Stories from the Trenches: Humorous and Lively Doings of Our 'Boys Over There'

THE “FIDDLER’S TRUCE” AT ARRAS

TWENTY miles away the Prussians and the Canadians were struggling in the dust and mud for the battered suburbs of Lens, but the trenches which were enjoying the “Fiddler’s Truce” were not marked to be taken by the staff officers of either army, and the only sign of war was the growling of the big guns far away. Here, too, Canadian opposed Prussian, but they did not fight until the death of Henry Schulman, killed by a most regrettable accident. He was only a private and not sufficiently famous as a violinist to have his death recorded in the musical journals of the world, but along the trenches his taking off is still being discussed as one of the real tragedies of the war.

Late in the fall, after the Somme offensive was over, three Canadian regiments arrived on the Arras front and dug themselves into the brown mud to wait until spring made another advance practicable. Two hundred feet away were three Prussian regiments. There was little real fighting. When the routine of trench life became too monotonous a company would blaze away at the other trenches for a few minutes. At night it was so quiet that conversation in one trench carried over to the other, and there was a good deal of good-natured kidding back and forth. The Canadians were especially pleased by the nightly concerts of the Germans, and applauded heartily the spirited fiddling of one hidden musician. The rest of the story can best be told by Corporal Harry Seaton, in the New York Evening Mail:

“One night we held up a piece of white cloth as a sign of truce,” he said. “With permission of our colonel I called out and asked the Boche if we couldn’t have a bit of a concert. It was agreed, and Schulman – that was the fiddler’s name – crawled out from his trench. One or two of our Johnnies crawled out, too, just as a sign of good faith.

“Believe me, every one enjoyed the rest of that evening, and when things grew quiet next day somebody yelled for the fiddler to strike up a tune. He was a cobbler in Quebec before the war, and two of our Johnnies knew him and his wife and kids. It didn’t take much coaxing after that, and he came out on the strip of ‘No Man’s Land’ and played every night.

“On the 23d of February we were ordered on to another part of the field and another regiment took our old trenches. Of course, in the hurry of departure nobody thought of Schulman.

“That night he brought his stool out as usual, but before he could draw bow across the strings the strangers filled him full of lead. Of course, they didn’t know.

“The chaplain told us the story next day and we took up a collection to send back to the family in Berlin. I wonder if they ever got it!”

HARRY LAUDER DOES HIS BIT

THE Y. M. C. A. and Harry Lauder are two social forces that one does not spontaneously connect up. But the former was the agency that brought the singer into the fighting camps of France, not only to hearten the soldiers there, but to pay a touching tribute to the sacrifice of his only son. Dr. George Adam, of Edinburgh, who went with him, gives an account of the trip in Association Men (New York), the official organ of the Y. M. C. A. He also speaks of service under the banner of the Red Triangle that Mr. Lauder has rendered which brings the singing comedian before us in a manner hitherto unsuspected:

“On a recent Sunday, although working at full pressure during the week in the play ‘Three Cheers’ at the Shaftesbury Theater, he gave up his rest day gladly to go away down to two of the great Canadian camps with me.

“Some one in London asked the little man why he was going down to the camps. Why not join them in a quiet week-end on the river? Lauder’s reply was as quaint as usual: ‘The boys can’t get up to town to see me, so I am off to the camps to see them.’ A right royal time he gave them, too. Picture ten thousand men in a dell on the rolling downs with a little platform in the center and there Lauder singing the old favorites you have heard so often and the soldiers love so much – ‘Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep,’ ‘Bantry Bay,’ ‘The Laddies Who Fought and Won,’ ‘Children’s Home,’ and many more.

“This was not all; his soul must have been stirred by the sight of so many dear, brave men, for when the meeting seemed over, Lauder began to speak to the soldiers. And a real speech he made, full of imagery, poetry, and fire. May I just tell you how he closed? ‘One evening in the gloaming in a northern town I was sitting by my parlor window when I saw an old man with a pole on his shoulder come along. He was a lamp-lighter, and made the lamp opposite my window dance into brightness. Interested in his work, I watched him pass along until the gloaming gathered round and I could see him no more. However, I knew just where he was, for other lamps flashed into flame. Having completed his task, he disappeared into a side street. Those lamps burned on through the night, making it bright and safe for those who should come behind him. An avenue of lights through the traffic and dangers of the city.’

“With passionate earnestness Lauder cried: ‘Boys, think of that man who lit the lamp, for you are his successors, only in a much nobler and grander way. You are not lighting for a few hours the darkness of passing night. You are lighting an avenue of lights that will make it safe for the generations of all time. Therefore, you must be earnest to do the right. Fight well and hard against every enemy without and within, and those of your blood who come after you will look up proudly in that light of freedom and say, “The sire that went before me lit a lamp in those heroic days when Britain warred for right.” The first burst of illumination that the world had was in the lamp lit by Jesus, or rather he was the Light himself. He said truly, “I am the Light of the world.” You are in his succession. Be careful how you bear yourselves. Quit ye like men! Be strong!’”

The story of the effort made to induce the singing comedian to go “out there” touches on his well-known human frailty, in this case triumphantly overcome:

“During a visit to France, and in conversation with one in high command in the army, talk turned to the high place Lauder had in the affections of his countrymen, for we were both Scots. A strong desire was expressed that he should be got out among the soldiers in the battle line just to give them the cheer he knows so well how to impart. I promised to endeavor to arrange it, with trepidation, you may be sure, for you know what is so often said of Lauder and his money. However, with courage in both hands I asked him to give up the week that meant many thousands of dollars to go out to the boys.

“The request seemed to stagger him, and for a minute I felt I was to fail, but it was the good fortune to receive such a request that took his breath away. ‘Give me a week’s notice and I go with you, and glad to go.’ I replied, ‘I give you notice now.’ Whereupon he called to his manager, ‘Tom, I quit in a week’; and he did, and off to the war zone he went. My pen is unequal to the task of describing that wonderful tour and the amazing results of it. The men went wild with enthusiasm and joy wherever he went. One great meeting was apparently seen by some German airmen, who communicated the information to one of their batteries of artillery. In the middle of a song – whiz, bang! – went a big shell very close at hand – so close, in fact, that pieces struck but a foot or two from where we both stood. There was a scatter and a scamper for cover, and for three-quarters of an hour the Huns hammered the position with two hundred big ones. When the bombardment ended, Lauder of the big-hearted Scotch courage must needs finish his concert.”

Another incident shows the heart of Harry Lauder as those who have only heard his rollicking songs will rejoice in.

“One day during our visit I was taking Harry to see the grave of his only child, Capt. John Lauder, of the Argyle and Sutherland Highlanders, as fine a lad as ever wore a kilt, and as good and brave a son as ever a father loved. As we were motoring swiftly along we turned into the town of Albert and the first sharp glance at the cathedral showed the falling Madonna and Child. It was a startling and arresting sight, and we got out to have a good look. The building is crowned by a statue of Mary holding out the child Jesus to the world; a German shell had struck its base and it fell over, not to the ground, however, but at an acute angle out over the street.

“While we lingered, a bunch of soldiers came marching through, dusty and tired. Lauder asked the officer to halt his men for a rest and he would sing to them. I could see that they were loath to believe it was the real Lauder until he began to sing.

“Then the doubts vanished and they abandoned themselves to the full enjoyment of this very unexpected pleasure. When the singsong began the audience would number about two hundred; at the finish of it easily more than two thousand soldiers cheered him on his way.

“It was a strange send-off on the way that led to a grave – the grave of a father’s fondest hopes – but so it was. A little way up the Bapaume road the car stopped and we clambered the embankment and away over the shell-torn field of Courcelette. Here and there we passed a little cross which marked the grave of some unknown hero; all that was written was ‘A British Soldier.’ He spoke in a low voice of the hope-hungry hearts behind all those at home. Now we climbed a little ridge and here a cemetery and in the first row facing the battlefield the cross on Lauder’s boy’s resting-place.

“The father leaned over the grave to read what was written there. He knelt down; indeed, he lay upon the grave and clutched it, the while his body shook with the grief he felt.

“When the storm had spent itself he rose and prayed: ‘O God, that I could have but one request. It would be that I might embrace my laddie just this once and thank him for what he has done for his country and humanity.’

“That was all, not a word of bitterness or complaint.

“On the way down the hill I suggested gently that the stress of such an hour made further song that day impossible.

“But Lauder’s heart is big and British. Turning to me with a flash in his eye he said: ‘George, I must be brave; my boy is watching and all the other boys are waiting. I will sing to them this afternoon though my heart break!’ Off we went again to another division of Scottish troops.

“There, within the hour, he sang again the sweet old songs of love and home and country, bringing all very near and helping the men to realize the deeper what victory for the enemy would mean. Grim and determined men they were that went back to their dugouts and trenches, heartened for the task of war for human freedom by Harry Lauder. Harry’s little kilted figure came and went from the war zone, but his influence remains, the influence of a heroic heart.”

CAUSE FOR GRIEVANCE

A wounded soldier explained his grievance to his nurse:

“You see, old Smith was next to me in the trenches. Now, the bullet that took me in the shoulder and laid me out went into ’im and made a bit of a flesh-wound in his arm. Of course I’m glad he wasn’t ’urt bad. But he’s stuck to my bullet and given it his girl. Now, I don’t think that’s fair. I’d a right to it. I’d never give a girl ’o mine a second-’and bullet.”

DOUBLY ANNOYING

A German spy caught redhanded was on his way to be shot.

“I think you English are brutes,” he growled, “to march me through this rain and slush.”

“Well,” said the “Tommy” who was escorting him, “what about me? I have to go back in it.”

KING GEORGE UNDER FIRE

KING GEORGE and Queen Mary have been seeing war at close range. Together they made an eleven days’ visit to the British troops in France, and while there the King experienced the sensation of being under fire. While the Queen devoted herself to the hospitals and the sick and wounded, the King was shown all the latest devices for killing and maiming the enemy. It was soon after seeing what would happen to the Teutons that he decided to drop his Teutonic name and become Mr. Windsor. Says a dispatch from the British headquarters in the New York Sun:

On the first morning after his arrival in France, King George visited the Messines Ridge sector of the front, climbing the ridge while the Germans were shelling the woods just to his left. He inspected the ground over which the Irish troops, men from the north and the south, fought so gallantly side by side during the taking of the Messines Ridge, and where Major William Redmond fell. While the King was doing this the Germans began shelling places on the ridge which he had left but half an hour before. The King visited also Vimy Ridge, from which he could see the German lines about Lens, with British shells breaking on them.

For the benefit of the King a special show was staged that he might witness “that black art of frightfulness which has steadily increased the horrors of war since the day when the enemy let loose clouds of poisoned gas upon the soldiers and civilians in Ypres,” says Philip Gibbs in the Philadelphia Public Ledger:

As soon as the King arrived on the field there was a sound of rushing air, and there shot forth a blast of red flame out of black smoke to a great distance and with a most terrifying effect. It came from an improved variety of flame projector. Then the King saw the projection of burning oil, burst out in great waves of liquid fire. A battalion of men would be charred like burned sticks if this touched them for a second. There was another hissing noise, and there rolled very sluggishly over the field a thick, oily vapor, almost invisible as it mixed with the air, and carrying instant death to any man who should take a gulp of it. To such a thing have all of us come in this war for civilization.

The most spectacular show here was the most harmless to human life, being a new form of smoke barrage to conceal the movement of troops on the battlefield.

From this laboratory of the black art the King went to one of those fields where the machinery of war is beautiful, rising above the ugly things of this poor earth with light and grace, for this was an air-drome. As he came up, three fighting planes of the fastest British type went up in chase of an imaginary enemy. They arose at an amazing speed and shot across the sky-line like shadows racing from the sun. When they came back those three boys up there seemed to go a little mad and played tricks in the air with a kind of joyous carelessness of death. They tumbled over and over, came hurtling down in visible corkscrews, looped the loop very close to the earth, flattened out after headlong dives, and rose again like swallows. The King was interested in the ages of these pilots and laughed when they confessed their youth, for one was nineteen and another twenty.

The antics of the “tanks” furnished the King with a great deal of amusement. Leaving the air-drome, he was driven to a sunken field, very smooth and long, between two high wooded banks. Says Mr. Gibbs:

Here there was a great surprise and a great sensation, for just as the King stepped out of his car a young tree in full foliage on the left of the field up a high bank toppled forward slowly and then fell with a crash into the undergrowth. Something was moving in the undergrowth, something monstrous. It came heaving and tearing its way through the bushes, snapping off low branches and smashing young saplings like an elephant on stampede. Then it came into sight on top of the bank, a big gray beast, with a blunt snout, nosing its way forward and all tangled in green leaves and twigs. It was old brother tank doing his stunt before the King.

From the far end of a long, smooth field came two other twin beasts of this ilk, crawling forward in a hurry as though hungry for human blood. In front of their track, at the other end of the field, were two breastworks built of sand-bags covering some timbered dugouts and protected from sudden attack by two belts of barbed wire. The two tanks came along like hippopotamuses on a spree, one of them waiting for the other when he lagged a little behind. They hesitated for a moment before the breastworks as if disliking the effort of climbing them, then heaved themselves up, thrust out their snouts, got their hind quarters on the move, and waddled to the top. Under their vast weight the sand-bags flattened out, the timber beneath slipped and cracked, and the whole structure began to collapse, and the twins plunged down on the other side and advanced to attack the barbed wire.

Another tank now came into action from the far end of the field, bearing the legend on its breast of “Faugh-a-ballagh,” which, I am told, is Irish for “get out of the way.” It was the Derby winner of the tanks’ fleet. From its steel flanks guns waggled to and fro, and no dragon of old renown looked half so menacing as this. St. George would have had no chance against it. But King George, whose servant it was, was not afraid, and with the Prince of Wales he went through the steel trap-door into the body of the beast. For some time we lost sight of the King and Prince, but after a while they came out laughing, having traveled around the field for ten minutes in the queerest car on earth.

The great thrill of the day came later. Through the woods of a high bank on the left came a tank, looking rather worse for wear, as though battered in battle.

It came forward through the undergrowth and made for the edge of the bank, where there was a machine gun emplacement in a bomb-proof shelter, whose steep bank was almost perpendicular. It seemed impossible that any old tank should entertain a notion of taking that jump, but this tank came steadily on until its snout was well over the bank and steadily on again with that extraordinary method of progression in which the whole body of the beast moves from the nose end upward until it seems to have a giraffe’s neck and very little else. That very little else was sitting on the top of the emplacement while the forward part of the tank was poised in space regarding the setting sun. However, without any hesitation, the whole mass moved on, lurched out, and nose-dived.

Good Lord! it was then that the thrill came. The tank plunged down like a chunk of cliff as it fell, went sideways and lost its balance, and, as near as anything could be, almost turned turtle. It righted itself with a great jerk at the nick of time just before it took the earth below and shaved by a hair’s breadth an ammunition dump at the bottom of the drop.

It was the finest tank trick I ever saw, and it was greeted with laughter and cheers. The King, however, and other spectators were rather worried about the lads inside. They must have taken a mighty toss. No sound came from the inside of the tank, and for a moment some of us had a vision of a number of plucky fellows laid out unconscious within those steel walls. The door opened and we could see their feet standing straight, which was a relief.

“Let them all come out,” said the King, laughing heartily. And out they all tumbled, a row of young fellows as merry and bright as air pilots after a good landing.

THE FEMALE STANDARD OF SIZE

Lady (entering bank, very businesslike) – “I wish to get a Liberty Loan bond for my husband.”

Clerk – “What size, please?”

Lady – “Why, I don’t believe I know, exactly, but he wears a fifteen shirt.”

STORY OF OUR FIRST SHOT

“I PICKED that shell right up as it came out of the gun – I saw it go through the air in its flight, and I saw it strike a foot in front of that periscope!”

That is the way Lieut. Bruce R. Ware, Jr., U. S. N., who commanded the gun crew of the steamship Mongolia, told of the first American shot fired in the war at a German submarine. He related the story at a testimonial dinner given to him and to Capt. Emery Rice, of the Mongolia, upon the arrival of the steamship at New York. The dinner was attended by many persons prominent in business, steamship, and naval circles, some having traveled hundreds of miles to be present. As reported by the New York Times, Lieutenant Ware told the story as follows:

At 5:21 the chief officer walked out on the port bridge. The captain and myself were on our heels looking out through the port. I saw the chief officer turn around, and you could have seen the whole ocean written in his face, and his mouth that wide (indicating), and he could not get it out. He finally said: “My God, look at that submarine!”

The captain gripped my arm and said: “What is that?” I said: “It is a submarine, and he has got up.”

I followed the captain out on the bridge and I looked at my gun crews. They were all agape. The lookout was all agape. I threw in my starboard control and I said: “Captain, zigzag.” I did not tell him which way to go. We had that all doped out. The captain starboarded his helm and the ship turned to port and we charged him (the U-boat) and made him go under. I went up on top of the chart house with my phones on, and I had a long, powerful glass, ten power. Right underneath it I always lashed my transmitter, so that where I was my transmitter went, and I didn’t have to worry or hunt for it. It was always plugged in, and I said:

“No. 3 gun, after gun, train on the starboard quarter, and when you see a submarine and periscope or conning tower, report.”

The gun crew reported control. “We see it – no, no – it has gone. There it is again.” I picked it up at that moment with my high-powered glass, and I gave them the range – 1,000 yards. Scale 50. She was about 800 yards away from us. I gave the order, “No. 3 gun, fire, commence firing.”

I had my glasses on them, gentlemen, and I saw that periscope come up. “No. 3 gun, commence firing, fire, fire, fire.” And they did, and I picked that shell right up as it came out of the gun – a black, six-inch explosive shell. I saw it go through the air in its flight, and I saw it strike the water eight inches – a foot – in front of that periscope and it went into the conning tower. I saw that periscope go end over end, whipping through that water, and I saw plates go off his conning tower, and I saw smoke all over the scene where we had hit the enemy.

When Captain Rice was called upon for a speech he said:

“Gentlemen, I’d much rather take the Mongolia through the war zone than make a speech. All I will say is that I am ready to go again, and I hope I have another chance at a U-boat.”

HE KNEW WHAT TO DO

A short time back, while a certain general was inspecting a regiment just about to depart for new quarters, he asked a young subaltern what would be his next order if he was in command of a regiment passing over a plain in a hostile country, and he found his front blocked by artillery, a brigade of cavalry on his right flank, and a morass on his left, while his retreat was cut off by a large body of infantry.

“Halt! Order arms, ground arms, kneel down, say your prayers!” replied the subaltern.

THAT WAS THE HYMN NUMBER

Here is a story which if it is not true ought to be. The soldier in the train was dilating on his changed life.

“They took me from my home,” he said, “and put me in barracks; they took away my clothes and put me in khaki; they took away my name and made me ‘No. 575’; they took me to church, where I’d never been before, and they made me listen to a sermon for forty minutes. Then the parson said, ‘No. 575, Art thou weary, art thou languid?’ And I got seven days’ C.B. for giving him a civil answer.”