Read Ebook: News from No Man's Land by Green James Birdwood William Riddell Birdwood Baron Author Of Introduction Etc

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 280 lines and 25817 words, and 6 pages

I A QUIET NIGHT ON THE WESTERN FRONT

We marched along, the sun was high; We marched along--the halt was nigh; We marched along, a little parched, It seemed we marched--and marched--and marched; We sang a song, a little dry, We sang a song, a halt was nigh. The whistle blew, ah! welcomed cry-- 'Halt!'--welcomed rest from wearied road, With opened tunic, laid-down load; Ah! welcomed rest with opened vest, 'Twere worth that strain to rest again!

London Rifle Brigade. 'A Route March in Northern France, 1916.'

A QUIET NIGHT ON THE WESTERN FRONT

We are getting near IT at last. We have started our march through the quaint Flemish villages, past canals where long strings of barges, painted grey, and bearing the marks of the wonderful Army Service Corps of the British Army, are being towed steadily forward.

Occasionally, we march through good French towns, with their fine churches and cathedrals. We hate the pav?. It is hard for marching; but we recognize that it is a great advantage to possess such hard roads to bear the enormous War traffic of great guns and heavy motor-lorries, proceeding constantly to the front. Our band cheers us up. We are proud of it. The tunes we like best are, 'Advance, Australia Fair,' 'Australia will be There,' and 'Bonnie Dundee.'

The women and children and a few old men come out to cheer and clap, and, occasionally, we see some woman in black turn aside to weep. Is she thinking of some brave husband or son who marched to the front just as gaily as we are doing, and who did not come back?

But what rouses the enthusiasm of those stricken people is the 'Marseillaise.' When our band strikes up the martial strains of that most wonderful melody, the old men square their shoulders and the boys march bravely alongside us, and the whole roadside seems to be vibrant with the fighting spirit.

I remember one little fellow with a crutch who, though a confirmed cripple, hobbled in front of our band for miles. It was a sight which made us forget that we were footsore and hungry. Away, behind us, are the memories of the long train journey from Ismailia to Alexandria. Only a vague recollection remains of our small fleet of transports sailing the beautiful waters of the Mediterranean. We do sometimes think of the reception we got as we steamed into Marseilles, with its statue of Notre Dame guarding the seas from her eminence on the hill above. Then the long troop trains and longer journey across La Belle France. A beautiful country, 'worth fighting for,' is the verdict of many a stalwart Australian from 'out back,' and from perhaps some little Bush township, with but a church, a blacksmith's shop, and an hotel. Further out, of course, there was a race-course, and divided by miles there were the stations and farms, but it was a land of magnificent distances. Here, however, there is intensive cultivation, and towns close to each other. A pleasant land of beautiful trees and rivers, and grass of greenness new to us. But we are getting closer to the desolation of war, closer to the valley of decision.

The brigadier, however, cancels everything. 'Sorry, padre, the men are going to be "gassed" this morning, but not by you.' They are, and they look very uncanny manoeuvring there in the fields with gas-helmets on. No one is harmed by the gas, and they learn that it is possible to live and move under gas. But I am sure they would have preferred my gas for once.

I am billeted with a very nice family here; and as the daughter is quite charming, I have many visits from the younger officers. I did not know I was so popular with them. Mademoiselle has learnt to speak English quite well.

'Don't you like Australians best of all?' said Lieutenant Gallant, with a languishing look to mademoiselle.

'We have many good soldiers here; English ; Scotch--very good men; they speak more, and ask if there is any place where they can buy whisky. I like them all, and I do like Australians best.' The gallant lieutenant beams with joy; but she continues archly, 'Because I always like those best who come last.'

Now the battalion is formed up to march. My batman says to mademoiselle:

'You are very sorry we are going, aren't you?'

'But, yes,' and one could see it was real sorrow.

'I know why,' I ventured to say. 'It is Sunday, and to-day you would have worn your beautiful dress.'

Oh, what we have missed! and what greater pleasure they have missed who would have 'made promenade' to the big church and along the quaint streets of that beautiful village. We have seen them working in the fields, on the railway, in the signal-boxes; but the brave women of this village would have liked us to see another side of their life when in their Parisian costumes they promenaded the streets with the grace which seems natural to every Frenchwoman.

We have had the deep sound of the big guns in our ears for days now, and we are getting so near that we have seen fights in the air. Our band instruments have been packed away, and we are in our last billet before 'going in.'

It is afternoon, the day following. The whole brigade is on the move in readiness to fight. The men march in file under the avenues of poplar-trees. The points where the various companies enter the sector have all been detailed, and officers who have been down to the sector before act as guides. At a cross-road the colonel on his horse watches the men break off for their different directions, and receives reports from time to time; nevertheless, in the darkness, the transport which I am temporarily with goes too far, and we have to halt for instructions.

More inquiries. I've lost my faith in the transport. The doctor's groom has come for the restless 'Rosinante,' and I'm free. If I am to get to the Battalion Head Quarters, I must proceed 'on my own.' But first I will turn into this little shelter, a forsaken dug-out covered with stout beams and sand-bags.

Two of us light up our pipes, but a profane sentry draws near. 'Now, then, you blighters, put out those pipes. You mustn't show the Huns a light. Don't you know you're in a very dangerous place?'

It's all dangerous, but we didn't know that this place was specially dangerous. I must make some inquiries of my own. I would have to leave the transport some time. Why not now? I get into a long communication sap. Like many another on the Western Front it is called Watling Street. But it gives me a cue. I remember now that it leads into Convent Avenue, and that, I heard them say, leads into Plug Street, and that is the road to the Battalion Head Quarters.

I pull my tin-hat firmly down, and when the banks are low I crouch, for the machine-gun bullets are whistling overhead, and all the choir and orchestra of the guns on both sides are in full voice now. The Concert of Europe has, by a metallic crescendo, reached its fortissimo.

'You must duck your head here, padre; it is a bad place, and you are not supposed to loiter.'

But I must wait. I am asking myself, 'Are these guns sending out the Light and Truth?' 'Yes, they are,' I say to myself. It is a quick mental process, but I am satisfied with the conclusion.

We crouch down together and talk of the old church. He gives me more information, and I press on again. I am talking to myself, a bad sign, but the meeting and the memory has stirred up emotions not to be stilled.

'We must have two anthems next Sunday,' I say to the conductor as though he were present. 'First, "Send out Thy Light," and second, "The Radiant Morn."'

I wonder if, after this fury, there will be a radiant morn for Europe; not one that has passed away.

When wilt Thou save the people? O God of mercy, when? Not kings alone, but nations! Not thrones and crowns, but men! Flowers of Thy heart, O God, are they; Let them not pass like weeds away, Their heritage a sunless day. God save the people!

A few more turns of the sap, and then I come to three trenches meeting, and it is a dangerous spot, for shells are dropping close. But the sentry, with bayonet fixed, is on guard.

'A hot place here.'

'Yes, padre, you can plop one any time here. I keep to the left side as much as possible under the bank.'

'You're wise; and what are you here for?'

'Men of the "Fifty-fifth" are to be directed down this sap to the front line, and men of the "Fifty-fourth" go down that, and by this you can find your way to the Battalion Head Quarters.'

Arriving at the Battalion Head Quarters, I find it to be a farm-house, ruined beyond recognition as such. Kindly nature has covered it with a screen of verdure, rendering it almost invisible. The cook is there and his assistant. My kit has not come down to trolley-line yet, but the major, who has been 'in' some days, shows me my dug-out, a mere hole.

Hours after the officers begin to turn up after various adventures. They seem surprised to see me in first. 'Our padre is the limit,' says the colonel. 'Chuck him into the centre of Darkest Africa, and he would strike out for home.' They glare at me with vengeful jealousy, but they have to confess I got supper on the way with the help of the cook.

There's nothing like sticking up to these fine young fellows now and again. Mutual admiration, tempered by strong opinions on irrelevant questions. The colonel is jubilant because our battalion is right in now without a casualty. Others, both going in and getting out, have, unfortunately, not been so lucky.

Bed made at last. Fritz is still letting off fireworks.

Now to get to my dug-out. I walk quietly to the left behind a wall of sand-bags, then going through an opening, I run smartly for the hole, for machine-gun bullets are splitting the air. I have a bag in front of my dug-out, and a sheet of corrugated iron to keep in the light. All night long the guns boom, but you sleep all the same.

When we get our papers up a day afterwards, we read of this particular night a neutral paragraph, headed, 'A Quiet Night on the Western Front.'

NOTRE DAME DE D?LIVRANCE

From city homes--from country homes we came; From mother's love and father's gift we came, A wind most terrible blew o'er earth's seas; It waved a smouldering ash, and blazed up war; The smoke and heat of that great Hell drew us, And from our lives we came to live, to live.

From sluggish routine, sluggish wrong we came. From heedless walks, from ageing rust we came --we called it life. 'Twas not! We came to live. Out of the profound, profound we'll come, out, up; Out of the deep we'll come, not from the shallows.

London Rifle Brigade. 'A Young Soldier's De Profundis.'

NOTRE DAME DE D?LIVRANCE

At the gate of a ruined farm in our sector in Flanders is a little chapel to 'Our Lady of Deliverance.' It is seventy years old. The brickwork at one corner is broken down by shell-fire, but the ancient picture above the altar, and the altar also, are intact.

What was the idea of the ancient proprietor in building this chapel at his gate? for most of the wayside sanctuaries hereabout are dedicated to our Saviour. It was a large farm-house, evidently the property of some wealthy farmer. It must have survived the Franco-German War of 1870; but it has not survived this, for the huge grange is a mass of ruins. Perhaps the shrine is a recognition of deliverance during the first war. Although it stands amid ruin to-day, the chapel is prophetic of a deliverance which is in process of being worked out.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet