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  SERVANTS OF THE GUNS

  BY

  JEFFERY E. JEFFERY


      _By the ears and the eyes and the brain,
        By the limbs and the hands and the wings,
      We are slaves to our masters the guns,
        But their slaves are the masters of kings!_
                                          GILBERT FRANKAU.


  LONDON SMITH, ELDER & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE

  1917

  [_All rights reserved_]


  PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED LONDON AND BECCLES,
  ENGLAND


  _TO

  ONE WHO KNOWS NOTHING OF GUNS

  BUT MUCH OF LIFE

  MY MOTHER_




  CONTENTS


  PART I

  THE NEW "UBIQUE"

  BEGINNING AGAIN
  A BATTERY IN BEING
  "IN THE LINE"
  SPIT AND POLISH
  A BATTLE


  PART II

  AND THE OLD

  BILFRED
  "THE PROGRESS OF PICKERSDYKE"
  SNATTY
  FIVE-FOUR-EIGHT


  PART III

  IN ENEMY HANDS

  SOME EXPERIENCES OF A PRISONER OF WAR
  HENRY




PART I

THE NEW "UBIQUE"




BEGINNING AGAIN


As the long troop train rumbled slowly over the water-logged wastes of
Flanders, I sat in the corner of a carriage which was littered with all
the _debris_ of a twenty-four hours' journey and watched the fiery
winter's sun set gorgeously. It was Christmas evening. Inevitably my
mind went back to that other journey of sixteen months ago when we set
forth so proudly, so exultantly to face the test of war.

But how different, how utterly different is everything now! Last time,
with the sun shining brilliantly from a cloudless sky and the French
sentries along the line waving enthusiastically, we passed cheerfully
through the pleasant land of France towards our destination on the
frontier. I was a subaltern then, a subordinate member of a battery
which, according to pre-war standards, was equipped and trained to
perfection--and I can say this without presumption, for having only
joined it in July I had had no share in the making of it. But I had
been in it long enough to appreciate its intense _esprit-de-corps_, long
enough to share the absolute confidence in its efficiency which inspired
every man in it from the major to the second trumpeter.

But now it is midwinter, the second winter of the war, and the French
sentries no longer wave to us, for they have seen too many train-loads
of English troops to be more than mildly interested. The war to which we
set out so light-heartedly sixteen months ago has proved itself to be
not the "greatest of games," but the greatest of all ghastly horrors
threatening the final disruption of civilised humanity. More than a year
has passed and the end is not in sight. But the cause is as righteous,
the victory as certain now as it was then.... The methods and practice
of warfare have been revolutionised. Theory after theory has been
disproved by the devastating power of the high explosive and the giant
gun. Horse and field batteries no longer dash into action to the music
of jingling harness and thudding hoofs. They creep in by night with
infinite precautions and place their guns in casemates which are often
ten feet thick; they occupy the same position not for hours, but for
months at a time; they fire at targets which are sometimes only fifty
yards or even less in front of their own infantry, with the knowledge
that the smallest error may mean death to their comrades; and the
control of their shooting is no longer an affair of good eyesight and
common sense, but of science, complicated instruments, and a
multiplicity of telephones.

And I, a novice at all this kind of work, am no longer a subaltern. I am
directly responsible for the welfare and efficiency of the battery which
this long train is bearing into the zone of war. How we fare when we get
there, what kind of tasks are allotted to us, and how we succeed in
coping with them I hope to record in due course. But this I know
now--the human material with which I have to deal is good enough. We
have the advantage of being a homogeneous unit, for we belong to one of
the "locally raised" divisions. With only a very few exceptions (notably
the sergeant-major, who is a "serving soldier" of vast proportions and
great merit), the N.C.O.'s and men all come from the same district. Many
of them were acquainted in private life and enlisted in little coteries
of five or six. Christian names are freely used, which is fortunate
seeing that we have four Jones', five Davies', and no less than eight
Evans' on our roll. In moments of excitement or of anger they resort to
their own language and encourage or abuse each other in voluble
Welsh....

A few miles back we passed G.H.Q. I was vaguely impressed with the
silent dignity, the aloofness, as it were, of that now celebrated place.
Our train drew up in the station, which seemed as deserted as that of a
small English country town on a Sunday. "Here, within a mile of me," I
thought, "dwell the Powers that Be, whose brains control the destinies
of a million men. Here somewhere is the individual who knows my
destination and when I am likely to get to it." But this surmise proved
incorrect. It was three-thirty on Christmas afternoon and even the staff
must lunch. Presently a R.T.O.[1] issued from a cosy-looking office and
crossed the line towards me. His first question was positively painful
in its naive simplicity.

[1] Railway Transport Officer.

"Who are _you_?" he inquired haughtily. My reply was not only correct
but dignified. "We know nothing about you," he said. "The staff officer
who should have been here to give you your instructions is away at
present." (I think I mentioned that it was Christmas Day!)

"Never mind," I replied, "but would it be disturbing your arrangements
at all if I watered my horses and gave my men some food here? They've
had nothing since last night, and the horses have been ten hours without
water."

"No time for that. You'll leave in two minutes."

And sure enough in half an hour we were off again!...

When, soon after five, we learnt that we were within a few minutes of
our journey's end I leant across and woke "The Child"--who is my junior
subaltern. If this war had not come to pass the Child would probably be
enjoying his Christmas holidays and looking forward to his last term at
his public school. Actually, he has already nine months' service, of
which three have been spent at the front. He has been home wounded and
is now starting out again as a veteran to whom less experienced persons
refer their doubts and queries. Last week he celebrated his eighteenth
birthday. He is the genuine article, that is he holds a regular
commission and has passed through "the Shop."[2] His clothes fit him,
his aspirates appear in the right places, he is self-possessed,
competent, level-headed and not infrequently amusing. Of his particular
type of manhood (or rather boyhood) he is a fine