Surgeon In Arms — Ch 5 The Language Of The Line; Ch 6 Just Looking About

THE LANGUAGE OF THE LINE

Talleyrand once wittily said that language was given us to hide our thoughts, and this saying might be enlarged by adding that slang was given us to hide our language.

The Frenchman, in making this witticism, was referring not only to the beautiful language of Corneille and Molière, but to speech in general.

However, if he visited the lines of the Canadian or British troops today, even though his knowledge of English were perfect, he would hear many words and expressions not found in the dictionaries of any country or heard in polite society.

Necessity is the mother of invention.

It seems that in all national or international games, such as the sport of our American allies--baseball--or the sport of kings and emperors--war--necessity demands that a special language shall evolve.

And so, around each and in the midst of each, an expressive, though sometimes inelegant, slang has grown up, understood and employed only by the initiated.

In the case of the present war this slang is made up of a mixture of English, French, pantomime, and American or Canadian.

Some people give North America credit for a language of its own.

On a visit to Paris some years ago I was passing the entrance of a theater on the Boulevard des Capucines when a grisette approached me with a "bon soir, cheri"; and proceeded to ask if I were lonely.

Not desiring to be bothered, I replied shortly that I did not speak French.

"Oh, zat ees tres bien, monsieur," she replied coyly, "I spik zee A-mer-ee-can."

And many of our own brothers of the motherland do not admit that we Canadians speak the same language as they, but an accented modification of it, though they admire the pointedness of many of our expressions.

I

well remember the amusement caused in an English officers' mess by one of them telling the others that he had heard a Canadian say that he liked "the Englishman's accent."

And with that charmingly bantering way that Englishmen have, he said with a smile to a couple of us Canadians present: "Rawtha a jolly bit of side!

Cawnt you see it, you priceless old things?"

And at his request we all filled our glasses again; while one of the Canadians, for the sake of argument, expressed the opinion that the term accent might as truly be applied to the Englishman's "rawtha," as to our rather; or to the English "bawth," as to our harder-sounding and not so euphonious, but probably equally correct pronunciation of the word, bath.

Of course, he was met by good-natured smiles of tolerance and pity, and the reply that since we think their pronunciation shows more euphony, why do we not pronounce as they do?

"Because if we did someone at home would probably hand us an over-ripe egg," was the answer.

The slang of the lines resembles a new system of Esperanto, since it takes in, in a cosmopolitan manner, all the languages of the neighborhood, as well as some whose existence may be doubted.

For example, "no bon" means no good, and is a mixture of English, French, and a disgusted look.

"Na poo" (which is probably a mutilated form of the French "il n'y en a plus,"--there is no more) has a most versatile meaning, and is used in many different senses.

Sometimes it signifies that some article of the rations is finished, as "the rum is na poo"--a not uncommon state of affairs.

At other times it is used as we employ the slang phrase, "nothing doing."

For instance, one man asks another to have a drink, and he, having put himself, or having been put, on the Indian list, replies, "na poo for mine."

Then there is the sense in which it is used meaning "killed."

Bill Jones is killed, and somebody says, "Well, they na poo'd Bill Jones last night.

Poor Bill, he wasn't such a bad old ---- ---- ---- after all."

(In the air service, when a man is killed, they often employ the expression that "so-and-so is gone east."

) The above will illustrate, but by no means exhaust, the versatility of "na poo," for in variety of meaning it is almost in a class by itself.

"Compree" is another sample of broken--one could not say Anglicized--French, and it is employed with the signification, "do you understand?"

or, in slang-Canadian, "do you get me, Steve?"

And here it may be remarked that a Tommy possessing the above three expressions, na poo, no bon, and compree, with some additions from the sign language, although he knows no other word of French, is able to do anything with the French peasant from using his cook-stove to heat a tin of pork and beans to making love to his daughter.

Of course the latter effort is no doubt helped by the fact that love is much the same in all languages.

Then all the different shells and types of trench-mortar ammunition have their nicknames, such as pineapples, rum jars, flying pigs, Jack Johnsons, fish tails, and whizz-bangs, all according to their shape, their sound, or the fuss they make when landing.

"To put on a show," is to make an attack on the enemy.

"To get pipped" means to get wounded.

If the wound is severe enough to cause the recipient to be sent to England, it is called a "Blighty," in which case, if the wound is not dangerous to life or limb, the others stand about looking enviously at the wounded man, and telling him he is a lucky devil.

But if the wound is fatal, they say "he got his R. I. P."

The above will serve to illustrate the more common slang phrases used by the soldier and officer alike, for what Tommy does today his officers do tomorrow.

There are, of course, many other slang expressions, some being more vulgar than expressive.

Occasionally a group of men will impress you with the idea that they are so accustomed to slang and swearing that to call each other "a blank liar" is a password, as Kelly expressed it to me one time.

And in passing it may be said that though words which would be fighting words in western Canada are common enough, fighting among the men is exceedingly uncommon.

Good nature and good fellowship are universal, and it is rare indeed that even the hottest argument leads to blows.

Probably the boys have instinctively decided that blows are for your enemies, not for your friends, and that fighting enough is to be had on the other side of No Man's Land.

But slang, swearing, or general "toughness" is no proof that a man is not an excellent soldier.

Out there we have found that cool courage and self-sacrifice are as common among the denizens of the slum or the employees of the workshop or factory as among those who spend their time following the hounds or adorning drawing-rooms.

Education and culture may develop the virtues, but they do not create them.

By the same token poor or unhealthy surroundings may stultify the same virtues, but do not kill them.

I well recall a rough, uneducated, Irish-Canadian boy from Griffintown, who was in charge of a group of machine-gunners, and who was afraid of nothing on the earth, under the earth or over the earth.

Fagan--that name will do as well as another--went up with his company to go over the top in an attack, but at the last moment they were ordered not to advance.

A company of Oxford and Bucks just to Fagan's right were going over, and he, being disappointed at the cancellation of his order, pretended that he had not received it, joined the British with his section and went into the fight with them.

He was such a bonnie fighter, and was so useful to the British that they were loud in their praises of the work of him and his men; for with his machine-gun he did much useful slaughter which he described on his return as "some beautiful pickin's." On account of his good work and the high praise that it received from the British he was given a special leave of a couple of weeks to the white lights--or what remains of them--in London.

As he left his little group of the men of his unit, all of whom loved him and all of whom his generous, brave heart held as brothers, instead of the usual "Good-by, boys, and good luck," he turned to them with a broad grin on his face and said: "To hell wid yez all!

May yez have to go over the top every damn noight whoile Oi'm away;" and with a wave of the hand, and amidst the laughter of his "byes," he started for the railhead.

But slangy sayings and swearing are not limited in use to the boys.

A Major Garwell was somewhat noted for this habit, and sometimes spat out remarks quite thoughtlessly in company in which it were better he had not done so.

On one occasion he had to interview a staid, dignified Major General Osborne of an English Corps to our left, and, differing in opinion with the latter, to the horror of the other officers present, he exclaimed vehemently without even knowing that he said it: "But, damn your eyes, Osborne, that trench should run the other way."

To everyone's surprise the Major General only stared at him, seeing no doubt that it was a slip of the tongue, and not intentional disrespect.

He also probably took into account the fact that the Major was a Canadian, from whom Englishmen hardly ever know what to expect in the line of discipline.

But a week later the English General showed that beneath a serious and dignified exterior he had a well-developed sense of humor.

He was again discussing some engineering problem with our gallant Major before much the same group of officers, and turning suddenly he blurted out: "But, damn your eyes, Garwell, I want this done my way."

The General himself and even Garwell joined in the roar of laughter which followed.

And now you have the reason that from that day to this the Canadian Major is always spoken of as "damn-your-eyes-Garwell."

CHAPTER VI JUST LOOKING ABOUT

At the front you never need to go beyond the day on which you write to find things of interest to tell those who have not known the life, who are so unfortunate as to have to remain hundreds, or perhaps thousands, of miles from the center of interest in the greatest game the world has ever known--the game of war--being played at this moment by all the highly cultured, civilized, and refined peoples of the world!

It is a bright spring day in May, 1917, for so-called Sunny France is trying to redeem herself after an abominable winter.

I am sitting on a tin biscuit box at the entrance of my R.

A.

P.

--regimental aid post--just on the outskirts of a ruined village.

Had I taken this position one month ago my stay in the land of the living would have lasted something under ten minutes, for then the German front line was about three hundred yards away.

But since that time the Battle of Vimy Ridge has come and gone, and the Germans are pushed back well beyond the ridge.

So it is comparatively safe to sit here, for the only danger is from a stray shell, as it happens at the moment the Huns are too busy defending themselves from a heavy assault from the Canadians on our right to send any shells this way.

This morning a number of villages opposite our right front are to be taken, and as I sit looking about our guns are firing so continuously that they make what the boys call drumfire, that is, a continuous roll such as kettledrums make.

Our artillery is so immense in numbers of guns that drumfire is common by day.

By night the sky on the horizon is lit up in all directions by the repeated flashes of the guns, giving the appearance of an immense fireworks exhibition.

All about me are the signs of war.

I am looking toward a mass of ruins which occupy the site of what was once a well-built and prosperous little city.

All that now remains of it is a stone wall here and there, and everywhere piles of stone and brick and mortar.

Not one roof remains.

There on the left, that high pile of demolished walls, is all that exists of a once elaborate church.

Amidst the ruins the cellars are occupied as habitations for the troops.

If you wander among them you will see some strange names given to their quarters by the wags of the companies--such names as The Devil's Inn, Home Sweet Home, The Savoy, The Sister Susie Hotel, and other such devices.

But there is one object amongst the ruins that strikes my eye.

It is two hundred yards from where I am seated.

It appears plainly to be the shattered trunk of a tree, two feet in diameter and twenty feet in height.

It is the largest in the vicinity of those that remain to wave their withered and emaciated arms in mocking derision at our so-called civilization.

Let us walk across to it together.

Until we are almost touching it we recognize nothing but a shattered tree-trunk.

On closer inspection we find that what appeared to be the bark is only a good paper imitation of bark, and its irregular upper end has been made by hand, not, as we had supposed, by the impact of a shell.

Behind the tree, at its root, is a passageway down which we go to find ourselves actually entering the trunk through a small door.

Looking up we see a perfectly made steel cylinder, up which steps lead to the top.

Here a seat is placed and an observer may look through a small slit in the steel casing and through a split in the imitation bark, getting a good view of things far in advance.

This is the explanation of this strange affair: A large tree which stood upon this spot had been shattered by a shell, the shattering having taken place when the Germans held Vimy Ridge.

This shattered tree was only four hundred yards from the enemy front line.

Months before the Battle of Vimy Ridge some quick-minded engineer noticed this tree, and the idea occurred that it could be utilized to good advantage.

The steel frame was made and covered in exact imitation of the tree trunk, all other arrangements made, and one night the tree was removed and this counterfeit of it was put up.

When day broke an observer was sitting comfortably in this strange observation post looking out upon the enemy trenches, watching the movements of the Germans, at the same time being safe from any danger except the straight hit of a shell.

Now let us return to our biscuit box and see what else there is of interest.

All about are sitting boys with red crosses on their sleeves.

They are stretcher bearers for a field ambulance.

Here and there is a gun position from which a bang and a flash come spasmodically, as the guns throw their lead and steel souvenirs at the Germans.

To our right as we face the enemy lines is a much used road, up which we can see motor lorries by the score pouring forward their loads of ammunition.

Then there are packmules, motor cyclists, ambulances and--a strange sight--cavalry are going forward.

Is the war changing from the old trench warfare of the past three years into open warfare of the past century?

Ah!

There is still another sight, and a pleasant one.

It is a group of German prisoners going to the rear, guarded by a couple of Tommies.

Word comes back that the attack which began some hours ago, and at which the guns are still mumbling and rumbling in anger, has been a success; the objectives have been reached and many prisoners taken, though the Huns are making a stiff stand of it.

Overhead aeroplanes are humming to and fro, looking far in advance of our troops, seeing the effects of our gunfire, signaling instructions to our artillery, watching the movements of the enemy, and generally acting as the eyes of the army.

In front of us, and to the left, is a crater--an immense hollow in the ground, caused by the explosion by the enemy or ourselves at some earlier stage of the war, of a huge load of dynamite, ammonal or some other high explosive.

This crater is situated in what was No Man's Land before April 9 and the great push, at which time it was used as a killing place for our enemies.

Now it is a burial place for our friends.

The French Government has notified us that if, in burying our dead, we will put the bodies in groups of fifty in each burial plot, they will buy the hallowed ground, keep it in repair, and present it to the British people.

And the corps burying party has utilized Lichfield Crater for this purpose, has gathered together fifty or sixty of our gallant dead, and deposited their sacred remains in this spot, erecting over the grave a large wooden cross with the names of the dead upon it.

In limestone they have laid out the following epitaph: To THE BRAVE CANADIANS OF THE SECOND DIVISION WHO GAVE UP THEIR LIVES ON

APRIL 9,1917.

R.

I. P.

What hallowed shrines these cemeteries of fifty will become after the war, when those whose loved ones paid their full measure of devotion in the cause of freedom are able to come to visit the deservedly honored graves of their husbands, fathers, sons, brothers, and sweethearts.

I visited this little cemetery this morning.

As I left it some Tommies passed with a large, red paper balloon sent across by the Germans with the message, "Canadians, we are ready to quit if you are."

But the Canadians, the British, the Americans, or the French, are not yet ready to quit!

Nor will they be till the day comes when Prussian militarism is curbed so thoroughly that your boys and mine will not have to give up their lives in conquering it ten years from now!

CHAPTER VII