PATER'S CHATS WITH THE BOYS.

Otago Witness, Issue 3215, 27 October 1915, Page 77

PATER'S CHATS WITH THE BOYS.

FRENCH AND HIS MEN

Some weeks ago I quoted from an American article signed “Veteran Diplomatist/’ and stating that disagreement had arisen between the French and the Kitchener parties, that French had lost most of the initiative which made him so famous in the Boer war, that Joffre could not work with him, etc., etc. About a fortnight ago a gentleman who read the two Chats sent me an article which contained some very interesting statements, some of which referred to French. This article is the basis of my Chat to-day, the Chat being merely a linking up of some extracts. My first refers to the departure of summer and supposed gun effect on rain, but also to the fact that the firing of the guns in Flanders has actually been heard by acute ears in England : “The summer appears to have flown. The rain it raineth every day. Amateur meteorologists declare that we owe this premature rainy season to the big guns on the other side of the Channel. Weatherwise experts scorn the idea, though the guns of Flanders are not so remote that their grim voices cannot bo hoard and felt in England. There are inexpressibly quiet and peaceful valleys in Sussex and South England where, when the wind is in the right quarter, the country folks stand in silent awe at their doors and listen to the faint, far-away rumble of the cannon ‘somewhere in France.’ It is very faint, yet quite perceptible. There is one old soldier in these parts whose modest cottage faces out to the sea. He listens with upraised hand and strained face, and when the distant quiver of quavering sound has been prolonged and then suddenly ceases, he looks at his watch and says, “The guns have stopped. Now it’s the infantry’s turn.’ The sheer drama of that soliloquy is beyond telling. And the official communiques from France have repeatedly corroborated the veteran’s watch. The scientists would certainly pooh-pooh the old gentleman with the watch, just as they laugh at the suggestion that the thunderous gunfire and the wet weather are cause and effect.” The next shows that winter conditions had already set in:—“Our soldiers in the Flanders trenches' are already suffering the first pangs of the winter campaign. They expected the sound weather to last at least until September, if not to the beginning of October. But instead of this, every trench has been made a rivulet, and every carelessly-constructed dugout a quagmire. The sudden and unreasonable onset of wintry conditions lias not, however, thrown them out of their stride. The harder their lot, the more cheery they become. Furious fighting is proceeding daily along the British front, the Germans inflicted the most damnable injuries upon the occupants of the first iine of trenches near Hooge with their liquid fire. They managed to wrest a few hundred yard , of trenches from our troops by burning them alive, but they have not been able to hold their ill-gotten gains. They were driven out again yesterday, and some of their advanced lines were rushed by our troops.” The nest is headed “The Last Gasp”; but it did not prove to be so. In this crisis French was asked for reinforcements, and sent—his orderly ! He had no one else. “The invincible resolution and the magnificent fighting spirit of our men carried them right beyond their original objective. The long stagnation in the West has not robbed our men of any of their dash; nor has it impaired the enthusiastic admiration which they feel for Sir John French. The British Com-mander-in-Chief is a hero to Ins army, and well he might be. Men who have come back from the front confirm the report that it was largely the magnetic personality of Sir John French which saved the Allies at the first bloody battle of Ypres. The situation was desperate, for, as everyone now knows, 120,000 English were pitted in that struggle against 600,000 of the picked troops of Germany. One British regiment which went into action 1100 strong came out with 73 men, and the casualties on both sides were heavier than they ever were before in warfare. But Sir John French never wavered.” We cannot read too much of what our men have dono and are still doing, so I make no apology for this my last quotation but one:-—“lt requires hero-worship to reconcile men to spending another

winter in the fog-saturated lowlands of Flanders. The War Office is busily making preparations for another six months’ stalemate. Millions of sandbags are being accumulated for shipment across the Channel. By their aid something at least will be accomplished to mitigate the privations which the men will have to endure. The utter hopelessness of keeping submerged trenches free from water in this sodden country has been demonstrated during the dry summer months, for, owing to underground springs, the men have frequently been ankle-deep in water during periods of draught. The ramparts of sandbags behind which they have most recently taken shelter and fought have solved this problem to some extent. The quantity required is enormous. In some parts of England whole districts are now being employed making the necessary bags. At some seaside resorts it has become the main industry, and on the east coast in particular it has done something to recuperate boarding - house keepers and tradesmen the losses which they have sustained by the absence of the accustomed invasion of holiday-makers. A good deal of the sandy beach along the east will find its way in transports to France, and finally to Flandei’s, and our men, though condemned to detestable conditions of life, will at least be better off than they were last winter. My final deals with the supernatural. Are the days of visions past? ‘‘There are, too, strange, intangible spiritqal forces which call them back to the trenches. Cynics and scoffers may rail at the supernatural, but if they mixed freely with our fighting men they would learn that the supernatural has become almost a commonplace in modern battles. An Australian, a youngster in years, lost his way, and found himself between the British and the Turkish lines. He threw himself on his face to collect his thoughts, and though ho was drawing the fire of both sides in the semi-darkness, he instinctively made for the British trenches. The rest of the story is best told in his own words. ‘ I jumped the barbed-wire . entanglement. The officer in charge lifted his revolver and fired at me, 10 yards away, and never touched me. Now, mother, darling, comes the part you will find most difficult to believe. As I rose from the ground I saw plainly as jiossible the form of my dear old Dad in front of me, and all that fearful 50 yards until I reached the trench, he seemed to guide me. I have not a vivid imagination, and have never been given to a belief in the supernatural, but my own officer could not say I had a trace of fear on me when I returned, i felt as safe as if I were somewhere where war was unknown, and tire officer who fired at me was much more upset than I was. Think what you will, I believe it was the Almighty’s way of guiding me to safety, and my prayers said whilst lying on the ground were answered in His own way.’ ” Now, how can young men who have no special ties read extracts such as these and leave such brave fellows to run double or treble risks because reinforcements are not forthcoming in sufficient numbers ?