A Minstrel In France by Harry Lauder

H >> Harry Lauder >> A Minstrel In France

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18

I had to take his word for it. We went bowling along at a good speed,
but pretty soon we encountered a detachment of Somerset men. They
halted when they spied our caravan, and so did we. As usual they
recognized us.

"You'm Harry Lauder!" said one of them, in the broad accent of his
country. "Us has seen 'ee often!"

Johnson was out already, and he and the drivers were unlimbering the
wee piano. It didn't take so long, now that we were getting used to
the task, to make ready for a roadside concert. While I waited I
talked to the men. They were on their way to Ypres. Tommy can't get
the name right, and long ago ceased trying to do so. The French and
Belgians call it "Eepre"--that's as near as I can give it to you in
print, at least. But Tommy, as all the world must know by now, calls
it Wipers, and that is another name that will live as long as British
history is told.

The Somerset men squatted in the road while I sang my songs for them,
and gave me their most rapt attention. It was hugely gratifying and
flattering, the silence that always descended upon an audience of
soldiers when I sang. There were never any interruptions. But at the
end of a song, and during the chorus, which they always wanted to
sing with me, as I wanted them to do, too, they made up for their
silence.

Soon the Reverend Harry Lauder, M.P., Tour was on its way again. The
cheers of the Somerset men sounded gayly in our ears, and the cars
quickly picked up speed and began to mop up the miles at a great
rate. And then, suddenly--whoa! We were in the midst of soldiers
again. This time it was a bunch of motor repair men.

They wandered along the roads, working on the trucks and cars that
were abandoned when they got into trouble, and left along the side of
the road. We had seen scores of such wrecks that day, and I had
wondered if they were left there indefinitely. Far from it, as I
learned now. Squads like this--there were two hundred men in this
particular party--were always at work. Many of the cars they salvaged
without difficulty--those that had been abandoned because of
comparatively minor engine troubles or defects. Others had to be
towed to a repair shop, or loaded upon other trucks for the journey,
if their wheels were out of commission.

Others still were beyond repair. They had been utterly smashed in a
collision, maybe, or as a result of skidding. Or they had burned.
Sometimes they had been knocked off the road and generally
demoralized by a shell. And in such cases often, all that men such as
these we had met now could do was to retrieve some parts to be used
in repairing other cars in a less hopeless state.

By this time Johnson and the two soldier chauffeurs had reduced the
business of setting our stage to a fine point. It took us but a very
few minutes indeed to be ready for a concert, and from the time when
we sighted a potential audience to the moment for the opening number
was an almost incredibly brief period. This time that was a good
thing, for it was growing late. And so, although the repair men were
loath to let me go, it was but an abbreviated programme that I was
able to offer them. This was one of the most enthusiastic audiences I
had had yet, for nearly every man there, it turned out, had been what
Americans would call a Harry Lauder fan in the old days. They had
been wont to go again and again to hear me. I wanted to stay and sing
more songs for them, but Captain Godfrey was in charge, and I had to
obey his orders, reluctant though I was to go on.

Our destination was a town called Aubigny--rather an old chateau just
outside the town. Aubigny was the billet of the Fifteenth Division,
then in rest. Many officers were quartered in the chateau, as the
guests of its French owners, who remained in possession, having
refused to clear out, despite the nearness of the actual fighting
front.

This was a Scots division, I was glad to find. I heard good Scots
talk all around me when I arrived, and it was Scottish hospitality,
mingled with French, that awaited us. I know no finer combination,
nor one more warming to the cockles of a man's heart.

Here there was luxury, compared to what I had seen that day. As
Godfrey had warned me, the idea of resting that the troops had was a
bit more strenuous than mine would be. There was no lying and lolling
about. Hot though the weather was a deal of football was played, and
there were games of one sort and another going on nearly all the time
when the men were off duty.

This division, I learned, had seen some of the hardest and bloodiest
fighting of the whole war. They had been through the great offensive
that had pivoted on Arras, and had been sorely knocked about. They
had well earned such rest as was coming to them now, and they were
getting ready, in the most cheerful way you can imagine, for their
next tour of duty in the trenches. They knew about how much time they
would have, and they made the best use they could of it.

New drafts were coming out daily from home to fill up their sadly
depleted ranks. The new men were quickly drawn in and assimilated
into organizations that had been reduced to mere skeletons. New
officers were getting acquainted with their men; that wonderful thing
that is called esprit de corps was being made all around me. It is a
great sight to watch it in the making; it helps you to understand the
victories our laddies have won.

I was glad to see the kilted men of the Scots regiments all about me.
It was them, after all, that I had come to see. I wanted to talk to
them, and see them here, in France. I had seen them at hame, flocking
to the recruiting offices. I had seen them in their training camps.
But this was different. I love all the soldiers of the Empire, but it
is natural, is it no, that my warmest feeling should be for the
laddies who wear the kilt.

They were the most cheerful souls, as I saw them when we reached
their rest camp, that you could imagine. They were laughing and
joking all about us, and when they heard that the Reverend Harry
Lauder, M.P., Tour had arrived they crowded about us to see. They
wanted to make sure that I was there, and I was greeted in all sorts
of dialect that sounded enough, I'll be bound, to Godfrey and some of
the rest of our party. There were even men who spoke to me in the
Gaelic.

I saw a good deal, afterward, of these Scots troops. My, how hard
they did work while they rested! And what chances they took of broken
bones and bruises in their play! Ye would think, would ye no, that
they had enough of that in the trenches, where they got lumps and
bruises and sorer hurts in the run of duty? But no. So soon as they
came back to their rest billets they must begin to play by knocking
the skin and the hair off one another at sports of various sorts, of
which football was among the mildest, that are not by any means to be
recommended to those of a delicate fiber.

Some of the men I met at Aubigny had been out since Mons--some of the
old kilted regiments of the old regular army, they were. Away back in
those desperate days the Germans had dubbed them the ladies from
Hell, on account of their kilts. Some of the Germans really thought
they were women! That was learned from prisoners. Since Mons they
have been out, and auld Scotland has poured out men by the scores of
thousands, as fast as they were needed, to fill the gaps the German
shells and bullets have torn in the Scots ranks. Aye--since Mons, and
they will be there at the finish, when it comes, please God!

There have always been Scots regiments in the British army, ever
since the day when King Jamie the Sixth, of Scotland, of the famous
and unhappy house of Stuart, became King James the First of England.
The kilted regiments, the Highlanders, belonging to the immortal
Highland Brigade, include the Gordon Highlanders, the Forty-second,
the world famous Black Watch, as it is better known than by its
numbered designation, the Seaforth Highlanders, and the Argyle and
Sutherland regiment, or the Princess Louise's Own. That was the
regiment to a territorial battalion of which my boy John belonged at
the outbreak of the war, and with which he served until he was killed.

Some of those old, famous regiments have been wiped out half a dozen
times, almost literally annihilated, since Mons. New drafts, and the
addition of territorial battalions, have replenished them and kept up
their strength, and the continuity of their tradition has never been
broken. The men who compose a regiment may be wiped out, but the
regiment survives. It is an organization, an entity, a creature with
a soul as well as a body. And the Germans have no discovered a way
yet of killing the soul! They can do dreadful things to the bodies of
men and women, but their souls are safe from them.

Of course there are Scots regiments that are not kilted and that have
naught to do with the Hielanders, who have given as fine and brave an
account of themselves as any. There are the Scots Guards, one of the
regiments of the Guards Brigade, the very pick and flower of the
British army. There are the King's Own Scottish Borderers, with as
fine a history and tradition as any regiment in the army, and a
record of service of which any regiment might well be proud; the
Scots Fusiliers, the Royal Scots, the Scottish Rifles, and the Scots
Greys, of Crimean fame--the only cavalry regiment from Scotland.

Since this war began other Highland regiments have been raised beside
those originally included in the Highland Brigade. There are Scots
from Canada who wear the kilt and their own tartan and cap. Every
Highland regiment, of course, has its own distinguishing tartan and
cap. One of the proudest moments of my life came when I heard that
the ninth battalion of the Highland Light Infantry, which was raised
in Glasgow, but has its depot, where its recruits and new drafts are
trained, at Hamilton, was known as the Harry Landers. That was
because they had adopted the Balmoral cap, with dice, that had become
associated with me because I had worn it so often and so long on the
stage in singing one of my most famous and successful songs, "I Love
a Lassie."

But in the trenches, of course, the Hieland troops all look alike.
They cling to their kilts--or, rather, their kilts cling to them--but
kilts and jackets are all of khaki. If they wore the bright plaids of
the tartans they would be much too conspicuous a mark for the
Germans, and so they have to forswear their much loved colors when
they are actually at grips with Fritz.

I wear the kilt nearly always, myself, as I have said. Partly I do so
because it is my native costume, and I am proud of my Highland birth;
partly because I revel in the comfort of the costume. But it brings
me some amusing experiences. Very often I am asked a question that
is, I presume, fired at many a Hieland soldier, intimate though it is.

"I say, Harry," someone will ask me, "you wear the kilt. Do you not
wear anything underneath it?"

I do, myself. I wear a very short pair of trunks, chiefly for reasons
of modesty. So do some of the soldiers. But if they do they must
provide it for themselves; no such garment is served out to them with
their uniform. And so the vast majority of the men wear nothing but
their skins under the kilt. He is bare, that is, from the waist to
the hose--except for the kilt. But that is garment enough! I'll tell
ye so, and I'm thinkin' I know!

So clad the Highland soldier is a great deal more comfortable and a
great deal more sanely dressed, I believe, than the city dweller who
is trousered and underweared within an inch of his life. I think it
is a matter of medical record, that can be verified from the reports
of the army surgeons, that the kilted troops are among the healthiest
in the whole army. I know that the Highland troops are much less
subject to abdominal troubles of all sorts--colic and the like. The
kilt lies snug and warm around the stomach, in several thick layers,
and a more perfect protection from the cold has never been devised
for that highly delicate and susceptible region of the human anatomy.

Women, particularly, are always asking me another question. I have
seen them eyeing me, in cold weather, when I was walkin' around,
comfortably, in my kilt. And their eyes would wander to my knees, and
I would know before they opened their mouths what it was that they
were going to say.

"Oh, Mr. Lauder," they would ask me. "Don't your poor knees get cold--
with no coverings, exposed to this bitter cold?"

Well, they never have! That's all I can tell you. They have had the
chance, in all sorts of bitter weather. I am not thinking only of the
comparitively mild winters of Britain--although, up north, in
Scotland, we get some pretty severe winter weather. But I have been
in Western Canada, and in the northwestern states of the United
States, Montana, North Dakota, Minnesota, where the thermometer drops
far below zero. And my knees have never been cold yet. They do not
suffer from the cold any more than does my face, which is as little
covered and protected as they--and for the same reason, I suppose.
They are used to the weather.

And when it comes to the general question of health, I am certain,
from my own experience, that the kilt is best. Several times, for one
reason or another, I have laid my kilts aside and put on trousers.
And each time I have been seized by violent colds, and my life has
been made wretched. A good many soldiers of my acquaintance have had
the same experience.

Practical reasons aside, however, the Scots soldier loves his kilt,
and would fight like a steer to keep from having it taken away from
him, should anyone be so foolish as to try such a performance. He
loves it, not only because it is warm and comfortable, but because it
is indistinguishably associated in his mind with some of the most
glorious pages of Scottish history. It is a sign and symbol of his
hameland to him. There have been times, in Scotland, when all was not
as peaceful in the country's relations with England as it now is,
when the loyal Scot who wore the kilt did so knowing that he might be
tried for his life for doing so, since death had been the penalty
appointed for that "crime."

Aye, it is peace and friendship now between Scot and Englishman. But
that is not to say that there is no a friendly rivalry between them
still. English regiments and Scots regiments have a lot of fun with
one another, and a bit rough it gets, too, at times. But it is all in
fun, and there is no harm done. I have in mind a tale an officer told
me--though the men of whom he told it did not know that an officer
had any inkling of the story.

The English soldiers are very fond of harping on the old idea of the
difficulty of making a Scotsman see a joke. That is a base slander,
I'll say, but no matter. There were two regiments in rest close to
one another, one English and one Scots. They met at the estaminet or
pub in the nearby town. And one day the Englishman put up a great
joke on some of the Scots, and did get a little proof of that pet
idea of theirs, for the Scots were slow to see the joke.

Ah, weel, that was enough! For days the English rang the changes on
that joke, teasing the Hielanders and making sport of them. But at
last, when the worst of the tormentors were all assembled together,
two of the Scots came into the room where they were havin' a wee
drappie.

"Mon, Sandy," said one of them, shaking his head, "I've been thinking
what a sad thing that would be! I hope it will no come to pass."

"Aye, that would be a sore business, indeed, Tam," said Sandy, and
he, too, shook his head.

And so they went on. The Englishmen stood it as long as they could
and then one turned to Sandy.

"What is it would be such a bad business?" he asked.

"Mon-mon," said Sandy. "We've been thinking, Tam and I, what would
become of England, should Scotland make a separate peace?"

And it was generally conceded that the last laugh was with the Scots
in that affair!

My boy, John, had the same love for the kilt that I had. He was proud
and glad to wear the kilt, and to lead men who did the same. While he
was in training at Bedford he organized a corps of cyclists for
dispatch-bearing work. He was a crack cyclist himself, and it was a
sport of which he was passionately fond. So he took a great interest
in the corps, and it soon gained wide fame for its efficiency. So
true was that that the authorities took note of the corps, and of
John, who was responsible for it, and he was asked to go to France to
take charge of organizing a similar corps behind the front. But that
would have involved a transfer to a different branch of the army, and
detachment from his regiment. And--it would have meant that he must
doff his kilt. Since he had the chance to decline--it was an offer,
not an order, that had come to him--he did, that he might keep his
kilt and stay with his own men.

To my eyes there is no spectacle that begins to be so imposing as the
sight of a parade of Scottish troops in full uniform. And it is the
unanimous testimony of German prisoners that this war has brought
them no more terrifying sight than the charge of a kilted regiment.
The Highlanders come leaping forward, their bayonets gleaming,
shouting old battle cries that rang through the glens years and
centuries ago, and that have come down to the descendants of the
warriors of an ancient time. The Highlanders love to use cold steel;
the claymore was their old weapon, and the bayonet is its nearest
equivalent in modern war. They are master hands with that, too--and
the bayonet is the one thing the Hun has no stomach for at all.

Fritz is brave enough when he is under such cover and shelter as the
trenches give. And he has shown a sort of stubborn courage when
attacking in massed formations--the Germans have made terrible
sacrifices, at times, in their offensive efforts. But his blood turns
to water in his veins when he sees the big braw laddies from the
Hielands come swooping toward him, their kilts flapping and their
bayonets shining in whatever light there is. Then he is mighty quick
to throw up his hands and shout: "Kamerad! Kamerad!"

I might go on all night telling you some of the stories I heard along
the front about the Scottish soldiers. They illustrate and explain
every phase of his character. They exploit his humor, despite that
base slander to which I have already referred, his courage, his
stoicism. And, of course, a vast fund of stories has sprung up that
deals with the proverbial thrift of the Scot! There was one tale that
will bear repeating, perhaps.

Two Highlanders had captured a chicken--a live chicken, not
particularly fat, it may be, even a bit scrawny, but still, a live
chicken. That was a prize, since the bird seemed to have no owner who
might get them into trouble with the military police. One was for
killing and eating the fowl at once. But the other would have none of
such a summary plan.

"No, no, Jimmy," he said, pleadingly, holding the chicken
protectingly. "Let's keep her until morning, and may be we will ha'
an egg as well!"

[ILLUSTRATION: "'Make us laugh again, Harry!' Though I remember my
son and want to join the ranks, I have obeyed." LAUDER ADDRESSING
BRITISH TROOPS BEHIND THE LINES IN FRANCE (See Lauder08.jpg)]

The other British soldiers call the Scots Jock, invariably. The
Englishman, or a soldier from Wales or Ireland, as a rule, is called
Tommy--after the well-known M. Thomas Atkins. Sometimes, an Irishman
will be Paddy and a Welshman Taffy. But the Scot is always Jock.

Jock gave us a grand welcome at Aubigny. We were all pretty tired,
but when they told me I could have an audience of seven thousand
Scots soldiers I forgot my weariness, and Hogge, Adam and I, to say
nothing of Johnson and the wee piano, cleared for action, as you
might say. The concert was given in the picturesque grounds of the
chateau, which had been less harshly treated by the war than many
such beautiful old places. It was a great experience to sing to so
many men; it was far and away the largest house we had had since we
had landed at Boulogne.

After we left Aubigny, the chateau and that great audience, we drove
on as quickly as we could, since it was now late, to the headquarters
of General Mac----, commanding the Fifteenth Division--to which, of
course, the men whom we had just been entertaining belonged. I was to
meet the general upon my arrival.

That was a strange ride. It was pitch dark, and we had some distance
to go. There were mighty few lights in evidence; you do not advertise
a road to Fritz's airplanes when you are traveling roads anywhere
near the front, for he has guns of long range, that can at times
manage to strafe a road that is supposed to be beyond the zone of
fire with a good deal of effect I have seldom seen a blacker night
than that. Objects along the side of the road were nothing but
shapeless lumps, and I did not see how our drivers could manage at
all to find their way.

They seemed to have no difficulty, however, but got along swimmingly.
Indeed, they traveled faster than they had in daylight. Perhaps that
was because we were not meeting troops to hold us up along this road;
I believe that, if we had, we should have stopped and given them a
concert, even though Johnson could not have seen the keys of his piano!

It was just as well, however. I was delighted at the reception that
had been given to the Reverend Harry Lauder, M.P., Tour all through
our first day in France. But I was also extremely tired, and the
dinner and bed that loomed up ahead of us, at the end of our long
ride through the dark, took on an aspect of enchantment as we neared
them. My voice, used as I was to doing a great deal of singing, was
fagged, and Hogge and Dr. Adam were so hoarse that they could
scarcely speak at all. Even Johnson was pretty well done up; he was
still, theoretically, at least, on the sick list, of course. And I
ha' no doot that the wee piano felt it was entitled to its rest, too!

So we were all mighty glad when the cars stopped at last.

"Well, here we are!" said Captain Godfrey, who was the freshest of us
all. "This is Tramecourt--General Headquarters for the Reverend Harry
Lauder, M.P., Tour while you are in France, gentlemen. They have
special facilities for visitors here, and unless one of Fritz's
airplanes feels disposed to drop a bomb or two, you won't be under
fire, at night at least. Of course, in the daytime. . ."

He shrugged his shoulders. For our plans did not involve a search for
safe places. Still, it was pleasant to know that we might sleep in
fair comfort.

General Mac---- was waiting to welcome us, and told us that dinner
was ready and waiting, which we were all glad to hear. It had been a
long, hard day, although the most interesting one, by far, that I had
ever spent.

We made short work of dinner, and soon afterward they took us to our
rooms. I don't know what Hogge and Dr. Adam did, but I know I looked
happily at the comfortable bed that was in my room. And I slept
easily and without being rocked to sleep that nicht!

CHAPTER XIX

Though we were out of the zone of fire--except for stray activities
in which Boche airplanes might indulge themselves, as our hosts were
frequently likely to remind us, lest we fancy ourselves too secure, I
suppose--we were by no means out of hearing of the grim work that was
going on a few miles away. The big guns, of course, are placed well
behind the front line trenches, and we could hear their sullen,
constant quarreling with Fritz and his artillery. The rumble of the
Hun guns came to us, too. But that is a sound to which you soon get
used, out there in France. You pay no more heed to it than you do to
the noise the 'buses make in London or the trams in Glasgow.

In the morning I got my first chance really to see Tramecourt. The
chateau is a lovely one, a fine example of such places. It had not
been knocked about at all, and it looked much as it must have done in
times of peace. Practically all the old furniture was still in the
rooms, and there were some fine old pictures on the walls that it
gave me great delight to see. Indeed, the rare old atmosphere of the
chateau was restful and delightful in a way that surprised me.

I had been in the presence of real war for just one day. And yet I
took pleasure in seeing again the comforts and some of the luxuries
of peace! That gave me an idea of what this sort of place must mean
to men from the trenches. It must seem like a bit of heaven to them
to come back to Aubigny or Tramecourt! Think of the contrast.

The chateau, which had been taken over by the British army, belonged
to the Comte de Chabot, or, rather, to his wife, who had been
Marquise de Tramecourt, one of the French families of the old regime.
Although the old nobility of France has ceased to have any legal
existence under the Republic the old titles are still used as a
matter of courtesy, and they have a real meaning and value. This was
a pleasant place, this chateau of Tramecourt; I should like to see it
again in days of peace, for then it must be even more delightful than
it was when I came to know it so well.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18