When a man falls someone is sure to say, “Poor old boy—his day’s work is done.”
Or again in passing the wounded, the characteristic cry is: “Cheer up, I’ll soon be joining you.” Another kindly call to a wounded comrade is: “Keep a place for me in the next bed in hospital.” I’ve heard the Tommies running through German trenches, throwing bombs to the tune of, “You made me what I am today, I hope you’re satisfied.”
I can’t think of how such spirits can ever be beaten. The morale of the British army can never be destroyed.
And I desire to say right here that as for the German he fights like a dog under a master’s lash. I have never seen a smile or a grin on a Hun’s face and never heard humorous remarks from his lips and I have an army school certificate which asserts that I can understand German.
Even when the Huns are taken prisoners—and I might remind you we don’t volunteer to take them—they bring all their surliness with them. After some heavy fighting on the Ancre where we unavoidably captured a few Huns and sustained many losses, I ordered four Germans to carry one of my men who had been dangerously wounded. They refused, saying, “They would not carry the English dog.” However, I punched them into obedience.
Once I had as a prisoner a German officer. One of my men felt sorry for him in his appearance of complete dejection. He went over to the man and by way of commiseration offered him a cigarette. The German officer growled, leaped to his feet, knocked the cigarette from the Tommy’s hand and spat in his face. I never saw a quicker bayonet thrust in all my life.
As for the play side of war, who can ever forget the men of the East Surrey Regiment who on the fourth of July, 1916, went over the top in the face of blasts of shrapnel, dribbling a football?
The Huns called those boys “Madmen.” But our prisoners frequently admitted their admiration of that particular “stunt.”
It is an everyday occurrence “over there” to witness a football match on some recently regained, devastated French field. Often enough shells from a German battery engaged in its usual afternoon work of strafing will be falling within a few hundred feet of the players.
I once acted as referee at a brigade boxing tournament when during the final bout Boche airplanes spotted us. They sent down bombs and darts, but we went on with our sport until a bomb fell close to the ringside and killed several spectators. Even then the crowd seemed bent on remaining to witness the end of the bout until the brigadier commandant, one of the spectators, suddenly said: “We are a lot of damn’ fools to stay here,” and he ordered the bugler to sound the safety call.