The Cornhill Magazine (vol. XLII, no. 247 new series, January 1917)

by Various

INTO GERMANY ON THE EVE OF WAR.

BY W. E. DE B. WHITTAKER.

Early in 1914 there had been various schemes in being with the object of crossing the Atlantic by aeroplane under the terms of a prize offered by a London print. Two alone of these were in any way practicable, one by an English retired naval officer on an aeroplane provided at the expense of an American millionaire, and the other by the late Mr. Gustav Hamel, who was to have flown from Newfoundland on an English aeroplane, and who would have been financed by English money. Mr. Hamel was drowned in the English Channel on May 23, when the arrangements for the great flight were in a very advanced stage. A few weeks later Mr. H. S. Keating came forward and made private arrangements to take over part of the organisation which had been brought together earlier in the year. He intended himself to make the proposed attempt to fly from Newfoundland to Ireland at his own expense. This personal assumption of the burden of the entire cost made the attempt one of pure sport without any hope of gain, as the expenditure must of necessity very greatly exceed the amount of the prize offered.

Harry Sheehy Keating, an Irishman by birth, a one-time subaltern in the Grenadier Guards, had spent a year or two in the United States and in Mexico, during which period he had become an aviator. Of an adventurous disposition, he welcomed any form of sport or daring that would relieve the monotony of existence—before the war.

The selection of an aeroplane on which to make the Atlantic flight was a matter of no little difficulty. We heard that on July 10 Herr Boehm had flown at Johannisthal on an Albatross biplane for twenty-four hours twelve minutes without once alighting. We decided therefore that we would go to Berlin and see what the Albatross Company could do for us.

As we had neither of us travelled in Holland or Germany we determined to motor from the Hook of Holland to Berlin and back. The threat of war which by now filled all the London news sheets we did not believe. ‘Wolf’ had been cried so often. The Sarajevo murder and its immediate results would drift into history in company with Fashoda and Agadir and no blood at all would be spilt.

An accident detained us on the way to Harwich, so that we missed Saturday and Sunday’s boats, and only landed at the Hook in the very early morning of Tuesday, July 27, and at once entered into a fog of mystery which did not lift entirely until we reached the Hague on our return journey on August 5. We neither of us knew a word of the language of either country which we were to visit, and the daily papers contained what were to us merely cabalistic symbols.

We crossed the German frontier a mile or two beyond Oldenzaal and by dinner time we had reached Rheine. Here the weather changed. The sun disappeared and a depressing soft rain began to fall. We dined uncomfortably and wondered a little irritably why the German people should be so excited. We knew no reason.

Anxious to reach Berlin with as little delay as possible we left Rheine after dinner and drove through the darkness and pouring rain and appalling roads towards Osnabruck. We had no windscreen and the hood therefore became valueless. Keating with characteristic determination drove while I crouched in the bottom of the car. Both of us were drenched by the time we reached the Kaiserhof Hotel at Osnabruck and the car was in a pitiful state. We felt that Germany was giving us no adequate welcome. Our host, a man of charming manners, told us that the mobilisation orders were about to be issued, and that shortly the deceitful Russian would be taught a lesson of value. We were asked, a little eagerly, if England would assist, and those who listened were obviously disappointed when we said we thought she would not interfere.

In the morning, as it still rained, we bought a large sheet of celluloid as a substitute for the long-broken windscreen. At a later date we bitterly regretted ever having seen or heard of this celluloid. As the rain still fell we did not leave until the late afternoon, and therefore did not get further than Minden when night fell. Both of us were angry, chiefly owing to Keating’s total inability to read a route in a Continental Guide, which was, in any case, quite inaccurate. Here at Minden, where our ancestors had fought as allies with the Germans in the year of victory, 1759, there were unmistakable signs of approaching war. The hotel (Stadt London) was packed with officers and their families eating a fond farewell lest on the morrow the worst might come. Dinner passed to the clicking of heels and an orgy of ceremonial salutes by officers who were about to bid good-bye to ‘review-order’ for years to come.

In the streets the tramp of the troops, the clatter of horses’ hoofs, and the rumble of iron-shod wheels continued throughout the night. While here we learnt that Austria had on the day before declared war on Serbia, and that soon the Emperor’s eagles would end all Balkan troubles for all time.

On Thursday the weather cleared and the sun shone. We passed through Hanover, where we bought tiny silk flags of the German States with some faint idea of showing the people that we did not really dislike them. In Brunswick we ate sandwiches and drank very dark beer from huge china mugs while we sat in an old oak-panelled hall with a high roof also of oak.

The bridge-keepers in Magdeburg took toll of us as we passed through during the early afternoon in high hopes of reaching the capital early in the evening. The road improved still more and there was but little traffic to detain us. For long stretches our speed never dropped much below sixty miles an hour. The gods seemed to be smiling. We forgot the worries induced by the bad maps and the German food and became for a space almost happy. When ten miles from Brandenburg I tried to pass a large cart on the proper side and promptly ran into it, with disastrous results to one of our front wheels and to both head lamps. After changing the wheel we managed to proceed, only to find when six miles from Potsdam and three miles from the nearest garage that we had no more petrol. At the same time a tyre gently subsided and our troubles were complete. At this point our very frayed tempers collapsed entirely and we each accused the other of being responsible for the existence of Germany and all its ills! Mercifully all troubles come to an end in time and we reached Potsdam before ten o’clock.

The Hotel Stadt Königsberg where we stayed was also full of officers and those dependent on them. A curious note of suppressed excitement was obvious to strangers like ourselves, though at the time we were quite unable to account for it. Serbia was surely too small to affect the German officer caste to such an extent.

The next day, July 31, a Friday, we left the car under repair at a garage in Potsdam and went by train to Johannisthal through Berlin. We saw the directors of two leading German aeronautical firms—the Albatross and the L.V.G.—only to find that in neither case could they undertake any work of the nature we desired, as they were far too busy supplying aircraft to the German and Austrian Governments. They would, they said, require at least six months in which to complete any order. We, on the other hand, had only six weeks to spare. The Albatross Company asked us to call again on the following day in order that we might again meet the board of directors. As nothing more could be done during the day we paid a mark apiece and went into the public part of the aerodrome. No military guard was to be seen save over the great Zeppelin shed, which was empty, its usual tenant having flown to Posen the day before.

While we waited we saw eleven Albatross biplanes leave for Austria by air, piloted by Austrian officers, each accompanied by a mechanic. The presence of very obvious organisation and the entire absence of any excitement or confusion impressed us both. Clearly German aeronautics had left the purely experimental stage, and the aeroplane had become as much a part of military life as had the motor-car years before. The method of construction and the degree of finish of each machine showed the existence of a settled industry. While until the beginning of the war the average English aeroplane had the appearance of being the only one of its type, a step in a series of experiments, the German aeroplane of the time was as finished and complete as if it were one of a batch of a thousand. All that was practically possible at that date was to be found on these German machines which were so soon to test their prowess against the English.

During dinner at Potsdam the head waiter stood in the middle of the room and recited, amidst general enthusiasm, the speech the Kaiser had delivered from the balcony of his palace in Berlin during the afternoon. True patriotism was shown. The day had come and the training and hopes of a century were to be put to the test at last.

After dinner we walked through the crowded streets and watched the excited people snatch the single news sheets from the newsboys as they passed along. Great masses of enthusiastic youth rushed along the streets singing national songs, of which ‘Deutschland über Alles’ was the most popular. The beautiful strains of the Austrian National Anthem were often heard. Every officer who appeared from any direction was cheered loudly, and even the police were not unpopular on this night of nights. We, though we were obvious foreigners and quite possible Englishmen, were not molested in any way. Long after we had gone to bed the noise continued without intermission, until even Keating lost some of his joyous enthusiasm for war in his greater and more immediate desire for sleep.

Shortly before noon on Saturday, August 1, we again went to Johannisthal, this time by car. We arrived at the aerodrome at about half-past one o’clock and decided that, as our interview with the directors of the Albatross Company was sure to be short, we would have lunch on the way back to Berlin. It was a foolish decision, as after events will show. We found sentries at every entrance to the ground. By the small door leading into the garden in front of the Albatross offices stood a German soldier in the service dress of a regiment of the line. As we passed in he said something long in German and seemed to wish to prevent our entry. Keating smiled, which is not usual when one deals with German soldiers on duty, and the sentry was too surprised to stop us. Once inside we were met by the works manager, a Herr Huttney, who had learnt English in the United States of America when acquiring merit in his early youth. He took us before several of the directors of the company and we again talked of the purchase of an aeroplane. There was an atmosphere of restraint and suspicion which, in the light of later knowledge, was not unnatural. Now we were told that no machine at all could be sold to us for many months, as the army required them all; ‘even,’ they said, ‘Austria will not be allowed to purchase more.’ Keating offered to buy an Albatross which we knew to be in England. In reply we were shown a telegram from London saying that aeroplane had just been commandeered by the Admiralty! This incident was the first to bring home to us the possibility of Great Britain joining in the new war. There was an unwieldiness about the conversation that showed us they did not desire to do business with us, and so after farewells we were conducted outside the boundaries of the grounds by the works’ manager. Here to our amazement, and at the time amusement, we found two soldiers, fully armed and rationed, standing by the car. When I tried to start the engine, I was pressed back gently by rifle and bayonet. Herr Huttney asked for reasons and was told, or so he said, that an officer had been sent for and until his arrival we could not leave. So, resignedly and hungrily, for it was by now four o’clock and we had had no lunch, we sat in the car with Herr Huttney as company. He, too, was not permitted to leave, if his own statement was to be believed. For nearly two hours we sat here waiting for the officer who did not come. At six o’clock we were moved, under instructions from an N.C.O., to an open-air guard-room by the Zeppelin shed and just inside the aerodrome fence. Here our wait continued, relieved a little by some lager beer and leberwurst sandwiches, brought by the kindness of one of our guard. At dusk we were taken by two policemen in plain clothes before the officer commanding the aerodrome, who had an extemporised orderly room in the smaller dirigible shed. With him were several subalterns of infantry and of the flying section of the service. None of the officers in the room admitted to any knowledge of English or French, and so Herr Huttney, who was still in semi-arrest with us, had perforce to translate all that was said on either side. A little later, while Keating was being cross-examined, I asked, quite without malice, the officer nearest me whether he knew London. Before he had had time to remember whether he knew English or not he had answered clearly that Piccadilly Circus he did not know but London it was so dull! After this slip he made no further secret of his knowledge of English and talked freely.

The commandant, after asking our business and being told the truth, was clearly sceptical. Finally, as he could get nothing from us but what was true, he handed us over to the care of the two policemen. We were ordered to proceed to the Central Police Office in Berlin, and into our car, designed by the makers as a three-seater, we crowded Herr Huttney, the two policemen, and ourselves. Keating drove, and an hour later we found ourselves in a long dismal corridor three storeys up in Berlin’s Scotland Yard. I was in the last stage of depression, as Herr Huttney had just told us that he feared we should not get less than five years’ detention as potential spies. In addition we were hungry and cold. After a short wait we were taken before a civilian official who, with the utmost courtesy, cross-examined us. We were searched and all our belongings from my German word-books to the remnants of a sandwich were laid solemnly on the table. Some tiny films I had were developed rapidly somewhere in the building. After an anxious examination, lasting perhaps half an hour and which was conducted in a language of which we did not know a word, we were released with the advice to leave Berlin with as little delay as possible. As we left the room the senior official said that he hoped our respective countries would remain friendly for the salvation of the entire world.

We stayed the night at a quiet hotel in a street parallel to the Unter den Linden and persuaded Herr Huttney to dine with us. He was obviously ill at ease and left us as soon as could be done with courtesy. Even our experience of the afternoon had not brought home to us any real understanding of the true situation. We still thought that we had been arrested as a matter of German habit, and that all would be well in a week or so when the dangers of war had again passed by. Our German guest was clearly, though we did not know it at the time, unwilling to be seen in public with us. He left, and weeks later we heard as a matter of rumour that he had met his death at the hands of the authorities under suspicion of giving assistance to enemy spies! It may not be so or we may not have been the spies in question. One hopes not.

At the Embassy we managed to borrow some money from the military attaché and were given a passport on which, unfortunately, both our names were entered. We were told that if we wished for freedom we had better endeavour to leave Germany at once. When we said we intended to motor to the Dutch frontier some doubt was shown as to whether we should be permitted to travel far. Nobody doubted for a moment what the end would be. War must come and England would be in it.

At eleven o’clock we went to a garage and filled the car with everything necessary for a non-stop journey to Holland, as we realised that a stoppage on the road would probably become permanent. The chief trouble was petrol, as an order restricting the sale was expected at any moment. Consequently, while Keating talked to the old caretaker by means of my phrase-book, I collected petrol cans and put them under the dickey seat. Then, in order that the car might not be seized, we drove away from the garage and left the car outside the hotel for the rest of the night. Everybody, including the police, was so excited that no complaint was made.

This settled, we went into a large restaurant organised on American lines, where one paid a fixed sum on entering and then helped oneself to any of dozens of different small dishes arranged on stands. This place was thronged with people, who, with Teutonic thoroughness, did not permit their excitement of the moment to interfere with their meals. At first we were shy of speech, fearing our English tongue would cause trouble. After a space we began to talk and then, to our amazement, a man at the same table asked if we were English and, hearing the truth, promptly became embarrassingly pleasant and insisted on drinking our national health in dark lager. Others to whom we spoke also showed signs of pleasure and for a moment or two we were popular. Then for the first time we learnt how keen the German people were at that time on an effective naval and military alliance with England. From day to day on our way to the coast we were to find this the general feeling.

We left the hotel at five on the morning of Sunday, August 2, and drove out of Berlin by the Unter den Linden. The weather was perfect, and with consequent optimism we hoped to reach Holland before nightfall. No stop was to be made until the Dutch frontier had been passed.

In Potsdam, as we passed through, all was calm. Patriotism is very tiring. The streets were deserted and we drove through without notice. All went well with us. The sun was shining and the road, at this stage of the journey, was good. The next forty kilometres passed at the rate of one a minute and before seven o’clock we were in Brandenburg. Here ill-fortune again caught us up. As we crossed the bridge over the Havel a tyre burst. We had no spare inner tube and so Keating went to a garage near by in order to get replacements. His speech revealed him a foreigner, the news spread rapidly and by the time he returned to the car a large crowd had assembled round us. At first we thought their interest to be mere curiosity, but we soon saw that it was underlain by suspicion. To avoid them, and in order to change tyres quickly, we drove the car into a narrow courtyard near by and began work. The crowd increased and showed signs of following us into the yard. At this point we closed the yard gates, which were of iron scroll work covered with plate glass through which our movements could be watched.

The mob still increased and its attitude was threatening. A man whose house abutted on the yard, anxious as to the safety of his property, sent for the police. Shortly afterwards a sergeant arrived who, luckily, spoke English according to American practice. He had, he told us immediately on arrival, been in San Francisco during the earthquake, hence his knowledge of our language. From him we learnt that the crowd in the road believed us to be Russian spies and were taking measures to prevent our escape. At our request he sent for an officer, to whom we explained our position. Though the latter showed no signs of enthusiasm he believed our statement after examining our passport and driving licence. He then left, telling his sergeant to see us out of the town as soon as we were ready. After the police interview the crowd melted away and we suffered no further inconvenience.

By this time we were hungry and asked our friend the sergeant if he could buy us food. A boy was sent for sausage sandwiches and beer. We drank with the sergeant to the health of Great Britain and Germany and to the confusion of the rest of the world. It is easy to admire a nation when one is at its mercy. It is easier still when one realises the magnificent patriotism and unity of purpose of that same nation. When, the tyre fitted, it was time to leave, we endeavoured to pay the small boy for the food he had brought, only to be stopped by the sergeant, who said we were his guests and that he would not like us to leave with a bad opinion of his country! Firm friends, we left that sergeant with deep regret, as by now we knew our passage through the country was not to be pleasant.

At Magdeburg we were stopped by the Customs after crossing the bridge over the Elbe. We were made in full glare of the public eye to demonstrate the innocence and inadequacy of our wardrobe. Here, too, the roll of celluloid bought at Osnabruck came under suspicion. The police argued that it could have no possible use on the car and that it must be part of a photographic apparatus, the rest of which we were wilfully concealing. After Keating’s wonderful use of my incomprehensible phrase-book and many vivid gesticulations from myself, the police pretended they understood and reluctantly let us travel onwards.

From this place onwards our trouble intensified. So long as we continued to move and showed no hesitation all was well, but no sooner did we stop to examine a signpost at cross roads than we would be surrounded by an excited mob of men and women armed to the teeth with muskets that appeared to date from Waterloo and with spades, picks, and pitchforks of a later date but of no less sanguinary appearance. It was nervous work endeavouring to explain ourselves to the local interpreter, probably the parish priest, while any moment the varied contents of any of these guns might shatter such brains as worry had left us.

From Hanover onwards we were stopped at practically every village by patrols of the type described above. That these posts were installed officially was obvious from the attempt at a uniform worn by most of these men. At each place our papers were examined laboriously by the padre or the leading shopkeeper, in each case without much enlightenment, for in accordance with British insularity our passport was entirely in English.

From these causes our average speed dropped to eight miles an hour, and our nerves began to show signs of weariness. One never knew from one moment to another when we might be detained and possibly killed in a fit of misplaced enthusiasm. We had heard, how I cannot say, that no motoring was permitted after dark. Consequently, as when darkness fell we had reached Minden, we decided to stay the night at the Hotel Stadt London. This for the second time and under such different conditions. On this day there was doubt whether we should reach home again for years or, if an easy accident came, perhaps never. The hotel was crowded with officers, this time mostly in service kit. The dining-room rang with excited talk as to the future and all were flushed with thoughts of the days to come.

As we dined we sent for a police officer, in order that by reporting ourselves in time we should avoid delay in leaving on the following morning. An officer arrived so speedily that we could not fail to realise that he had been in waiting. We asked if we might leave at dawn. He said courteously that as the Military Commandant wished to see us at eight o’clock next day it would not be possible for us to get away before breakfast. With courtesy he refused to drink with us and with courtesy he bowed himself out. He was so pleasant that we felt that our affairs had become more serious during the day.

Shortly after two o’clock I was awakened by the sound of marching and the rumbling of wagons. From that hour onwards until dawn battalion after battalion passed on its way to entrain for some battle front as yet unrevealed to us. Shortly after dawn troops ceased to pass for some hours and we were able to sleep again. During the wakeful period we each discovered, as we found on comparing notes next day, that a sentry was on duty in the corridor outside our rooms.

The next morning we reported to the Commandant at his office, taking the car with us in case we got immediate leave to proceed. When we arrived we found the Commandant engaged and we had to wait in an outer room with a schoolmaster who had been brought in to act as our interpreter. While we sat here admiring a large engraving of the picture of the German troops greeting Admiral Seymour’s seamen in China (1900) hung on the wall over the door to the Commandant’s room, an old man was brought in by two policemen. He was crying bitterly in the hopeless, dreary manner of the aged. His sobs were painful to hear and we asked our interpreter who he might be and if we could do anything to assist him. The answer was ‘No, as he is a Russian spy who is charged with being concerned in an attempt to dynamite the railway bridge over the river. He will, it is undoubted, be shot!’ The charge may or may not have been true, but that afternoon the old man was shot after a summary trial. It made Keating and myself less optimistic as to our chances.

After a short wait we were brought before the Commandant, who listened to our story with courtesy and with obvious trust. We said nothing about the reason of our visit. The Commandant was disposed to believe that we were not spies, and would, I think, have let us go on our way had not another officer in the room interfered. He asked us rather roughly why at such a disturbed time we came to Germany. Keating then explained that we wished to buy an aeroplane. This revelation altered everything, and the Commandant, after talking earnestly for some minutes with his brother officer, told us, none too willingly, we thought, to return to our hotel and not to leave it until permission was given. In the meantime he would wire to the British Embassy for confirmation of our story. We now gave up hope, for we knew it was extremely unlikely that the Embassy would ever receive the wire.

We walked sadly back to the hotel, leaving the car in the charge of the police officials. Regretfully we thought of all the beautiful wars breaking out in every direction in which it was now unlikely we would be able to take part. War is inspiring and attractive to all who have not fought.

At the hotel we sat moodily by a large window looking into the street and drank lager beer while we watched battalion after battalion pass on their way to entrain for the front. Three days before these men had either been on reserve in civil occupations or had been wearing the picturesque uniforms of peace. Very few of them had then known what the service dress was like and none had worn it. Now, in strict accordance with the plans of forty years, each man in the great striking force was fully equipped for the greatest campaign in history.

One point struck us unfavourably, and this was the painful newness of the boots of yellow undressed leather worn by all. Later, we discovered that this too was a sign of forethought. Each man had in his kit the boots worn and made comfortable by him in times of peace, and the new boots were being worn in these first days that they might be in some manner broken in before action was joined. Had the troops worn their old boots they would, when footsore, have had no means of getting relief other than taking the boots off and resting their feet. On the other hand, wearing the new boots first, weariness was greatly reduced by changing into the older boots. Such a matter as this, small in itself, may mean the difference between defeat and victory.

Shortly before lunch a Lieutenant Kellerman of a reserve unit of Garrison Artillery called to see us. He said that he had been told that two Englishmen were detained in the town, and that as he admired the English and spoke our language fluently he had come to see what assistance he might be able to render. We were glad to see him. It relieved the monotony, and also he would be able to translate the mystic newspapers to us. But that was not his mission. He talked of England and of America. All good Germans seem to have travelled in America either North or South! It was some little time before we realised that most of his questions were asked with other reasons than that of benevolence. He said that a diary of our travels would be interesting in years to come. Surely we had kept one? And photographs, too, what pleasure they would give to our friends in England when we reached home! But as our visitor would neither drink nor smoke—what honest German does not drink and smoke?—with us we did not care to answer his questions quite as simply as he would have wished. After a space he left us and returned no more. He may have meant well, but in the light of after events it is more probable that he was intended to trap us into some unconsciously guilty admission.

At lunch time the Commandant appeared. He told us that no reply had come from Berlin and that he feared we should find it difficult to get away. His pleasant face showed that he really felt sorry and that it was not pretence. At his request we lunched with him, though the conversation was of necessity spasmodic, since neither party spoke the other’s tongue. Yet it was a kindly thought, which counts for much at times of tension. He, in common with most officers of the garrison, lunched daily at the Hotel Stadt London, and our presence at his table went far to make our position more comfortable. The glances of suspicion from other officers in the room died away, and we felt less like escaped convicts than we had during the morning.

Through the kindly offices of a neighbour who spoke English the Commandant asked if we thought England would take part in the war. We said that we did not think our country would interfere, as at that time we imagined the opening war to concern France, Russia, and Germany alone. The Commandant gravely said that he was not optimistic, for he did not think that England would stand by inactive. War would be bad for both countries. He implied that Germany had for many years desired an alliance with England. United the two nations could sweep the world. This was the view taken by many to whom we spoke during the journey and illustrates in some degree the aims of Modern Germany. The picture of an uncivilised world waiting for enlightenment by the Apostles of Culture in the form of German Army Corps is pathetic to us, but it is, or was, doubtless very vivid to sincere German officers.

At four o’clock we were sent for by the Commandant, who said that no news had arrived from Berlin, but that on his own responsibility he would allow us to leave the town. He signed a statement saying that we had been examined and were permitted to proceed, as we thought this might help us on our way. As he shook hands he said, as our interpreter explained, ‘Travel, travel, always travel until the frontier is passed!’

Exasperated by the numerous delays, and apprehensive that our stay in Germany might attain some manner of permanency if further hesitation marked our path, we drove with great speed when on the open road. But rapid progress was not continuous. Two days before we had found progress slow owing to civilian patrols in villages and at cross-roads, but now the vigilance of the German people seemed to have doubled. It was necessary to slow down some distance from these posts, if one desired to avoid over-zealous shots. Five miles was perhaps the longest stage over which our journey was uninterrupted.

In some villages the people were pleasant and believed our statements, in others we were received with suspicion that even our signed note from the Commandant at Minden did not entirely allay.

But nothing worse than mental discomfort came to us until we reached Oldendorf, a large village some thirty-five kilometres from Osnabruck. The road was barricaded half a mile short of the first houses, and we were held up at this point until the ‘Hauptmann’ arrived to inspect us. While we waited a tall thin man, wearing over his ordinary clothes a long blue smock, apparently a farm labourer by trade, harangued the crowd feverishly, gesticulating the while with a pitchfork. He did not seem to like us. Keating, whose spirits were still high, laughed at him and made matters worse. The oration had no immediate effect, for when the Hauptmann, a little fat man in a bright blue uniform, had seen us we were permitted to drive on to the village. Here, at the beginning of the main street, we found another barricade and a larger crowd. As we were about to pass the obstruction the man with the pitchfork arrived on a bicycle in a perfect delirium of rage. He accused us of something inexplicable and the crowd at once dragged us from the car. I was made to walk in state with the village policeman, who had just appeared, while Keating drove the car slowly behind us. An English-speaking German came with me and explained that we were to be examined by the Burgomaster at the Town Hall. I had almost reached sanctuary, accompanied by a large and curious crowd, when the fanatic with the pitchfork again tore up on his bicycle and, purple with rage, accused us of, literally, ‘making plans of citadels and photographing the country.’ At once the crowd turned against me. There was an ugly rush, and I was as near experiencing the fate of De Witt as I shall ever be in this life. Before I was more than half-throttled the policeman managed to get me into the Town Hall, where I could in comparative security listen to the howls of the mob outside.

Keating, for some reason—perhaps because he always laughed—escaped the full wrath of the mob, though his passenger spat at him, and was brought in safely.

The Burgomaster was charming and, what mattered far more, was possessed of infinite discernment. He examined our baggage, now falling into ruin, and the car, in public, in a gallant attempt to allay suspicion. Despite this, I firmly believe that the villagers of Oldendorf will believe to their dying day that we were two anarchists of Russian extraction. After an anxious hour we were allowed to drive away. At this village, the day before, two Russians, disguised in women’s clothing, had been dragged from a car and shot on the spot.

We had hoped to reach Osnabruck before dark, but it was actually ten o’clock when we finally arrived at the hotel. At the entrance to the town, which we reached shortly after nine o’clock, we were taken in charge by a military patrol. But the police alone could give us the necessary permission to travel onwards.

So, attended by a N.C.O., we drove to the head police office at Osnabruck. Again we were made to spread our belongings on the floor and explain each scrap of paper. The deadly sheet of celluloid we offered to the police in the hopes of ending the recurrent trouble, but with no effect. Full of suspicion as to its uses though they might be, yet they would not take it.

We were delayed here about twenty minutes before we were given permission to stay at the Kaiserhof Hotel for the night and to leave Osnabruck early on the following morning. As we left the office our car was held up by the passage of several hundred Russian workmen who had been placed under arrest on the outbreak of war and who were now being taken to an internment camp. Dejected and hopeless they moved miserably through a hissing and booing crowd to the prison which was to be their home until peace came again. Such is discipline in Germany that half a dozen policemen sufficed to keep the mob, ever ready to strike, at bay.

At the Kaiserhof Hotel we were greeted with singular charm by the proprietor, who, though a possible future enemy, did not show any suspicion or displeasure. Nay, rather did he go out of his way to make us truly comfortable, he himself superintending the cooking of our belated dinner.

While we ate there sat at a table near by a party of German students, who with much noise sang patriotic verses and cheered lustily the names of national heroes while they steadily drank tankard after tankard of beer. After a space they began to take interest in us. Glancing from time to time at our table they talked excitedly of ‘Englanders’ and, from the few words we could understand, of our navy. I was very tired, and under the impression that they desired to pick a quarrel, I went to bed to escape trouble. Keating, on the other hand, scenting an immediate if a minor war, refused to move and did not reach his room until the early hours of the morning. It appears that far from desiring to annoy us they wished us to join them. This Keating did and a short conversation in French followed. The use of this language was quickly banned as unpatriotic and a curious but wonderful version of English was substituted. They were under the impression that England was about to become Germany’s ally. Thus combined the two nations were to dominate the world in the manner indicated to us by several others during our travels. These views, so soon to fade, served to create a temporary friendship between Keating and the students, which ended shortly before three in the morning with the joint humming of ‘God Save the King,’ because, as they said, ‘without words it is the National Anthem of both the related countries.’ It was a happy evening, in that it formed so great a contrast to other nights of the same week.

The next morning we left on the last lap of our journey through Germany rather late, slightly after eleven o’clock, owing to the encouraging friendliness of the previous night. This day was August 4 and in honour of its high destiny was one of sunlit splendour. Our innkeeper, in the smallness of his bill and his obvious readiness to give credit until the end of the war in case our money had run short, showed that some Germans are not devoid of the kindlier instincts of humanity. Human nature is the same the world over by whatever title the races may be labelled.

With usual delays from road patrols we passed slowly through Lottë, Westerkappeln, and Höveringhausen. In Ibbenburgen we were held up by a long patriotic procession, chiefly of children dressed brilliantly in white, and carrying banners decorated in some cases with religious symbols and in some with the armorial device of Westphalia. As they walked they sang, with the softness of childhood, songs of the countryside.

It was pleasant when in the midst of our worries to listen to the beat of childish feet and the echo of childish voices between the lines of high narrow houses of this quiet Westphalian village. Curious incidents, unimportant in themselves, remain in one’s memory for all time.

We had intended to drive out of the country through Bentheim, the same route by which we entered. But when the police examined us at Rheine, though they showed no desire to detain us, they told us that we must divert our course through Burgsteinfurt and leave Germany by Gronau, reaching Enschede in Holland. This meant a journey increased by forty miles, a serious matter under the then existing critical conditions.

The first few miles out of Rheine passed by with surprising ease. Then as we passed along a straight stretch of road close to Ochtrup we were stopped by a patrol standing or rather reeling in front of a public-house. These half-dozen men, bored with inaction, had improved the shining hour by drinking beer until all the world seemed changed. They were armed heavily with ancient rifles, each obviously loaded. Our unfortunate belongings were again dragged into view and a hilarious examination followed, the while two of the more drunken men tried to show their belief that we were good fellows by kissing us both with beery enthusiasm. Finally, we were allowed to go amidst their drunken cheers. We had covered about half a mile when several bullets whistled by, despatched by our late friends as a further token of their joyous sporting instincts! None hit us and we passed on into Ochtrup, where the most amazing incident of all befell us. We were taken into the Town Hall and were passed as unsuspicious when, suddenly, the manner of our captors changed from smiles to frowns. A chauffeur had arrived who swore that he recognised us as two suspects who had escaped from custody at Buckedorf, a village some miles on the Berlin side of Minden. Nothing could shake him in his accusation and things looked unutterably black for us. Tempers are hasty when war is the common occupation, and sentences of death at the worst are only ‘regrettable mistakes’ when too much haste has been used. Some open packets of cartridges on the table added nothing to the pleasure of our feelings. A woman, who alone could speak English with any fluency, was brought in to translate and she, too, did little to improve our position. From her attitude one supposes she had met incivility in England during her visit to our country.

Suddenly it struck us that perhaps the man had seen us at Minden, and as we had a pass from that town all would be well if we could convince him of his mistake. To our joy he at once admitted that he was wrong and we were permitted to leave.

On arrival at Gronau we found that the car must remain in Germany, so we drove to the station in order to find out whether trains still ran. Here, to our surprise, we were again arrested by the Customs authorities and were hauled before the Burgomaster and some local councillors. We had as translator a German-American who, unpleasant in his prosperous appearance, suggested we should answer the questions in a way prompted by him. This we refused, as the object of lying did not appear clear to us. It was well, as later it appeared that one at least of those present could speak English with ease.

At this stage in the journey appeared one of those amazing coincidences that occur as one passes through life. As our names were given in the course of the written evidence, an old councillor asked me in English if I came from Lancashire. When I admitted this he said that forty years before he had been working in that county and during that time he had been befriended by a man of my name. It appeared on a further description that this good Samaritan was closely related to me! This fortunate incident had, I am sure, some effect on our position.

In the end the Burgomaster telephoned to the G.O.C. at Munster, putting our case as favourably as possible, and describing us as Americans. Permission was given by this higher authority for our release. A local mill owner who had given us every assistance garaged the car, and undertook to take care of it. Thus did we part in a friendly mood.

An hour later we entered Enschede after a long argument with the Customs officer, who thought us too dirty to be respectable. Next day found us at the Hague, where, in our rags but happy, we dined at the Hôtel des Indes. Here we read the Times and heard of the declaration of war. That night we crossed to Harwich.

---

Note.—Keating on arrival in town applied for and was given a commission in the Royal Flying Corps. Later he transferred to the Irish Guards. On January 20, 1915, he was killed in France during bombing practice by the premature explosion of a bomb which he was using for demonstration purposes. So ended a life of enthusiasm. The world lost a very gallant gentleman in Harry Sheehy Keating. Yet

At the door of life, at the gate of breath

There are worse things waiting for men than death.

JAN ISSEL.

In the month of August 1914 Mr. Haseldine of Culme House in South Devon was as clearly persuaded as every other patriotic Briton that we had got to beat the Germans, cost what it might, and what it might chance to cost him individually he well knew, his only son being an officer in the Guards. So he was scarcely disposed to sympathise with a man who, having no less than four sons, made it a great grievance that the youngest of them was threatening to enlist.

‘What do you expect me to say to the lad, Issel?’ he asked of the ruddy, grey-bearded tenant who had come to beg his aid. ‘I can’t tell him he is wrong if he wants to fight for his country.’

‘Aw, ’tidden that, Squire,’ returned Farmer Issel, shaking his head. ‘I don’t b’lieve as Jan feels a call to go an’ fight no more’n what his brothers du; but a’s that quare an’ opinionated us can’t make nothin’ of un. Can’t spare un nayther, with harvest comin’ on an’ all, that’s the trewth.’

It was certainly the truth that labour was scarce and that the moment was ill chosen for withdrawing a pair of strong arms from Bratton Farm. Moreover, those were the early days of the war, when it had not yet become apparent that England must raise and equip a huge force. Therefore, after some further parley, Mr. Haseldine promised that he would give young John Issel a word or two of sound advice, and, with that end in view, he suggested to his daughter Mildred, a few hours later, that they should make Bratton Farm the object of their customary afternoon ride.

It was beautiful, hot weather, promising well for the approaching harvest, and as Mr. Haseldine jogged through the lanes, on either side of which were broad fields of ripening oats and barley, he remarked to his companion, with a laugh and a sigh, that some people didn’t know when they were well off. Patriotism was right enough, and he would be the last to discourage it; yet before a man decided to plunge into all the trials and miseries of a campaign he ought at least to make sure that his duty did not lie nearer home.

And something of that sort was what the Squire presently said to a slim, dark-eyed young man who, turning round at the sound of the horses’ hoofs, raised his arms from the gate over which he had been leaning and touched his hat. Jan Issel listened respectfully, appeared to be a little troubled, and had no very definite answer to make. What could be gathered was that his mother had been pressing him hard, that he did not want to vex her—nor yet nobody else—but that he reckoned he would have to go all the same. Oh, not until after harvest, for sure; he had given a promise to that effect and would keep it.

‘Quite right, my boy,’ said Mr. Haseldine, gathering up his reins. ‘Think it well over; don’t be in a hurry. You may be wanted at the front by-and-by, and so may your brothers; we don’t any of us know yet what lies before us. But for the present it seems to me that you’re more wanted where you are. Now, Mildred, if you’ll wait here for me, I’ll be with you again in a few minutes. I must just see Issel and tell him about several things that I forgot to mention this morning.’

Thus Miss Haseldine was left in the company of a youth of whose existence she had hitherto been but vaguely aware, but whose handsome face and great sad eyes made appeal to her. She began to question him, and, either because her pretty face and kindly blue eyes made appeal to him or because of some subtle suggestion of sympathy in her voice, he spoke with a good deal more ease and openness than he had shown in replying to her father. It was not only the outbreak of war, he confessed, that had put it into his head to take up soldiering. Many and many a time before had he thought of that way of escape from Bratton—because it was from Bratton that he yearned to escape. No, he hadn’t no trouble, without you could call it trouble to be uneasy in your mind; only he felt as if he must get away.

‘I couldn’t explain it to you, miss; I haven’t no power o’ language. Happen I’m unrasonable, as mother says. Dick and Tom and Bob they don’t ask no better’n to plough an’ sow an’ reap year in, year out; but with me ’tis different. Reckon as I’d go mazed if I was to stop home for always.’

‘I know what is the matter with you,’ said Miss Haseldine, smiling; ‘you’re bored.’

Well, that might be. The word was not included in Jan’s slender vocabulary, but perhaps he was capable of the sensation. Miss Haseldine told him that she was and that a vast number of persons were similarly afflicted. The recognised remedy was work; but, for obvious reasons, that was not applicable to his case. How about reading as a diversion? Did he ever open a book?

This chance shot unexpectedly scored. Jan’s big brown eyes lightened up as he answered that he loved nothing in the world so much as books to read. Unfortunately, he had exhausted the literature of Bratton Farm, which consisted of the Bible, sundry theological works, ‘Pilgrim’s Progress,’ an anthology entitled ‘Pearls from the Poets,’ and a few dilapidated volumes of the Family Herald.

Miss Haseldine said she could introduce him to a rather wider circle of writers than that. ‘Come up to the house after dinner this evening and I’ll lend you all the books you care to carry away.’

Jan was almost as grateful to the young lady as a starving man would have been for a loaf of bread; yet it was perhaps rather her looks and her voice than her kind offer that compelled his gratitude. Hitherto nobody had understood him—which was the less surprising because he had some difficulty in understanding himself—and he had observed a general disposition to treat him with the indulgence accorded to the mentally deficient. But here at last was a beautiful, beneficent being who not only did not call him a fool but clearly showed, without actually saying so, that she entered into his feelings and shared them. He had often seen her before, in church and elsewhere, but did not remember ever to have heard her speak. After she and her father had ridden away, he dropped his elbows upon the gate once more and for some time thought about her dreamily, with a pleasantly warmed heart, wondering why he had never before noticed her physical beauty. Then he stretched himself and strode off to get the cows in for milking.

Mildred Haseldine, if scarcely beautiful, was as pretty as golden hair, forget-me-not blue eyes, and neat little features could make her. Beneficent she might fairly be called, inasmuch as she was always glad to do a good turn to her neighbours, and this farm lad, with his odd craving for mental nourishment and his rebellion against the monotony of agricultural life, interested her. So as soon as she reached home she laid the library shelves under contribution, selecting ‘Ivanhoe,’ Tennyson’s Poems, Carlyle’s ‘Past and Present’ and Fitchett’s ‘Deeds that Won the Empire,’ as being a sufficiently comprehensive batch to begin with, and handed the volumes to her maid Judith, with instructions that they were to be given to young John Issel, if he should call for them. She observed that Judith blushed; but the circumstance made no impression upon her, Judith’s blushes being frequent and for the most part devoid of cause.

As a matter of fact, Judith Combe had some excuse for exhibiting self-consciousness at the sound of Jan Issel’s name. Not very much, it is true; for in her class of life the fact of ‘walking out’ with a young man on Sunday afternoons is not held to commit either of the walkers to subsequent matrimony, and certainly Jan did not consider himself in any way pledged to Judy Combe, whom he had chosen merely because, like his brothers and everybody else, he had to have a female companion of some sort. He liked the gentle, demure lass, was indifferently aware that she was nice-looking (she was in reality decidedly prettier than Miss Haseldine), and even supposed that he might marry her some day. But that, of course, would only be if he should stay at Bratton, instead of going out into the wide world—a contingency which he never cared to contemplate.

An access of shyness led him to ask for Judith when he went up to the great house that evening; but he was just a trifle disappointed when she joined him, bearing the promised armful of literature, and when he realised that he was not to see his benefactress. Nothing, however, forbade him to talk about her, nor did he say much about anybody or anything else during an interview which took place by starlight in the stable-yard. Judith, who was greatly attached to her mistress, was as laudatory as could be wished, if not particularly informing. Miss Mildred was always doing kind things; so Judith did not think it strange that she should lend books to Jan Issel if he wanted them; though it was perhaps rather strange that he should want them. She timidly intimated as much, but received no answer. It was, of course, impossible to explain to Judy Combe what the printed page meant to one who was consumed with curiosity respecting the world in which we dwell and who had no opportunities of coming into contact with a verbal interpreter. It would likewise have been difficult to bring home to her the motives that such a man might have for adopting the profession of arms; so that subject also was left untouched. For the rest, Jan was eager to say good-night, being still more eager to discover what Miss Mildred thought him capable of appreciating.

Miss Mildred, it may be conjectured, had not given a great deal of thought to the matter; but she bestowed quite as much pleasure upon her protégé as if she had. That night and on several successive nights Jan sat up, devouring the volumes by the light of a single candle long after all the other inmates of the farm were asleep. ‘Ivanhoe,’ which was pretty plain sailing, delighted him, as did also Fitchett’s stirring and admirably related yarns. If he could not always make out what Tennyson was driving at, he loved the rhythm and melody of his verse, just as he loved the sonorous grandeur of certain chapters in Isaiah and Ecclesiastes, the meaning of which was completely hidden from him. In like manner thousands of people derive genuine enjoyment from listening to a symphony, although they are ignorant of the structure of such compositions and cannot really follow them. But, oddly enough, it was with Carlyle that Jan was best pleased. The bygone abuses and social anomalies against which ‘Past and Present’ thunders naturally said nothing to him, nor could he trace much connection between them and the chronicle of Jocelin of Brakelond. It must also be admitted that he skipped a good many pages. What roused him to enthusiasm was not the writer’s theme but his mastery of language and the magnificent, disdainful carelessness with which he displayed it, as though feeling himself big enough to be independent of all rules. Jan Issel, it must be supposed, possessed the literary sense—which indeed, like every other artistic sense, is inborn, not to be acquired. When he went to Culme House to return the books and beg for more, he tried, not over-successfully, to express to Miss Mildred (who received him this time and took him into the library) the intensity of his admiration for a philosopher who is commonly considered to be above the heads of the simple.

‘A girt man, miss,’ he said—‘a powerful man!’

‘Oh, yes,’ agreed Mildred, surprised and amused, ‘he’s—picturesque. Hardly at his best in “Past and Present,” though. I’ll lend you his “French Revolution,” which is much more interesting.’

Most leisured readers require a considerable length of time to assimilate that work; Jan, who had practically no leisure between sunrise and sunset, got through it in a week. He read it, as he read most works, with only a dim comprehension but with great contentment. Contentment, in fact, was the blessing bestowed upon him by Miss Haseldine’s happy inspiration; so that he spoke no more of joining the Army, while she was rewarded by the respectful thanks of his parents. From Jan himself she received something more than thanks and respect. It was, no doubt, natural enough that his imagination, fired by the novels and plays which she prescribed as occasional alternatives to historical study, should clothe her with the attributes of a heroine of romance. His contentment, for that matter, was perhaps as much the outcome of talks with Miss Mildred as of communings with authors who by themselves might rather have tended to increase the latent disquietude which they were supposed to have allayed. These talks became frequent during the autumn weeks, occasion for them being willingly supplied by a young lady who could not help finding Jan Issel unusual and interesting. He came out, every now and then, with the quaintest, the most original, the most poetical remarks, and if his hearer sometimes had a little inward laugh, she was very careful not to let her features betray her; because his sensitiveness was no less manifest than his timid devotion. To inspire devotion—especially when it is timid—is seldom disagreeable to any young lady; so Miss Mildred often overtook Jan in the lanes or summoned him to the house; and this was really kind of her, seeing that she, who had so much to fill her thoughts just then, might well have been excused if she had forgotten all about a queer, dreamy farm lad. For those were the days in which the long battle of the Aisne was developing, and although her brother Frank had thus far escaped death or wounds, bad news of him and others might come at any moment.

In Jan’s thoughts there was not much room for the war and its vicissitudes. There would have been no room in them at all for Judith Combe if she had not enjoyed the proverbial privilege of living near the rose, which entailed the more dubious one of hearing the rose extolled without intermission during those Sunday walks which at an earlier period had been so largely taciturn. But Judith was a long-suffering little soul, and it was only after much hesitation that she ventured to ask:

‘Bain’t ’ee gettin’ tu fond of her, Jan?’

Jan reddened all over his face and neck. ‘Tu fond o’ Miss Mildred! What be dramin’ about then? Do ’ee think a dog can get tu fond o’ the sun? You’m talkin’ proper nonsense, Judy.’

Nevertheless, Judith’s words came to him as a shock and a revelation, over which he pondered for hours afterwards. At first he was ashamed of his audacity and felt as if he had been guilty of some unpardonable outrage; but by degrees he arrived at a different view of the matter. What if he did love a human goddess? When all was said, he could not help it. The veriest cur, according to his own homely metaphor, may bask in the sun, and she could not be displeased by what would certainly never be revealed to her. It was his secret, which he was surely free to cherish, without the least shadow of hope, much as certain sixteenth-century poets cherished a passion for Queen Elizabeth, or said they did. But the fact of being without shadow of hope—as of course he was—did not preclude indulgence in ecstatic visions. His mobile imagination enabled him to see himself earning literary renown (like the peasant Robert Burns, perhaps), rising by virtue of the same to a position of admitted equality with the highest in the land and stripping the laurels from his brow to lay them at Mildred’s feet. Such things could not come to pass, and he knew that they could not; yet he liked to picture them and might plead that his fancies were as harmless as his love.

Harmless both may have been; only both contributed to bring about a return of his old restlessness. He was now embarrassed in conversing with Miss Mildred; he could not get rid of a haunting dread that she might suspect his sentiments (she was perhaps not so far from suspecting them as he thought), and then how would he ever dare to look her in the face again? More and more evident was it to him that he must leave the farm, that he would have to go some day and that he had better go soon. Added to this, his brothers were beginning to talk about donning khaki. Without saying anything to their father, they discussed the question amongst themselves and agreed that if ‘th’ old war’ was going to last another year, as the newspapers said it was, they could not decently keep out of it. It was impossible for all of them to go, that was certain; but one, or even two, of them might. The youngest they excluded, not only because ‘mother wouldn’t niver part with ’un,’ but because he was understood to have been cured of military hankerings. Thus it became plain that procrastination would only place fresh obstacles in Jan’s path.

It was on a grey morning in October that he was accosted by a recruiting sergeant at Exeter, whither he had been sent to dispose of some steers, and there was no need to impress upon him that Flanders was the right place for a likely young chap without encumbrances. He intimated that that was his own view and asked whether he could have a couple of days ‘to wind up like.’ Three, if he chose, the pleased sergeant replied; but he said two would be enough. They might even be excessive, he thought, for although old Mrs. Issel was a fond mother, she had a ‘tarrible power o’ spache’ when aggrieved; but he could not go off to the wars without taking leave of Miss Mildred, and he wanted to make sure of a farewell audience. More with that end in view than because he recognised any claim that Miss Mildred’s maid might have upon him, he marched up to Culme House the same evening and briefly informed Judith that he had taken the King’s shilling.

‘Aw, ma dear soul!’ cried the girl, throwing up her hands in dismay, ‘what iver did ’ee du that vur?’

It was a thing, Jan answered, that had to be done—a thing that every young man in England would be doing before long, by what he had heard tell. He further attempted to explain why for him in particular it was essential to break fresh ground; but, not making much of a success of this and noticing, moreover, that Judith was not listening, he desisted.

Judith was crying softly, and that gave him a pain at his heart. His mother also, instead of scolding him, as he had expected her to do, had wept, throwing her apron over her head and rocking herself to and fro, while his father, after one short, angry outburst, had abruptly fallen silent and had walked out of the house with bowed shoulders. It is cruel to have to hurt people like that; but—what can one do? He did his best to comfort poor little Judy, who was afraid ‘they pesky Germans’ would kill him—which indeed did not seem unlikely—but who tried to recover a cheerful countenance and assured him that she understood everything. He could not, of course, believe that she did, and would have been quite sorry if she had; still he was grateful to her for being so brave about it and for readily promising to deliver a message to Miss Mildred.

He had thought—perhaps half hoped—that Miss Mildred would reproach him a little for having so suddenly taken a step from which he had been dissuaded by her; but when she met him on the morrow she did nothing of the kind. Circumstances alter cases; the country now needed all who were fit to serve; she assumed that Jan had been actuated by patriotic motives and had only praise and congratulations for him.

‘How proud we shall all be of you if you come back with a V.C. or an officer’s commission!’ she exclaimed. ‘Nothing is impossible in war time, you know.’

Jan smiled and shook his head, but, he often thought of her words afterwards and made them the nucleus of innumerable day-dreams. What he longed for at the time was some hint of regret on her part, some intimation that she would miss him a little. However, she did not seem to think that there was anything to regret, and it was absurd to suppose that his departure could make any difference to her. Why should it? One thing, at any rate, she said which was as delightful as it was unforeseen.

‘You must let me hear from you, John. Write often and at great length, please, and tell me exactly how everything strikes you. Answer? Oh, of course I will, and I’ll send you socks and mufflers and things, not to mention books.’ She added, after a moment, ‘I was thinking of giving you something now, only I don’t know what you would like to have.’

Jan knew very well what he would like to have: whether he might dare to ask for it was another question. However, he was going away and it was probable enough that he would see her no more; so he screwed up courage to confess that the most welcome gift she could bestow upon him would be something that had belonged to herself—maybe the little silver pencil-case which he had so often seen her use.

She presented it to him with a bright smile and with no appearance of thinking him presumptuous. Then she frankly shook him by the hand, wished him the best of luck and left him beside the gate leading up to Bratton Farm, where their colloquy had been held. At the bend of the road she turned to wave him a last farewell and so disappeared into the misty twilight.

Jan raised the precious pencil-case to his lips, pushed it into his waistcoat pocket and was happy. He even told himself in so many words that he was happy; which is an experience of such rarity that those to whom it has once come never quite forget it. Jan thought that if he were to be shot the next week, he would still have had as good a moment as three score years and ten of life could bring him.

But of course there was no question of his being shot the next week or for a great many weeks to come. The training process through which he and other recruits had to go might have been tedious if he had not accepted it as an indispensable means towards an end, and if he had not, rather unexpectedly, found a certain pleasure in it. The monotony of drill was at least a novel species of monotony; his comrades were for the most part cheery, companionable fellows, many of whom differed sufficiently from the types hitherto known to him to stimulate his ever alert curiosity; the sergeant who instructed them in the use of the bayonet had semi-jocular anecdotes of his own experiences to relate which exhibited the grim visage of war as wreathed in smiles. Even the very real hardships and discomforts of camp life under persistent, pitiless rain were made light of by Jan, who felt himself developing into an efficient soldier day by day and who indeed was often singled out for commendation. He wrote regularly, if briefly, to the old people at the farm, regretting that there was so little to say; yet he found plenty to say to Miss Mildred. Had she not bidden him to write ‘at great length’? Those carefully composed epistles of his, which were couched in a queer mixture of dialect and high-flown language and in which words (culled from the works of some more competent manipulator of them) were occasionally used in a sense unrecognised by the dictionary, were not without pathos, as showing forth a poor mortal brimming over with ideas and impressions and struggling hard to be articulate. Let us hope that their recipient so interpreted them. Her replies, at any rate, laconic though they were, gave the utmost satisfaction to a worshipper who was duly sensible of her graciousness in deigning to reply at all.

What was not very satisfactory to Jan was that there was no talk of the battalion to which he belonged proceeding to the front. Some of the men professed to doubt whether they would ever leave the country; others had heard that they were to get marching orders in the coming summer; all were agreed that they would have to make the best of their sodden camp for several months yet. But no such trial of patience awaited Jan, who was despatched to France with a draft at very short notice early in February and who was not long left in his first halting-place some distance behind the fighting line. His impressions of life in the flooded trenches and of what it felt like to be under fire were given with great simplicity, though not without here and there a graphic touch, in the letters which he afterwards found time to write to Mildred. This war, he said, was not like any other war that he had ever heard or read of. It had had its glories, but it did not seem as if it was going to have any more. Your enemies were close at hand, but you couldn’t get at them, nor yet they couldn’t get at you. So, taken as a whole, it was not exciting. The worst part of it was the awful noise of the guns and the bursting shells, which he found more trying than the wet and cold and the ugly sights about which he was sure that his correspondent would not wish him to say much. The desolation of the ravaged country, the wrecked villages and farmhouses, the homeless peasants, the poor wandering dogs and cats—he dwelt on these and said that he seemed to be witnessing all the horrors and miseries of war without any of its grand spectacular effects. (‘Where in the world did he get “spectacular effects” from?’ Mildred smilingly wondered when she read this sentence.)

‘And yet,’ he went on, ‘it’s a singular thing that I never felt at peace like I do now. I don’t know as I can make you understand, Miss—I’m so bad at setting my meaning down—but it keeps coming over me that all’s as it should be. Particular at nights, when the clouds blow away and I can look up at the stars. This planet we live on isn’t but a very small speck, and we, scrambling about in our trenches, as it might be so many emmets, what matter how soon we’re gone and forgotten? Years and centuries pass and everything is forgotten. So why worry? And then the chaps alongside of me. We don’t talk except about common things, only I know they’re feeling the same as I do, which draws us together like. Maybe it’s because of death being always round the corner. Do you mind that poem of Kipling’s, called The Return, in one of the books you lent me? It’s wonderful true what he says⸺

“So much more near than I ’ad known,

So much more great than I ’ad guessed—

And me, like all the rest, alone—

But reachin’ out to all the rest!”

That’s just the way it strikes me, and somehow it seems to make for peace, though I couldn’t say why.’

If Jan had probed and analysed the serenity of spirit which he strove to define, he might have discovered that it arose simply from a sense that he was doing his duty; but he never quite arrived at that conclusion. What he did conclude—and found humorously puzzling—was that the place into which he had dropped was the right place for him, that he must always have been meant to be a soldier, not a poet nor an imaginative writer nor any of the fine things that he would have liked to be, but just a private in an infantry regiment. Well, even so, ambition need not be banished, and his chance of earning what Miss Mildred had said would make her proud might come any day.

He did, as the weeks slipped on, obtain sundry occasions of proving himself a capable fighter; but the affairs in which he was concerned were not important enough for public record. Save for these sporadic attacks upon the enemy, which for the most part resulted only in the loss of a considerable number of lives, there was no break in the regular routine of so many days in the trenches, followed by a period of rest in billets, whence he despatched his letters, writing them invariably with the pencil which was his most treasured possession.

It was on a cold, frosty night in spring that two staff officers, passing along his trench, halted beside him, and one of them called out:

‘Hullo!—hanged if it isn’t John Issel! Well, Jan, ’tis a wisht poor job sodgerin’, sure enough. Bain’t it now?’

Jan, standing at the salute, had a broad smile for the handsome young fellow who accosted him in the dialect of which he had lately been endeavouring to rid himself. He did not know much of Captain Haseldine, but he was proud and pleased to be recognised, and he made reply that he had nothing to complain about. Campaigning, he added, was teaching him a lot of new things.

‘Oh, it’s doing that for most of us,’ Frank Haseldine observed, laughing. ‘Even for some of our Generals.’

He went on talking for a few minutes about home affairs, remarking in an explanatory parenthesis to his companion, ‘Issel comes from our parish.’ Then he said to Jan ‘You’ll see Captain Bernard again one of these days, I hope, if we all pull through. Captain Bernard is engaged to be married to my sister Mildred.’

It was a little like being hit by a bullet—a sudden thump which made your heart stand still, yet left you erect and with an instant feeling that your first duty was to show no sign of distress. Jan showed none, and presently the two officers moved on, leaving him free to think what he would beneath his friends the blinking stars. These gave him such comfort as they had it in their power to bestow. They said it did not matter, because nothing really matters, and to that view in the abstract he could assent. But to affirm that so long as his little life might last it would not matter that somebody—he had scarcely looked at the man—was going to marry his goddess was quite vain. If the stars had asked whether he had ever imagined that he himself could marry Miss Mildred, he would naturally have answered ‘Of course not’; yet, however ridiculous and insane it might be, the truth was that he could not bear the idea of her belonging to anybody else. So what it came to, and what it had doubtless been bound to come to from the outset, was that he could not bear conditions which were altogether right, reasonable and inevitable. Jan Issel was not the first to find himself in that forlorn plight. In extreme cases it has been known to lead to suicide; in the vast majority it entails submission, more or less facile, to the decrees of destiny; for Jan it translated itself into a very fervent and genuine hope that the Germans might wipe him out. He saw now—it may have been illogical, but that made no difference to the fact—that his visions had been utterly childish, that he, an uneducated yokel, had no future and could have none, that it would be far better for him to end out there in Flanders than to be confronted some day with the dire prospect of a return to tilling the Devon fields and herding the Devon cattle.

This mood, it is true, did not endure; for he became hazily conscious that there was something contemptible in it and that a young, strong man has no business to wish himself extinguished. Nevertheless, he had more difficulty than usual in composing his next letter to Mildred, in which he made no allusion to her engagement, thinking that it would be bad manners to do so, since she had not mentioned it to him. At the end he remarked:

‘We lose men most days, and maybe my turn will come. It is good to be alive, because the world is beautiful and wonderful and because of some of the people in it; but I don’t think there can be many so happy that they should mind dying, for I can’t believe but what death means rest.’

With such persuasions he was well prepared to face what was in store for him when at length his battalion was told off to join in an engagement on a large scale. They knew very little about it beyond the fact that the British forces, after a rather prolonged spell of inaction, were about to resume the offensive and that their own special job would be to take a position facing them which was said to have been mined. That it had been mined with success was evidenced towards evening by a series of terrific explosions which seemed simply to annihilate the enemy’s defensive works; but the infantry were held back until a deluge of shell had been poured into the ruins. Then Jan and his comrades got the order to go, and away they went through the twilight smoke and dust, meeting with no opposition from the apparently broken foe. The distance that separated them from the first line of hostile trenches was traversed in no time, and that first line, or what remained of it, was occupied with ease; but in the communication trenches the Germans made a stand which resulted in hand-to-hand fighting of a really desperate nature. Of what was taking place amidst that tumult and welter and in the falling dusk Jan had only a confused notion; he supposed he must be performing his share of the task all right, because somebody sang out, ‘Well done, Issel!’ He was aware of being wounded, for the warm blood was trickling down his leg and soaking through his putties; but he felt neither pain nor weakness. Finally there came an abrupt lull. The bearded, grey-coated Germans had vanished, and he realised that the next line of trenches had been carried. He realised also, for the second time in his life, that he was quite happy. When he fell in, forming up with the remnants of his shattered battalion, he heard himself laughing aloud in sheer glee—he was as happy as that!

Was it a victory? It seemed so; yet a sudden and violent fusillade, opening upon them from their left, caused him to glance interrogatively at his neighbour. The man answered his unspoken query with a muttered ‘Enfiladed, by God!’ and immediately afterwards fell forward, groaning and swearing. But no groan came from Jan Issel, whom a bullet struck full in the heart; so that he dropped and never stirred again—only one amongst thousands who were delivered that night from the complications and bewilderments of a sick world.

To fall fighting for England in the full tide of life, to fall, shot through the heart, without a pang and in a moment of supreme exaltation is to finish gloriously, enviably. We all know this and we all say it, though some of us perhaps may feel that our own hearts are none the less broken for that. However, it was not to be expected that Mildred Haseldine should be broken-hearted when the news came to Culme House. She was much distressed; still she could not but recognise that there were compensating circumstances, and she went over at once to Bratton Farm to impart some of these to the poor lad’s parents. If her condolences were not received in quite as grateful a spirit as they might have been, she could and did make allowances for the grief-stricken farmer and his wife. Old Issel scarcely listened to what she was saying, and cut her short by calling out in a loud, harsh voice:

‘What did ’a want to go and get hisself killed vur? Darn they foul Germans! Yes, Miss, I don’t doubt but you’m sorry, but it bain’t your sorrow as’ll bring my boy back.’

With that he stumped out of the kitchen, leaving Mildred to do what she could with Mrs. Issel, which was an even more difficult matter. For Mrs. Issel, dry-eyed and despairing, had some rather unkind and irrational things to say. When, for instance, she was gently told that her visitor had strong personal reasons for sympathising with all to whom the war was bringing anxiety or loss, it was not very generous to rejoin that the young lady need not fret. ‘They staff officers don’t niver take no hurt, so I’ve heerd tell.’ But what was really too unjust to be endured without protest was the assertion that it was Miss Mildred more than anybody who had driven Jan away to distant battlefields by ‘putting a passel of foolish notions into his head.’ In self-defence, Mildred had to remind the old woman that, so far from having encouraged Jan to enlist, she had tried, by providing him with other interests, to deter him from so doing. As for his actual enlistment, she had only heard of it after it had become an accomplished fact. This being undeniably true, Mrs. Issel made no reply and remained silent while it was represented to her that we can never be sure whether an early death is a misfortune or not. No living being can hope to escape sorrow and suffering, and Mildred, for her part, did not think that poor Jan’s temperament was of the kind that tends towards happiness.

Probably that also was true. It would hardly have made Jan happy to discover—as he might have done—that he had mistaken an entirely commonplace young woman for a divinity nor to realise—as he must have done—that he was too heavily weighted in life’s handicap to emerge from the ruck where he was so ill at ease. Judith Combe, while brushing her mistress’s hair that evening, said of him with unexpected sagacity that maybe Providence had ‘served him kind’ by taking him out of this world, seeing that he would always have been set upon what was beyond his reach.

Judith herself was so set upon obtaining something for which she was more than a little afraid to ask that she decided to take the risk of making her desire known. Could Miss Mildred spare one of Jan’s letters? He had not written to her at all, and she would like very much, if she might, to have a page or two from his own hand. ‘Because we was in a manner friends, you see, Miss.’

Mildred looked inquiringly at her sedate handmaid and smiled. ‘I am not sure that it would be quite fair to the poor boy,’ she answered. ‘He says some things which many people would think rather comic, and perhaps I oughtn’t.... However, you wouldn’t understand. Oh, well, yes, Judith—take them all, if you care to have them. I think I can find the whole collection.’

So the whole collection became the property of Judith, who spent many an hour over it and stained some of its leaves with her tears. It is by no means certain that she did not understand Jan’s flights of fancy and diction. It may even have constituted one of the unnumbered ironies of human experience that Jan himself should have been more nearly understood by the illiterate Judith than by Mildred Haseldine or by anybody else.

W. E. Norris.

THE NEW ‘UBIQUE’: A BATTLE.

BY JEFFERY E. JEFFERY.

By the ears and the eyes and the brain,

By the limbs and the hands and the wings,

We are slaves to our masters the guns,

But their slaves are the masters of kings!

Gilbert Frankau.

Somewhere about the middle of June, we knew definitely that we were ‘for it,’ as the soldier says; we knew that our division was one of those chosen for the great concentration which was to culminate in the ‘great push’—and we were proud of the distinction. A three days’ march brought us to a certain training area, where we camped for a week and worked some seventeen hours a day—counting, that is, from réveillé at 4 A.M. until the last bit of harness was hung up clean and ready for the morrow at 9 P.M.

During this period two incidents of note occurred. One was that the Child suddenly developed pleurisy, and was removed to hospital—a serious loss at any time, but especially so at this particular moment. The other was that a squadron of hostile aircraft flew over our manœuvre ground and actually dropped a bomb within 150 yards of the tail of our column. Which, seeing that we were some twenty miles from the nearest part of the line and at the moment only playing at soldiers, was most disconcerting.

From the time when we left this training area until, about three weeks later, we were withdrawn to rest in a quiet part of the line, I kept a rough diary of our particular share in the greatest battle ever fought by the British Army. The following are some extracts from it, in no way embellished, but only enlarged so as to make them intelligible.

June 27.—Nine-hour night march southwards, arriving in comfortable billets at 3.30 A.M. Aeroplanes (or at any rate, hostile ones) are the curse of this war: if it was not for fear of them we could move by daylight in a reasonable manner. The old saddler, dozing on a wagon, fell off and was run over: nothing broken, but he will be lost to us. A great pity, as he’s a charming character and a first-class workman.

June 28 and 29.—Rested, the continuation of the march having been postponed.

June 30.—Orders to move on to-night. Was sent off with a small party on a road and river reconnaissance: this presumably with a view to going forward ‘when the advance begins.’ By the time we got back to where the brigade was to billet, had ridden about forty miles. Job only half finished. Battery marched in at midnight.

July 1.—Started at 5.30 A.M. with same party to finish reconnaissance. Reached a point about four miles behind the line, at 7.15 A.M.: a tremendous bombardment in progress. Left our horses, and walked on two miles to a river. Here learnt that the attack had been launched at 7.30 and was going well. Walked north up the river-bank, keeping well under the shelter of the steep ridge on the east side, and only emerging to examine each bridge as we came to it. Thousands upon thousands of shells of every size, from ‘Grannies’ to 18-prs., passing over our heads unceasingly: expected the enemy to retaliate. But not a round came: probably the Boche was too busily engaged elsewhere. Met streams of wounded coming down; some with captured helmets, nearly all with grins.

Finished the river reconnaissance about 10.30 and walked back by a roundabout (but less unpleasant!) way, and reached our horses about midday. Rode back to the battery and spent the afternoon writing out full report. Orders to move at 11.30 P.M. Long night march to new billets, arriving 4.15 A.M.

July 2.—Rested. In the course of the day the Child returned, having in some amazing way persuaded the hospital authorities that pleurisy and a temperature of 104° are the best possible things to have on the eve of a great offensive. Swears he’s all right now, and objects to being ordered to take it easy—while he can. Heavy bombardment all day, but we are eight miles back here. Official communiqués record further successes.

July 3.—Moved at 9.30 P.M., and arrived (5.30 A.M.) soaking wet at the worst bivouac it has ever been our unhappy lot to occupy.

July 4.—Saw about 150 German prisoners being brought back. In the afternoon, after a violent thunderstorm, went to look at the position which we are to take over. Found that it was immensely strong. Originally it was only 1200 yards from the enemy front line, but now, since the advance, is about 3000. Steady rain all the time. Got back to find the camp converted into a veritable bog, and men of all the batteries making shelters for themselves by cutting down trees and looting straw. There will be a row over this, but—well, it is too much to expect men to submit to such unnecessary discomfort.

July 5.—Took the Child and two telephonists and went up to new position. Bombardment proceeding incessantly. Was amazed at the amount of material already brought up, at the gangs already working on the shell-wrecked roads, and at the crowd of spectators who lined a convenient ridge to ‘watch the show.’

Went with the Child and the battery commander from whom we were taking over to get a look at the country and visit the O.P. Passed through Fricourt—not long captured. Never could a bombardment have done its work of destruction more thoroughly than here. Not figuratively, but literally; no one brick stood upon another, scarcely one brick was whole. Walked on up the sunken road that leads north from Fricourt past the Dingle and Shelter Wood. For days this road had been a death-trap. It was strewn with corpses, with stretchers on which lay wounded men awaiting removal, with broken bits of equipment, English and German—and it stank. We arrived at the headquarters of a battalion and asked if we could see the colonel.

‘No,’ they told us, ‘you can’t at present. He’s just been buried in his dug-out by a shell, and it will be some time before we get him clear; he’s all right, but a bit shaken.’

So we went on up a battered trench to the O.P. In it a subaltern and two signallers, all three caked in mud. At the moment the wire to the battery was intact. Two men had been killed and one wounded whilst mending it. From here we could see the famous Quadrangle Trench, which at that time was holding up the advance. Many batteries were shooting at it. Having got our bearings, so to speak, we did not linger in this most unhealthy spot, but returned to the battery position.

On the way home met our own colonel bearing the news that the brigade would probably go into action in quite a different area. This news confirmed at H.Q. at 5 P.M. Turned back and reconnoitred the new position, which was farther south, nearer Fricourt; rather cramped and quite unprepared for occupation. Cadged dinner from an old friend whom we met at D.H.Q. Met the battery on the road about 10 P.M. and led it to new position. Work of getting guns in, ammunition and stores dumped, and teams away completed by 3 A.M. Awaited dawn.

July 6.—As soon as it was light went up the hill on the right front of the battery to meet the colonel, choose an O.P. and ‘learn’ the country. The scene of wreckage upon this hill now is past all belief, and is, I should imagine, a perfect example of the havoc wrought by a modern ‘intense’ bombardment. The whole face of the earth is completely altered. On the German side of No Man’s Land, not one square yard of the original surface of the ground remains unbroken. Line upon line of trenches and tunnels and saps have been so smashed that they are barely recognisable as such: there are mine craters seventy to a hundred yards across, and there are dug-outs (some of these still intact) which go down fifty feet and more into the chalk. On every side is débris—rails, timber, kit, blankets, broken rifles, bread, steel helmets, pumps, respirators, corpses. And nowhere can one get away from the sickening smell—the smell of putrescent human flesh....

The morning mist cleared at last and we were able to see the landscape. From the O.P. we chose, the view, for our purposes, was ideal. Below us lay the ruins that once were Fricourt, to the right Fricourt Wood, farther off Mametz Wood and village, and on the skyline Contalmaison. Returned, very dishevelled, to breakfast at 8 A.M. During the morning ran out a wire, got ‘through’ to the battery, but did not dare to start shooting until further information as to the situation of the infantry was available. Eventually gathered that we only hold the southern edge of Mametz Wood, and that the Quadrangle Trench which lies to the left (west) of it is not yet in our possession. Spent the afternoon registering the guns, and then began shelling Mametz Wood. Was relieved by the Child at tea-time. Came down to the battery and washed. Looked forward to decent night’s rest but was disappointed, viz.:

July 7.—Woken by Angelo at 1 A.M., who brought orders for a ‘strafe,’ which was to start at 2. Battery fired at a rapid rate from that hour till 2.30. Went back to bed. Woken by the Infant, who had relieved Angelo, at 6. Big bombardment to start at 7.20. Went to telephone dug-out at 7.15, unwashed and half-dressed, and remained there all day; meals brought in to me. The battery fired practically continuously for fourteen hours at rates varying from one to twenty-four rounds a minute. Targets various—mostly ‘barraging’ Mametz Wood and ground immediately to the west of it. Worked the detachments as far as possible in reliefs, turning on spare signallers, cooks, and servants to carry ammunition as it arrived.

The Child, who was at the O.P., sent down what information he could, but reported that it was hardly possible to see anything owing to the smoke. Passed on everything to Brigade H.Q. (communications working well), and received their instructions as to changes of target, rate of fire, etc. By dusk we were all very tired, and several of the men stone deaf. There were several heavy showers during the day, so that the position became a quagmire into which the guns sank almost to their axles and became increasingly difficult to serve. Empty cartridge cases piled several feet high round each platform: mud awful. No official communiqué as to result of the day’s operation. Got eight hours’ sleep.

July 8.—Shooting, off and on, all day—mostly registration of new points. In the intervals when not firing the detachments kept hard at work improving and strengthening the position. Hostile artillery much more active, but nothing really close to us. Fired 150 rounds during the night into Mametz Wood: northern portion not yet in our hands.

July 9.—A good deal of barrage work all day, but as it was mostly at a slow rate the men managed to get some rest—goodness knows, they both need and deserve it.

July 10.—Went out with the colonel to reconnoitre an advanced position. Got caught in a barrage, and had to crouch in a (fortunately) deep trench for half an hour. Sitting there began to wonder if this was the prelude to a counter-attack; just then, looking out to the left, that is towards the south-west corner of Mametz Wood, saw a lot of men running hard. Suddenly spotted the familiar grey uniform and spiked helmets of the enemy.

‘God!’ I cried, ‘it is a counter-attack. Those are Huns!’ Expected every moment to have one peering in over the top of the trench: did not dare to run for it, owing to the barrage, which was still heavy. T⸺, who was with me, remained calm and put up his glasses.

‘All right,’ he said; ‘they’re prisoners. Look at the escort.’

And so they were, running for their lives through their own shrapnel—and the escort keeping well up with them!

The storm being over (no ‘hate’ lasts for ever), returned as quickly as we could, and reported that the position was possible but by no means tempting! A lot of night firing.

July 11.—Set out with the Child, two sergeants, and my trusty ‘look-out man’ to look for a more favourable spot. After a good deal of walking about found one, a fairly snug place (though pitted with shell holes).

Intended to reconnoitre for an O.P. in the front edge of Mametz Wood, but met a colonel just back from those parts who assured us that the enemy front line ran there. Reluctantly (!) we abandoned the enterprise and returned. At 6 P.M. the Child started off with a digging party to prepare the new position. Move of the battery ordered for 9.30, then postponed till 10.30. Road crowded with infantry and transport; progress slow. To be mounted and at the head of a column of twelve six-horse teams is a very different thing from being alone and ready to slip behind a wall or into a trench if occasion calls for it. Luck was on our side, however, and we got through before any shells came.

Occupied the position quickly, emptied the ammunition wagons, and got the horses clear without casualties. The Child reported that a few four-twos had come pretty close while he and his party were digging and had stopped their work for a while: nevertheless, quite a lot already done. Time now 12.30. Turned on every available man and continued digging till dawn. Men very beat, but not a word of grousing.

July 12.—At dawn went up to find a new O.P.: took the Child and two signallers, the latter laying a wire as they went. Found excellent place with good general view in an old German redoubt. Trenches, however, crammed with sleeping infantry, over whom one had to step, and under whom the signallers had to pass their line! Thick mist till 8 A.M., when light became good enough to start on our task, which was to cut through the wire at a certain spot in the German main second line north of Mametz Wood. Observation difficult, as we were rather far back and the whole line was being heavily bombarded by our ‘heavies.’ About 10.30 what was apparently an excursion party of generals and staff officers arrived to see the fun, crowded us out of our bay in the trench and lined up, with their heads and red hat-bands exposed. Lay down in a corner and tried to sleep, but got trodden on so abandoned the idea. Shoon (another of my youthful subalterns) came up to relieve us at 2.30, so the Child and I returned to the battery and got about three hours’ sleep. The detachments with amazing industry and endurance again hard at work digging. A good deal of hostile fire all round us, especially close to the nullah, but nothing within 200 yards of the guns.

About 5.30 P.M. Shoon rang up from the O.P. to say that he and a signaller had been wounded. Angelo went up to take his place. Poor old Shoon, when he arrived down, was pretty shaken. Evidently the crowd of spectators previously remarked upon had attracted the attention of some cross Boche gunner. A five-nine dropped just beside the O.P. and knocked both signallers and Shoon, who was observing his wire-cutting at the moment, head over heels back into the trench below. While they were picking themselves up out of the débris a salvo landed on the parados immediately behind them. One signaller was untouched (and rescued his precious telephone), the other was badly cut about the head and leg and departed on a stretcher—a good man too. Shoon got a scratch on his forehead and some splinters into his left arm. Swore he was all right, but since he didn’t look it was ordered to bed.

Ammunition replenished in the evening in a tearing hurry. It is not pleasant to have teams standing about in a place like this. Heard that on the return journey to the wagon line last night a bombardier, four drivers, and five horses had been wounded—all slightly, thank Heaven!

Shot all night at the wood (Bazentin-le-petit), and at the front line.

July 13.—Continued wire-cutting and searching the wood all day. Scores of batteries doing the same thing, and noise infernal. The Child went off to find out if he could see the wire from the front edge of Mametz Wood (which now really is in our possession). Failing to see it from there, he wandered on up an old communication trench known as Middle Alley, which led direct from our own to the German front line. Eventually he found a place from which he could see through a gap in the hedge. The wire was cut all right—and, incidentally, he might have come face to face with a hostile bombing party at any moment! But what seemed to interest him much more was the behaviour of the orderly who had accompanied him. This N.C.O., who is the battery ‘look-out man,’ specially trained to observe anything and everything, raised himself from the ground a moment after they had both hurled themselves flat to await the arrival of a five-nine in Mametz Wood, peered over a fallen tree-trunk and said, ‘That one, sir, was just in front, but slightly to the left’!

Spent the afternoon preparing detailed orders and time-tables for to-morrow’s ‘big show.’ Slept from 11 till 2.45 A.M.

July 14.—The ‘intense’ bombardment began at 3.20 A.M.; the infantry attack was launched five minutes later. Even to attempt to describe this bombardment is beyond me. All that can be said is that there was such a hell of noise that it was quite impossible to give any orders to the guns except by sending subalterns from the telephone dug-out to shout in the ear of each sergeant in turn. The battery (in company with perhaps a hundred others) barraged steadily, ‘lifting’ fifty yards at a time from 3.25 till 7.15 A.M., by which time some 900 rounds had been expended and the paint on the guns was blistering from their heat. We gathered (chiefly from information supplied by the Child at the O.P., who got into touch with various staff and signal officers) that the attack had been very successful. About 7.30 things slowed down a little and the men were able to get breakfast and some rest—half at a time, of course.

At midday cavalry moved up past us and affairs began to look really promising. Slept from 3 to 5 P.M., then got orders to reconnoitre an advanced position in front of Acid Drop Copse. (It may here be noted that from our first position this very copse was one of our most important targets at a range of nearly 4000 yards.) Chose a position, but could see that if and when we do occupy it, it is not going to be a health-resort. And, owing to the appalling state of the ground, it will take some driving to get there. Had a really good night’s rest for once. Battery fired at intervals all night.

July 15.—Attack continued. By 10.30 A.M. our guns had reached extreme range and we were forced to stop. (We started at 2700 in this position.) News very good: enemy much demoralised and surrendering freely. Practically no hostile shelling round us now—in fact, we are rather out of the battle for the moment. After lunch formed up the whole battery and thanked the men for the splendid way that they had worked. Shoon, whose arm has got worse, sent under protest to hospital. Desperately sorry to lose him.

In the afternoon switched to the left, where we are apparently still held up, and fired occasional salvos on Martinpuich. Ditto all night.

July 16.—Everybody much concerned over a certain Switch Trench, which appears to be giving much trouble. Fired spasmodically (by map) on this trench throughout the day. In the evening all guns removed to a travelling Ordnance Workshop for overhaul—they need it. Late at night received orders to dig the Acid Drop Copse position next day, and occupy it as soon as the guns are sent back.

July 17.—Took all officers and practically every man up to new position at 7 A.M. and started to dig. Shells all round us while we worked, but still no damage. This is too good to last. In the afternoon went out with George (another B.C.[2] in the brigade), the Child, and a telephonist to look for an O.P. whence to see this infernal Switch Trench. After a while parted from George, whom we last saw walking forward from the villa, pausing occasionally to examine the country through his glasses. We learnt afterwards that he spent a really happy afternoon in No Man’s Land carrying various wounded infantrymen into comparative safety! For which he has been duly recommended.

Got into the old German second line (taken on the 14th), and found that it had been so completely battered by our bombardment that its captors had been obliged to dig an entirely new trench in front of it. This part of the world was full of gunner officers all looking for an O.P. for Switch Trench. Returned to Acid Drop Copse about 5 P.M. and found that the digging had progressed well. Marched the men back to the old position, where they got tea and a rest. Teams came up about 8. Packed up and moved forward. Ground so desperately heavy that it became necessary to put ten horses in a team for the last pull up the hill to the position. Got all guns into action and twenty-one wagon loads of ammunition dumped by 11 P.M.—no casualties. Work of the men, who were much worn out, beyond all praise.

The noise in this place is worse than anything previously experienced. Being, as we are now, the most advanced battery in this particular sector, we get the full benefit of every gun that is behind us—and there are many. Moreover, the hostile artillery is extremely active, especially in the wood, where every shell comes down with a hissing rush that ends in an appalling crash. About midnight the Boche began to put over small ‘stink’ shells. These seemed to flit through the air, and always landed with a soft-sounding ‘phutt’ very like a dud. One burst just behind our trench and wounded a gunner in the foot. Found it impossible to sleep, owing to the din.

July 18.—At 4 A.M. the hostile bombardment seemed so intense that, fearing a counter-attack, I got up to look round. Was reassured by Angelo, who had already done so. Beyond the fact that the wood was being systematically searched with five-nines, there was nothing much doing. Returned to bed, but still failed to sleep.

Fired at intervals throughout the day at various spots allotted by Brigade H.Q. Having no O.P. had to do everything from the map. Men all digging when not actually firing: position now nearly splinter-proof. A most unnerving day, however. A Hun barrage of ‘air-crumps’ on the ridge in front of us by the Cutting, another one to our right along the edge of the wood, many five-nines over our heads into the dip behind us, and quite a few into Acid Drop Copse on our left rear.

In the afternoon we had half a dozen H.E. ‘pip-squeaks’ very close at a moment when there were three wagons up replenishing ammunition. One burst within four yards of the lead horses—and no damage. This cannot last. Orders for a big attack received at 4 P.M. At 5 counter-orders to the effect that we are to be relieved to-night. Fired continuously till about 8.30, then packed up and waited for the teams, which arrived about 9.

We were just congratulating ourselves on our luck, it being then rather a quiet moment and three out of the four teams already on the move, when a big ‘air-crump’ burst straight above our heads, wounding the sergeant-major in the thigh. Put him up on the last limber and sent the guns off as fast as they could go—ground too bad to gallop. Two more shells followed us down the valley, but there were no further casualties. At the bottom missed the Child: sent to inquire if he was at the head of the column—no. Was beginning to get nervous, when he strolled up from the rear, accompanied by the officers’-mess cook.

‘Pity to leave these behind,’ he observed, throwing down a kettle and a saucepan!

Nervy work loading up our stores and kits on to the G.S. wagon, but the enemy battery had returned to its favourite spot by the Cutting, and nothing further worried us. Marched back to the wagon line (about five miles). Much amused by the tenacity with which one of the sergeants clung to a jar of rum which he had rescued from the position.[3] At the wagon line collected the whole battery together, and while waiting went across to see the sergeant-major in the dressing-station. Am afraid, though it is nothing serious, that it will be a case of ‘Blighty’ for him. A very serious loss to the battery, as he has been absolutely invaluable throughout this show.

Marched to our old bivouac at the swampy wood, but were allotted a reasonable space outside it this time. Fell into bed, beat to the world, at 3.30 A.M.

July 19.—Much to do, though men and horses are tired to death. Moved off at 6 P.M. and did a twenty-mile night march, arriving at another bivouac at 2 A.M. Horses just about at their last gasp. Poor old things, they have been in harness almost continuously throughout the battle bringing up load after load of ammunition at all hours of the day and night.

July 20.—Took over a new position (trench warfare style) just out of the battle area as now constituted, and settled down to—rest.

The above is an accurate, though, I fear, far too personal, record of the doings of one particular unit during a fortnight’s continuous fighting. It is in no way an attempt to describe a battle as a whole. That is a feat beyond my powers—and, I think, beyond the powers of anyone actually engaged. Thinking things over now in the quiet of a well-made dug-out, I realise that the predominant impressions left upon my mind, in ascending order of magnitude so to speak, are: dirt, stink, horrors, lack of sleep, funk—and the amazing endurance of the men. In the first article of this series I wrote: ‘But this I know now—the human material with which I have to deal is good enough.’ It is. I grant that our casualties were slight (though in this respect we were extremely lucky), and that compared with the infantry our task was the easier one of ‘standing the strain’ rather than of ‘facing the music.’ But still think of the strain on the detachments, serving their guns night and day almost incessantly for fourteen days on end. In the first week alone we fired the amount of ammunition which suffices for a battery in peace time for thirty years! They averaged five hours’ sleep in the twenty-four, these men, throughout the time; and they dug three separate positions—all in heavy ground. Nor must one forget the drivers, employed throughout in bringing up ammunition along roads pitted with holes, often shelled and constantly blocked with traffic.

The New Ubique begins to be worthy of the Old.