As a reward, I suspect, I was picked for Orderly Corporal, a cushy job. We all of us had it fairly easy at Oneux. It was hot weather, and nights we used to sit out in the schoolhouse yard and talk about the war.
Some of the opinions voiced out there with more frankness than anyone would dare to use at home would, I am sure, shock some of the patriots. The fact is that anyone who has fought in France wants peace, and the sooner the better.
We had one old-timer, out since Mons, who habitually, night after night, day after day, would pipe up with the same old plaint. Something like this:
“Hi arsks yer. Wot are we fightin’ for? Wot’d th’ Belgiums hever do fer us? Wot? Wot’d th’ Rooshians hever do fer us? Wot’s th’ good of th’ Frenchies? Wot’s th’ good of hanybody but th’ Henglish? Gawd lumme! I’m fed up.”
And yet this man had gone out at the beginning and would fight like the very devil, and I verily believe will be homesick for the trenches if he is alive when it is all over.
Bones, who was educated and a thoughtful reader, had it figured out that the war was all due to the tyranny of the ruling classes, with the Kaiser the chief offender.
A lot of the men wanted peace at any reasonable price. Anything, so they would get back to ’Arriet or Sadie or Maria.
I should say offhand that there was not one man in a hundred who was fighting consciously for any great recognized principle. And yet, with all their grousing and criticism, and all their overwhelming desire to have it over with, every one of them was loyal and brave and a hard fighter.
A good deal has been written about the brilliancy of the Canadians and the other Colonials. Too much credit cannot be given these men. In an attack there are no troops with more dash than the Canadians, but when it comes to taking punishment and hanging on a hopeless situation, there are no troops in the wide world who can equal, much less surpass, the English. Personally I think that comparisons should be avoided. All the Allies are doing their full duty with all that is in them.
During most of the war talk, it was my habit to keep discreetly quiet. We were not in the war yet, and any remarks from me usually drew some hot shot about Mr. Wilson’s “blankety-blinked bloomin’ notes.”
There was another American, a chap named Sanford from Virginia, in B company, and he and I used to furnish a large amount of entertainment in these war talks. Sanford was a F.F.V. and didn’t care who knew it. Also he thought General Lee was the greatest military genius ever known. One night he and I got started and had it hot and heavy as to the merits of the Civil War. This for some reason tickled the Tommies half to death, and after that they would egg us on to a discussion.
One of them would slyly say, “Darby, ’oo th’ blinkin’ ’ell was this blighter, General Grant?”
Or, “Hi sye, Sandy, Hi ’eard Darby syin’ ’ow this General Lee was a bleedin’ swab.”
Then Sanford and I would pass the wink and go at it tooth and nail. It was ridiculous, arguing the toss on a long-gone-by small-time scrap like the Civil War with the greatest show in history going on all around us. Anyway the Tommies loved it and would fairly howl with delight when we got to going good.
It is strange, but with so many Americans in the British service, I ran up against very few. I remember one night when we were making a night march from one village to another, we stopped for the customary ten-minutes-in-the-hour rest. Over yonder in a field there was a camp of some kind—probably field artillery. There was dim light of a fire and the low murmur of voices. And then a fellow began to sing in a nice tenor:
Bury me not on the lone prairie
Where the wild coyotes howl o’er me.
Bury me down in the little churchyard
In a grave just six by three.
The last time I had heard that song was in New Orleans, and it was sung by a wild Texan. So I yelled, “Hello there, Texas.”
He answered, “Hello, Yank. Where from?”
I answered, “Boston.”
“Give my regards to Tremont Street and go to hell,” says he. A gale of laughter came out of the night. Just then we had the order to fall in, and away we went. I’d like to know sometime who that chap was.
After knocking about all over the north of France seemingly, we brought up at Canchy of a Sunday afternoon. Here the whole brigade, four battalions, had church parade, and after that the band played ragtime and the officers had a gabfest and compared medals, on top of which we were soaked with two hours’ steady drill. We were at Canchy ten days, and they gave it to us good and plenty. We would drill all day and after dark it would be night ’ops. Finally so many men were going to the doctor worn out that he ordered a whole day and a half of rest.
Mr. Blofeld on Saturday night suggested that, as we were going into the Somme within a few weeks, the noncoms ought to have a little blowout. It would be the last time we would all ever be together. He furnished us with all the drinkables we could get away with, including some very choice Johnny Walker. There was a lot of canned stuff, mostly sardines. Mr. Blofeld loaned us the officers’ phonograph.
It was
