• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 1861 0

then Director of Military Operations at the War Office, overheard an interesting conversation in the dining car. Lloyd George, Mr Asquith and Sir Edward Grey were discussing the replacement of Sir John French as Commander-in-Chief of the British Armies in France. They made no effort to lower their voices and since a short train of only two coaches makes less noise than a long one, their words were plainly heard.

Major-General C. E. Callwell, KCB.

The Big Three sat together at one table, whilst we lesser fry congregated close at hand at others. They may perhaps have been somewhat stimulated by draughts of sparkling vintage! But, be that as it may, the Prime Minister and the Minister of Munitions were in their most expansive mood, and after a time their conversation was followed by the rest of us with considerable interest. To the sailors present, also to one or two of the junior officers, it was probably news – and it must surely have been news to the waiters – to learn that Sir John French was shortly to vacate command of the BEF in France. Nor could we be other than gratified at the discussions concerning Sir Douglas Haig’s qualifications as a successor. I was expecting every moment to hear Sir William Robertson’s suitability for the post freely canvassed – he was sitting back-to-back with the Munitions Minister. Cabinet Ministers certainly are quaint people.

But Haig seemed the obvious candidate for the job of Commander-in-Chief, and there was little doubt on whom the final choice would fall.

Jock Macleod celebrated his twenty-first birthday in style. After a better-than-usual dinner in the mess, supplemented by a birthday cake from home, the officers drank his health in port wine laid down by his godfather in the year of his birth, and which he had brought back after his last leave with this occasion in mind. It was the eve of the 27th Division’s departure for an unknown destination and early next morning the Battalion marched off to entrain. It was a long, slow journey. Mail was collected along the way to be censored and dispatched at the first opportunity, and Jock was able to post a letter home.

I am now using a new pony.

Nothing seems to do any good

to my old pony, which still

remains lame in spite of

all bandages. The pony that

I now have belonged to our origi-

nal padre, who has left us

for the Base Camp at Havre.

On the completion of his year he

returns to his parish. He had

merely six weeks to do until then,

and so the authorities decided to

retain him in France. It did not

seem worthwhile to

employ him with us, and then

immediately send him back.

Last night we had a

long rumour that a Bulgarian gen-

eral had been assassinated.

Sorry that I have no news!

Yours Aye,

Jock.

The censor passed it without comment for its contents were of no importance. But it was of considerable interest to his family, for it was written in a clever code, prearranged with Jock’s father. Added together, the first letters of each line spelt out the news he wished to impart: I-N T-R-A-I-N F-O-R M-A-R-S-E-I-L-L-E-S.

He had no idea where the 27th Division was ultimately bound for. Neither had anyone else. The 27th Division had been sent off ‘without prejudice to its final destination’. But they were only too thankful to kick the mud of Flanders from their feet and nobody gave a hoot where they were going.

Part 8

The Dying of the Year

Colonel Cold strode up the Line

(Tabs of rime and spurs of ice),

Stiffened all where he did glare,

Horses, men, and lice

Visited a forward post,

Left them burning, ear to foot,

Fingers stuck to biting steel,

Toes to frozen boot.

Those who watched with hoary eyes

Saw two figures gleaming there,

Hauptman Kälte, Colonel Cold,

Gaunt, in the grey air.

Edgell Rickword

Chapter 37

On the western front, after a spell of fine autumn weather when the sun shone through the dying days of the Loos offensive, winter set in cold and harsh and early as the troops settled into the