Kipling's Choice by Geert Spillebeen

to talk about it.
    "I'm beginning to realize that I may never see England again," Rupert confessed.
    "The best-case scenario would be a gunshot wound, or a bit of gas," John said, thinking aloud.
    "Dear God, not in the belly," Rupert mumbled. "Or my face. I always think about that. Or a bayonet wound. Yikes!"
    "I don't want to be crippled. Be completely dependent on others. No, not that," said John with a sigh. "Or blind."
    "How about a bullet to the shoulder?"
    "That would be acceptable."
    ***
    The football matches on that Sunday, September 12, 1915, were well-timed, a welcome change. The men desperately needed something to ease their stress. First the soldiers and corporals kicked the ball around together. Then came the long-awaited spectacle of the officers in their shorts. Those stiff English gentlemen could finally appear in a different role, and the Irish Guards would talk about it for a long time afterward.
    The football games appeared to be just a warm-up. The staff officers had prepared well for this day off. The field kitchens stocked special provisions for the occasion, including meat, vegetables, and tinned fruit. There was a barrel of rum for each platoon, and the quartermasters distributed chewing and smoking tobacco. Here and there an accordion or Irish flute was hauled out. The vast field was teeming with exuberant boys. They laughed and shouted, drank and smoked. A concert in the open air began after nightfall. Enormous torches were set around the podium. The entertainers wore the same uniforms as the audience. They were professional musicians and actors who traveled across the entire front in Belgium and France, from one regiment to another. They knew exactly how to handle this rough crowd. Those who shouted the loudest were chosen to come up and dance, and their antics were such a farce that their comrades were soon rolling on the grass with laughter. But it was just as easy for the musicians to silence the men, and at the first notes of "Oh Danny Boy" the audience fell completely quiet. The song sent chills down each spine:
    Â 
Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling

From glen to glen, and down the mountainside.

The summer's gone, and all the roses falling,

'Tis you, 'tis you must go, and I must bide.
If you come back and all the flowers are dying,

And if I am dead, as dead I may well be

You'll come and find the place where I am lying

And kneel and say an "Ave" therefor me.
    Â 
    With a lump in the throat the Irish boys sang the refrain in harmony Here and there a silent tear glistened in the flickering light. Those tears were quickly wiped away, for the next medley of songs made fun of the Germans. The excitement built, and the musicians gave it their all in the last encore.
    The day concluded with a huge campfire. Once again the men sang from the very depths of their souls. They drank, too, for then they didn't have to talk. Or worry. No one said a word about what would be happening in the days to come, but everyone was thinking about it.
    The officers drank another round just before midnight. Finally they could talk freely among themselves.
    "That wrestling match this afternoon was splendid!" Alex said to John and Rupert. "Cheers, Kipling. To your health, for that matter!"
    "Will you let your family know about your promotion?" Rupert asked John.
    "It will have to appear in the
London Gazette
first," said the captain in a kindly voice. "You know that, don't you, boys?"
    "I'll wait," John declared. "I wonder when they'll find out for themselves."
    ***
    "We are on the eve of the biggest battle in the history of the world!" Lieutenant General Haking solemnly proclaims three days later. It is September 15, 1915. The commander of the Second Guard Brigade is never shy about speaking to his assembled officers in a self-important manner.
    "The time has come!" John mutters to Rupert excitedly. Feelings of relief and high expectations fill the general staff's big tent. Friends nod to one