A "Temporary Gentleman" in France

BLIGHTY BLIGHTY This is to be evacuation day. A dozen officers and nearly a hundred other ranks are to leave this place to-day for one or other of the bases. The life of a permanent official in one of these Clearing Stations must be curious, handling as he does a never-ending stream of the flotsam and jetsam of the great war. The war knocks chips off us, and as we are broken we stream in through the hospitable portals of this beautifully organised and managed place; are put in plaster of Paris, so to say, and off we go again to another place to be further doctored; the more newly chipped arriving by one gate, as we go trickling out by another. And this process is continuous. Along the British front alone a score or more of men are bowled over every hour. In a place like this the process is brought home to one. So, too, is the ordered precision and efficacy of the system of dealing with the wreckage. It is wonderfully methodical and well thought out. And over all, as I told you before, broods the spirit of benevolent reticence, which makes one feel a little like a registered parcel entrusted to a particularly efficient postal service. "When are we going?" Benevolent smile. "Presently; presently." "What base are we going to?" Benevolent smile. "You'll see by and by." "About how long shall we be on the journey?" Benevolent smile. "Oh! you'll be made quite comfortable on the journey. Don't worry about that." "Well, I'm very much better this morning, don't you think?" Benevolent smile. "Do you think I shall be able to sit up in a day or two?" Benevolent smile. "We shall see." So it is always. I dare say the thirst of patients for information often becomes very trying to the authorities. But they never in any circumstances show any impatience. They never omit the benevolent smile. And they never, never, for one instant, relax the policy of benevolent reticence; never. The man next to me is very keen about his temperature; it is, I believe, the chief symptom of his particular trouble. But the bland familiar smile is all the reply he can ever get to his most crafty efforts to ascertain if it is higher or lower. I haven't the slightest doubt it is all part of a carefully devised policy making for our benefit; but I wouldn't mind betting the man in the next bed sends his temperature up by means of his quite fruitless efforts to ascertain that it has gone down. Later. Here's another strange handwriting for you. The present writer is Lieut. R——, whose left arm has had a lot more shrap. through it than my right got, and who has kindly lent me the services of his right. My left-handed writing is still, as you will have noted, a bit too suggestive of a cryptogram in Chinese. We are lying opposite one another in very comfortable bunks in the Red Cross train, making from —— to a base, we don't yet know which. There are nearly 500 "evacuation cases" on board this train. Its progress is leisurely, but I believe we are to reach our destination round about breakfast time to-morrow. We found books and magazines in the train when we came on board. That's a kindly thought, isn't it? They bear the stamp of the Camps Library. The doctors and nurses get round among us on the train just as freely as in hospital. The whole thing is a triumph of good management. While we were lying in our stretchers waiting for the train, having arrived at the station in motor ambulances from the Clearing Station, we saw miles of trains pass laden with every conceivable sort of thing for the French firing line; from troops to tin-tacks; a sort of departmental store on wheels; an unending cinematograph film, which took over an hour to roll past us, and showed no sign of ending then. All the French troops, with their cigarettes and their chocolate, had kindly, jovial greetings for the stretchered rows of our chaps as we lay in our blankets on the platform waiting for our train, especially the jolly, rollicking Zouaves. Good luck, and a pleasant rest; quick recovery, and—as I understand it—return to the making of glory, they wished us, and all with an obviously comradely sincerity and play of facial expression, hands and shoulders, which made nothing of difference of language. And our chaps, much more clumsily, but with equal goodwill, did their level best to respond. I think the spirit of their replies was understood. Yes, I feel sure of that. The war's a devastating business, no doubt; but it has introduced a spirit of comradeship between French and English such as peace could never give. Next morning. You will forgive the left-handedness of the writing, won't you? My friend opposite has had a good deal of pain during the night, and I cannot ask him to write for me now. It was a strange night, and I don't think I'll ever forget it, though there's really nothing to tell; "Nothing to write home about," as the men say. I didn't sleep much, but I had quite a comfortable night, all the same, and plenty to think about. When the train lay still between stations, as it sometimes did, I could hear snatches of talk from different parts of the train itself—doctors, nurses, orderlies, patients, railway officials, and so on. Then perhaps another train would rumble along and halt near us, and there would be talk between people of the two trains: French, English, and the queer jumble of a patois that the coming together of the twain in war has evolved. Also, there was the English which remains English, its speaker not having a word of any other tongue, but which yet, on the face of it, somehow, tells one it is addressed to someone who must understand it from its tone or not at all. "Oh, that's it, is it? Cigarettes? You bet. Here, catch, old chap! Bong, très bong Woodbine. What ho! Same to you, old chap, an' many of 'em. Yes, yes; we'll soon be back again, an' then we'll give the blighters what for, eh? Chocolate, eh? Oh, mercy, mercy! No, no; no more; we got plenty grub; much pang, savvy. You're a brick, you are. You bong, très bong; compree? Hallo! Off again! Well, so long, old sport! Good luck! Bong charnce! See ye 'gain some time! Bong sworr!" There's a poor chap in the bunk under mine who's been delirious most of the night. He looks such a child. A second lieutenant of the ——s; badly shaken up in a mine explosion, and bombed afterwards. The M.O. says he'll get through all right. He's for Blighty, no doubt. Odd, isn't it? This time to-morrow he may be in England, or mighty near it. England—what an extraordinary long way off it seems to me. There have been some happenings in my life since I was in England; and as for the chap I was before the war, upon my word, I can hardly remember the fellow. Pretty sloppy, wasn't he? Seems to me I must have been a good deal of a slacker; hadn't had much to do with real things then. We know at last where we're bound for; in fact, we're there. The train has been backing and filling through the streets of the outskirts of Havre for the last half-hour or more. But last evening, when I was writing, we could only ascertain that we were going to ——. Benevolent smiles, you know. It's frightfully interesting to see the streets. I see them through the little narrow flap at the top of my window that's meant to open. It seems quite odd to see women walking to and fro; and row after row of roofs and windows, all unbroken. No signs of shell-shock here. But on the other side of the train, nearest the harbour, one sees acres and acres of war material; I mean really acres and acres of rations, barbed wire, stores of all kinds. There's a sort of bustle going on in the train. I think we must be near the end, so I'll put my notebook away. 10.45 A.M. We are in what they call the Officers' Huts, on some quay or another. It's a miniature hospital or clearing station, built of wood, and very nicely fitted up. Sitting-room at one end, then beds, and then baths and cooking-place and offices; all bright and shining and beautifully clean, with Red Cross nurses, doctors, orderlies, and no end of benevolent smiles. They've taken our temperatures and fixed us up very comfortably, and somebody's started a gramophone, and I've just had a cup of the glutinous, milky stuff I used to hate, you remember. I don't hate such things nowadays; not really, you know; but I pretend I don't care much about 'em for the sake of the virtuous glow it gives to take 'em. Everyone has asked everyone else where we are going next, and everyone has been given benevolent smiles and subsided into a Camps Library magazine or book. The sitting-up cases are pottering about in the sitting-room, where there are basket chairs and the gramophone. I can see them through the open door. The nurses have fixed jolly little curtains and things about, so that the place looks very homely. I gather it's a sort of rest-house, or waiting-place, where cases can be put, and stay put, till arrangements have been made for their admission into the big hospitals, or wherever they are to go. We have all been separately examined by the Medical Officer. My arm is so much better, I think it must be practically well. I don't know about the leg. I asked the M.O.—an awfully decent chap—to try to arrange things for me so that I should not be cut adrift from my own Battalion, and he said he thought that would be all right. 3.30 P.M. I'm for Blighty. The M.O. came and sat on my bed just now and told me. He certainly is a decent chap. He said the Medical Board had no hesitation at all about my case, and that I was to cross to England to-night. But he said I need not worry about my Battalion. He was awfully good about it; and he's giving me a letter to a brother of his in London. He thinks I shall be able to get back to my own Battalion all right, and he thinks I shall be ready for duty much quicker by going right through to Blighty than by waiting here. But what do you think of it? Fancy going to Blighty; and to-night, mind you! I'd never dreamt of it. And what about poor old "A" Company? It's a queer feeling. We've all been sorted out now; the goats from the sheep. I suppose it's a case of the worst-chipped crockery for Blighty, and the rest for tinkering here. But I can't help thinking a week, or two, at the outside, will put me right.... Here come Army Forms to be signed. 9.30 P.M. In bed on board the Red Cross ship. All spotless white enamel and electric light, and spotlessly-aproned nurses, just as in hospital. I've just been dressed for the night; clean bandages and everything comfortable. From the last benevolent smile I elicited I shouldn't be surprised if we weighed anchor round about midnight; but I may be quite wrong. Anyhow, I feel remarkably comfortable. I think there must have been something specially comforting in the medicine I had when my bandages were changed. I shall sleep like a top. I don't think I've quite got the hang yet of the fact that I am actually bound for Blighty. But there it is; I'm on the ship, and I suppose it's on the cards I may see you before this scribble of mine can reach you by post. In which case, it seems rather waste of time writing at all, doesn't it? I think I'll go to sleep. I haven't slept since the night before last. That boy I told you of who was bombed, after being in a mine explosion, is sleeping like an infant in the next cot but one to mine. Nice-looking chap. I'm glad he's sleeping; and I bet somebody will be glad to see him in Blighty to-morrow. To-morrow! Just fancy that! Next day. To-day's the day. When I woke this morning I had glimpses, as the ship rose and fell, of a green shore showing through the portholes on the far side of the deck. That was the Isle of Wight. Had a magnificent sleep all night; only opened my eyes two or three times. We were rather a long time getting in. Then came Medical Officers of the Home Service; and with surprisingly few benevolent smiles—not that they lack benevolence, at all—I learned that I was for London. It hardly seemed worth while to write any more, and I could not get off the ship to send a wire. Now I am in a Red Cross division of an express train bound for Waterloo. I'll send you a wire from there when I know what hospital I am for. Shan't know that till we reach Waterloo. Meantime—that's Winchester we've just passed. Old England looks just the same. There is a little snow lying on the high ground round Winchester. It looks the same—yes, in a way; and in another way it never will look just the same again to me. Never just the same, I think. It will always mean a jolly lot more to me than it ever did before. Perhaps I'll be able to tell you about that when we meet. I find I can't write it. Queer thing, isn't it, that just seeing these fields from the windows of a train should bring the water to one's eyes? Very queer! One kind of sees it all through a picture of the trenches, you know. "The Old Peacemaker" didn't tell me, but I know now that nearly half "A" Company are casualties; and there's a good many "gone West." Poor Taffy's gone. Such a clever lad, Taffy. My Platoon won't be quite the same again, will it? Platoon Sergeant, one other Sergeant, two Corporals, and a lot of men gone. We were in front, you see. Oh! I know there's nothing to grieve about, really. Petticoat Lane's behind our front now, thank goodness. That'll save many a good man from "going West" between now and the end of the war. I'm not grieving, but it makes a difference, just as England is different. Everything must be different now. It can't be the same again, ever, after one's been in the trenches. If Germany wants to boast, she can boast that she's altered the world for us. She certainly has. It can never be the same again. But I think it will be found, by and by, she has altered it in a way she never meant. Of course, I don't know anything much about it; just the little bit in one's own Brigade, you know. But it does seem to me, from the little I've seen, that where Germany meant to break us, she has made us infinitely stronger than we were before. Look at our fellows! Each one is three times the man he was before the war. The words "fighting for England" had next to no meaning for me before August, 1914. But now! that's why these fields look different, why England can never again look the same to me as it did before. I know now that this England is part of me, or I'm part of it. I know the meaning of England, and I swear I never did before. Why, you know, the very earth of it—well, when I think how the Boche has torn and ravaged all before him over there, and then think of our England, of what the Hun would do here, if he got half a chance.... It's as though England were one's mother, and some swine were to—— But it's no good. I can't write about it. I'll try to tell you. But, do you know, it wasn't till I saw these fields that the notion came over me that I'm sort of proud and glad to have these blessed wounds; glad to have been knocked about a bit. I wonder whether you and Mother will be glad, too; I somehow think you will—for your " Temporary Gentleman. " THE END A Selection from the Catalogue of G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS Complete Catalogues sent on application FIRST CALL GUIDE POSTS TO BERLIN BY ARTHUR GUY EMPEY Author of "OVER THE TOP" 12°. Illustrated. $1.50 (By mail, $1.65) In the amazingly vivid and simple way that has made Over the Top the most widely read and talked of book in America, and the most successful war book in all history, Empey tells the new soldiers What they want to know What they ought to know What they'll have to know and what their parents, sweethearts, wives, and all Americans, will want to know, and can do to help. A practical book by an American who has been through it all. The chapters headed "Smokes" and "Thank God the Stretcher Bearers" will stand among the war classics. Here is advice, here are suggestions, overlooked in other books, that will safeguard our boys in France. G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS New York London IT IS THE REAL STUFF OVER THE TOP BY AN AMERICAN SOLDIER WHO WENT ARTHUR GUY EMPEY MACHINE GUNNER, SERVING IN FRANCE AUTHOR OF " FIRST CALL " For a year and a half, until he fell wounded in No Man's Land, this American soldier saw more actual fighting and real warfare than any war correspondent who has written about the war. His experiences are grim, but they are thrilling and lightened by a touch of humor as original as the Soldiers Three. And they are true. 12°. 16 Illustrations and Diagrams. $1.50 net. By mail, $1.65 TOGETHER WITH TOMMY'S DICTIONARY OF THE TRENCHES " Over The Top with the Best of Luck and Give Them Hell! " The British Soldier's War Cry, as he goes over the top of the trench to the charge By Bruce Bairnsfather " A War Lord of Laughter. "— The Literary Digest. Fragments from France Author of "Bullets & Billets" 8°. 143 Plates. 15 Small Illustrations $1.75 net. By mail, $1.90 Captain Bruce Bairnsfather's sketches set all England chuckling, when they first appeared in the Bystander , and they have met with as hearty a welcome by Americans who have had the luck to see them. Greatest of all commendation, German prisoners have been known to become hilarious over these indescribable pictures of life in the trenches, and war-fed "Tommys" roar over them. Now, with their amusing captions, they have been gathered into one volume. These pictures have won in England for the author the title "The man who made the Empire laugh," and caused the Literary Digest to refer to him as "A War Lord of Laughter." They are all war pictures, but calculated to take a deal of the bitterness out of war. Bullets & Billets By Bruce Bairnsfather Author of "Fragments from France" 12°. 18 Full-page and 23 Text Illustrations. $1.50 By mail, $1.60 "'Bill,' 'Bert,' and 'Alf' have turned up again. Captain Bairnsfather has written a book—a rollicking and yet serious book—about himself and them, describing the joys and sorrows of his first six months in the trenches. His writing is like his drawing. It suggests a masculine, reckless, devil-may-care character and a workmanlike soldier. Throughout the book he is as cheerful as a schoolboy in a disagreeable football match."— London Evening News. G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS New York London Transcriber's note: Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Other errors are noted below. - Changed typo on pg. 2: "out" > "our" ("with out regimental hound pacing in front") - Removed extraneous comma pg. 23 ("opposite, our Battalion Headquarters.") Ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained. Word combinations that appeared with and without hyphens were changed to the predominant form if it could be determined, or to the hyphenated form if it could not. *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A "TEMPORARY GENTLEMAN" IN FRANCE *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. 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