<SPAN name="startofbook"></SPAN>
<div class='tnotes'>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c000'>
<div>Transcriber's note:</div>
</div></div>
<p class='c001'>The few minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. Please
see the <SPAN href='#endnote'>transcriber's note</SPAN> at the end of this text
for details regarding the handling of any textual issues encountered
during its preparation.</p>
<div class='htmlonly'>
<p class='c001'>Corrections in spelling are indicated using an <ins class='correction' title='original spelling'>underline</ins>
highlight. Placing the cursor over the correction will produce the
original text in a small popup.</p>
</div>
<div class='epubonly'>
<p class='c001'>Corrections in spelling are indicated as hyperlinks, which will navigate the
reader to the corresponding entry in the corrections table in the
note at the end of the text.</p>
</div>
</div>
<div>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_1'>1</span>
<h1 class='c002'>NEWS FROM NO MAN'S LAND</h1></div>
<div class='figcenter id001'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_2'>2</span>
<ANTIMG src='images/i002.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>"Now they begin to return."<br/><br/>(<i><SPAN href='#Page_60'>See page 60.</SPAN></i>)</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c003'>
<div class='c004'><span class='pageno' id='Page_3'>3</span>NEWS FROM</div>
<div>NO MAN'S LAND</div>
<div class='c004'>BY</div>
<div>JAMES GREEN</div>
<div>SENIOR CHAPLAIN THE AUSTRALIAN IMPERIAL FORCE</div>
<div class='c004'>WITH INTRODUCTION BY</div>
<div>LIEUT.-GEN. SIR W. R. BIRDWOOD,</div>
<div>K.C.S.I., K.C.M.G., C.B., C.I.E., D.S.O.</div>
<div class='c004'><span class='sc'>London</span></div>
<div>CHARLES H. KELLY</div>
<div class='c005'><span class='sc'>25-35 City Road, and 26 Paternoster Row, E.C.</span></div>
</div></div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_4'>4</span><i>First Edition, 1917</i></div>
</div></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_5'>5</span>
<h2 class='c006'>INTRODUCTION</h2></div>
<p class='c007'>I am indebted to the Rev. James Green
for the privilege of writing an introduction
to his book, in which he gives a lucid and
interesting description of the life of our
gallant soldiers of the A.I.F. In his
capacity as one of our Chaplains to the
Force, all of whom have done such noble
work during the war, he has been able to
enjoy a close personal touch with our men—more
particularly perhaps at Gallipoli;
the record of his sympathetic observation
and experience will, I am sure, be heartily
welcomed by all who are interested in
the welfare of the A.I.F.</p>
<p class='c008'>Previous publications have, I know,
chronicled the incidents of our campaign
in Egypt and on the Gallipoli Peninsula—deeds
in which the greatest courage,
determination, and self-sacrifice have been
displayed by our men from the Southern
Seas, many of whom, alas! have made
<span class='pageno' id='Page_6'>6</span>the supreme sacrifice in the cause of Justice
and Freedom. Chaplain Green's work will,
however, be an interesting sequel in that
he describes what one may call our second
phase of operations on the Western Front.</p>
<p class='c008'>Here, in France, our Australian troops
have continued to show that magnificent
bravery and spirit which has enabled them
to undergo cheerfully the severest hardships,
and even to enhance their fine
reputation as soldiers, which now stands
second to none in this huge Army. No
words of mine can adequately express my
admiration and affection for them. I am
proud to think that for nearly three years
now I have been privileged to serve with
them, during which period they have made
traditions which will live for all time in
the history of Australia.</p>
<p class='c008'>I wish all success to Chaplain Green in
the publication of his book.</p>
<div class='c009'><span class='sc'>W. R. Birdwood.</span></div>
<p class='c008'><span class='sc'>France</span>, <i>May 13, 1917</i>.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_7'>7</span>
<h2 class='c006'>FOREWORD</h2></div>
<p class='c007'>For reasons known to the men of the
Australian Imperial Force, I am always
interested in meeting others who wear
the green badge on their arm. A good
soldier is always as proud of the colours he
wears on his shoulder as the colours he
wears on his breast. He knows that each
brigade and battalion possesses a soul
of its own, and he is proud to belong to
his battalion and to worthily wear its
colours. For these reasons I ask the
privilege of dedicating this book to the
officers and men of the First and the
Fourteenth Brigades. Sister brigades they
are, from the Mother State; with them I
campaigned, and for them I have a proud
affection.</p>
<p class='c008'>Heroes of many a fight,--for those two
Brigades will stand out specially in Australian
History, the story of the Landing
<span class='pageno' id='Page_8'>8</span>at Anzac, the Battle of the Lone Pine,
Pozières, Fromelles, Bapaume, and Bullecourt.
Some of the men drafted from the
First to the Fourteenth shared in the
perils of Gallipoli, and all are associated
with the fighting on the Western Front.</p>
<p class='c008'>For them all, I wish that they may fight
on to the certain and glorious victory, and
have the luck to return to Australia, the
land of sunshine and opportunity—there
to help in building up the Commonwealth
in harmony with the principles of freedom
for which they are fighting.</p>
<p class='c008'>In spite of necessary suppression, or
vagueness of names of localities, my comrades
of the Fifty-fifth Battalion, to which
I was attached, will recognize many of the
incidents described, and I can only hope
that reading what the padre has to say
may cheer them in some lonely places,
or help them to be happy though miserable
in some indifferent billets.</p>
<div class='c009'><span class='sc'>James Green.</span></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_9'>9</span>
<h2 class='c006'>CONTENTS</h2></div>
<table class='table0' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='15%' />
<col width='75%' />
<col width='9%' />
</colgroup>
<tr>
<td class='c010'>CHAPTER</td>
<td class='c011'> </td>
<td class='c012'>PAGE</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c010'>I.</td>
<td class='c011'>A QUIET NIGHT ON THE WESTERN FRONT</td>
<td class='c012'><SPAN href='#Page_11'>11</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c010'>II.</td>
<td class='c011'>NOTRE DAME DE DÉLIVRANCE</td>
<td class='c012'><SPAN href='#Page_29'>29</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c010'>III.</td>
<td class='c011'>NEWS FROM NO MAN'S LAND</td>
<td class='c012'><SPAN href='#Page_43'>43</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c010'>IV.</td>
<td class='c011'>THE BOMBER</td>
<td class='c012'><SPAN href='#Page_67'>67</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c010'>V.</td>
<td class='c011'>ROMANCE AND REALITY</td>
<td class='c012'><SPAN href='#Page_79'>79</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c010'>VI.</td>
<td class='c011'>THE GOD OF BATTLES</td>
<td class='c012'><SPAN href='#Page_97'>97</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c010'>VII.</td>
<td class='c011'>THE CHIMNEY-POTS OF LONDON</td>
<td class='c012'><SPAN href='#Page_121'>121</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c010'>VIII.</td>
<td class='c011'>HORSEFERRY ROAD</td>
<td class='c012'><SPAN href='#Page_135'>135</SPAN></td>
</tr>
</table>
<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c003'>
<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_11'>11</span>I</div>
<div>A QUIET NIGHT ON THE WESTERN FRONT</div>
</div></div>
<div class='lg-container-b c000'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_12'>12</span>We marched along, the sun was high;</div>
<div class='line'>We marched along—the halt was nigh;</div>
<div class='line'>We marched along, a little parched,</div>
<div class='line'>It seemed we marched—and marched—and marched;</div>
<div class='line'>We sang a song, a little dry,</div>
<div class='line'>We sang a song, a halt was nigh.</div>
<div class='line'>The whistle blew, ah! welcomed cry--</div>
<div class='line'>'Halt!'--welcomed rest from wearied road,</div>
<div class='line'>With opened tunic, laid-down load;</div>
<div class='line'>Ah! welcomed rest with opened vest,</div>
<div class='line'>'Twere worth that strain to rest again!</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-r c013'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in10'><span class='sc'>H. H. V. Cross</span>,</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in10'><i>London Rifle Brigade.</i></div>
<div class='line in4'>'<i>A Route March in Northern France, 1916.</i>'</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<div>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_13'>13</span>
<h3 class='c002'>I<br/> <br/>A QUIET NIGHT ON THE WESTERN FRONT</h3></div>
<p class='c007'>We are getting near <span class='fss'>IT</span> 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.</p>
<p class='c008'>Occasionally, we march through good
French towns, with their fine churches
and cathedrals. We hate the pavé. 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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_14'>14</span>it. The tunes we like best are, 'Advance,
Australia Fair,' 'Australia will be There,'
and 'Bonnie Dundee.'</p>
<p class='c008'>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?</p>
<p class='c008'>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.</p>
<p class='c008'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_15'>15</span>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
<span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">La Belle France</span>. 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.</p>
<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_16'>16</span>By and by we rest in a small village, and
it is Sunday. The church bells are ringing,
and as I have made elaborate arrangements
for church parades, I am looking
forward to a good padre's day.</p>
<p class='c008'>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
manœuvring 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.</p>
<p class='c008'>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. <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Mademoiselle</span> has learnt to
speak English quite well.</p>
<p class='c008'>'Don't you like Australians best of
all?' said Lieutenant Gallant, with a
languishing look to <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">mademoiselle</span>.</p>
<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_17'>17</span>'We have many good soldiers here;
English (they do not say much); 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.'</p>
<p class='c008'>Now the battalion is formed up to
march. My batman says to <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">mademoiselle</span>:</p>
<p class='c008'>'You are very sorry we are going, aren't
you?'</p>
<p class='c008'>'But, yes,' and one could see it was real
sorrow.</p>
<p class='c008'>'I know why,' I ventured to say. 'It
is Sunday, and to-day you would have
worn your beautiful dress.'</p>
<p class='c008'>'Ah, <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">oui</span></i>,' she says sadly, 'you are
very wise, and it is true. Come'; and
she leads us into the house again, opens
the wardrobe, and behold the costume
from Paris, <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">très chic</span></i>, the lovely hat—a
creation; the high-heeled boots, they are
<span class='pageno' id='Page_18'>18</span>all there. Quite innocently she tells us
that, had we stayed, she, with many another
fair one, would have 'made promenade.'</p>
<p class='c008'>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.</p>
<p class='c008'>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.'</p>
<p class='c008'>It is afternoon, the day following. The
whole brigade is on the move in readiness
to fight. The men march in file under the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_19'>19</span>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.</p>
<p class='c008'>By this time our guns are booming out.
We don't know whether there is some
'stunt' on, or whether they are merely
firing to cover our 'changing over.' Some
thousands of men are 'coming out' and
'going in.' It is a difficult operation.
The noise of shell-fire is great, and now
we can see the festoons of flares going up
in the Hun lines. The lieutenant has
inquired, and he says we are right and
must go on. I don't believe it. I have
been down the road and I saw a parapet.
I wish I had not come with the transport.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_20'>20</span>They are so visible on the white road.
At any time we may be discovered and
a machine-gun turned on to us. The
horses are getting restive. The doctor
has kindly lent me his horse, and it is
jumping about. I seem so high up and
exposed there in the saddle, and yet I
cannot hold the beast when I dismount.</p>
<p class='c008'>The wagons, too, make such a distinct
noise as they rumble over the metal road.
I agree with one of the men whom I hear
declaring to a chum that 'the whole
bally thing is "no bon."' The men inquire,
when a fresh gun-shock is heard, 'Is that
ours or theirs?' With a brave optimism,
I assure them that all the guns in action
are ours. They take me for a veteran,
and say, 'It's all right; the padre says
they are all ours.' Most of the men who
have been in action before add to their
authority by agreeing with me. But I
have a shrewd suspicion that, like me, they
<i>think</i> they are all ours, and I know they
<i>hope</i> they are all ours. With a splendid
<span class='pageno' id='Page_21'>21</span>audacity and tone of finality, reminiscent
of my cricket-umpiring days, I continue
coolly to announce to every inquirer,
'Yes, of course that's one of ours.' At
last a shell breaks on the road with a
vicious 'whiz-bang.' No one is hurt, thank
God, but it was close, and the horses are
playing up. Amid the silence which follows,
one of our Australians cries out:
'Now, then, padre, what about that?
Is that one of ours?' Such a question,
and at such a time, demands a moment's
thought. But I answer quite confidently,
'Yes, that's ours—now.' Everybody
laughs, but it relieves the tension. It is
relieved more by the fact that the lieutenant,
realizing that we <i>have</i> gone too
far, has given the order to 'About turn,'
and we are getting the horses and wagons
behind the bend of the road.</p>
<p class='c008'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_22'>22</span>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.</p>
<p class='c008'>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?'</p>
<p class='c008'>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.</p>
<p class='c008'>I pull my <SPAN name='corr22.26'></SPAN><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='tin hat'>tin-hat</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><SPAN href='#c_22.26'>tin-hat</SPAN></span> firmly down, and when
the banks are low I crouch, for the machine-gun
<span class='pageno' id='Page_23'>23</span>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.</p>
<p class='c008'>The full diapason is out, but, as always
in war, the <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">vox humana</span></i> is silent. There
are little islands (traverses) in the communication
trench, and suddenly emerging
from the sap near one of these, I nearly
bump into a sturdy machine-gunner I
know well. He is a member of my Church,
a sweet singer in my choir when he is
at home. And this is the night for the
choir practice, too. I see it now as in a
vision. The choir is gathered round the
great organ, and the conductor raps out
his admonitions with the baton. They
are practising one of my favourite anthems,
'Send out Thy Light.'</p>
<p class='c008'>'You must duck your head here, padre;
it is a bad place, and you are not supposed
to loiter.'</p>
<p class='c008'>But I must wait. I am asking myself,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_24'>24</span>'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.</p>
<p class='c008'>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.</p>
<p class='c008'>'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."'</p>
<p class='c008'>I wonder if, after this fury, there will
be a radiant morn for Europe; not one
that has passed away.</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c000'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>When wilt Thou save the people?</div>
<div class='line in2'>O God of mercy, when?</div>
<div class='line'>Not kings alone, but nations!</div>
<div class='line in2'>Not thrones and crowns, but men!</div>
<div class='line'>Flowers of Thy heart, O God, are they;</div>
<div class='line'>Let them not pass like weeds away,</div>
<div class='line'>Their heritage a sunless day.</div>
<div class='line in10'>God save the people!</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_25'>25</span>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.</p>
<p class='c008'>'A hot place here.'</p>
<p class='c008'>'Yes, padre, you can plop one any
time here. I keep to the left side as much
as possible under the bank.'</p>
<p class='c008'>'You're wise; and what are you here
for?'</p>
<p class='c008'>'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.'</p>
<p class='c008'>'Eureka! I've found it. <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Bon soir</span></i>,'
and '<i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">bonne chance</span></i>, sonny'; my present
troubles are over.</p>
<p class='c008'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_26'>26</span>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.</p>
<p class='c008'>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.</p>
<p class='c008'>Hot coffee melts them. It is professional
jealousy. I tell them we ought to
have a few non-combatants to settle this
war. We're good pals after all, and I
know they would not care for a padre
who got lost; worse still, they wouldn't
want one who didn't <i>go in</i> with them at
all.</p>
<p class='c008'>There's nothing like sticking up to these
fine young fellows now and again. Mutual
admiration, tempered by strong opinions
<span class='pageno' id='Page_27'>27</span>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.</p>
<p class='c008'>Bed made at last. Fritz is still letting
off fireworks.</p>
<p class='c008'>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.</p>
<p class='c008'>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.'</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_29'>29</span>
<h2 class='c006'>II<br/> <br/>NOTRE DAME DE DÉLIVRANCE</h2></div>
<div class='lg-container-b c000'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_30'>30</span>From city homes—from country homes we came;</div>
<div class='line'>From mother's love and father's gift we came,</div>
<div class='line'>A wind most terrible blew o'er earth's seas;</div>
<div class='line'>It waved a smouldering ash, and blazed up war;</div>
<div class='line'>The smoke and heat of that great Hell drew us,</div>
<div class='line'>And from our lives we came to live, to live.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>From sluggish routine, sluggish wrong we came.</div>
<div class='line'>From heedless walks, from ageing rust we came</div>
<div class='line in4'>--we called it life.</div>
<div class='line'>'Twas not! We came to live.</div>
<div class='line'>Out of the profound, profound we'll come, out, up;</div>
<div class='line'>Out of the deep we'll come, not from the shallows.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-r c013'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in10'><span class='sc'>H. H. V. Cross</span>,</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in10'><i>London Rifle Brigade</i>.</div>
<div class='line in4'>'<i>A Young Soldier's De Profundis.</i>'</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<div>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_31'>31</span>
<h3 class='c002'>II<br/> <br/>NOTRE DAME DE DÉLIVRANCE</h3></div>
<p class='c007'>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.</p>
<p class='c008'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_32'>32</span>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.</p>
<p class='c008'>Near it there is a battery of <SPAN name='corr32.6'></SPAN><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='field guns'>field-guns</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><SPAN href='#c_32.6'>field-guns</SPAN></span>,
and in rear of it a battery of 'heavies';
in fact, all around there are guns, guns,
and more guns!</p>
<p class='c008'>They were hurling an avalanche of shells
into the Hun lines when I passed on a
Sunday afternoon to conduct a service at
a post in the second line. What a horror
of sound!</p>
<p class='c008'>The Huns began to reply, and they sent
nothing over but high explosives. 'Crump,
crump, crump,' went the shells as they
exploded, raising clouds of dust and smoke,
but fortunately missing all our batteries.
To be comparatively safe it was necessary
for me to go by a way which avoided all
the targets the German gunners were
aiming at. As though despairing of getting
our guns the Germans began to belabour
our trenches with <span lang="de" xml:lang="de">minenwerfers</span>, and soon
<span class='pageno' id='Page_33'>33</span>the crash of mortars began to mingle with
the noise of our howitzers, field-guns, and
machine-guns.</p>
<p class='c008'>Thank God it did not last long. In ten
minutes' intense bombardment in a large
sector like this hundreds of projectiles are
launched in the air. But we had the last
word in this duel, and when it died down
we were not done. A flight of our aeroplanes
droned overhead. They were going
over for the usual afternoon 'strafe.'
There is some danger to pedestrians from
fragments of anti-aeroplane shells, for the
Germans ceaselessly bombard our 'planes,
usually without any luck. They go right
over the German lines, probably carrying
bombs for some <SPAN name='corr33.18'></SPAN><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='dépot'>depot</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><SPAN href='#c_33.18'>depot</SPAN></span> or ammunition
dump. When they have passed, a different,
a solitary aeroplane appears. The 'flight'
was of battle-planes. This one is for
spotting purposes, and a single battery
begins to fire in its direction.</p>
<p class='c008'>The intense bombardment therefore gives
place to a deliberate slow firing of shell
<span class='pageno' id='Page_34'>34</span>after shell in obedience to the observer
above. They are trying to get some
special object, and 'registering' their shots
for future guidance.</p>
<p class='c008'>At night-time this little sanctuary of
Our Lady of Deliverance becomes the
centre of a scene which might be taken
from some drama of the underworld. Huge
ammunition motor-lorries dash past with
a reverberation which makes the ruined
walls tremble. They are delivering stores
of shell (largely made by the women of
England) for the daily consumption of
the guns. Our Lady of Deliverance has
many disciples among both English and
French women in these days; daughters
of deliverance we might call them.</p>
<p class='c008'>Then very often at night-time the gun
positions are changed, and by immense
efforts great howitzers are hauled into new
pits. The Army Service Corps must
deliver its goods also by the light of the
moon, and from the front glide past the
motor-ambulances with wounded and sick.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_35'>35</span>They are protected by a mesh of expanded
steel, for they go right into the zone of
fire.</p>
<p class='c008'>In this way deliverance is worked out
for unhappy Flanders. Amid thunderous
roar of cannon, the rising and falling of
star-shells, rockets, and flares, of all
colours and meanings, and the ceaseless
rattle of machine-guns, Our Lady of
Deliverance is thrusting forth the flail of
retribution and the banner of freedom.</p>
<p class='c008'>It is no sacrilege to ascribe our slow and
sure pressure on the enemy to higher and
divine powers, even if we acknowledge, for
our sins, that the backward sweep of the
awful flail smites us also. This would be
the last thought to the inhabitants of these
war-stricken areas. To begin with, they
are a deeply religious people, and their
religion gives them hope and faith for
the future. The Germans have destroyed
their church but not their faith. They have
removed the altar from the ruins of their
once beautiful church to a neighbouring
<span class='pageno' id='Page_36'>36</span>farm-house, and there they pray to Notre
Dame de Délivrance.</p>
<p class='c008'>The same spirit is seen in the neighbouring
towns and villages. In such
churches as are left standing you usually
see the Union Jack and the Tricolour at
each side of the chancel, and always the
statue of St. Jeanne D'Arc is prominent,
decorated, sometimes illuminated, and ever
the object of many devotions. It is this
spirit which possesses the women of France.
Yet religion here to-day manifests itself
in masculine types, and even the Maid
of Orleans is portrayed in the garb of a
soldier and with a drawn sword.</p>
<p class='c008'>It is the effigy of Christ which is usually
seen in wayside sanctuaries, and they are
not usually dedicated to Notre Dame.
This is natural enough in such a virile
country as Northern France. The women,
however, are doing their share in working
out the deliverance. Near this very sanctuary
you may see women and girls on
the top of the haystacks building them
<span class='pageno' id='Page_37'>37</span>up. A soldier on leave is usually seen
tossing the stooks up, and boys drive the
big Flemish horses in the lumbering old fashioned
wains, but all the rest is the
work of the women, even to harrowing the
fields. The harvest is being got in right
up to the guns, and the soldiers are not
allowed to harm crops or traverse fields.
The heavy traffic on roads by guns and
army transport has necessitated a good
deal of reconstruction. The boys and the
old men are doing it. How the women
can stay on and attend to the little shops
in the villages at the front is a mystery
to us, for these shops and houses are being
steadily demolished by <SPAN name='corr37.16'></SPAN><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='gun-fire'>gunfire</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><SPAN href='#c_37.16'>gunfire</SPAN></span>.</p>
<p class='c008'>During one of our heavy bombardments
recently I went into a little shop to make
a small purchase. The building alongside
had been shelled the previous week and
had to be abandoned. The girl behind
the counter was obviously nervous, and
she said to me in broken English, 'Too
much bombardment I do not like.'
<span class='pageno' id='Page_38'>38</span>'<i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Tout Anglais</span></i>,' I replied. Immediately she
brightened up wonderfully. '<i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Très bon
pour les Allemands</span></i>,' she said, and went
about her work singing.</p>
<p class='c008'>A curious note amid this quaint Flemish
environment of red brick and tiles, interspersed
with trees and grass of a greenness
unknown to Australia, is produced by
the London motor-buses. They rush past
with a roar, filled with Tommies singing,
'Keep the home-fires burning.'</p>
<p class='c008'>From one end of the line to the other
every man has his job. There are snipers,
machine-gunners, trench-mortar men, bombers,
signallers, pigeon-men. This last
suggests the pigeon service. Men who <i>know</i>
pigeons are chosen for this work, and they
like it. In the stress and strain of battle
'wireless' and 'wire' may break down, so
pigeons are trained by a daily service of
duplicate messages. They have their regular
flights, and there is a constant service
of cages being brought up to the lines by
motor-bike, and flights of pigeons returning
<span class='pageno' id='Page_39'>39</span>to their lots at stated times. We see the
German birds flying back too, so that
man, beast, and bird have all been drawn
into this great war. They get very wise
too, and the older pigeons fly low along
the hedges and by the avenues of poplar-trees
to avoid gunfire. The pigeon-man
follows the commander into battle as well
as the telephonist.</p>
<p class='c008'>But most useful and enthusiastic of all
are the observers. 'O. Pip' observers'
post is a place the enemy is always seeking
to discover and 'knock out.' But they
are cleverly hidden. The other day, however,
one of our men fell by his enthusiasm.
He was directing gunfire on an enemy
battery, and by and by he got it. When
the Hun gun position was hit he forgot
for a moment how precarious a foothold
he had in his eyrie in the spreading branches
of a tree. 'We've got it!' he cried,
standing up and waving his hands. He
fell out of his perch and broke his leg.
He is now rejoicing in a hospital. We
<span class='pageno' id='Page_40'>40</span>must not forget the wonderful work of
the miners. They drive tunnels and construct
weird 'bomb-proofs' and other
works, thus contributing their share to the
coming deliverance in which everybody at
the Front firmly believes.</p>
<p class='c008'>Yes, that little chapel is a parable and
a prophecy. Itself intact amid the ruins,
it reminds us that although we ourselves
are imperfect instruments, our cause is
good, and the day is surely coming when
these farm-houses and churches will be
rebuilt in this beautiful countryside and
prosperity and peace will rule. Every
gun-shot expresses our faith and what we
suffer in the price we pay for freedom and
security which shall be ours and for many
long years our children's.</p>
<p class='c008'>In the quiet days they brought their
offering of flowers to this shrine. To-day
we bring our howitzers drawn by huge
traction engines, our field-guns, our mortars,
our machine-guns, our rifles, and these
are our offerings.</p>
<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_41'>41</span>More: from distant lands many thousands
of miles across the ocean <i>men</i> have
come. Nay, they have been <i>sent</i>. They
have been given up by their women, for
they are husbands, fathers, sons, and
brothers. These men, greater than they
know themselves to be, are the living
offerings at this shrine, given to the cause
of <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Notre Dame de Délivrance</span>.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_43'>43</span>
<h2 class='c006'>III<br/> <br/>NEWS FROM NO MAN'S LAND</h2></div>
<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c000'>
<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_44'>44</span> There's a zone,</div>
<div>Wild and lone,</div>
<div>None claim, none own,</div>
<div>That goes by the name of No Man's Land;</div>
<div>Its frontiers are bastioned, and wired, and mined,</div>
<div>The rank grass shudders and shakes in the wind,</div>
<div>And never a roof nor a tree you find</div>
<div>In No Man's Land.</div>
<div class='c000'>They that gave</div>
<div>Lives so brave</div>
<div>Have found a grave</div>
<div>In the haggard fields of No Man's Land.</div>
<div>By the foeman's reddened parapet</div>
<div>They lie with never a head-stone set,</div>
<div>But their dauntless souls march forward yet</div>
<div>In No Man's Land.</div>
</div></div>
<div class='lg-container-r c013'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in15'>H. D'A. B.,</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><i>Major, 55th Division, B.E.F., France</i>.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<div>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_45'>45</span>
<h3 class='c002'>III<br/> <br/>NEWS FROM NO MAN'S LAND</h3></div>
<p class='c007'>'No Man's Land' is that bit of ground
six hundred yards, and sometimes only
thirty yards, between our trenches and
those of the enemy. Over this disputed
area we 'strafe' each other night and
day. There are often water-holes, even
swamps, in No Man's Land, and both sides
have a habit of draining trenches into it.
Wild flowers and even garden flowers
grow in this area, for it contains ruined
farm-houses and orchards. Poppies red as
blood, lilies white as snow, roses, and blue
cornflowers are often seen there waving in
the breeze, sometimes swaying before the
hail of bullets from machine-guns.</p>
<p class='c008'>The birds sing oblivious of war here,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_46'>46</span>but sometimes you see pigeons trying to
fly across. I say trying, because our men
always endeavour and sometimes succeed
in shooting them. Why? Because probably
they are carrying spies' messages to
the Huns which may mean death to us.
We do not want the enemy to know how
we are distributing our batteries in the
rear, so we try to stop enemy aeroplanes or
pigeons crossing either way.</p>
<p class='c008'>As soon as daylight appears you will
usually hear the droning of a swarm of
great bees humming their way across No
Man's Land. They are British aeroplanes,
often flown by young men from eighteen
years of age and upwards. They never
refuse a fight, and the best proof of their
efficiency is seen in the fact that fortunes
are wasted by the Germans every day
in anti-aeroplane fire, in the vain hope of
stopping them. They often cross in
ordered ranks, and go through wonderful
evolutions on their way—circling over each
other like catherine-wheels, and looping
<span class='pageno' id='Page_47'>47</span>the loop as if in the joy of battle and
contempt of the enemy.</p>
<p class='c008'>Our airmen are the pride of the infantry.
If you want to be cheered up, all you have
to do is to look up, and watch these adventurers
of the air. Many a stirring fight
have we witnessed in the air over that
unowned terrain called No Man's Land.
One evening we watched a fearless observer
making his regular circles amid such intense
anti-aeroplane fire that we trembled
for him. By-and-by he began to fall, and
we watched his descent with our hearts in
our mouths. When we saw that he was
going to land just in our lines, we raced
madly to the spot. Some of the officers,
revolver in hand, thinking they might
need to fend off the enemy, were so eager
that they forgot their <i>tin-hats</i> which were
really more necessary. To make sure of
him the Boches simply plastered the spot
where he had landed with shell-fire. Arriving,
we saw him desperately dragging the
engine, which was intact, under a parapet.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_48'>48</span>Then he took refuge, and we congratulated
him, saying he was 'very lucky.'</p>
<p class='c008'>'Lucky, do you call it?' he responded.
'Why, they have ruined my machine.'</p>
<p class='c008'>Why, so they had!</p>
<p class='c008'>There was a legend with us in one sector
not far from Armentières of an airman
whom we called 'the mad major.' I don't
know whether he was one, or two, or three.
Like the gun we called 'Beechy Bill' at
Gallipoli, perhaps there were several of
him. All we knew was that we would see
an airman flying gamely among the puffballs
of the breaking anti-aeroplane shells
of the enemy, and sometimes he seemed
to get into trouble, and we used to cry out,
'They have got him!' He would fall
like a stone, recover, fall again, and then
when we looked for the awful end he would
skim low over the German trenches plying
his machine-gun like one o'clock. Good
luck to the mad major! There was a
method in his madness, although we never
knew what he was going to do next. Nor
<span class='pageno' id='Page_49'>49</span>did the Hun. In spite of danger and
orders, we used to crouch behind the
parapets watching our airmen, and it was
a tonic to us.</p>
<p class='c008'>Of course at any time, and for long
periods all the time, shells, from spitting
rifle batteries to 60-lb. projectiles from
big guns in the rear, are screaming and
hissing over No Man's Land; and wherever
you are 'you never know your luck.'
Moral: Do not despise your tin-hat. It
may be uncomfortable, but it would be
more uncomfortable to 'stop one' even if
it were but a fragment.</p>
<p class='c008'>New monsters called Tanks have taken
to moving across the debateable territory
called No Man's Land, spitting out flaming
death as they go. In short, all the accumulating
frightfulness which we are learning
to use is being used to say to the Hun in
tongues of fire and steel, 'This is not your
land; begone, and take up once more
your watch on the Rhine!'</p>
<p class='c008'>But you wonder why we do not annex
<span class='pageno' id='Page_50'>50</span>No Man's Land, and advance. The
strategy of staying here till the right
moment comes is wise and humane. There
are fine towns and villages containing
non-combatants on the other side of No
Man's Land. It would be but to mock
their hopes to advance unless we could
sweep on everywhere. Nor do we wish
to conquer in such a way that every
village is left in ruins. Here and there
at strategic points we may have to do
that. It is not so much that we want
to break through as that we want the
whole line to break. Meanwhile it is
a very hot and unhealthy place for
Fritz.</p>
<p class='c008'>Besides that, we are beating the enemy
every day on this line. It suits us. We
have organized it. Here we have trolley-lines,
concrete bomb-proof stores, and many
things that take time to build. Later,
when the right time comes, we shall cross
No Man's Land at many places, and it
will become France again for ever. Until
<span class='pageno' id='Page_51'>51</span>that time comes we cannot do more than
present our claim to No Man's Land. We
do this frequently and 'in person.' Our
patrols and scouts enter it nightly, and it
requires courage and craft to do this.
Through secret sally-ports, over parapets,
and where the line has been damaged by
shell-fire, they steal out in the darkness,
and the German sentries keep a succession
of flares and star-shells going to detect
them. What hairbreadth escapes they
have, and what escapes the Hun sentries
have; for sometimes they find themselves
very near to one, and they have
to get back with their information without
raising an alarm if possible. Sometimes,
however, through a mistake, in the fog
or darkness they get into the German
line, and they have to fight and escape
amid following bullets. At such times our
men at the parapets have carefully to
cover their return with rifle-fire, and even
help them over or under our defences back
again to safety. Young intelligence officers
<span class='pageno' id='Page_52'>52</span>take many risks as they crawl amid the
hollows in No Man's Land, revolver in
hand, in search of information.</p>
<p class='c008'>We got a few body-shields for our scouts
in our battalion, and they went out for a
long time with a greater confidence. The
protection they afforded gave them a
calmer frame of mind, which produced
extra efficiency. But we make more
serious claims on this disputed ground by
our 'raids,' which occur in many places
every night. The raid is a survival, or
perhaps a revival, of the old hand-to-hand
fighting. It is a curious anti-climax of
science in war, of which there are so many
illustrations to-day.</p>
<p class='c008'>In spite of long-range guns of great
power and high-velocity telescopic rifles,
we fight in trenches close together, and we
have got back to grenadier days. Hand-grenades,
rifle-grenades, and trench-mortar
bombs as big as howitzer-shells are tossed
over to the enemy lines at the same murderous
distances as those at which
<span class='pageno' id='Page_53'>53</span>Wellington's and Napoleon's veterans fired at
each other in Peninsula days.</p>
<p class='c008'>The raid is the last illustration of our
backsliding in an age of science to the
primaeval fighting instinct, unrelieved by
the chivalry of a knightly age. You may
be sure there are no banners flying or
trumpets blowing, no heraldic challenge
to warn the Hun that he is to be raided.
It is a form of frightfulness calculated to
jar the nerves of the most militant disciple
of the gospel of blood and iron.</p>
<p class='c008'>We were warned that our battalion, in
common with others, would be expected
to raid the enemy's lines in its turn, and
volunteers were immediately called for.
There was no lack of response. Then the
men had to go through a long and careful
training, as those do who are out to win a
county football cup. In the rear of the
sector they dug trenches which were a
replica of those to be raided. They did
this from photographs provided by our
indomitable airmen. On this ground the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_54'>54</span>men were trained physically, and in the
use of the special arms they were to carry.
Relay races to give them speed, crawling
attacks at night to make them wary and
acquaint them with the 'lie of the land';
and added to this, bayonet-fighting,
revolver-practice, and all this again and
again, and in all sorts of light or darkness,
until at last they were smitten with a
desire to 'get it through,' and a confidence
that they could 'put it through.'
So much so, that two of their number who
became due for leave declined it, as they
thought it was 'up to them' to be in the
raid after training for it.</p>
<p class='c008'>At last the great day arrived. No one
knew until almost the last moment. When
the raiders came up in two London motor-buses
singing 'Australia will be There,'
we did not know them at first. They were
a disgrace to the battalion as far as clothing
went, for they were clad in ragged and
dirty clothes from which all marks of
identification were absent. Short as the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_55'>55</span>notice was, we had organized a 'banquet'
for them, and even got a huge three-decker
bride-cake from a neighbouring
village. We had a solid meal of three
courses, and you may be sure it was none
the less hearty because of the absence of
intoxicants. Every one was cheerful, but
there was an undercurrent of seriousness
and grim determination. The chaplain
had to propose a toast, and after he
had wished them 'Good luck' and 'God
bless you,' the men came up with apparent
casualness to say a word or two of intimate
confidence not to be divulged in this
sketch.</p>
<p class='c008'>Then the men were prepared. They all
wore aprons containing bombs; some had
rifle and bayonet, some clubs, entrenching-tool
handles with cog-wheels at the end—commonly
called chloroform sticks—some
bombs and revolvers. Every non-com.
had a watch set to divisional time and an
electric torch.</p>
<p class='c008'>Amid a good deal of merriment they
<span class='pageno' id='Page_56'>56</span>blackened each other's faces—not for
fun, but because white faces would be
easily revealed under the white light of
the German flares. Then the motor-lorries
came up to take them into the
sector, and with many cheerful wishes they
drove away as jolly as though they were
going to a party. A motor-ambulance
followed with the regimental doctor, the
chaplain, and the stretcher-bearers. Down
the long communication trenches we followed
them silently over the duck-boards,
from which occasionally some would slip
partially into the water draining below.</p>
<p class='c008'>The arrival at the front line is marked
by a 'fading away' of the troops holding
it. 'It's me for my dug-out,' I heard one
man say. 'It ain't healthy with raiders
about.' This is wise, because when the
raid begins the Boches will rain shells
on No Man's Land, and then put a barrage
on or about the parapets to get them
on the return. Now the raiders are sorted
out and put round the three secret sally-ports
<span class='pageno' id='Page_57'>57</span>through which each party will enter
the 'verboten' land. The doctor inspects
the special aid-posts to see if all arrangements
are perfect. Yes, the bandages and
doctor's kit are all laid out, and the A.M.
Corps men at their posts, and I and the
doc., with an A.M.C. sergeant, repair to
the main aid-post to wait. It is three-quarters
of an hour yet to zero time, but
before that many of the raiders will be
lying out in No Man's Land in holes and
hollows. We try to read a bit, then talk,
and all the time smoke. Smoking has a
curious psychological effect. It steadies
the nerves, makes you believe you are
not perturbed, but there is no doubt that
the time of waiting is always the worst.</p>
<p class='c008'>Every now and again we look at the
watches. 'Quarter of an hour to go.'
'Yes,' says the doc. 'I expect some of
them have crawled out now.' 'Ten
minutes to go.' You throw down your
book. It is no good pretending to read.
For three days our gunners have been
<span class='pageno' id='Page_58'>58</span>'wire-cutting.' They have cut the wire
over a very wide front, but they always
take care to cut it where our men are
going to attack.</p>
<p class='c008'>Zero time is 9 p.m., and exactly on the
second hell breaks out. Guns in the rear
roar out in fury. Trench mortars close at
hand vomit forth their missiles of death,
and even machine-guns and rifle batteries
help to swell the crescendo of battle. The
ranges are well known, and the guns do
their work without harming our men,
who are now crawling forward.</p>
<p class='c008'>Our aid-post is a dug-out covered with
steel joists and sand-bags; but it rocks
with the swish, swish, swish of the shells
flying through the air like hail. Now the
Boche begins to reply, and every now and
then a 'whiz-bang' bursts on the parapets.
We can only hope that no high explosive
will happen to break on <i>our</i> dug-out. Now
the guns lift, and the raiders get closer up.
A frenzy of flares go up, and we are so
curious that we sneak out to see across
<span class='pageno' id='Page_59'>59</span>No Man's Land. We cannot see a man of
our party, and we take that to indicate
that the Huns, too, cannot see them yet.</p>
<p class='c008'>Now it is 9.10, and on the instant there
is a silence as terrible as was the fearful
noise. The raiders are among the Germans
now. They rush from dug-out to dug-out
bombing. Meeting Huns, they fight face
to face and hand to hand. German fire
breaks out on No Man's Land, and occasionally
a rifle shot. Then, 'bad luck to
us,' the Hun ceases to engage our guns,
and he puts his high explosives on, and
just over our parapets. And this is the
time we must get out for our work, for
casualties soon come back; indeed a
message has come to say that two are
back. One man who has brought a
wounded comrade and himself has suffered
a fall, injuring the knee. As we run along
the duck-boards behind the parapet we
bend low and listen fearfully to the crump,
crump, crump of shells exploding behind
our line. The raiders have just ten
<span class='pageno' id='Page_60'>60</span>minutes for their fighting. At that time
our guns will raise another curtain of fire
behind them to keep the Huns from a
counter-attack.</p>
<p class='c008'>They must not stay under our own fire.
Now they begin to return, with their
eyes bright with the excitement of battle,
covered with mud, with a German helmet
or two, with many stories of the fighting,
and with their wounded. The stretcher-bearers
are out in No Man's Land seeking
others, and we have enough to do dealing
with those at hand. We have got most of
them close up to the parapet, and the
doctor has difficult work to do under circumstances
the reverse of helpful, for
German shells are landing in our lines
pretty thickly. But when you reach this
point in a 'stunt' you cease to think of
danger; you are absorbed in helping.
The wounded turn to the padre as a friend
and almost as a father. They babble of
their home folks, give you messages, and
they hold your hand tightly when they
<span class='pageno' id='Page_61'>61</span>are in pain. You cannot stay with one
longer than is necessary, for others ask
for you. 'Ask the padre to come' is
something which makes it worth your while
to be with the men in battle. One man, not
at all young, gives me many loving messages
to one whom I took to be his wife.
I send them all to Australia, and receive
thanks from his mother, who explains that
her son was a confirmed bachelor. Another
poor chap has a slight wound; but it
does not bleed, and he is so cold. We
heap blankets and new sand-bags on him
and give him stimulants. But he gets
colder and colder, and just as the ambulance
reaches the billets in the village he dies
of shell-shock. The wounded men are
put on the trolleys, and the stretcher-bearers
begin to push them out of the
sector; and while they do so the Huns'
shells fall all round. 'But who cares?'
That is the feeling you have at this stage.
Now we have a bother. Some of the
raiders are not easily persuaded to start on
<span class='pageno' id='Page_62'>62</span>the homeward march up the communication
trench. The special officer stands, notebook
in hand, ticking off the names of
the raiders who have returned. In spite
of his assurance some want to go back to
find chums who are really not lost. Others
seek excuses because they want to go back
for trophies or booty which they now
remember to have seen.</p>
<p class='c008'>One of our company is still missing, and
a wounded man tells me where he has seen
him. As a matter of fact, things have
quietened down a lot now, and we have
virtual possession of No Man's Land; the
Huns have hidden. They are satisfied
to sprinkle our sector with shells in the
hope of getting returning men. But our
stretcher-bearers are indignant at the idea
of my attempting to get the lost man.
Securing my information, they go into No
Man's Land and find him. We still have
a number of less seriously wounded men
behind the parapets. Everybody is talking
of the exploits of one of them. He is an
<span class='pageno' id='Page_63'>63</span>athletic fellow whom the doctor is attending.
To counterbalance the pain he is
suffering I congratulate him, and suggest
that he will probably get recommended for
reward.</p>
<p class='c008'>'No fear of that,' he says laughing.
'More likely ten days' C.B.' (confinement to
barracks).</p>
<p class='c008'>'Why?' I inquire.</p>
<p class='c008'>'Well, I shouldn't have been there at
all,' he replies.</p>
<p class='c008'>'I can't understand that,' I say.</p>
<p class='c008'>'Well, sir, I'm not a raider at all; but
when I heard the shots, I couldn't resist,
so I slipped over the parapet and into
it.'</p>
<p class='c008'>It is difficult to tell exactly what success
the raid has had; but the men seem to
agree that with those they accounted for
and Huns they found killed by our artillery
fire altogether twenty-five of the enemy
were destroyed. We have lost three killed
in action, and a number of wounded
who will recover. One prisoner has been
<span class='pageno' id='Page_64'>64</span>brought back, and he seems to be a regular
walking orderly-room for the number of
official documents in his possession. It
may be but a small affair; but when we
remember that there were twenty-five raids
the same night, it will be recognized that
we are not sitting down tamely and submitting
to the German occupation of any
part of France.</p>
<p class='c008'>Probably the British press will announce
to-morrow, 'All calm on the Western
Front'; but we know that every night
No Man's Land is the scene of deeds of
valour and self-sacrifice, proving that our
men have the fighting spirit of their
fathers; and that apart from the clash
of material forces, in the great battle of
spirits which is the ultimate basis upon
which a decision in war depends, we need
not doubt the 'will to victory' of our
men. No Man's Land, with all its pathos
and sorrow, the grave of unknown heroes,
the battle-ground on which many a brave
exploit is enacted which is unnoticed and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_65'>65</span>unrecognized, is still the pledge and
prophecy of our final victory.</p>
<p class='c008'>Now we must trudge back to the village.
We walk about two miles in saps, and then
join the ambulances waiting on the road.
You begin to feel tired at this stage!</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_67'>67</span>
<h2 class='c006'>IV<br/> <br/>THE BOMBER</h2></div>
<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c000'>
<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_68'>68</span>'THE CALL OF THE BUGLE.'</div>
</div></div>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>The Bugles of England were blowing o'er the sea,</div>
<div class='line'>As they had called a thousand years—calling now for me.</div>
<div class='line'>They woke me from my dreaming in the dawning of the day,</div>
<div class='line'>The Bugles of England—and how could I stay!</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>The Banners of England unfurled across the sea,</div>
<div class='line'>Floating out upon the wind, were beckoning to me.</div>
<div class='line'>Storm-rent and battle-torn, smoke-stained and grey:</div>
<div class='line'>The Banners of England—and how could I stay!</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>O England, I heard the cry of those who died for thee,</div>
<div class='line'>Sounding like an organ voice across the winter sea;</div>
<div class='line'>They lived and died for England, and gladly went their way:</div>
<div class='line'>England, O England—how could I stay!</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<div class='c014'> <span class='sc'>Pte. J. D. Burns</span>, A.I.F. </div>
<div class='c014'></div>
<div class='c014'> (<i>Killed in action, Gallipoli.</i>) </div>
<div class='c014'><i>Son of Rev. ---- Burns, late of Bairnsdale, Victoria.</i></div>
<div>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_69'>69</span>
<h3 class='c002'>IV<br/> <br/>THE BOMBER</h3></div>
<p class='c007'>We had a treasure in our battalion—a
sergeant who knew all about bombs. He
liked them, and knew exactly how to
treat them. Of course we could not
keep such a man in the battalion. He was
manifestly called to the vocation of Instructor
for Bombing Schools.</p>
<p class='c008'>They will never make a general of him—he
is too valuable in his present capacity.
Besides, his grammar and pronunciation
are not equal to such a strain. The more
lucid his explanations are, the looser is
his control of the aspirate; although that
is nothing in these days, for I heard a
member of the British Parliament speaking
the other day, and he---- But that is
another story!</p>
<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_70'>70</span>'Bombs is all right if you treat them
properly. They will never do no 'arm
to you if you don't monkey with them.
They are gentle and 'armless things to
them as is wise to them,' he would say,
addressing his group of humble disciples.
'Gather round and I'll learn you about
bombs.' And what time he toyed with
the vicious missile the 'class' would
gather somewhat fearfully around him.</p>
<p class='c008'>'When you remove this 'ere pin you
release the spring which causes the charge
to explode the bomb in the time that you
count five—so.' He removes the pin and
proceeds to deliberately count, 'One, two,
three'; now his disciples begin to melt
away, 'four'--'Oh, you needn't worry,
five, there ain't no charge in this one.
It's empty for experimental purposes.'</p>
<p class='c008'>He has a wonderful command of hard,
technical words, only equalled by his
disregard of the proper pronunciation of
simple words.</p>
<div class='figcenter id001'>
<ANTIMG src='images/i071.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>"Gather round, and I'll learn you about bombs."</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c008'>Now with reassured courage the class
<span class='pageno' id='Page_72'>72</span>gather round again, and he takes up a
'live' bomb.</p>
<p class='c008'>'As you count three, you hurl the
bomb, not with a jerk, but with a smooth
round arm bowling motion. So—one, two,
three,' and he hurls the bomb clear into
a trench forty yards away. It explodes
with a loud detonation, smashing up the
trench, and he resumes his lecture.</p>
<p class='c008'>'Although you 'ave removed the pin,
you can still keep your bomb right, by
pressing the spring until you are ready for
action, so you can 'ave a bomb in your
'and just ready for throwing as you go
up a German trench. You've got to do
it just right, so that Fritz has no time to
pick up your bomb and throw it back at
you.</p>
<p class='c008'>'You can 'ave faith in your bombs now.
It's not like them there Gallipoli days,
when we 'ad to fire jam-tin bombs made
on the premises. They was filled with
Turkish bullets and all sorts of things,
but they couldn't be relied on to do the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_73'>73</span>same thing every time. Did you ever 'ear
of Lieutenant Forshaw, V.C., down Cape
Hellis way? He hurled jam-tin bombs
for forty-two hours at Johnny Turk. He
'ad to light them with his cigarette.</p>
<p class='c008'>'Not been used to smoking cigarettes,
'im 'aving been brought up as a schoolmaster,
the smoking did 'im a lot of 'arm,
for which reason the King made 'im a
V.C. Lucky fellow, I call 'im. Many's
the time I've been short of a fag.'</p>
<p class='c008'>At once quite a number of the sergeant's
pupils present fags, and having
made a selection and put a few in his
pocket for future use, the sergeant proceeds:</p>
<p class='c008'>'There's another man I want to tell you
about—Captain Shout, V.C., of the 1st Battalion.
'E was throwing bombs at such
close range at the Turks that 'e had to
have three lit at once for 'im, and 'e fired
them just so as they would explode among
the enemy. 'E kept this up a long time,
and 'eld the enemy up, but one burst too
<span class='pageno' id='Page_74'>74</span>near 'im, and after some time, he died of
'is wounds. A great loss to the A.I.F.,
believe me. You needn't worry about
such-like 'appenings now; only one in
two thousand of our Mills' grenade goes
wrong, and with the odd one you've got
your sporting chance.</p>
<p class='c008'>'Now, what about bombs that land
close to you, sometimes thrown by the
enemy, and sometimes by accident, our
own, when a man 'its the side of the
trench? Don't be too scared. Even
then bombs is 'armless properly treated.
Get behind a traverse if there is one.
If not, then you render the live bomb
'armless. Gather round. I'll show you.'</p>
<p class='c008'>Sitting on a chair, he took a bomb, and,
after counting three, threw it on the ground,
not a great way off. The men scatter for
all they are worth; but the sergeant,
having thrown an overcoat over the bomb,
calmly resumes his seat. Crash! goes
the bomb at the fifth second. The coat
rises with the bomb, the fragments drop
<span class='pageno' id='Page_75'>75</span>harmlessly around, and the coat is not
much worse.</p>
<p class='c008'>'Now then, let that learn you to throw
sand-bags, blankets, your own overcoat
or some such thing over a bomb, and ten
to one no 'arm will follow.</p>
<p class='c008'>'Did you ever hear of Mulga Bill at
Quinn's Post? A bomb dropped in the
trench amongst them, and 'e promptly
put a sand-bag from the parapet on top
of it. To make sure, 'e sat on top of
the sand-bag. When it exploded 'e went
up with the bag a little way. 'E came
down all right and none the worse. But
'e was <i>narked</i>--annoyed, to find his chums
laughing at 'im. "What are yer laughing
at?" 'e said. "I did that to save
you fellows, but I'll never do it again."</p>
<p class='c008'>'That's where Mulga Bill was wrong.
He done right, except sitting on top of
it. That was an extra act—a sort of
curtain-raiser at the wrong end of the
play.</p>
<p class='c008'>'Let that learn you not to put 'ard
<span class='pageno' id='Page_76'>76</span>substances on a live bomb. It don't take
kindly to pressure. I'll show you.
Gather round.'</p>
<p class='c008'>The instructor then proceeds to throw
another bomb. As, counting three, he
throws the bomb down, he proceeds quickly
to put a sheet of corrugated iron on it.</p>
<p class='c008'>'Now,' he cries, 'run like hell!'--and
he showed them the example.</p>
<p class='c008'>The bomb, exploding, sends fragments,
throws the torn iron all around, and the
men have learnt another strange lesson in
regard to the behaviour of bombs.</p>
<p class='c008'>Notwithstanding the confident handling
of bombs by this expert, I am privately of
opinion that men should beware of 'the
familiarity which breeds contempt' in the
matter of bombs.</p>
<p class='c008'>There was a man in our Brigade who had
just returned from a bombing school with
his head stuffed full of all sorts of knowledge
about the manufacture and use of
bombs. He had a small collection of
them, and one morning in the shadow of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_77'>77</span>the Calvary at the cross-roads-at Fleurbaix,
having an audience, he held forth on his
new subject, illustrating his remarks by
fiddling with a small screw-driver at a
bomb which he professed to know all
about. Suddenly it exploded, wounding
him sadly. 'A little learning' had for
the moment 'made him mad.'</p>
<p class='c008'>To get back to our Bombing School.
After the instructor's talks, the men in
turn would hurl bombs from one trench to
another, until they were no longer 'bomb-shy.'
As a matter of fact, a good bomber
is just as good a 'life' in the army as any
other expert. Indeed, a man may lose
his life through the absence of a bomb or
the knowledge of how to use it.</p>
<p class='c008'>In the words of our instructor, 'The
cure for the bombing craze is--"A hair
of the dog that bit you."'</p>
<p class='c008'>The Germans are good bombers, and
when, in their counter-attack, they come
down a trench throwing bombs, the only
way is to bomb them back and out again.</p>
<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_78'>78</span>He used to say, 'The Boches began this
blooming bombing business,' only his adjectives
were sometimes profane. 'What we
have to do is to give them a fair sickening
of it. Bomb their <SPAN name='corr77.5'></SPAN><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='Zeppelyns'>Zeppelins</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><SPAN href='#c_77.5'>Zeppelins</SPAN></span>, bomb their
submarines, bomb their dug-outs'--then,
in one final outburst, he would say, 'Bomb
the Boches; and if you don't believe what
I say, ask the Chaplain.'</p>
<p class='c008'>If they ask me, how can I contradict
him?</p>
<p class='c008'>Our 'bomber' often surprised us, even
to alarm. But the biggest surprise he
ever gave us was when he had been granted
ten days' (well deserved) leave in
'Blighty,' he turned up again in six.
Wondering, the men, who envied him his
leave, inquired why he had returned before
his leave was up.</p>
<p class='c008'>'I was very lonely in London,' he
replied simply. 'I like to be with my
pals.'</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_79'>79</span>
<h2 class='c006'>V<br/> <br/>ROMANCE AND REALITY</h2></div>
<div class='lg-container-b c000'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_80'>80</span>Page from a world-old palimpsest</div>
<div class='line in2'>Shrined on the altar of the sea,</div>
<div class='line'>Whereon a Nation's new-limned crest</div>
<div class='line in2'>Glitters in glorious blazonry!</div>
<div class='line'>Grave that our race shall kneel anigh</div>
<div class='line'>For aye—Gallipoli; good-bye!</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Dying to rank as men with those</div>
<div class='line in2'>Who manned the wall while Ilium burned--</div>
<div class='line'>This is the crown your story knows,</div>
<div class='line in2'>The need their rare dear madness earned!</div>
<div class='line'>Troy's heroes cry to ours and thee,</div>
<div class='line'>Gallipoli, Gallipoli!</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>They watched through fierce weeks many a one</div>
<div class='line in2'>While, from his tent of rose-hued lawn</div>
<div class='line'>The unclenched fingers of the sun</div>
<div class='line in2'>Unloosed the westering birds of dawn;</div>
<div class='line'>For them those sun-birds stoop and fly</div>
<div class='line'>No more! Gallipoli, good-bye!</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>God's acre, bare and barren woods,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Cross-guarded mounds where noon-rays burn--</div>
<div class='line'>Like pale knights praying by their swords,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Set upright in the bracken-fern--</div>
<div class='line'>Thy love shall keep our freemen free,</div>
<div class='line'>Gallipoli, Gallipoli!</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<div class='c014'><span class='sc'>J. Alex. Allen</span> in the <i>Sydney Bulletin</i>.</div>
<div>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_81'>81</span>
<h3 class='c002'>V<br/> <br/>ROMANCE AND REALITY.</h3></div>
<p class='c007'>The Army Chaplain, drawn by Mars from
his quiet round of parish work and life,
made up, as it is, of pastoral visitation,
educational and devotional meetings, and
the public services of the Sabbath, is
certain to find active service a restless
experience. His battles aforetime, fierce
enough sometimes, were in the arena of
Synod or Conference Hall, and his duels
were of the more or less friendly sort of
the Ministers' Fraternal. Now he sees
something of battles more dramatic, in
which the missiles are more than words.
He moves in an atmosphere of romance
mingled with grim reality, and he begins to
feel that he is living in heroic days. He
sees the world in <SPAN name='corr81.20'></SPAN><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='prosess'>process</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><SPAN href='#c_81.20'>process</SPAN></span> of reconstruction,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_82'>82</span>and looks on whilst the fabric of man's
life and character is taken down and built
up again according to a new pattern.</p>
<p class='c008'>Our disappointment in not being allowed
to proceed straight to the front in France
was somewhat mitigated by the news that
we were to train and wait beneath the
shadows of the mighty Pyramids at Cairo.
On the ground where Napoleon, addressing
his troops, reminded them that 'forty
centuries looked down upon them' and
awaited their achievements, we trekked
through the sand, sweated through the
hot days and shivered during the cold
nights, as we camped amid sand which is
always either very hot or cold. There was
a hard winter's work for padres here who
desired to do something to counteract
the evil attractions of Cairo for the troops.
The reality was, however, always tinctured
with the romantic glamour of Egypt and
the Nile.</p>
<p class='c008'>There was Vieux Cairo—the ancient
Forstad—with its undoubted earliest Christian
<span class='pageno' id='Page_83'>83</span>Church; the place to which we can
say with almost certainty that Joseph
and Mary came with the Infant Christ.
Wanderings amid the antiquities of this
ancient place full of Coptic traditions, and
an occasional mingling with the multi-coloured
crowds gathering among the
<SPAN name='corr83.8'></SPAN><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='Bazars'>Bazaars</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><SPAN href='#c_83.8'>Bazaars</SPAN></span> of the Monsky, somewhat relieved
the tedium of evolutions amid the eternal
sand of the Libyan Desert.</p>
<p class='c008'>A hard three days' manœuvring was
set over against the interesting fact that
we fought our sham battles at Sakkara,
the City of the Dead, and our Brigade
signallers flashed or flagged their messages
from the Step Pyramid—the very oldest
building in the world to-day.</p>
<p class='c008'>'Going down to Egypt' had the same
dangerous fascination for us as for the
ancient Israelites, and padres had to be
modern Isaiahs, warning the men of the
languorous seductions which Egypt in
modern times, as in ancient, holds out to
men of a sturdy race.</p>
<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_84'>84</span>Then came the never-to-be-forgotten day
when we marched out of our Mena Camp,
headed by our bands—away from the
sand of the desert, and on through the
crowded streets of Cairo, singing, 'Advance,
Australia Fair' and 'Good-bye, Cairo.' We
were going to fight, and we were glad.
We had left the back-block townships
away beyond sunset for this very purpose:
to strike a blow for Old England.</p>
<p class='c008'>That we were going to strike a blow at
the heart of the Turkish Empire made it
all the more thrilling. Whether we would
succeed or not we could not tell, but we
knew that we were going to strike hard.
No ancient crusaders ever felt higher
enthusiasm than did we amid the marshalling
of the armada of transports at Alexandria.
Then, with Pompey's Pillar looking
down upon us, we sailed away from
the city of Alexander the Great, passed
the Pharos and out to the blue Mediterranean.</p>
<p class='c008'>Whither bound? We hardly knew, but
<span class='pageno' id='Page_85'>85</span>in those days, when padres stood upon
the higher decks and spoke to the men in
their ranks below in the deep well decks
of those huge transports, the romance of
it all impelled them to call men to high
endeavour and heroic faith. We had to
'do censor' on this voyage, and we found
that the men's letters were surcharged in
almost equal quantities with reality and
romance. They complained that they had
to sleep on an iron deck, eat iron rations,
and, to crown all, some one said, 'We are
commanded by a General called Iron
Hamilton.' But they felt the glory of it,
and displayed the spirit of adventurers.</p>
<p class='c008'>With St. John's Patmos in sight, with
its white buildings on the summit of the
hill, we steamed on for Lemnos. Lemnos,
the island to which, in Greek myth, Jove's
son was hurled from heaven, in disgrace,
and where the Greek army called on its
way to the Trojan War, was beautiful to
us after the hot sands of Egypt.</p>
<p class='c008'>We manœuvred on shore among the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_86'>86</span>most beautiful wild flowers, and we sailed
in Mudros Bay around the formidable
<SPAN name='corr86.3'></SPAN><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='battle-ships'>battleships</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><SPAN href='#c_86.3'>battleships</SPAN></span> of a mighty allied fleet.</p>
<p class='c008'>Those were romantic days for the padre.
Everything one said was flavoured with
the seriousness of last words and final
exhortations. The last Communion service,
and the last service on the huge
flagship of the A.I. Force, the <i><SPAN name='corr86.10'></SPAN><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='Minniwaska'>Minnewaska</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><SPAN href='#c_86.10'>Minnewaska</SPAN></span></i>,
is something to remember. On
April 11 the topic was 'Consecration.'
'And Joshua said unto the people, Sanctify
yourselves; for to-morrow the Lord will
begin to do wonders among you.' The
lesson was the story of the preparation
of Joshua's army for the crossing of the
Jordan. Knowing how desperate was our
enterprise, we girded ourselves for the
attack, and whatever the result of our
campaign may have been—and we shall
not know that fully until the war is over—we
can claim that we obeyed the word
which said, 'When ye come to the brink
of the water of Jordan, ye shall stand still
<span class='pageno' id='Page_87'>87</span>in Jordan.' How many of our brave
fellows on the brink of the water of the
last Jordan stood firm on that bit of land
we wrested from the Turk?</p>
<p class='c008'>The last service of all on the deck of
the flagship, on April 18, 1915, had for its
message: 'Faith in God's leadership,'
'The Pillar of Cloud by day and the
Pillar of Fire by night.' It <i>was</i> a pillar
of cloud—clouds of battle-smoke—and a
pillar of fire from the thunderous guns of
our Fleet; and although it was not
written in the Book of Fate that we
should take Gallipoli, we may yet believe
that God was with us.</p>
<p class='c008'>In that address, after showing, first,
that God does lead nations, and, secondly,
we are not in the war for Empire aggrandizement,
but for the preservation of God-given
ideals—I turned to ask: 'Are we
suitable instruments for the fulfilment of
God's will?'</p>
<p class='c008'>I look back with thankfulness to the
fact that my last words to the men who
<span class='pageno' id='Page_88'>88</span>were going to land at Gallipoli were on
'personal salvation.' 'Some of you may
be satisfied that we are right as a nation
in regard to God, but you may have confused
and troubled thoughts about your
own relation to God. You say, "I am not
a church member or communicant. What
about my personal salvation?" In regard
to the forgiveness of sins, there is no
magic or mystery about it. A man can
be a Christian without knowing the creeds,
just as a man can be a soldier without
knowing the military text-books. The
great revelation of the Bible is of God as
a Father. Think of a good father. He
would forgive even a prodigal son. So
will God. But there must be repentance.
If you thus come, God will accept you
and say: "Thy sins which were many
are all forgiven; go in peace and sin no
more." Thus you may go forward, and
fight all your battles knowing that at
last, when you ground your arms before
the Throne of God, and answer the roll-call
<span class='pageno' id='Page_89'>89</span>of eternity, you will hear the Father
say, "Well done, thou hast been faithful
unto death; enter into Life."'</p>
<p class='c008'>On a brilliant day of Mediterranean
beauty our ships lifted their anchors,
and, amid resounding cheers, one after
another steamed out into the Ægean Sea,
in the wake of the fabled Argonauts and
on the ancient track of the Greek army
sailing for the Plains of Troy. In the
darkness battleships and transports took
up their allotted positions, and in the early
dawn there began one of the greatest
combined naval and military battles which
the world has ever seen.</p>
<p class='c008'>Even amid the tragedy of those Gallipoli
days we lived under the spell of the storied
past. We were living in St. Paul's world.
On a certain bright Sunday morning we
addressed some hundreds of men on 'Paul's
vision and call to Macedonia.'</p>
<p class='c008'>We were fairly safe, for the shells flew
over us on their way to the beach, and the
hill intervening stopped the rifle-fire of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_90'>90</span>the enemy. It is a good thing to be on
the right side of the hill.</p>
<p class='c008'>The men were always glad to hear about
that indomitable fighter, Paul. We were
able to point to Kum Kale in the distance,
which our battleships had bombarded some
days previously. It is the ancient Troas,
from which Paul sailed, and Troas again
is the more ancient Troy. He 'made a
straight course to Samothrace.'</p>
<p class='c008'>This would take his little ship (something
like that Greek lugger sailing in our sight)
over the place where a few days before
our good friend, H.M.S. <i>Triumph</i>, was
sunk by a submarine. And there, to the
right, was Samothrace, in its snow-capped
beauty, facing us.</p>
<p class='c008'>That was the romance. We were in
the ancient world. The reality was that
we were verminous, plagued with flies and
all the diseases they bring.</p>
<p class='c008'>After visiting the dug-outs that day,
I had to bathe in the Gulf of Saros, wash all
my clothes, and, dressed in others less
<span class='pageno' id='Page_91'>91</span>worrying, try to sleep in my cave of
Adullam that night. Experiences solemn
and weird were ours on that craggy shore.</p>
<p class='c008'>A Communion service at that same place
stands out in my memory. How freely
the men came to the Table of the Lord!
In the beautiful twilight they sang hymn
after hymn as relays of men took their
places. It was a setting solemn and
impressive as any cathedral of man's
building for such a service. But there
was a grim reality about it too, for as
they sang:</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c000'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless!</div>
<div class='line'>Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness:</div>
<div class='line'>Where is death's sting? where, grave, thy victory?</div>
<div class='line'>I triumph still if Thou abide with me!</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class='c007'>others, who had left the service for duty,
were passing in single file up the long communication
trench armed for the fray.</p>
<p class='c008'>It seems a strange and romantic fact
that when we returned to Egypt, after the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_92'>92</span>evacuation of Gallipoli, our main camp
was at Tel-el-Kebir. Sir Garnet Wolseley's
trenches were visible on the outskirts of
our camp. But what is more interesting,
is that on the march to the desert front
our force followed the line mainly of the
sweet-water canal, which is probably the
route of the Israelites under the wise
generalship of Moses.</p>
<p class='c008'>Some units took a route through the
Desert to Ismailia. There was less
romance about their experiences, and a
reality which does not lend itself to description
here. Crossing the Suez Canal,
we campaigned for some months on a
route which ultimately brought us to a
post seventeen miles out in the desert.
What an opportunity for the padre of
re-telling the story of the wandering and
fighting of the hordes of Israel under Moses
and Joshua!</p>
<p class='c008'>Our Arab camel convoys, on a new-made
road parallel with a strategic railway,
traversed by electric locomotives—East and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_93'>93</span>West together!--lent an air of romance to
this period of service. But it was counterbalanced
by a severe reality, for on
occasions we marched at 7 a.m. with the
thermometer at 100 degrees. And a
padre's Sunday, beginning with the first
church parade at 5 a.m. and conducting
others at various posts among the sand-dunes,
was a day which left one more
conscious of reality than romance.</p>
<p class='c008'>An atmosphere of romantic interest
hangs about our French campaign. The
scene changes, and for the white-robed
hosts following Saladin or Mehemet Ali,
for the bronzed warriors who followed
Cambyses, Alexander the Great, Rameses II,
for the Red and Blue arrayed against each
other under Napoleon or Abercromby,
we have to exchange the chivalry and
battle represented by such names as
Poictiers, Cressy, or Waterloo. In our
fleet of six transports, our division <i>en
route</i> had to <i>watch</i> and pray, wearing a
lifebelt always.</p>
<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_94'>94</span>We steamed into a bay of Malta on a
Sunday morning. This gave us another
memory of Paul, and we had to speak of
his shipwreck and landing there.</p>
<p class='c008'>Arriving in <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">La Belle France</span>, we realize
that it is a land of chivalry and romance.
We move under the banner of Joan of
Arc, and fight on old battle-fields. Every
town has its storied past; but this is no
war of chivalry, and our battalions do not
flaunt the banners of heraldry. The
reality is cold mud, dripping dug-outs,
and hard fighting night and day;
and yet over all are the crossed flags of
the two most romantic and adventurous
races in the world—the British and
the French.</p>
<p class='c008'>The achievements both of Napoleon
and Wellington call us, the one to the
path of glory and the other to the path of
duty; and a second greater Waterloo awaits
us as victors in the struggle for the freedom
of Europe.</p>
<p class='c008'>At this time we may still hear the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_95'>95</span>ringing cry of Henry V at Harfleur in our
English ears:</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c000'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>'Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;</div>
<div class='line'>Or close the wall up with our English dead!</div>
<div class='line'>In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man</div>
<div class='line'>As modest stillness and humility;</div>
<div class='line'>But when the blast of war blows in our ears,</div>
<div class='line'>Then imitate the action of the tiger;</div>
<div class='line'>Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,</div>
<div class='line'>Disguise fair nature with hard-favoured rage;</div>
<div class='line'>Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;</div>
<div class='line'>Let it pry through the portage of the head,</div>
<div class='line'>Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it</div>
<div class='line'>As fearfully as doth a gallèd rock</div>
<div class='line'>O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,</div>
<div class='line'>Swilled with the wild and wasteful ocean.</div>
<div class='line'>Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide;</div>
<div class='line'>Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit</div>
<div class='line'>To his full height!--On, on, you noblest English.'</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_97'>97</span>
<h2 class='c006'>VI<br/> <br/>THE GOD OF BATTLES</h2></div>
<div class='lg-container-b c000'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_98'>98</span>Lord God of Hosts, whose mighty hand</div>
<div class='line'>Dominion holds on sea and land,</div>
<div class='line'>In Peace and War Thy will we see</div>
<div class='line'>Shaping the larger liberty.</div>
<div class='line'>Nations may rise and nations fall,</div>
<div class='line'>Thy Changeless Purpose rules them all.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<div class='c014'><span class='sc'>John Oxenham.</span></div>
<div>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_99'>99</span>
<h3 class='c002'>VI<br/> <br/>THE GOD OF BATTLES</h3></div>
<p class='c007'>Everything is in the melting-pot. Even
our ideas of religion are changing. The
development of theology is being hastened
by the 'big push,' and orthodoxy is being
tested in the red crucible of war. There is
a lot of confusion, and that all the contending
nations claim God is embarrassing
to <i>us</i>, but not to God. We may be sure
that there is no jostling or confusion in
the Eternal mind. The Good Shepherd
knows His own and is not deceived by
our claims and counter-claims. 'Gott mit
uns' is engraved upon the belt of each
German soldier, and the Kaiser claims God
as the German God. He has been appealed
to <SPAN name='corr99.16'></SPAN><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='by Austrian'>by the</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><SPAN href='#c_99.16'>by the</SPAN></span> Austrian Emperor, by the Czar; even
the Sultan's soldiers advance to the charge
<span class='pageno' id='Page_100'>100</span>crying, 'Allah, Allah.' We appeal to God
too. It is all natural and, from the human
standpoint, right. We may be sure that
the God of Battles knows the worth of all
our claims, knows how much of truth is
contained in our cause. In His name
the conscientious objector declines to fight,
and God only knows where conscience
ends and cowardice begins. 'The Lord is
a Man of War,' and if history shows anything
it shows that God does not despise
the sword as an instrument whereby men
contend for the faith, and even the blood
of men is not too precious to spill for the
defence of the ideals of freedom and right.
Like the pulsator on the diamond fields of
Kimberley, war, the mill of God, throbs
back and forth. We may throw on it the
heaps of earth, but as it throbs it will
shake away the clods and wash away the
mire; the true diamonds will remain.</p>
<p class='c008'>To the superficial, war seems to be a
grim contradiction of the fact that God
is the Ruler of the world. To them it
<span class='pageno' id='Page_101'>101</span>seems as though this world were governed
by a demon. But really war is a terrible
confirmation of God's presence in the world
and a lurid re-emphasis of His inevitable
and inexorable Law.</p>
<p class='c008'>The mental disease of selfishness, lust
of power, and military glory was present;
it was slumbering in the heart of the
nations in times of peace. The disease
(which shows itself in commercial competition
too) broke out in the violent inflammation
and irruption of war. War is a
delirium, a delusion, and a degeneracy.
It is made possible by the brute strength
of a soulless people on the one part and
the weak unpreparedness of an easy-going,
prosperous, and pleasure-loving people on
the other part.</p>
<p class='c008'>Suddenly a bolt from the blue fuses all
antagonisms into the mad storm which we
call 'War.' A good deal of dross will be
burnt up, but the pure gold will remain.
Out of the collision of national ideals which
are right or wrong, heroism and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_102'>102</span>self-sacrifice are born. Out of the commotion
of contending ideals, truth, single-eyed,
in clear perspective and circular,
containing every point of view in its comprehensiveness,
will emerge. It is not to
the balance of power or the inter-relation
of dynastic connexions that we must look
for peace, but to the balance of the naked
truth and the essential solidarity and
brotherhood of man.</p>
<p class='c008'>The Concert of Europe has broken down
in discord, the Conductor is rapping out
with His baton the true music of humanity,
and He insists that we should all recognize
the Keynote.</p>
<p class='c008'>The pre-millenarian sees in it all a
superhuman interference with the human
will which is the prelude to a forcible
application of the Divine Will and a millennium
of peace and perfection. But when
we investigate, we see that there is no
mental violence in the coming of the Great
War. We are reaping what we sowed. It
arises out of logical and adequate causes.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_103'>103</span>It will not end until these causes have been
removed.</p>
<p class='c008'>Political excrescences must be sloughed
off. Nations will be born or reborn in a
day. So war is working the world-fever
out of our blood, cleansing our hearts, and
making us seriously face life's issues.</p>
<p class='c008'>To get to particulars. We hear much
about man-power to-day. It is the last
word of the strategist, the first thought of
the statesman, and the secret of victory.
But who bothered about man-power a few
years ago?</p>
<p class='c008'>A Russian peasant in Petrograd, after
the Revolution, said to an English press
correspondent: 'We shall have fine times
in the church now. There will not be so
many long prayers for the Czar, the
Imperial family, and all the nobility, with
a little prayer for the poor peasants at
the tail end.'</p>
<p class='c008'>Yet it is the great mass of <i>men</i> which
Russia possesses which forms the famous
'steam-roller' upon which so many have
<span class='pageno' id='Page_104'>104</span>placed their hope for the liberation of
Europe. It may be that the God of Battles
has ordained that in saving Russia, and
in part Europe, the Russian people are to
save themselves.</p>
<p class='c008'>How was it with us? How many cubic
feet of air have our men had to breathe
in the wretched and monotonous tenements
in which they were compelled to live?
Houses must be built that way, I am told,
because the land is dear. Who made the
land dear and men cheap?</p>
<p class='c008'>Men in many callings could not obtain
a living wage. Some weird economic
law--'supply and demand' or other phrase—made
it impossible to give the worker
more! But, suddenly, a struggle for
national life is thrust upon us, and there
is money enough!</p>
<p class='c008'>I know it is a very complicated question,
but it is <i>there</i>. We must face it; we <i>are</i>
'our brothers' keepers.' They are like
'sheep without a shepherd,' unless they
are cared for. It is a national obligation
<span class='pageno' id='Page_105'>105</span>to provide right conditions of life, proper
education for mind and body for the boy
who is going to be the unit in the man-power
of the nation.</p>
<p class='c008'>We must organize our national life to
allow of this, for we have no right to permit
our industrial development to outpace our
humanitarian provision of the fair conditions
of a full-orbed, manly life. Each
nation contending is 'up against it.' Men
are precious in France, but scarce. The
birth-rate has fallen off. Why? We
leave it to French patriots to solve, and
turn to our own affairs once more.</p>
<p class='c008'>We have suffered in this war, and
victory has been delayed because we lacked
organization, and yet we prided ourselves
upon being organizers.</p>
<p class='c008'>The victories in war are manufactured
in days of peace. We were not organized
in pre-war days. Things <i>happened</i>. Under
the pressure of war we have had to organize
ourselves in many ways. The railways
have been brought under central control
<span class='pageno' id='Page_106'>106</span>to serve <i>England</i> and not companies merely.
The vested interest of the Drink Traffic has
had to be squeezed into more reasonable
proportions, and may have to go altogether
to secure victory. Men and women are
being mobilized for national service, and
agitation for women's suffrage is silenced
for the present. In the silence it may be
that we shall learn that the claim for
suffrage depends not upon <i>being</i> but upon
<i>doing</i>. National service is surely a good
claim for suffrage. Representation should
not merely depend upon taxation, but upon
a wider qualification—service for the common
good in war and peace.</p>
<p class='c008'>We are not the only people under the
pressure of war and compelled to listen to
the will of the God of Battles.</p>
<p class='c008'>We have seen an Anglo-Saxon nation,
claimed to be the freest in the world,
struggling to grasp at the same time
peace and conserve its liberty, reluctant
to grasp the sword even to protect its
nationals. Led by a far-seeing, cautious,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_107'>107</span>and astute President, it made a wonderful
attempt to keep out of war; but
the grim circles of battle have with ever-widening
sweep reached this huge nation
of peace-lovers, and it is learning that in
citizenship quantity is not everything;
quality, racial purity, counts for something.</p>
<p class='c008'>Moreover, nations are not permitted,
any more than individuals, by the God of
Battles to evade or shirk the great moral
issues of life:</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c000'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Once to every man and nation</div>
<div class='line in2'>Comes the moment to decide,</div>
<div class='line'>In the strife of truth with falsehood,</div>
<div class='line in2'>For the good or evil side.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class='c007'>The Church is being tested by war. It
had not been prepared by its human
leaders for this test, though history shows
clearly War, Revolution, Crisis, and Persecution
are the foster-mothers of Religion.</p>
<p class='c008'>But we built up the Church for peace
and prosperity. Its ordinances, ceremonials,
customs, and solemn pomps; its
appeal, apparel, and ambition, all needed
<span class='pageno' id='Page_108'>108</span>peace for their opportunity and prosperity
for their support. When a nation strips
for war, however, it needs a religion from
which everything which is extraneous and
superfluous is eliminated.</p>
<p class='c008'>When the soldier, living in the world of
elemental passions and away from all the
Church aids and props, free from the
suggestiveness of the church as a sacred
place and all the sensuous accessories and
aids to worship, asks for religion, he wants
it <i>neat</i>. He needs the fundamental, the
essential, the irreducible minimum.</p>
<p class='c008'>Now the Church has to work in an altogether
different atmosphere. It must not
be thought that it is an atmosphere less
favourable to religion. The drama of the
soul never has so fitting a setting as in
the red landscape of war, with its alternations
of lively death and deadly life.</p>
<p class='c008'>The very processes of soul growth and
the problems of time and eternity are,
so to speak, 'filmed.' A lifetime is compressed
into a campaign.</p>
<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_109'>109</span>As the individual soul has its tragic
opportunities, so the Church itself has its
great chance. Never was such a setting
for the divine drama since it was first
enacted. Never were the truths of
religion so clearly illustrated or the comforts
of religion so pathetically needed.
The suitability of the gospel message as a
response to man's needs, and the perfection
of Christ as man's Comrade and Saviour,
never shine forth so fully as in the lurid
glare of war's terrible perspective.</p>
<p class='c008'>It is the business of the soldier's preacher
to interpret this. He has abundant mental
material to hand, and he works in an
atmosphere solemn, insistent, and impressive.</p>
<p class='c008'>If he turns aside to talk of lesser things,
he wastes his time. He must not get
between the men and God, or put the
Church, or its ordinances, or its rules, so
far as they are human, between the men
and God.</p>
<p class='c008'>If this is so when we speak of the Church
<span class='pageno' id='Page_110'>110</span>in the larger sense, how much more is it
so when we speak of the Church as a
denomination!--and all Churches are denominations
when we are at war.</p>
<p class='c008'>The minister, too, has to cut his baggage
down. His spiritual equipment is in his
mind and heart. The soldier does not
inquire what college his padre comes from,
or what qualifications the titles before
or after his name stand for. Whether he is
a bishop, a great evangelist, or a popular
preacher means little to the man. What
the man asks is, 'What sort of chap is he?
How is he sticking it? What has he got
to say? Does he help a fellow?'</p>
<p class='c008'>The chaplain's one object is to lead men
in thought and faith to God as God is
revealed in Christ, and to get him <i>there
quickly</i>.</p>
<p class='c008'>In regard to the Church as an institution,
there is a feeling among the men,
more or less articulate, that it has humbugged
them. It has denounced the sins
it does not often commit, but has been too
<span class='pageno' id='Page_111'>111</span>silent about the sins which are common
to its own membership. The Church, in
time of peace, has built up a vast superstructure
of respectability. The sins of
the flesh and drunkenness and swearing
were not respectable; but it has not
turned the white burning light of truth
against the sins of the spirit—covetousness,
selfishness, lying, fraud, greed, and injustice.
The soldier has many things to
put up with, but for the time he is freed
from the soul-destroying influence of an
industrial system built upon the basis of
competition. He is not afraid of losing
his job, and he need not toady to any one
to secure the chance of his bread-and-butter.
Under the pressure of campaigning
he begins to exalt comradeship and
self-sacrifice to the first place in the list
of virtues. Battle forges a new and strong
bond of brotherhood.</p>
<p class='c008'>He does not possess this at first. He
comes out of a world of self-seeking, but
he gradually discovers that men depend
<span class='pageno' id='Page_112'>112</span>on each other. In a word, the shells that
fly, knocking the parapets about, and the
rough and tumble of campaigning knock
a man's creed about fearfully. He has to
<i>re</i>-sort his ideas of religion and the Church,
and when he puts them together again,
he finds that they fit his complex needs
better when they are built up the other
way. Perhaps an arrangement of topics
which I have found to be dead topics as
far as work amongst soldiers is concerned,
and others which seem to be <i>live</i> topics,
will help to show what I mean.</p>
<table class='table1' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='50%' />
<col width='50%' />
</colgroup>
<tr>
<th class='c011'><span class='sc'>Dead Topics</span></th>
<th class='c015'><span class='sc'>Live Topics.</span></th>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c015' colspan='2'> </td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c011'>Future punishment</td>
<td class='c015'>Personal salvation</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c011'>Baptismal regeneration</td>
<td class='c015'>Prayer and providence</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c011'>Apostolic succession</td>
<td class='c015'>Comradeship and Communion</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c011'>Claims of the Church</td>
<td class='c015'>Christ as Friend and Lord</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c011'>Sabbath observance</td>
<td class='c015'>Righteousness</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c011'>Observance of Holy Days and Church ordinances</td>
<td class='c015'>God as a Ruler</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c011'>Sectarianism and all Church shibboleths</td>
<td class='c015'>Here, hereafter, and the soul's destiny</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_113'>113</span>The soldier is particularly interested
in spiritual biography, and very glad to
hear about what God did for Paul, Peter,
Moses, Joshua, and David. There are
vestiges of superstition lingering in many
men, and it is hard to see where superstition
ends and faith begins. I have known
men sample all sorts of religion during
the campaign, trying to find out perhaps
what different chaplains have to say about
things.</p>
<p class='c008'>There is a species of fatalism; they value
luck, and would sympathize with the
Prayer-Book phrase, 'Good luck in the
name of the Lord.'</p>
<p class='c008'>It is strange that men should turn
to the elements of religion in which the
Church is getting slack. They value
prayer, and I think most of them pray
in their own way. They believe in providence,
but do not expect that prayer for
them means necessarily immunity from
wounds or death; but they know quite
well that whatever may be their lot they
<span class='pageno' id='Page_114'>114</span>will be the better for the prayers which
ascend for them and for their own prayers.</p>
<p class='c008'>An Australian of the real primitive sort
was moving across No Man's Land to the
attack on Fromelles, and he stopped amid
the hail of bullets and bursting shells and
leaned on his rifle. A comrade rushed up
and inquired, 'What is the matter, mate;
are you hit?' 'Hit, no,' he shouted; 'if
you want to know what I am doing, I'll
tell you. I am saying a prayer.' With
that he seized his rifle and went forward
to the charge.</p>
<p class='c008'>An Australian non-com., who went right
through Gallipoli and was in many a fight,
wrote to me and said that since a certain
service at Mena Camp, in Egypt, he had
made prayer the habit of his life, and it
helped him to play the game. 'I have
never gone over the bags without prayer
first, and specially commending myself to
God, and I find it bucks me up a lot.'</p>
<p class='c008'>Another, referring to an address on the
text, 'Thy rod and Thy staff comfort
<span class='pageno' id='Page_115'>115</span>me,' wrote: 'The note of guidance and
strengthening helped me a great deal in
the hard business of the attack on the
Lone Pine, and it was constantly with me
in the Gallipoli days.'</p>
<p class='c008'>Whilst so many in pulpit and pew have
ceased to ponder and wonder at the
mystery of the Atonement, soldiers have
seen a new meaning in it. A man in our
force at Anzac said to me: 'I never could
understand before; but now, when I
know I may be blown out, I reckon there
isn't much chance for me unless somebody
has made up for my failure and done for
me what I have not been able to do for
myself. I guess that is what it means.'</p>
<p class='c008'>He did not express it very well, but
agreed with me when I said that 'Calvary
has made up for our failure to come up to
the standard of Sinai.'</p>
<p class='c008'>That most difficult idea of substitution
for us and representation of us in the death
on the cross is forced into men's minds by
many an illustration now. To a soldier
<span class='pageno' id='Page_116'>116</span>dying at Étaples, a <SPAN name='corr116.1'></SPAN><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='chaplaín'>chaplain</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><SPAN href='#c_116.1'>chaplain</SPAN></span> said, 'Do you
understand, and does it help you to know
that Christ died for you?' 'Oh, yes,' he
said, 'I know He died for me, just as I
am dying for those shirkers at home.' He
used the word 'shirkers' without condemnation,
just as the first word which
came to him, and passed away at peace
and content.</p>
<p class='c008'>For so long the Cross, with its extended
arms, has spoken to the world of a redemption
of love. But we passed by carelessly,
not choosing to understand; so that we
might well ask of the multitude:</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c000'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in12'>All ye that pass by,</div>
<div class='line in12'>To Jesus draw nigh:</div>
<div class='line'>To you is it nothing that Jesus should die?</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class='c007'>Now we know a little of what it means,
for so many of our best have died for us.
So many real if not material crosses have
been lifted on the low hills of Flanders;
so many have laid down their lives for
the race, that we are beginning to understand.</p>
<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_117'>117</span>There is nothing morbid in these thoughts
of Christ dying. The Cross to the soldier
is full of sweet helpfulness, it appeals to
him with comfort.</p>
<p class='c008'>Everard Owen, in a poem which we are
allowed to reprint from <i>The Times</i>, called
'A Kind Hill to Souls in Jeopardy,' gives
us the idea of tender succour which men
see in Calvary:</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c000'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>There is a hill in England,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Green fields and a school I know,</div>
<div class='line'>Where the balls fly fast in summer,</div>
<div class='line in2'>And the whispering elm-trees grow.</div>
<div class='line in4'>A little hill, a dear hill,</div>
<div class='line in2'>And the playing-fields below.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>There is a hill in Flanders</div>
<div class='line in2'>Heaped with a thousand slain,</div>
<div class='line'>Where the shells fly night and noontide</div>
<div class='line in2'>And the ghosts that died in vain.</div>
<div class='line in4'>A little hill, a hard hill</div>
<div class='line in2'>To the souls that died in pain.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>There is a hill in Jewry,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Three crosses pierce the sky,</div>
<div class='line'>On the midmost He is dying</div>
<div class='line in2'>To save all those who die,</div>
<div class='line in4'>A little hill, a kind hill</div>
<div class='line in2'>To souls in jeopardy.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class='c007'><span class='pageno' id='Page_118'>118</span>What will the Church do with the men
when the God of Battles gives the remnant
back to us? We shall have to make room
for them. They will want a simple and
strong religion. Something to call forth
and use the heroic in them. They will
not stay in the Church if there is 'nothing
doing,' for they are intensely practical.</p>
<p class='c008'>To recapitulate. The war has shown
the political unimportance of the Churches
in Europe. The Will of God was not
expressed clearly enough or sufficiently
by them to prevent the war. The World
was stronger than the Church and imposed
its will upon the Church.</p>
<p class='c008'>Now that we are at war, the Churches
are still divided in their witness for
righteousness. Even the Church, which,
beyond all others, calls itself Catholic, is
not catholic in the sense of unity, for it
speaks with different voices in Austria,
Belgium, Germany, and France. The
Church which calls itself Orthodox has
failed to give the people a lead in Russia.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_119'>119</span>With us the lack of unity in the Christian
Church has weakened its testimony in the
nation and marred its work in the Army.
Once more, therefore, in the history of the
world, the King of Righteousness, who is
also the Prince of Peace, is recalled in
human life as the God of Battles.</p>
<p class='c008'>Still, He will make the wrath of men to
serve Him, and He will gird the soldier
to execute His purposes, unconsciously, it
may be, as He girded and used Cyrus the
Persian: 'I girded thee, though thou
hast not known Me' (Isa. xlv. 5). In
spite of the failure of the Churches, He is
setting up His kingdom of Brotherhood and
righteousness in the earth.</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c000'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;</div>
<div class='line'>He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;</div>
<div class='line'>He hath loosed the fatal lightning of His terrible swift sword:</div>
<div class='line in10'>His truth is marching on.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_120'>120</span>He hath sounded out the trumpet that shall never call retreat;</div>
<div class='line'>He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgement-seat;</div>
<div class='line'>Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him, be jubilant, my feet;</div>
<div class='line in10'>Our God is marching on.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>I have seen Him in the watchfires of a hundred circling camps;</div>
<div class='line'>They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;</div>
<div class='line'>I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps;</div>
<div class='line in10'>His day is marching on.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,</div>
<div class='line'>With a glory in His bosom which transfigures you and me.</div>
<div class='line'>As He died to make men holy, let us live to make men free,</div>
<div class='line in10'>While God is marching on.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_121'>121</span>
<h2 class='c006'>VII<br/> <br/>THE CHIMNEY-POTS OF LONDON</h2></div>
<div class='lg-container-b c000'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_122'>122</span>I will not cease from mental fight</div>
<div class='line in2'>Or let the sword sleep in my hand,</div>
<div class='line'>Till we have built Jerusalem</div>
<div class='line in2'>In England's green and pleasant land.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<div class='c014'><span class='sc'>Blake.</span></div>
<div>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_123'>123</span>
<h3 class='c002'>VII<br/> <br/>THE CHIMNEY-POTS OF LONDON</h3></div>
<p class='c007'>There is some very fine architecture in
London, and buildings which reveal some
of the finest workmanship in the world,
for the London craftsmen are famous.</p>
<p class='c008'>But all this is crowned with the craziest
collection of chimney-pots.</p>
<p class='c008'>Sometimes the brickwork of the chimneys
is built from one angle to another above
the roof; like a zigzag, and then surmounted
on the same building with
chimney-pots of different designs and
heights, pointing, too, in different directions,
and again capped with many weird contrivances
to make them <i>draw</i>. They are
certainly <i>out of drawing</i>, as any artist will
confess.</p>
<p class='c008'>There are machines that whirl in the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_124'>124</span>wind and by their mad circling withdraw
the smoke, and there are <i>cowls</i> that move
with the wind, swinging in such a direction
that the wind cannot blow down the
chimney. There are <i>hoods</i>, and tin monstrosities
that rear their ugliness over
palaces, and there are chimneys that have
been built up so much higher than the
original ending, that in their fresh start
to the sky they spoil the sky view as well
as the contour of the building. There are
beautiful chimneys, which begin well, but
have to be assisted to do their work by
horrible tin extensions soaring into the air.</p>
<p class='c008'>These hideous makeshifts disfigure the
dwellings of the rich and the poor alike
with a deadly equality of utility unrelieved
by any beauty. To see it all
stretching out beneath you from the
Monument fills you with disappointment
at the wretched discord. I believe there
are experts in chimneys in London, men
who <i>doctor</i> them. If one could be found
with an artistic soul, who could make them
<span class='pageno' id='Page_125'>125</span>beautiful, he would deserve well of his
country.</p>
<p class='c008'>But it would never do to take all these
ugly things down, for uniformity and even
beauty may cost too much. A house full
of smoke would, added to the London fog,
be intolerable. 'Handsome is as handsome
does.'</p>
<p class='c008'>The housewife says 'Ours is a beautiful
chimney. It draws so well.' When you
sit by the bright fire on a winter's night,
you do not think of the ugly chimney
aloft except as a plain-featured but dear
friend.</p>
<p class='c008'>But, for all that, these chimney-pots of
London are a sad commentary on our
human nature. Our architecture and
building goes wrong just where it comes
into contact with rough nature, with its
treacherous tempest and veering winds.
The architect plans a beautiful Gothic
mansion and everything goes right. It is
a dream, a vision of harmony, until he
comes to the chimneys—then brief and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_126'>126</span>tragic experience demands a distorted
chimney or a tin contrivance, and the plan
is spoiled.</p>
<p class='c008'>So we build our lives up to a point. It
is to be a Gothic career for the noble son.
What Eton, Harrow, Rugby, Oxford, or
Cambridge can do for him is done. The
Church, the Army—Society (with a big
'S') lend a hand, and he is turned out
true to sample—the right accent, the right
dress, the right manner. But, alas! when
he comes into contact with the intricate
promptings of nature and the subtle temptings
of the world, some strain, inherited
from the days of the Conqueror, makes him
wobble. He marries the wrong woman,
or doesn't marry her at all, misses the bus,
or catches the wrong one. His career is
altogether different from plan and specification,
and yet he may be quite a good sort!</p>
<p class='c008'>Here is another case. We set out to
build a really artistic life. She, the
favoured creature, is nurtured amid culture
and reared in the atmosphere of poetry.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_127'>127</span>Listening to smart conversation in epigram
and lightning-sketch style, she goes
out into the world without a practical
notion; and because these things 'require
money,' drifts into a business-like marriage
with an unpoetic person, who makes glue
or blue. Settles down—a Queen Anne
villa with Mary Ann chimneys.</p>
<p class='c008'>These are mild cases. How few of us
live up to our fond parents' hopes and
prayers! How many of us end far otherwise
than our education, advantages, and
associations seemed to promise. We have
power of choice, we are not made uniform,
and we do wobble a lot when we are
turned loose among the currents and storms
of life.</p>
<p class='c008'>We overseas Britons are apt to expect
too much of dear old London.</p>
<p class='c008'>At first we are foolish enough to think
that this mighty capital of our far-flung
Empire should be an epitome of all our
British virtues. Coming to the fountainhead,
we expect the water to be pure.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_128'>128</span>We soon learn that it is not a fountainhead
of anything. It is a great bay of
human life and action into which a thousand
rivers, of different quality and force,
empty themselves.</p>
<p class='c008'>London is a magnified expression of the
life of the whole Empire. The currents
which we on the frontiers of the Empire
set going all come pulsing towards this
mighty mother of cities; but with the
boundless generosity of a mother of nations,
mature but still vigorous, she receives this
inflowing life and sends it back again in
responsive floods to the end of the earth.</p>
<p class='c008'>The jaundiced critic treads this mighty
city with the blinded eyes of ignorance,
and seeing faults and sins, identifies her as
'Babylon the Great, Mother of Harlots';
but to those who look for goodness, London
suggests the city of which it is written:
'And the nations of them which are saved
shall walk in the light of it; and the
kings of the earth do bring their glory and
honour into it.'</p>
<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_129'>129</span>Let us not hide the truth from ourselves.
These chimney-pots of London, for all their
ugliness, mean a lot of kindly comfort.
They draw well, they are comfortable to
live with.</p>
<p class='c008'>You may find the worst in London,
but you will always find the best also.</p>
<p class='c008'>There is a warm sympathy for sorrow,
a motherly helpfulness in need, a maternal
solicitude for the welfare of the humblest,
which stretches down from the throne, and
is reflected in the kindness of the poor
towards each other. No good movement
will ever lack support here, and no
stauncher friend to freedom is planted
four-square upon this earth than the
City of London, which so gallantly fought
for its own freedom and so jealously guards
it still.</p>
<p class='c008'>If all these classic characters planned
by fond parents had materialized right up
to the very chimney-pots, they would
probably have been less companionable
and kindly. Purity of style does not
<span class='pageno' id='Page_130'>130</span>always mean domestic harmony. Go into
these houses with the distorted chimneys,
and you will often find them 'all beautiful
within,' carrying an atmosphere of
peace and well-being which is refreshing
to the soul. Think, too, of how many of
them have been turned into hospitals for
our wounded soldiers, and of others which
dispense a hospitality to the men from overseas
which helps them to forget or at least
to bear their exile.</p>
<p class='c008'>It is unreasonable to expect the discourse
and decisions of the great mother of Parliaments
to match the classic purity of the
building in which it meets. Its members
are men, swayed by many winds of interest
and influence, and if they wobble a bit
it is only natural. We youngsters would
settle the Irish Question and the problem
of the Drink Traffic monopoly very
quickly! We would fix up the Suffrage
for them and bring everything up-to-date
very soon! We would indeed—until we
get the over-sea mail and are reminded of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_131'>131</span>our own lesser problems unsolved and see
our own wobbling. If we have nicer
chimneys it is because our climate is more
kindly; and if life seems easier with us it
is because we are so young. We did not
have so much hoary feudalism to dig up;
neither, however, have we such golden
traditions and such a storied history. Our
life is free, but is it so full?</p>
<p class='c008'>Let us be very charitable to the homely
chimney-pots of London. We have poured
out our treasure and blood for the Empire
in this great war gladly, but this one city
has sent over a million of her sons to fight
and given readily scores of millions of her
wealth without a murmur, and is still
giving out, giving out, without stint. It
is the most heroic, adventurous city in the
world, where men use big maps, think in
millions, and build nationhood not for
to-day only but for the centuries to come.</p>
<p class='c008'>To speak of lesser things, where is there
a more orderly, a more good-tempered
crowd than the crowd of London? Paris
<span class='pageno' id='Page_132'>132</span>has its gay beauty, Edinburgh its classic
lines; but here they have dug parks out
of the quarries of bricks and mortar. The
trees, squares, little green patches, breathing-spaces,
unexpected quiet nooks—all these
are a surprise to us because they have
cost so much, and they represent a city
of ideals which embrace the past as well
as the future.</p>
<p class='c008'>Later on, when we are older and wiser,
you will call us to your council-chambers.
And we shall bring something with us of
the freedom of the large spaces, some
vaulting ambitions from new countries
where life is a young man's adventure,
some clearness of vision brought from the
solitary places.</p>
<p class='c008'>We shall bring Home some of the
sweeping perspective of a land of magnificent
distances. Freighted, too, we shall
be with that love for England which only
those can feel who have left her shores
behind to strike the long trail of Empire.
But we can never bring back such gifts
<span class='pageno' id='Page_133'>133</span>to the mother county as she first dowered
us with when she sent us out to the great
new lands with a love for freedom which
she nourished through the centuries with
her own blood.</p>
<p class='c008'>Ah, London of the crazy chimney-pots!
what we like about you specially is your
marvellous courage. London afraid,
shrinking, timorous! Only madmen would
think it! How you wrestled with your
mighty problems!--problems of transport
(you plant mighty railway systems in your
heart, and dig ways underground for your
people), and problems of administration
greater than those of many nations!</p>
<p class='c008'>But your courage is still challenged.
You will not fail us, Great Mother of Cities!
We look to you for a lead. You <i>are</i> going
to root out your slum public-houses. You
<i>are</i> going to do more for the housing of
your people. And in the larger sphere
of the politics of the world you are still
going to hold aloft the banner of freedom
and righteousness. Send out your life-blood
<span class='pageno' id='Page_134'>134</span>of brave endeavour, and we shall
feel every heart-beat and respond to it,
away under the Southern Cross, and
wherever the Union Jack flies or English
is spoken.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_135'>135</span>
<h2 class='c006'>VIII<br/> <br/>HORSEFERRY ROAD</h2></div>
<div class='lg-container-b c000'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in6'><span class='pageno' id='Page_136'>136</span>Hail to the brave!</div>
<div class='line in6'>Who, going, come no more;</div>
<div class='line'>Th' imperious call broke on their slumb'ring souls,</div>
<div class='line'>And woke to action all their manhood strong,</div>
<div class='line'>And bade them go, that Right might conquer wrong.</div>
<div class='line in6'>Hail to the brave!</div>
<div class='line in6'>Who, going, come no more.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in6'>Hail to the brave!</div>
<div class='line in6'>Who going, come again,</div>
<div class='line'>Though our poor vision may not see their form;</div>
<div class='line'>Yet in the silent hour, when thought seems deep,</div>
<div class='line'>We hail them near, and holy vigil keep</div>
<div class='line in6'>With all the brave,</div>
<div class='line in6'>Who going, come again.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<div class='c014'><span class='sc'>J. Williams Butcher.</span></div>
<div>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_137'>137</span>
<h3 class='c002'>VIII<br/> <br/>HORSEFERRY ROAD</h3></div>
<p class='c007'>When the great war is over there are
some places which will live in the minds
of the Australians. Mena and the desert
around the Pyramids has become a part
of the perspective of many Australian
lives. It is stamped there by many a
long route march, and the training of the
Australian Forces there is a page in the
annals of the history of Egypt, which
includes so much that is military, most
noteworthy being the assembling, training,
and fighting of Napoleon's Army at the
same place. We had our Battle of the
Pyramids, strenuous enough if only a
sham battle.</p>
<p class='c008'>Heliopolis, with its old associations—the
City of the Sun in the days of Joseph
<span class='pageno' id='Page_138'>138</span>and the place of his marriage, was the
centre for our New Zealand troops and also
for many of our Australian units. Particularly
will it be remembered by the
thousands of sick and wounded who came
there to our great No. 1 Australian General
Hospital, which occupied the largest hotel
in the world, the Heliopolis Palace. The
classic island of Lemnos, both before our
landing at Gallipoli and after our evacuation,
loomed large in our life. Salisbury
Plain with its ancient towns and its
Druidical remains at Stonehenge also comes
into the picture.</p>
<p class='c008'>But Horseferry Road has its special place
in our records. Thousands of Australians,
on business bent, visit Head Quarters there,
and the number who report there on duty
or leave every week never falls below four
figures. They see that it is a college, and
that the officers are working in libraries
surrounded by memorial busts and bronzes
of old Masters, Tutors, and Scholars. They
see hundreds of clerks working in lecture-halls,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_139'>139</span>class-rooms, or College Chapel. It
will be interesting for them to know that
Horseferry Road is worthy of coming into
the historic perspective of the Australian
Army.</p>
<p class='c008'>To begin with, it is probably the oldest
road in England, certainly older than
Watling Street. The Archbishop's horse
ferry began when his Grace was more
powerful than any of the several kings in
England, and brought the traffic from
one side of the Thames to the other before
bridges were thought of. The Horseferry
Road carried this ancient traffic, and was
laid out by use, very much the same as
Parramatta Road followed the tracks of
the bullock teams along the ridge leading
from Sydney to Parramatta—and thus
became in a casual way the first road in
the history of the new nation under the
Southern Cross.</p>
<p class='c008'>The ancient Archbishop never could in
his wildest dreams foreshadow the time
when hosts of British soldiers from the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_140'>140</span>other side of the world would march along
his narrow horse ferry road.</p>
<p class='c008'>The building occupied by our Head
Quarters is the Westminster Training College
for teachers, whose principal is Dr.
Workman, a leading scholar of England,
and one of the first authorities on Mediaeval
History. It was first thought of taking the
College for an officers' training depot, but
the War Office ultimately handed it over
to the Australian Commonwealth.</p>
<p class='c008'>The Australian Imperial Force but continues
the war record of this great college.
Of its 800 or more pre-war students who
have attested, 735 are on active service: 47
have been killed in action, 23 wounded, 7
reported missing, and 3 are prisoners of
war. It has contributed 97 commissioned
officers and 218 non-commissioned officers to
the army. The men of this college have
obtained many distinctions in the field.
Lieutenant William F. Forshaw and Lieutenant
Donald Simpson Bell have won the
V.C. The first case is well known to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_141'>141</span>Australians, for Lieutenant Forshaw won
his V.C. in the critical days of Gallipoli
by holding up Turks for forty-one hours
by throwing bombs. Captain C. H. Hill
Roberts and Captain J. W. Wood won
the Military Cross, and Lieutenant E. J.
Phillips the Distinguished Conduct Medal
and the <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Médaille Militaire</span>. Private Herbert
Brindle and Gunner W. L. Cooper, B.A.,
have won the Military Medal.</p>
<p class='c008'>This does not profess to be a complete
record of the honours won by Westminster
Training College men, but just a list dug
out of the statistics while the war continues,
to show that the Australians have
become citizens of no mean city in coming
to Horseferry Road, Westminster.</p>
<p class='c008'>Besides this <i>war work</i>, the Westminster
College has done a great deal for Britain
in sending one of its old tutors, Dr. Lowry,
to the Munition Board. He is a great
chemist, and the author of some of the
surprise packets which have been sent to
Fritz in the shape of new explosives.</p>
<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_142'>142</span>In peace, as well as war, the college,
which was founded over seventy years ago
at Horseferry Road, has gained honourable
distinction. Hedley Fitton, the
famous etcher, was one of its old pupils.
Sir James Yoxall, author and M.P., is
another old student. James Smetham,
the famous artist and letter-writer, was a
tutor here. John Scott, grandfather of
the Rev. Dr. Scott Lidgett, was the first
Principal, and was followed by Dr. Rigg,
the great educational expert and writer
on Methodism and Anglican theology.
Besides that, it is linked to Australia
by the fact that some of its old pupils
have gone to occupy honourable positions
as teachers and in some cases ministers
in the Commonwealth.</p>
<p class='c008'>At least one of our great Australian
schoolmasters, Mr. F. Chapple, M.A., B.Sc.,
Principal of the largest boys' college in
Australia, Prince Alfred College, Adelaide,
was a student and a member of the staff
here.</p>
<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_143'>143</span>One of the strange things that war does
is to bring back in khaki men from Australia,
on business to the A.I.F. Head
Quarters to find that it is their own old
college. Men from Westminster Training
College are fighting in France, Palestine,
Mesopotamia, on the Salonica front, and
some of them are in naval work; and
while this famous Alma Mater sends out
her own sons to the frontiers of the Empire,
she opens wide her hospitable portals to
receive the brawny pioneers of New Lands
away 'down under.' Thus men from back-block
townships in Australia are brought
into a sort of fellowship of service with the
English trainers of the old Horseferry
Road Training College.</p>
<p class='c008'>Our men will think kindly, too, of Horseferry
Road, because the War Chest Club,
just opposite the Head Quarters, was so
often their home. Here, under the hostess,
Mrs. Samuel, a capable group of lady
workers have dispensed thousands of hot
meals to sore-footed and war-weary
<span class='pageno' id='Page_144'>144</span>Australians on leave from France. Then there
was the quiet refuge of the Y.M.C.A.
Hostel on the other side of the road, in
the Wesleyan Central Hall, where, under
the lady superintendent, Mrs. Workman,
and her voluntary assistants, similar good
work was done.</p>
<p class='c008'>To Horseferry Road the Australian came
gladly, leaving it regretfully for war again;
and when the war is over it will be a kindly
memory. In close proximity to Westminster
Abbey and the Houses of Parliament,
where so many bonds of Empire are
forged, the old Westminster Training College
will continue to do its useful part in
Empire building.</p>
<hr class='c016' />
<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div><i>Printed by Jarrold & Sons, Ltd., Norwich, England.</i></div>
</div></div>
<p class='c017'><SPAN name='endnote'></SPAN></p>
<div class='tnotes'>
<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div><span class='large'>Transcriber’s Note:</span></div>
</div></div>
<ul class='ul_1'>
<li>Where hyphenation occurs on a line break, the decision to retain or remove is based
on occurrences elsewhere in the text.
</li>
<li>The errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and are noted
here.
</li>
<li>The numbers are references are to the page and line in the original book.
</li>
<li>Errors in punctuation and quotes have been silently restored.
</li>
</ul>
<table class='table2' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='16%' />
<col width='27%' />
<col width='56%' />
</colgroup>
<tr>
<th class='c018'>Reference</th>
<th class='c011'>correction</th>
<th class='c015'>original text</th>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c018'><SPAN name='c_22.26'></SPAN><SPAN href='#corr22.26'>22.26</SPAN></td>
<td class='c011'>tin-hat</td>
<td class='c015'>I pull my tin hat firmly down</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c018'><SPAN name='c_32.6'></SPAN><SPAN href='#corr32.6'>32.6</SPAN> </td>
<td class='c011'>field-guns</td>
<td class='c015'>a battery of field guns</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c018'><SPAN name='c_33.18'></SPAN><SPAN href='#corr33.18'>33.18</SPAN></td>
<td class='c011'>depot</td>
<td class='c015'>bombs for some dépot</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c018'><SPAN name='c_37.16'></SPAN><SPAN href='#corr37.16'>37.16</SPAN></td>
<td class='c011'>gunfire</td>
<td class='c015'>demolished by gun-fire</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c018'><SPAN name='c_77.5'></SPAN><SPAN href='#corr77.5'>77.5</SPAN> </td>
<td class='c011'>Zeppelins</td>
<td class='c015'>Bomb their Zeppelyns,</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c018'><SPAN name='c_81.20'></SPAN><SPAN href='#corr81.20'>81.20</SPAN></td>
<td class='c011'>process</td>
<td class='c015'>world in prosess of reconstruction</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c018'><SPAN name='c_83.8'></SPAN><SPAN href='#corr83.8'>83.8</SPAN> </td>
<td class='c011'>Bazaars</td>
<td class='c015'>Bazars of the Monsky</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c018'><SPAN name='c_86.3'></SPAN><SPAN href='#corr86.3'>86.3</SPAN> </td>
<td class='c011'>battleships</td>
<td class='c015'>battle-ships of a mighty</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c018'><SPAN name='c_86.10'></SPAN><SPAN href='#corr86.10'>86.10</SPAN></td>
<td class='c011'>Minnewaska</td>
<td class='c015'>the Minniwaska is something</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c018'><SPAN name='c_99.16'></SPAN><SPAN href='#corr99.16'>99.16</SPAN></td>
<td class='c011'>by the</td>
<td class='c015'>by Austrian Emperor</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c018'><SPAN name='c_116.1'></SPAN><SPAN href='#corr116.1'>116.1</SPAN> </td>
<td class='c011'>chaplain</td>
<td class='c015'>at Étaples, a chaplaín said</td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
</table></div>
<SPAN name="endofbook"></SPAN>
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