
 hoists him over the parapet and drags him after 
 his "kamarad." 
 
 Other parties are told off to deal with the dug- 
 outs. As a rule, the occupants of these are too 
 dazed to make any resistance, to be quite 
 frank, the individual Boche in these days seems 
 rather to welcome captivity than otherwise, 
 and presently more of the "bag" are on their way 
 to the British lines. 
 
 But by this time the performance is drawing to 
 a close. The alarm has been communicated to the 
 adjacent sections of the trench, and preparations 
 for the ejection of the intruders are being hurried 
 forward. That is to say, German bombers are 
 collecting upon either flank, with the intention of 
 bombing "inwards" until the impudent foe has 
 been destroyed or evicted. As we are not here to 
 precipitate a general action, but merely to round 
 up a few prisoners and do as much damage as pos- 
 sible in ten minutes, we hasten to the finale. As in 
 most finales, one's actions now become less re- 
 strained but, from a brutal point of view, more
 
 WINTER SPORTS: VARIOUS 59 
 
 effective. A couple of hand-grenades are thrown 
 into any dug-out which has not yet surrendered. 
 (The Canadians, who make quite a speciality of 
 flying matine'es, are accustomed, we understand, 
 as an artistic variant to this practice, to fasten an 
 electric torch along the barrel of a rifle, and so 
 illuminate their lurking targets while they shoot.) 
 A sharp order passes along the line; every one 
 scrambles out of the trench ; and the troupe makes 
 its way back, before the enemy in the adjacent 
 trenches have really wakened up, to the place 
 from which it came. The matine'e, so far as the 
 actors are concerned, is over. 
 
 Not so the audience. The avenging host is 
 just getting busy. The bombing-parties are now 
 marshalled and proceed with awful solemnity 
 and Teutonic thoroughness to clear the violated 
 trench. The procedure of a bombing-party is 
 stereotyped. They begin by lobbing hand-gre- 
 nades over the first traverse into the first bay. 
 After the ensuing explosion, they trot round the 
 traverse in single file and occupy the bay. This 
 manoeuvre is then repeated until the entire trench 
 is cleared. The whole operation requires good 
 discipline, considerable courage, and carefully 
 timed co-operation with the other bombing- 
 party. In all these attributes the Boche excels. 
 But one thing is essential to the complete success 
 of his efforts, and that is the presence of the en- 
 emy. When, after methodically desolating each 
 bay in turn (and incidentally killing their own 
 wounded in the process), the two parties meet 
 midway practically on top of the unfortunate
 
 60 ALL IN IT 
 
 Hans Dumpkopf , who is still giving an imitation 
 of a tortoise in a corrugated shell it is discov- 
 ered that the beautifully executed counter-attack 
 has achieved nothing but the recapture of an en- 
 tirely empty trench. The birds have flown, taking 
 their prey with them. Hans is the sole survivor, 
 and after hearing what his officer has to say to 
 him upon the subject, bitterly regrets the fact. 
 
 Meanwhile, in the British trenches a few yards 
 away, the box-office returns are being made up. 
 These take the form, firstly, of some fourteen 
 prisoners, including one indignant officer he 
 had been pulled from his dug-out half asleep and 
 frog-marched across the British lines by two pri- 
 vate soldiers well qualified to appreciate the rich- 
 ness of his language together with various sou- 
 venirs in the way of arms and accoutrements; and 
 secondly, of the knowledge that at least as many 
 more of the enemy had been left permanently 
 incapacitated for further warfare in the dug-outs. 
 A grim and grioly drama when you come to criti- 
 cise it in cold blood, but not without a certain 
 humour of its own and most demoralising for 
 Brother Boche! 
 
 But he is a slow pupil. He regards the profes- 
 sion of arms and the pursuit of war with such in- 
 tense and solemn reverence that he cannot con- 
 ceive how any one calling himself a soldier can be 
 so criminally frivolous as to write a farce round 
 the subject much less present the farce at a 
 Flying Matin6e. That possibly explains why the 
 following stately paragraph appeared a few days 
 later in the periodical communique which keeps
 
 WINTER SPORTS: VARIOUS 61 
 
 the German nation in touch with its Army's 
 latest exploits: 
 
 During the night of Dec. 4th-5th attempts were 
 made by strong detachments of the enemy to pene- 
 trate our line near Sloozleschump, S.E. of Ypres. 
 The attack failed utterly. 
 
 "And they don't even realise that it was only a 
 leg-pull!" commented the Company Commander 
 who had stage-managed the affair. "These people 
 simply don't deserve to have entertainments ar- 
 ranged for them at all. Well, we must pull the 
 limb again, that's all!" 
 
 And it was so.
 
 IV 
 
 THE PUSH THAT FAILED 
 I 
 
 "I WONDER if they really mean business this 
 time," surmised that youthful Company Com- 
 mander, Temporary Captain Bobby Little, to 
 Major Wagstaffe. 
 
 "It sounds like it," said Wagstaffe, as another 
 salvo of "whizz-bangs" broke like inflammatory 
 surf upon the front-line trenches. "Intermittent 
 strafes we are used to, but this all-day perform- 
 ance seems to indicate that the Boche is really 
 getting down to it for once. The whole proceeding 
 reminds me of nothing so much as our own ' artil- 
 lery preparation' before the big push at Loos." 
 
 "Then you think the Boches are going to make 
 a push of their own?" 
 
 "I do; and I hope it will be a good fat one. 
 When it comes, I fancy we shall be able to put up 
 something rather pretty in the way of a defence. 
 The Salient is stiff with guns I don't think the 
 Boche quite realises how stiff! And we owe the 
 swine something!" he added through his teeth. 
 
 There was a pause in the conversation. You 
 cannot hold the Salient for three months without 
 paying for the distinction ; and the regiment had 
 paid its full share. Not so much in numbers, per- 
 haps, as in quality. Stray bullets, whistling up 
 and down the trenches, coming even obliquely
 
 THE PUSH THAT FAILED 63 
 
 from the rear, had exacted most grievous toll. 
 Shells and trench-mortar bombs, taking us in 
 flank, had extinguished many valuable lives. At 
 this time nothing but the best seemed to satisfy 
 the Fates. One day it would be a trusted colour- 
 sergeant, on another a couple of particularly 
 promising young corporals. Only last week the 
 Adjutant athlete, scholar, born soldier, and 
 very lovable schoolboy, all most perfectly blended 
 had fallen mortally wounded, on his morning 
 round of the fire-trenches, by a bullet which came 
 from nowhere. He was the subject of Wag- 
 staffe's reference. 
 
 "Is it not possible," suggested Mr. Waddell, 
 who habitually considered all questions from 
 every possible point of view, "that this bombard- 
 ment has been specially initiated by the German 
 authorities, in order to impress upon their own 
 troops a warning that there must be no Christmas 
 truce this year?" 
 
 "If that is the Kaiser's Christmas greeting to 
 his loving followers," observed Wagstaffe drily, 
 "I think he might safely have left it to us to 
 deliver it!" 
 
 "They say," interposed Bobby Little, "that 
 the Kaiser is here himself." 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 ' ' It was rumoured in < Comic Cuts. " ' (" Comic 
 Cuts" is the stately Summary of War Intelli- 
 gence issued daily from Olympus.) 
 
 "If that is true," said Wagstaffe, "they proba- 
 bly will attack. All this fuss and bobbery suggest 
 something of the kind. They remind me of the
 
 64 ALL IN IT 
 
 commotion which used to precede Arthur Rob- 
 erts's entrance in the old days of Gaiety burlesque. 
 Before your time, I fancy, Bobby?" 
 
 "Yes," said Bobby modestly. "I first found 
 touch with the Gaiety over 'Our Miss Gibbs.' 
 And I was quite a kid even then," he added, with 
 characteristic honesty. "But what about Arthur 
 Roberts?" 
 
 "Some forty or fifty years ago," explained 
 Wagstaffe, "when I was in the habit of frequent- 
 ing places of amusement, Arthur Roberts was 
 leading man at the establishment to which I have 
 referred. He usually came on about half-past 
 eight, just as the show was beginning to lose its 
 first wind. His entrance was a most tremendous 
 affair. First of all the entire chorus blew in from 
 the wings about sixty of them in ten seconds 
 saying "Hurrah, hurrah, girls!" or something 
 rather unusual of that kind; after which minor 
 characters rushed on from opposite sides and told 
 one another that Arthur Roberts was coming. 
 Then the band played, and everybody began to 
 tell the audience about it in song. When every- 
 thing was in full blast, the great man would ap- 
 pear stepping out of a bathing-machine, or 
 falling out of a hansom-cab, or sliding down a 
 chute on a toboggan. He was assisted to his feet 
 by the chorus, and then proceeded to ginger the 
 show up. Well, that's how this present entertain- 
 ment impresses me. All this noise and obstrep- 
 erousness are leading up to one thing Kaiser 
 Bill's entrance. Preliminary bombardment 
 that's the chorus getting to work! Minor charac-
 
 THE PUSH THAT FAILED 65 
 
 ters the trench-mortars spread the glad 
 news! Band and chorus that's the grand at- 
 tack working up to boiling-point! Finally, pre- 
 ceded by clouds of gas, the Arch-Comedian in 
 person, supported by spectacled coryphe'es in 
 brass hats! How's that for a Christmas panto- 
 mime?" 
 
 "Rotten!" said Bobby, as a shell sang over the 
 parapet and burst in the wood behind. 
 
 II 
 
 Kaiser or no Kaiser, Major Wagstaffe's extrav- 
 agant analogy held good. As Christmas drew 
 nearer, the band played louder and faster; the 
 chorus swelled higher and shriller; and it became 
 finally apparent that something (or somebody) of 
 portentous importance was directing the storm. 
 
 Between six and seven next morning, the Bat- 
 talion, which had stood to arms all night, lifted 
 up its heavy head and sniffed the misty dawn- 
 wind an east wind dubiously. Next moment 
 gongs were clanging up and down the trench, and 
 men were tearing open the satchels which con- 
 tained their anti-gas helmets. 
 
 Major Wagstaffe, who had been sent up from 
 Battalion Headquarters to take general charge of 
 affairs in the firing-trench, buttoned the bottom 
 edge of his helmet well inside his collar and clam- 
 bered up on the firing-step to take stock of the 
 position. He crouched low, for a terrific bombard- 
 ment was in progress, and shells were almost graz- 
 ing the parapet. 
 
 Presently he was joined by a slim young officer
 
 66 ALL IN IT 
 
 similarly disguised. It was the Commander of 
 "A" Company. Wagstaffe placed his head close 
 to Bobby's left ear, and shouted through the 
 cloth 
 
 ' ' We shan't feel this gas much. They 're letting 
 it off higher up the line. Look!" 
 
 Bobby, laboriously inhaling the tainted air in- 
 side his helmet, being preserved from a gas 
 attack is only one degree less unpleasant than 
 being gassed, turned his goggles northward. 
 
 In the dim light of the breaking day he could 
 discern a greenish-yellow cloud rolling across from 
 the Boche trenches on his left. 
 
 "Will they attack?" he bellowed. 
 
 Wagstaffe nodded his head, and then cautiously 
 unbuttoned his collar and rolled up the front of 
 his helmet. Then, after delicately sampling the 
 atmosphere by a cautious sniff, he removed his 
 helmet altogether. Bobby followed his example. 
 The ah* was not by any means so pure as might 
 have been desired, but it was infinitely preferable 
 to that inside a gas-helmet. 
 
 "Nothing to signify," pronounced Wagstaffe. 
 "We're only getting the edge of it. Sergeant, pass 
 down that men may roll up their helmets, but 
 must keep them on their heads. Now, Bobby, 
 things are getting interesting. Will tliey attack, 
 or will they not?" 
 
 "What do you think?" asked Bobby. 
 
 "They are certainly going to attack farther 
 north. The Boche does not waste gas as a rule 
 not this sort of gas! And I think he'll attack here 
 too. The only reason why he has not switched on
 
 THE PUSH THAT FAILED 67 
 
 our anaesthetic is that the wind is n't quite right 
 for this bit of the line. I think it is going to be a 
 general push. Bobby, have a look through this 
 sniper's loophole. Can you see any bayonets 
 twinkling in the Boche trenches?" 
 
 Bobby applied an eye to the loophole. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "I can see them. Those 
 trenches must be packed with men." 
 
 " Absolutely stiff with them," agreed Wag- 
 staff e, getting out his revolver. "We shall be in 
 for it presently. Are your fellows all ready, 
 Bobby?" 
 
 The youthful Captain ran his eye along the 
 trench, where his Company, with magazines 
 loaded and bayonets fixed, were grimly awaiting 
 the onset. There had been an onset similar to this, 
 with the same green, nauseous accompaniment, in 
 precisely the same spot eight months before, 
 which had broken the line and penetrated for four 
 miles. There it had been stayed by a forlorn hope, 
 gasping, choking, but indomitable and disas- 
 ter had been most gloriously retrieved. What 
 was going to happen this time? One thing was 
 certain : the day of stink-pots was over. 
 
 "When do you think they'll attack?" shouted 
 Bobby to Wagstaffe, battling against the noise of 
 bursting shells. 
 
 " Quite soon in a minute or two. Their guns 
 will stop directly to lift their sights and set up 
 a barrage behind us. Then, perhaps the Boche 
 will step over his parapet. Perhaps not!" 
 
 The last sentence rang out with uncanny dis- 
 tinctness, for the German guns with one accord
 
 68 ALL IN IT 
 
 had ceased firing. For a full two minutes there 
 was absolute silence, while the bayonets in the op- 
 posite trenches twinkled with tenfold intent. 
 
 Then, from every point in the great Salient of 
 Ypres, the British guns replied. 
 
 Possibly the Great General Staff at Berlin had 
 been misinformed as to the exact strength of 
 the British Artillery. Possibly they had been in- 
 formed by their Intelligence Department that 
 Trades Unionism, had ensured that a thoroughly 
 inadequate supply of shells was to hand in the 
 Salient. Or possibly they had merely decided, 
 after the playful habit of General Staffs, to let the 
 infantry in the trenches take their chance of any 
 retaliation that might be forthcoming. 
 
 Whatever these great men were expecting, it is 
 highly improbable that they expected that which 
 arrived. Suddenly the British batteries spoke 
 out, and they all spoke together. In the space of 
 four minutes they deposited thirty thousand high- 
 explosive shells in the Boche front-line trenches 
 yea, distributed the same accurately and 
 evenly along all that crowded arc. Then they 
 paused, as suddenly as they began, while British 
 riflemen and machine-gunners bent to their work. 
 
 But few received the order to fire. Here and 
 there a wave of men broke over the German para- 
 pet and rolled towards the British lines only 
 to be rolled back crumpled up by machine-guns. 
 Never once was the goal reached. The great 
 Christmas attack was over. After months of 
 weary waiting and foolish recrimination, that 
 exasperating race of bad starters but great stay-
 
 THE PUSH THAT FAILED 69 
 
 ers, the British people, had delivered "the goods," 
 and made it possible for their soldiers to speak 
 with the enemy in the gate upon equal nay, 
 superior, terms. 
 
 "Is that all?" asked Bobby Little, peering out 
 over the parapet, a little awe-struck, at the devas- 
 tation over the way. 
 
 "Thatisall,"saidWagstaffe,"or I'ma Boche! 
 There will be much noise and some irregular 
 scrapping for days, but the tin lid has been placed 
 upon the grand attack. The great Christmas 
 Victory is off!" 
 
 Then he added, thoughtfully, referring appar- 
 ently to the star performer: - 
 
 "We have been and spoiled his entrance for 
 him, have n't we?"
 
 V 
 
 UNBENDING THE BOW 
 I 
 
 THERE is a certain type of English country-house 
 female who is said to "live in her boxes." That is 
 to say, she appears to possess no home of her own, 
 but flits from one indulgent roof -tree to another; 
 and owing to the fact that she is invariably put 
 into a bedroom whose wardrobe is full of her host- 
 ess's superannuated ball-frocks and winter furs, 
 never knows what it is to have all her "things" 
 unpacked at once. 
 
 Well, we out here cannot be said to live in our 
 boxes, for we do not possess any; but we do most 
 undoubtedly live in our haversacks and packs. 
 And this brings us to the matter hi hand 
 namely, so-called "Rest-Billets." The whole of 
 the hinterland of this great trench-line is full of 
 tired men, seeking for a place to he down in, and 
 living in their boxes when they find one. 
 
 At present we are indulging in such a period of 
 repose; and we venture to think that on the whole 
 we have earned it. Our last rest was in high sum- 
 mer, when we lay about under an August sun in 
 the district round Be"thune, and called down 
 curses upon all flying and creeping insects. Since 
 then we have undergone certain so-called "oper- 
 ations" in the neighbourhood of Loos, and have 
 put in more than three months in the Salient of
 
 UNBENDING THE BOW 71 
 
 Ypres. As that devout adherent of the Roman 
 faith, Private Reilly, of "B" Company, put it to 
 his spiritual adviser 
 
 "I doot we'll get excused a good slice of Pur- 
 gatory for this, father!" 
 
 We came out of the Salient just before Christ- 
 mas, in the midst of the mutual unpleasantness 
 arising out of the grand attack upon the British 
 line which was to have done so much to restore 
 the waning confidence of the Hun. It was meant 
 to be a big affair a most majestic victory, in 
 fact; but our new gas-helmets nullified the gas, 
 and our new shells paralysed the attack; so the 
 Third Battle of Ypres was not yet. Still, as I say, 
 there was considerable unpleasantness all round; 
 and we were escorted upon our homeward way, 
 from Sanctuary Wood to Zillebeke, and from 
 Zillebeke to Dickebusche, by a swarm of angry 
 and disappointed shells. 
 
 Next day we found ourselves many miles be- 
 hind the firing-line, once more in France, with a 
 whole month's holiday in prospect, comfortably 
 conscious that one could walk round a corner or 
 look over a wall without preliminary reconnais- 
 sance or subsequent extirpation. 
 
 As for the holiday itself, unreasonable persons 
 are not lacking to point out that it is of the bus- 
 man's variety. It is true that we are no longer 
 face to face with the foe, but we or rather, the 
 authorities make believe that we are. We wage 
 mimic warfare in full marching order; we fire rifles 
 and machine-guns upon improvised ranges; we 
 perform hazardous feats with bombs and a
 
 72 ALL IN IT 
 
 dummy trench. More galling still, we are back in 
 the region of squad-drill, physical exercises, and 
 handling of arms horrors of our childhood 
 which we thought had been left safely interned at 
 Aldershot. 
 
 But the authorities are wise. The regiment is 
 stiff and out of condition: it is suffering from 
 moral and intellectual "trench-feet." Heavy 
 drafts have introduced a large and untempered 
 element into our composition. Many of the 
 subalterns are obviously "new-jined" as the 
 shrewd old lady of Ayr once observed of the rubi- 
 cund gentleman at the temperance meeting. 
 Their men hardly know them or one another 
 by sight. The regiment must be moulded anew, 
 and its lustre restored by the beneficent process 
 vulgarly known as "spit and polish." So every 
 morning we apply ourselves with thoroughness, if 
 not enthusiasm, to tasks which remind us of last 
 winter's training upon the Hampshire chalk. 
 
 But the afternoon and evening are a different 
 story altogether. If we were busy hi the morning, 
 we are busier still for the rest of the day. There is 
 football galore, for we have to get through a com- 
 plete series of Divisional cup-ties in four weeks. 
 There is also a Brigade boxing-tournament. (No, 
 that was not where Private Tosh got his black 
 eye : that is a souvenir of New Year's Eve.) There 
 are entertainments of various kinds in the recre- 
 ation-tent. This whistling platoon, with towels 
 round their necks, are on their way to the nearest 
 convent, or asylum, or ficole des Jeunes Filles 
 have no fear; these establishments are unten-
 
 UNBENDING THE BOW 73 
 
 anted! for a bath. There, in addition to the 
 pleasures of ablution, they will receive a partial 
 change of raiment. 
 
 Other signs of regeneration are visible. That 
 mysterious-looking vehicle, rather resembling one 
 of the early locomotives exhibited in the South 
 Kensington Museum, standing in the mud outside 
 a farm-billet, with its superheated interior stuffed 
 with "C" Company's blankets, is performing an 
 unmentionable but beneficent work. 
 
 Buttons are resuming their polish; the pattern 
 of our kilts is emerging from its superficial crust; 
 and Church Parade is once more becoming quite a 
 show affair. 
 
 Away to the east the guns still thunder, and at 
 night the star-shells float tremblingly up over the 
 distant horizon. But not for us. Not yet, that is. 
 In a few weeks' time we shall be back in another 
 part of the line. Till then Company drill and 
 Cup-Ties! Carpe diem! 
 
 u 
 
 It all seemed very strange and unreal to Second- 
 Lieutenant Angus M'Lachlan, as he alighted from 
 the train at railhead, and supervised the efforts of 
 his solitary N.C.O. to arrange the members of his 
 draft in a straight line. There were some thirty of 
 them in all. Some were old hands men from 
 the First and Second Battalions, who had been 
 home wounded, and had now been sent out to 
 leaven "K (1)." Others were Special Reservists 
 from the Third Battalion. These had been at the 
 De*p6t for a long tune, and some of them stood
 
 74 ALL IN IT 
 
 badly in need of a little active service. Others, 
 again, were new hands altogether the product 
 of "K to the n A '" Among these Angus M'Lach- 
 lan numbered himself , and he made no attempt to 
 conceal the fact. The novelty of the sights around 
 him was almost too much for his dignity as a com- 
 missioned officer. 
 
 Angus M'Lachlan was a son of the Manse, and 
 incidentally a child of Nature. The Manse was a 
 Highland Manse; and until a few months ago 
 Angus had never, save for a rare visit to distant 
 Edinburgh, penetrated beyond the small town 
 which lay four miles from his native glen, and of 
 whose local Academy he had been "dux." When 
 the War broke out he had been upon the point of 
 proceeding to Edinburgh University, where he 
 had already laid siege to a bursary, and captured 
 the same; but all these plans, together with the 
 plans of countless more distinguished persons, had 
 been swept to the winds by the invasion of Bel- 
 gium. On that date Angus summoned up his 
 entire stock of physical and moral courage and 
 informed his reverend parent of his intention to 
 enlist for a soldier. Permission was granted with 
 quite stunning readiness. Neil M'Lachlan be- 
 lieved in straight hitting both in theology and 
 war, and was by no means displeased at the mar- 
 tial aspirations of his only son. If he quitted him- 
 self like a man in the forefront of battle, the boy 
 could safely look forward to being cock of his own 
 Kirk-Session in the years that came afterwards. 
 One reservation the old man made. His son, as a 
 Highland gentleman, would lead men to battle,
 
 UNBENDING THE BOW 73 
 
 and not merely accompany them. So the impa- 
 tient Angus was bidden to apply for a Commission 
 his attention during the period of waiting being 
 directed by his parent to the study of the cam- 
 paigns of Joshua, and the methods employed by 
 that singular but successful strategist in dealing 
 with the Philistine. 
 
 Angus had a long while to wait, for all the youth 
 of England and Scotland too was on fire, 
 and others nearer the fountain of honour had to be 
 served first. But his turn came at last; and 'we 
 now behold him, as typical a product of " K to the 
 n* " as Bobby Little had been of " K (1), " stand- 
 ing at last upon the soil of France, and inquiring 
 in a soft Highland voice for the Headquarters of 
 our own particular Battalion. 
 
 He had half expected, half hoped, to alight from 
 the train amidst a shower of shells, as he knew the 
 Old Regiment had done many months before, just 
 after the War broke out. But all he saw upon his 
 arrival was an untidy goods yard, Uttered with 
 military stores, and peopled by British privates in 
 the deshabille affected by the British Army when 
 engaged in menial tasks. 
 
 Being quite ignorant of the whereabouts of his 
 regiment when last heard of they had been in 
 trenches near Ypres and failing to recollect the 
 existence of that autocratic but indispensable 
 genius loci, the R.T.O., Angus took uneasy stock 
 of his surroundings and wondered what to do 
 next. 
 
 Suddenly a friendly voice at his elbow re- 
 marked
 
 76 ALL IN IT 
 
 "There's a queer lot o' bodies hereaboot, sirr." 
 
 Angus turned, to find that he was being ad- 
 dressed by a short, stout private of the draft, hi a 
 kilt much too big for him. 
 
 "Indeed, that is so," he replied politely. 
 "What is your name?" 
 
 "Peter Bogle, sirr. I am frae oot of Kirkintil- 
 loch." Evidently gratified by the success of his con- 
 versational opening, the little man continued 
 
 "I would like fine for tae get a contrack oot 
 here after the War. This country is in a terrible 
 state o' disrepair." Then he added confiden- 
 tially 
 
 "I'm a hoose-painter tae a trade." 
 
 "I should not like to be that myself," replied 
 Angus, whose early training as a minister's son 
 was always causing him to forget the social gulf 
 which is fixed between officers and the rank-and- 
 file. "Climbing ladders makes me dizzy." 
 
 "Och, it's naething! A body gets used tae it," 
 Mr. Bogle assured him. 
 
 Angus was about to proceed further with the 
 discussion, when the cold and disapproving voice 
 of the Draft-Sergeant announced in his ear 
 
 "An officer wishes to speak to you, sir." 
 
 Second-Lieutenant M'Lachlan, suddenly awake 
 to the enormity of his conduct, turned guiltily to 
 greet the officer, while the Sergeant abruptly 
 hunted the genial Private Bogle back into the 
 ranks. 
 
 Angus found himself confronted by an immacu- 
 late young gentleman wearing two stars. Angus, 
 who only wore one, saluted hurriedly.
 
 UNBENDING THE BOW 77 
 
 "Morning," observed the stranger. "You in 
 charge of this draft?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," said Angus respectfully. 
 
 "Right-o! You are to march them to 'A* 
 Company billets. I'll show you the way. My 
 name's Cockerell. Your train is late. What time 
 did you leave the Base?" 
 
 "Indeed," replied Angus meekly, "I am not 
 quite sure. We had barely landed when they told 
 me the train would start at seventeen-forty. 
 What time would that be sir?" 
 
 "About a quarter to six: more likely about 
 midnight! Well, get your bunch on to the road, 
 and Hallo, what's the matter? Let go!" 
 
 The new officer was gripping him excitedly by 
 the arm, and as the new officer stood six-foot-four 
 and was brawny in proportion, Master Cockerell's 
 appeal was uttered in a tone of unusual sincerity. 
 
 "Look!" cried Angus excitedly. "The dogs, 
 the dogs!" 
 
 A small cart was passing swiftly by, towed by 
 two sturdy hounds of unknown degree. They 
 were pulling with the feverish enthusiasm which 
 distinguishes the Dog in the service of Man, and 
 were being urged to further efforts by a small hat- 
 less girl carrying the inevitable large umbrella. 
 
 ' ' All right ! ' ' explained Cockerell curtly. ' ' Cus- 
 tom of the country, and all that." 
 
 The impulsive Angus apologised; and the draft, 
 having been safely manoeuvred on to the road, 
 formed fours and set out upon its march. 
 
 "Are the Battalion in the trenches at present, 
 sir?" inquired Angus.
 
 78 ALL IN IT 
 
 "No. Rest-billets two miles from here. About 
 time, too! You'll get lots of work to do, though." 
 
 "I shall welcome that," said Angus simply. 
 "In the de"p6t at home we were terribly idle. 
 There is a windmill!" 
 
 "Yes; one sees them occasionally out here," 
 replied Cockerell drily. 
 
 "Everything is so strange!" confessed the 
 open-hearted Angus. "Those dogs we saw just 
 now the people with their sabots the coun- 
 try carts, like wheelbarrows with three wheels 
 the little shrines at the cross-roads the very 
 children talking French so glibly " 
 
 "Wonderful how they pick it up!" agreed 
 Cockerell. But the sarcasm was lost on his com- 
 panion, whose attention was now riveted upon an 
 approaching body of infantry, about fifty strong. 
 
 "What troops are those, please?" 
 
 Cockerell knitted his brows sardonically. 
 
 "It's rather hard to tell at this distance," he 
 said; "but I rather think they are the Grenadier 
 Guards." 
 
 Two minutes later the procession had been met 
 and passed. It consisted entirely of elderly gentle- 
 men in ill-fitting khaki, clumping along upon their 
 flat feet and smoking clay pipes. They carried 
 shovels on their shoulders, and made not the 
 slightest response when called upon by the sol- 
 dierly old corporal who led them to give Mr. 
 Cockerell "eyes left!" On the contrary, engaged 
 as they were in heated controversy or amiable 
 conversation with one another, they cut him 
 dead,
 
 UNBENDING THE BOW 79 
 
 Angus M'Lachlan said nothing for quite five 
 minutes. Then 
 
 "I suppose," he said almost timidly, "that 
 those were members of a Reserve Regiment of the 
 Guards?" 
 
 Cockerell, who had never outgrown certain 
 characteristics which most of us shed upon emerg- 
 ing from the Lower Fourth, laughed long and 
 loud. 
 
 "That crowd? They belong to one of the 
 Labour Battalions. They make roads, and dig 
 support trenches, and sling mud about generally. 
 Wonderful old sportsmen! Pleased as Punch 
 when a shell falls within hah" a mile of them. 
 Something to write home about. What? I say, I 
 pulled your leg that time! Here we are at Head- 
 quarters. Come and report to the C.O. Grena- 
 dier Guards! My aunt!" 
 
 Angus, although his Celtic enthusiasm some- 
 tunes led him into traps, was no fool. He soon 
 settled down in his new surroundings, and found 
 favour with Colonel Kemp, which was no light 
 achievement. 
 
 "You won't find that the War, in its present 
 stage, calls for any display of genius," the Colo- 
 nel explained to Angus at their first interview. 
 "I don't expect my officers to exhibit any quality 
 but the avoidance of sloppiness. If I detail you 
 to be at a certain spot, at a certain hour, with a 
 certain number of men a ration-party, or a 
 working-party, or a burial-party, or anything you 
 like, all I ask is that you will be there, at the ap-
 
 80 ALL IN IT 
 
 pointed hour, with the whole of your following. 
 That may not sound a very difficult feat, but ex- 
 perience has taught me that if a man can achieve 
 it, and can be relied upon to achieve it under pres- 
 ent conditions, say, nine times out of ten well, 
 he is a pearl of price; and there is not a C.O. in the 
 British Army who would n't scramble to get him! 
 That's all, M'Lachlan. Good morning!" 
 
 By punctilious attention to this sound advice 
 Angus soon began to build up a reputation. He 
 treated war-worn veterans like Bobby Little with 
 immense respect, and this, too, was counted to 
 him for righteousness. He exercised his platoon 
 with appalling vigour. Upon Company route- 
 marches he had to be embedded in some safe 
 place in the middle of the column; in fact, his 
 enormous stride and pedestrian enthusiasm would 
 have reduced his followers to pulp. At Mess he 
 was mute : like a wise man, he was feeling for his 
 feet. 
 
 And being, like Moses, slow of tongue, he pro- 
 vided himself with an Aaron. Quite inadvert- 
 ently, be it said. Bidden to obtain a servant for 
 his personal needs, he selected the only man in the 
 Battalion whose name he knew Private Bogle, 
 the ci-devant painter of houses. That friendly 
 creature obeyed the call with alacrity. If his 
 house-painting was no better than his valeting, 
 then his prospects of a "contrack" after the War 
 were poor indeed; but as a Mess waiter he was a 
 joy for ever. Despite the blood-curdling whispers 
 of the Mess Corporal, his. natural urbanity of dis- 
 position could not be stemmed. Of the comfort of
 
 UNBENDING THE BOW 81 
 
 others he was solicitous to the point of oppres- 
 siveness. A Mess waiter's idea of efficiency as a 
 rule is to stand woodenly at attention in an ob- 
 scure corner of the room. When called upon, he 
 starts forward with a jerk, and usually trips over 
 something probably his own feet. Not so 
 Private Bogle. 
 
 "Wull you try another cup o' tea, Major?" he 
 would suggest at breakfast to Major Wagstaffe, 
 leaning affectionately over the back of his chair. 
 
 "No, thank you, Bogle," Major Wagstaffe 
 would reply gravely. 
 
 " Weel, it's cauld onyway," Bogle would rejoin, 
 anxious to endorse his superior's decision. 
 
 Or in the same spirit 
 
 "Wull I luft the soup now, sir?" 
 
 "Not" 
 
 "Varra weel: I'll jist let it bide the way it is." 
 
 Lastly, Angus M'Lachlan proved himself a 
 useful acquisition especially in rest-billets 
 as an athlete. He arrived just in time to take part 
 -no mean part, either in a Rugby Football 
 match played between the officers of two Bri- 
 gades. Thanks very largely to his masterly leading 
 of the forwards, our Brigade were preserved from 
 defeat at the hands of their opponents, who on 
 paper had appeared to be irresistible. 
 
 Rugby Football "oot here" is a rarity, though 
 Association, being essentially the game of the 
 rank-and-file, flourishes in every green field. But 
 an Inverleith or Queen's Club crowd would have 
 recognised more than one old friend among the
 
 82 ALL IN IT 
 
 thirty who took the field that day. There were 
 those participating whose last game had been one 
 of the spring "Internationals" in 1914, and who 
 had been engaged in a prolonged and strenuous 
 version of an even greater International ever 
 since August of that fateful year. Every public 
 school in Scotland was represented sometimes 
 three or four tunes over and there were numer- 
 ous doughty contributions from establishments 
 south of the Tweed. 
 
 The lookers-on were in different case. They 
 were to a man devoted nay, frenzied ad- 
 herents of the Association code. In less spacious 
 days they had surged in their thousands every 
 Saturday afternoon to Ibrox, or Tynecastle, or 
 Parkhead, there to yell themselves into convul- 
 sions now exhorting a friend to hit some one a 
 kick on the nose, now sternly recommending the 
 foe to play the game, now hoarsely consigning the 
 referee to perdition. To these, Rugby Football - 
 the greatest of all manly games was a mere 
 name. Their attitude when the officers appeared 
 upon the field was one of indulgent superiority - 
 the sort of superiority that a brawny pitman ex- 
 hibits when his Platoon Commander steps down 
 into a trench to lend a hand with the digging. 
 
 But in five minutes their mouths were agape 
 with scandalised astonishment; in ten, the heav- 
 ens were rent with their protesting cries. Accus- 
 tomed to see football played with the feet, and to 
 demand with one voice the instant execution of 
 any player (on the other side) who laid so much as 
 a finger upon the ball or the man who was playing
 
 UNBENDING THE BOW 83 
 
 it, the exhibition of savage and promiscuous bru- 
 tality to which their superiors now treated them 
 shocked the assembled spectators to the roots of 
 their sensitive souls. Howls of virtuous indigna- 
 tion bursts forth upon all sides. 
 
 When the three-quarter-backs brought off a 
 brilliant passing run, there were stern cries of 
 "Haands, there, referee!" When Bobby Little 
 stopped an ugly rush by hurling himself on the 
 ball, the supporters of the other Brigade greeted 
 his heroic devotion with yells of execration. When 
 Angus M'Lachlan saved a certain try by tackling 
 a speedy wing three-quarter low and bringing him 
 down with a crash, a hundred voices demanded 
 his expulsion from the field. And, when Mr. Wad- 
 dell, playing a stuffy but useful game at half, 
 gained fifty yards for his side by a series of 
 judicious little kicks into touch, the spectators 
 groaned aloud, and remarked caustically 
 
 "This maun be a Cup-Tie, boys! They are 
 playin' for a draw, for tae get a second gate!" 
 
 Altogether a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon, 
 both for players and spectators. And so home to 
 tea, domesticity, and social intercourse. 
 
 In this connection it may be noted that our 
 relations with the inhabitants are of the friendli- 
 est. On the stroke of six oh yes, we have our 
 licensing restrictions out here too ! half a dozen 
 kilted warriors stroll into the farm-kitchen, and 
 mumble affably to Madame 
 
 "Bone sworr! Beer?" 
 
 France boasts one enormous advantage over 
 Scotland. At home, you have at least to walk to
 
 84 ALL IN IT 
 
 the corner of the street to obtain a drink: "oot 
 here" you can purchase beer in practically every 
 house in a village. The French licensing laws are 
 a thing of mystery, but the system appears 
 roughly to be this. Either you possess a license, 
 or you do not. If you do, you may sell beer, and 
 nothing else. If you do not, you may or at any 
 rate do sell anything you like, including beer. 
 
 However, we have left our friends thirsty. 
 
 Their wants are supplied with cheerful alacrity, 
 and, having been accommodated with seats round 
 the stove, they converse with the family. Heaven 
 only knows what they talk about, but talk they 
 do in the throaty unintelligible Doric of the 
 Clydeside, with an occasional Gallicism, like, 
 "Allyman no bon!" or "Compree?" thrown in as 
 a sop to foreign idiosyncracies. Madame and 
 family respond, chattering French (or Flemish) at 
 enormous speed. The amazing part of it all is that 
 neither side appears to experience the slightest 
 difficulty in understanding the other. One day 
 Mr. Waddell, in the course of a friendly chat with 
 his hostess of the moment she was unable to 
 speak a word of English received her warm 
 congratulations upon his contemplated union 
 with a certain fair one of St. Andrew (to whom 
 reference has previously been made in these 
 pages). Mr. Waddell, a very fair linguist, replied 
 in suitable but embarrassed terms, and asked for 
 the source of the good lady's information. 
 
 "Mais votre ordonnance, m'sieur!" was the 
 reply. 
 
 Tackled upon the subject, the "ordonnance" in
 
 UNBENDING THE BOW 85 
 
 question, WaddelPs servant a shock-headed 
 youth from Dundee admitted having commun- 
 icated the information; and added 
 
 "She's a decent body, siir, the lady o' the 
 hoose. She lost her husband, she was tellin' me, 
 three years ago. She has twa sons in the Airmy. 
 Her auld Auntie is up at the top o' the hoose 
 lyin' badly, and no expectin' tae rise." 
 
 And yet some people study Esperanto! 
 
 We also make ourselves useful. "K (1)" con- 
 tains members of every craft. If the pig-sty door 
 is broken, a carpenter is forthcoming to mend it. 
 Somebody's elbow goes through a pane of glass in 
 the farm-kitchen : straightway a glazier material- 
 ises from the nearest platoon, and puts in another. 
 The ancestral eight-day clock of the household 
 develops internal complications; and is forthwith 
 dismembered and reassembled, "with punctual- 
 ity, civility, and despatch," by a gentleman who 
 until a few short months ago had done nothing 
 else for fifteen years. 
 
 And it was in this connection that Corporal 
 Mucklewame stumbled on to a rare and congenial 
 job, and incidentally made the one joke of his life. 
 
 One afternoon a cow, the property of Madame 
 la fermi&re, developed symptoms of some serious 
 disorder. A period of dolorous bellowing was fol- 
 lowed by an outburst of homicidal mania, during 
 which "A" Company prudently barricaded itself 
 into the barn, the sufferer having taken entire 
 possession of the farmyard. Next, and finally 
 so rapidly did the malady run its course a state 
 of coma intervened; and finally the cow, collaps-
 
 80 ALL IN IT 
 
 ing upon the doorstep of the Officers' Mess, 
 breathed her last before any one could be found to 
 point out to her the liberty she was taking. 
 
 It was decided to hold a post-mortem firstly, 
 to ascertain the cause of death; secondly, because 
 it is easier to remove a dead cow after dissection 
 than before. Madame therefore announced her 
 intention of sending for the butcher, and was upon 
 the point of doing so when Corporal Muckle- 
 wame, in whose heart, at the spectacle of the 
 stark and lifeless corpse, ancient and romantic 
 memories were stirring it may be remembered 
 that before answering to the call of "K(l)" 
 Mucklewame had followed the calling of butcher's 
 assistant at Wishaw volunteered for the job. 
 His services were cordially accepted by thrifty 
 Madame; and the Corporal, surrounded by a 
 silent and admiring crowd, set to work. 
 
 The officers, leaving the Junior Subaltern in 
 charge, went with one accord for a long country 
 walk. 
 
 Hah" an hour later Mucklewame arrived at the 
 seat of the deceased animal's trouble the seat 
 of most of the troubles of mankind its stomach. 
 After a brief investigation, he produced therefrom 
 a small bag of nails, recently missed from the 
 vicinity of a cook-house in course of construction 
 in the corner of the yard. 
 
 Abandoning the role of surgical expert for that 
 of coroner, Mucklewame held the trophy aloft, 
 and delivered his verdict 
 
 "There, boys! That's what comes of eating 
 your iron ration without authority!"
 
 UNBENDING THE BOW 87 
 
 in 
 
 Here is an average billet, and its personnel. 
 
 The central feature of our residence is the 
 refuse-pit, which fills practically the whole of the 
 rectangular farmyard, and resembles (in size and 
 shape only) an open-air swimming bath. Its 
 abundant contents are apparently the sole asset 
 of the household; for if you proceed, in the inter- 
 ests of health, to spread a decent mantle of honest 
 earth thereover, you do so to the accompaniment 
 of a harmonised chorus of lamentation, very cred- 
 itably rendered by the entire family, who are 
 grouped en masse about the spot where the high 
 diving-board ought to be. 
 
 Round this perverted place of ablution runs a 
 stone ledge, some four feet wide, and round that 
 again run the farm buildings the house at the 
 top end, a great barn down one side, and the cow- 
 house, together with certain darksome piggeries 
 and fowl-houses, down the other. These latter 
 residences are occupied only at night, their ten- 
 ants preferring to spend the golden hours of day 
 in profitable occupation upon the happy hunting 
 ground in the middle. 
 
 Within the precincts of this already over- 
 crowded establishment are lodged some two hun- 
 dred British soldiers and their officers. The men 
 sleep in the barn, their meals being prepared for 
 them upon the Company cooker, which stands 
 in the muddy road outside, and resembles the 
 humble vehicle employed by Urban District 
 Councils for the preparation of tar for road-
 
 88 ALL IN IT 
 
 mending purposes. The officers occupy any room 
 which may be available within the farmhouse it- 
 self. The Company Commander has the best bed- 
 room a low-roofed, stone-floored apartment, 
 with a very small window and a very large bed. 
 The subalterns sleep where they can usually in 
 the grenier, a loft under the tiles, devoted to the 
 storage of onions and the drying, during the win- 
 ter months, of the. family washing, which is sus- 
 pended from innumerable strings stretched from 
 wall to wall. , 
 
 For a Mess, there is usually a spare apartment 
 of some kind. If not, you put your pride in your 
 pocket and take your meals at the kitchen table, 
 at such hours as the family are not sitting humped 
 round the same with their hats on, partaking of 
 soup or coffee. (This appears to be their sole sus- 
 tenance.) A farm-kitchen in northern France is a 
 scrupulously clean place the whole family gets 
 up at half -past four in the morning and sees to the 
 matter and despite the frugality of her own 
 home menu, thefermi&re can produce you a perfect 
 omelette at any hour of the day or night. 
 
 This brings us to the kitchen-stove, which is a 
 marvel. No massive and extravagant English 
 ranges here! There is only one kind: we call it the 
 Coffin and Flower-pot. The coffin small, black, 
 and highly polished projects from the wall 
 about four feet, the further end being supported 
 by what looks like an ornamental black flower-pot 
 standing on a pedestal. The coffin is the oven, 
 and the flower-pot is the stove. Given a handful 
 of small coal or charcoal, Madame appears cap-
 
 UNBENDING THE BOW 89 
 
 able of keeping it at work all day, and of boiling, 
 baking, or roasting you innumerable dishes. 
 
 Then there is the family. Who or what they all 
 are, and where they all sleep, is a profound mys- 
 tery. The family tree is usually headed by a de- 
 crepit and ruminant old gentleman in a species of 
 yachting-cap. He sits behind the stove not 
 exactly with one foot in the grave, but with both 
 knees well up against the coffin and occasion- 
 ally offers a mumbled observation of which no one 
 takes the slightest notice. Sometimes, too, there 
 is an old, a very old, lady. Probably she is some 
 one's grandmother, or great-grandmother, but 
 she does not appear to be related to the old gentle- 
 man. At least, they never recognise one another's 
 existence in any way. 
 
 There are also vague people who possess the 
 power of becoming invisible at will. They fade hi 
 and out of the house like wraiths: their one object 
 in life appears to be to efface themselves as much 
 as possible. Madame refers to them as ' ' refugies ' ' ; 
 this the sophisticated Mr. Cockerell translates, 
 "German spies." 
 
 Next in order come one or two farmhands 
 usually addressed as "'Nri!" and "'Seph!" They 
 are not as a rule either attractive in appearance or 
 desirable in character. Everyman in this country, 
 who is a man, is away, as a matter of course, doing 
 a man's only possible duty under the circum- 
 stances. This leaves 'Nri and 'Seph, who through 
 physical or mental shortcomings are denied the 
 proud privilege, and shamble about in the muck 
 and mud of the farm, leering or grumbling, while
 
 90 ALL IN IT 
 
 Madame exhorts them to further activity from 
 the kitchen door. They take their meals with the 
 family: where they sleep no one knows. External 
 evidence suggests the cow-house. 
 
 Then, the family. First, Angele. She may be 
 twenty-five, but is more probably fifteen. She 
 acts as Adjutant to Madame, and rivals her 
 mother as deliverer of sustained and rapid recita- 
 tive. She milks the cows, feeds the pigs, and dra- 
 goons her young brothers and sisters. But though 
 she works from morning till night, she has always 
 time for a smiling salutation to all ranks. She 
 also speaks English quite creditably a fact of 
 which Madame is justly proud. "College!" ex- 
 plains the mother, full of appreciation for an edu- 
 cation which she herself has never known, and 
 taps her learned daughter affectionately upon the 
 head. 
 
 Next in order comes Smile. He must be about 
 fourteen, but War has forced manhood on him. 
 All day long he is at work, bullying very large 
 horses, digging, hoeing, even ploughing. He is 
 very much a boy, for all that. He whistles excru- 
 ciatingly usually English music-hall melodies 
 grins sheepishly at the officers, and is prepared 
 at any moment to abandon the most important 
 tasks, in order to watch a man cleaning a rifle or 
 oiling a machine-gun. We seem to have encoun- 
 tered Emile in other countries than this. 
 
 After fimile, Gabrielle. Her age is probably 
 seven. If you were to give her a wash and brush- 
 up, dress her in a gauzy frock, and exchange her 
 thick woollen stockings and wooden sabots for
 
 UNBENDING THE BOW 91 
 
 silk and dancing slippers, she would make a very 
 smart little fairy. Even in her native state she is 
 a most attractive young person, of an engaging 
 coyness. If you say: "Bonjour, Gabrielle!" she 
 whispers: "B'jour M'sieur le Capitaine" or, 
 "M'sieur le Caporal"; for she knows all badges of 
 rank and hangs her head demurely. But pres- 
 ently, if you stand quite still and look the other 
 way, Gabrielle will sidle up to you and squeeze 
 your hand. This is gratifying, but a little subver- 
 sive of strict discipline if you happen to be inspect- 
 ing your platoon at the moment. 
 
 Gabrielle is a firm favourite with the rank and 
 file. Her particular crony is one Private Mackay, 
 an amorphous youth with flaming red hair. He 
 and Gabrielle engage in lengthy conversations, 
 which appear to be perfectly intelligible to both, 
 though Mackay speaks with the solemn unction 
 of the Aberdonian, and Gabrielle prattles at ex- 
 press speed in a patois of her own. Last week 
 some unknown humorist, evidently considering 
 that Gabrielle was not making sufficient progress 
 in her knowledge of English, took upon himself to 
 give her a private lesson. Next morning Mackay, 
 on sentry duty at the farm gate, espied his little 
 friend peeping round a corner. 
 
 "Hey, Garibell!" he observed cheerfully. (No 
 Scottish private ever yet mastered a French name 
 quite completely.) 
 
 Gabrielle, anxious to exhibit her new accom- 
 plishment, drew nearer, smiled seraphically, and 
 replied 
 
 "'Ello, Gingeair!"
 
 92 ALL IN IT 
 
 Last of the bunch comes Petit Jean, a chubby 
 and close-cropped youth of about six. Petit Jean 
 is not his real name, as he himself indignantly ex- 
 plained when so addressed by Major Wagstaffe. 
 
 "Moi, z'ne suis pas Petit Jean; z'suis Maurr- 
 rice!" 
 
 Major Wagstaffe apologised most humbly, but 
 the name stuck. 
 
 Petit Jean is an enthusiast upon matters mili- 
 tary. He possesses a little wooden rifle, the gift of 
 a friendly "ICcossais," tipped with a flashing bay- 
 onet cut from a biscuit-tin; and spends most of his 
 time out upon the road, waiting for some one to 
 salute. At one tune he used to stand by the sen- 
 try, with an ancient glengarry crammed over his 
 bullet head, and conform meticulously to his com- 
 rade's slightest movement. This procedure was 
 soon banned, as being calculated to bring con- 
 tempt and ridicule upon the King's uniform, and 
 Petit Jean was assigned a beat of his own. Behold 
 him upon sentry-go. 
 
 A figure upon horseback swings round the bend 
 in the road. 
 
 " Here's an officer, Johnny!" cries a friendly 
 voice from the farm gate. 
 
 Petit Jean, as upright as a post, brings his rifle 
 from stand-at-ease to the order, and from the or- 
 der to the slope, with the epileptic jerkiness of a 
 marionette, and scrutinises the approaching officer 
 for stars and crowns. If he can discern nothing but 
 a star or two, he slaps the small of his butt with 
 ferocious solemnity; but if a crown, or a red hat- 
 band, reveals itself, he blows out his small chest
 
 UNBENDING THE BOW 93 
 
 to its fullest extent and presents arms. If the sa- 
 lute is acknowledged as it nearly always is 
 Petit Jean is crimson with gratification. Once, 
 when a friendly subaltern called his platoon to 
 attention, and gave the order, " Eyes right ! " upon 
 passing the motionless little figure at the side of 
 the road, Petit Jean was so uplifted that he com- 
 mitted the military crime of deserting his post 
 while on duty in order to run home and tell his 
 mother about it. 
 
 Last of all we arrive at the keystone of the 
 whole fabric Madame herself. She is one of the 
 most wonderful women in the world. Consider. 
 Her two older sons are away fighting, she 
 knows not where, amid dangers and privations 
 which can only be imagined. During their ab- 
 sence she has to manage a considerable farm, 
 with the help of her children and one or two hired 
 labourers of more than doubtful use or reliability. 
 In addition to her ordinary duties as a parent and 
 fermiere, she finds herself called upon, for months 
 on end, to maintain her premises as a combina- 
 tion of barracks and almshouse. Yet she is seldom 
 cross except possibly when the soldats steal her 
 apples and pelt the pigs with the cores and no 
 accumulations of labour can sap her energy. She 
 is up by half -past four every morning; yet she 
 never appears anxious to go to bed at night. The 
 last sound which sleepy subalterns hear is Ma- 
 dame's voice, uplifted in steady discourse to the 
 circle round the stove, sustained by an occasional 
 guttural chord from 'Nri and 'Seph. She has been
 
 94 ALL IN IT 
 
 doing this, day in, day out, since the combatants 
 settled down to trench-warfare. Every few weeks 
 brings a fresh crop of tenants, with fresh peculiari- 
 ties and unknown proclivities; and she assimilates 
 them all. 
 
 The only approach to a breakdown comes 
 when, after paying her little bill you may be 
 sure that not an omelette nor a broken window 
 will be missing from the account and wishing 
 her "Bonne chance!" ere you depart, you venture 
 on a reference, in a few awkward, stumbling sen- 
 tences, to the absent sons. Then she weeps, copi- 
 ously, and it seems to do her a world of good. All 
 hail to you, Madame the finest exponent, in 
 all this War, of the art of Carrying On! We know 
 now why France is such a great country.
 
 VI 
 
 YE MEKRIE BUZZERS 
 I 
 
 PRACTICALLY all the business of an Army in the 
 field is transacted by telephone. If the telephone 
 breaks down, whether by the Act of God or of the 
 King's Enemies, that business is at a standstill 
 until the telephone is put right again. 
 
 The importance of the disaster varies with the 
 nature of the business. For instance, if the wire 
 leading to the Round Game Department is blown 
 down by a March gale, and your weekly return of 
 Men Recommended for False Teeth is delayed in 
 transit, nobody minds very much except pos- 
 sibly the Deputy Assistant Director of Auxiliary 
 Dental Appliances. But if you are engaged in 
 battle, and the wires which link up the driving 
 force in front with the directing force behind are 
 devastated by a storm of shrapnel, the matter 
 assumes a more nay, a most serious aspect. 
 Hence the superlative importance in modern war- 
 fare of the Signal Sections of the Royal Engineers 
 tersely described by the rank-and-file as the 
 "Buzzers," or the " Iddy-Umpties." 
 
 During peace-training, the Buzzer on the whole 
 has a very pleasant time of it. Once he has mas- 
 tered the mysteries of the Semaphore and Morse 
 codes, the most laborious part of his education is 
 over. Henceforth he spends his days upon some
 
 96 ALL IN IT 
 
 sheltered hillside, in company with one or two 
 congenial spirits, flapping cryptic messages out of 
 a blue-and-white flag at a similar party across the 
 valley. 
 
 A year ago, for instance, you might have en- 
 countered an old friend, Private M'Micking, - 
 one of the original "Buzzers" of "A" Company, 
 and ultimately Battalion Signal Sergeant un- 
 der the lee of a pine wood near Hindhead, accom- 
 panied by Lance-Corporal Greig and Private 
 Wamphray, regarding with languid interest the 
 frenzied efforts of three of their colleagues to con- 
 vey a message from a sunny hillside three quarters 
 of a mile away. 
 
 "Here a message comin' through, boys," an- 
 nounces the Lance-Corporal. "They're in a sair 
 hurry: I doot the officer will be there. Jeams, tak' 
 it doon while Sandy reads it." 
 
 Mr. James M'Micking seats himself upon a 
 convenient log. In order not to confuse his 
 faculties by endeavouring to read and write 
 simultaneously, he turns his back upon the 
 fluttering flag, and bends low over his field 
 message-pad. Private Wamphray stands facing 
 him, and solemnly spells out the message over 
 his head. 
 
 "Tae g-o-c I dinna ken what that means 
 r-e-d, reid a-r-m-y, airmy h-a-z " 
 
 "All richt; that'll be Haslemere," says Private 
 M'Micking, scribbling down the word. "Go on, 
 Sandy!" 
 
 Private Wamphray, pausing to expectorate, 
 continues
 
 YE MERRIE BUZZERS 97 
 
 " R-e-c-o-n-n-o-i-t-r Cricky, what a worrd! 
 Let's hae it repeatit." 
 
 Wamphray flaps his flag vigorously, he 
 knows this particular signal only too well, and 
 the word comes through again. The distant sig- 
 naller, slowing down a little, continues, 
 
 "'Reconnoitring patrol reports hostile cavalry 
 scou "' 
 
 "That'll be ' scouts,'" says the ever-ready 
 M'Micking. "Carry on!" 
 
 Wamphray continues obediently, 
 
 "'Country'; stop; 'Have thrown out flank 
 guns'; s+op; 'Shall I advance or re - 
 
 " tire," gabbles M'Micking, writing it down. 
 
 " 'where I am'; stop; 'From C Advance 
 Guard'; stop; message ends." 
 
 "And aboot time, too!" observes the scribe 
 severely. "Haw, Johnny!" 
 
 The Lance-Corporal, who has been indulging in 
 a pleasant reverie upon a bank of bracken, wakes 
 up and reads the proffered message. 
 
 "To G C, Red Army, Hazlemere. Recon- 
 noitring patrol reports hostile cavalry scouts 
 country. Have thrown out flank guns. Shall I 
 advance or retire where I am? From C Advance 
 Guard." 
 
 "This message doesna sound altogether sense," 
 he observes mildly. "That 'shall' should be 
 'wull,' onyway. Would it no' be better to get it 
 repeatit? The officer - 
 
 "I've given the 'message-read' signal now," 
 objects the indolent Wamphray.
 
 98 ALL IN IT 
 
 "How would it be," suggests the Lance-Cor- 
 poral, whose besetting sin is a penchant for emen- 
 dation, "if we were tae transfair yon stop, and 
 say: 'Reconnoitring patrol reports hostile cavalry 
 scouts. Country has thrown oot flank guns'?" 
 
 "What does that mean?" inquires M'Micking 
 scornfully. 
 
 "I dinna ken; but these messages about Gen- 
 erals and sic'-like bodies ' 
 
 At this moment, as ill-luck will have it, the Sig- 
 nal Sergeant appears breasting the hillside. He 
 arrives puffing he has seen twenty years' serv- 
 ice and scrutinises the message. 
 
 "You boys," he says reproachfully, "are an 
 aggravate altogether. Here you are, jumping at 
 your conclusions again! After all I have been tell- 
 ing you! See! That worrd in the address should 
 no' be Haslemere at all. It's just a catch! It's 
 Hazebroucke a Gairman city that we'll be 
 capturing this time next year. 'Scouts' is no 
 'scouts,' but 'scouring' meaning 'sooping up/ 
 'Guns' should be 'guarrd,' and 'retire' should be 
 'remain.' Mind me, now; next time, you'll be up 
 before the Captain for neglect of duty. Wam- 
 phray, give the 'C.I.,' and let's get hame to oor 
 dinners!" 
 
 ii 
 
 But "oot here" there is no flag-wagging. The 
 Buzzer's first proceeding upon entering the field 
 of active hostilities is to get underground, and 
 stay there. 
 
 He is a seasoned vessel, the Buzzer of to-day,
 
 YE MERRIE BUZZERS 99 
 
 and a person of marked individuality. He is 
 above all things a man of the world. Sitting day 
 and night in a dug-out, or a cellar, with a tele- 
 phone receiver clamped to his ear, he sees little; 
 but he hears much, and overhears more. He also 
 speaks a language of his own. His one task in life 
 is to prevent the letter B from sounding like C, or 
 D, or P, or T, or V, over the telephone; so he has 
 perverted the English language to his own uses. 
 He calls B "Beer," and D "Don," and so on. He 
 salutes the rosy dawn as " Akk Emma," and even- 
 tide as "Pip Emma." He refers to the letter S as 
 " Esses," in order to distinguish it from F. He has 
 no respect for the most majestic military titles. 
 To him the Deputy Assistant Director of the 
 Mobile Veterinary Section is merely a lifeless for- 
 mula, entitled Don Akk Don Emma Vic Esses. 
 
 He is also a man of detached mind. The tactical 
 situation does not interest him. His business is to 
 disseminate news, not to write leading articles 
 about it. (0 si sic omnes /) You may be engaged 
 in a life-and-death struggle for the possession of 
 your own parapet with a Boche bombing-party; 
 but this does not render you immune from a pink 
 slip from the Signal Section, asking you to state 
 your reasons in writing for having mislaid four- 
 teen pairs of "boots, gum, thigh," lately the 
 property of Number Seven Platoon. A famous 
 British soldier tells a story somewhere in his remi- 
 niscences of an occasion upon which, in some long- 
 forgotten bush campaign, he had to defend a 
 zareba against a heavy attack. For a time the 
 situation was critical. Help was badly needed,
 
 100 ALL IN IT 
 
 but the telegraph wire had been cut. Ultimately 
 the attack withered away, and the situation was 
 saved. Almost simultaneously the victorious com- 
 mander was informed that telegraphic communi- 
 cation with the Base had been restored. A mes- 
 sage was already coming through. 
 
 "News of reinforcements, I hope ! " he remarked 
 to his subordinate. 
 
 But his surmise was incorrect. The message 
 said, quite simply: - 
 
 "Your monthly return of men wishing to 
 change their religion is twenty-four hours over- 
 due. Please expedite." 
 
 There was a time when one laughed at that 
 anecdote as a playful invention. But we know 
 now that it is true, and we feel a sort of pride in 
 the truly British imperturbability of our official 
 machinery. 
 
 Thirdly, the Buzzer is a humourist, of the sar- 
 donic variety. The constant clash of wits over the 
 wires, and the necessity of framing words quickly, 
 sharpens his faculties and acidulates his tongue. 
 Incidentally, he is an awkward person to quarrel 
 with. One black night, Bobby Little, making his 
 second round of the trenches about an hour before 
 "stand-to," felt constrained to send a telephone 
 message to Battalion Headquarters. Taking a 
 good breath, you always do this before en- 
 tering a trench dug-out, he plunged into the 
 noisome cavern where his Company Signallers 
 kept everlasting vigil. The place was in total
 
 YE MERRIE BUZZERS 101 
 
 darkness, except for the illumination supplied by 
 a strip of rifle-rag burning in a tin of rifle-oil. The 
 air, what there was of it, was thick with large, 
 fat, floating particles of free carbon. The tele- 
 phone was buzzing plaintively to itself, in unsuc- 
 cessful competition with a well-modulated quar- 
 tette for four nasal organs, contributed by Bobby's 
 entire signalling staff, who, locked in the inex- 
 tricable embrace peculiar to Thomas Atkins in 
 search of warmth, were snoring harmoniously 
 upon the earthen floor. 
 
 The signaller "on duty" one M'Gurk was 
 extracted from the heap and put under arrest for 
 sleeping at his post. The enormity of his crime 
 was heightened by the fact that two undelivered 
 messages were found upon his person. 
 
 Divers pains and penalties followed. Bobby 
 supplemented the sentence with a homily on the 
 importance of vigilance and despatch. M'Gurk, 
 deeply aggrieved at forfeiting seven days' pay, 
 said nothing, but bided his time. Two nights la- 
 ter the Battalion came out of trenches for a week's 
 rest, and Bobby, weary and thankful, retired to 
 bed in his hut at 9 P.M., in comfortable anticipa- 
 tion of a full night's repose. 
 
 His anticipations were doomed to disappoint- 
 ment. He was roused from slumber not with- 
 out difficulty by Signaller M'Gurk, who ap- 
 peared standing by his bedside with a guttering 
 candle-end in one hand and a pink despatch-form 
 in the other. The message said: 
 
 "Prevailing wind for next twenty-four hours 
 probably S.W., with some rain."
 
 102 ALL IN IT 
 
 Mindful of his own recent admonitions, Bobby 
 thanked M'Gurk politely, and went to sleep again. 
 
 M'Gurk called again at half -past two in the 
 morning, with another message, which an- 
 nounced : 
 
 "Baths will be available for your Company 
 from 2 to 3 P.M. to-morrow." 
 
 Bobby stuffed the missive under his air-pillow, 
 and rolled over without a word. M'Gurk with- 
 drew, leaving the door of the hut open. 
 
 His next visit was about four o'clock. This 
 time the message said : 
 
 "A Zeppelin is reported to have passed over 
 Dunkirk at 5 P.M. yesterday afternoon, proceed- 
 ing in a northerly direction." 
 
 Bobby informed M'Gurk that he was a fool and 
 a dotard, and cast him forth. 
 
 M'Gurk returned at five- thirty, with one more 
 despatch. It said : 
 
 "The expression 'Pud' will no longer be em- 
 ployed in official correspondence." 
 
 This time his Company Commander promised 
 him that if he appeared again that night he would 
 be awarded fourteen days' Field Punishment 
 Number One. 
 
 The result was that upon sitting down to break- 
 fast at nine next morning, Bobby found upon his 
 plate yet another message from his Command- 
 ing Officer summoning him to the Orderly- 
 room on urgent matters at eight-thirty. 
 
 But Bobby scored the final and winning trick. 
 Sending for M'Gurk and Sergeant M'Micking, he 
 said: 
 
 "This man, Sergeant, appears to be unable to
 
 YE MERRIE BUZZERS 103 
 
 decide when a message is urgent and when it is 
 not. In future, whenever M'Gurk is on night 
 duty, and is in doubt as to whether a message 
 should be delivered at once or put aside till morn- 
 ing, he will come to you and ask for your guidance 
 in the matter. Do you understand? " 
 
 "Perrfectly, sirr!" replied the Sergeant, out- 
 wardly calm. 
 
 "M'Gurk, do you understand?" 
 
 M'Gurk looked at Bobby, and then round at 
 Sergeant M'Micking. He received a glance which 
 shrivelled his marrow. The game was up. He 
 grinned sheepishly, and answered, 
 
 "Yis, sirr!" 
 
 in 
 
 Having briefly set forth the character and 
 habits of the Buzzer, we will next proceed to visit 
 the creature in his lair. This is an easy feat. We 
 have only to walk up the communication-trench 
 which leads from the reserve line to the firing-line. 
 Upon either side of the trench, neatly tacked to 
 the muddy wall by a device of the hairpin variety, 
 run countless insulated wires, clad in coats of 
 various colours and all duly ticketed. These radi- 
 ate from various Headquarters in the rear to nu- 
 merous signal stations in the front, and were laid 
 by the Signallers themselves. (It is perhaps un- 
 necessary to mention that that single wire run- 
 ning, in defiance of all regulations, across the top 
 of the trench, which neatly tipped your cap off 
 just now, was laid by those playful humourists, 
 the Royal Artillery.) It follows that if we accom-
 
 104 ALL IN IT 
 
 pany these wires far enough we shall ultimately 
 find ourselves in a signalling station. 
 
 Our only difficulty lies in judicious choice, for 
 the wires soon begin to diverge up numerous by- 
 ways. Some go to the fire-trench, others to the 
 machine-guns, others again to observation posts, 
 whence a hawk-eyed Forward Observing Officer, 
 peering all day through a chink in a tumble-down 
 chimney or sandbagged loop-hole, is sometimes 
 enabled to flash back the intelligence that he can 
 discern transport upon such a road in rear of the 
 Boche trenches, and will such a battery kindly 
 attend to the matter at once? 
 
 However, chance guides us to the Signal dug- 
 out of "A" Company, where, by the best fortune 
 in the world, Private M'Gurk hi person is in- 
 stalled as officiating sprite. Let us render our- 
 selves invisible, sit down beside him, and "tap" 
 his wire. 
 
 In the dim and distant days before such phrases 
 as "Boche," and "T.N.T.," and "munitions," 
 and "profiteer" were invented; when we lived in 
 houses which possessed roofs, and never dreamed 
 of lying down motionless by the roadside when we 
 heard a taxi-whistle blown thrice, in order to es- 
 cape the notice of approaching aeroplanes, in 
 short, in the days immediately preceding the war, 
 some of us said in our haste that the London 
 Telephone Service was The Limit ! Since then we 
 have made the acquaintance of the military field- 
 telephone, and we feel distinctly softened towards 
 the young woman at home who, from her dug-out 
 in "Gerrard," or "Vic.," or "Hop.," used to goad
 
 YE MERRIE BUZZERS 105 
 
 us to impotent frenzy. She was at least terse and 
 decided. If you rang her up and asked for a num- 
 ber, she merely replied, - 
 
 (a) " Number engaged "; 
 
 (6) "No reply"; 
 
 (c) "Out of order" 
 
 as the case might be, and switched you off. 
 After that you took a taxi to the place with which 
 you wished to communicate, and there was an end 
 of the matter. Above all, she never explained, she 
 never wrangled, she spoke tolerably good English, 
 and there was only one of her or at least she 
 was of a uniform type. 
 
 Now, if you put your ear to the receiver of a 
 field-telephone, you find yourself, as it were, sud- 
 denly thrust into a vast subterranean cavern, 
 filled with the wailings of the lost, the babblings of 
 the feeble-minded, and the profanity of the exas- 
 perated. If you ask a high-caste Buzzer say, an 
 R.E. Signalling Officer why this should be so, 
 he will look intensely wise and recite some solemn 
 gibberish about earthed wires and induced cur- 
 rents. 
 
 The noises are of two kinds, and one supple- 
 ments the other. The human voice supplies the 
 libretto, while the accompaniment is provided by 
 a syncopated and tympanum-piercing ping-ping, 
 suggestive of a giant mosquito singing to its 
 young. 
 
 The instrument with which we are contending 
 is capable (in theory) of transmitting a message 
 either telephonically or telegraphically. In prac- 
 tice, this means that the signaller, having wasted
 
 106 ALL IN IT 
 
 ten sulphurous minutes in a useless attempt to 
 convey information through the medium of the 
 human voice, next proceeds, upon the urgent ad- 
 vice of the gentleman at the other end, and to the 
 confusion of all other inhabitants of the cavern, 
 to "buzz" it, adapting the dots and dashes of 
 the Morse code to his purpose. 
 
 It is believed that the wily Boche, by means of 
 ingenious and delicate instruments, is able to 
 "tap" a certain number of our trench telephone 
 messages. If he does, his daily Intelligence Re- 
 port must contain some surprising items of in- 
 formation. At the moment when we attach our 
 invisible apparatus to Mr. M'Gurk's wire, the 
 Divisional Telephone system appears to be fairly 
 evenly divided between 
 
 (1) A Regimental Headquarters endeavouring 
 to ring up its Brigade. 
 
 (2) A glee-party of Harmonious Blacksmiths, 
 indulging in the Anvil Chorus. 
 
 (3) A choleric Adjutant on the track of a 
 peccant Company Commander. 
 
 (4) Two Company Signallers, engaged in a 
 friendly chat from different ends of the trench 
 line. 
 
 (5) An Artillery F.O.O., endeavouring to con- 
 vey pressing and momentous information to his 
 Battery, two miles in rear. 
 
 (6) The Giant Mosquito aforesaid. 
 
 The consolidated result is something like 
 this : 
 
 REGIMENTAL HEADQUARTERS (affably}. Hallo, 
 Brigade! Hallo, Brigade! HALLO, BRIGADE!
 
 YE MERRIE BUZZERS 107 
 
 THE MOSQUITO. Ping! 
 
 THE ADJUTANT (from somewhere in the Support 
 Line, fiercely). Give me B Company! 
 
 THE FORWARD OBSERVING OFFICER (from his 
 eyrie). Is that C Battery? There's an enemy 
 working-party 
 
 FIRST CHATTY SIGNALLER (from B Company's 
 Station). Is that yoursel', Jock? How's a' wi' 
 you? 
 
 SECOND CHATTY SIGNALLER (from D Company's 
 Station). I'm daen fine! How's your 
 
 REGIMENTAL HEADQUARTERS. HALLO, BRI- 
 GADE! 
 
 THE ADJUTANT. Is that B Company? 
 
 A MYSTERIOUS AND DISTANT VOICE (politely}. 
 No, sir; this is Akk and Esses Aitch. 
 
 THE ADJUTANT (furiously). Then for the 
 Lord's sake get off the line! 
 
 THE MOSQUITO. Ping! Ping! 
 
 THE ADJUTANT. And stop that 
 
 buzzing! 
 
 THE MOSQUITO. Ping! Ping! PING! 
 
 THEF.O.O. Is that C Battery? There's 
 
 FIRST CHATTY SIGNALLER (peevishly). What's 
 that you're sayin'? 
 
 THE F.0.0. (perseveringly) . Is that C Battery? 
 There's an enemy working-party in a coppice 
 at 
 
 FIRST CHATTY SIGNALLER. This is Beer Com- 
 pany, sir. Weel, Jock, did ye get a quiet nicht? 
 
 SECOND CHATTY SIGNALLER. Oh, aye. There 
 was a wee 
 
 THEF.O.O. Is that C Battery? There's
 
 108 ALL IN IT 
 
 SECOND CHATTY SIGNALLER. No, sir. This is 
 Don Company. Weel, Jimmy, there was a 
 couple whish-bangs came intil - 
 
 REGIMENTAL HEADQUARTERS. HALLO, BRI- 
 GADE! 
 
 A CHEERFUL COCKNEY VOICE. Well, my lad, 
 what abaht it? 
 
 REGIMENTAL HEADQUARTERS (getting to work at 
 once). Hold the line, Brigade. Message to Staff 
 Captain. "Ref. your S.C. fourr stroke seeven 
 eight six, the worrking-parrty in question " 
 
 THE F.O.O. (seeing a gleam of hope). Working- 
 party? Is that C Battery? I want to speak to - 
 
 THE ADJUTANT. ^ r t ff th 
 
 BRIGADE HEADQUARTERS. e ,. f 
 
 REGIMENTAL HEADQUARTERS, j 
 
 FIRST CHATTY SIGNALLER. Haw, Jock, was ye 
 hearin' aboot Andra? 
 
 SECOND CHATTY SIGNALLER. No. Whit was 
 that? 
 
 FIRST CHATTY SIGNALLER. Weel - 
 
 THE F.O.O. (doggedly). Is that C Battery? 
 
 REGIMENTAL HEADQUARTERS (resolutely). "The 
 worrking-parrty in question was duly detailed for 
 tae proceed to the rendiss vowse at" 
 
 THE ADJUTANT. Is that B Company, curse 
 you? 
 
 REGIMENTAL HEADQUARTERS (quite impervious 
 to this sort of thing), "the rendiss vowse, at 
 seeven thirrty Akk Emma, at point H two B 
 eight nine, near the cross-roads by the Estamint 
 Repose dee Bicyclistees, for tae" honklhonkle! 
 honk!
 
 YE MERRIE BUZZERS 109 
 
 BRIGADE HEADQUARTERS (compassionately). 
 You're makin' a 'orrible mess of this message, 
 ain't you? Shake your transmitter, do! 
 
 REGIMENTAL HEADQUARTERS (after dutifully 
 performing this operation). Honkle, honkle, honk. 
 Yang! 
 
 BRIGADE HEADQUARTERS. Buzz it, my lad, 
 buzz it! 
 
 REGIMENTAL HEADQUARTERS (dutifully). Ping, 
 ping! Ping, ping! Ping, ping, ping! Ping- 
 
 GENERAL CHORUS. Stop that - , - , - , 
 - buzzing! 
 
 FIRST CHATTY SIGNALLER. Weel, Andra says 
 tae the Sergeant-Major of Beer Company, says 
 he 
 
 THE ADJUTANT. Is that B Company? 
 
 FIRST CHATTY SIGNALLER. No, sir; this is Beer 
 Company. 
 
 THE ADJUTANT (fortissimo). I said Beer 
 Company! 
 
 FIRST CHATTY SIGNALLER. Oh! I thocht ye 
 meant Don Company, sir. 
 
 THE ADJUTANT. Why the blazes have n't you 
 answered me sooner? 
 
 FIRST CHATTY SIGNALLER (tactfully). There 
 was other messages comin' through, sir. 
 
 THE ADJUTANT. Well, get me the Company 
 Commander. 
 
 FIRST CHATTY SIGNALLER. Varra good, sirr. 
 
 A pause. Regimental Headquarters being engaged 
 in laboriously "buzzing" its message through to the 
 Brigade, all other conversation is at a standstill. 
 The Harmonious Blacksmiths seize the opportunity
 
 110 ALL IN IT 
 
 to give a short selection. Presently, as the din dies 
 down 
 
 THE F.O.O. (faint, yet pursuing}. Is that C 
 Battery? 
 
 A JOVIAL VOICE. Yes. 
 
 THE F.O.O. What a shock! I thought you were 
 all dead. Is that you, Chumps? 
 
 THE JOVIAL VOICE. It is. What can I do for 
 you this morning? 
 
 THE F.O.O. You can boil your signal sentry's 
 head! 
 
 THE JOVIAL VOICE. What for? 
 
 THE F.O.O. For keeping me waiting. 
 
 THE JOVIAL VOICE. Righto! And the next 
 article? 
 
 THE F.O.O. There's a Boche working-party 
 in a coppice two hundred yards west of a point 
 
 THE MOSQUITO (with renewed vigour). Ping, 
 ping! 
 
 THE F.O.O. (savagely). Shut up! 
 
 THE JOVIAL VOICE. Working-party? I '11 settle 
 them. What's the map reference? 
 
 THE F.O.O. They are in Square number 
 
 THE HAKMONIOUS BLACKSMITHS (suddenly and 
 stunningly). Whang! 
 
 THE F.O.O. Shut up! They are in Square 
 
 FIRST CHATTY SIGNALLER. Hallo, Headquar- 
 ters! Is the Adjutant there? Here's the Captain 
 tae speak with him. 
 
 AN EAGER VOICE. Is that the Adjutant? 
 
 REGIMENTAL HEADQUARTERS. No, sirr. He's 
 away tae his office. Hold the line while I'll 
 
 THE EAGER VOICE. No you don't! Put me
 
 YE MERRIE BUZZERS 111 
 
 straight through to C Battery quick! Then 
 get off the line, and stay there! (Much buzzing.) 
 Is that C Battery? 
 
 THE JOVIAL VOICE. Yes, sir. 
 
 THE EAGER VOICE. I am O.C. Beer Company. 
 They are shelling my front parapet, at L 8, with 
 pretty heavy stuff. I want retaliation, please. 
 
 THE JOVIAL VOICE. Very good, sir. (The voice 
 dies away.) 
 
 A SOUND OVER OUR HEADS (thirty seconds later). 
 Whish! Whish! Whish! 
 
 SECOND CHATTY SIGNALLER. Did ye hear that, 
 Jimmy? 
 
 FIRST CHATTY SIGNALLER (with relish). Mphm! 
 That'll sorrt them! 
 
 THE F.0.0. Is that C Battery? 
 
 THE JOVIAL VOICE. Yes. What luck, old son? 
 
 THE F.O.O. You have obtained two direct hits 
 on the Boche parapet. Will you have a cocoanut 
 or a ci 
 
 THE JOVIAL VOICE. A little less lip, my lad! 
 Now tell me all about your industrious friends in 
 the Coppice, and we will see what we can do for 
 them ! 
 
 And so on. Apropos of Adjutants and Com- 
 pany Commanders, Private Wamphray, whose 
 acquaintance we made a few pages back, was ulti- 
 mately relieved of his position as a Company Sig- 
 naller, and returned ignominiously to duty, for 
 tactless if justifiable interposition in one of these 
 very dialogues. 
 
 It was a dark and cheerless night in mid-winter.
 
 112 ALL IN IT 
 
 Ominous noises in front of the Boche wire had 
 raised apprehensive surmises in the breast of 
 Brigade Headquarters. A forward sap was sus- 
 pected in the region opposite the sector of trenches 
 held by "A" Company. The trenches at this 
 point were barely forty yards apart, and there was 
 a very real danger that Brother Boche might 
 creep under his own wire, and possibly under ours 
 too, and come tumbling over our parapet. 
 
 To Bobby Little came instructions to send a 
 specially selected patrol out to investigate the 
 matter. Three months ago he would have led the 
 expedition himself. Now, as a full-blown Com- 
 pany Commander, he was officially precluded 
 from exposing his own most responsible person to 
 gratuitous risks. So he chose out that recently- 
 joined enthusiast, Angus M'Lachlan, and put him 
 over the parapet on the dark night in question, 
 accompanied by Corporal M'Snape and two 
 scouts, with orders to probe the mystery to its 
 depth and bring back a full report. 
 
 It was a ticklish enterprise. As is frequently the 
 case upon these occasions, nervous tension mani- 
 fested itself much more seriously at Headquarters 
 than in the front-line trenches. The man on the 
 spot is, as a rule, much too busy with the actual 
 execution of the enterprise in hand to distress 
 himself by speculation upon its outcome. It may 
 as well be stated at once that Angus duly returned 
 from his quest, with an admirable and reassuring 
 report. But he was a long time absent. Hence this 
 anecdote. 
 
 Bobby had strict orders to report all "develop-
 
 YE MERRIE BUZZERS 113 
 
 ments," as they occurred, to Headquarters by 
 telephone. At half-past eleven that night, as 
 Angus M'Lachlan's colossal form disappeared, 
 crawling, into the blackness of night, his superior 
 officer dutifully rang up Battalion Headquarters, 
 and announced that the venture was launched. 
 It is possible that the Powers Behind were in pos- 
 session of information as to the enemy's inten- 
 tions unrevealed to Bobby; for as soon as his open- 
 ing announcement was received, he was switched 
 right through to a very august Headquarters in- 
 deed, and commanded to report direct. 
 
 Long-distance telephony in the field involves 
 a considerable amount of "linking-up." Among 
 other slaves of the Buzzer who assisted in estab- 
 lishing the necessary communications upon this 
 occasion was Private Wamphray. For the next 
 hour and a half it was his privilege in his subter- 
 ranean exchange, to sit, with his receiver clamped 
 to his ear, an unappreciative auditor of dialogues 
 like the following : 
 
 1 ' Is that ' A ' Company? ' ' 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Any news of your patrol?" 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 Again, five minutes later: 
 
 "Is that 'A' Company?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Has your officer returned yet?" 
 
 "No, sir. I will notify you when he does." 
 
 This sort of thing went on until nearly one 
 o'clock in the morning. Towards that hour, 
 Bobby, who was growing really concerned over
 
 114 ALL IN IT 
 
 Angus's prolonged absence, cut short his august 
 interlocutor's fifteenth inquiry and joined his 
 Sergeant-Major on the firing-step. The two had 
 hardly exchanged a few low-pitched sentences 
 when Bobby was summoned back to the tele- 
 phone. 
 
 "Is that Captain Little?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Has your patrol come in?" 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 Captain's Little's last answer was delivered in a 
 distinctly insubordinate manner. Feeling slightly 
 relieved, he returned to the firing-step. Two 
 minutes later Angus M'Lachlan and his posse 
 rolled over the parapet, safe and sound, and 
 Bobby was able, to his own great content and that 
 of the weary operators along the line, to an- 
 nounce, 
 
 "The patrol has returned, sir, and reports 
 everything quite satisfactory. I am forwarding 
 a detailed statement." 
 
 Then he laid down the receiver with a happy 
 sigh, and crawled out of the dug-out on to the 
 duck-board. 
 
 "Now we'll have a look round the sentries, 
 Sergeant-Major," he said. 
 
 But the pair had hardly rounded three traverses 
 when Bobby was haled back to the Signal Station. 
 
 "Why did you leave the telephone just now?" 
 inquired a cold voice. 
 
 "I was going to visit my sentries, sir." 
 
 "But I was speaking to you." 
 
 "I thought you had finished, sir."
 
 YE MERRIE BUZZERS 115 
 
 "I had not finished. If I had finished, I should 
 have informed you of the fact, and would have 
 said 'Good-night!" 
 
 "How does one choke off a tripe-merchant of 
 this type?" wondered the exhausted officer. 
 
 From the bowels of the earth came the answer 
 to his unspoken question delivered in a strong 
 Paisley accent 
 
 "For Goad's sake, kiss him, and say 'Good- 
 Nicht,' and hae done with it!" 
 
 As already stated, Private Wamphray was 
 returned to his platoon next morning. 
 
 IV 
 
 But to regard the Buzzer simply and solely as a 
 troglodyte, of sedentary habits and caustic tem- 
 perament, is not merely hopelessly wrong: it is 
 grossly unjust. Sometimes he goes for a walk 
 under some such circumstances as the following. 
 
 The night is as black as Tartarus, and it is 
 raining heavily. Brother Boche, a prey to nervous 
 qualms, is keeping his courage up by distributing 
 shrapnel along our communication-trenches. Sig- 
 nal-wires are peculiarly vulnerable to shrapnel. 
 Consequently no one in the Battalion Signal Sta- 
 tion is particularly surprised when the line to 
 "Akk" Company suddenly ceases to perform its 
 functions. 
 
 Signal-Sergeant M'Micking tests the instru- 
 ment, glances over his shoulder, and observes, 
 
 "Line BX is gone, some place or other. Away 
 you, Duncan, and sorrt it!"
 
 116 ALL IN IT 
 
 Mr. Duncan, who has been sitting hunched 
 over a telephone, temporarily quiescent, smoking 
 a woodbine, heaves a resigned sigh, extinguishes 
 the woodbine and places it behind his ear; hitches 
 his repairing-wallet nonchalantly over his shoul- 
 der, and departs into the night there to grope 
 in several inches of mud for the two broken ends 
 of the wire, which may be lying fifty yards apart. 
 Having found them, he proceeds to effect a junc- 
 tion, his progress being impeded from time to 
 time by further bursts of shrapnel. This done, he 
 tests the new connection, relights his woodbine, 
 and splashes his way back to Headquarters. That 
 is a Buzzer's normal method of obtaining fresh 
 air and exercise. 
 
 More than that. He is the one man in the Army 
 who can fairly describe himself as indispensable. 
 
 In these days, when whole nations are deployed 
 against one another, no commander, however 
 eminent, can ride the whirlwind single-handed. 
 There are limits to individual capacity. There 
 are limits to direct control. There are limits to 
 personal magnetism. We fight upon a collective 
 plan nowadays. If we propose to engage in battle, 
 we begin by welding a hundred thousand men into 
 one composite giant. We weld a hundred thou- 
 sand rifles, a million bombs, a thousand machine- 
 guns, and as many pieces of artillery, into one 
 huge weapon of offence, with which we arm our 
 giant. Having done this, we provide him with a 
 brain a blend of all the experience and wisdom 
 and military genius at our disposal. But still 
 there is one thing lacking a nervous system.
 
 YE MERRIE BUZZERS 117 
 
 Unless our giant have that, unless his brain is 
 able to transmit its desires to his mighty limbs, 
 he has nothing. He is of no account; the enemy 
 can make butcher 's-meat of him. And that is why 
 I say that the purveyor of this nervous system - 
 our friend the Buzzer is indispensable. You can 
 always create a body of sorts and a brain of sorts. 
 But unless you can link the two up, you are fore- 
 doomed to failure. 
 
 Take a small instance. Supposing a battalion 
 advances to the attack, and storms an isolated, 
 exposed position. Can they hold on, or can they 
 not? That question can only be answered by the 
 Artillery behind them. If the curtain of shell-fire 
 which has preceded the advancing battalion to its 
 objective can be "lifted" at the right moment and 
 put down again, with precision, upon a certain 
 vital zone beyond the captured line, counter- 
 attacks can be broken up and the line held. But 
 the Artillery lives a long way sometimes miles 
 in rear. Without continuous and accurate in- 
 formation it will be more than useless; it will 
 be dangerous. (A successful attacking party has 
 been shelled out of its hardly won position by its 
 own artillery before now on both sides!) Some- 
 times a little visual signalling is possible: some- 
 times a despatch-runner may get back through 
 the enemy's curtain of fire; but in the main your 
 one hope of salvation hangs upon a slender thread 
 of insulated wire. And round that wire are strung 
 some of the purest gems of heroism that the War 
 has produced. 
 
 At the Battle of Loos, half a battalion of
 
 118 ALL IN IT 
 
 "K(l)" pushed forward into a very advanced 
 hostile position. There they hung, by their teeth. 
 Their achievement was great; but unless Head- 
 quarters could be informed of their exact position 
 and needs, they were all dead men. So Corporal 
 Greig set out to find them, unreeling wire as he 
 went. He was blown to pieces by an eight^inch 
 shell, but another signaller was never lacking to 
 take his place. They pressed forward, these lacka- 
 daisical noncombatants, until the position was 
 reached and communication established. Again 
 and again the wire was cut by shrapnel, and again 
 and again a Buzzer crawled out to find the broken 
 ends and piece them together. And ultimately, 
 the tiny, exposed limb in front having been en- 
 abled to explain its exact requirements to the 
 brain behind, the necessary help was forthcoming 
 and the Fort was held. 
 
 Next time you pass a Signaller's Dug-out peep 
 inside. You will find it occupied by a coke brazier, 
 emitting large quantities of carbon monoxide, and 
 an untidy gentleman in khaki, with a blue-and- 
 white device upon his shoulder-straps, brooding 
 over a small black instrument and luxuriating 
 in a " frowst" most indescribable. He is read- 
 ing a back number of a rural Scottish newspaper 
 which you never heard of. Occasionally, in re- 
 sponse to a faint buzz, he takes up his transmitter 
 and indulges in an unintelligible altercation with 
 a person unseen. You need feel no surprise if he 
 is wearing the ribbon of the Distinguished Con- 
 duct Medal.
 
 VII 
 
 PASTTJKES NEW 
 I 
 
 THE outstanding feature of to-day's intelligence 
 is that spring is coming has come, in fact. 
 
 It arrived with a bump. March entered upon 
 its second week with seven degrees of frost and 
 four inches of snow. We said what was natural 
 and inevitable to the occasion, wrapped our coats 
 of skins more firmly round us, and made a point of 
 attending punctually when the rum ration was 
 issued. 
 
 Forty-eight hours later winter had disappeared. 
 The sun was blazing in a cloudless sky. Aero- 
 planes were battling for photographic rights over- 
 head; the brown earth beneath our feet was put- 
 ting forth its first blades of tender green. The 
 muck-heap outside our rest-billet displayed un- 
 mistakable signs of upheaval from its winter sleep. 
 Primroses appeared in Bunghole Wood; larks 
 soared up into the sky above No Man's Land, 
 making music for the just and the unjust. Snip- 
 ers, smiling cheerfully over the improved atmos- 
 pheric conditions, polished up their telescopic 
 sights. The artillery on each side hailed the birth 
 of yet another season of fruitfulness and natural 
 increase with some more than usually enthusiastic 
 essays in mutual extermination. Half the Mess 
 caught colds in their heads.
 
 120 ALL IN IT 
 
 Frankly, we are not sorry to see the end of win- 
 ter. Caesar, when he had concluded his summer 
 campaign, went into winter quarters. Caesar, as 
 Colonel Kemp once huskily remarked, knew 
 something! 
 
 Still, each man to his taste. Corporal Muckle- 
 wame, for one, greatly prefers winter to summer. 
 
 "In the winter," he points out to Sergeant 
 M'Snape, "a body can breathe withoot swallow- 
 ing a wheen bluebottles and bum-bees. A body 
 can aye streitch himself doon under a tree for a 
 bit sleep withoot getting wasps and wee beasties 
 crawling up inside his kilt, and puddocks craw- 
 crawing in his ear! A body can keep himself frae 
 sweitin' " 
 
 "He can that!" assents M'Snape, whose spare 
 frame is more vulnerable to the icy breeze than 
 that of the stout corporal. 
 
 However, the balance of public opinion is 
 against Mucklewame. Most of us are unfeignedly 
 glad to feel the warmth of the sun again. That 
 working-party, filling sandbags just behind the 
 machine-gun emplacement, are actually singing. 
 Spring gets into the blood, even in this stricken 
 land. The Boche over the way resents our efforts 
 at harmony. 
 
 Sing us a song, a song of Bonnie Scotland! 
 
 Any old song will do. 
 By the old camp-fire, the rough-and-ready choir 
 
 Join in the chorus too. 
 "You'll tak' the high road and I '11 tak' the low road " 
 
 'T is a song that we all know, 
 To bring back the days in Bonnie Scotland, 
 
 Where the heather and the bluebells
 
 PASTURES NEW 121 
 
 Whang! 
 
 The Boche, a Wagnerian by birth and upbring- 
 ing, cannot stand any more of this, so he has fired 
 a rifle-grenade at the glee-party on the whole 
 a much more honest and direct method of con- 
 demnation than that practiced by musical critics 
 in time of peace. But he only elicits an encore. 
 Private Nigg perches a steel helmet on the point 
 of a bayonet, and patronisingly bobs the same up 
 and down above the parapet. 
 
 These steel helmets have not previously been 
 introduced to the reader's notice. They are 
 modelled upon those worn in the French Army 
 and bear about as much resemblance to the origi- 
 nal pattern as a Thames barge to a racing yacht. 
 When first issued, they were greeted with pro- 
 found suspicion. Though undoubtedly service- 
 able, they saved many a crown from cracking 
 round The Bluff the other day, they were un- 
 deniably heavy, and they were certainly not be- 
 coming to the peculiar type of beauty rampant in 
 "K (1)." On issue, then, their recipients elected 
 to regard the wearing of them as a peculiarly nox- 
 ious form of "fatigue." Private M'A. deposited 
 his upon the parapet, like a foundling on a door- 
 step, and departed stealthily round the nearest 
 traverse, to report his new headpiece "lost 
 through the exigencies of military service." Pri- 
 vate M'B. wore his insecurely perched upon the 
 top of his tam-o'-shanter bonnet, where it looked 
 like a very large ostrich egg in a very small khaki 
 nest. Private M'C. set his up on a convenient 
 post, and opened rapid fire upon it at a range
 
 122 ALL IN IT 
 
 of six yards, surveying the resulting holes with 
 the gloomy satisfaction of the vindicated pes- 
 simist. Private M'D. removed the lining from 
 his, and performed his ablutions in the inverted 
 crown. 
 
 "This," said Colonel Kemp, "will never do. 
 We must start wearing the dashed things our- 
 selves." 
 
 And it was so. Next day, to the joy of the Bat- 
 talion, their officers appeared in the trenches self- 
 consciously wearing what looked like small sky- 
 blue wash-hand basins balanced upon their heads. 
 But discipline was excellent. No one even smiled. 
 In fact, there was a slight reaction in favour of the 
 helmets. Conversations like the following were 
 overheard : 
 
 "I'm tellin' you, Jimmy, the C.O. is no the 
 man for tae mak' a show of himself like that for 
 naething. These tin bunnets must be some use. 
 Wull we pit oors on?" 
 
 "Awa' hame, and bile your heid!" replied the 
 unresponsive James. 
 
 "They'll no stop a whish-bang," conceded the 
 apostle of progress, "but they would keep off 
 splunters, and a wheen bullets, and and " 
 
 "And the rain!" supplied Jimmy sarcastically. 
 
 This gibe suddenly roused the temper of the 
 other participant in the debate. 
 
 " I tell you," he exclaimed, in a voice shrill with 
 
 indignation, "that these helmets are some 
 
 use!" 
 
 "And I tell you," retorted James earnestly, 
 "that these helmets are no use!"
 
 PASTURES NEW 123 
 
 When two reasonable persons arrive at a con- 
 troversial impasse, they usually agree to differ 
 and go their several ways. But in "K (1)" we 
 prefer practical solutions. The upholder of hel- 
 mets hastily thrust his upon his head. 
 
 "I'll show you, Jimmy!" he announced, and 
 clambered up on the firing-step. 
 
 "And I'll well show you, Wullie!" 
 
 screamed James, doing likewise. 
 
 Simultaneously the two zealots thrust their 
 heads over the parapet, and awaited results. 
 These came. The rifles of two Boche snipers rang 
 out, and both demonstrators fell heavily back- 
 wards into the arms of their supporters. 
 
 By all rights they ought to have been killed. 
 But they were both very much alive. Each 
 turned to the other triumphantly, and ex- 
 claimed, 
 
 "Itelltyeso!" 
 
 There was a hole right through the helmet of 
 Jimmy, the unbeliever. The fact that there was 
 not also a hole through his head was due to his 
 forethought in having put on a tam-o'-shanter 
 underneath. The net result was a truncated 
 "toorie." Wullie's bullet had struck his helmet 
 at a more obtuse angle, and had glanced off, as 
 the designer of the smooth exterior had intended 
 it to do. 
 
 At first glance, the contest was a draw. But 
 subsequent investigation elicited the fact that 
 Jimmy in his backward fall had bitten his tongue 
 to the effusion of blood. The verdict was therefore 
 awarded, on points, to Wullie, and the spectators
 
 124 ALL IN IT 
 
 dispersed in an orderly manner just as the pla- 
 toon sergeant came round the traverse to change 
 the sentry. 
 
 ii 
 
 We have occupied our own present trenches 
 since January. There was a tune when this sector 
 of the line was regarded as a Vale of Rest. Bishops 
 were conducted round with impunity. Members 
 of Parliament came out for the week-end, and re- 
 turned to their constituents with first-hand infor- 
 mation about the horrors of war. Foreign journal- 
 ists, and sight-seeing parties of munition-workers, 
 picnicked hi Bunghole Wood. In the village be- 
 hind the line, if a chance shell removed tiles from 
 the roof of a house, the owner, greatly incensed, 
 mounted a ladder and put hi some fresh ones. 
 
 But that is all over now. "K ( 1 ) " hard-headed 
 men of business, bountifully endowed with muni- 
 tions have arrived upon the scene, and the 
 sylvan peace of the surrounding district is gone. 
 Pan has dug himself in. 
 
 The trouble began two months ago, when our 
 Divisional Artillery arrived. Unversed in local 
 etiquette, they commenced operations by "send- 
 ing up" to employ a vulgar but convenient 
 catch-phrase a strongly fortified farmhouse in 
 the enemy's support line. The Boche, by way of 
 gentle reproof, deposited four or five small "whizz- 
 bangs" in our front-line trenches. The tenants 
 thereof promptly telephoned to "Mother," and 
 Mother came to the assistance of her offspring 
 with a salvo of twelve-inch shells. After that,
 
 PASTURES NEW 125 
 
 Brother Boche, realising that the golden age was 
 past, sent north to the Salient for a couple of 
 heavy batteries, and settled down to shell Bung- 
 hole village to pieces. Within a week he had 
 brought down the church tower: within a fort- 
 night the population had migrated farther 
 back, leaving behind a few patriots, too deeply 
 interested in the sale of small beer and picture 
 postcards to uproot themselves. Company Head- 
 quarters in Bunghole Wood ceased to grow prim- 
 roses and began to fill sandbags. 
 
 A month ago the village was practically intact. 
 The face of the church tower was badly scarred, 
 but the houses were undamaged. The little shops 
 were open; children played in the streets. Now, 
 if you stand at the cross-roads where the church 
 rears its roofless walls, you will understand what 
 the Abomination of Desolation means. Occasion- 
 ally a body of troops, moving in small detach- 
 ments at generous intervals, trudges by, on its 
 way to or from the trenches. Occasionally a big 
 howitzer shell swings lazily out of the blue and 
 drops with a crash or a dull thud according to 
 the degree of resistance encountered among 
 the crumbling cottages. All is solitude. 
 
 But stay ! Right on the cross-roads, in the centre 
 of the village, just below the fingers of a sign-post 
 which indicates the distance to four French town- 
 ships, whose names you never heard of until a 
 year ago, and now will never forget, there hangs 
 a large, white, newly painted board, bearing a 
 notice in black letters six inches high. Exactly 
 underneath the board, rubbing their noses appre-
 
 126 
 
 ALL IN IT 
 
 ciatively against the sign-post, stand two mules, 
 attached to a limbered waggon, the property of 
 the A.S.C. Their charioteers are sitting adjacent, 
 in a convenient shell-hole, partaking of luncheon. 
 
 "That was a rotten place we 'ad to wait in 
 yesterday, Sammy," observes Number One. "The 
 draught was somethink cruel." 
 
 The recumbent Samuel agrees. ".This little 
 'oiler is a bit of all right," he remarks. "When 
 you've done strarfin' that bully-beef, 'and it 
 over, ole man!" 
 
 He leans his head back upon the lip of the shell- 
 hole, and gazes pensively at the notice-board six 
 feet away. It says: 
 
 VERY DANGEROUS. 
 
 DO NOT 
 
 LOITER 
 
 HERE. 
 
 in 
 
 Here is another cross-roads, a good mile farther 
 forward and less than a hundred yards behind 
 the fire-trench. It is dawn. 
 
 The roads themselves are not so distinct as they 
 were. They are becoming grass-grown: for more 
 than a year in daylight at least no human 
 foot has trodden them. The place is like hundreds
 
 PASTURES NEW 127 
 
 of others that you may see scattered up and 
 down this countryside two straight, flat, met- 
 alled country roads, running north and south and 
 east and west, crossing one another at a faultless 
 right angle. 
 
 Of the four corners thus created, one is or 
 was occupied by an estaminet : you can still see 
 the sign, Estaminet au Commerce, over the door. 
 Two others contain cottages, the remains of 
 cottages. At the fourth, facing south and east, 
 stands what is locally known as a "Calvaire," 
 a bank of stone, a lofty cross, and a life-size figure 
 of Christ, facing east, towards the German lines. 
 
 This spot is shelled every day has been 
 shelled every day fur months. Possibly the enemy 
 suspects a machine-gun or an observation post 
 amid the tumble-down buildings. Hardly one 
 brick remains upon another. And yet the sor- 
 rowful Figure is unbroken. The Body is riddled 
 with bullets in the glowing dawn you may 
 count not five but fifty wounds but the Face 
 is untouched. It is the standing miracle of this 
 most materialistic war. Throughout the length 
 of France you will see the same thing. 
 
 Agnostics ought to come out here, for a "cure." 
 
 IV 
 
 With spring comes also the thought of the Next 
 Push. 
 
 But we do not talk quite so glibly of pushes as 
 we did. Neither, for that matter, does Brother 
 Boche. He has just completed six weeks' pushing 
 at Verdun, and is beginning to be a little uncer-
 
 128 ALL IN IT 
 
 tain as to which direction the pushing is coming 
 from. 
 
 No; once more the military textbooks are be- 
 ing rewritten. We started this war under one 
 or two rather fallacious premises. One was that 
 Artillery was more noisy than dangerous. When 
 Antwerp fell, we rescinded that theory. Then the 
 Boche set out to demonstrate that an Attack, 
 provided your Artillery preparation is sufficiently 
 thorough, and you are prepared to set no limit to 
 your expenditure of Infantry, must ultimately 
 succeed. To do him justice, the Boche supported 
 his assertions very plausibly. His phalanx bun- 
 dled the Russians all the way from Tannenburg to 
 Riga. The Austrians adopted similar tactics, with 
 similar results. 
 
 We were duly impressed. The world last sum- 
 mer did not quite realize how far the results of 
 the campaign were due to German efficiency and 
 how far to Russian unpreparedness. (Russia, we 
 realise now, found herself hi the position of the 
 historic Mrs. Partington, who endeavoured to 
 repel the Atlantic with a mop. This year, we 
 understand, she is in a position to discard the 
 mop in favour of something far, far better.) 
 
 Then came Verdun. Military science turned 
 over yet another page, and noted that against 
 consummate generalship, unlimited munitions, 
 and selfless devotion on the part of the defence, 
 the most spectacular and highly-doped phalanx 
 can spend itself hi vain. Military science also 
 noted that, under modern conditions, the capture 
 of this position or that signifies nothing : the only
 
 PASTURES NEW 129 
 
 method of computing victory is to count the dead 
 on either side. On that reckoning, the French at 
 Verdun have already gained one of the great vic- 
 tories of all time. 
 
 "In fact," said Colonel Kemp, "this war will 
 end when the Boche has lost so many men as to 
 be unable to man his present trench-line, and not 
 before." 
 
 "You don't think, sir, that we shall make an- 
 other Push?" suggested Angus M'Lachlan ea- 
 gerly. The others were silent: they had experi- 
 enced a Push already. 
 
 "Not so long as the Boche continues to play 
 our game for us, by attacking. If he tumbles to 
 the error he is making, and digs himself hi again 
 well, it may become necessary to draw him. 
 In that case, M'Lachlan, you shall have first chop 
 at the Victoria Crosses. Afraid I can't recom- 
 mend you for your last exploit, though I admit it 
 must have required some nerve!" 
 
 There was unseemly laughter at this allusion. 
 Four nights previously Angus had been sent out 
 in charge of a wiring-party. He had duly crawled 
 forth with his satellites, under cover of darkness, 
 on to No Man's Land; and, there selecting a row 
 of "knife-rests" which struck him as being badly 
 in need of repair, had well and truly reinforced 
 the same with many strands of the most barbar- 
 ous brand of barbed wire. This, despite more 
 than usually fractious behaviour upon the part 
 of the Boche. 
 
 Next morning, through a sniper's loophole, he 
 exhibited the result of his labours to Major Wag-
 
 130 ALL IN IT 
 
 staffe. The Major gazed long and silently upon 
 his subordinate's handiwork. There was no mis- 
 taking it. It stood out bright and gleaming in the 
 rays of the rising sun, amid its dingy surroundings 
 of rusty ironmongery. Angus M'Lachlan waited 
 anxiously for a little praise. 
 
 "Jolly good piece of work," said Major Wag- 
 staffe at last. "But tell me, why have you re- 
 paired the Boche wire instead of your own?" 
 
 "The only enemy we have to fear," continued 
 Colonel Kemp, rubbing his spectacles savagely, 
 "is the free and independent British voter I 
 mean, the variety of the species that we have left 
 at home. Like the gentleman in Jack Point's 
 song, 'He likes to get value for money'; and he is 
 quite capable of asking us, about June or July, 
 'if we know that we are paid to be funny?' 
 before we are ready. What's your view of the 
 situation at home, Wagstaffe? You're the last 
 off leave." 
 
 Wagstaffe shook his head. 
 
 "The British Nation," he said, "is quite mad. 
 That fact, of course, has been common property 
 on the Continent of Europe ever since Cook's 
 Tours were invented. But what irritates the or- 
 derly Boche is that there is no method in its mad- 
 ness. Nothing you can go upon, or take hold of, or 
 wring any advantage from." 
 
 "As how?" 
 
 "Well, take compulsory service. For genera- 
 tions the electorate of our country has been 
 trained by a certain breed of politician the
 
 PASTURES NEW 131 
 
 Bandar-log of the British Constitution to howl 
 down such a low and degrading business as 
 National Defence. A nasty Continental custom, 
 they called it. Then came the War, and the glo- 
 rious Voluntary System got to work." 
 
 "Aided," the Colonel interpolated, "by a cam- 
 paign of mural advertisement which a cinema 
 star's press agent would have boggled at!" 
 
 " Quite so," agreed Wagstaffe. "Next, when 
 the Voluntary System had done its damnedest 
 in other words, when the willing horse had been 
 worked to his last ounce we tried the Derby 
 Scheme. The manhood of the nation was divided 
 into groups, and a fresh method of touting for 
 troops was adopted. Married shysters, knowing 
 that at least twenty groups stood between them 
 and a job of work, attested in comparatively large 
 numbers. The single shysters were less reckless 
 so much less reckless, in fact, that compulsion 
 began to materialise at last." 
 
 "But only for single shysters," said Bobby 
 Little regretfully. 
 
 "Yes; and the married shyster rejoiced accord- 
 ingly. But the single shyster is a most subtle rep- 
 tile. On examination, it was found that the sin- 
 gle members of this noble army of martyrs were 
 all 'starred/ or 'reserved', or 'ear-marked' or 
 whatever it is that they dc to these careful fellows. 
 So the poor old married shyster, who had only 
 attested to show his blooming patriotism and 
 encourage the others, suddenly found himself 
 confronted with the awful prospect of having to 
 defend his country personally, instead of by let-
 
 132 ALL IN IT 
 
 ter to the halfpenny press. Then the fat was fairly 
 in the fire! The married martyr " 
 
 "Come, come, old man! Not all of them!" 
 said Colonel Kemp. "I have a married brother of 
 my own, a solicitor of thirty-eight, who is simply 
 clamouring for active service!" 
 
 "I know that, sir," admitted Wagstaffe quickly. 
 "Thank God, these fellows are only a minority, 
 and a freak minority at that; but freak minorities 
 seem to get the monopoly of the limelight in our 
 unhappy country." 
 
 "The whole affair," mused the Colonel, "can 
 hardly be described as a frenzied rally round the 
 Old Flag. By God," he broke out suddenly, "it 
 fairly makes one's blood boil! When I think of the 
 countless good fellows, married and single, but 
 mainly married, who left all and followed the call 
 of common decency and duty the moment the 
 War broke out most of them now dead or crip- 
 pled; and when I see this miserable handful of 
 shirkers, holding up vital public business while 
 the pros and cons of their wretched claims to 
 exemption are considered well, I almost wish I 
 had been born a Boche!" 
 
 "I don't think you need apply for naturalisa- 
 tion papers yet, Colonel," said Wagstaffe. "The 
 country is perfectly sound at heart over this ques- 
 tion, and always was. The present agitation, as I 
 say, is being engineered by the more verminous 
 section of our incomparable daily Press, for its 
 own ends. It makes our Allies lift their eyebrows 
 a bit; but they are sensible people, and they re- 
 alise that although we are a nation of lunatics,
 
 PASTURES NEW 133 
 
 we usually deliver the goods in the end. As for 
 the Boche, poor fellow, the whole business makes 
 him perfectly rabid. Here he is, with all his 
 splendid organisation and brutal efficiency, and 
 he can't even knock a dent into our undisci- 
 plined, back-chatting, fool-ridden, self-depreciat- 
 ing old country ! I, for one, sympathise with the 
 Boche profoundly. On paper, we don't deserve to 
 win!" 
 
 "But we shall!" remarked that single-minded 
 paladin, Bobby Little. 
 
 "Of course we shall! And what's more, we are 
 going to derive a national benefit out of this war 
 which will in itself be worth the price of admis- 
 sion!" 
 
 "How?" asked several voices. 
 
 Wagstaffe looked round the table. The Bat- 
 talion were for the moment in Divisional Reserve, 
 and consequently out of the trenches. Some one 
 had received a box of Coronas from home, and 
 the mess president had achieved a bottle of port. 
 Hence the present symposium at Headquarters 
 Mess. Wagstaffe's eyes twinkled. 
 
 "Will each officer present," he said, "kindly 
 name his pet aversion among his fellow-crea- 
 tures?" 
 
 "A person or a type?" asked Mr. Waddell cau- 
 tiously. 
 
 "A type." 
 
 Colonel Kemp led off. 
 
 "Male ballet-dancers," he said. 
 
 "Fat, shiny men," said Bobby Little, "with 
 walrus mustaches!"
 
 134 ALL IN IT 
 
 "All conscientious objectors, passive resisters, 
 pacifists, and other cranks!" continued the ortho- 
 dox Waddell. 
 
 "All people who go on strike during war- time," 
 said the Adjutant. There was an approving mur- 
 mur then silence. 
 
 "Your contribution, M'Lachlan?" said Wag- 
 staffe. 
 
 Angus, who had kept silence from shyness, sud- 
 denly blazed out : - 
 
 "I think," he said, "that the most contempti- 
 ble people in the world to-day are those politicians 
 and others who, in years gone by, systematically 
 cried down anything in the shape of national de- 
 fence or national inclination to personal service, 
 because they saw there were no votes hi such a pro- 
 gramme; and who now" Angus' s passion rose 
 to fever-heat, "stand up and endeavour to 
 cultivate popular favour by reviling the Ministry 
 and the Army for want of preparedness and ini- 
 tiative. Such men do not deserve to live! Oh, 
 sirs " 
 
 But Angus's peroration was lost in a storm of 
 applause. 
 
 "You are adjudged to have hit the bull's-eye, 
 M'Lachlan," said Colonel Kemp. "But tell us, 
 Wagstaffe, your exact object in compiling this 
 horrible catalogue." 
 
 "Certainly. It is this. Universal Service is a 
 fait accompli at last, or is shortly going to be 
 and without anything very much in the way of 
 exemption either. When it comes, just think of it! 
 All these delightful people whom we have been
 
 PASTURES NEW 135 
 
 enumerating will have to toe the line at last. For 
 the first time in their little lives they will learn the 
 meaning of discipline, and fresh air, and esprit de 
 corps. Is n't that worth a war? If the present 
 scrap can only be prolonged for another year, our 
 country will receive a tonic which will carry it on 
 for another century. Think of it ! Great Britain, 
 populated by men who have actually been outside 
 their own parish; men who know that the whole 
 is greater than the part; men who are too wide 
 awake to go on doing just what the Bandar-log tell 
 them, and allow themselves to be used as stalking- 
 horses for low-down political ramps! When we, 
 going round in bath-chairs and on crutches, see 
 that sight well, I don't think we shall regret 
 our missing arms and legs quite so much, Col- 
 onel. War is Hell, and all that; but there is one 
 worse thing than a long war, and that is a long 
 peace!" 
 
 "I wonder!" said Colonel Kemp reflectively. 
 He was thinking of his wife and four children in 
 distant Argyllshire. 
 
 But the rapt attitude and quickened breath of 
 Temporary Captain Bobby Little endorsed every 
 word that Major Wagstaffe had spoken. As he 
 rolled into his " flea-bag" that night, Bobby re- 
 quoted to himself, for the hundredth tune, a pas- 
 sage from Shakespeare which had recently come 
 to his notice. He was not a Shakespearian scholar, 
 nor indeed a student of literature at all; but these 
 lines had been sent to him, cut out of a daily 
 almanac, by an equally unlettered and very ador- 
 able confidante at home :
 
 136 ALL IN IT 
 
 * "And gentlemen in England now a-bed, 
 
 Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, 
 And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks 
 That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day! " 
 
 Bobby was the sort of person who would thor- 
 oughly have enjoyed the Battle of Agincourt.
 
 VIII 
 
 ( THE NON-COMBATANT" 
 
 WE will call the village St. Gregoire. That is not 
 its real name; because the one thing you must not 
 do in war-time is to call a thing by its real name. 
 To take a hackneyed example, you do not call 
 a spade a spade: you refer to it, officially, as 
 Shovels, General Service, One. This helps to de- 
 ceive, and ultimately to surprise, the enemy; and 
 as we all know by this time, surprise is the essence 
 of successful warfare. On the same principle, if 
 your troops are forced back from their front-line 
 trenches, you call this "successfully straightening 
 out an awkward salient." 
 
 But this by the way. Let us get back to 
 St. Gre*goire. Hither, mud-splashed, ragged, hol- 
 low-cheeked, came our battalion they call us 
 the Seventh Hairy Jocks nowadays after four 
 months' continuous employment in the firing-line. 
 Ypres was a household word to them; Plugstreet 
 was familial 1 ground; Givenchy they knew inti- 
 mately; Loos was their wash-pot or rather, a 
 collection of wash-pots, for in winter all the shell- 
 craters are full to overflowing. In addition to their 
 prolonged and strenuous labours in the trenches, 
 the Hairy Jocks had taken part in a Push a 
 part not altogether unattended with glory, but 
 prolific hi casualties. They had not been "pulled
 
 138 ALL IN IT 
 
 out" to rest and refit for over six months, for 
 Divisions on the Western Front were not at 
 that period too numerous, the voluntary system 
 being at its last gasp, while the legions of Lord 
 Derby had not yet crystallised out of the ocean of 
 public talk which held them hi solution. So the 
 Seventh Hairy Jocks were bone tired. But they 
 were as hard as a rigorous winter in the open 
 could make them, and they were going back to 
 rest at last. Had not their beloved C.O. told them 
 so? And he had added, in a voice not altogether 
 free from emotion, that if ever men deserved a 
 solid rest and a good tune, "you boys do!" 
 
 So the Hairy Jocks trudged along the long, 
 straight, nubbly French road, well content, spec- 
 ulating with comfortable pessimism as to the 
 character of the billets in which they would find 
 themselves. 
 
 Meanwhile, ten miles ahead, the advance party 
 were going round the town in quest of the billets. 
 
 Billet-hunting on the Western Front is not 
 quite so desperate an affair as hunting for lodgings 
 at Margate, because hi the last extremity you can 
 always compel the inhabitants to take you in 
 or at least, exert pressure to that end through the 
 Mairie. But at the best one's course is strewn 
 with obstacles, and fortunate is the Adjutant who 
 has to his hand a subaltern capable of finding 
 lodgings for a thousand men without making a 
 mess of it. 
 
 The billeting officer on this, as on most occa- 
 sions, was our friend Cockerell, affectionately 
 known to the entire Battalion as "Sparrow,"
 
 THE NON-COMBATANT 139 
 
 and his qualifications for the post were derived 
 from three well-marked and invaluable charac- 
 teristics, namely, an imperious disposition, a thick 
 skin, and an attractive bonhomie of manner. 
 
 Behold him this morning dismounting from his 
 horse in the place of St. Gre*goire. Around him are 
 grouped his satellites the Quartermaster-Ser- 
 geant, four Company Sergeants, some odd order- 
 Lies, and a forlorn little man in a neat drab uni- 
 form with light blue facings, the regimental 
 interpreter. The party have descended, with the 
 delicate care of those who essay to perform acro- 
 batic feats in kilts, from bicycles serviceable 
 but appallingly heavy machines of Government 
 manufacture, the property of the " Buzzers," but 
 commandeered for the occasion. The Quarter- 
 master-Sergeant, who is not accustomed to stren- 
 uous exercise, mops his brow and glances expect- 
 antly round the place. His eye comes gently to 
 rest upon a small but hospitable-looking estaminet. 
 
 Lieutenant Cockerell examines his wrist-watch. 
 
 ' ' Half -past ten ! " he announces. ' ' Quartermas- 
 ter-Sergeant!" 
 
 "Sirr!" The Quartermaster-Sergeant unglues 
 his longing gaze from the estaminet and comes 
 woodenly to attention. 
 
 "I am going to see the Town Major about a 
 billeting area. I will meet you and the party here 
 in twenty minutes." 
 
 Master Cockerell trots off on his mud-splashed 
 steed, followed by the respectful and apprecia- 
 tive salutes of his followers appreciative, be- 
 cause a less considerate officer would have taken
 
 140 ALL IN IT 
 
 the whole party direct to the Town Major's office 
 and kept them standing in the street, wasting 
 moments which might have been better employed 
 elsewhere, until it was tune to proceed with the 
 morning's work. 
 
 "How strong are you?" inquired the Town 
 Major. 
 
 Cockerell told him. The Town Major whistled. 
 
 "That all? Been doing some job of work, 
 have n't you?" 
 
 Cockerell nodded, and the Town Major pro- 
 ceeded to examine a large-scale plan of St. Gr6- 
 goire, divided up into different-coloured plots. 
 
 "We are rather full up at present," he said; 
 "but the Cemetery Area is vacant. The Seven- 
 teenth Geordies moved out yesterday. You can 
 have that." He indicated a triangular section 
 with his pencil. 
 
 Master Cockerell gave a deprecatory cough. 
 
 "We have come here, sir," he intimated dryly, 
 "for a change of scene." 
 
 The stout Town Major all Town Majors are 
 stout chuckled. 
 
 "Not bad for a Scot!" he conceded. "But it's 
 quite a cheery district, really. You won't have 
 to doss down hi the cemetery itself, you know. 
 These two streets here - " he flicked a pencil - 
 "will hold practically all your battalion, at its 
 present strength. There's a capital house in the 
 Rue Jean Jacques Rousseau which will do for 
 Battalion Headquarters. The corporal over there 
 will give you your bittets de logement."
 
 THE NON-COMBATANT 141 
 
 "Are there any other troops in the area, sir?" 
 asked Cockerell, who, as already indicated, was 
 no child in these matters. 
 
 "There ought not to be, of course. But you 
 know what the Heavy Gunners and the A.S.C. 
 are! If you come across any of them, fire them 
 out. If they wear too many stars and crowns for 
 you, let me know, and I will perform the feat my- 
 self. You fellows need a good rest and no worries, 
 I know. Good-morning." 
 
 At ten minutes to eleven Cockerell found the 
 Quartermaster-Sergeant and party, wiping their 
 mustaches and visibly refreshed, at the exact spot 
 where he had left them; and the hunt for billets 
 began. 
 
 "A" Company were easily provided for, a dere- 
 lict tobacco factory being encountered at the 
 head of the first street. Lieutenant Cockerell 
 accordingly detached a sergeant and a corporal 
 from his train, and passed on. The wants of "B" 
 Company were supplied by commandeering a 
 block of four dilapidated houses farther down the 
 street all in comparatively good repair except 
 the end house, whose roof had been disarranged 
 by a shell during the open fighting in the early 
 days of the war. 
 
 This exhausted the possibilities of the first 
 street, and the party debouched into the second, 
 which was long and straggling, and composed 
 entirely of small houses. 
 
 "Now for a bit of the retail business!" said 
 Master Cockerell resignedly. "Sergeant M'Nab, 
 what is the strength of ' C ' Company? "
 
 142 ALL IN IT 
 
 "One hunner and thairty-fower other ranks, 
 sirr," announced Sergeant M'Nab, consulting a 
 much-thumbed roll-book. 
 
 "We shall have to put them hi twos and threes 
 all down the street," said Cockerell. "Come on; 
 the longer we look at it the less we shall like it. 
 Interpreter!" 
 
 The forlorn little man, already described, 
 trotted up, and saluted with open hand, French 
 fashion. His name was Baptiste Bombominet 
 ("or words to that effect," as the Adjutant put 
 it), and may have been so inscribed upon the 
 regimental roll; but throughout the rank and file 
 Baptiste was affectionately known by the generic 
 title of "Alphonso." The previous seven years 
 had been spent by him in the congenial and 
 blameless atmosphere of a Ladies' Tailor's in the 
 west end of London, where he enjoyed the status 
 and emoluments of chief cutter. Now, called back 
 to his native land by the voice of patriotic obliga- 
 tion, he found himself selected, by virtue of a resi- 
 dence of seven years in England, to act as official 
 interpreter between a Scottish Regiment which 
 could not speak English, and Flemish peasants 
 who could not speak French. No wonder that his 
 pathetic brown eyes always appeared full of tears. 
 However, he followed Cockerell down the street, 
 and meekly embarked upon a contest with the 
 lady inhabitants thereof, in which he was hope- 
 lessly outmatched from the start. 
 
 At the first door a dame of massive proportions, 
 but keen business instincts, announced her total 
 inability to accommodate soldats, but explained
 
 THE NON-COMBATANT 143 
 
 that she would be pleased to entertain ojjiciers to 
 any number. This is a common gambit. Twenty 
 British privates in your grenier, though extraordi- 
 narily well-behaved as a class, make a good deal 
 of noise, buy little, and leave mud everywhere. 
 On the other hand, two or three officers give no 
 trouble, and can be relied upon to consume and 
 pay for unlimited omelettes and bowls of coffee. 
 
 That seasoned vessel, Lieutenant Cockerell, 
 turned promptly to the Sergeant and Corporal of 
 "C" Company. 
 
 "Sergeant M'Nab," he said, "you and Cor- 
 poral Downie will billet here." He introduced 
 hostess and guests by an expressive wave of the 
 hand. But shrewd Madame was not to be bluffed. 
 
 "Pas de ser gents, Monsieur le Capitaine!" she 
 exclaimed. ' ' Officiers ! ' ' 
 
 "I Is sont officiers sous-officiers," explained 
 Cockerell, rather ingeniously, and moved off 
 down the street. 
 
 At the next house the owner a small, wiz- 
 ened lady of negligible physique but great stay- 
 ing power entered upon a duet with Alphonso, 
 which soon reduced that very moderate performer 
 to breathlessness. He shrugged his shoulders 
 feebly, and cast an appealing glance towards the 
 Lieutenant. 
 
 "What does she say?" inquired Cockerell. 
 
 "She say dis 'ouse no good, sair ! She 'ave seven 
 children, and one malade seek." 
 
 "Let me see," commanded the practical officer. 
 
 He insinuated himself as politely as possible 
 past his reluctant opponent, and walked down the
 
 144 ALL IN IT 
 
 narrow passage into the kitchen. Here he turned, 
 and inquired 
 
 "Er ou est la pauvre petite chose f" 
 
 Madame promptly opened a door, and dis- 
 played a little girl in bed a very flushed and 
 feverish little girl. 
 
 Cockerell grinned sympathetically at the pa- 
 tient, to that young lady's obvious gratification; 
 and turned to the mother. 
 
 ' 'Je suis tres triste," he said; "j'ai grand mis- 
 fricorde. Je ne placerai pas de soldats id. Bon 
 jour!" 
 
 By this time he was in the street again. He 
 saluted politely and departed, followed by the 
 grateful regards of Madame. 
 
 No special difficulties were encountered at the 
 next few houses. The ladies at the house-door 
 were all polite; many of t'hem were most friendly; 
 but naturally each was anxious to get as few men 
 and as many officers as possible except the 
 proprietess of an estaminet, who offered to accom- 
 modate the entire regiment. However, with a lit- 
 tle tact here and a little firmness there, Master 
 Cockerell succeeded in distributing "C" Com- 
 pany among some dozen houses. One old gen- 
 tleman, with a black alpaca cap and a six-days 
 beard, proprietor of a lofty establishment at the 
 corner of the street, proved not only recalcitrant, 
 but abusive. With him Cockerell dealt promptly. 
 
 "Qa suffit!" he announced. " M ontrez-moi vo- 
 tre grenier!" 
 
 The old man, grumbling, led the way up nu- 
 merous rickety staircases to the inevitable loft
 
 THE NON-COMBATANT 145 
 
 under the tiles. This proved to be a noble apart- 
 ment thirty feet long. From wall to wall stretched 
 innumerable strings. 
 
 "We can get a whole platoon in here," said 
 Cockerell contentedly. "Tell him, Alphonso. 
 These people," he explained to Sergeant M'Nab, 
 "always dislike giving up their lofts, because they 
 hang their laundry there in winter. However, the 
 old boy must lump it. After all, we are in this 
 country for his health, not ours; and he gets paid 
 for every man who sleeps here. That fixes *C' 
 Company. Now for 'D'! The other side of the 
 street this time." 
 
 Quarters were found in due course for "D" 
 Company; after which Cockerell discovered a 
 vacant building-site which would serve for trans- 
 port lines. An empty garage was marked down 
 for the Quartermaster's ration store, and the 
 Quartermaster-Sergeant promptly faded into its 
 recesses with a grateful sigh. An empty shop 
 in the Rue Jean Jacques Rousseau, conveniently 
 adjacent to Battalion Headquarters, was appro- 
 priated for that gregarious band, the regimental 
 signallers and telephone section; while a suitable 
 home for the Anarchists, or Bombers, together 
 with their stock-in-trade, was found in the base- 
 ment of a remote dwelling on the outskirts of the 
 area. 
 
 After this, Lieutenant Cockerell, left alone with 
 Alphonso and the orderly in charge of his horse, 
 heaved a sigh of exhaustion and transferred his 
 attention from his notebook to his watch. 
 
 "That finishes the rank and file," he said. "I
 
 146 ALL IN IT 
 
 breakfasted at four this morning, and the bat- 
 talion won't arrive for a couple of hours yet. 
 Alphonso, I am going to have an omelette some- 
 where. I shall want you in half an hour exactly. 
 Don't go wandering off for the rest of the day, 
 pinching soft billets for yourself and the Sergeant- 
 Major and your other pals, as you usually do!" 
 
 Alphonso saluted guiltily evidently the as- 
 tute Cockerell had "touched the spot" and 
 was turning away, when suddenly the billeting 
 officer's eye encountered an illegible scrawl at 
 the very foot of his list. 
 
 "Stop a moment, Alphonso! I have forgot- 
 ten those condemned machine-gunners, as usual. 
 Strafe them! Come on! Once more into the 
 breach, Alphonso! There is a little side-alley 
 down here that we have not tried." 
 
 The indefatigable Cockerell turned down the 
 Rue Gambetta, followed by Alphonso, faint but 
 resigned. 
 
 "Here is the very place!" announced Cockerell 
 almost at once. "This house, Number Five. We 
 can put the gunners and their little guns into that 
 stable at the back, and the officer can have a room 
 in the house itself. Sonnez, for the last tune be- 
 fore lunch!" 
 
 The door was opened by a pleasant-faced 
 young woman of about thirty, who greeted Cock- 
 erell tartan is always popular with French ladies 
 with a beaming smile, but shook her head re- 
 gretfully upon seeing the billet de logement in his 
 hand. The inevitable duet with Alphonso fol- 
 lowed. Presently Alphonso turned to his superior.
 
 THE NON-COMBATANT 147 
 
 "Madame is ver' sorry, sair, but an officier is 
 here already." 
 
 "Show me the officier!" replied the prosaic 
 Cockerell. 
 
 The duet was resumed. 
 
 "Madame say," announced Alphonso presently, 
 "that the officier is not here now; but he will 
 return." 
 
 "So will Christmas! Meanwhile I am going to 
 put an Emma Gee officer in here." 
 
 Alphonso's desperate attempt to translate the 
 foregoing idiom into French was interrupted by 
 Madame's retirement into the house, whither she 
 beckoned Cockerell to follow her. In the front 
 room she produced a frayed sheet of paper, which 
 she proffered with an apologetic smile. The paper 
 said : 
 
 This billet is entirely reserved for the Supply 
 Officer of this District. It is not to be occupied by 
 troops passing through the town. 
 By Order. 
 
 Lieutenant Cockerell whistled softly and vin- 
 dictively through his teeth. 
 
 "Well," he said, "for consummate and con- 
 centrated nerve, give me the underlings of the 
 A.S.C. ! This pot-bellied blighter not only butts 
 into an area which does n't belong to him, but 
 actually leaves a chit to warn people off the grass 
 even when he is n't here! He has n't signed the 
 document, I observe. That means that he is a 
 newly joined subaltern, trying to get mistaken for 
 a Brass Hat! I'll fix /urn/"
 
 148 ALL IN IT 
 
 With great stateliness Lieutenant Cockerell 
 tore the offending screed hi to four portions, to the 
 audible concern of Madame. But the Lieutenant 
 smiled reassuringly upon her. 
 
 " Je vous donnerai un autre, vous savez," he 
 assured her. 
 
 He sat down at the table, tore a leaf from his 
 Field Service Pocket Book, and wrote: - 
 
 The Supply Officer of the District is at liberty to 
 occupy this billet only at such times as it is not re- 
 quired by the troops of the Combatant Services. 
 Signed, F. J. Cockerell, 
 Lieut. & Asst. Adj., 
 
 7th B. & W. Highes. 
 
 "That's a pretty nasty one!" he observed with 
 relish. Then, having pinned the insulting docu- 
 ment conspicuously to the mantelpiece, he ob- 
 served to the mystified lady of the house : 
 
 "Voila, Madame. Si Vofficier reviendra, je le 
 verrai moi-meme, avec grand plaisir. Bon jour!" 
 
 And with this dark saying Sparrow Cockerell 
 took his departure. 
 
 ii 
 
 The Battalion, headed by their tatterdemalion 
 pipers, stumped into the town in due course, and 
 were met on the outskirts by the billeting party, 
 who led the various companies to their appointed 
 place. After inspecting then* new quarters, and 
 announcing with gloomy satisfaction that they 
 were the worst, dirtiest, and most uncomfortable 
 yet encountered, everybody settled down in the
 
 THE NON-COMBATANT 149 
 
 best place he could find, and proceeded to make 
 himself remarkably snug. 
 
 Battalion Headquarters and the officers of "A" 
 Company were billeted in an imposing mansion 
 which actually boasted a bathroom. It is true 
 that there was no water, but this deficiency was 
 soon made good by a string of officers' servants 
 bearing buckets. Beginning with Colonel Kemp, 
 who was preceded by an orderly bearing a small 
 towel and a large loofah, each officer performed a 
 ceremonial ablution; and it was a collection of 
 what Major Wagstaffe termed " bright and bonny 
 young faces" which collected round the Mess ta- 
 ble at seven o'clock. 
 
 It was in every sense a gala meal. Firstly, it 
 was weeks since any one (except Second Lieuten- 
 ant M'Corquodale, newly joined, and addressed, 
 for painfully obvious reasons, as "Tich") had 
 found himself at table in an apartment where it 
 was possible to stand upright. Secondly, the Mess 
 President had coaxed glass tumblers out of the 
 ancient concierge; and only those who have drunk 
 from enamelled ironware for weeks on end can 
 appreciate the pure joy of escape from the in- 
 determinate metallic flavour which such vessels 
 impart to all beverages. Thirdly, these same 
 tumblers were filled to the brim with inferior 
 but exhilarating champagne purchased, as they 
 euphemistically put it hi the Supply Column, 
 "locally." Lastly, the battalion had several 
 months of hard fighting behind it, probably a full 
 month's rest before it, and the conscience of duty 
 done and recognition earned floating like a halo
 
 150 ALL IN IT 
 
 above it. For the moment memories of Night- 
 mare Wood and the Kidney Bean Redoubt 
 more especially the latter were effaced. Even 
 the sorrowful gaps in the ring round the table 
 seemed less noticeable. 
 
 The menu, too, was almost pretentious. First 
 came the hors d'ceuvres a tin of sardines. This 
 was followed by what the Mess Corporal de- 
 scribed as a savoury omelette, but which the 
 Second-in-Command condemned as "a regretta- 
 ble incident." 
 
 "It is false economy," he observed dryly to the 
 Mess President, "to employ Mark One 1 eggs as 
 anything but hand-grenades." 
 
 However, the tide of popular favour turned 
 with the haggis, contributed by Lieutenant Angus 
 M'Lachlan, from a parcel from home. Even the 
 fact that the Mess cook, an inexperienced aesthete 
 from Islington, had endeavoured to tone down the 
 naked repulsiveness of the dainty with discreet 
 festoons of tinned macaroni, failed to arouse the 
 resentment of a purely Scottish Mess. The next 
 course the beef ration, hacked into the inevi- 
 table gobbets and thinly disguised by a sprinkling 
 of curry powder aroused no enthusiasm; but 
 the unexpected production of a large tin of Devon- 
 shire cream, contributed by Captain Bobby Lit- 
 tle, relieved the canned peaches of their custom- 
 ary monotony. Last of all came a savoury 
 usually described as the savoury consisting of 
 a raft of toast per person, each raft carrying an 
 
 1 In the British army each issue of arms or equipment re- 
 ceives a distinctive " Mark." Mark 1 denotes the earliest issue.
 
 THE NON-COMBATANT 151 
 
 abundant cargo of fried potted meat, and pro- 
 vided with a passenger in the shape of a recum- 
 bent sausage. 
 
 A compound of grounds and dish-water, de- 
 scribed by the optimistic Mess Corporal as coffee, 
 next made its appearance, mitigated by a bottle 
 of Cointreau and a box of Panatellas; and the 
 Mess turned itself to more intellectual refresh- 
 ment. A heavy and long-overdue mail had been 
 found waiting at St. Gre"goire. Letters had been 
 devoured long ago. Now, each member of the 
 Mess leaned back in his chair, straightened his 
 weary legs under the table, and settled down, 
 cigar in mouth, to the perusal of the Spectator or 
 the Taller, according to rank and literary taste. 
 
 Colonel Kemp, unfolding a week-old Times, 
 looked over his glasses at his torpid disciples. 
 
 "Where is young Sandeman?" he inquired. 
 
 Young Sandeman was the Adjutant. 
 
 "He went out to the Orderly Room, sir, five 
 minutes ago," replied Bobby Little. 
 
 "I only want to give him to-morrow's Orders. 
 No doubt he '11 be back presently. I may as well 
 mention to you fellows that I propose to allow the 
 men three clear days' rest, except for bathing and 
 re-clothing. After that we must do Company 
 Drill, good and hard, so as to polish up the new 
 draft, who are due to-morrow. I am going to 
 start a bombing-school, too : at least seventy-five 
 per cent of the Battalion ought to pass the test 
 before we go back to the line. However, we need 
 not rush things. We should be here in peace for at 
 least a month. We must get up some sports, and
 
 152 ALL IN IT 
 
 I think it would be a sound scheme to have a sing- 
 song one Saturday night. I was just saying, San- 
 deman," - this to the Adjutant, who reentered 
 the room at that moment, "that it would be a 
 sound " 
 
 The Adjutant laid a pink field- telegraph slip 
 before his superior. 
 
 "This has just come hi from Brigade Head- 
 quarters, sir," he said. "I have sent for the 
 Sergeant-Maj or . " 
 
 The Colonel adjusted his glasses and read the 
 despatch. A deathly, sickening silence reigned in 
 the room. Then he looked up. 
 
 "I am afraid I was a bit previous," he said 
 quietly. "The Royal Stickybacks have lost the 
 Kidney Bean, and we are detailed to go up and 
 retake it. Great compliment to the regiment, but 
 a trifle mistimed! You young fellows had better 
 go to bed. Parade at 4 A.M., sharp! Good-night! 
 Come along to the Orderly Room, Sandeman." 
 
 The door closed, and the Mess, grinding the 
 ends of their cigars into then* coffee-cups, heaved 
 themselves resignedly to their aching feet. 
 
 "There ain't," quoted Major Wagstaffe, "no 
 word in the blooming language for it!" 
 
 in 
 
 The Kidney Bean Redoubt is the key to a very 
 considerable sector of trenches. 
 
 It lies just behind a low ridge. The two horns 
 of the bean are drawn back out of sight of the 
 enemy, but the middle swells forward over the sky- 
 line and commands an extensive view of the coun-
 
 THE NON-COMBATANT 153 
 
 try beyond. Direct observation of artillery fire is 
 possible: consequently an armoured observation 
 post has been constructed here, from which gun- 
 ner officers can direct the fire of their batteries 
 with accuracy and elegance. Lose the Kidney 
 Bean, and the boot is on the other leg. The enemy 
 has the upper ground now : he can bring observed 
 artillery fire to bear upon all our tenderest spots 
 behind the line. He can also enfilade our front- 
 line trenches. 
 
 Well, as already stated, the Twenty-Second 
 Royal Stickybacks had lost the Kidney Bean. 
 They were a battalion of recent formation, stout- 
 hearted fellows all, but new to the refinements of 
 intensive trench warfare. When they took over the 
 sector, they proceeded to leave undone various 
 vital things which the Hairy Jocks had always 
 made a point of doing, and to do various unnec- 
 essary things which the Hairy Jocks had never 
 done. The observant Hun promptly recognised 
 that he was faced by a fresh batch of opponents, 
 and, having carefully studied the characteristics 
 of the newcomers, prescribed and administered 
 an exemplary dose of frightfulness. He began 
 by tickling up the Stickybacks with an un- 
 pleasant engine called the Minenwerfer, which 
 despatches a large sausage-shaped projectile hi 
 a series of ridiculous somersaults, high over No 
 Man's Land into the enemy's front-line trench, 
 where it explodes and annihilates everything in 
 that particular bay. Upon these occasions one's 
 only chance of salvation is to make a rapid calcu- 
 lation as to the bay into which the sausage is going
 
 154 ALL IN IT 
 
 to fall, and then double speedily round a traverse 
 or, if possible, two traverses into another. 
 It is an exhilarating pastime, but presents com- 
 plications when played by a large number of per- 
 sons in a restricted space, especially when the 
 persons aforesaid are not unanimous as to the 
 ultimate landing-place of the projectile. 
 
 After a day and a night of these aerial torpedoes 
 the Hun proceeded to an intensive artillery bom- 
 bardment. He had long coveted the Kidney 
 Bean, and instinct told him that he would never 
 have a better opportunity of capturing it than 
 now. Accordingly, two hours before dawn, the Re- 
 doubt was subjected to a sudden, simultaneous, 
 and converging fire from all the German artillery 
 for many miles round, the whole being topped 
 up with a rain of those crowning instruments of 
 demoralisation, gas-shells. At the same time an 
 elaborate curtain of shrapnel and high explosive 
 was let down behind the Redoubt, to serve the 
 double purpose of preventing either the sending 
 up of reinf orcements or the temporary withdrawal 
 of the garrison. 
 
 At the first streak of dawn the bombardment 
 was switched off, as if by a tap; the curtain fire 
 was redoubled in volume; and a massed attack 
 swept across the disintegrated wire into the shat- 
 tered and pulverised Redoubt. Other attacks 
 were launched on either flank; but these were ob- 
 vious blinds, intended to prevent a too concen- 
 trated defence of the Kidney Bean. The Royal 
 Stickybacks what was left of them put up a 
 tough fight; but half of them were lying dead or
 
 THE NON-COMBATANT 155 
 
 buried, or both, before the assault was launched, 
 and the rest were too dazed and stupefied by 
 noise and chlorine gas to withstand much less 
 to repel the overwhelming phalanx that was 
 hurled against them. One by one they went down, 
 until the enemy troops, having swamped the 
 Redoubt, gathered themselves up in a fresh wave 
 and surged towards the reserve-line trenches, four 
 hundred yards distant. At this point, however, 
 they met a strong counter-attack, launched from 
 the Brigade Reserve, and after heavy fighting 
 were bundled back into the Redoubt itself. Here 
 the German machine-guns had staked out a de- 
 fensive line, and the German retirement came to 
 a standstill. 
 
 Meanwhile a German digging party, many 
 hundred strong, had been working madly in No 
 Man's Land, striving to link up the newly ac- 
 quired ground with the German lines. By the 
 afternoon the Kidney Bean was not only "re- 
 versed and consolidated," but was actually in- 
 cluded in the enemy's front trench system. Alto- 
 gether a well-planned and admirably executed 
 little operation. 
 
 Forty-eight hours later the Kidney Bean Re- 
 doubt was recaptured, and remains in British 
 hands to this day. Many arms of the Service took 
 honourable part in the enterprise heavy guns, 
 field guns, trench-mortars, machine-guns; Sap- 
 pers and Pioneers; Infantry in various capacities. 
 But this narrative is concerned only with the part 
 played by the Seventh Hairy Jocks. 
 
 " Sorry to pull you back from rest, Colonel,"
 
 156 ALL IN IT 
 
 said the Brigadier, when the commander of the 
 Hairy Jocks reported; "but the Divisional Gen- 
 eral considers that the only feasible way to hunt 
 the Boche from the Kidney Bean is to bomb him 
 out of it. That means trench-fighting, pure and 
 simple. I have called you up because you fellows 
 know the ins and outs of the Kidney Bean as no 
 one else does. The Brigade who are in the line 
 just now are quite new to the place. Here is an 
 aeroplane photograph of the Redoubt, as at pres- 
 ent constituted. Tell off your own bombing par- 
 ties; make your own dispositions; send me a copy 
 of your provisional orders; and I will fit my plan 
 in with yours. The Corps Commander has prom- 
 ised to back you with every gun, trench-mortar, 
 culverin, and arquebus in his possession." 
 
 In due course Battalion Orders were issued and 
 approved. They dealt with operations most bar- 
 barous amid localities of the most homelike sound. 
 Number Nine Platoon, for instance (Commander 
 Lieutenant Cockerell), were to proceed in single 
 file, carrying so many grenades per man, up Char- 
 ing Cross Road, until stopped by the barrier 
 which the enemy were understood to have erected 
 in Trafalgar Square, where a bombing-post and at 
 least one machine-gun would probably be encoun- 
 tered. At this point they were to wait until Tra- 
 falgar Square had been suitably dealt with by a 
 trench-mortar. (Here followed a paragraph ad- 
 dressed exclusively to the Trench-Mortar Officer.) 
 After this the bombers of Number Three Platoon 
 would bomb their way across the Square and up 
 the Strand. Another party would clear North-
 
 THE NON-COMBATANT 157 
 
 umberland Avenue, while a Lewis gun raked 
 Whitehall. And so on. Every detail was thought 
 out, down to the composition of the parties which 
 were to "clean up" afterwards that is, extract 
 the reluctant Boche from various underground 
 fastnesses well known to the extractors. The whole 
 enterprise was then thoroughly rehearsed in some 
 dummy trenches behind the line, until every one 
 knew his exact part. Such is modern warfare. 
 
 Next day the Kidney Bean Redoubt was in 
 British hands again. The Hun what was left 
 of him after an intensive bombardment of twenty- 
 four hours had betaken himself back over the 
 ridge, via the remnants of his two new communi- 
 cation trenches, to his original front line. The 
 two communication trenches themselves were 
 blocked and sandbagged, and were being heavily 
 supervised by a pah 1 of British machine-guns. 
 Fighting in the Redoubt itself had almost ceased, 
 though a humorous sergeant, followed by acolytes 
 bearing bombs, was still " combing out" certain 
 residential districts in the centre of the maze. 
 Ever and anon he would stoop down at the en- 
 trance of some deep dug-out, and bawl 
 
 "Ony man' doon there? Come away, Fritz! 
 I'll gie ye five seconds. Yin, Twa, Three " 
 
 Then, with a rush like a bolt of rabbits, two or 
 three close-cropped, grimy Huns would scuttle up 
 from below and project themselves from one of 
 the exits; to be taken in charge by grinning Cale- 
 donians wearing "tin hats" very much awry, and 
 escorted back through the barrage to the "pris- 
 oners' base" in rear.
 
 158 ALL IN IT 
 
 All through the day, amidst unremitting shell 
 fire and local counter-attack, the Hairy Jocks re- 
 consolidated the Kidney Bean; and they were 
 so far successful that when they handed over the 
 work to another battalion at dusk, the parapet 
 was restored, the machine-guns were in position, 
 and a number of " knife-rest" barbed- wire en- 
 tanglements were lying just behind the trench, 
 ready to be hoisted over the parapet and joined 
 together hi a continuous defensive line as soon as 
 the night was sufficiently dark. 
 
 One by one the members of Number Nine 
 Platoon squelched for it had rained hard all 
 day back to the reserve line. They were ut- 
 terly exhausted, and still inclined to feel a little 
 aggrieved at having been pulled out from rest; 
 but they were well content. They had done the 
 State some service, and they knew it; and they 
 knew that the higher powers knew it too. There 
 would be some very flattering reading in Divi- 
 sional Orders in a few days' tune. 
 
 Meanwhile, their most pressing need was for 
 something to eat. To be sure, every man had 
 gone into action that morning carrying his day's 
 rations. But the British soldier, improvident as 
 the grasshopper, carries his day's rations in one 
 place, and one place only his stomach. The 
 Hairy Jocks had eaten what they required at their 
 extremely early breakfast: the residue thereof 
 they had abandoned. 
 
 About midnight Master Cockerell, in obedi- 
 ence to a most welcome order, led the remnants 
 of his command, faint but triumphant, back from
 
 THE NON-COMBATANT 159 
 
 the reserve line to a road junction two miles in 
 rear, known as Dead Dog Corner. Here the Bat- 
 talion was to rendezvous, and march back by easy 
 stages to St. Gre"goire. Their task was done. 
 
 But at the cross-roads Number Nine Platoon 
 found no Battalion: only a solitary subaltern, 
 with his orderly. This young Casabianca in- 
 formed Cockerell that he, Second Lieutenant 
 Candlish, had been left behind to " bring in strag- 
 glers." 
 
 "Stragglers?" exclaimed the infuriated Cock- 
 erell. "Do we look like stragglers?" 
 
 "No," replied the youthful Candlish frankly; 
 "you look more like sweeps. However, you had 
 better push on. The Battalion is n't far ahead. 
 The order is to march straight back to St. Gr&- 
 goire and re-occupy former billets." 
 
 "What about rations?" 
 
 "Rations? The Quartermaster was waiting 
 here for us when we rendezvoused, and every man 
 had a full ration and a tot of rum." (Number 
 Nine Platoon cleared their parched throats ex- 
 pectantly.) "But I fancy he has gone on with the 
 column. However, if you leg it you should catch 
 them up. They can't be more than two miles 
 ahead. So long!" 
 
 IV 
 
 But the task was hopeless. Number Nine Pla- 
 toon had been bombing, hacking, and digging all 
 day. Several of them were slightly wounded - 
 the serious cases had been taken off long ago by 
 the stretcher-bearers and Cockerell' s own head
 
 160 ALL IN IT 
 
 was still dizzy from the fumes of a German gas- 
 shell. 
 
 He lined up his disreputable paladins in the 
 darkness, and spoke 
 
 " Sergeant M'Nab, how many men are pres- 
 ent?" 
 
 "Eighteen, sirr." The platoon had gone into 
 action thirty-four strong. 
 
 "How many men are deficient of an emergency 
 ration? I can make a good guess, but you had 
 better find out." 
 
 Five minutes later the Sergeant reported. 
 Cockerell's guess was correct. The British pri- 
 vate has only one point of view about the 
 portable property of the State. To him, as an 
 individual, the sacred emergency ration is an un- 
 necessary encumbrance, and the carrying thereof 
 a "fatigue." Consequently, when engaged in bat- 
 tle, one of the first (of many) things which he jet- 
 tisons is this very ration. When all is over, he 
 reports with unctuous solemnity that the prov- 
 ender in question has been blown out of his hav- 
 ersack by a shell. The Quartermaster-Sergeant 
 writes it off as "lost owing to the exigencies of 
 military service," and indents for another. 
 
 Lieutenant CockerelTs haversack contained a 
 packet of meat-lozenges and about half a pound 
 of chocolate. These were presented to the Ser- 
 geant. 
 
 "Hand these round as far as they will go, Ser- 
 geant," said Cockerell. "They'll make a mouth- 
 ful a man, anyhow. Tell the platoon to lie down 
 for ten minutes; then we'll push off. It's only
 
 THE NON-COMBATANT 161 
 
 fifteen miles. We ought to make it by breakfast- 
 time . . ." 
 
 Slowly, mechanically, all through the winter 
 night the victors hobbled along. Cockerell led the 
 way, carrying the rifle of a man with a wounded 
 arm. Occasionally he checked his bearings with 
 map and electric torch. Sergeant M'Nab, who, 
 under a hirsute and attenuated exterior, con- 
 cealed a constitution of ferro-concrete and the 
 heart of a lion, brought up the rear, uttering fal- 
 lacious assurances to the faint-hearted as to the 
 shortness of the distance now to be covered, and 
 carrying two rules. 
 
 The customary halts were observed. At ten 
 minutes to four the men flung themselves down 
 for the third time. They had covered about seven 
 miles, and were still eight or nine from St. Gr6- 
 goire. The everlasting constellation of Verey 
 lights still rose and fell upon the eastern horizon 
 behind them, but the guns were silent. 
 
 "There might be a Heavy Battery dug in some- 
 where about here," mused Cockerell. "I wonder 
 if we could touch them for a few tins of bully. 
 Hallo, what's that?" 
 
 A distant rumble came from the north, and 
 out of the darkness loomed a British motor-lorry, 
 lurching and swaying along the rough cobbles of 
 the pave. Some of CockerelTs men were lying dead 
 asleep in the middle of the road, right at the junc- 
 tion. The lorry was going twenty miles an hour. 
 
 "Get into the side of the road, you men!" 
 shouted Cockerell, "or they'll run over you. 
 You know what these M.T. drivers are!"
 
 162 ALL IN IT 
 
 With indignant haste, and at the last possible 
 moment, the kilted figures scattered to either side 
 of the narrow causeway. The usual stereotyped 
 and vitriolic remonstrances were hurled after the 
 great hooded vehicle as it lurched past. 
 
 And then a most unusual thing happened. The 
 lorry slowed down, and finally stopped, a hun- 
 dred yards away. An officer descended, and began 
 to walk back. Cockerell rose to his weary feet 
 and walked to meet him. 
 
 The officer wore a major's crown upon the 
 shoulder-straps of his sheepskin-lined "British 
 Warm" and the badge of the Army Service Corps 
 upon his cap. Cockerell, indignant at the manner 
 hi which his platoon had been hustled off the 
 road, saluted stiffly, and muttered: "Good-morn- 
 ing, sir!" 
 
 "Good-morning!" said the Major. He was a 
 stout man of nearly fifty, with twinkling blue 
 eyes and a short-clipped mustache. Cockerell 
 judged him to be one of the few remnants of the 
 original British Army. 
 
 "I stopped," explained the older man, "to 
 apologise for the scandalous way that fellow drove 
 over you. It was perfectly damnable; but you 
 know what these converted taxi-drivers are! 
 This swine forgot for the moment that he had an 
 officer on board, and hogged it as usual. He goes 
 under arrest as soon as we get back to billets." 
 
 "Thank you very much, sir," said Master 
 Cockerell, entirely thawed. "I'm afraid my chaps 
 were lying all over the road; but they are pretty 
 well down and out at present."
 
 THE NON-COMBATANT 163 
 
 "Where have you come from?" inquired the 
 Major, turning a curious eye upon GockerelTs 
 prostrate followers. 
 
 Cockerell explained. When he had finished, he 
 added wistfully 
 
 "I suppose you have not got an odd tin or two 
 of bully to give away, sir? My fellows are about " 
 
 For answer, the Major took the Lieutenant 
 by the arm and led him towards the lorry. 
 
 "You have come," he announced, "to the very 
 man you want. I am practically Mr. Harrod. 
 In fact, I am a Corps Supply Officer. How would 
 a Maconochie apiece suit your boys?" 
 
 Cockerell, repressing the ecstatic phrases 
 which crowded to his tongue, replied that that 
 was just what the doctor had ordered. 
 
 "Where are you bound for?" continued the 
 Major. 
 
 "St. Gre-goire." 
 
 "Of course. You were pulled out from there, 
 were n't you? I am going to St. Gre"goire myself 
 as soon as I have finished my round. Home to 
 bed, in fact. I have n't had any sleep worth writ- 
 ing home about for four nights. It is no joke 
 tearing about a country full of shell-holes, hunt- 
 ing for people who have shifted their ration-dump 
 seven times in four days. However, I suppose 
 things will settle down again, now that you fel- 
 lows have fired Brother Boche out of the Kidney 
 Bean. Pretty fine work, too! Tell me, what is 
 your strength, here and now?" 
 
 "One officer," said Cockerell soberly, "and 
 eighteen other ranks."
 
 164 ALL IN IT 
 
 "All that's left of your platoon?" 
 
 Cockerell nodded. The stout Major began to 
 beat upon the tailboard of the lorry with his 
 stick. 
 
 "Sergeant Smurthwaite!" he shouted. 
 
 There came a muffled grunt from the recesses of 
 the lorry. Then a round and ruddy face rose like 
 a harvest moon above the tailboard, and a ster- 
 torous voice replied respectfully 
 
 "Sir?" 
 
 "Let down this tailboard; load this officer's 
 platoon into the lorry; issue them with a Maco- 
 nochie and a tot of rum apiece; and don't forget 
 to put Smee under arrest for dangerous driving 
 when we get back to billets." 
 
 "Very good, sir." 
 
 Ten minutes later the survivors of Number 
 Nine Platoon, soaked to the skin, dazed, slightly 
 incredulous, but at peace with all the world, re- 
 clined close-packed upon the floor of the swaying 
 lorry. Each man held an open tin of Mr. Macono- 
 chie's admirable ration between his knees. Per- 
 fect silence reigned: a pleasant aroma of rum 
 mellowed the already vitiated atmosphere. 
 
 In front, beside the chastened Mr. Smee, sat 
 the Major and Master Cockerell. The latter had 
 just partaken of his share of refreshment, and was 
 now endeavouring, with lifeless fingers, to light a 
 cigarette. 
 
 The Major scrutinised his guest intently. Then 
 he stripped off his British Warm coat incident- 
 ally revealing the fact that he wore upon his tu- 
 nic the ribbons of both South African Medals and
 
 THE NON-COMBATANT 165 
 
 the Distinguished Service Order and threw it 
 round Cockerell's shoulders. 
 
 "I'm sorry, boy!" he said. "I never noticed. 
 You are chilled to the bone. Button this round 
 you." 
 
 Cockerell made a feeble protest, but was cut 
 short. 
 
 "Nonsense! There's no sense in taking risks 
 after you've done your job." 
 
 Cockerell assented, a little sleepily. His allow- 
 ance of rum was bringing its usual vulgar but 
 comforting influence to bear upon an exhausted 
 system. 
 
 "I see you have been wounded, sir," he ob- 
 served, noting with a little surprise two gold 
 stripes upon his host's left sleeve the sleeve of 
 a "non-combatant." 
 
 "Yes," said the Major. "I got the first one at 
 Le Gateau. He was only a little fellow; but the 
 second, which arrived at the Second Show at 
 Ypres, gave me such a stiff leg that I am only an 
 old crock now. I was second-in-command of an 
 Infantry Battalion in those days. In these, I am 
 only a peripatetic Lipton. However, I am lucky 
 to be here at all: I've had twenty-seven years' 
 service. How old are you?" 
 
 "Twenty," replied Cockerell. He was too tired 
 to feel as ashamed as he usually did at having to 
 confess to the tenderness of his years. 
 
 The Major nodded thoughtfully. 
 
 "Yes," he said; "I judged that would be about 
 the figure. My son would have been twenty this 
 month, only he was at Neuve Chapelle. He
 
 166 ALL IN IT 
 
 was very like you in appearance very. His 
 mother would have been interested to meet you. 
 You might as well take a nap for half an hour. I 
 have two more calls to make, and we shan't get 
 home till nearly seven. Lean on me, old man. 
 I '11 see you don't tumble overboard ..." 
 
 So Lieutenant Cockerell, conqueror of the 
 Kidney Bean, fell asleep, his head resting, with 
 scandalous disregard for military etiquette, upon 
 the shoulder of the stout Major. 
 
 An hour or two later, Number Nine Platoon, 
 distended with concentrated nourishment and 
 painfully straightening its cramped limbs, de- 
 canted itself from the lorry into a little cul-de- 
 sac opening off the Rue Jean Jacques Rousseau in 
 St. Gre"goire. The name of the cul-de-sac was the 
 Rue Gambetta. 
 
 Then- commander, awake and greatly refreshed, 
 looked round him and realised, with a sudden 
 sense of uneasiness, that he was in familiar sur- 
 roundings. The lorry had stopped at the door of 
 Number Five. 
 
 "I don't suppose your Battalion will get back 
 for some time," said the Major. "Tell your Ser- 
 geant to put your men into the stable behind this 
 house there's plenty of straw there and - 
 
 "Their own billet is just round the corner, sir," 
 replied Cockerell. "They might as well go there, 
 thank you." 
 
 "Very good. But come in with me yourself, 
 and doss here for a few hours. You can report to
 
 THE NON-COMBATANT 167 
 
 your C.O. later in the day, when he arrives. This 
 is my pied-a-terre," rapping on the door. " You 
 won't find many billets like it. As you see, it 
 stands in this little backwater, and is not in- 
 cluded in any of the regular billeting areas of 
 the town. The Town Major has allotted it to me 
 permanently. Pretty decent of him, was n't it? 
 And Madame Vinot is a dear. Here she is! Bon- 
 jour, Madame Vinot! Avez-vous un feu er 
 inflamme pour moi dans la chambre f " Evidently 
 the Major's French was on a par with Cockerell's. 
 
 But Madame understood him, bless her! 
 
 "Mais oui, M'sieur le Colonel!" she exclaimed 
 cheerfully the rank of Major is not recognised 
 by the French civilian population and threw 
 open the door of the sitting-room, with a glance 
 of compassion upon the Major's mud-splashed 
 companion, whom she failed to recognise. 
 
 A bright fire was burning in the open stove. 
 
 Immediately above, pinned to the mantelpiece 
 and fluttering in the draught, hung Cockerell's 
 manifesto upon the subject of non-combatants. 
 He could recognise his own handwriting across 
 the room. The Major saw it too. 
 
 " Hallo, what's that hanging up, I wonder?" 
 he exclaimed. " A memorandum for me, I expect; 
 probably from my old friend 'Dados.' x Let us 
 get a little more light." 
 
 He crossed to the window and drew up the 
 blind. Cockerell moved too. When the Major 
 turned round, his guest was standing by the stove, 
 his face scarlet through its grime. 
 
 1 D.A.D.O.S. Deputy Assistant Director of Ordnance Stores.
 
 168 ALL IN IT 
 
 "I'm awfully sorry, sir," said Cockerell, "but 
 that notice memorandum of yours has 
 dropped into the fire." 
 
 "If it came from Dados," replied the Major, 
 "thank you very much!" 
 
 "I can't tell you, sir," added Cockerell hum- 
 bly, "what a fool I feel." 
 
 But the apology referred to an entirely different 
 matter.
 
 IX 
 
 TUNING UP 
 I 
 
 IT is just one year to-day since we "came oot." 
 A year plays havoc with the "establishment" of 
 a battalion in these days of civilised warfare. Of 
 the original band of stout-hearted but inexperi- 
 enced Crusaders who crossed the Channel in the 
 van of The First Hundred Thousand, in May, 
 1915, a regiment close on a thousand strong, 
 with twenty-eight officers, barely two hun- 
 dred remain, and most of these are Headquarters 
 or Transport men. Of officers there are five 
 Colonel Kemp, Major Wagstaffe, Master Cock- 
 erell, Bobby Little, and Mr. Waddell, who, by 
 the way, is now Captain Waddell, having suc- 
 ceeded to the command of his old Company. 
 
 Of the rest, our old Colonel is hi Scotland, es- 
 saying ambitious pedestrian and equestrian feats 
 upon his new leg. Others have been drafted to 
 the command of newer units, for every member of 
 "K (1)" is a Nestor now. Others are home, in 
 various stages of convalescence. Others, alas! will 
 never go home again. But the gaps have all been 
 filled up, and once more we are at full strength, 
 comfortably conscious that whereas a year ago we 
 were fighting to hold a line, and play for time, and 
 find our feet, while the people at home behind us 
 were making good, now we are fighting for one
 
 170 ALL IN IT 
 
 thing and one thing only; and that is, to admin- 
 ister the knock-out blow to Brother Boche. 
 
 Our last casualty was Ayling, who left us under 
 somewhat unusual circumstances. 
 
 Towards the end of our last occupancy of 
 trenches the local Olympus decided that what 
 both sides required, in order to awaken them 
 from their winter lethargy, or spring lassitude (or 
 whatever it is that Olympus considers that we in 
 the firing-line are suffering from for the moment), 
 was a tonic. Accordingly orders were issued for 
 a Flying Matine"e, or trench raid. Each battalion 
 in the Division was to submit a scheme, and the 
 battalion whose scheme was adjudged the best 
 was to be accorded the honour so said the Prac- 
 tical Joke Department of carrying out the 
 scheme in person. To the modified rapture of 
 the Seventh Hairy Jocks their plan was awarded 
 first prize. Headquarters, after a little excusable 
 recrimination on the subject of unnecessary zeal 
 and misguided ambition, set to work to arrange 
 rehearsals of our highly unpopular production. 
 
 Brother Boche has grown "wise" to Flying 
 Matinees nowadays, and to score a real success 
 you have to present him with something com- 
 paratively novel and unexpected. However, our 
 scheme had been carefully thought out; and, 
 given sufficient preparation, and an adequate 
 cast, there seemed no reason to doubt that the 
 piece would have a highly successful run of one 
 night. 
 
 At one point in the enemy's trenches opposite 
 to us his barbed-wire defences had worn very
 
 TUNING UP 171 
 
 thin, and steps were taken by means of system- 
 atic machine-gun fire to prevent him repairing 
 them. This spot was selected for the raid. A 
 party of twenty-five was detailed. It was to be 
 led by Angus M'Lachlan, and was to slip over the 
 parapet on a given moonless night, crawl across 
 No Man's Land to within striking distance of the 
 German trench, and wait. At a given moment the 
 signal for attack would be given, and the wire de- 
 molished by a means which need not be specified 
 here. Thereupon the raiding party were to dash 
 forward and to quote the Sergeant-Major 
 "mix themselves up in it." 
 
 Two elements are indispensable in a successful 
 trench-raid surprise and despatch. That is to 
 say, you must deliver your raid when and where 
 it is least expected, and then get home to bed be- 
 fore your victims have had tune to set the machin- 
 ery of retaliation in motion. Steps were therefore 
 taken, firstly, to divert the enemy's attention as 
 far as possible from the true objective of the raid, 
 by a sudden and furious bombardment of a sector 
 of trenches three hundred yards away; and sec- 
 ondly, to ensure as far as possible, that the raid, 
 having commenced at 2 A.M., should conclude at 
 2.12, sharp. 
 
 In order to cover the retirement of the excur- 
 sionists, Ayling was ordered to arrange for ma- 
 chine-gun fire, which should sweep the enemy's 
 parapet for some hundreds of yards upon either 
 flank, and so encourage the enemy to keep his 
 head down and mind his own business. 
 
 The raid itself was a brilliant success. Dug-
 
 172 ALL IN IT 
 
 outs were bombed, emplacements destroyed, and 
 a respectable bag of captives brought over. But 
 the element of surprise, upon which so much in- 
 sistence was laid above, was visited upon both 
 attackers and attacked. To the former the con- 
 tribution came from that well-meaning but some- 
 what addlepated warrior, Private Nigg, who 
 formed one of the raiding party. 
 
 Nigg's allotted task upon this occasion was to 
 "comb out" certain German dug-outs. (It may 
 be mentioned that each man had a specific duty 
 to perform, and a specific portion of the trench 
 opposite to perform it in; for the raid had been 
 rehearsed several times in a dummy trench be- 
 hind the lines constructed exactly to scale from an 
 aeroplane photograph.) For this purpose he was 
 provided with bombs. Shortly before two o'clock 
 in the morning the party, headed by Angus 
 M'Lachlan, crawled over the parapet during a 
 brief lull in the activities of the Verey lights, and 
 crept steadily, on hands and knees, across No 
 Man's Land. Fifty yards from the enemy's wire 
 was a collection of shell-holes, relics of a burst of 
 misdirected energy on the part of a six-inch bat- 
 tery. Here the raiders disposed themselves, and 
 waited for the signal. 
 
 Now, it is an undoubted fact, that if you curl 
 yourself up, with two or three preliminary twirls, 
 after the fashion of a dog going to bed, in a per- 
 fectly circular shell-hole, on a night as black as 
 the inside of the dog in question, you are ex- 
 tremely likely to lose your sense of direction. 
 This is what happened to Private Nigg. He and
 
 TUNING UP 173 
 
 his infernal machines lay uneasily in their ap- 
 pointed shell-hole for some ten minutes, sur- 
 rounded by Verey lights which shot suddenly into 
 the sky with a disconcerting plop, described a 
 graceful parabola, burst into dazzling flame, and 
 fluttered sizzling down. One or two of these fell 
 quite near Nigg's party, and continued to burn 
 upon the ground, but the raiders sank closer into 
 then* shell-holes, and no alarm resulted. Once or 
 twice a machine-gun had a scolding fit, and bul- 
 lets whispered overhead. But, on the whole, the 
 night was quiet. 
 
 Then suddenly, with a shattering roar, the 
 feint-artillery bombardment broke forth. Simul- 
 taneously word was passed along the raiding line 
 to stand by. Next moment Angus M'Lachlan 
 and his followers rose to their feet in the black 
 darkness, scrambled out of their nests, and 
 dashed forward to the accomplishment of their 
 mission. 
 
 When Nigg, who had paused a moment to col- 
 lect his bombs, sprang out of his shell-hole, not a 
 colleague was in sight. At least, Nigg could see 
 no one. However, want of courage was not one of 
 his failings. He bounded blindly forward by him- 
 self. 
 
 Try as he would he could not overtake the raid- 
 ing party. However, this mattered little, for sud- 
 denly a parapet loomed before him. In this same 
 parapet, low down, Nigg beheld a black and gap- 
 ing aperture plainly a loophole of some kind. 
 
 Without a moment's hesitation, Nigg hurled a 
 Mills grenade straight through the loophole, and
 
 174 ALL IN IT 
 
 then with one wild screech of " Come away, boys! " 
 took a flying leap over the parapet and landed 
 in his own trench, in the arms of Corporal Muckle- 
 wame. 
 
 As already noted, it is difficult, when lying 
 curled up in a circular shell-hole in the dark, to 
 maintain a true sense of direction. 
 
 So the first-fruits of the raid was Captain Ay- 
 ling, of the Emma Gees. He had stationed himself 
 in a concrete emplacement in the front line, the 
 better to "observe" the fire of his guns when it 
 should be required. Unfortunately this was the 
 destination selected by the misguided Niggs for 
 his first (and as it proved, last) bomb. The raid- 
 ers came safely back in due course, but by that 
 time Ayling, liberally (but by a miracle not dan- 
 gerously) ballasted with assorted scrap-iron, was 
 on his way to the First Aid Post. 
 
 ii 
 
 At the present moment we are right back at 
 rest once more, and are being treated with a 
 consideration, amounting almost to indulgence, 
 which convinces us that we are being "fattened 
 up" to employ the gruesome but expressive 
 phraseology of the moment for some particu- 
 larly strenuous enterprise in the near future. 
 
 Well, we are ready. It is nine months since 
 Loos, and nearly six since we scraped the night- 
 mare mud of Ypres from our boots, gum, thigh, for 
 the last time. Our recent casualties have been 
 light our only serious effort of late has been the 
 recapture of the Kidney Bean the new drafts
 
 TUNING UP 175 
 
 have settled down, and the young officers have 
 been blooded. And above all, victory is in the air. 
 We are going into our next fight with new-born 
 confidence in the powers behind us. Loos was an 
 experimental affair; and though to the humble in- 
 struments with which the experiment was made 
 the proceedings were less hilarious than we had 
 anticipated, the results were enormously valu- 
 able to a greatly expanded and entirely untried 
 Staff. 
 
 "We shall do better this time," said Major 
 Wagstaffe to Bobby Little, as they stood watch- 
 ing the battalion assemble, in workmanlike fash- 
 ion, for a route-march. ' ' There are just one or two 
 little points which had not occurred to us then. 
 We have grasped them now, I think." 
 
 "Such as?" 
 
 "Well, you remember we all went into the Loos 
 show without any very lucid idea as to how far we 
 were to go, and where to knock off for the day, so 
 to speak. The result was that the advance of each 
 Division was regulated by the extent to which the 
 German wire in front of it had been cut by our 
 artillery. Ours was well and truly cut, so we pene- 
 trated two or three miles. The people on our left 
 never started at all. Lord knows, they tried hard 
 enough. But how could any troops get through 
 thirty feet of uncut wire, enfiladed by machine- 
 guns? The result was that after forty-eight 
 hours' fighting, our whole attacking front, in- 
 stead of forming a nice straight line, had bagged 
 out into a series of bays and peninsulas." 
 
 "Our crowd wasn't even a peninsula," re-
 
 176 ALL IN IT 
 
 marked Bobby with feeling. "For an hour or so 
 it was an island!" 
 
 " I think you will find that in the next show 
 we shall go forward, after intensive bombardment, 
 quite a short distance; then consolidate; then 
 wait till the whole line has come up to its ap- 
 pointed objective; then bombard again; then go 
 forward another piece; and so on. That will make 
 it impossible for gaps to be created. It will also 
 give our gunners a chance to cover our advance 
 continuously. You remember at Loos they lost 
 us for hours, and dare not fire for fear of hitting 
 us. In fact, I expect that in battle plans of the 
 future, instead of the artillery trying to conform 
 to the movements of the infantry, matters will 
 be reversed. The guns, after preliminary bom- 
 bardment, will create a continuous Niagara of 
 exploding shells upon a given line, marked in 
 everybody's map, and timed for an exact period, 
 just beyond the objective; and the infantry will 
 stroll up into position a comfortable distance be- 
 hind, reading the time-table, and dig themselves 
 in. Then the barrage will lift on to the next line, 
 and we shall toddle forward again. That's the 
 new plan, Bobby! Close artillery cooperation, 
 and a series of limited objectives!" 
 
 "It sounds all right," agreed Bobby. "We 
 shall want a good many guns, though, shan't we? " 
 
 "We shall. But don't let that worry you. It is 
 simply raining guns at the Base now. In fact, my 
 grandmother in the War Office" this mythical 
 relative was frequently quoted by Major Wag- 
 staffe, and certainly her information had several
 
 TUNING UP 177 
 
 times proved surprisingly correct " tells me 
 that by the beginning of next year we shall have 
 enough guns, of various calibres, to make a con- 
 tinuous line, hub to hub, from one end of our 
 front to the other." 
 
 "Golly!" observed Captain Little, with re- 
 spectful relish. 
 
 "That means," continued Wagstaffe, "that 
 we shall be able to blow Brother Boche's immedi- 
 ate place of business to bits, and at the same time 
 take on his artillery with counter-battery work. 
 Our shell-supply is practically unlimited now; 
 so when the next push comes, we foot-sloggers 
 ought to have a more gentlemanly time of it than 
 we had at Loos and Wipers. And I '11 tell you an- 
 other thing, Bobby. We shall have command of 
 the air too." 
 
 "That will be a pleasant change," remarked 
 Bobby. " I 'm getting tired of putting my fellows 
 under arrest for rushing out of carefully concealed 
 positions in order to gape up at Boche planes 
 going over. Angus M'Lachlan is as bad as any of 
 them. The fellow " 
 
 "But you have not seen many Boche planes 
 lately?" 
 
 "No. Certainly not so many." 
 
 "And the number will grow beautifully less. 
 Our little friends in the R.F.C. are getting fairly 
 numerous now, and their machines have been im- 
 proved out of all knowledge. They are rapidly 
 assuming the position of top dog. Moreover, the 
 average Boche does not take kindly to flying. It 
 is too too individualistic a job for him. He
 
 178 ALL IN IT 
 
 likes to work in a bunch with other Boches, where 
 he can keep step, and maintain dressing, and 
 mark time if he gets confused. In the air one can- 
 not mark tune, and it worries Fritz to death. I 
 think you will see, in the next unpleasantness, 
 that we shall be able to maintain our aeroplane 
 frontier somewhere over the enemy third line. 
 That means that we shall make our own disposi- 
 tions with a certain degree of privacy, and the 
 Boche will not. Also, when our big guns get to 
 work, they will not need to fire blindly, as in the 
 days of our youth, but will be directed by one of 
 our R.F.C. lads, humming about in his little bus 
 above the target, perhaps fifteen miles from the 
 gun. Hallo, there go the pipes! Tell your men 
 to fall in." 
 
 "The whole business," observed Bobby, as he 
 struggled into his equipment, " sounds so attrac- 
 tive that I am beginning quite to look forward to 
 the next show!" 
 
 "Don't forget the Boche machine-guns, my 
 lad," replied Wagstaffe. 
 
 "One seldom gets the chance," grumbled 
 Bobby. "Is there no way of knocking them out? " 
 
 "Well- ' Wagstaffe looked intensely myste- 
 rious " of course one never knows, but have 
 you heard any rumours on the subject?" 
 
 "I have. About - 
 
 "About the Hush! Hush! Brigade?" 
 
 Bobby nodded. 
 
 "Yes," he said. "Young Osborne, my best 
 subaltern after Angus, disappeared last month to 
 join it. Tell me, what is the "
 
 TUNING UP 179 
 
 "Hush! Hush! "said Major Wagstaffe. "Me-, 
 fiez vous! Taisez vous! and so on!" 
 The battalion moved off. 
 
 So much for the war-talk of veterans. Now let 
 us listen to the novices. 
 
 "Bogle," said Angus M'Lachlan to his hench- 
 man, "I think we shall have to lighten this 
 Wolseley valise of mine. With one thing and an- 
 other it weighs far more than thirty-five pounds." 
 
 "That's a fact, sirr," agreed Mr. Bogle. "It 
 carries ower mony books in the heid of it." 
 
 They shook out the contents of the valise upon 
 the floor of Angus's bedroom a loft over the 
 kitchen in "A" Company's farm billet and pro- 
 ceeded to prune Angus's personal effects. There 
 were boots, socks, shaving-tackle, maps, packets 
 of chocolate, and books of every size, but chiefly 
 of the ever-blessed sevenpenny type. 
 
 "A lot of these things will have to go, Bogle," 
 said Angus regretfully. "The colonel has warned 
 officers about their kits, and it would never do to 
 have mine turned back from the waggon at the 
 last minute." 
 
 Mr. Bogle pricked up his ears. "The waggon? 
 Are we for off again, sirr?" he inquired. 
 
 "Indeed I could not say," replied the cautious 
 Angus; "but it is well to be ready." 
 
 "The boys was saying, sirr," observed Bogle 
 tentatively, "that there was to be another grand 
 battle soon." 
 
 "It is more than likely," said Angus, with an 
 air of profound wisdom. "Here we are in June,
 
 180 ALL IN IT 
 
 and we must take the offensive, sooner or later, or 
 summer will be over." 
 
 "What kind o' a battle will it be this time, 
 sirr?" inquired Bogle respectfully. 
 
 "Oh, our artillery will pound the German 
 trenches for a week or two, and then we shall go 
 over the parapet and drive them back for miles," 
 said Angus simply. 
 
 "And what then, sirr?" 
 
 "What then? We shall go on pushing them 
 until another Division relieves us." 
 
 Bogle nodded comprehendingly. He now had 
 firmly fixed hi his mind the essential details of 
 the projected great offensive of 1916. He was 
 not interested to go further hi the matter. And 
 it is this very faculty philosophic trust, coupled 
 with absolute lack of imagination which makes 
 the British soldier the most invincible person in 
 the world. The Frenchman is inspired to glorious 
 deeds by his great spirit and passionate love of his 
 own sacred soil; the German fights as he thinks, 
 like a machine. But the British Tommy wins 
 through owing to his entire indifference to the 
 pros and cons of the tactical situation. He settles 
 down to war like any other trade, and, as hi tune 
 of peace, he is chiefly concerned with his holidays 
 and his creature comforts. A battle is a mere inci- 
 dent between one set of billets and another. Con- 
 sequently he does not allow the grim realities of 
 war to obsess his mind when off duty. One might 
 almost ascribe his success as a soldier to the fact 
 that his domestic instincts are stronger than his 
 military instincts.
 
 TUNING UP 181 
 
 Put the average Tommy into a trench under 
 fire how does he comport himself ? Does he begin 
 by striking an attitude and hurling defiance at 
 the foe? No, he begins by inquiring, hi no uncer- 
 tain voice, where his dinner is? He then exam- 
 ines his new quarters. Before him stands a para- 
 pet, buttressed mayhap with hurdles or balks of 
 timber, the whole being designed to preserve his 
 life from hostile projectiles. How does he treat 
 this bulwark? Unless closely watched, he will 
 begin to chop it up for firewood. His next pro- 
 ceeding is to construct for himself a place of shel- 
 ter. This sounds a sensible proceeding, but here 
 again it is a case of "safety second." A British 
 Tommy regards himself as completely protected 
 from the assaults of his enemies if he can lay a 
 sheet of corrugated-iron roofing across his bit of 
 trench and sit underneath it. At any rate it keeps 
 the rain off, and that is all that his instincts 
 demand of him. An ounce of comfort is worth 
 a pound of security. 
 
 He looks about him. The parapet here requires 
 fresh sandbags; there the trench needs pumping 
 out. Does he fill sandbags, or pump, of his own 
 volition? Not at all. Unless remorselessly super- 
 vised, he will devote the rest of the morning to 
 inventing and chalking up a title for his new dug- 
 out "Jock's Lodge," or "Burns' Cottage," 
 or "Cyclists' Rest" supplemented by a cau- 
 tionary notice, such as No Admittance. This 
 Means You. Thereafter, with shells whistling 
 over his head, he will decorate the parapet in his 
 immediate vicinity with picture postcards and
 
 182 ALL IN IT 
 
 cigarette photographs. Then he leans back with 
 a happy sigh. His work is done. His home from 
 home is furnished. He is now at leisure to think 
 about "they Gairmans" again. That may sound 
 like an exaggeration; but " Comfort First" is the 
 motto of that lovable but imprudent grasshopper, 
 Thomas Atkins, all the time. 
 
 A sudden and pertinent thought occurred to 
 Mr. Bogle, who possessed a Martha-like nature. 
 
 "What way, sir, will a body get his dinner, if 
 we are to be fighting for twa-three days on end? " 
 
 "Every man," replied Angus, "will be issued, 
 I expect, with two days' rations. But the Colonel 
 tells me that during hard fighting a man does not 
 feel the desire for food or sleep either for that 
 matter. Perhaps, during a lull, it may occur to 
 him that he has not eaten since yesterday, and he 
 may pull out a bit of biscuit or chocolate from his 
 pocket, just to nibble. Or he may remember that 
 he has had no sleep for twenty-four hours so he 
 just drops down and sleeps for ten minutes while 
 there is tune. But generally, matters of ordinary 
 routine drop out of a man's thoughts altogether." 
 
 "That's a queer-like thing, a body forgetting 
 his dinner!" murmured Bogle. 
 
 "Of course," continued Angus, warming to his 
 theme like his own father in his pulpit, "if Nature 
 is expelled with a pitchfork in this manner, for too 
 long, tamen usque recurret." 
 
 "Is that a fact?" replied Bogle politely. He 
 always adopted the line of least resistance when 
 his master took to audible rumination. "Weel, 
 I'll hae to be steppin', sir. I'll pit these twa
 
 TUNING UP 183 
 
 blankets oot in the sun, in some place where the 
 docks frae the pond will no get dandering ower 
 them. And if you'll sorrt your books, I'll hand 
 ower the yins ye dinna require to the Y.M.C.A. 
 hut ayont the village." 
 
 Bogle cherished a profound admiration for 
 Lieutenant M'Lachlan both as a scholar and a 
 strategist, and absorbed his deliverances with a 
 care and attention which enabled him to misquote 
 the same quite fluently to his own associates. 
 That very evening he set forth the coming plan 
 of campaign, as elucidated to him by his master, 
 to a mixed assemblage at the Estaminet au Clef 
 des Champs. Some of the party were duly im- 
 pressed; but Mr. Spike Johnson, a resident in 
 peaceful times of Stratford-atte-Bow, the recog- 
 nised humourist of the Sappers' Field Company 
 attached to the Brigade, was pleased to be face- 
 tious. 
 
 "It won't be no good you Jocks goin' over no 
 parapet to attack no 'Uns," he said, " after what 
 'appened last week!" 
 
 This dark saying had the effect of rousing every 
 Scottish soldier in the estaminet to a state of 
 bristling attention. 
 
 "And what was it," inquired Private Cosh with 
 heat, "that happened last week?" 
 
 "Why," replied Mr. Johnson, who had been 
 compounding this jest for some days, and now 
 saw his opportunity to deliver it with effect at 
 short range, "your trenches got raided last 
 Wednesday, when you was in 'em. By the 
 Brandyburgers, I think it was."
 
 1S4 ALL IN IT 
 
 The entire symposium stared at the jester with 
 undisguised amazement. 
 
 "Our trenches," proclaimed Private Tosh 
 with forced calm, "were never raided by no 
 Brandyburrrgerrs! Was they, Jimmie?" 
 
 Mr. Cosh corroborated, with three adjectives 
 which Mr. Tosh had not thought of. 
 
 Spike Johnson merely smiled, with the easy 
 assurance of a man who has the ace up his sleeve. 
 
 "Oh yes, they was!" he reiterated. 
 
 "They werre not!" shouted half a dozen voices. 
 
 The next stage of the discussion requires no 
 discription. It terminated, at the urgent request 
 of Madame from behind the bar, and with the 
 assistance of the Military Police, hi the street 
 outside. 
 
 "And now, Spike Johnson," inquired Private 
 Cosh, breathing heavily but much refreshed, 
 "can you tell me what way Gairmans could get 
 intil the trenches of a guid Scots regiment withoot 
 bein' seen?" 
 
 "I can," replied Mr. Johnson with relish, "and 
 I will. They got in all right, but you did n't see 
 them, because they was disguised." 
 
 Cosh and Tosh snorted disdainfully, and Priv- 
 ate Nigg, who was present with his friend Bun- 
 cle, inquired 
 
 "What way was they disguised?" 
 
 Like lightning came the answer 
 
 "As a joke! Oh, you Jocks." 
 
 Cosh and Tosh (who had already been warned 
 by the Police sergeant) merely glared and gurgled 
 impotentiy. Private Nigg, who, as already men-
 
 TUNING UP 185 
 
 tioned, was slightly wanting in quickness of per- 
 ception, was led away by the faithful Buncle, to 
 have the outrage explained to him at leisure. It 
 was Private Bogle who intervened, and brought 
 the intellectual Goliath crashing to the ground. 
 
 "Man, Johnson," he remarked, and shook his 
 head mournfully, "youse ought to be varra care- 
 ful aboot sayin' things like that to the likes of us. 
 'Deed aye!" 
 
 "What for, ole son?" inquired the jester indul- 
 gently. 
 
 "Naithing," replied Bogle with artistic reti- 
 cence. 
 
 "Come along aht with it ! " insisted Johnson. 
 "Cough it up, duckie!" 
 
 "Man, man," cried Bogle with passionate ear- 
 nestness, "dinna gang ower far!" 
 
 "What the 'ell for ?" inquired Johnson, im- 
 pressed despite himself. 
 
 "What for?" Bogle's voice dropped to a 
 ghostly whisper. "Has it ever occurred to you, 
 my mannie, what would happen tae the English 
 if Scotland was tae make a separate peace? " 
 
 And Mr. Bogle retired, not before it was time, 
 within the sheltering portals of the estaminet, 
 where not less than seven inarticulate but ap- 
 preciative fellow-countrymen offered him refresh- 
 ment.
 
 FULL CHORUS 
 I 
 
 AN Observation Post or "0 Pip," v in the mys- 
 terious patois of the Buzzers is not exactly the 
 spot that one would select either for spaciousness 
 or accessibility. It may be situated up a chimney 
 or up a tree, or down a tunnel bored through a 
 hill. But it certainly enables you to see something 
 of your enemy; and that, in modern warfare, is a 
 very rare and valuable privilege. 
 
 Of late the scene-painter's art technically 
 known as camouflage has raised the conceal- 
 ment of batteries and their observation posts to 
 the realm of the uncanny. According to Major 
 Wagstaffe, you can now disguise anybody as any- 
 thing. For instance, you can make up a battery 
 of six-inch guns to look like a flock of sheep, and 
 herd them into action browsing. Or you can 
 despatch a scouting party across No Man's Land 
 dressed up as pillar-boxes, so that the deluded 
 Hun, instead of opening fire with a machine-gun, 
 will merely post letters hi them valuable let- 
 ters, containing military secrets. Lastly, and more 
 important still, you can disguise yourself to look 
 like nothing at all, and hi these days of intensified 
 artillery fire it is very seldom that nothing at all 
 is hit. 
 
 The particular O Pip with which we are con-
 
 FULL CHORUS 187 
 
 cerned at present, however, is a German post 
 or was a fortnight ago, before the opening of the 
 Battle of the Somme. 
 
 For nearly two years the British Armies on the 
 Western Front have been playing for time. They 
 have been sticking their toes in and holding their 
 ground, with numerically inferior forces and in- 
 adequate artillery support, against a nation in 
 arms which has set out, with forty years of prepa- 
 ration at its back, to sweep the earth. We have 
 held them, and now der Tag has come for us. The 
 deal has passed into our hand at last. A fortnight 
 ago, ready for the first tune to undertake the 
 offensive on a grand and prolonged scale, Loos 
 was a mere reconnaissance compared with this, 
 the New British Army went over the parapet 
 shoulder to shoulder with the most heroic Army 
 hi the world the Army of France and at- 
 tacked over a sixteen-mile front in the Valley of 
 the Somme. 
 
 It was a critical day for the Allies : certainly it 
 was a most critical day in the history of the Brit- 
 ish Army. For on that day an answer had to be 
 given to a very big question indeed. Hitherto 
 we had been fighting on the defensive un- 
 ready, uphill, against odds. It would have been 
 no particular discredit to us had we failed to hold 
 our line. But we had held it, and more. Now, 
 at last, we were ready as ready as we were ever 
 likely to be. We had the men, the guns, and the 
 munitions. We were in a position to engage the 
 enemy on equal, and more than equal, terms. 
 And the question that the British Empire had to
 
 188 ALL IN IT 
 
 answer in that day, the First of July 1916, was 
 this: "Are these new amateur armies of ours, 
 raised, trained, and equipped in less than two 
 years, with nothing in the way of military tradi- 
 tion to uphold them nothing but the steady 
 courage of their race: are they a match for, and 
 more than a match for, that grim machine-made, 
 iron-bound host that lies waiting for them along 
 that line of Picardy hills? Because if they are not, 
 we cannot win this war. We can only make a 
 stalemate of it." 
 
 We, looking back now over a space of twelve 
 months, know how our boys answered that ques- 
 tion. In the greatest and longest battle that the 
 world had yet seen, that Army of city clerks, 
 Midland farm-lads, Lancashire mill-hands, Scot- 
 tish miners, and Irish corner-boys, side by side 
 with their great-hearted brethren from Overseas, 
 stormed positions which had been held impreg- 
 nable for two years, captured seventy thousand 
 prisoners, reclaimed several hundred square miles 
 of the sacred soil of France, and smashed once and 
 for all the German-fostered fable of the invinci- 
 bility of the German Army. It was good to have 
 lived and suffered during those early and lean 
 years, if only to be present at their fulfilment. 
 
 But at this moment the battle was only begin- 
 ning, and the bulk of their astounding achieve- 
 ment was still to come. Nevertheless, in the 
 cautious and modest estimate of their Comman- 
 der-in-Chief , they had already done something. 
 
 After ten days and nights of continuous fighting, 
 said the first official report, our troops have com-
 
 FULL CHORUS 189 
 
 pleted the methodical capture of the whole of the 
 enemy's first system of defence on a front of fourteen 
 thousand yards. This system of defence consisted of 
 numerous and continuous lines of fire trenches, 
 extending to depths of from two thousand to four 
 thousand yards, and included five strongly fortified 
 villages, numerous heavily entrenched woods, and a 
 large number of immensely strong redoubts. The 
 capture of each of these trenches represented an 
 operation of some importance, and the whole of them 
 are now in our hands. 
 
 Quite so. One feels, somehow, that Berlin 
 would have got more out of such a theme. 
 
 Now let us get back to our Pip. If you peep 
 over the shoulder of Captain Leslie, the gunner 
 observing officer, as he directs the fire of his 
 battery, situated some thousands of yards in 
 rear, through the medium of map, field-glass, and 
 telephone, you will obtain an excellent view of 
 to-morrow's field of battle. Present in the O Pip 
 are Colonel Kemp, Wagstaffe, Bobby Little, and 
 Angus M'Lachlan. The latter had been included 
 in the party because, to quote his Commanding 
 Officer, "he would have burst into tears if he had 
 been left out." 
 
 Overhead roared British shells of every kind 
 and degree of unpleasantness, for the ground 
 in front was being "prepared" for the coming 
 assault. The undulating landscape, running up 
 to a low ridge on the skyline four miles away, was 
 spouting smoke in all directions sometimes 
 black, sometimes green, and sometimes, whert
 
 190 ALL IN IT 
 
 bursting shell and brick-dust intermingled, blood- 
 red. Beyond the ridge all-conquering British 
 aeroplanes occupied the firmament, observing 
 for "mother" and " granny" and signalling en- 
 couragement or reproof to these ponderous but 
 sprightly relatives as their shells hit or missed the 
 target. 
 
 "Yes, sir," replied Leslie to Colonel Kemp's 
 question, "that is Longueval, on the slope oppo- 
 site, with the road running through on the way to 
 Flers, over the skyline. That is Delville Wood on 
 its right. As you see, the guns are concentrating 
 on both places. That is Waterlot Farm, on this 
 side of the wood a sugar refinery. Regular nest 
 of machine-guns there, I'm told." 
 
 "No doubt we shall be able to confirm the 
 rumour to-morrow," said Colonel Kemp drily. 
 " That is Bernafay Wood on our right, I suppose? " 
 
 "Yes, sir. We hold the whole of that. The 
 pear-shaped wood out beyond it it looks as if 
 it were joined on, but the two are quite separate 
 really is Trones Wood. It has changed hands 
 several times. Just at present I don't think we 
 hold more than the near end. Further away, half- 
 right, you can see Guillemont." 
 
 "In that case," remarked Wagstaffe, "our 
 right flank would appear to be strongly supported 
 by the enemy." 
 
 "Yes. We are in a sort of right-angled salient 
 here. We have the enemy on our front and our 
 right. In fact, we form the extreme right of the 
 attacking front. Our left is perfectly secure, as 
 we now hold Mametz Wood and Contalmaison.
 
 FULL CHORUS 191 
 
 There they are." He waved his glass to the north- 
 west. "When the attack takes place, I under- 
 stand that our Division will go straight ahead, for 
 Longueval and Delville Wood, while the next 
 Division makes a lateral thrust out to the right, 
 to push the Boche out of Trones Wood and cover 
 our flank." 
 
 "I believe that is so," said the Colonel. 
 " Bobby, take a good look at the approaches to 
 Longueval. That is the scene of to-morrow's 
 constitutional." 
 
 Bobby and Angus obediently scanned the vil- 
 lage through their glasses. Probably they did not 
 learn much. One bombarded French village is 
 very like another bombarded French village. A 
 cowering assemblage of battered little houses; 
 a pitiful little main street, with its eviscerated 
 shops and estaminets; a shattered church-spire. 
 Beyond that, an enclosure of splintered stumps 
 that was once an orchard. Below all, cellars, rein- 
 forced with props and sand-bags, and filled with 
 machine-guns. Voila tout! 
 
 Presently the Gunner Captain passed word 
 down to the telephone operator to order the bat- 
 tery to cease fire. 
 
 "Knocking off ? " inquired Wagstaffe. 
 
 "For the present, yes. We are only registering 
 this morning. Not all our batteries are going at 
 once, either. We don't want Brother Boche to 
 know our strength until we tune up for the final 
 chorus. We calculate that - 
 
 "There is a comfortable sense of decency and 
 order about the way we fight nowadays," said
 
 192 ALL IN IT 
 
 Colonel Kemp. "It is like working out a prob- 
 lem in electrical resistance by a nice convenient 
 algebraical formula. Very different from the state 
 of things last year, when we stuck it out by 
 employing rule of thumb and hanging on by our 
 eyebrows." 
 
 "The only problem we can't quite formulate is 
 the machine-gun," said Leslie. The Boche's dug- 
 outs here are thirty feet deep. When crumped by 
 our artillery he withdraws his inf antry and leaves 
 his machine-gunners behind, safe underground. 
 Then, when our guns lift and the attack comes 
 over, his machine-gunners appear on the surface, 
 hoist their guns after them with a sort of tackle 
 arrangement, and get to work on a prearranged 
 band of fire. The infantry can't do them hi until 
 No Man's Land is crossed, and well, they don't 
 all get across, that's all! However, I have heard 
 
 "So have we all," said Colonel Kemp. 
 
 "I forgot to tell you, Colonel," interposed 
 Wagstaffe, "that I met young Osborne at Divi- 
 sional Headquarters last night. You remember, 
 he left us some time ago to join the Hush! Hush! 
 Brigade." 
 
 "I remember," said the Colonel. 
 
 By this tune the party, including the Gun- 
 ner Captain, were filing along a communication 
 trench, lately the property of some German gen- 
 tlemen, on their way back to headquarters. 
 
 "Did he tell you anything, Wagstaffe?" con- 
 tinued Colonel Kemp. 
 
 "Not much. Apparently the time of the H.H.B.
 
 FULL CHORUS 193 
 
 is not yet. But he made an appointment with me 
 for this evening in the gloaming, so to speak. 
 He is sending a car. If all he says is true, the 
 Boche Emma Gee is booked for an eye-opener in 
 a few weeks' time." 
 
 ii 
 
 That evening a select party of sight-seers were 
 driven to a secluded spot behind the battle line. 
 Here they were met by Master Osborne, obvi- 
 ously inflated with some important matter. 
 
 "I've got leave from my C.O. to show you the 
 sights, sir," he announced to Colonel Kemp. "If 
 you will all stand here and watch that wood on 
 the opposite side of this clearing, you may see 
 something. We don't show ourselves much except 
 in late evening, so this is our parade hour." 
 
 The little group took up its appointed stand 
 and waited in the gathering ; dusk. In the east 
 the sky was already twinkling with intermittent 
 Verey lights. All around the British guns were 
 thundering forth then 1 hymns of hate full- 
 throated now, for the hour for the next great 
 assault was approaching. 
 
 Wagstaffe's thoughts went back to a certain 
 soft September night last year, when he and 
 Blaikie had stood on the eastern outskirts of 
 Bethune listening to a similar overture the 
 prelude to the Battle of Loos. But this overture 
 was ten tunes more awful, and, from a material 
 British point of view, ten tunes more inspiring. 
 It would have thrilled old Blaikie's fighting 
 spirit, thought WagStaffe. But Loos had taken
 
 194 ALL IN IT 
 
 his friend from him, and he, Wagstaffe, only was 
 left. What did fate hold in store for him to-mor- 
 row? he wondered. And Bobby? They had both 
 escaped marvellously so far. Well, better men 
 had gone before them. Perhaps 
 
 Fingers of steel bit into his biceps muscle, and 
 the excited whinny of Angus M'Lachlan besought 
 him to look! 
 
 Down in the forest something stirred. But it was 
 not the note of a bird, as the song would have us 
 believe. From the depths of the wood opposite 
 came a crackling, crunching sound, as of some 
 prehistoric beast forcing its way through tropical 
 undergrowth. And then, suddenly, out from the 
 thinning edge there loomed a monster a mon- 
 strosity. It did not glide, it did not walk. It 
 wallowed. It lurched, with now and then a labo- 
 rious heave of its shoulders. It fumbled its way 
 over a low bank matted with scrub. It crossed a 
 ditch, by the simple expedient of rolling the ditch 
 out flat, and waddled forward. In its path stood 
 a young tree. The monster arrived at the tree 
 and laid its chin lovingly against the stem. The 
 tree leaned back, crackled, and assumed a hori- 
 zontal position. In the middle of the clearing, 
 twenty yards farther on, gaped an enormous shell- 
 crater, a present from the Kaiser. Into this the 
 creature plunged blindly, to emerge, panting and 
 puffing, on the farther side. Then it stopped. A 
 magic opening appeared in its stomach, from 
 which emerged, grinning, a British subaltern and 
 his grimy associates. 
 
 And that was our friends' first encounter with
 
 FULL CHORUS 195 
 
 The secret unlike most secrets in 
 this publicity-ridden war had been faithfully 
 kept; so far the Hush! Hush! Brigade had been 
 little more than a legend even to the men high up. 
 Certainly the omniscient Hun received the sur- 
 prise of his life when, in the early mist of a Sep- 
 tember morning some weeks later, a line of these 
 selfsame tanks burst for the first time upon his 
 incredulous vision, waddling grotesquely up the 
 hill to the ridge which had defied the British in- 
 fantry so long and so bloodily there to squat 
 complacently down on the top of the enemy's 
 machine-guns, or spout destruction from her own 
 up and down beautiful trenches which had never 
 been intended for capture. In fact, Brother Boche 
 was quite plaintive about the matter. He de- 
 scribed the employment of such engines as wicked 
 and brutal, and opposed to the recognised usages 
 of warfare. When one of these low-comedy ve- 
 hicles (named the Creme-de-Menthe) ambled down 
 the main street of the hitherto impregnable vil- 
 lage of Flers, with hysterical British Tommies 
 slapping her on the back, he appealed to the civ- 
 ilised world to step in and forbid the combination 
 of vulgarism and barbarity. 
 
 "Let us at least fight like gentlemen," said the 
 Hun, with simple dignity. "Let us stick to legiti- 
 mate military devices the murder of women and 
 children, and the emission of chlorine gas. But 
 Tanks no ! One must draw the line somewhere ! ' ' 
 
 But the ill-bred Creme-de-Menthe took no no- 
 tice. None whatever. She simply went waddling 
 on towards Berlin.
 
 196 ALL IN IT 
 
 "An experiment, of course," commented Col- 
 onel Kemp, as they returned to headquarters 
 "a fantastic experiment. But I wish they were 
 ready now. I would give something to see one of 
 them leading the way into action to-morrow. It 
 might mean saving the lives of a good many of 
 my boys."
 
 XI 
 
 THE LAST SOLO 
 
 IT was dawn on Saturday morning, and the sec- 
 ond phase of the Battle of the Somme was more 
 than twenty-four hours old. The programme had 
 opened with a night attack, always the most dif- 
 ficult and uncertain of enterprises, especially for 
 soldiers who were civilians less than two years 
 ago. But no undertaking is too audacious for men 
 in whose veins the wine of success is beginning to 
 throb. And this undertaking, this hazardous gam- 
 ble, had succeeded all along the line. During the 
 past day and night, more than three miles of the 
 German second system of defences, from Bazen- 
 tin le Petit to the edge of Delville Wood, had re- 
 ceived their new tenants; and already long streams 
 of not altogether reluctant Hun prisoners were 
 being escorted to the rear by perspiring but cheer- 
 ful gentlemen with fixed bayonets. 
 
 Meanwhile in case such of the late occupants 
 of the line as were still at large should take a fancy 
 to revisit their previous haunts, working-parties 
 of infantry, pioneers, and sappers were toiling at 
 full pressure to reverse the parapets, run out 
 barbed wire, and bestow machine-guns in such a 
 manner as to produce a continuous lattice-work 
 of fire along the front of the captured position. 
 
 All through the night the work had continued. 
 As a result, positions were now tolerably secure,
 
 198 ALL IN IT 
 
 the intrepid " Buzzers" had included the newly 
 grafted territory in the nervous system of the 
 British Expeditionary Force, and Battalion Head- 
 quarters and Supply D6p6ts had moved up to 
 their new positions. 
 
 To Colonel Kemp and his Adjutant Cockerell, 
 ensconced in a dug-out thirty feet deep, furnished 
 with a real bed, electric-light fittings, and orna- 
 ments obviously made in Germany, entered Ma- 
 jor Wagstaffe, encrusted with mud, but as imper- 
 turbable as ever. He saluted. 
 
 "Good-morning, sir. You seem to have struck 
 a cushie little home time." 
 
 ' ' Yes. The Boche officer harbours no false mod- 
 esty about acknowledging his desire for creature 
 comforts. That is where he scores off people like 
 you and me, who pretend we like sleeping in mud. 
 Have you been round the advanced positions?" 
 
 "Yes. There is some pretty hard fighting going 
 on in the village itself the Boche still holds the 
 north-west corner and in the wood on the right. 
 'A' Company are holding a line of broken-down 
 cottages on our right front, but they can't make 
 any further move until they get more bombs. The 
 Boche is occupying various buildings opposite, 
 but in no great strength at present. However, he 
 seems to have plenty of machine-guns." 
 
 "I have sent up more bombs," said the Col- 
 onel. " What about ' B ' Company? " 
 
 "'B' have reached their objective, and consoli- 
 dated. 'C' and 'D' are lying close up, ready to 
 go forward in support when required. I think 
 'A' could do with a little assistance."
 
 THE LAST SOLO 199 
 
 "I don't want to send up 'C' and 'D '," replied 
 the Colonel, " until the Divisional Reserve ar- 
 rives. The Brigade has just telephoned through 
 that reinforcements are on the way. When they 
 get here, we can afford to stuff in the whole bat- 
 talion. Are ' A ' Company capable of handling the 
 situation at present?" 
 
 "Yes, I think so. Little is directing his pla- 
 toons from a convenient cellar. He was in touch 
 with them all when I left. But it is possible that 
 the Boche may make a rush when it grows a bit 
 lighter. At present he is too demoralised to at- 
 tempt anything beyond intermittent machine- 
 gun fire." 
 
 Colonel Kemp turned to Cockerell. 
 
 "Get Captain Little on the telephone," he 
 said, "and tell him, if the enemy displays any 
 disposition to counter-attack, to let me know at 
 once." Then he turned to Wagstaffe, and asked 
 the question which always lurks furtively on the 
 tongue of a commanding officer. 
 
 "Many casualties?" 
 
 "'A' Company have caught it rather badly 
 crossing the open. 'B' got off lightly. Glen is 
 commanding them now : Waddell was killed lead- 
 ing his men in the rush to the final objective." 
 
 Colonel Kemp sighed. 
 
 "Another good boy gone veteran, rather. I 
 must write to his wife. Fairly newly married, 
 I fancy?" 
 
 "Four months," said Wagstaffe briefly. 
 
 "What was his Christian name, do you know?" 
 
 "Walter, I think, sir," said Cockerell.
 
 200 ALL IN IT 
 
 Colonel Kemp, amid the stress of battle, found 
 time to enter a note in his pocket-diary to that 
 effect. 
 
 Meanwhile, up in the line, 'A' Company were 
 holding on grimly to what are usually described 
 as "certain advanced elements" of the village. 
 
 Village fighting is a confused and untidy busi- 
 ness, but it possesses certain redeeming features. 
 The combatants are usually so inextricably mixed 
 up that the artillery are compelled to refrain from 
 participation. That comes later, when you have 
 cleared the village of the enemy, and his guns are 
 preparing the ground for the inevitable counter- 
 attack. 
 
 So far 'A' Company had done nobly. From the 
 moment when they had lined up before Montau- 
 ban in the gross darkness preceding yesterday's 
 dawn until the moment when Bobby Little led 
 them in one victorious rush into the outskirts of 
 the village, they had never encountered a set- 
 back. By sunset they had penetrated some way 
 farther; now creeping stealthily forward under the 
 shelter of a broken wall to hurl bombs into the 
 windows of an occupied cottage; now climb- 
 ing precariously to some commanding position in 
 order to open fire with a Lewis gun; now mak- 
 ing a sudden dash across an open space. Such 
 work offered peculiar opportunities to small and 
 well-handled parties opportunities of which 
 Bobby Little's veterans availed themselves right 
 readily. 
 
 Angus M'Lachlan, for instance, accompanied
 
 THE LAST SOLO 201 
 
 by a small following of seasoned experts, had 
 twice rounded up parties of the enemy in cellars, 
 and had despatched the same back to Headquar- 
 ters with his compliments and a promise of more. 
 Mucklewame and four men had bombed their 
 way along a communication trench leading to one 
 of the side streets of the village a likely avenue 
 for a counter-attack and having reached the 
 end of the trench, had built up a sandbag barri- 
 cade, and had held the same against the assaults 
 of hostile bombers until a Vickers machine-gun 
 had arrived in charge of an energetic subaltern of 
 that youthful but thriving organisation, the Sui- 
 cide Club, or Machine-Gun Corps, and closed the 
 street to further Teutonic traffic. 
 
 During the night there had been periods of 
 quiescence, devoted to consolidation, and here 
 and there to snatches of uneasy slumber. Angus 
 M'Lachlan, fairly in his element, had trailed his 
 enormous length in and out of the back-yards and 
 brick-heaps of the village, visiting every point 
 hi his irregular line, testing defences; bestowing 
 praise; and ensuring that every man had his share 
 of food and rest. Unutterably grimy but inex- 
 pressibly cheerful, he reported progress to Major 
 Wagstaffe when that nocturnal rambler visited 
 him in the small hours. 
 
 "Well, Angus, how goes it?" inquired Wag- 
 staffe. 
 
 "We have won the match, sir," replied Angus 
 with simple seriousness. "We are just playing the 
 bye now!" 
 
 And with that he crawled away, with the
 
 202 ALL IN IT 
 
 unnecessary stealth of a small boy playing rob- 
 bers, to encourage his dour paladins to further 
 efforts. 
 
 "We shall probably be relieved this evening," 
 he explained to them, "and we must make every- 
 thing secure. It would never do to leave our new 
 positions untenable by other troops. They might 
 not be so reliable" with a paternal smile 
 "as you! Now, our right flank is not safe yet. 
 We can improve the position very much if we 
 can secure that estaminet, standing up like an 
 island among those ruined houses on our right 
 front. You see the sign, Aux Bons Fermiers, over 
 the door. The trouble is that a German machine- 
 gun is sweeping the intervening space and we 
 cannot see the gun! There it goes again. See the 
 brick-dust fly! Keep down! They are firing 
 mainly across our front, but a stray bullet may 
 come this way." 
 
 The platoon crouched low behind their impro- 
 vised rampart of brick rubble, while machine-gun 
 bullets swept low, with misleading claquement, 
 along the space in front of them, from some hid- 
 den position on their right. Presently the firing 
 stopped. Brother Boche was merely "loosing off 
 a belt," as a precautionary measure, at commend- 
 ably regular intervals. 
 
 "I cannot locate that gun," said Angus impa- 
 tiently. "Can you, Corporal M'Snape?" 
 
 "It is not in the estamint itself, siir," replied 
 M'Snape. ("Estamint" is as near as our rank 
 and file ever get to estaminet.) "It seems to be 
 mounted some place higher up the street. I doubt
 
 THE LAST SOLO 203 
 
 they cannot see us themselves only the ground 
 in front of us." 
 
 "If we could reach the estaminet itself," said 
 Angus thoughtfully, "we could get a more ex- 
 tended view. Sergeant Mucklewame, select ten 
 men, including three bombers, and follow me. I 
 am going to find a jumping-off place. The Lewis 
 gun too." 
 
 Presently the little party were crouching round 
 their officer in a sheltered position on the right 
 of the line which for the moment appeared to 
 be "in the air." Except for the intermittent 
 streams of machine-gun fire, and an occasional 
 shrapnel-burst overhead, all was quiet. The ene- 
 my's counter-attack was not yet ready. 
 
 "Now listen carefully," said Angus, who had 
 just finished scribbling a despatch. "First of all, 
 you, Bogle, take this message to the telephone, 
 and get it sent to Company Headquarters. Now 
 you others. We will wait till that machine-gun 
 has fired another belt. Then, the moment it has 
 finished, while they are getting out the next belt, 
 I will dash across to the estaminet over there. 
 M'Snape, you will come with me, but no one else 
 - yet. If the estaminet seems capable of being 
 held, I will signal to you, Sergeant Mucklewame, 
 and you will send your party across, in drib- 
 lets, not forgetting the Lewis gun. By that time 
 I may have located the German machine-gun, 
 so we should be able to knock it out with the 
 Lewis." 
 
 Further speech was cut short by a punctual 
 fantasia from the gun in question. Angus and
 
 204 ALL IN IT 
 
 M'Snape crouched behind the shattered wall, 
 awaiting their chance. The firing ceased. 
 
 "Now!" whispered Angus. 
 
 Next moment officer and corporal were flying 
 across the open, and before the mechanical Boche 
 gunner could jerk the new belt into position, both 
 had found sanctuary within the open doorway of 
 the half-ruined estaminet. 
 
 Nay, more than both; for as the panting pah* 
 flung themselves into shelter, a third figure, short 
 and stout, in an ill-fitting kilt, tumbled heavily 
 through the doorway after them. Simultaneously 
 a stream of machine-gun bullets went storming 
 past. 
 
 "Just hi tune!" observed Angus, well pleased. 
 "Bogle, what are you doing here?" 
 
 "I was given tae unnerstand, sirr," replied 
 Mr. Bogle calmly, "when I jined the regiment, 
 that in action an officer's servant stands by his 
 officer." 
 
 "That is true," conceded Angus; "but you 
 had no right to follow me against orders. Did 
 you not hear me say that no one but Corporal 
 M'Snape was to come?" 
 
 "No, sirr. I doubt I was away at the 'phone." 
 
 "Well, now you are here, wait inside this door- 
 way, where you can see Sergeant Mucklewame's 
 party, and look out for signals. M'Snape, let us 
 find that machine-gun." 
 
 The pair made then* way to the hitherto 
 blind side of the building, and cautiously peeped 
 through a much-perforated shutter hi the living- 
 room.
 
 THE LAST SOLO 205 
 
 "Do you see it, sirr?" inquired M'Snape 
 eagerly. 
 
 Angus chuckled. 
 
 "See it? Fine! It is right in the open, in the 
 middle of the street. Look!" 
 
 He relinquished his peep-hole. The German 
 machine-gun was mounted in the street itself, 
 behind an improvised barrier of bricks and sand- 
 bags. It was less than a hundred yards away, 
 sited in a position which, though screened from 
 the view of Angus's platoon farther down, en- 
 abled it to sweep all the ground in front of the 
 position. This it was now doing with great inten- 
 sity, for the brief public appearance of Angus and 
 M'Snape had effectually converted intermittent 
 into continuous fire. 
 
 "We must get the Lewis gun over at once," 
 muttered Angus. "It can knock that breastwork 
 to pieces." 
 
 He crossed the house again, to see if any of 
 Mucklewame's men had arrived. 
 
 They had not. The man with the Lewis gun 
 was lying dead halfway across the street, with his 
 precious weapon on the ground beside him. Two 
 other men, both wounded, were crawling back 
 whence they came, taking what cover they could 
 from the storm of bullets which whizzed a few 
 inches over their flinching bodies. 
 
 Angus hastily semaphored to Mucklewame to 
 hold his men in check for the present. Then he 
 returned to the other side of the house. 
 
 "How many men are serving that gun?" he 
 said to M'Snape. "Can you see?"
 
 206 ALL IN IT 
 
 "Only two, sirr, I think. I cannot see them, 
 but that wee breastwork will not cover more than 
 a couple of men." 
 
 "Mphm," observed Angus thoughtfully. "I 
 expect they have been left behind to hold on. 
 Have you a bomb about you?" 
 
 The admirable M'Snape produced from his 
 pocket a Mills grenade, and handed it to his 
 superior. 
 
 " Just the one, sirr," he said. 
 
 "Go you," commanded Angus, his voice rising 
 to a more than usually Highland inflection, "and 
 semaphore to Mucklewame that when he hears 
 the explosion of this" he pulled out the safety- 
 phi of the grenade and gripped the grenade itself 
 in his enormous paw "followed, probably, by 
 the temporary cessation of the machine-gun, he 
 is to bring his men over here hi a bunch, as hard 
 as they can pelt. Put it as briefly as you can, but 
 make sure he understands. He has a good signal- 
 ler with him. Send Bogle to report when you 
 have finished. Now repeat what I have said to 
 you. . . . That's right. Carry on!" 
 
 M'Snape was gone. Angus, left alone, pensively 
 restored the safety-pin to the grenade, and laid 
 the grenade upon the ground beside him. Then 
 he proceeded to write a brief letter hi his field 
 message-book. This he placed in an envelope 
 which he took from his breast pocket. The enve- 
 lope was already addressed to the Reverend 
 Neil M'Lachlan, The Manse, in a very remote 
 Highland village. (Angus had no mother.) He 
 closed the envelope, initialled it, and buttoned
 
 THE LAST SOLO 207 
 
 it up in his breast pocket again. After that he 
 took up his grenade and proceeded to make a 
 further examination of the premises. Presently 
 he found what he wanted; and by the time Bogle 
 arrived to announce that Sergeant Mucklewame 
 had signalled "message understood," his arrange- 
 ments were complete. 
 
 "Stay by this small hole in the wall, Bogle," he 
 said, "and the moment the Lewis gun arrives tell 
 them to mount it here and open fire on the enemy 
 gun." 
 
 He left the room, leaving Bogle alone, to listen 
 to the melancholy rustle of peeling wall-paper 
 within and the steady crackling of bullets with- 
 out. But when, peering through the improvised 
 loop-hole, he next caught sight of his officer, 
 Angus had emerged from the house by the cellar 
 window, and was creeping with infinite caution 
 behind the shelter of what had once been the wall 
 of the estaminet's back-yard (but was now an un- 
 even bank of bricks, averaging two feet high), 
 hi the direction of the German machine-gun. The 
 gun, oblivious of the danger now threatening its 
 right front, continued to fire steadily and hope- 
 fully down the street. 
 
 Slowly, painfully, Angus crawled on, until he 
 found himself within the right angle formed by 
 the corner of the yard. He could go no further 
 without being seen. Between him and the Ger- 
 man gun lay the cobbled surface of the street, 
 offering no cover whatsoever except one mighty 
 shell-crater, situated midway between Angus 
 and the gun, and full to the brim with rainwater.
 
 208 ALL IN IT 
 
 A single peep over the wall gave him his bear- 
 ings. The gun was too far away to be reached by 
 a grenade, even when thrown by Angus M'Lach- 
 lan. Still, it would create a diversion. It was a 
 time bomb. He would 
 
 He stretched out his long arm to its full extent 
 behind him, gave one mighty overarm sweep, and 
 with all the crackling strength of his mighty sm- 
 ews, hurled the grenade. 
 
 It fell into the exact centre of the flooded shell- 
 crater. 
 
 Angus said something under his breath which 
 would have shocked a disciple of Kultur. Fortu- 
 nately the two German gunners did not hear him. 
 But they observed the splash fifty yards away, 
 and it relieved them from ennui, for they were 
 growing tired of firing at nothing. They had not 
 seen the grenade thrown, and were a little puz- 
 zled as to the cause of the phenomenon. 
 
 Four seconds later then* curiosity was more 
 than satisfied. With a muffled roar, the shell-hole 
 suddenly spouted its liquid contents and other 
 debris straight to the heavens, startling them con- 
 siderably and entirely obscuring their vision. 
 
 A moment later, with an exultant yell, Angus 
 M'Lachlan was upon them. He sprang into their 
 vision out of the descending cascade a tower- 
 ing, terrible, kilted figure, bare-headed and Ber- 
 serk mad. He was barely forty yards away. 
 
 Initiative is not the forte of the Teuton. Num- 
 ber One of the German gun mechanically tra- 
 versed his weapon four degrees to the right and 
 continued to press the thumb-piece. Mud and
 
 THE LAST SOLO 209 
 
 splinters of brick sprang up round Angus's feet; 
 but still he came on. He was not twenty yards 
 away now. The gunner, beginning to boggle be- 
 tween waiting and bolting, fumbled at his ele- 
 vating gear, but Angus was right on him before 
 his thumbs got back to work. Then indeed the 
 gun spoke out with no uncertain voice, for per- 
 haps two seconds. After that it ceased fire alto- 
 gether. 
 
 Almost simultaneously there came a trium- 
 phant roar lower down the street, as Mucklewame 
 and his followers dashed obliquely across into the 
 estaminet. Mucklewame himself was carrying the 
 derelict Lewis gun. In the doorway stood the 
 watchful M'Snape. 
 
 "This way, quick! " he shouted. " We have the 
 Gairman gun spotted, and the officer is needing 
 the Lewis!" 
 
 But M'Snape was wrong. The Lewis was not 
 required. 
 
 A few moments later, in the face of brisk snip- 
 ing from the houses higher up the street, James 
 Bogle, officer's servant, a member of that de- 
 spised class which, according to the Bandar-log 
 at home, spend the whole of its time pressing 
 its master's trousers and smoking his cigarettes 
 somewhere back in billets, led out a stretcher 
 party to the German gun. Number One had been 
 killed by a shot from Angus's revolver. Num- 
 ber Two had adopted Hindenburg tactics, and 
 was no more to be seen. Angus himself was 
 lying, stone dead, a yard from the muzzle of
 
 210 ALL IN IT 
 
 the gun which he, single-handed, had put out of 
 action. 
 
 His men carried him back to the Estaminet aux 
 Bons Fermiers, with the German gun, which was 
 afterwards employed to good purpose during the 
 desperate days of attacking and counter-attack- 
 ing which ensued before the village was finally 
 secured. They laid him hi the inner room, and 
 proceeded to put the estaminet in a state of de- 
 fence ready to hold the same against all comers 
 until such time as the relieving Division should 
 take over, and they themselves be enabled, under 
 the kindly cloak of darkness, to carry back their 
 beloved officer to a more worthy resting-place. 
 
 In the left-hand breast pocket of Angus's tunic 
 they found his last letter to his father. Two Ger- 
 man machine-gun bullets had passed through it. 
 It was forwarded with a covering letter, by 
 Colonel Kemp. In the letter Angus's command- 
 ing officer informed Neil M'Lachlan that his son 
 had been recommended posthumously for the 
 highest honour that the King bestows upon his 
 soldiers. 
 
 But for the moment Mucklewame's little band 
 had other work to occupy them. Shelling had 
 recommenced; the enemy were mustering in 
 force behind the village; and presently a series of 
 counter-attacks were launched. They were suc- 
 cessfully repelled, in the first instance by the re- 
 mainder of "A" Company, led in person by 
 Bobby Little, and, when the final struggle came, 
 by the Battalion Reserve under Major Wagstaffe.
 
 THE LAST SOLO 211 
 
 And throughout the whole grim struggle which 
 ensued, the Estaminet aux Bons Fermiers, ten- 
 anted by some of our oldest friends, proved itself 
 the head and corner of the successful defence.
 
 XII 
 
 RECESSIONAL 
 I 
 
 Two steamers lie at opposite sides of the dock. 
 One is painted a most austere and unobtrusive 
 grey; she is obviously a vessel with no desire to 
 advertise her presence on the high seas. In other 
 words, a transport. The other is dazzling white, 
 ornamented with a good deal of green, supple- 
 mented by red. She makes an attractive picture 
 in the early morning sun. Even by night you 
 could not miss her, for she goes about her business 
 with her entire hull outlined in red lights, regatta 
 fashion, with a great luminous Red Cross blazing 
 on either counter. Not even the Commander of a 
 U-boat could mistake her for anything but what 
 she is a hospital ship. 
 
 First, let us walk round to where the grey ship is 
 discharging her cargo. The said cargo consists of 
 about a thousand unwounded German prisoners. 
 
 With every desire to be generous to a fallen 
 foe, it is quite impossible to describe them as 
 a prepossessing lot. Not one man walks like a 
 soldier; they shamble. Naturally, they are dirty 
 and unshaven. So are the wounded men on the 
 white ship: but their outstanding characteristic 
 is an invincible humanity. Beneath the mud 
 and blood they are men white men. But this 
 strange throng are grey like their ship. With
 
 RECESSIONAL 213 
 
 their shifty eyes and curiously shaped heads, they 
 look like nothing human. They move like over- 
 driven beasts. We realise now why it is that the 
 German Army has to attack in mass. 
 
 They pass down the gangway, and are shep- 
 hered into form in the dock shed by the Embarka- 
 tion Staff, with exactly the same silent briskness 
 that characterises the R.A.M.C., over the way. 
 Their guard, with fixed bayonets, exhibit no more 
 or no less concern over them than over half-a- 
 dozen Monday morning malefactors paraded for 
 Orderly Room. Presently they will move off, pos- 
 sibly through the streets of the town; probably 
 they will pass by folk against whose kith and kin 
 they have employed every dirty trick possible hi 
 warfare. But there will be no demonstration: 
 there never has been. As a nation we possess a 
 certain number of faults, on which we like to 
 dwell. But we have one virtue at least we 
 possess a certain sense of proportion; and we are 
 not disposed to make subordinates suffer because 
 we cannot, as yet, get at the principals. 
 
 They make a good haul. Fifteen German regi- 
 ments are here represented possibly more, for 
 some have torn off their shoulder-straps to avoid 
 identification. Some of the units are thinly rep- 
 resented; others more generously. One famous 
 Prussian regiment appears to have thrown its 
 hand hi to the extent of about five hundred. 
 
 Still, as they stand there, filthy, forlorn, and 
 dazed, one suddenly realises the extreme appro- 
 priateness of a certain reference in the Litany to 
 All Prisoners and Captives.
 
 214 ALL IN IT 
 
 We turn to the hospital ship. 
 
 Two great 'brows/ or covered gangways, con- 
 nect her with her native land. Down these the 
 stretchers are beginning to pass, having been 
 raised from below decks by cunning mechanical 
 devices which cause no jar; and are being con- 
 veyed into the cool shade of the dock-shed. Here 
 they are laid hi neat rows upon the platform, 
 ready for transfer to the waiting hospital train. 
 Everything is a miracle of quietness and order. 
 The curious public are afar off, held aloof by 
 dock-gates. (They are there hi force to-day, 
 partly to cheer the hospital trains as they pass 
 out, partly for reasons connected with the grey- 
 painted ship.) In the dock-shed, organisation 
 and method reign supreme. The work has been 
 going on without intermission for several days 
 and nights; and still the great ships come. The 
 Austurias is outside, waiting for a place at the 
 dock. The Lanfranc is half-way across the Eng- 
 lish Channel; and there are rumours that the 
 mighty Britannic * has selected this, the busiest 
 moment in the opening fortnight of the Somme 
 Battle, to arrive with a miscellaneous and irrele- 
 vant cargo of sick and wounded from the Medi- 
 terranean. But there is no fuss. The R.A.M.C. 
 Staff Officers, unruffled and cheery, control every- 
 thing, apparently by a crook of the finger. The 
 stretcher-bearers do their work with silent aplomb. 
 
 1 These three hospital ships were all subsequently sunk by 
 German submarines.
 
 RECESSIONAL 215 
 
 The occupants of the stretchers possess the 
 almost universal feature of a six days' beard 
 always excepting those who are of an age which is 
 not troubled by such manly accretions. They lie 
 very still not with the stillness of exhaustion 
 or dejection, but with the comfortable resignation 
 of men who have made good and have suffered in 
 the process; but who now, with their troubles well 
 behind them, are enduring present discomfort un- 
 der the sustaining prospect of clean beds, chicken 
 diet, and ultimate tea-parties. Such as possess 
 them are wearing Woodbine stumps upon the 
 lower lip. 
 
 They are quite ready to compare notes. Let us ap- 
 proach, and listen to a heavily bandaged gentle- 
 man who so the label attached to him informs 
 us is Private Blank, of the Manchesters, suffering 
 from three "G.S. " machine-gun bullet wounds. 
 
 "Did the Fritzes run? Yes they run all 
 right! The last lot saved us trouble by running 
 towards us with their 'ands up ! But their ma- 
 chine-guns they gave us fair 'Amlet till we got 
 across No Man's Land. After that we used the 
 baynit, and they did n't give us no more vexa- 
 tiousness. Where did we go in? Oh, near Albert. 
 Our objective was Mary's Court, or some such 
 place." (It is evident that the Battle of the 
 Somme is going to add some fresh household 
 words to our war vocabulary. 'Wipers' is a vet- 
 eran by this time: 'Plugstreet,' 'Booloo,' and 
 'Armintears' are old friends. We must now 
 make room for ' Monty Ban,' ' La Bustle,' 'Mucky 
 Farm/ 'Lousy Wood,' and 'Martinpush.')
 
 216 ALL IN IT 
 
 "What were your prisoners like?" 
 
 "'Alf clemmed," said the man from Man- 
 chester. 
 
 "No rations for three days," explained a 
 Northumberland Fusilier close by. One of his 
 arms was strapped to his side, but the other still 
 clasped to his bosom a German helmet. A Brit- 
 ish Tommy will cheerfully shed a limb or two in 
 the execution of his duty, but not all the might 
 and majesty of the Royal Army Medical Corps 
 can force him to relinquish a fairly earned 'sou- 
 venir.' In fact, owing to certain unworthy sus- 
 picions as to the true significance of the initials, 
 "R.A.M.C.," he has been known to refuse chloro- 
 form. 
 
 "They could n't get nothing up to them for 
 four days, on account of our artillery fire," he 
 added contentedly. 
 
 "'Barrage,' my lad! "amended a rather supe- 
 rior person with a lance-corporal's stripe and a 
 bandaged foot. 
 
 Indeed, all are unanimous in afiirming that 
 our artillery preparation was a tremendous affair. 
 Listen to this group of officers sunning themselves 
 upon the upper deck. They are 'walking cases,' 
 and must remain on board, with what patience 
 they may, until all the 'stretcher cases' have 
 been evacuated. 
 
 "Loos was child's play to it," says one a 
 member of a certain immortal, or at least irre- 
 pressible Division which has taken part in every 
 outburst of international unpleasantness since the 
 Marne. "The final hour was absolute pandemo-
 
 RECESSIONAL 217 
 
 nium. And when our new trench-mortar batter- 
 ies got to work too, at sixteen to the dozen, 
 well, it was bad enough for us; but what it 
 must have been like at the business end of things, 
 Lord knows! For a few minutes I was almost a 
 pro-Boche!" 
 
 Other items of intelligence are gleaned. The 
 weather was 'rotten': mud-caked garments cor- 
 roborate this statement. The wire, on the whole, 
 was well and truly cut to pieces everywhere; 
 though there were spots at which the enemy con- 
 trived to repair it. Finally, ninety per cent of the 
 casualties during the assault were due to machine- 
 gun fire. 
 
 But the fact most clearly elicited by casual con- 
 versation is this that the more closely you en- 
 gage in a battle, the less you know about its prog- 
 ress. This ship is full of officers and men who 
 were in the thick of things for perhaps forty-eight 
 hours on end, but who are quite likely to be ut- 
 terly ignorant of what was going on round the 
 next traverse in the trench which they had occu- 
 pied. The wounded Gunners are able to give 
 them a good deal of information. One F.0.0. saw 
 the French advance. 
 
 "It was wonderful to see them go in," he said. 
 "Our Batteries were on the extreme right of the 
 British line, so we were actually touching the 
 French left flank. I had met hundreds of poilus 
 back in billets, in cafes, and the like. To look at 
 them strolling down a village street in their baggy 
 uniforms, with their hands in their pockets, laugh- 
 ing and chatting to the children, you would never
 
 218 ALL IN IT 
 
 have thought they were such tigers. I remember 
 one big fellow a few weeks ago, home on leave 
 permission who used to frisk about with a big 
 umbrella under his arm! I suppose that was to 
 keep the rain off his tin hat. But when they went 
 for Maricourt the other day, there were n't many 
 umbrellas about only bayonets! I tell you, 
 they were marvels!" 
 
 It would be interesting to hear the poilu on his 
 Allies. 
 
 The first train moves off, and another takes its 
 place. The long lines of stretchers are thinning 
 out now. There are perhaps a hundred left. 
 They contain men of all units English, Scot- 
 tish, and Irish. There are Gunners, Sappers, and 
 Infantry. Here and there among them you may 
 note bloodstained men in dirty grey uniforms 
 men with dull, expressionless faces and closely 
 cropped heads. They are tended with exactly the 
 same care as the others. Where wounded men 
 are concerned, the British Medical Service is 
 strictly neutral. 
 
 A wounded Corporal of the R.A.M.C. turns his 
 head and gazes thoughtfully at one of those grey 
 men. 
 
 "You understand English, Fritz?" he en- 
 quires. 
 
 Apparently not. Fritz continues to stare wood- 
 enly at the roof of the dock-shed. 
 
 "I should like to tell 'im a story, Jock," says 
 the Corporal to his other neighbour. "My job is 
 on a hospital train. 'Alf-a-dozen 'Un aeroplanes 
 made a raid behind our lines; and seeing a beauti-
 
 RECESSIONAL 219 
 
 ful Red Cross train it was a new London and 
 North Western train, chocolate and white, with 
 red crosses as plain as could be well, they sim- 
 ply could n't resist such a target as that ! One of 
 their machines swooped low down and dropped 
 his bombs on us. Luckily he only got the rear 
 coach; but I happened to be in it! D' yer 'ear 
 that, Fritz? " 
 
 "I doot he canna unnerstand onything," re- 
 marked the Highlander. "He's fair demoralised, 
 like the rest. D' ye ken what happened tae me? 
 I was gaun' back wounded, with this "he indi- 
 cates an arm strapped close to his side "and 
 there was six Fritzes came crawlin' oot o' a dug- 
 oot, and gave themselves up tae me me, that 
 was gaun' back wounded, withoot so much as my 
 j ack-knif e ! Demorralised that 's it ! " 
 
 "Did you 'ear," enquired a Cockney who came 
 next in the line, " that all wounded are going to 
 'ave a nice little gold stripe to wear a stripe 
 for every wound?" 
 
 There was much interest at this. 
 
 " That '11 be fine," observed a man of Kent, 
 who had been out since Mons, and been wounded 
 three times. "Folks '11 know now that I'm not 
 a Derby recruit." 
 
 "Where will us wear it?" enquired a gigantic 
 Yorkshireman, from the next stretcher. 
 
 "Wherever you was 'it, lad!" replied the Cock- 
 ney humourist. 
 
 "At that rate," comes the rueful reply, "I shall 
 'ave to stand oop to show mine!"
 
 220 ALL IN IT 
 
 in 
 
 But now R.A.M.C. orderlies are at hand, and 
 the symposium comes to an end. The stretchers 
 are conveyed one by one into the long open 
 coaches of the train, and each patient is slipped 
 sideways, with gentleness and dispatch, into his 
 appointed cot. 
 
 One saloon is entirely filled with officers the 
 severe cases in the cots, the rest sitting where 
 they can. A newspaper is passed round. There 
 are delighted exclamations, especially from a sec- 
 ond lieutenant whose features appear to be held 
 together entirely by strips of plaster. Such parts 
 of the countenance as can be discerned are smiling 
 broadly. 
 
 "I knew we were doing well," says the ban- 
 daged one, devouring the headlines; "but I never 
 knew we were doing as well as this. Official, too! 
 Somme Battle what? Sorry! I apologise!" as 
 a groan ran round the saloon. 
 
 "Nevermind," said an unshaven officer, with 
 a twinkling eye, and a major's tunic wrapped 
 loosely around him. "I expect that jest will be 
 overworked by more people than you for the next 
 few weeks. Does anybody happen to know where 
 this train is going to?" 
 
 "West of England, somewhere, I believe," re- 
 plied a voice. 
 
 There was an indignant groan from various 
 north countrymen. 
 
 "I suppose it is quite impossible to sort us 
 all out at a time like this," remarked a plaintive
 
 RECESSIONAL 221 
 
 Caledonian in an upper cot; "but I fail to see 
 why the R.A.M.C. authorities should go through 
 the mockery of asking every man in the train 
 where he wants to be taken, when the train 
 can obviously only go to one place or perhaps 
 two. I was asked. I said ' Edinburgh'; and the 
 medical wallah said, 'Righto! We'll send you 
 to Bath!'" 
 
 "I think I can explain," remarked the wounded 
 major. "These trains usually go to two places - 
 one half to Bath, the other, say, to Exeter. Bath 
 is nearer to Edinburgh than Exeter, so they send 
 you there. It is kindly meant, but " 
 
 "I say," croaked a voice from another cot, 
 its owner was a young officer who must just have 
 escaped being left behind at a Base hospital as 
 too dangerously wounded to move, "is that a 
 newspaper down there? Would some one have 
 a look, and tell me if we have got Longueval all 
 right? Longueval? Long I got pipped, and 
 don't quite " 
 
 The wounded major turned his head quickly. 
 
 "Hallo, Bobby!" he observed cheerfully. 
 "That you? I did n't notice you before." 
 
 Bobby Little's hot eyes turned slowly on Wag- 
 staffe, and he exclaimed feverishly: 
 
 "Hallo, Major! Cheeroh! Did we stick to 
 Longueval all right? I 've been dreaming about it 
 a bit, and " 
 
 "We did," replied Wagstaffe "thanks to 
 'A' Company." 
 
 Bobby Little's head fell back on the pillow, 
 and he remarked contentedly:
 
 222 ALL IN IT 
 
 "Thanks awfully. I think I can sleep a bit 
 now. So long! See you later!" 
 
 His eyes closed, and he sighed happily, as the 
 long train slid out from the platform.
 
 XIII 
 
 "TWO OLD SOLDIERS, BROKEN IN THE WARS " 
 
 THE smoking-room of the Britannia Club used to 
 be exactly like the smoking-room of every other 
 London Club. That is to say, members lounged 
 about in deep chairs, and talked shop, or scandal 
 or slumbered. At any moment you might 
 touch a convenient bell, and a waiter would ap- 
 pear at your elbow, like a jinnee from a jar, and 
 accept an order with silent deference. You could 
 do this all day, and the jinnee never failed to hear 
 and obey. 
 
 That was before the war. Now, those idyllic 
 days are gone. So is the waiter. So is the efficacy 
 of the bell. You may ring, but all that will ma- 
 terialise is a self-righteous little girl, in brass but- 
 tons, who will shake her head reprovingly and 
 refer you to certain passages in the Defence of the 
 Realm Act. 
 
 Towards the hour of six-thirty, however, some- 
 thing of the old spirit of Liberty asserts itself. 
 A throng of members chiefly elderly gentlemen 
 in expanded uniforms assembles in the smok- 
 ing-room, occupying all the chairs, and even 
 overflowing on to the tables and window-sills. 
 They are not the discursive, argumentative gath- 
 ering of three years ago. They sit silent, rest- 
 less, glancing furtively at their wrist-watches. 
 
 The clocks of London strike half-past six. 
 Simultaneously the door of the smoking-room is
 
 224 ALL IN IT 
 
 thrown open, and a buxom young woman in cap 
 and apron bounces in. She smiles maternally 
 upon her fainting flock, and announces : 
 
 "The half -hour's gone. Now you can all have 
 a drink!" 
 
 What would have happened if the waiter of old 
 had done this thing, it is difficult to imagine. But 
 the elderly gentlemen greet their Hebe with a 
 chorus of welcome, and clamour for precedence 
 like children at a school-feast. And yet trusting 
 wives believe that in his club, at least, a man is 
 safe! 
 
 Major Wagstaffe, D.S.O., having been absent 
 from London upon urgent public affairs for nearly 
 three years, was not well versed in the newest re- 
 finements of club life. He had arrived that morn- 
 ing from his Convalescent Home in the west 
 country, and had already experienced a severe 
 reverse at the hands of the small girl with brass 
 buttons on venturing to order a sherry and bit- 
 ters at 11.45 A.M. Consequently, at the statutory 
 hour, his voice was not uplifted with the rest; 
 and he was served last. Not least, however; for 
 Hebe, observing his empty sleeve, poured out his 
 soda-water with her own fair hands, and offered 
 to light his cigarette. 
 
 This scene of dalliance was interrupted by the 
 arrival of Captain Bobby Little. He wore the 
 ribbon of the Military Cross and walked with a 
 stick a not unusual combination in these great 
 days. Wagstaffe made room for him upon the 
 leather sofa, and Hebe supplied his modest wants 
 with an indulgent smile.
 
 TWO OLD SOLDIERS 225 
 
 An autumn and a winter had passed since the 
 attack on Longueval. From July until the De- 
 cember floods, the great battle had raged. The 
 New Armies, supplied at last with abundant mu- 
 nitions, a seasoned Staff, and a concerted plan of 
 action, had answered the question propounded 
 in a previous chapter in no uncertain fashion. 
 Through Longueval and Delville Wood, where the 
 graves of the Highlanders and South Africans now 
 lie thick, through Flers and Martinpuich, through 
 Pozieres and Courcelette, they had fought their 
 way, till they had reached the ridge, with High 
 Wood at its summit, which the Boche, not alto- 
 gether unreasonably, had regarded as impreg- 
 nable. The tide had swirled over the crest, down 
 the reverse slope, and up at last to the top of that 
 bloodstained knoll of chalk known as the Butte de 
 Warlencourt. There the Hun threw hi his hand. 
 With much loud talk upon the subject of victori- 
 ous retirements and Hindenburg Lines, he with- 
 drew himself to a region far east of Bapaume; 
 with the result that now some thousand square 
 miles of the soil of France had been restored once 
 and for all to their rightful owners. 
 
 But Bobby and Wagstaffe had not been there. 
 All during the autumn and whiter they had lain 
 softly in hospital, enjoying their first rest for two 
 years. Wagstaffe had lost his left arm and gained 
 a decoration. Bobby, in addition to his Cross, had 
 incurred a cracked crown and a permanently 
 shortened leg. But both were well content. They 
 had done their bit and something over; and 
 they had emerged from the din of war with their
 
 226 ALL IN IT 
 
 lives, their health, and their reason. A man who 
 can achieve that feat in this war can count him- 
 self fortunate. 
 
 Now, passed by a Medical Board as fit for 
 Home Service, they had said farewell to their 
 Convalescent Home and come to London to learn 
 what fate Olympus held in store for them. 
 
 "Where have you been all day, Bobby?" en- 
 quired Wagstaffe, as they sat down to dinner an 
 hour later. 
 
 "Down in Kent," replied Bobby briefly. 
 
 "Very well: I will not probe the matter. Been 
 to the War Office?" 
 
 "Yes. I was there this morning. I am to be 
 Adjutant of a Cadet school, at Great Snoreham. 
 What sort of a job is that likely to be?" 
 
 "On the whole," replied Wagstaffe, "a Fairy 
 Godmother Department job. It might have been 
 very much worse. You are thoroughly up to the 
 Adjutant business, Bobby, and of course the 
 young officers under you will be immensely im- 
 pressed by your game leg and bit of ribbon. A 
 very sound appointment." 
 
 "What are they going to do with you?" asked 
 Bobby in his turn. 
 
 "I am to command our Reserve Battalion, with 
 acting rank of Lieutenant-Colonel. Think of that, 
 my lad! They have confirmed you in your rank 
 as Captain, I suppose?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Good! The only trouble is that you will be 
 stationed in the South of England and I in the 
 North of Scotland; so we shall not see quite so
 
 TWO OLD SOLDIERS 227 
 
 much of one another as of late. However, we must 
 get together occasionally, and split a tin of bully 
 for old times' sake." 
 
 "Bully? By gum!" said Bobby thoughtfully. 
 "I have almost forgotten what it tastes like. 
 (Fried sole, please; then roast lamb.) Eight 
 months in hospital do wash out certain remem- 
 brances." 
 
 "But not all," said Wagstaffe. 
 
 "No, not all. I I wonder how our chaps are 
 getting on, over there." 
 
 "The regiment?" 
 
 "Yes. It is so hard to get definite news." 
 
 "They were in the Arras show. Did better 
 than ever; but well, they required a big draft 
 afterwards." 
 
 "The third time!" sighed Bobby. "Did any 
 one write to you about it?" 
 
 "Yes. Who do you think?" 
 
 "Some one in the regiment?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I did n't know there were any of the old lot 
 left. Who was it?" 
 
 "Mucklewame." 
 
 "Mucklewame? You mean to say the Boche 
 has n't got him yet? It's like missing Rheims 
 Cathedral." 
 
 ' ' Yes, they got him at Arras. Mucklewame is in 
 hospital. Fortunately his chief wound is in the 
 head, so he's doing nicely. Here is his letter." 
 
 Bobby took the pencilled screed, and read :
 
 228 ALL IN IT 
 
 Wagstaffe, 
 
 Sir, I take up my pen for to inform you that I 
 am now in hospital in Glasgow, having become a 
 cassuality on the 18th inst. 
 
 I was struck on the head by the nose-cap of a Ger- 
 man shell (now in the possession of my guidwife). 
 Unfortunately I was wearing one of they steel hel- 
 mets at the time, with the result that I sustained 
 a serious scalp-wound, also very bad concussion. 
 I have never had a liking for they helmets anyway. 
 
 The old regiment did fine in the last attack. They 
 were specially mentioned in Orders next day. The 
 objective was reached under heavy fire and position 
 consolidated before we were relieved next morning. 
 
 "Good boys!" interpolated Bobby softly. 
 
 Colonel Carmichael, late of the Second Battn., I 
 think, is now in command. A very nice gentleman, 
 but we have all been missing you and the Captain. 
 
 They tell me that I will be for home service after 
 this. My head is doing well, but the muscules of my 
 right leg is badly torn. I should have liked fine for 
 to have stayed out and come home with the other boys 
 when we are through with Berlin. 
 
 Having no more to say, sir, I will now draw to a 
 close. 
 
 Jos. Mucklewame, 
 C.S.M. 
 
 After the perusal of this characteristic Ave 
 atque Vale! the two friends adjourned to the bal- 
 cony, overlooking the Green Park. Here they lit 
 their cigars in reminiscent silence, while neigh-
 
 TWO OLD SOLDIERS 229 
 
 bouring search-lights raked the horizon for Zep- 
 pelins which no longer came. It was a moment 
 for confidences. 
 
 "Old Mucklewame is like the rest of us," said 
 Wagstaffe at last. 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " Wanting to go back, and all that. I do too 
 just because I 'm here, I suppose. A year ago, out 
 there, my chief ambition was to get home, with a 
 comfortable wound and a comfortable conscience." 
 
 "Same here," admitted Bobby. 
 
 "It was the same with practically every one," 
 said Wagstaffe. "If any man asserts that he 
 really enjoys modern warfare, after, say, six 
 months of it, he is a liar. In the South African 
 show I can honestly say I was perfectly happy. 
 We were fighting in open country, against an 
 adversary who was a gentleman; and although 
 there was plenty of risk, the chances were that 
 one came through all right. At any rate, there 
 was no poison gas, and one did not see a whole 
 platoon blown to pieces, or buried alive, by a sin- 
 gle shell. If Brother Boer took you prisoner, he did 
 not stick you in the stomach with a saw-edged 
 bayonet. At the worst he pinched your trousers. 
 But Brother Boche is a different proposition. 
 Since he butted in, war has descended in the 
 social scale. And modern scientific developments 
 have turned a sporting chance of being scuppered 
 into a mathematical certainty. And yet and 
 yet old Mucklewame is right. One hates to be 
 out of it especially at the finish. When the regi- 
 ment comes stumping through London on its way
 
 230 ALL IN IT 
 
 back to Euston next year, or whenever it 's 
 going to be with their ragged pipers leading 
 the way, you would like to be at the head of 'A 7 
 Company, Bobby, and I would give something to 
 be exercising my old function of whipper-in. Eh, 
 boy?" 
 
 "Never mind," said practical Bobby. "Per- 
 haps we shall be on somebody's glittering Staff. 
 What I hate to feel at present is that the other 
 fellows, out there, have got to go on sticking it, 
 while we " 
 
 "And by God," exclaimed Wagstaffe, "what 
 stickers they are and were! Did you ever see 
 anything so splendid, Bobby, as those six-months- 
 old soldiers of ours in the early days, I mean, 
 when we held our trenches, week by week, under 
 continuous bombardment, and our gunners be- 
 hind could only help us with four or five rounds a 
 day?" 
 
 "I never did," said Bobby, truthfully. 
 
 "I admit to you," continued Wagstaffe, "that 
 when I found myself pitchforked into 'K (1)' 
 at the outbreak of the war, instead of getting 
 back to my old line battalion, I was a pretty sick 
 man. I hated everybody. I was one of the old 
 school or liked to think I was and the ways 
 of the new school were not my ways. I hated the 
 new officers. Some of them bullied the men; some 
 of them allowed themselves to be bullied by 
 N.C.O.'s. Some never gave or returned salutes, 
 others went about saluting everybody. Some came 
 into Mess in fancy dress of their own design, and 
 elbowed senior officers off the hearthrug. I used
 
 TWO OLD SOLDIERS 231 
 
 to marvel at the Colonel's patience with them. 
 But many of them are dead now, Bobby, and 
 they nearly all made good. Then the men! After 
 ten years in the regular Army I hated them all 
 the way they lounged, the way they dressed, the 
 way they sat, the way they spat. I wondered 
 how I could ever go on living with them. And 
 now I find myself wondering how I am ever 
 going to live without them. We shall not see their 
 like again. The new lot present lot are 
 splendid fellows. They are probably better sol- 
 diers. Certainly they are more uniformly trained. 
 But there was a piquancy about our old scamps in 
 'K (1)' that was unique priceless something 
 the world will never see again." 
 
 "I don't know," said Bobby thoughtfully. 
 "That Cockney regiment which lay beside us at 
 Albert last summer was a pretty priceless lot. 
 Do you remember a pair of fat fellows in their 
 leading platoon? We called them Fortnum and 
 Mason!" 
 
 "I do particularly Fortnum. Go on!" 
 "Well, their bit of trench was being shelled one 
 day, and Fortnum, who was in number one bay 
 with five other men, kept shouting out to Mason, 
 who was round a traverse and out of sight, to en- 
 quire how he was getting on. 'Are you all right, 
 Bill?' 'Are you sure you're all right, Bill?' 
 ' Are you still all right, Bill? ' and so on. At last 
 Bill, getting fed up with this unusual solicitude, 
 yelled back: 'What's all the anxiety abaht, eh?' 
 And Fortnum put his head round the trav- 
 erse and explained. 'We're getting up a little
 
 232 ALL IN IT 
 
 sweepstake in our bay,' he said, 'abaht the first 
 casuality, and I've drawn you, ole son!" 
 
 Wagstaffe chuckled. 
 
 "That must have been the regiment that had 
 the historic poker party," he said. 
 
 "What yarn was that?" 
 
 "I heard it from the Brigadier four tunes, to 
 be exact. Five men off duty were sitting in a dug- 
 out playing poker. A gentleman named 'Erb had 
 just gone to the limit on his hand, when a rifle- 
 grenade came into the dug-out from somewhere 
 and did him in. While they were waiting for the 
 stretcher-bearers, one of the other players picked 
 up 'Erb's hand and examined it. Then he laid 
 it down again, and said: 'It does n't matter, 
 chaps. Poor 'Erb would n't a made it, anyway. 
 I 'ad four queens. 7 ' 
 
 "Tommy has his own ideas of fun, I'll admit," 
 said Bobby. "Do you remember those first 
 trenches of ours at Festubert? There was a 
 dead Frenchman buried in the parapet you 
 know how they used to bury people in those 
 days?" 
 
 "I did notice it. Go on." 
 
 "Well, this poor chap's hand stuck out, just 
 about four feet from the floor of the trench. My 
 dug-out was only a few yards away, and I never 
 saw a member of my platoon go past that spot 
 without shaking the hand and saying, 'Good- 
 morning, Alphonse!' I had it built up with sand- 
 bags ultimately, and they were quite annoyed!" 
 
 "They have some grisly notions about life and 
 death," agreed Wagstaffe, ' ' but they are extraordi-
 
 TWO OLD SOLDIERS 233 
 
 narily kind to people in trouble, such as wounded 
 men, or prisoners. You can't better them." 
 
 "And now there are five millions of them. 
 We are all in it, at last!" 
 
 "We certainly are men and women. I'm 
 afraid I had hardly realised what our women were 
 doing for us. Being on service all the time, one 
 rather overlooks what is going on at home. But 
 stopping a bullet puts one in the way of a good 
 deal of inside information on that score." 
 
 "You mean hospital work, and so on?" 
 
 "Yes. One meets a lot of wonderful people that 
 way! Sisters, and ward-maids, and V.A.D.'s " 
 
 "I love all V.A.D.'s!" said Bobby, unexpect- 
 edly. 
 
 "Why, my youthful Mormon?" 
 
 "Because they are the people who do all the 
 hard work and get no limelight like like ! " 
 
 "Like Second Lieutenants eh?" 
 
 "Yes, that is the idea. They have a pretty 
 hard time, you know," continued Bobby confiden- 
 tially : ' l And nothing heroic, either. Giving up all 
 the fun that a girl is entitled to; washing dishes; 
 answering the door-bell; running up and down- 
 stairs; eating rotten food. That 's the sort of " 
 
 "What is her name?" enquired the accusing 
 voice of Major Wagstaffe. Then, without wait- 
 ing to extort an answer from the embarrassed 
 Bobby: 
 
 "You are quite right. This war has certainly 
 brought out the best in our women. The South 
 African War brought out the worst. My good- 
 ness, you should have seen the Mount Nelson
 
 234 ALL IN IT 
 
 Hotel at Capetown in those days! But they 
 have been wonderful this time wonderful. I 
 love them all the bus-conductors, the ticket- 
 punchers, the lift-girls one of them nearly shot 
 me right through the roof of Harrod's the other 
 day and the window-cleaners and the page- 
 girls and the railway-portresses! I divide my 
 elderly heart among them. And I met a bunch 
 of munition girls the other day, Bobby, coming 
 iiome from work. They were all young, and most 
 of them were pretty. Their faces and hands were 
 stained a bright orange-colour with picric acid, 
 and will be, I suppose, until the Boche is booted 
 back into his stye. In other words, they had de- 
 liberately sacrificed their good looks for the dura- 
 tion of the war. That takes a bit of doing, I 
 know, innocent bachelor though I am. But bless 
 you, they were n't worrying. They waved their 
 orange-coloured hands to me, and pointed to 
 their orange-coloured faces, and laughed. They 
 were proud of them; they were doing their bit. 
 They nearly made me cry, Bobby. Yes, we are 
 all hi it now; and those of us who come out of it 
 are going to find this old island of ours a wonder- 
 fully changed place to live in." 
 
 "How? Why?" enquired Bobby. Possibly he 
 was interested in Wagstaffe's unusual expansive- 
 ness: possibly he hoped to steer the conversa- 
 tion away from the topic of V.A.D.'s possibly 
 towards it. You never know. 
 
 "Well," said Wagstaffe, "we are all going to 
 understand one another a great deal better after 
 this war."
 
 TWO OLD SOLDIERS 235 
 
 " Who? Labour and Capital, and so on?" 
 "'Labour and Capital' is a meaningless and 
 misleading expression, Bobby. For instance, our 
 men regard people like you and me as Capital- 
 ists; the ordinary Brigade Major regards us as 
 Labourers, and pretty common Labourers at 
 that. It is all a question of degree. But what I 
 mean is this. You can't call your employer a 
 tyrant and an extortioner after he has shared his 
 rations with you and never spared himself over 
 your welfare and comfort through weary months 
 of trench-warfare; neither, when you have experi- 
 enced a working-man's courage and cheerfulness 
 and reliability in the day of battle, can you turn 
 round and call him a loafer and an agitator hi 
 time of peace can you? That is just what the 
 Bandar-log overlook, when they jabber about 
 the dreadful industrial upheaval that is coming 
 with peace. Most of all have they overlooked the 
 fact that with the coming of peace this country 
 will be invaded by several million of the wisest 
 men that she has ever produced the New 
 British Army. That Army will consist of men 
 who have spent three years in getting rid of 
 mutual misapprehensions and assimilating one 
 another's point of view men who went out to 
 the war ignorant and intolerant and insular, and 
 are coming back wise to all the things that really 
 matter. They will flood this old country, and 
 they will make short work of the agitator, and 
 the alarmist, and the profiteer, and all the nasty 
 creatures that merely make a noise instead of 
 doing something, and who crab the work of the
 
 236 ALL IN IT 
 
 Army and Navy more especially the Navy - 
 because there is n't a circus victory of some kind in 
 the paper every morning. Yes, Bobby, when our 
 boys get back, and begin to ask the Bandar-log 
 what they did in the Great War well, it 's going 
 to be a rotten season for Bandar-log generally!" 
 
 There was silence again. Presently Bobby 
 spoke: 
 
 "When our boys get back! Some of them are 
 never coming back again, worse luck!" 
 
 "Still," said Wagstaffe, "what they did was 
 worth doing, and what they died for was worth 
 while. I think their one regret to-day would be 
 that they did not live to see their own fellows 
 taking the offensive the line going forward on 
 the Somme; the old tanks waddling over the 
 Boche trenches; and the Boche prisoners throw- 
 ing up their hands and yowling ' Kamerad ' ! And 
 the Kut unpleasantness cleaned up, and all the 
 kinks in the old Salient straightened out! And 
 Wytchaete and Messines! You remember how 
 the two ridges used to look down into our lines at 
 Wipers and Plugstreet? And now we 're on top of 
 both of them! Some of our friends out there - 
 the friends who are not coming back would 
 have liked to know about that, Bobby. I wish 
 they could, somehow." 
 
 "Perhaps they do," said Bobby simply. 
 
 It was close on midnight. Our "two old soldiers, 
 broken hi the wars," levered themselves stiffly to 
 their feet, and prepared to depart. 
 
 "Heigho!" said Wagstaffe. "It is tune for two
 
 TWO OLD SOLDIERS 237 
 
 old wrecks like us to be in bed. That 's what we 
 are, Bobby wrecks, dodderers, has-beens! But 
 we have had the luck to last longer than most. 
 We have dodged the missiles of the Boche to an 
 extent which justifies us in claiming that we have 
 followed the progress of their war with a rather 
 more than average degree of continuity. Ws were 
 the last of the old crowd, too. Kemp has got his 
 Brigade, young Cockerell has gone to be a Staff 
 Captain, and you and I are here. Some of the 
 others dropped out far too soon. Young Lochgair, 
 oldBlaikie " 
 
 "Waddell, too," said Bobby. "We joined the 
 same day." 
 
 "And Angus M'Lachlan. I think he would 
 have made the finest soldier of the lot of us," 
 added Wagstaffe. "You remember his remark to 
 me, that we only had the bye to play now? He 
 was a true prophet : we are dormy, anyhow. (Only 
 cold feet at Home can let us down now.) And he 
 only saw three months' service! Still, he made a 
 great exit from this world, Bobby, and that is 
 the only thing that matters in these days. Ha! 
 H'm! As our new Allies would say, I am begin- 
 ning to 'pull heart stuff' on you. Let us go to 
 bed. Sleeping here?" 
 
 "Yes, till to-morrow. Then off on leave." 
 
 "How much have you got?" 
 
 "A month. I say?" 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "Are you doing anything on the nineteenth?" 
 
 Wagstaffe regarded his young friend suspi- 
 ciously.
 
 238 ALL IN IT 
 
 "Is this a catch of some kind?" he enquired. 
 
 "Oh, no. Will you be my- ' Bobby turned 
 excessively pink, and completed his request. 
 
 Wagstaffe surveyed him resignedly. 
 
 "We all come to it, I suppose," he observed. 
 "Only some come to it sooner than others. Are 
 you of age, my lad? Have your parents " 
 
 "I'm twenty-two," said Bobby shortly. 
 
 "Will the bridesmaids be pretty?" 
 
 "They are all peaches," replied Bobby, with 
 enthusiasm. "But nothing whatever," he added, 
 in a voice of respectful rapture, "compared with 
 the bride!" 
 
 THE END
 
 CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS 
 U . S . A
 
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 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY, LOS ANGELES 
 
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