The Night Side of Soldiering

There are three things in military life which make a great appeal to
me; the rifle’s reply to the pull of
the trigger-finger, the gossip of soldiers in
the crowded canteen, and the onward movement of a thousand men in full marching
order with arms at the trail. And at no
time is this so impressive as at night when
with rifles held in a horizontal position by
the side, the arm hanging easily from the
shoulder, we march at attention in complete
silence. Not a word is spoken by anyone
save officers, little is heard but the dull
crunch of boots on the gravel and the rustle
of trenching-tool handles as they rub against
trousers or haversack. Seen from a flank
at the rear, the moving battalion, bending
round the curve or straining to a hill, looks
like the plesiosaur of the picture shown
in the act of dragging its cumbrous length
[pg 72]
along. The silence is full of mystery, the
gigantic mass, of which you form so minute
a unit, is entirely voiceless, a dumb thing
without a tongue, brooding, as it were, over
some eternal sorrow or ancient wrong to
which it cannot give expression. Marching
thus at night, a battalion is doubly
impressive. The silent monster is full of
restrained power; resolute in its onward
sweep, impervious to danger, it looks a
menacing engine of destruction, steady to
its goal, and certain of its mission.

A march like this fell to our lot once
every fortnight. At seven in the evening,
loaded with full pack, bayonet, haversack,
ground-sheet, water-bottle, overcoat, and
rifle, we would take our way from the town
out into the open country. The night
varied in temper—sometimes it rained;
again, it froze and chilled the ears and
finger-tips; and once we marched with
the full moon over us, lighting up the whole
county—the fields, the woods, the lighted
villages, the snug farmhouses, and the grey
roads by which the long line of khaki-clad
soldiers went on their way. That night was one to be remembered.

[pg 73]

We went off from the parade ground, a
thousand strong, along the sloping road
that sweeps down the hill on which our
town is built. Giggling girls watched us
depart—they are ever there when the soldiers are on the move—old gentlemen and
ladies wished us luck as we passed, but
never a head of a thousand heads turned
to the left or right, never a tongue replied
to the cheery greetings; we were marching
at attention, with arms at the trail.

The sky stood high, splashed with stars,
and the moon, pinched and anæmic, hung
above like a whitish speck of smoke that
had curled into a ball. Marching at the
rear, I could see the long brown line curving
round a corner ahead, the butt-plates of
the rifles sparkling brightly, the white trenching-tool
handles shaking backward and forward at every move of the men.

“March easy!”

Half an hour had passed, and we were
now in the open country. At the word
of command rifles were slung over the shoulders,
and the battalion found voice, first
in brisk conversation and exchange of witticisms, then in shouting and song. We
[pg 74]
have escaped from the tyranny of “Tipperary,” none of us sing it now, but that
doggerel is replaced by other music-hall
abominations which are at present in the
full glory of their rocket-reign. A parody
of a hymn, “Toiling on,” is also popular, and
my Jersey mate gave it full vent on the left.

“Lager beer! lager beer!

There’s a lager beer saloon across the way.

Lager bee-ee-eer!

Is there any lager beer to give away.”

Although the goddess of music forgot
me in the making, I found myself roaring
out the chorus for all I was worth along with my Jersey friend.

“You’re singing some!” he remarked,
sarcastically, when the chorus came to an
end. “But, no wonder! This night would
make a brass monkey sing. It’s grand to be alive!”

Every battalion has its marching songs.
One of the favourites with us was written
by a certain rifleman in “C” Company,
sung to the air of “Off to Philadelphia in the Morning.” It runs:

[pg 75]

“It is said by our commanders that in trenches out by Flanders

There is work to do both trying and exciting,

And the men who man the trenches, they are England’s men and French’s

Where the legions of the khaki-clad are fighting.

Though bearing up so gaily they are waiting for us daily,

For the fury of the foemen makes them nervous,

But the foe may look for trouble when we charge them at the double,

We, the London Irish out on active service.

Chorus.

“With our rifles on our shoulder, sure there’s no one could be bolder,

And we’ll double out to France when we get warnin’

And we’ll not stop long for trifles, we’re the London Irish Rifles,

When we go to fight the Germans in the mornin’.

[pg 76]

“An’ the girls: oh it will grieve them when we take the train and leave them,

Oh! what tears the dears will weep when we are moving,

But it’s just the old, old story, on the path that leads to Glory,

Sure we cannot halt for long to do our loving.

They’ll see us with emotion all departing o’er the ocean,

And every maid a-weepin’ for her lover;

‘Good-bye’ we’ll hear them callin’, while so many tears are fallin’

That they’d almost swamp the boat that takes us over.

Chorus.

“With our rifles,” etc.

Our colonel sang this song at a concert,
thus showing the democratic nature of the
New Army, where a colonel sings the songs
written in the ranks of his own battalion.

At the ten minutes’ halt which succeeded
the first hour’s march, my Jersey friend spoke
to me again. “Aren’t there stars!” he said,
turning his face to the heavens and gripping
his rifle tightly as if for support. His wide
[pg 77]
open eyes seemed to have grown in size,
and were full of an expression I had never
seen in them before. “I like the stars,”
he remarked, “they’re so wonderful. And
to think that men are killing each other
now, this very minute!” He clanked the
butt of his gun on the ground and toyed with the handle of his sword.

Hour after hour passed by; under the
light of the moon the country looked beautiful;
every pond showed a brilliant face
to the heavens, light mists seemed to hover
over every farmhouse and cottage; light
winds swept through the telegraph wires;
only the woods looked dark, and there the
trees seemed to be hugging the darkness around them.

On our way back a sharp shower, charged
with a penetrating cold, fell. The waterproof
ground-sheets were unrolled, and we
tied them over our shoulders. When the
rain passed, the water falling in drops from
our equipment glittered so brightly that
it put the polished swords and brilliant rifle butt-plates to shame.

We stole into the town at midnight,
when nearly all the inhabitants were abed.
[pg 78]
With arms at the trail, we marched along,
throwing off company after company, at
the streets where they billeted. The battalion dwindled down slowly; my party
came to a halt, and the order “Dismiss!”
was given, and we went to our billets. The
Jersey youth came with me to my doorstep.

“‘Twas a grand march!” he remarked.

“Fine,” I replied.

“I can’t help looking at the stars!”
he said as he moved off. “There are a lot
to-night. And to think—” He hesitated, with the words trembling on his
tongue, realising that he was going to repeat
himself. “Anyway, there’s some stars,”
he said in a low voice. “Good night!”

There is a peculiar glamour about all
night work. The importance of night
manœuvring was emphasised in the South
African War, and we had ample opportunities of becoming accustomed to the
darkness. On one occasion at about nine
o’clock we swung out from the town with
our regimental pipe-band playing to pursue
some night operations. So far the men
did not know what task had been assigned to them.

[pg 79]

“We’ve got to do to-night’s work as
quiet as a growing mushroom,” someone
whispered to me, as we took our way off
the road and lined up in the field that,
stretching out in front and flanks, lost itself
in formless mistiness under the loom of the
encircling hedgerows. Here and there in
the distance trees stand up gaunt and bare,
holding out their leafless branches as if
in supplication to the grey sky; a slight
whisper of wind moaned along the ground and died away in the darkness.

Our officer, speaking in a low voice, gave
instructions. “The enemy is advancing to
attack us in great force,” he explained, “and
our scouts have located him some six miles
away from here. We have now found that
it is inadvisable to march on any farther, as
our reinforcements are not very strong and
have been delayed to rear. Therefore we
have decided to take up our present position
as a suitable ground for operations and
entrenching ourselves in—ready to give battle.
Everything now must be done very quickly.
Our lives will, perhaps, depend at some
early date on the quickness with which we
can hide ourselves from the foe. So; dig
[pg 80]
your trench as quickly as possible, as quickly,
in fact, as if your life depended on it. Work
must be done in absolute silence; no smoking
is allowed, no lighting of matches, no talk.

“A word about orders. Commands are
not to be shouted, but will be passed along
from man to man, and none must speak
above his breath. The passing of messages
along in this manner is very difficult; words
get lost, and unnecessary words are added
in transit. But I hope you’ll make a success
of the job. Now we’ll see how quickly we can get hidden!”

A “screen” of scouts (one man to every
fifty yards of frontage) took up its place in
line a furlong ahead. A hundred paces to
rear of the “screen” the officers marked out
the position of the trenches, placing soldiers
as markers on the imaginary alignment.
In front lay a clear field of fire, a deadly area
for an enemy advancing to the attack.

We took off our equipment, hafted the
entrenching tools which we always carry,
and bent to our work in the wet clay. The
night was close and foggy, the smell of the
damp earth and the awakening spring verdure
[pg 81]
filled our nostrils. In the distance was heard
the rumbling of trains, the jolting of wagons
along the country road, the barking of dogs,
and clear and musical through all these
sounds came the song of a mavis or merle from the near hedgerows.

In the course of ten minutes we were
sweating at our work, and several units of
the party took off their tunics. One hapless
individual got into trouble immediately. His
shirt was not regulation colour, it was spotlessly
white and visible at a hundred yards.
A whispered order from the officer on the
left faltered along the line of diggers.

“Man with white shirt, put on his tunic!”

The order was obeyed in haste, the white
disappeared rapidly as the arms of the culprit
slid into sleeves, and the covering tunic hid his wrong from the eyes of man.

The night wore on. Now and again a clock
in the town struck out the time with a dull,
weary clang that died away in the darkness.
On both sides I could see stretching out,
like some gigantic and knotted rope, the row
of bent workers, the voiceless toilers, busy
with their labours. Picks rose into the air,
remained poised a moment, then sank to
[pg 82]
tear the sluggish earth and pull it apart.
The clay was thrown out to front and rear,
and scattered evenly, so that the natural
contour of the ground might show no signs
of man’s interference. And even as we
worked the section commanders stole up and
down behind us, urging the men to make
as little sound as possible—our safety depended
on our silence. But pick and shovel,
like the rifle, will sing at their toil, and
insistent and continuous, as if in threat,
they rasped out the almost incoherent song of labour.

A man beside me suddenly laid down
his shovel and battled with a cough that
strove to break free and riot in the darkness.
I could see his face go purple, his eyes stare
out as if endeavouring to burst from their
sockets. Presently he was victor, and as
he bent to his shovel again I heard him
whisper huskily, “‘Twas a stiff go, that; it almost floored me.”

Thrown from tongue to tongue as a ball
is thrown in play, a message from the captain
on the flank hurried along the living line.
“Close in on the left,” was the order, and
we hastened to obey. Trenching tools were
[pg 83]
unhafted and returned to their carriers,
equipments were donned again, belts tightened,
and shoulder-straps buttoned. Singly,
in pairs, and in files we hurried back to the
point of assembly, to find a very angry captain awaiting us.

“I am very disappointed with to-night’s
work,” he said. “I sent five messages out;
two of them died on the way; a third reached
its destination, but in such a muddled condition
that it was impossible to recognise
it as the one sent off. The order to cease
work was the only one that seemed to hurry
along. Out at the front, where all orders
are passed along the trenches in this manner,
it is of the utmost importance that every
word is repeated distinctly, and that no
order miscarries. Even out there, it is found
very difficult to send messages along.”

The captain paused for a moment; then
told a story. “It is said that an officer at
the front gave out the following message
to the men in the trenches: ‘In the wood
on the right a party of German cavalry,’
and when the message travelled half a mile
it had changed to: ‘German Navy defeated
in the North Sea.’ We don’t know how
[pg 84]
much truth there is in the story, but I hope
we will not make a mistake like that out there.”

Lagging men were still stealing in as we
took up our places in columns of fours. A
clock struck out the hour of twelve, and the
bird in the hedgerow was still singing as we
marched out to the roadway, and followed our merry pipers home to town.

[pg 85]