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Stories from the Trenches: Funny Tales the Soldiers Tell

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[146] <h2>TOMMY ATKINS, RAIN-SOAKED AND WAR-WORN STILL GRINS</h2> FREDERIC WILLIAM WILE, one of the Vigilantes, differs with Sherman in declaring that war is mud. He had just returned from what he describes as one of the periodical joy-rides which the British Foreign Office and the General Staff organize from time to time to give civilians an opportunity to visit the front. Mr. Wile’s visits occurred when the war-god was evidently taking a much-needed rest, for he says that on two occasions when he intruded upon Armageddon he saw more rain than blood spilled. But he found Tommy Atkins—mud-caked and rain-soaked—still wearing the grin that won’t come off. Mr. Wile thus writes of his last visit: I am in to-night from a day in the trenches. It rained all the time. The trenches were gluey and sticky, and the “duck-boards” along which we traveled were afloat a good share of the day. But the only people who used really strong language about having to eat, sleep, and navigate in such soggy territory was our party of civilian tenderfoots. The cave-dwellers in khaki whom we encountered in endless numbers were as happy as school-children on a picnic. Clay-spattered from head to foot, their clothes often wringing wet, they looked up from whatever happened to be their tasks and grinned as we passed. Our chief and always dominating impression was of their grins and smiles. I am firmly convinced that[147] soldiers who can laugh in such weather can not be overcome by anything, not even the Prussian military machine. Perhaps Tommy smiled more broadly than usual to-day at our expense, for during our hike from a certain quarry to a certain front line “Fritz” sent over whiz-bangs which caused us arm-chair warriors from home to duck and dodge in the most un-Napoleonic fashion, even though our gyrations were in obedience to nature’s first law—self-preservation. When you’re in a trench and a shell screeches through the heavens—you always hear it and never see it—the temptation to side-step is the last word in irresistibility. You have been provided with a steel helmet before starting out on the expedition in view of the possibility that a stray piece of German shrapnel may come your way. These helmets have saved many a gallant Tommy from sudden death. After you’ve heard a whiz-bang and find that you are still intact, you ask: “Was that a Boche or one of ours?” You experience an indefinable sense of relief when you are told that it was “one of ours,” but you keep on ducking in the same old way whenever the air is rent. Yes, it is the invincible grin of Tommy Atkins in abominable atmospheric surroundings and in the omnipresent shadow of death that has photographed itself most indelibly on my memory to-day. But next to that I am struck by his amazing good health as mirrored by his ruddy cheeks and bright eyes. Certainly the strapping young fellows whom I have seen are a vastly finer, sturdier lot, physically viewed, than any set of men now running around the streets of London in citizens’[148] clothes. It is manifestly “the life,” this endless sojourn of theirs on the edge of No Man’s Land, with the enemy a rifle-shot away. You ask their officers what explains this hygienic phenomenon—this ability to keep at the top note of “fitness” amid privations almost unimaginable. You will be told that it is the remorselessly “regular life” the men lead for one thing, and the liberal supply of fresh air, for another. Then it is the simple food they eat and the never-ending exercise they get for their legs and arms and muscles. They sleep when and where they can, in their clothes for weeks on end, never saying “How-do-you-do?” to a bath-tub sometimes for many days, though they shave each morning with religious punctuality, even in the midst of a mighty “push.” Cleanliness of physiognomy is as much a passion with Mr. Atkins as his daily ablutions are to a pious Turk. You will go far before you will find a cleaner-faced aggregation of young men than the British Army in the field. Should you have any doubt as to what the physical appearance of the men tells you, and ask an officer how Tommy is standing the strain of the war, he declares enthusiastically, “The men are simply splendid!” And you hear from the men that the officers are “top-hole.” But all that you will learn from the officers on that subject is: Regulation No. 1, when a man gets a commission in the British Army, is: “Men first, officers next.” An officer’s business, in other words, is to see that his men are well looked after. If there is any time left when he has done that, he may look after himself. But[149] Tommy comes first. That is why the relations between superior and subordinate in the mighty Citizens’ Army of Britain are perfect in the highest degree. Duke’s son and cook’s son are real pals. Class distinctions are non-existent in the England that is the trenched fields of France and Flanders. “Just so we keep on livin’—that’s all we ask,” was the sententious observations of a mud-clotted Yorkshireman who backed against the slimy wall of a trench to let us pass. We had asked him the stereotyped question—“Well, Tommy, how goes it?” His answer was unmistakably typical of the spirit which dominates the whole army. The men are not happy to be there. They long for the war to end. They do not put in their time in the slush and rain cheering and singing. They hanker for “Blighty.” They want to go home. But not until the grim business that brought them to France is satisfactorily finished. They want no Stockholm-made peace. They are fighting for a knock-out. I left behind me in London a lot of dismal, gloomy, and down-hearted friends, candidates all for the Pessimists’ Club. I wish they could have hiked through the trenches with me. It is the finest cure in the world for the blues. It may thunder and pour day and night in Trenchland, and the country may be a morass for miles in every direction, but the sun of optimism and confidence is always shining in the British Army’s heart. <hr class="chap" /></div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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