With The Immortal Seventh Division

by Edmund John Kennedy

In the early days of the war in Flanders, the times were wondrously stirring; one never knew where an attack would be launched, and what would happen next. With such huge and mobile opposing forces in front of us, every day had some fresh surprise in store. 'From early morning till dewy eve' we lived on the tiptoe of expectation; for, indeed, the early morning carried its message, but generally of discomfort, for not the least discomfort of a campaign is the very early hour at which reveille is sounded, usually at five, but sometimes at four; or, in the case of emergency, at any hour of the night. But generally it comes just as the attitude necessary to comfort has been discovered, and the somnolent individual is ready for the luxury of what I may call a half and half snooze. It is at that moment, in that mysterious borderland of sleeping and waking, that the strident and compelling sound of the bugle falls upon the unwilling ear. There is no turning over for another spell. One comfort is, there is always very little toilet to perform; and in a few minutes the place is alive with dishevelled and half-awake men. Where water can be easily procured, cleanliness is the order of the day; and with all our faults, one essential feature stands to the credit of the British soldier: he is a clean man. Never does Tommy miss his wash and shave if there is half a chance of gratifying this admirable instinct.

All visitors to the Front are struck with the glorious health and fitness of our lads. In fact, I have never seen such a collection of healthy manhood in my life. This is attributable in the first place to the natural open-air life which the men lead, but in the next place to the excellent sanitary arrangements and precautions adopted and insisted upon by the authorities, which very largely account for the remarkable immunity from disease enjoyed by the troops.

Behind all this, comes the most important question of 'grub.' The commissariat of the British Expeditionary Force is a marvel of organization. During the last six months of my military service I enjoyed the advantage of travelling up and down the lines from Ypres to Bethune, and everywhere I was most profoundly impressed by the marvel of supply. Scattered over the whole front are units, large and small, each of which has to be fed daily; and woe to the unlucky A.S.C. officer who is responsible for delay in forwarding or conveying rations. 'Tommy' is nothing without a good 'grouse,' but in this respect he is not always logical; bread which is stale will give him cause to grumble for hours; but he will rush into the most desperate and bloody work, and suffer untold misery, without a murmur.

Alluding to the masterpiece of organization, which enables our army to be fed while in the battle front, Mr. Philip Gibbs, writing in the Daily Chronicle, says: 'The British soldier has at least this in his favour, in spite of all the horrors of war which has put his manhood to the test, he gets his "grub" with unfailing regularity, if there is any possible means of approach to him, and he gets enough and a bit more. It is impossible for him to "grouse" about that element of his life on the field. The French soldier envies him and says,—as I have heard one of them say—"Ma foi! our comrades feed like princes! they have even jam with their tea! The smell of bacon comes from their trenches and touches our nostrils with the most excellent fragrance, more beautiful than the perfume of flowers. The English eat as well as they fight, which is furiously."'

It may interest my readers to see what a man's daily ration consists of. This table refers to officers and men alike, for there is no difference in this respect:—

1 1/4 lb. fresh meat, or, 1 lb. preserved meat;
1 1/4 lb. bread;
4 oz. bacon;
3 oz. cheese;
4 oz. jam;
3 oz. sugar;
1/2 lb. fresh vegetables, or, 2 oz. dried;
5/8 oz. tea, coffee, or cocoa;
2 oz. tobacco per week, or 50 cigarettes.

This ration is more scientifically arranged than its recipient imagines; as a matter of fact, it comprises all the essentials which go to build up the stamina of the fighting man; and thus, well provided with fresh air, good food, to say nothing of hard exercise, the animal side of Mr. Thomas Atkins is kept in the pink of condition, and he is able to face the burdens of life which are incidental to his calling, and which are not a few, with remarkable ease and success.

Life at the Front is a strange compound of the grave and the gay. One of the most appealing features is witnessed in the sad lot of the Belgian refugees, who, often at a moment's notice, have fled from their homes, leaving all their property to the devastation of war. I have frequently seen mournful processions on the road, consisting of old and young. It is heartrending to witness the pitiable look of an aged couple, who through a long life have lived in some happy homestead, taking their last gaze at the house with its trim garden, which one knows in a few hours will be shattered past recognition; women, sometimes in a most delicate condition, struggling bravely on; children crying; and the men with set teeth and despairing faces striding on, carrying the few articles which they have hurriedly snatched up, as the whole family has escaped from the hell which has so suddenly befallen them. Where are they to go to? God only knows what becomes of them. I have seen them lining the road on a pouring wet night, outside a town already full to overflowing with like unhappy sufferers; the while Belgian soldiers, with fixed bayonets, have prohibited any further entrance to that which promised a lodging place. Soldiers are not proverbially given to overmuch sensitiveness where human suffering is concerned, for a daily intercourse with terrible scenes cannot fail to harden a man, but I declare that I have seen strong men burst into tears as they have gazed at one of these processions of great mental and bodily agony.

One serious aspect of life at the Front is found in the remarkable system of espionage which unfortunately abounds. One lives in a constant state of suspicion, for in this respect the enemy is as daring as he is resourceful.