BEHIND THE TRENCHES
We got out and leaped the mud from the _pavé_ to the doorstep, and an
orderly came forward and conducted us to a sitting room at the rear
where Major R. welcomed us, and immediately ordered coffee. We were
greatly impressed by the calm way in which he looked at things. He
pointed with pride to a gaily coloured print from the one and only "Vie"
(what would the dug-outs at the front have done without "La Vie" and
Kirchner?), which covered a newly made shell hole in the wall. He also
showed us places where shrapnel was embedded; and from the window we saw
a huge hole in the back garden made by a "Black Maria." Beside it was a
grave headed by a little rough wooden cross and surmounted by one of
those gay tasselled caps we had seen early that morning, though it
seemed more like last week, so much had happened since then.
As it was only possible to go into the trenches at dusk we still had
some time to spare, and after drinking everybody's health in some
excellent benedictine, Major R. suggested we should make a tour of
inspection of the village. "The bombardment is over for the day," he
added, "so you need have no fear." I went out wondering at his certainty
that the Boche would _not_ bombard again that afternoon. It transpired
later that they did so regularly at the same time every afternoon as
part of the day's work! There did come a time, however, when they
changed the programme, but that was later, on another visit.
We made for the church which had according to custom been shelled more
than the houses. The large crucifix was lying with arms outstretched on
a pile of wreckage, the body pitted with shrapnel. The curé accompanied
us, and it was all the poor old man could do to keep from breaking down
as he led us mournfully through that devastated cemetery. Some of the
graves, even those with large slabs over them, had been shelled to such
an extent that the stone coffins beneath could clearly be seen, half
opened, with rotting grave-clothes, and in others even the skeletons had
been disinterred. New graves, roughly fashioned like the one we had seen
in the back garden at headquarters, were dotted all over the place.
Somehow they were not so sinister as those old heavily slabbed ones
disturbed after years of peace. The curé took me into the church, the
walls of which were still standing, and begged me to take a photo of a
special statue (this was before cameras were tabooed), which I did. I
had to take a "time" as the light was so bad, and quite by luck it came
out splendidly and I was able to send him a copy.
It was all most depressing and I was jolly glad to get away from the
place. On the way back we saw a battery of _sept-cinqs_ (French
seventy-fives) cleverly hidden by branches. They had just been moved up
into these new positions. Of course the booming of the guns went on all
the time and we were told Nieuport was having its daily "ration." We had
several other places to go to to deliver Hospital stores; also two
advanced dressing stations to visit, so we pushed off, promising Major
R. to be back at 6.30.
We had to go in the direction of Dixmude, then in German occupation, and
the mud at this point was too awful for words, while at intervals there
were huge shell holes full of water looking like small circular ponds.
Luckily for us they were never right in the middle of the road, but
always a little to one side or the other, and just left us enough _pavé_
to squeeze past on, which was really very thoughtful of the Boche!
The country looked indescribably desolate; but funnily enough there were
a lot of birds flying about, mostly in flocks. Two little partridges
quietly strutted across the road and seemed quite unperturbed!
Further on we came across a dead horse, the first of many. It had been
hit in the flank by a shell. It was a sad sight; the poor creature was
just left lying by the side of the road, and I shall never forget it.
The crows had already taken out its eyes. I must say that that sight
affected me much more than the men I had seen earlier in the day. There
was no one then to bury horses.
We came to the little _poste de secours_ and the officer told us they
had been heavily shelled that morning and he sent out an orderly to dig
up some of the fuse-tops that had fallen in the field beyond. He gave us
as souvenirs three lovely shell heads that had fused at the wrong time.
Everything seemed strangely unreal, and I wondered at times if I was
awake. He was delighted with the Hospital stores we had brought and
showed us his small dressing station, from which all the wounded had
been removed after the bombardment was over. We then went on to another
at Caeskerke within sight of Dixmude, the ruins of which could plainly
be seen. I found it hard to realize that this was really the much talked
of "front." One half expected to see rows and rows of regiments instead
of everything being hidden away. Except for the extreme desolation and
continual sound of firing we might have been anywhere.
We were held up by a sentry further on, and he demanded the _mot de
jour_. I leant out of the car (it always has to be whispered) and
murmured "Gustave" in a low voice into his ear. "_Non, Mademoiselle_,"
he said sadly, "_pas ça_." "Does he mean it isn't his own Christian
name?" I asked myself. Still it was the name we had been given at the
État Major as the pass word. I repeated it again with the same result.
"I assure you the Colonel himself at C---- gave it to me," I added
desperately. He still shook his head, and then I remembered that some
days they had names of people and others the names of places, and
perhaps I had been given the wrong one. "Paris" I hazarded. He again
shook his head, and I decided to be firm and in a voice of conviction
said, "Allons, c'est 'Arras,' alors." He looked doubtful, and said,
"Perhaps with the English it is that to-day." He was giving me a
loophole and I responded with fervour, "Yes, yes, assuredly it is
'Arras' with the English," and he waved us past. I thought regretfully
how easily a German spy might bluff the sentry in a similar manner.
Time being precious I salved my conscience about it as we drew up in
Pervyse and decided to make tea. I saw a movement among the ruins and
there, peeping round one of the walls, was a ragged hungry looking
infant about eight years of age. We made towards him, but he fled, and
picking our way over the ruins we actually found a family in residence
in a miserable hovel behind the onetime Hôtel de Ville. There was an old
couple, man and wife, and a flock of ragged children, the remnants of
different families which had been wiped out. They only spoke Flemish and
I brought out the few sentences I knew, whereupon the old dame seized my
arm and poured out such a flow of words that I was quite at a loss to
know what she meant. I did gather, however, that she had a niece of
sixteen in the inner room, who spoke French, and that she would go and
fetch her. The niece appeared at this moment and was dragged forward;
all she would say, however, was "_Tiens, tiens!_" to whatever we asked
her, so we came to the conclusion that was the limit to her knowledge of
French, very non-committal and not frightfully encouraging. So with much
bowing and smiling we departed on our way, after distributing the
remainder of our buns among the group of wide-eyed hungry looking
children who watched us off. The old man had stayed in his corner the
whole time muttering to himself. His brain seemed to be affected, which
was not much wonder considering what he had been through, poor old
thing!
On our way back to Ramscapelle we had the bad luck to slip off the
"bloomin' pavee" while passing an ammunition wagon; a thing I had been
dreading all along. I got out on the foot board and stepped, in the
panic of the moment, into the mud. I thought I was never going to "touch
bottom." I did finally, and the mud was well above my knees. The passing
soldiers were greatly amused and pulled me to shore, and then, stepping
into the slough with a grand indifference, soon got the car up again.
The evening was drawing in, and the land all round had been flooded. As
the sun set, the most glorious lights appeared, casting purple shadows
over the water: It seemed hard to believe we were so near the trenches,
but there on the road were the men filing silently along on their way to
enter them as soon as dusk fell. They had large packs of straw on their
backs which we learnt was to ensure their having a dry place to sit in;
and when I saw the trenches later on I was not surprised at the
precaution.
Mysterious "Star-lights" presently made their appearance over the German
trenches, gleamed for a moment, and then went out leaving the landscape
very dark and drear. We hurried on back to Ramscapelle, sentries popping
up at intervals to enquire our business. Floods stretched on either side
of the road as far as the eye could see. We were obliged to crawl at a
snail's pace as it grew darker. Of course no lights of any sort were
allowed, and the lines of soldiers passing along silently to their posts
in the trenches seemed unending; we were glad when we drew up once again
at the Headquarters in Ramscapelle.
Major R. hastened out and told us that his own men who had been in the
trenches for four days were just coming out for a rest, and he wished we
could spare some of our woollies for them. We of course gladly assented,
so he lined them up in the street littered with débris in front of the
Headquarters. We each had a sack of things and started at different ends
of the line, giving every man a pair of socks, a muffler or scarf,
whichever he most wanted. In nearly every case it was socks; and how
glad and grateful they were to get them! It struck me as rather funny
when I noticed cards in the half-light affixed to the latter, texts
(sometimes appropriate, but more often not) and verses of poetry. I
thought of the kind hands that had knitted them in far away England and
wondered if the knitters had ever imagined their things would be given
out like this, to rows of mud-stained men standing amid shell-riddled
houses on a dark and muddy road, their words of thanks half-drowned in
the thunder of war.