Every battle fought differs from all other battles, for no opposing forces ever meet under precisely identical conditions twice. Thus it is useless to speak of a typical battle except in the broadest general sense, and useless to attempt to describe a typical battle, or action of any kind. Usually, the artillery get into action after cavalry have reconnoitred the enemy’s position; the guns shell the enemy until he is considered sufficiently weakened to permit of infantry attack, and then the infantry go forward, even up to the rarely occurring bayonet charge. If their advance dislodges the enemy, the cavalry are set on to turn retreat into rout; if, on the other hand, the attacking force is compelled to retire, the cavalry cover the retreat, and, in order to make good in a retreat, a part of a force is taken back while the remainder hold the enemy in check. In modern actions, artillery fire their shells over the heads of their own infantry at the enemy, distance and trajectory permitting of this. By trajectory is meant the curve that a projectile describes in its flight; both rifles and big guns are so constructed and sighted that they throw their projectiles upward to counteract the pull of gravity, and the missile eventually drops down toward its object—it does not travel in a perfectly straight line. But it is bad for infantry to be in front of their own guns, with their own artillery shells passing over them, for too long—morale suffers from this after a time, since a man cannot distinguish in such a case between his own artillery’s shells and those of the enemy. Whenever possible, the artillery in rear of an infantry force are posted slightly to either flank; circumstances, however, do not always admit of this.
On mobilisation for active service, the first thing that happens in the British Army is the calling up of the reserves. All men enlist, in the first case, for a certain number of years with the colours and a further period “on the reserve.” In this latter force, they are free to follow any civilian avocation, but on mobilisation must immediately report themselves at headquarters—wherever their headquarters may be—and take the place appointed to them in the mobilised army. Then comes the business of drawing war kit and equipment from stores. As a battleship clears for action, so the Army rids itself for the time of all things not absolutely necessary on active service, exchanges blank ammunition for ball, sharpens swords and bayonets, and in every way prepares for stern business. Each man is issued with a little aluminium plate which he is compelled to wear, and on which are inscribed such particulars as his name, regimental number, unit, etc., so that in case of his being killed on the field he can be identified and the news of his death transmitted to his next of kin. Each man, too, is issued with an “emergency ration,” which is a compressed supply of food amply sufficient for one day’s meals, so that in any tight corner, where provisions are not obtainable, he may be able to hold out for at least one day without being reduced to starvation. The opening and use of this ration, except by permission of an officer, counts as a crime in the Army, unless a man is placed in such a position that no officer is at hand to sanction the opening of the package, when the matter is perforce left to the man’s discretion.
Marching on service is a different matter from marching in time of peace. Not only is there the strain of ever-possible attack, but there is also, for cavalry and infantry, the weight of service armament and equipment to be considered. Every man carries in his bandoliers 150 rounds of ammunition for his rifle—not a bit too much, when the rate of fire possible with the modern rifle is taken into account. But 150 rounds of ball cartridge is a serious matter when one has to carry it throughout the day, and, when active service opens, it is easy to understand why only really fit men are passed by doctors into the Army. So far as the rank and file are concerned, it is power to endure that makes the soldier on active service; bravery is needed, initiative is needed, but staying power is needed most of all.
There may be days of solid marching without a sight of the enemy. One may form part of a flanking force whose business is to march from point to point, fighting but seldom, but always presenting a threat to the enemy or his lines of communication, and thus ever on the move, with very little time for sleep or eating; again, one may be placed with a force which has to march half a day to come in contact with the enemy, and to fight the other half of the day; or yet again, it may be necessary to march all night in order to take a position—or be shot in the attempt—at dawn. In time of peace and on manœuvres, officers take care that compensating time is allowed to men, so as to give them the normal amount of rest; on active service, the officer commanding a force spares his men as much as he can, and gives them all the rest possible, but he has to be guided by circumstances, or to rise superior to circumstances and cause himself and his men to undergo far more than normal exertions. War, as carried out to-day, requires all that every man has to give in the way of staying power, and now, as in the days of the battle-axe and long-bow, physical endurance is the greatest asset a man can have on active service. The hard drinker in time of peace and the man who has been looking for “soft jobs” all the time of his peace service soon “go sick” and become ineffective; they may be just as brave as the rest, but they lack the staying power requisite to the carrying on of war.
Men’s impressions of being under fire vary so much that every account is of interest. “My principal impression was that I’d like to run away, but there was nowhere to run to, so I stuck on, and got used to it after a bit.” “I felt cold, and horribly thirsty—I never thought to be afraid till afterwards.” “It was interesting, till I saw the man next to me rolled over with a bullet in his head, and then I wanted to get up and go for the devils who had done that.” Thus spoke three men when asked how they felt about it. My own impression was chiefly a fear that I was going to be afraid—I did not want to disgrace myself, but to be as good as the rest.
One man, who came back wounded after the day of Mons, described how he felt at first shooting a man and knowing that his bullet had taken effect—for in the majority of cases, with a whole body of men firing, it is difficult to tell which of the bullets take effect. This, however, was a clear case, and the man could not but know that he was responsible for the shot.
“I had four men with me on rear-guard,” he said, “and we were holding the end of a village street to let our chaps get away as far as possible before we mounted and caught up with them. We could see German infantry coming on, masses of them, but they couldn’t tell whether the village street held five men or a couple of squadrons, so they held back a bit. At last I could see we were in danger of being outflanked, so I got my men to get mounted, and just as they were doing so a German officer put his head round the corner of the house at the end of the street—not ten yards away from me. I raised my rifle, shut both eyes, and pulled the trigger—it was point-blank range, and when I opened my eyes and looked it seemed as if I’d blown half his face away. I felt scared at what I had done—it seemed wrong to have shot a man like that, though he and his kind drive women and children in front of their firing lines. It seemed to make such a horrible mess, somehow. I got mounted, and just as I swung my leg over the horse, a fool of a German infantryman aimed a blow at me with the butt end of his rifle—I don’t know where he sprung from—and damaged my arm like this. If he’d had the sense he could have run me through with a bayonet or shot me, but I suppose he was too flurried. But that officer’s face after I’d shot him stuck to me, and I still dream of it, and shall for some time, probably.”
He who told this story is a boy of twenty-two or three, and he has gone back to the front to rejoin his regiment, now—with three stripes on his arm, instead of the two that were his at the beginning of the campaign.
On forced marches, and often on normal marches as well, all the things that one considers necessities—with the exception of sufficient food to keep one in condition—go by the board. One sleeps under the stars, with no other covering than a coat and blanket; one lies out to sleep in pouring rain, with no more covering; tents are out of the question, for there is no time to pitch and strike them. One goes for days without a wash, and for days, too, without undressing. There were two scamps in the South African campaign who promised each other, for some mysterious reason, that they would not take their boots off for a month, and they ran into such a series of marches and actions that, even if they had not made the compact, they would only have been able to remove their boots three times in the course of that month. The smart soldier of peace service goes unshaven, unwashed, careless of all except getting enough of food and sleep at times; and when a lull comes in the operations, so that he gets a day or even an hour or two to himself, a bath is a luxury undreamed of by the man who can have one every morning and consider it a mere usual thing.
If in time of peace the soldier considers a rifle carelessly, and even resents having to carry it about with him, he looks on it differently on service, knowing as he does that his life may depend on the quality of the weapon and his ability to use it at almost any minute of the day or night. The confirmed “grouser” of peace time, who will make a fuss over having to put twenty rounds of blank ammunition in his bandolier to go out on a field-day, will swing his three bandoliers of ball cartridges on to his person without a word of complaint, for he knows that he may need every round. Values alter amazingly on service; the man with a box of matches, when one has been away from the base for a few days, is a person of importance, and a mere cigarette is worth far more than its weight in gold. In General Rundle’s column during the South African war, half a biscuit was something to fight for, and the men who thought it such had many a time thrown away the same sort of unpalatable biscuits and bought bread to eat instead. An ant-heap acquired a new significance, for it might be the means of saving a man’s life at any time, and among mounted men a “fresh” horse, which might give its rider some trouble at the time of mounting, was no longer to be avoided, for by its freshness it showed that it had plenty of spirit and go about it, spirit that might take a man out of rifle range at a critical moment, when the slower class of mount might come out of action without its rider.