“Well, what do you do yourself ?”
“I make a book in my brother-in-law's public,” he would answer confidentially. “And it's not a bad game an' all if you know t'ropes.”
Certainly he was invariably flush with money, and had a reputation for always winning at cards, which was fully justified. Wherever he went, and he travelled round a good deal during the time he was in France, from A Company mess to Battalion Headquarters, to transport lines, to Brigade or even Divisional Headquarters, he “skinned” every other servant who was venturesome enough to play with him.
As the hours drew on, the noise in the servants' tent gradually died away, and we agreed that we had better turn in. It was the only chance of keeping warm, and, fully dressed, except for our jackets, which did duty as pillows, we rolled ourselves in overcoats and blanket and blew out the candles. But cheated as we had been of a decent meal and robbed of blanket and flea-bag, our bodies lacked that store of warmth which might induce sleep in any circumstances, so that when it did come it was fitful and restless. Icy draughts through the tent curtains and up through the floor boards kept stabbing us into semi-consciousness. We turned and turned in an attempt to ease aching hip-bones or to thaw our frozen spines. Still we must have been more soundly asleep than we imagined, for a sudden commotion outside, a thumping on the tent, and the familiar “Orders, sir,” succeeded in bringing us back to the responsibilities of life no more easily than normal. I sat up, lit a candle, and took the folded sheet of foolscap that was shoved through the flap. “The Battalion will move from the Citadel to-morrow”—I read on—“Reveille 6 a.m., parade 10.30 a.m., and”—blessed words !—the Battalion “will entrain at Grove Town station at 12 noon.” Once more glad news had stolen upon us like a thief in the night. What time was it ? Two-thirty a.m. In other circumstances there would have been a grouse about the inconsiderateness of the Staff in sending orders in the middle of the night, but what did anything matter now ? What were cold boards, empty stomachs, aching hip-bones, or chilled spines now we knew we were off ?
“And that's that,” sighed Mac contentedly. “So long as something funny don't happen before morning,” warned George. And with a feeling of great relief we snuggled down again to make the best use of the few hours till reveille. Once banished, sleep was not to be wooed again so easily, but the knowledge of our reprieve was an effective counter-irritant to the cold and the discomfort, and the remainder of the night slipped by rapidly. Nevertheless, the reveille bugle was for once a welcome sound, and it is no exaggeration that every one roused himself with something approaching alacrity. There was no dressing to be done, and though every man who needed a shave made a show of having one, our ablutions were hardly scrupulous. Breakfast was a courtesy title, though the tea was hot and strong and played its part in galvanising us into full wakefulness.
Since we were moving light, without transport or heavy baggage, the usual turmoil of packing up or of striking camp in the darkness was lessened, but there were other influences at work. The fact that we were kissing our hands to “the Somme,' plus the uncertainty of our destination, acted on me like strong drink. It required a conscious effort to conceal my excitement. No one apparently was immune, the N.C.O.'s repressing their feelings by being more regimentally punctilious than usual: the men, as always when things were going well, by grousing more than usual. Scott alone gave no sign, moving unhurriedly about, supervising, checking, and reproving in his gruff, quiet tones. The job was complete long before the hour for parade. The sorry tents in their muddy standings were guyed tautly and evenly, every scrap of rubbish collected and taken to the incinerators, the lines cleared as far “as the mud would allow,” in short, the 2nd West Yorkshire Regiment could take their leave of the Citadel with the valediction: “Miserable place that you are, you have sheltered us to the best of your ability, so, though not loath to quit, we leave you neater than when we found you, and possibly looking as hospitable as any one could make you.”
For the first and last time the Battalion fell in at the bottom of the lines, in full marching order over greatcoats, with blanket in pack and a waterproof sheet over all. Punctually at 10.45 a.m Colonel Jack gave the command, “Battalion will advance in Companies from the left, D Company leading.” And it began to rain. Whether the elements wept at our going or were determined to speed us in the manner to which we had grown accustomed matters not. What was disquieting was that, though it was only a bare three miles to Grove Town, the distance would take us the best part of an hour, and, as we knew too well, men could get very wet in an hour of shambling along crowded roads ankle deep in slush. Worse, Grove Town was a station only in the sense that special R.O.D. trains stopped there. It was not worthy even of the name of siding, and possessed no more shelter than it did platforms ! When, after the usual dreary march, we arrived a little earlier before the hour appointed than would normally be considered sufficient “to catch a train,” it would be difficult to imagine a more dismal or deserted spot. The military line appeared to emerge from nowhere out of the wet mist, and to disappear towards nowhere into the mist again. We found ourselves on a bleak upland of waterlogged chalk and mud. Below us at a distance of a few hundred yards were the marquees and huts of a big casualty clearing - station, the red-crosses hardly showing up on the rain-darkened canvas. The Battalion halted in the approved manner facing the lines ready to entrain, was told off into sections, and “stood easy.” Then as minutes passed and nothing happened, we piled arms and fell out, to stamp about and restore circulations in sodden feet. The hour of noon came and went. Still we stood about near our arms, while the rain coursed in runlets down waterproof capes, spouted off the brims of our steel helmets, and soaked ever more thoroughly into everything we had on.
The fact that the train was late surprised no one. The surprise would have been if it had been punctual. An hour passed and still there came no sign of life from the rails stretching off into the distance. But there is a limit to expectant watching, even on the part of an eager and disciplined body, and gradually the men began breaking up into groups and trying to find something to do. The Colonel recognised the situation and voiced the general opinion when he gave permission for dinners to be eaten—after all, the train might as easily be two hours late as one. The problem of contriving any sort of a meal in such circumstances and surroundings was quite another matter. There was no stone, tree, or corner of masonry as shelter, and though the rain had abated, it still descended in a steady drizzle.
The briefest glance was enough to reconcile us to the necessity of taking our meal standing, as well as to remind us that we should be thankful that we carried food so easily eaten and so filling, albeit so unappetising, as ration biscuits and bully beef. What matter that our chilled stomachs cried for warming drink. What earthly hope was there of warmth ?
And the Battalion were actually delving into haversacks for their bags of biscuits and bully, when Corporal Robinson achieved his miracle, for which alone, had he no other claim to fame, his name should be remembered. Lying about in the mud were some logs and splintered pieces of tree trunks. Under Robinson's direction, his platoon collected a number of these, and, standing them up, placed them end to end to form a sort of triangular tunnel, one opening of which faced the direction from which the wind was blowing. Then with infinite care Robinson whittled with his jack-knife into the heart of logs where the wood was still dry, and collected the chips into a little pile to which he added all the old letters, envelopes, or scraps of newspapers he could find in his own pockets or gather from his men.
At first no one paid much attention to these preparations. They were typical “Buggy” antics. But when his log-pyre was built, and he was on hands and knees in the mud anxiously applying a match and puffing at the flame, I wandered over to take a closer look. What exactly happened or by what alchemy he managed it I do not know. All I can say is that in a few seconds the puny, carefully-sheltered flame flickering in the heap of tinder had swelled swiftly until with a fierce hissing
embrace, it had clutched the soaking logs, and in a very few minutes the Battalion, open-mouthed, gathered round a bonfire which both for size and heat would have done credit to an English village green on a dry Guy Fawkes' night ! They gathered round, they saw and they marvelled, as well they might—but it was only B Company that were invited by No. 7 platoon to use the blaze for cooking purposes, which, needless to say, they hastened to do, sections dividing up so that some men used their mess-tins for bully-stew and others for tea.
The obvious envy of the other Companies puffed me up with pride till I felt very much like the happy monarch in a fairy tale whose court magician has unexpectedly produced a marvel at the auspicious moment. Notwithstanding that I had had nothing whatever to do with it, I identified myself at once with Robinson's triumph, chaffing Palmes and Hawley that they had to come to B Company to be taught how to make themselves comfortable. Palmes indeed, who had had pioneer experience in Canada as well as in Rhodesia, was as much interested in the methods by which Robinson had managed to produce such a blaze as he was quick to congratulate him. Even the Battalion gods in the person of the Colonel and Major Maclaren descended from Olympus so far as to come across and warm themselves. The other Companies quickly set to work to build their own bonfires, but it is worthy of record that it was not until I, with a certain ostentatious magnanimity, had lent Corporal Robinson and presented some incandescent logs that sufficient fires were eventually lit to enable the whole regiment to get a warm, and most of the men to enjoy a meal which was doubly welcome, for not only was it unexpected, but it had had to be worked for. As if in compassionate recognition of our display of self-help the rain stopped. Thus in an incredibly short space of time the whole scene had changed, and from drooping dejectedly about, talking in undertones or not at all, the men regained their spirits and their energy, and laughter and song rose from the circles round the fires. With still no sign of the missing train, they started wandering farther afield, especially towards the dripping tents of the casualty clearing-station, whence one of my N.C.O.'s hurried back to me with the news that he had found behind one of the marquees a big dump of equipment taken from wounded or dead men. A lot of this equipment was of the khaki webbing type which was the active service harness of the regular army. When the regiment had landed in France in November 1914, every man had naturally been equipped with webbing, but of recent months the new reinforcement drafts had arrived with the unsightly leather belts and cartridge pouches such as were issued to Kitchener's Army, until there were almost as many men with leather as with webbing. Efforts were constantly being made to discard the leather, for not only was it clumsy, unsightly, and difficult to fit, especially when wet, but it was held to be the badge of the new arrival or the temporary soldier. Any tendency on the part of the war-en-listed man to run down the “old soldier” must be regarded as a manifestation of an inferiority complex, for imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and the desire of every one to possess a suit of web equipment must be put down largely to the desire to resemble as nearly as possible the “real soldier.”
Here then was a chance, my N.C.O. whispered, to fit out probably the whole of B Company with the coveted webbing. Might he have my permission ? It was no sooner asked than given, but the news seemed to pass quickly round the Battalion, so that, although we had a good start, there was in a few minutes something in the nature of a stampede towards the casualty clearing-station. There you have the interesting spectacle under the conditions that prevailed of men jostling and struggling good-naturedly to seize sets of saturated equipment with as much zest and energy as if they had been competing for dips in the bran-tub at a parish bazaar. The discovery of that dump was a godsend, for not only did it enable us to reduce the percentage of leather equipment, but it kept the troops enthusiastically employed.
While the men hunted for kit, or cast around for other forms of salvage, the officers drifted into groups and talked. The satisfaction of food and warmth had so successfully banished all discontent at the non-arrival of the train that it ceased to be a topic of conversation. The casual observer might have been pardoned for thinking we were content to remain at Grove Town indefinitely.
Palmes, in a very efficient-looking trench coat, laughingly threatened “to knock my block off”—a favourite expression of his—for a libellous sketch I was able to make of him, and from this unpromising opening, the conversation somehow drifted by way of casualty clearing-stations in general, and the one beside us in particular, to the employment of conscientious objectors. Some one suggested that they should not be put in gaol but pressed into the R.A.M.C. for service in casualty clearing-stations and base hospitals, thereby releasing R.A.M.C. personnel with less troublesome consciences for more vital work. Palmes agreed, and proceeded to enlarge on the subject, and we, because he was ten years older than the average of us subalterns, because he had “done things,” including breaking virgin soil to the plough in two continents, because he had read deeply, and because in the silence of the open spaces he had thought seriously, were content to listen to him. He spoke with one having authority, and he said, sucking at his pipe:
“I don't understand what is meant by the term ‘conchy.’ If it means a chap whose conscience objects to war, well, damn it, I am a ‘conchy.’ You don't suppose I like this show. Its such an infernal waste of time. Besides, I'd rather be farming.
“And if by ‘conchy’ you mean a so-called pacifist, I still don't understand. A pacifist may be merely some one who is in favour of peace. But so am I. Very much so. But really you don't mean either of these things. Your ‘conchy’ or ‘pacifist’ is a man who says in effect ‘I want peace. I won't have war. And if we have war, I will have nothing to do with it.’ And that of course is absolute tosh. Pacifism put that way means nothing. After all, there is no peace in life. Whether you live in Blackpool or Bulawayo, Amiens or Athabasca, or anywhere else; whether you live a decent life farming, or grub for money in an office, you've got to fight for your corner, and fight all the time—that is if you mean to keep your foothold, let alone progress. The only time you are at peace is when”— pointing with his pipe stem at the cemetery that was growing up outside the casualty clearing-station—“they shove you underground, and then they very properly put R.I.P. over you !
“Did you ever hear anything so bloody silly as the chap who says, ‘I won't fight.’ Let him refuse. All I know is that a nation composed of chaps like that will not stop war. It will just be easy meat for one like the Boche or any of the Oriental races who have no illusions about the need to fight for their place in the sun. It's no use your refusing to fight if some one more virile picks on you ! He'll take what he wants from you by force just the same, and your pacific conscience won't save you from getting a kick in the pants or an aeroplane bomb dropped on your block !
“It's better to face up to it, and be ready to defend your life and your heritage rather than lie down and bleat about peace while some one walks roughshod over you.”
At the time we only felt that Palmes was expressing very succinctly sentiments with which we all agreed, even if we had not thought of them in quite the same dispassionate way, but I have tried to record his remarks as fully as possible since they seem to have a special significance in these afterdays. Gathering resonance with the years, they echo out of the mist and mud of that Somme upland with all the force of prophetic warning. What would Peter Palmes, farmer by nature, and warrior by necessity, have had to say could he have lived into the post-war era and seen how Youth attempts to ensure peace by refusing to look on reality. Are we not as a nation behaving very much like the small boy who, alarmed at noises in the dark, will cover his head with his bedclothes lest he see that of which he is terrified ?
“Damn all ‘conchies’ anyway,” Palmes went on cheerfully. “We're running this war all wrong ! You've never heard of my famous plan have you, Nansen,” he inquired of Maclaren, who had strolled up to join the group. “I'd get thousands upon thousands of miles of barbed wire and build a hu
ge belt, miles wide, from the Swiss frontier to Dunkirk. In other words I'd wire brother Boche in completely. I'd leave outpost sections with guns and machine-guns at all commanding points, to sweep the wire and keep it from being cut too easily, and also plenty of labour battalions to keep on adding to the wire. But all the rest of the ruddy army I'd march away and put to——”
The great scheme was never unfolded in detail. A distant whistle cut him short. Simultaneously the Regimental Sergeant-Major and the four Company Sergeant-Majors all started bawling “Fall in ! Fall in there !” Officers and men trotted back to form up round their piled arms as the train, drawn by an R.O.D. locomotive which bore a suspicious resemblance to one of those of the Great Central Railway, panted laboriously to a standstill before us.
It was just on 4 p.m. We had waited four whole hours, and not all of them had been unhappy or even depressing.
The train was neither better nor worse than the usual sample of French troop train. For the men, trucks—“Chevaux (en long) 8: Hommes 40”—some of them with straw; for the officers, a coach of first-class carriages. Lest the latter may seem unduly luxurious by comparison with the men's trucks, let me hastily add that the coach had been a very old one before it had been commandeered for military purposes. Since then it had suffered sadly, not least in the matter of windows, and there was not a carriage but had one or two panes broken. The upholstery too was torn and soiled. Yet, though tattered and grimy, the lace antimacassars were still in place. Why was it that that typical piece of French decoration always seemed to remain intact no matter to what ill-treatment the rest of the carriage had been subjected ? Actually therefore there was little difference in degree of comfort between officers and men. We had cushions, mostly without springs, and nothing to keep out the night air. The men rode harder, but could at least generate some warmth from their own bodies behind closed doors.
Twelve Days on the Somme: A Memoir of the Trenches, 1916 Page 14