Every morning for a week or two I was in the little church where I had said Mass on Christmas Day, and every evening while I was there men came to confession. Then one morning the young soldier who had been so attentive to my wants, and whose name I had learned was George, came into the burlap room in a state of evident excitement and said: “We’re going back to rest, sir.”
I did not know exactly what “back to rest” really meant, but I judged from George’s sparkling eyes that it was something very good. “That’s good news,” I said. But one had to be a soldier of the line to realize what good news it really was. One must be actually in the trenches when the word comes to comprehend fully what those words “back to rest” mean.
“We’re going back to rest, chummy,” somebody says, and the word is relayed quickly down the front line trench. And tired-faced lads, many of them with faint, dark rings around their eyes, smile broadly as they stand half-crouching in the muddy trench. Onward the glad tidings go, whispered or uttered in low voices: “Out to rest, Bo; the relief’s coming in tonight at half-past ten. Hooray!” But the “hooray” does not express adequately the feelings of the speaker. It must do, however, as a loud cheer is not permitted in the front line trench.
When it is dark, the relief comes in very quietly and takes over the different posts; then, as quietly, the lads go down the support trenches till they slope up to the great wide road that seems so spacious and airy after the deep, narrow trench they have been standing in for days. On they go, past long rows of broken trees that once were majestic, full-leafed elms, then through masses of ruined buildings and broken stone walls, with here and there a small corrugated iron hut or shack, built just lately. At times, not very far away, a long yellow flash, followed by a thundering report, tells them that our heavies are at work.
Somebody begins to whistle, “There’s a long, long trail a-winding,” or “Over There,” then others catch the lilt, and in a few seconds hundreds are whistling to the swinging, sweeping thud of marching feet. When they get a little farther on their way, the whistling ceases and a song is struck up, though not too loudly. Above them are the silent stars peacefully shining. Away behind them shrapnel bursts savagely and sprinkles its death-bearing message. But that is far behind, and now they are going out—out to rest!
Perhaps they march all through the night, carrying their equipment and their heavy packs on their backs, and as the dawn comes, they notice at every cross-road a great cross, and nailed to the cross the figure of the Crucified—white, blood-streaked, the thorn-crowned head bent in the agony of suffering, the face livid with pain and misery. And many a lad under his weight looks up. He understands it all much better now than when he first came to the front. Some breathe a little prayer. They are going out to rest—but they will be coming back again!
They continue their march till the morning sunlight begins to brighten all the land and the roar of the guns has become but a faint distant rumble, then, perhaps, they sit on the roadside, or along the edge of a field, the grass of which looks so fresh and green after the rolling, shell-torn No Man’s Land they have been looking over for days, where never a blade of grass could be seen; only the grey shell-pitted earth, with here and there a line of white chalk which made one think of a white-capped, angry sea. Birds begin to sing in field and green wood, and from many field kitchens and little red fires built on the roadside comes the odor of frying bacon.
Some of the lads take off their packs and go to sleep on the roadside, their faces grey with the dust from marching feet. Much traffic goes by—khaki motor lorries, general service wagons, dispatch riders on motorcycles. Then from the distance come the strains of a military march played by a brass band that is approaching; it may be “Colonel Bogey” that they play, or “Sons of the Brave,” etc. It is the band of the battalion coming to meet the lads and play them back to rest.
When every one has eaten his bread and bacon and has finished his pint of hot tea, they fall in, feeling much refreshed. Then there is a rumble from the big drum and a rattle from the smaller ones and the inspiring music of a military march breaks on the air. The lads straighten momentarily under their packs, and there is a new swing to their tired feet. Perhaps they pass through many fields lined with tall elms. Perhaps they pass many French peasants, old and young, going to work in the fields, who smile pleasantly. They may go through a quiet little village or two till they come to a more flourishing one in which is a large chateau. Then the band, which for the last fifteen minutes has given place to a few buglers and drums, strikes up the battalion’s own march and the order comes ringing down the line, “March to attention.” Then the tired lads know that they are coming into rest billets.
The organization in “rest” is done very quickly. One battalion takes over from another, and in a very short time enamel signs are hung out of billets which tell where are the different officers and orderly rooms. If there is a curé in the village, and if it so happens that the Catholic chaplain of the brigade is quartered with the battalion that has come to rest here, a little sign hangs from the curé’s gate, bearing the words “R. C. Chaplain,” for the soldiers’ priest is nearly always billeted with the parish priest of the village; and on the church door a paper is tacked giving the hours of Mass, confession, etc.
Sometimes there is no curé in the village; perhaps he has been called to join the soldiers of France; perhaps at one time the village has been heavily shelled and he has followed his people. In this case, often it is necessary to renovate the little shell-torn church, but this is quickly done. And in the morning, after Mass has been said, a tiny lamp burns in the church which tells the soldiers that the Master has come and is calling them.
At twelve o’clock the soldiers’ work for the day, when they are out in rest, usually finishes, and they receive any papers and magazines that may have come to them from friends across the sea. These are very welcome arrivals, and so are the boxes of good things that sometimes come from home. Then, as the lads sit under trees, or in front of tents, or in low hay lofts to eat their dinner, papers are opened and those who have received boxes or parcels from home pass around candies, cake, etc., to those who have not, and so a very pleasant hour passes.
The afternoon is usually given over to games and athletic sports. If different troops happen to be quartered together in the same village the competition between the two becomes very interesting. Perhaps a baseball game is arranged between American and Canadian lads, while English lads look on, it must be admitted, with irritation. They cannot understand why one side should shout such things at the other; why they should try to rattle the pitcher. To them it seems quite abusive, and judging from their talk, they are disgusted. “Call that a gaime,” one will say, “when one side keeps on ’ollerin’ at the blighter bowlin’ that ball, so’s ’e caunt throw well?” “Call that sport?” “Call that fair ply?” “I carn’t see where the fair ply comes hin when they tike such bloomin’ hunderanded wys o’ tryin’ to win.” His mate agrees with him, and presently they move off to some other scene of amusement. Meanwhile, little French boys who have come to watch the baseball game go racing about the field, imitating some of the plays in the game which is so strange to them, and as they go sliding to some imaginary home-plate, one can hear such expressions as “Safe!” and “Hat a-boy.”
It was early in the morning when we left Chateau de la Haie, for we were not under observation and it was not necessary to move by night. We assembled on one of the squares near a long, tree-fringed avenue which was one of the approaches to the chateau. For some time before we fell in I heard from all quarters strange, unearthly noises, and in every direction I turned I saw, at quite a distance from each other, kilted figures walking up and down bearing their wide-branched bag-pipes, each one emitting the weirdest wails imaginable; they were the pipers of the Sixteenth pipe band tuning up. However, when we started off the sound was quite different, for the pipes and kettle-drums make merry marching music. I know of no other music that can make tired men march so briskly and with such a swing as that of the pipes. I had never before marched with any unit which seemed to draw such universal attention as did the Sixteenth Canadian Scottish Battalion, and I think it was owing chiefly to the strange music of the pipes and the uncommon uniform of the kilted laddies. For as we entered village after village, doors and windows began to open, and old and young and middle-aged French peasants quickly filled them, smiling their admiration as the pipers played and the soldiers marched. Little “gamins,” not content with regarding us, followed along at a trot, singing and cheering; the more enterprising among them, picking up a block of wood and an old ration sack and, tucking them under their left arm while they spread out three or four pieces of sapling or old laths, gave an imitation of our brave pipers who played so valiantly. I began to think, after all, there might be some truth in the story of the Pied Piper of Hamlin.