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of cold steel wielded by a furious Irishman; but if the bayonet were in the hands of a soldier of any of the other British nationalities, his cry to the German that recoiled from its thrust would probably be "Receive the steel!" expressed in the rudest and roughest native idiom. The way of the Irish at Ginchy was different; and perhaps the renunciation of their revenge was not the least magnificent act of a glorious day.

"If we brained them on the spot, who could blame us? 'Tis ourselves that would think it no sin if it was done by anyone else," said a private of the Dublin Fusiliers. "Let me tell you," he went on, "what happened to myself. As I raced across the open with my comrades, jumping in and out of shell-holes, and the bullets flying thick around us, laying many a fine boy low, I said to myself, "This is going to be a fight to the last gasp for those of us that get to the Germans.' As I came near to the trenches, I picked a man out for myself. Straight in front of me, he was, leaning out of the trench, and he with a rifle firing away at us as if we were rabbits. I made for him with my bayonet ready, determined to give him what he deserved, when-what do you think?didn't he notice me and what I was up to! Dropping his rifle he raised himself up in the trench and stretched out his hands towards me. What could you do in that case, but what I did? Sure, you wouldn't have the heart to strike him down, even if he were to kill you. I caught sight of his eyes, and there was such a frightened and pleading look in them, that I at once lowered my rifle, and took him by the hand, saying, 'You're my prisoner!' I don't suppose he understood a word of what I said; but he clung to me, crying, 'Kamerad, Kamerad!' I was more glad than ever that I hadn't the blood of him on my

soul. "Tis a queer thing to say, maybe, of a man who acted like that; but, all the same, he looked a decent boy, every bit of him. I suppose the truth of it is this: We soldiers on both sides have to go through such terrible experiences that there is no accounting for how we may behave. We might be devils, all out, in the morning, and saints, no less, in the evening."

The relations between the trenches include even attempts at an exchange of repartee. The wit, as may be supposed, in such circumstances, is invariably ironic and sarcastic. My examples are Irish, for the reason that I have had most to do with Irish soldiers, but they may be taken as fairly representative of the taunts and pleasantries which are often bandied across No Man's Land. The Germans, holding part of their line in Belgium, got to know that the British trenches opposite them were being held by an Irish battalion. "Hello, Irish!" they cried. "How is King Carson getting on, and have you got Home Rule yet?" The company sergeant-major, a big Tipperary man, was selected to make the proper reply, and, in order that it might be fully effective, he sent it through a megaphone which the colonel was accustomed to use in addressing the battalion on parade. "Hello, Gerrys!" he called out. "I'm thinking it isn't information ye want, but divarshion; but 'tis information I'll be after giving ye, all the same. Later on we'll be sending ye some fun that'll make ye laugh at the other side of yer mouths. The last we heard of Carson, he was prodding the Government like the very devil to put venom into their blows at ye, and more power to his elbow while he's at that work, say we. As for Home Rule, we mean to have it, and we'll get it, please God, when ye're licked. Put that in yer pipes, and smoke it!"

The two names for the Germans in use among the Irish troops are "Gerrys" and (a corruption of the French "allemand" for German) "Alleymans." Once, when the Irish Guards were in the firing-line, they could see, by means of a mirror stuck up on the parados (the earth elevation rearward of the trench), a big, fat, elderly German soldier, with a thick gray mustache frequently pottering about the German trenches. He took the fancy of the Irish, for the reason that he appeared to them to be typically German. They could have shot him, had they chosen; but they preferred to make a pet of him, and every time he appeared they shouted together: "Good man, Alleyman"; so that he soon came to know the greeting and would bow his head with a smile towards the British lines. A day came when there was no "Alleyman," and the Irish Guards began to fear that some harm had befallen him. "Maybe some bla'guard of a sniper in another part of the lines has shot the dacent man," they said. Then it struck them to try whether a loud call for their favorite would bring him again into view. They raised a shout in unison of "We-want-Alleyman," and in about five minutes the rotund figure of the German appeared on the top of the parapet, smilingly bowing his acknowledgment of the great honor done him by his friends, the enemy. Great was the relief of the Irish Guards, and they raised a joyful cry of "Good man, Alleyman."

Of all the horrible features of the war surely the most heartrending is the fate of the wounded lying without succor in the open between the opposing lines, owing to the inability of the higher command on both sides to agree to an arrangement for a short suspension of hostilities after an engagement, so that the stricken might be brought in. Prone in the mud and slush they

lie, during the cruel winter weather, with the rain pouring down upon them, their moans of agony in the darkness of the night mingling with the cold blasts that howl around them. But, thanks to the loving kindness of man for his fellow, even in war, these unfortunate creatures are not deserted. British soldiers without number have voluntarily crept out into No Man's Land to rescue them, often under murderous fire from the enemy. Many of the Victoria Crosses won in this war have been awarded for conspicuous gallantry displayed in these most humane and chivalrous enterprises.

Happily, also, brief informal truces are not infrequently come to between the opposing forces at particular sections of the lines, so that one or other, or both, may bring in, after a raid, their wounded and their slain. One of the most uplifting stories I have heard was told me by a captain of the Royal Irish Fusiliers. Out there in front of the trench held by his company lay a figure in khaki writhing in pain and wailing for help. "Will no one come to me?" he cried, in a voice broken with anguish. He had been disabled in the course of a raid on the German trenches the night before by a battalion which was relieved in the morning. These appeals of his were like stabs to the compassionate hearts of the Irish Fusiliers. Several of them told the captain they could stand it no longer, and must go out to the wounded man. If they were shot in the attempt, what matter! It happened that a little dog was then making himself quite at home in both the British and German trenches at this part of the line. He was a neutral; he took no sides; he regularly crossed from one to the other, and found in both friends to give him food and a kind word with a pat on the head. The happy thought came to the captain to make a messenger of the dog.

So he wrote: "May we take our wounded man in?" tied the note to the dog's tail, and sent him to the German trenches. The message was in English, for the captain did not know German, and had to trust to the chance of the enemy being able to read it. In a short time the dog returned with the answer. It was in English, and it ran: "Yes; you can have five minutes." So the captain and a man went out with a stretcher, and brought the poor fellow back to our lines. Then, standing on the top of the parapet, the captain took off his hat, and called out: "Give the Germans three hearty cheers, boys." The response was most enthusiastic. With the cheers were mingled such cries as: "Sure, the Gerrys are not all bad chaps, after all," and "May the heavens be the bed of those of them we may kill." More than that, the incident brought tears to many a man's eyes on the Irish side; and, it maybe, on the German side, too. Certainly answering cheers came from their trenches.

Some of these understandings are come to by a sort of telepathic suggestion inspired by the principle of "live and let live," however incongruous that may seem in warfare. As an instance, recuperative work, such as the bringing up of food to the firing lines, is often allowed to go on in comparative quietude. Neither side cares to stand on guard in the trenches on an empty stomach. Often, therefore, firing is almost entirely suspended in the early hours of the night when it is known that rations are being distributed. That is not the way everywhere and always. A private of the Royal Irish Regiment told me that what he found most aggravating in the trenches was the fusillading by the Germans when the men were getting ready a bit to eat. "I suppose," he remarked, "'twas the smell of the frying bacon that put their dandher

up." But even defensive work has been allowed to proceed without interference, when carried on simultaneously by both sides. Heavy rain, following a hard frost, turned the trenches in the Ypres district into a chaos of ooze and slime. "How deep is it with you?" a German soldier shouted across to the British. "Up to our knees, bedad," was the reply. "You are lucky fellows. We're up to our belts in it," said the German. Driven to desperation by their hideous discomfort the Germans soon after crawled up on to their parapets, and sat there to dry and stretch their legs, calling out: "Kamerads, don't shoot; don't shoot, Kamerads." The reply of the Irish was to get out of their trenches and do likewise. On another occasion, in the broad daylight, unarmed parties of men on both sides, by a tacit agreement, set about repairing their respective barbed-wire entanglements. They were no more than fifteen or twenty yards apart. The wiring party on the British side belonged to the Munster Fusiliers. Being short of mallets, one of the Munsters coolly walked across to the enemy, and said: "Good morrow, Gerrys. Would any of ye be so kind as to lend me the loan of a hammer?" The Germans received him with smiles, but, as they did not know English, they were unable to understand what he wanted, until he made it clear by pantomimic action, when he was given the hammer "with a heart and a half," as he put it himself. Having repaired the defenses of his Own trench he brought back the hammer to the Germans, and thought he might give them "a bit of his mind," without offense, as they did not know what he was saying. "Here's your hammer, and thanks," said he. "High hanging to the man that caused this war-ye know who I meanand may we be all soon busily at

work hammering nails into his coffin."

Many touching stories might be told of the sympathy which unites the combatants when they find themselves lying side by side, wounded and helpless, in shell-holes and copses, or on the open plain after an engagement. The ruling spirit which animates the soldier in the fury of the fight is, as it seems to me, that of self-preservation. He kills or disables so that he may not be killed or disabled himself. Each side, in their own opinion, are waging a purely defensive war. So it is that the feeling of hostility subsides, once the sense of danger is removed by the enemy being put out of action, and each side sees in its captives not devils or barbarians, but fellow men. Especially among the wounded, British and Germans, do these sentiments prevail, as they lie stricken together on the field of battle. In a dim way they pitifully regard each other as hapless victims caught in the vortex of the greatest of human tragedies, and they sometimes wonder why it was they fought each other at all. They try to help each other, to ease each other's sufferings, to staunch each other's wounds; to give each other comfort in their sore distress.

"Poor devil; unnerved by shell shock," was the comment passed as a wounded German was being carried by on a stretcher sobbing as if his heart would break. It was not the roar of the artillery and the bursting of high explosives that had unnerved him, but the self-sacrifice of a Dublin Fusilier who in succoring him lost his own life. At the hospital the German related that on recovering his senses after being shot he found the Dublin Fusilier trying to staunch the wound in his shattered leg, from which blood was flowing profusely. The Irishman undid the field-dressing, consisting of bandage and antiseptic preparation, which

LIVING AGE, VOL. VII, No. 318.

he had wrapped round his own wound and applied it to the German as he appeared to be in danger of bleeding to death. Before the two men were discovered by a British stretcher party the Dublin Fusilier had passed away. He developed blood-poisoning through his exposed wound. The German, on hearing the news, broke down and wept bitterly.

Reconciliation between wounded foemen is, happily, a common occurrence on the stricken plain. The malignant roar of the guns may still be in their ears, and they may see around them bodies battered and twisted out of all human shape. All the more are they anxious to testify that there is no fury in their hearts with each other, and that their one wish is to make the supreme parting with prayers and words of loving kindness on their lips. I have had from a French officer, who was wounded in a cavalry charge early in the war, an account of a pathetic incident which took place close to where he lay. Among his companions in affliction were two

who were far gone on the way to death. One was a private in the Uhlans and the other a private in the Royal Irish Dragoons. The Irishman got, with a painful effort, from an inside pocket of his tunic a rosary of beads which had a crucifix attached to it. Then he commenced to mutter to himself the invocations to the Blessed Virgin, of which the Rosary is composed. "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus." The German, lying huddled close by, stirred with the uneasy movements of a man weak from pain and loss of blood on hearing the murmur of prayer, and, looking round in a dazed condition, the sight of the beads in the hands of his fellow in distress seemed to recall to his mind other times and different circumstances

-family prayers at home somewhere in Bavaria, and Sunday evening devotions in church-for he made, in his own tongue, the response to the invocation: "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now at the hour of our death. Amen." So the voices intermingled in address and prayer the rapt ejaculations of the Irishman, the deep guttural of the The Contemporary Review.

CHAPTER III.

German-getting weaker and weaker, in the process of dissolution, until they were hushed on earth forevermore.

War has, outwardly, lost its romance with its color and pageantry. It is bloody, ugly, and horrible. Yet romance is not dead. It still survives, radiant and glowing, in the heroic achievements of our soldiers, and in the tender fancies of their hearts. Stephen Stapleton.

CHRISTINA'S SON. BY W. M. LETTS.

During the next weeks Christina passed through that curious stage which follows an engagement. She experienced to the full Society's convention.

Popular interest has always been concentrated on those who are about to marry or about to die. The marriage jest is presumably as ancient as the world; perhaps the serpent made it originally at the expense of Adam and Eve. No amount of experience of the profound solemnity and danger of this union of two lives frightens Society out of its jesting and congratulation.

Christina was now a being set apart. Those who had seen her as what she was, a very ordinary young woman, looked at her with new interest. Other women gazed at her with a sort of awe. She had, as it were, passed a competitive examination; some one had found her meet to be a life partner. Her diamond ring was the hall-mark of success.

They came, week by week, ringing at the bell and asking if Mrs. Merridew were at home. They had come to congratulate both mother and daughter. They sipped their tea and gazed at Christina. When they said goodbye they pressed her hand and said, "How happy you must be."

"How silly," thought Christina; "they must know that I'm miserable."

Letters came by every post. All her brothers wrote, and her three sisters-in-law.

"What good news," they said; "we do congratulate you. How happy you must be." The servants treated Christina with new respect. They loved to see her ring flash. She was no longer ordinary, she was interesting and romantic, and inspired others with hope, for if Christina, why not these others?

Those who knew Mark Travis congratulated her sincerely. "He's a good fellow," they said; "you'll be happy with him."

Her real thoughts and feelings the girl kept to herself. She shrank from discussing them with her mother. For it seemed to her that Mrs. Merridew had forgotten the standpoint of youth. Christina believed but halfheartedly in the tepid, cautious judgments of old age. Yet she realized that generation after generation comes to the same conclusion, and that always the old have given the same counsels to heedless youth.

Christina's only comforter was her old school friend, Margaret Bailey, who lived near by. Margaret knew her as thoroughly as one schoolgirl knows another. They had looked into

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