WHAT THE V.C. DREADS.

Pukekohe & Waiuku Times, Volume 4, Issue 104, 5 November 1915, Page 1 (Supplement)

WHAT THE V.C. DREADS.

ORDEALS OF HERO WORSHIP AT HOME. "If I get the Cross for my bit out here what should I get for this!''' And Mike o'Leary, that fabulous fighter, shrank away from a sea of upturned faces. He was pale and scared. His right arm was numb and aching, his hand bruissd and sore with endless shaking in that slow procession to the park. Mike did his best in that summerday ovation, but the wholo atmosphere of roaring applause—the orgy of homage and presentations—was utterly repugnant to the man. "It's put out I am," he told the Countess of Limerick. "SWire I'm no more than any wan o' the boys. Oh, me Lady, I'm heart-wary o' the hue an' cry. Not another minit would I sthand it if I didn't b'lave 'tud bring a few boys to the colours."

Beyond all doubt the V.C. is a grand recruiting asset, whether he be a commissioned officer, like Captain Philip Neame, R.E., or a Poor-Law protege like Private Buckingham, ol the Leicesters, who received at the Mayor's hands a purse of gold and £IOO worth of War Loan Stock into the bargain. Captain Neame was met at Faversham station by a guard of honour. A state luncheon followed, with speeclics by the Mayor and Lord Harris. Then came a drive through the town in i carriage drawn by six horses, with roaring acclamation all the way.

AN EXHAUSTING "REST." Now, it's hard to c-onvcy an idea of the embarrassment of men subjected to such ordeals as these. After the deed that won the Cross comes the recommendation. Then follow the gazetting the award, will its official record in the "London Gazette," and snort leave at home —for the intrepid soldier's nerves are often sadly in need of rest. Take Corporal Key worth, for instance. Temperamentally an excitable lad, he became cool as ice crouching on the parapet of a German trench two long hours and pelting the occupants with 150 high-explosive bombs till they were utterly demoralised. A charmed life is this of the ex-insurance clerk, so strangely thrust into the shrieking pit of war. Out of 75 men in his unit, 58 were struck dead .u. wounded. Yet Keyworth escaped without a scratch from that hell of flame .'<nd lead! Just what mastery the man had over his feelings was shown when he came down the hill and collapsed through nervous exhaustion. So it's no wonder the V.C is sent home for a rest. Alas! his joke about returning to the trench for "'a resf is only too tragically true! For the conquering hero's, home is now in a street uchagged and festooned with flowers and patriotic sentiment. His father and mother are proud, of course, though also greatly worried. Neighbours will call at all hours. The letter-box won't hold all the invitations, picas, congratulations, and gifto —those from tradespeople are ©specially troublesome —patent medicines and sweets, hat? and cigars, neckties ana boots and pipes, all to be named alter the hero, if he'll only give consent. The autograph hooka brought—or, worse still left or sent—are a serious tax on the young man's time or that of his parents. Heedless people doa't reflect that someone must wrap and tie those precious souvenirs, take them round to the post olfice, and stamp the pane's—a matter of sixpence or so each.

HE DOESN'T LIKE FUSS. Ask any V.O. what he think* of the banquet-! and speeches, and sec hn,r weariness and tedium darken the strong voting face at the mere mention of'these tilings. It's unsafe to generalise, of course, but modesty !6 one- virtue which these rare men unquestionably have in common. "I don't want to come home," wrote Lieutenant J. H. Dimmer. "We need ail our officers and I'm the iast one left of my battalion." Lieut. G. H. Woolley, the first Territorial V.C., that marvellous bomber of Hill CO. wrote home to say he'd heard be \va« recommended for the greatest of all decorations. " I hone they won't do this," the young officer said. " for it's an honour out of nil proportion to what 1 have done" "I'm ju«t one of the lucky ones,' wa,-; O'Lenrv's own explanation of valour so prodig : ous that Sir Arthur Conan Dovle declared no romancer would ever dream of attributing it to a character in fiction. "I don't like a fuss,"

the famous sergeant protested. "Thousands of lads have done as much, or more." Yet O'Leary was taken off to the Houso of Commons, where he held court in the Lobby with the Duke 01 Devonshire, Mr. Bonar Law, Mr. Birrell, Sir Edward Carson, and Lord Robert Cecil. His fellow-Guardsmen gave him a cheque; Ireland and England fairly rained purses, testimonials pieces of plate, and speeches of "It's O'Leary!" ran through esjited streets, and men and women pursued hmi till the ex-prairie policeman took the cross from his tunic and wore in place of it the narrow strip of dark red ribbon that goes with the rarest of decorations.

O'LEARY IN THE LIMELIGHT. He was at the theatre one night, having incautiously accepted a box, anticipating an evening's relaxation. Suddenly a beam of limelight dazzled him, and from the gallery came an uproarious "Three cheers for Mike 0' Leary!" These were taken up with frantic zeal as word was flashed on the screen—"Sergeant O'Leary, V.C, is in the house to-night, and the management hope he will get a hearty welcome."

Mike will never forget it! "Ytrra, what was I to say ?"wailed the distracted man. "I bowed an' bowed an' bowed, like I read in books they do. An' I prayed f'r wings before the raakin's uv a speech!" Men wanted to shake his hand. Girls and women wanted to kiss the hero of that Cuinchy trench, who hurled himself upon ten Germans, killing eight, capturing two, and taking, as the official record said, "the enemy's position by nJin self."

i The kissing reminds me of Dwyer'e ■ ovation —the greengrocer's lad who | rained hand grenades on the foe till ; they melted away before him. Corporal Edward Dwyer, of the East Surreys, ' is our youngest V.C, a mere boy of I nineteen. On his way to address rei cruiting meetings at Rotherhithe and ; Dermondsey Town Halls, working girls i out in their dinner hour boldly climbed | upon his carriage, thing their arms ; about hifi nock, and embraced tho lad, i heedless of the fact that the Mayor of j Barruondsey and his lady rode with i voung Dwyer and eyed the riot benign;iy. j MARTYRED TO GET RECTVUITS.

j Tn his case, too, it was only the hope ! or getting recruits that sustained him | through orgies of worship worse than j :;ny war. At one meeting Edward Dwyer, V.C, got 45 men to join the j Army. "Don't stand there," he j begged the crowd from his perch beside : a Landseer lion in Trafalgar Square. ■ 'Come on in with us, and I'll go back | to my mates with a good heart." The l-'ulham church which the boy attended subscribed a cheque of £35 ■ for h:m. Dwyer handed this to his : parents, that might be able to pay their rent while he was at the front. Dwyer was asked down to Richmond t) address a recruiting rally, and lie was to be " officially welcomed'' by the Mayor with a guard of honour ana , bands at the borough boundary in Kingston Road. How he evaded tnib pomp is characteristic of all V.C.'s. The lad went down by train and slipped along the platform unnoticed. At last even Dwyer's youth and fortitude gave way, and he went into hiding. "What Ted needs," his worried (though always proud) father explained "is a week's rest." And this was effectually arranged. Even the War : Office, wishing to see Corporal Dwyer, V.C. about an extension of leave — well knowing the need for it—sought him m vain through an officer, who , went up to Fulhani from Whitehall n i a fast service car.

"Stare-eyes and back-ships" were fast reducing the hero to real abjectiuus. Coming out of Buckingham Palace, where the King received and decorated him, Dwyer and hifi fellow V.C.'s were fairly mobbed. The police bad to bundle them all into a taxi and send them out by a secret gate. Soon tho young man couldn't bear the bight cf a'camera. He hesitated now when he- wrote his name, so hopelessly confused had he been by the birthday books and albums of ladies, the grcai end the humble, too.

WHAT COt'LDTHEYDO? Dwyer ment O'Leary and Sergeant Belcher. V.C., one morning at a Piccadilly luncheon, and, be sure, all three sympathised with one another over the trials to which they had been subjected. Memorie; of cheers and sighs and silly questions passed between these remarkable men. Belcher had just facrd -WOO of his old firm's workgirls, all in gala hits and coloured scarves spocvii-

ly designed for waving. There was an inscribed rose-bowl to accept froji tho director's wife; a purse of gold too, and an illuminated address subscribed for by men and women of the firm, and employees and managers of all grades anxious to honour one wiio'd worked :imong them till the great call came, and the deed that won the Cross.

" It was an act," the sympathetic assembly were asursed, "that probably saved a thousand lives!" '"Where can wo look," the V.C. asks, "when things like this are fired off at us in public? We can't 6ay anything. Are we to smile? Or look glum?—o dear! O dear!"

"This is more than I expected," Mike O'Leary said with ready Irish wit, when a tiny Belgian girl in Red Cross Uniform presented him with a huge bouquet. And bit by bit this wonderful man deflowered it for the benefit of eager hands in the crowd (chiefly feminine hands) that sought a keepsake from Mike O'Leary. "His exploit," the Countess of Limerick thinks, " is the finest thing in the whole war." "An achievement," said an official at the recruiting headquarters in Whitehall, " which should be given the widest possible publicity." For which reason the famous asergeant made a martyr of himself, until highly-placed friends got his leave extended for something like a real rest in a place of green meads and woods and flowers. As a recruiter your V.C. is in fierce demand. Corporal Keyworth's address t<j the rally closed in a reveille of regimental bugles, and there was a rush to the platform from all part of the crowded house.

A "LION" AMONG LIONS. The recruiting records of these men .would fill a book with tragic-comic tales, but that of Sergeant Fuller, V.C. easily takes the palm. He was at Wombwell's Menagerie, at Fishguard, one afternoon, when the proprietor issued a challenge—a very "safe" one, he doubtless thought—and an offer of a gold medal to anyone who would enter a cage containing two ful-ly-grown African lions. "I'll do it," cried the Guardsman who at Neuve Chapelle captured fifty Germans single-handed, and cot a huge ovation in Mansfield, his native town. His friends were aghast at such folly. Women implored the hero not to do this mad thing, but he only laughed. " I'm used to 'lionisiug,'" he told them airily. "And if this comes off. it'll BRING ME MORE RECRUITS!"

For this purpose Fuller risked his l : fe again with a light heart—as he'd risked it long ago at Swansea, rescuing drowning children. He has a Royal Humane Society's medal, too. Without more ado the soldier doffed his cap, walked into the cage, amid general tension which cannot be put into words. Going up to the crouching monsters, Fuller stroked their heads for several minutes of awful silence. The lions growled as he backed out, with keen eyes on their every motion. As the gate clanged to and he was seen in safety, a mighty roar of relief went up. •'Never mind the medal." Fuller said calmly, "But how many of you lads are ready to enlist? If you're not fit to die," he poked at them, "then jou're not fit to live. Now, fall in, boys!" what recruiting sergeant ever won his reward so dearly?

-W. G. FitzGerald