PIPING OUT THE DAY.
14th November.
It is just before sunset--the most impressive moment of the day in
these British lines. Now, wherever the British soldiers meet their
bands, the following picture may be seen.
We were returning from the trenches, a few evenings ago, at about four
o'clock. The sky was cloudy; the ground heavy. As the night fell, a
cold, penetrating fog enveloped the whole countryside. We were walking
thoughtfully along, our minds busy with those impressions of the war
which had greeted us, without pause, since morning. We said little, for
we were very ready for our beds.
Suddenly, as we were entering the village, the sound of music reached
our ears. It was the bagpipes. Music in this poor village, at this time
of day, and in such weather! Here's a bit of luck! Hurry up, there! We
hurry up; nay, we run. At last we reach the scene of action, where a
most pleasant sight awaits us.
In front is the principal street of the village, with its double row
of whitewashed houses. At the distance of a few hundred yards the fog
swallows it up. That is the town hall, hardly bigger than the biggest
of the houses, there where you see the _Journal Officiel_ posted, and
Abel Faivre's picture, "_On les aura!_"
The band is halted in the very middle of the road, facing the East.
In front, twelve pipers; behind, eight bugles and side drums; between
them, the big drum. The men wore the kilt flapping above their bare
knees, the khaki tunic closely belted at the waist, the plaid on their
shoulders, and the plumed tam-o'-shanter. They are magnificent men,
with deeply-bronzed faces; and they are as grave as sphinxes.
At a word from the bandmaster the four bugles leave the ranks, and two
by two, with measured steps, fall in at the head of the procession.
Slowly and in perfect time they put their instruments to their lips
and sound a retreat, or something of the kind. The air is very much
the same as the "lights out" of our own infantry regiments. The bugles
having gone back to their places with a repetition of their ceremonial,
it is the pipers' turn. The twelve Scotsmen blow like one. What are
they playing?
The unaccustomed ear of a Frenchman is puzzled to put a name to such
music. Is it a dance? Is it a lament?
The song of the pipes swells out louder, and now the bugles and drums
are to give it their support. But before touching their drums, the
drummers, with the derision of automata, bring their heels together,
throw out their chests, and then, raising their elbows face high, cross
the drumsticks behind their necks.
Only then may they begin to play.
The Scotsman who handles the big drum hits it first on one side and
then on the other, and each time whirls his free drumstick like a
windmill. He is not perhaps a musical virtuoso, but there can be no
question about his ability as a juggler.
And now the bandsmen, who have stood, hitherto, motionless in the
middle of the village, bestir themselves, and, marking time to their
own music, move forwards with a slow and majestic step.
The sadness of the music, the gravity of the Scotsmen, the falling
night, the homeliness of the place, and a certain indefinable flavour
as of some pagan rite, stir one's heart strangely.
Meanwhile, the village street has become filled with soldiers.
Various detachments, just back from their work, fall in along the
sides of the roadway. The men, with their steel helmets and leather
coats, their breasts exposed to the wind, look like the legionaries of
Rome. Nothing is lacking to this picture but the incense and the altar
and the victims.
The short, sharp words of command and the clink of weapons mingle with
the wailing of the pipes, while at their cottage doors the lonely wives
of French soldiers look on calmly at all this bustle in their street. A
little fair-headed girl beats time to the music with her left hand.
The night has been saluted by the armies of Britain.
The night may now come.