Sir John Ernest Hodder Williams - One Young Man
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Sir John Ernest Hodder Williams >> One Young Man
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ONE YOUNG MAN
Published in 1917 by Hodder & Stoughton Ltd.
_The simple and true story of a clerk who
enlisted in 1914, who fought on the Western
Front for nearly two years, was severely
wounded at the Battle of the Somme, and
is now on his way back to his desk_
Edited by
SIR ERNEST HODDER-WILLIAMS, C.V.O.,
Author of
"The Life of Sir George Williams."
Printed for private circulation
Printed in Great Britain by
C. F. Roworth Ltd., 88 Fetter Lane, London, E.C.4
TO THE GREATLY BELOVED MEMORY
OF
ONE YOUNG MAN
WHO FOUNDED THE Y.M.C.A.
MY UNCLE
SIR GEORGE WILLIAMS
FOREWORD
I am glad that this very personal little book is to be re-published,
if only for private circulation, for it rings as true to-day as it did
yesterday.
It tells the story of one young man in the Great War, but, in fact, it
reveals no less the personality of the writer who knit the young man's
story together.
The young man continues--the writer has passed on.
My brother is revealed here, not as the famous publisher, but as a man
whose sympathy was so quick and passionate that he literally lived the
suffering and trials of others.
It is this living sympathy, given so freely, that lies like a wreath
of everlasting flowers on his memory now.
It is no longer a secret that the real name of the "Sydney Baxter" of
this story is Reginald Davis; and those of us who know him and have
watched every step of his progress, from his first small job of the
"pen and ledger" to the Secretaryship of a great Company, are
astonished at the understanding and accuracy of this portrayal of a
young man's inner self and outer deeds.
It is true that Sir Ernest Hodder-Williams did little more than
comment on the diary written by Davis himself. But how well he
explains it; how well he reads into its touching cheerfulness and its
splendid sorrow the eternal truth that only by suffering and obedience
can the purposes of God and man be fulfilled.
Davis has won his spurs. He bears the marks of his service in the
Great War with honour and with never a complaint. His old chief and
chronicler was proud of him then. He would be proud of him to-day.
R. PERCY HODDER-WILLIAMS.
CONTENTS
PAGE
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCES ONE YOUNG MAN 3
CHAPTER II
ONE YOUNG MAN JOINS THE ARMY 15
CHAPTER III
ONE YOUNG MAN IN CAMP 21
CHAPTER IV
ONE YOUNG MAN ON ACTIVE SERVICE 31
CHAPTER V
ONE YOUNG MAN AT HILL 60 41
CHAPTER VI
ONE YOUNG MAN RECEIVES A LETTER 57
CHAPTER VII
ONE YOUNG MAN IN THE SALIENT 65
CHAPTER VIII
ONE YOUNG MAN'S SUNDAY 71
CHAPTER IX
ONE YOUNG MAN ON TREK 79
CHAPTER X
ONE YOUNG MAN ANSWERS QUESTIONS 91
CHAPTER XI
ONE YOUNG MAN'S LEAVE 99
CHAPTER XII
ONE YOUNG MAN AGAIN IN THE TRENCHES 105
CHAPTER XIII
ONE YOUNG MAN GETS A "BLIGHTY" 119
Introduces One Young Man
ONE YOUNG MAN
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCES ONE YOUNG MAN
The boys in the office were, I fancy, a bit prejudiced against him
before he arrived. It wasn't his fault, for he was a stranger to them
all, but it got about that the dear old "chief" had decided to engage
a real good Sunday-school boy. Someone had heard him say, or, more
likely, thought it would be funny to imagine him saying, that the
advent of such a boy might "improve the general tone" of the place.
That, you'll admit, was pretty rough on Sydney Baxter--the boy in
question. Now Sydney Baxter is not his real name, but this I can vouch
is his true story. For the most part it is told exactly in his own
words. You'll admit its truth when you have read it, for there isn't a
line in it which will stretch your imagination a hair's breadth. It's
the plain unvarnished tale of an average young man who joined the
army because he considered it his duty--who fought for many months.
That's why I am trying to record it; for if I tell it truly I shall
have written the story of many thousands--I shall have written a page
of the nation's history.
And so I need not warn you at the beginning that this book does _not_
end with a V.C. and cheering throngs. It may possibly end with wedding
bells, but you will agree there's nothing out of the common about
that--and a good job too.
I think on the whole I will keep Sydney Baxter's real name to myself.
For one thing he is still in the army; for another he is expected back
at the same office when he is discharged from hospital. It's rather
beginning at the wrong end to mention the hospital at this stage, but,
as I've done so, I'd better explain that after going unscathed through
Ypres and Hill 60, and all the trench warfare that followed, Sydney
Baxter was wounded in nine places at the first battle of the Somme on
that ever-glorious and terrible first of July. He is, as I write,
waiting for a glass eye; he has a silver plate where part of his
frontal bone used to be; is minus one whole finger, and the best part
of a second. He is deep scarred from his eyelid to his hair. I can
tell you he looks as if he had been through it. Well, he has.
He was nicknamed "Gig-lamps" in the office. He wore large spectacles
and his face was unhealthily lacking in traces of the open air. He was
in demeanour a very typical son of religious parents--well brought up,
shielded, shepherded, a little spoiled, a little soft perhaps, and
maybe a trifle self-consciously righteous. A good boy, a home boy. No
need for me to pile on the adjectives--you know exactly the kind of
chap he was. One more thing, however, and very important--he had a
sense of humour and he was uniformly good tempered and willing. That
is why, in a short time, the prejudice of the office gave way to open
approval. "Young Baxter may be a 'pi' youth, but he's quick at his
job, and nothing's too much trouble for him," said his boss. And
against their previous judgment the boys liked him. He could see a
joke. He was a good sort.
Curiously enough it was the Y.M.C.A. that first introduced Sydney
Baxter to what, for want of a better term, we will call the sporting
side of life. There's a fine sporting side to every real Englishman's
life--don't let there be any mistake about that. "He is a sportsman"
is not, as a few excellent people seem to believe, a term of reproach.
It is one of the highest honours conferred on an officer by the men he
commands. And in the ranks "a good sport" is often another way of
spelling "a hero."
It was, as I say, at the Y.M.C.A. that this one young man was first
taken out of himself and his quiet home surroundings, first became
interested in the convivialities of life. In those days, to be quite
frank about it, a certain settled staidness of demeanour, a decided
aloofness from the outside world, marked many religious households. A
book of unexceptional moral tone, and probably containing what was
known as "definite teaching," was the main relaxation after working
hours--that, and an occasional meeting and some secretarial work for a
religious or charitable society. Companions, if any, were very
carefully chosen by the parents. Well, war has changed all that--it
has even chosen our very bed-fellows for us. And no questions to be
asked, either.
It is often assumed by those who know no better that such a home as
Sydney Baxter's produces either prigs or profligates. As a matter of
fact, one of the reasons of this book is to prove that out of such a
home may come, I believe often does come, the best type of
Englishman--a Christian sportsman, a man who fights all the better for
his country because he has been taught from childhood to fear God and
hate iniquity.
But it was well for Sydney Baxter that he prepared for the chances and
quick changes of his military life by learning how to make the best of
his hitherto hidden gift of companionship.
This is how it came about. He writes:
"One afternoon in early autumn a card was put into the hands
of every young man in our office, inviting us to a tea and
social evening at the Y.M.C.A. Headquarters. The chaps said
to me, 'Of course _you_ are going, Baxter?' and I answered,
'Why not?' They, however, seemed to be of the opinion that
the tea was, more or less, a bait to a prayer-meeting or
something of that kind. However, several went, expecting,
and preparing themselves for, the worst. We were welcomed by
a group of gentlemen who seemed to be possessors of smiles
of permanency; they conducted us to a large room already
well filled with others like ourselves, whom we incorrectly
judged to be members, as they seemed to be quite at home. In
every corner of the room were lounge chairs and on the
tables games of all description. Here and there small groups
were being entertained by the members, and, judging by the
unrestrained merriment, they were proving themselves very
capable hosts.
"We were told to make ourselves absolutely at home; and
although we entered with zest into all that was going on, I
don't think really that we quite lost the feeling that a
prayer-meeting was bound to follow. Much to our surprise no
one came up and spoke to us about our souls; indeed our
hosts led the way into all the fun that was going, and none
of them had the milk-and-bun expression of countenance that
we had conjured up in our mind's eye. You can see what our
conception of Y.M.C.A. members was. We imagined them a
narrow-minded set of some mild kind of religious fanatics."
I promised a veracious chronicle, and I am quoting Sydney Baxter word
for word. I am inclined to believe that here he is expressing his
companions' anxieties rather than his own.
"The tea gong sounded and our hosts led the way to another
large room, and upon the tables was a sumptuous spread.
Being young men we did full justice to it, and throughout
the whole of tea time this same atmosphere of sociability
surrounded us.
"After tea we were escorted to the lecture room, and,
although it is too long ago to remember who the speakers
were, and what the subjects, I do know it was most
enjoyable. At the conclusion we were given a hearty welcome
to come and use the rooms every evening for reading,
writing, or social intercourse and games. The following
morning in the office we all agreed that we had had a most
enjoyable evening, and that we had badly misjudged the
Y.M.C.A. A few of us took advantage of the invitation and
went again, and received the same warm welcome and had
another enjoyable evening. Shortly afterwards three of us
joined the Association. Until this time I had no idea of the
magnitude of the Association's work; my idea was that little
existed outside of the Headquarters and the smaller branches
over the country. This was some eight years ago. Now every
one knows the Y.M.C.A. I soon got into the stream and found
I was in the midst of a large number of football, cricket,
swimming, and rowing enthusiasts. The teams that the
Association clubs put into the field and on the river were
very strong. The sports side of the Y.M.C.A. was indeed a
revelation."
So it was that Sydney Baxter's evenings and week-ends were often spent
with his fellows in various Y.M.C.A. organisations. He was anxious to
get on, and the Association classes helped him, too, in his business
education. Ambitious of advancement in the office, he had noted that
his schooling was lacking in certain essentials if he was to be fit
when the opportunity arrived. He rose quickly in the business and was
soon doing responsible work. He was one of those fellows who get ready
for the time when their chance may come. It always does come to such
as Sydney Baxter.
The Association tackled the holiday problem for this young man too.
This is how he describes his first visit to one of the Y.M.C.A.
hotels. He calls them hotels himself, and I am not surprised, for such
they really are. A "home," though a beautiful word, does not, somehow,
in this connection convey the proper idea of these Y.M.C.A. holiday
resorts. "A home from home"--well you know!
"I went down entirely on my own. I was at that time a very
reserved chap, and I had misgivings as to the probability of
making chums. I shared my room with a young Frenchman, who
fortunately could speak English quite well, and thus we were
saved embarrassing silence and aloofness.
"Tea gong sounded, and as we made our way into the passage
we were literally carried along in the stream of young men,
newcomers in their lounge suits, the others mostly in
flannels. On we swept, down the stairs into the large
dining-hall. Sit where you please, act as if you had been
here all your life and treat everyone as an old pal, seemed
to be the order of the day, and in that atmosphere it was
impossible to feel anything but quite at home. Before tea
was over we new arrivals were infected with the same spirit
of joviality, and were ready for the first 'rag.'
"I was shown the house and grounds by an old boarder. In
addition to the lounge, writing and smoking-rooms, there was
a dark-room for developing, a fully rigged 'gym,' and
billiard-room; and so, in inclement weather, every amusement
was at hand. In the grounds were tennis courts and croquet
lawns.
"Every week drives were arranged to the beauty-spots and
historical places round about, but I appreciated most the
facilities offered by a temporary membership of the boating
club for the absurdly small sum of 3_s._ 6_d._ per week. For
this one could have a skiff or, if a party, a large boat,
any day for any length of time, bathing costume and fishing
tackle thrown in. I took full advantage of this, and most
mornings and afternoons were spent on the water. We used to
pull over to the obsolete battleships that lay in the
stretch of water between us and the mainland. Here we would
tether up and turn the gangway into a diving platform. Happy
indeed were these days spent with companions who were in
every sense of the word sportsmen and gentlemen."
Sportsmen and gentlemen--a new designation, perhaps, to some who have
judged these Y.M.C.A. members by hearsay only. It's Sydney Baxter's
not mine. And he ought to know well what the words mean after two
years in a line regiment at the front.
One Young Man Joins the Army
CHAPTER II
ONE YOUNG MAN JOINS THE ARMY
Sydney Baxter was most decidedly getting on in business. And then the
war came. I do not want you to have the impression that, at this time,
he was one of those sturdy, strapping young fellows who gladly rushed
into the ranks for the very joy of fighting. There were thousands of
them, I know, a glorious breed, but Sydney Baxter was not of that
build. So that there may be no mistake let me give his own words. They
are frank enough to be convincing.
"When war fell upon Europe I was one of those foolish people
who imagined that the Kaiser and his army would be
completely crushed before Xmas, 1914. For the first two
months I never gave a thought to the possibility of my
becoming a soldier. I couldn't imagine myself with a rifle
and bayonet chasing Huns, or standing the rough-and-ready
life of the soldier, and the thought of blood was horrible.
I had worn glasses since I was a boy of twelve, and for
that reason, among others, I had not learnt the art of
self-defence where quickness of vision is half the battle.
From appearances and manners one would have ticketed me as a
Conscientious Objector. I thank God I had not _that_
conception of my duty to Him."
And so Sydney Baxter went on with his work. There was plenty to do.
Reservists had been called up. Opportunities of advancement were many.
Some must stay and "keep the home fires burning." You know all the
arguments, all the self-justification of those days. His chance had
undoubtedly arrived. He was badly needed in the office. You shall read
his own confession.
"It was well into October before I realised the Call to Arms
was a personal one, and that the Hun was not so easily to be
beaten. The treatment of the Belgians hit me very hard, and,
but for my home circumstances, I should have donned khaki
straight away. My position was just this. My father had died
some few months before, and left to my care my mother and my
sister. Their protection was my solemn charge--there was no
doubt about it in my mind. And yet, what was my duty? To
fight--or to stay and look after our little home? It is a
problem that thousands of us young men have had to wrestle
with, and for several days I wrestled with it alone. Mother
was purely neutral; she refused to influence me either way.
Mother-like she could not encourage my going, but she would
never lift a finger to deter me. Her answer was that it was
entirely a matter of what _I_ conscientiously felt was my
foremost duty. I never went near a recruiting meeting, so
that I should not be carried away by enthusiasm to the
recruiting office. I must decide when my thoughts were cool
and collected. The second week in November brought the
climax. I knew my duty was to fight.
"So I enlisted in a London Territorial Regiment whose first
battalion was already in France and would require frequent
drafts. I did not hesitate about joining a fighting unit.
Other units are very necessary, but I wouldn't let another
man do _my_ fighting for me. I had some difficulty about a
slightly weak heart caused by a severe illness a few years
before. However, with the words that 'the life would either
make or break me,' I was accepted for active service."
I am told that Sydney Baxter omits one thing here. Unlike so many in
those early days, when he announced to the chief that he had joined,
he asked no question about any possible allowance. He asked no advice,
he suggested no help. He just joined. All he said was, "I felt I had
to go, sir, and my mother says it will be all right. She says she will
be able to manage quite well." Let me pay my tribute to this one young
man's mother. There are so many like her that I pay it to thousands.
Not only did she refuse to put obstacles in the way, but she would
have no bargaining with patriotism. "She would manage quite well." It
meant more boarders in the little home, it meant the breaking up of
the old sweet privacy and quietude of the household, but--she would
manage quite well. God knows the heartache and the sorrow behind the
sacrifice she and the thousands like her have made--surely a sacrifice
very acceptable in His sight.
One Young Man in Camp
CHAPTER III
ONE YOUNG MAN IN CAMP
Within a fortnight this one young man was in camp at Crowborough. The
contrast to his previous life as a city clerk, where mud was unknown
and wet feet a rare occurrence, was marked indeed. The camp was
sodden, the mud ankle-deep, and, what with that and the cold November
weather, times were pretty stiff. He writes home:
"Our camp is about a foot deep in mud and slosh, and every
time you go out your boots are covered and you have to be
careful or you slip over.
"Our huts are like Church Missions. There are sixty-one
fellows in this one, and all along the sides are our
mattresses which we fold up. They are made of straw and are
really very comfortable. The only drawback is that in the
morning you find your toes sticking out at the other end of
the bed. I must tell you how these beds are made. There are
three planks about six feet in length, and these are placed
side by side on two trestles about ten inches high. They
give us three blankets, very thick and warm, and you can
roll them round yourself.
"Right down the centre of the room are long trestled tables
with forms to sit on, and this is where we feast. We sleep,
eat, drink, play games, write letters, and do everything in
this room.
"It's very funny to hear the bugle-calls. Everything is done
by bugles. At 6.30 in the morning there is the first call
and everyone gets up. If you don't--the sergeant comes along
and pulls you out. To wash we have to run down to the other
end of the camp and fill our buckets. There are only two
buckets for sixty chaps, so you can imagine the scramble.
For a bathroom we have a large field, and we nearly break
our backs bending down over the basins. For about one hour
before breakfast we do physical drill with our coats off.
And hard work it is. For breakfast we have streaky greasy
bacon. Funny--at home, I never ate bacon, I couldn't stick
it, but here I walk into it and enjoy it. The tea they give
us is not ideal, but so long as it is hot and wet it goes
down all right. For dinner it's stew--stew--stew, but it's
not bad. Of course, some day I get all gravy and no meat,
another day meat and no gravy. Tea is quite all right. We
have plenty of bread, butter, jam, and cheese. All food is
fetched in dixeys (large boilers), and tea, stew, and bacon
are all cooked in turn in these, so if the orderlies don't
wash them clean at dinner time we have greasy, stewy tea.
"I am getting a bit used to the marching, especially when
there is anyone singing. The favourites are 'John Peel,'
'Cock Robin,' 'Oh, who will o'er the downs so free?' 'John
Brown's Body,' 'Hearts of Oak,' and 'Annie Laurie.' We all
have little books of Camp Songs, and we learn them at night;
it makes all the difference to the marching. One of the
songs is:--
"Oh, Mother is the leader of society, and
You can see her name is in the papers every day.
She was presented at the court
For fighting Mrs. Short
Down our way.
"Not an exactly edifying song, but it goes with a swing. I
can hardly keep my eyes open as I write this."
On the whole and considering everything--a wide phrase covering many
things unspoken--Sydney Baxter enjoyed his camp life, but Christmas
was certainly a hardship. He writes:
_Christmas Day, 1914._
"All day yesterday I was on fatigue work, and did not finish
until 7.30 to 8. We started the morning by building a hedge
with bushes gathered from the Heath, and then we unloaded
trucks of hay and straw and built them in a stack. I got
several stray pieces down my neck. After that we had to
unload a traction load of coal in one-cwt. sacks, and oh,
they were dirty and awkward too. We had sacks over our heads
like ordinary coalmen, and you ought to have seen our hands
and faces when we had finished. We could not get any tea, as
we were expecting three more trolleys. After about two hours
the trolleys came, and we unloaded some meat; it took three
of us to lift some of the pieces. Then after that bacon,
oats, tea, jam, and about 1,000 loaves of bread. We were
proper Jacks-of-all-trades and were thoroughly tired out.
"This seems a funny sort of Christmas Day, but it will be
all right after five o'clock. Of course I'd rather be in
London and see you all. Still, all the same I'm rather
enjoying myself this afternoon. I have a big box of chocs.
by the side of me, and they are gradually diminishing. And
now I feel in a better mood."
The Y.M., as it is now always called by the men at and from the front,
played a very important part, an invaluable part, in Sydney Baxter's
camp life. He writes:
"We were about twenty minutes' walk from the village, and at
first there was absolutely nothing there to go down for,
and we seemed doomed to a very uncomfortable winter.
However, the words of a well-known war song, 'Every cloud is
silver lined,' are very true. _Our_ cloud was soon brightly
lined by the Y.M. people, who discovered the best way to do
it in no time. A hall was acquired in the village for the
sale of tea and eatables, and for facilitating writing and
reading for the troops in camp. It was staffed by ladies in
the locality and was a real Godsend to us all. Picture us
from 6.30 a.m. to 4 p.m. on and off parade, in a muddy camp,
without even a semblance of a canteen or writing-hut, always
within sound of the bugle with its ever-recurring call for
Orderly Sergeants, tired out and wet through and inwardly
chafing at the unaccustomed discipline. Our spirits were on
a par with Bairnsfather's 'Fed-up one.' At the last note of
'the Retreat' we were free. Without the Y.M. touch we should
have had to stay in our bleak huts, constantly reminded of
our surroundings and discomforts. But these Y.M. people had
provided a comfortable, well-lighted, and, above all, warm
room, with plenty of books and papers and any amount of grub
and unlimited tea to wash it down. Isn't it wonderful how
many sorrows the British army can drown in a cup of tea?
