SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON,
KENT & CO. LTD., 4 STATIONERS'
HALL COURT : : LONDON, E.C.
Copyright
First published April 1917
There has been so much written about the trenches, there are so many warphotographs, so many cinema films, that one might well hesitate beforeeven mentioning the war—to try to write a book about it is, I fear, toincur the censure of the many who are tired of hearing about bombs andbullets, and who prefer to read of peace, and games, and flirtations.
But, for that very reason, I venture to think that even so indifferent awar book as mine will not come entirely amiss. When the Lean Years areover, when the rifle becomes rusty, and the khaki is pushed away in someremote cupboard, there is great danger that the hardships of the men inthe trenches will too soon be forgotten. If, to a minute extent,anything in these pages should help to bring home to people what warreally is, and to remind them of their debt of gratitude, then theselittle sketches will have justified their existence.
Besides, I am not entirely responsible for this little book. Not longago, I met a man—fit, single, and young—who began to grumble to me ofthe hardships of his "funkhole" in England, and, incidentally, tobelittle the hardships of the man at the front. After I had told himexactly what I thought of him, I was still so indignant that I came homeand began to write a book about the trenches. Hence Mud and Khaki. Tohim, then, the blame for this minor horror of war. I wash my hands ofit.
And I try to push the blame off on to him, for I realise that I haveundertaken an impossible task—the most practised pen cannot convey areal notion of the life at the front, as the words to describe war donot exist. Even you who have lost your husbands and brothers, yourfathers and sons, can have but the vaguest impression of the cruel,thirsty claws that claimed them as victims. First must you see theshattered cottages of France and Belgium, the way in which the womenclung to their homes in burning Ypres, the long streams of refugeeswheeling their poor little lares et penates, their meagre treasures,on trucks and handcarts; first must you listen to the cheery joke thatthe Angel of Death finds on the lips of the soldier, to the songs thatencourage you in the dogged marches through the dark and the mud, to thetalk during the long nights when the men collect round the brazier fireand think of their wives and kiddies at home, of murky streets in theEast End, of quiet country inns where the farmers gather of an evening.
No words, then, can give an exact picture of these things, but they mayhelp to give colour to your impressions. Heaven forbid that, by tellingthe horrors of war, the writers of books should make pessimists of thoseat home! Heaven forbid that they should belittle the dangers andhardships, and so take away some of the glory due to "Tommy" for all hehas suffered for the Motherland! There is a happy mean—the men at thefront have found it; they know that death is near, but they can stilllaugh and sing.
In these sketches and stories I have tried, with but little success, tokeep that happy mean in view. If the pictures are very feeble in designwhen compared to the many other, and far better, works on the samesubject, remember, reader, that the intention is good, and accept thisapology for wasting your time.
A few of these sketches and articles hav