Notes of a Camp-Follower on the Western FrontHornung, E. W. (Ernest William)
History
Notes of a Camp-Follower on the Western Front
Hornung, E. W. (Ernest William)
World War, 1914-1918 -- Personal narratives; World War, 1914-1918 -- War work -- Young Men's Christian Associations
Nor had one to hang about hotels and restaurants, or camps or the street
corners, to see men straight from the fight or just going in, and to
take fresh heart from theirs. The chief local Y.M.C.A. was full of both
kinds, one more appealing than the other. It was perhaps the least
conscious appeal ever made to human heart; for men are proud in the day
of battle, and they are also mighty busy with their own affairs. What
pocket stores they were laying in! What sanguine reserves of tobacco and
cigarettes! That was a heartening sign. But there were no foreboding
faces that I could see. It is one of the strong points of the inner
soldier that he never thinks it is his turn; but if shell or bullet 'has
his name on it,' it will 'see him off,' as he also puts it. Some call
this fatalism. I call it Faith. It is their plain way of bowing to the
Will of God. But the only bow I saw was over the long last letters many
were writing, as though the bugle was already blowing for them, as
though they well knew what it meant. There was no looking unmoved upon
those bent backs and hurrying hands.
Nor were they the most poignant figures; it was the men who had been in
it that one could not keep one's eyes off. Those we had seen bathing in
the morning were nothing to them. They had a night's rest behind them;
these were brands still smoking from the fire. Dirty as dustmen,
red-eyed, and with the growth of all these days upon their haggard
faces, some sat at the tables, eating and drinking like men who had just
discovered their own emptiness; and many lay huddled on the floor, as on
the battle-field itself, filling the hut with its very atmosphere. To
step over them, and to sit with the men who had a mind to talk, was to
get into the red heart of the thing that was going on.
Not that they had very much to tell; all were hazy as to what had
happened; but all agreed it was the worst thing they had been through
yet, and all bore out our Sunday morning friend, that it was worse for
the enemy than for anybody else. This unanimity was remarkable;
especially if you consider, first the military history of that last ten
days in March, and secondly the fact that none of these unwounded
stalwarts was there for a normal reason. Each stood for scores or
hundreds who had gone under in the fight, or been taken prisoner. Yet it
was worse for the enemy! Yet we were going to win! I cannot swear to the
statement in those words, but it was implicit in their every utterance,
and emphatic in the things they never said. For though I brought
biscuits to many, and sat while they steeped them in their mugs and
gulped them down, not a first syllable of complaint reached my ears. On
that I would take my stand in any witness-box. And a Y.M.C.A. man knows;
they trust us, and speak their minds.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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