beauty may be gathered from this little conversation which took place
_en passant_:
"_Mon Dieu!_" exclaimed one of the girls to her nearest neighbour, "why
did you kiss that ugly face?"
"Because," was the reply, "he looked so lonely--he seemed to need it
most."
They marched up the street with us, arm in arm, all who could get near
enough, and threw a thousand questions at us in one unintelligible
clatter of French. It was a welcome to stir the blood of the coldest,
and from that moment we took France to our hearts, as she had taken us,
and held her fast.
What did the landing of a mere handful of Canadians mean to France?
There weren't enough of us to be of much importance, compared with the
thousands of other British troops which landed daily. But the French,
with their keen sense of appreciation, recognised at once that the
advent of this little Canadian band had a broad significance; it meant
that in her great struggle for the cause of liberty and humanity France
was to be supported not only by Britain but by the far-flung elements of
the Empire. It meant encouragement; it meant success!
And as they shouted "_Vive le Canada_" we echoed with a will, "_Vive la
France_." We sang, too, "God Save the King," and "_La Marseillaise_."
A few who knew English joined in the first, but "_La Marseillaise_"
starting by courtesy with us, swelled in a moment into a mighty anthem
which swept the city like a storm. Later, when we followed with "The
Maple Leaf," a respectful silence fell upon the throng. With quick
intuition they knew it was a song of home, with which they sympathised,
but which they could not understand. And as the melody concluded we
could hear them whispering one to another: "_Quelle est cette chanson?_"
And we answered in our broken French, "It is a song of our native land,
far, far from here."
It was my good fortune during this strange march to ride upon the side
close to the curb, while Reggy, in comparative obscurity, rode opposite.
Frequently, too, it was my privilege to return the greetings of the
dainty French girls who lined the walk and waved their handkerchiefs
high above the heads of the crowd in the road.
At last Reggy, trotting along in the shadow, could contain himself no
longer. He burst out:
"Hang it all, major! Just my bally luck again; you're always closer to
the girls than I."
"But not closer to their hearts, Reggy dear," I interjected soothingly.
"Small consolation, that, in the present situation," Reggy was
grumbling, when he was suddenly interrupted by a pretty black-eyed girl
who, running alongside his horse, caught him by the hand and forthwith
begged a kiss. I believe--or, rather, I hope--Reggy blushed. I should
always like to think that at that precise moment Reggy's sense of
modesty came to his rescue. If it did, however, it vanished again with
alarming rapidity.
"Here's an embarrassing situation," he cried dolefully.
"Very trying, indeed, to have a pretty girl demand a kiss," I laughed.
"Confound it!" he returned. "That's not the trouble; but I'm not
horseman enough to lean over and get it."
There, you see, Reggy in one fell moment had destroyed all my illusions
about him. Here was I worrying over his distress and presumed
embarrassment, while he, hopeless young scamp that he was, showed actual
regret because he couldn't fall from grace.
"I would suggest that you dismount," I answered, in a spirit of sarcasm.
For a moment I believe this insane thought obsessed him, and then his
latent sense of military discipline and dignity saved him. He turned
regretfully to the young lady, and pressing her hand warmly--very
warmly, I thought--broke forth in schoolboy French:
"_Merci, cherie! Mille fois, mille fois_. Another time will have to
do."
"_Est-ce-que vous parlez Francais, monsieur?_" she demanded sweetly.
"Rather rough on your French, Reggy," I teased, "asking you, after that
brilliant sortie, if you really speak the language."
Reggy appeared hurt.
"Look at you," he cried, "riding along like a bloated monarch, scooping
in the obeisance of the whole kingdom, and because I command the
attention--and, I trust, respect--of only one of your subjects, you're
jealous. Out upon you--for shame!"
All good things come to an end at last. For half an hour we had been
princes or kings, drinking in the nectar of adulation in mighty gulps.
It turned our heads and made us dizzy, and this feeling of elation
lasted long after we had left the crowd behind, and the faint cry of
_Vive les Canadiens_ followed us into the darker streets. We toiled
slowly over the cobble stones, up the steep hill, and finally into camp.
The camp commandant came to meet us a few minutes after we arrived. He
was a fine-looking specimen of British officer--tall, athletic, with
iron-grey hair and keen blue eyes. He smiled as he greeted us.
"Good evening, gentlemen," he said, as the senior major approached and
saluted. "Where have you all come from?"
"Originally from Canada, sir," the major replied, "but recently from
Salisbury Plains."
"How interesting," he cried in a tone of delighted surprise. "I had no
idea the Canadians were coming to France so soon."
"Weren't you expecting us, sir?" the major ventured.
The commandant laughed good-humouredly. We seemed to amuse him.
"Well, not exactly," he replied; "but you are quite welcome. Take those
three rows of tents, draw your rations and make yourselves at home. One
of these days orders will come along for you."
One of these days! Well, well! Was he actually addressing us in that
careless and flippant manner, we who had just taken France by storm?
Alas! we were not so important after all. For a full hour we had looked
upon ourselves as the whole war, and the rest of the British army as a
mere background to our glory. And now we were told that "one of these
days!" It was really too bad. But still, he was kindly and courteous,
and behind those smiling eyes lurked a great sympathy, I am sure, for
our little band.
We looked about us and then we understood. There were miles of tents.
Regiments of soldiers were marching in and regiments were marching
out--the Highland "kilties" with their sporrans swaying to and fro in
stirring unison. We heaved a sigh. It was all too true. We were only
one small cog in the great machine!
But the senior major was elated with a strange and inexplicable emotion.
After the commandant had bidden us good-night, he paced back and forth,
with his hands behind his back and his head in the air. He raised his
feet high as he walked, and clicked his spurs with the firmness of his
tread. Something was effervescing in his mind, and soon would blow his
mental cork out. What was it? He twirled his moustaches from time to
time and smiled a crafty smile. At last it popped:
"Gentlemen," he said, "that's one thing which no one can ever take from
me!"
"What?" we cried breathlessly.
"That _I_ was the first officer who ever led a Canadian unit into
France!"
Oh, the supreme egotism and self-love of old bachelorhood! We turned
away without a word, in time to hear little Huxford's piping voice in
ungrammatical query.
"Did ye had a good time to-night, Bill?"
And Bill's reply echoed the sentiments of all our hearts.
"Did I?" he cried exultantly. "_Some_ class!"
*CHAPTER V*
How it stormed that night! Thunder, lightning, rain and wind combined
in one uproarious elemental war. It seemed as if no tent on earth could
stand the strain. Once I peeped outside, and in the flashes saw vistas
of tents rolling like great white-crested waves on an operatic sea.
From time to time the cracking of poles and the dull swish of canvas,
blending with the smothered oaths of men beneath, told us that some tent
had fallen.
Reggy slept as peacefully as a new-born babe. Tucked into his canvas
sleeping-bag and with a woollen toque pulled well down over his ears, he
was oblivious to the storm, and in the faint glimmer of our
candle-lantern looked like an Eskimo at rest.
Peg after peg jerked out of the ground, and our tent commenced to rock
to and fro in a drunken frenzy. Would the guard never come to tighten
the guys? They seemed to have forgotten us. Warmly ensconced in my
blankets and half asleep in spite of the noise, I lay and from time to
time idly wondered how much longer the tent would stand.
Sometimes I dozed and dreamed of getting up to fix it, and saw myself
crawling about in wet pyjamas in the wind and rain. The thought awoke
me; the tent was flapping still. Reggy, as the junior, was in duty
bound to right it; but if the storm couldn't wake him, what could mere
man do? I dozed again and awoke just in time to see the canvas give one
last wild gyration. Then it crashed down upon us.
"Hi! What the d----l are you doing now?"
It was the sleep-saturated voice of Reggy in angry, smothered tones
beneath the wreck. For answer to his question, a gust of wind lifted the
canvas from his face, and a spurt of rain, with the force of a garden
hose, struck him.
"O Lord!" he howled. "The bally tent's blown down!" Reggy's
perspicacity, while sluggish, was accurate.
"Get up, you lazy blighter, and lend a hand!" I shouted between blasts
of wind and rain which soaked me through and through.
"Ugh! You wouldn't ask a chap to get up in a storm like this," he cried
appealingly.
I didn't. I merely took the lower end of his sleeping-bag and emptied
it, as one would a sack of potatoes, onto the floor. Reggy emerged like
a rumpled blue-bird.
"Rotten trick, I call that," he grumbled, as he scrambled to his feet.
Luckily by this time the guard arrived to help us, and after a long
tussle with the ropes, the tent was pitched once more, and we crawled
back to bed.
The morning sun rose clear and bright and smiled as if it had no
memories of the night before. Wherever one might look tents lay in
heaps upon the ground, but not a breath of wind stirred the fresh cool
air. Fainter and more faint from the distance came the weird strain of
the bagpipes--a Highland regiment was passing down the hill, starting on
that long journey whence all might not return.
Our men had breakfasted and were already at work raising the fallen
tents. The adjutant emerged from his abode wearing a weary smile--he
hadn't slept much.
"'What of the night?'" he cried. "The storm has given me an appetite.
Where's breakfast? I'm as hungry as an R.M.C. cadet."
Where indeed was breakfast? As yet we had no "mess"; our goods were
still unpacked.
"There's a soldiers' buffet managed by ladies in the cottage yonder,"
said Fraser, pointing to a brick house on the crest of the hill. Trust
Fraser to know where grub abounds! "Perhaps I can persuade the little
lady of the place..."
"You'll need help," Reggy interpolated hastily. "Some one with
persuasive powers. I'll go along."
Reggy's eagerness to go suggested other distractions than foraging. We
said we would accompany him--lest he forget. We entered a long room at
the rear of the house, which had been a carpenter's shop before the war.
It was furnished with two long tables, benches, and a large number of
kitchen chairs. The carpenter's tools hung unused upon the wall. At the
farther end of the room several young women and one of maturer years
were rapidly cutting up bread and meat for sandwiches, buttering
appetising French rolls and placing them all in large baskets. It
looked enough to feed a multitude.
We approached the table. One young woman looked up, apparently more
from courtesy than with any special interest in our arrival, and said:
"Good morning!"
It was true then; they _were_ English-women. They were as cool--and
refreshing--as the air outside. Reggy saluted gravely.
"May we have something to eat, please?" he inquired hesitatingly.
The young woman looked up again, with a surprised smile. "But you are
not Tommies," she replied.
"No; merely officers, and very hungry ones at that."
She looked a trifle perplexed. "We don't serve officers here," she
asserted. "You see, this buffet is meant for Tommies only."
Bless their hearts! Here at least was one place where the officer was
discounted, and Tommy was king. We had been feted and pampered to such
an extent that we had lost sight of the true proportion of things. Here
were women who realised that Tommy is quite as important as his officer,
that he is a man and as such has rights. We honoured the young women
who could thus devote themselves to the men who really needed their help
most. But this elevating thought did not appease our hunger in the
least. We still wanted something to eat, and the dainty food before us
failed to modify our internal cravings.
"Couldn't we have just one bun?" Reggy coaxed.
The young woman smilingly shook her head. "It's against our rules," she
replied.
Reggy looked distressed. We imitated his look with such success that
another young woman, who seemed to be the one in authority, came forward
and volunteered:
"If you will step into the house, gentlemen, I shall see what the
_concierge_ can do for you there."
That we didn't fall upon her neck in sheer thankfulness speaks well for
our self-control. We kept sufficient restraint upon ourselves, however,
to merely murmur our gratitude in becoming words. We explained that we
had just arrived, and that our mess was not yet open.
"Well, well," she laughed. "Of course, we can't let you starve, but you
really mustn't eat in here."
If the angels in heaven look anything like that sweet young woman as she
appeared to us at that moment--well, it's a great incentive to lead a
good life, that's all.
We were ushered into a quaint French dining-room, furnished with
hand-carved mahogany. That a carpenter should have such exquisite taste
surprised us. We were yet to learn that the artistic sense is a keynote
of French character. The owner of the cottage was away at the war; he
was one of the poilus who were then, and are still, upholding the
martial traditions of a noble fighting race. His wife spread a dainty
table for us, and we breakfasted for the first time in France.
Our menu consisted of small mackerel, rolls and coffee! How prosaic it
sounds in English! We shall always remember that _petit dejeuner_ in
French: _Petits maqueraux, petits pains et cafe-au-lait._ What music
there is in such a language! The food itself loses its identity and is
transformed into the sustenance of the gods!
Days passed by, but there was no word from our colonel, and no orders
came for us to move. Had they all forgotten us? Had we by mischance
taken the wrong boat and landed in the wrong part of France? What had
become of our colonel and the rest of our unit? These thoughts
perplexed and worried us. But one day, as we were lunching, a messenger
suddenly appeared at the tent door and asked for the senior major.
"Telegram for you, sir," he said.
The major slowly unfolded it, read it as slowly, refolded it and placed
it in his pocket without a word. Could it be from the colonel? If so,
where was he? The major continued his meal. At last Fraser could bear
the suspense no longer.
"Was that a message from the colonel?" he inquired anxiously.
"It was," the major replied.
One might have heard the proverbial pin drop--the strain was so intense.
Would he never go on? Were we to hear nothing further?
Fraser ventured again: "What does he say?"
The senior major got up and left the tent without a word.
Even after all these months it pains me to record the bitter
disappointment of that moment. All men have their peculiarities--Some
are afflicted more than others. We may forgive, but we cannot always
forget. And yet he had his good points, too; he wasn't quite all bad.
Perhaps Fraser's question was injudicious; perhaps he hadn't been
deferential enough to his senior officer. At any rate it was two days
later when we first heard the news. The adjutant, who had been taken
into the major's confidence, whispered the message to us:
"The colonel is at Boulogne, and orders will be sent us in a few days to
join him. I have been told not to tell you, but I must relieve your
anxiety. Keep it secret!"
How we loved him for his thoughtfulness! The tension was broken. We
were once more happy and content.
Three days later the order came to move. We were to entrain at midnight,
and all day long we were busy packing. By nine everything was ready.
The motor lorries were loaded, and we started our march toward the
train. It was a pitch-black night and rain swept the streets in
chilling torrents.
One of the horses of our team had a chafed back and could not be
harnessed, so that my horse was selected to take his place. The wagon
was piled high with the kit-bags of the men, and from this elevation one
of the orderlies held the halter of the sick horse, which followed
behind. We started down the steep hill from the camp, horses and men
alike slipping upon the wet and greasy cobblestones.
Suddenly a slight explosion startled the led horse. He reared upon his
hind legs, jerked the halter from the hand of the orderly and bolted
down the hill into the darkness. Who would dare follow him? To ride
down that incline at any rate faster than a walk was sheer recklessness.
Surely no horse or man who attempted to do so would return alive. But
Huxford, putting spurs to his horse, plunged down the hill at breakneck
speed, a shower of sparks flying out on either side as the horse's steel
shoes struck the stones.
"Good God!" cried Barker; "he'll never come back--he's a dead man!"
"Why didn't he let the horse go?" cried the senior major anxiously.
"Now we've lost two horses and a man. He doesn't know the city or where
we are going, and even if he gets through alive, he'll never find us
again."
"How could he expect to overtake a run-away horse in a strange city on a
night like this? It's madness!" exclaimed the adjutant.
"He was a fine lad," said the quartermaster sadly, as though Huxford
were already dead. "Seems such a pity to lose him. I didn't think he
had the courage to do it."
But war shatters preconceived ideas. No one can tell which men are
brave until the crisis comes. Those who seem strongest fail; those who
seem weakest succeed.
A gloom had been cast over us all. We despaired of seeing Huxford
again--except perhaps to find his mangled body somewhere at the foot of
that long hill. When we reached the bottom he wasn't there, and we went
on despondently for a mile or more, knowing the hopelessness of trying
to find him; when suddenly, as we turned a corner, he appeared, still on
horseback and leading the runaway. A cheer from the boys greeted him.
"Well done, Huxford!" cried the senior major. "We never expected to see
you again!"
"I couldn't let him go, sir, 'cause th' colonel giv' th' horses into my
charge, an' he _had_ to be caught."
May we all fulfil our duty as faithfully as this lad!
The queer little French train, with its cars marked eight
_chevaux_--forty _hommes_ (8 horses--40 men) was waiting at the station
when we arrived. The transport officer had told the senior major not to
leave until he had received his papers, but to get the men and horses
aboard.
Shortly before midnight all were entrained. The equipment and horses
were loaded, but there was no sign of either engine or conductor. We
unrolled our sleeping-bags, placed them upon the seats in the
compartment coach and fell asleep. At four a.m. we were awakened by an
angry discussion taking place on the train platform. One voice was
French, evidently that of the train conductor; the other was
unmistakably that of the senior major. He was talking very loudly:
"I tell you, you can't move this train one inch until I get my papers."
The reply was in French:
"_Comprend pas, monsieur!_" Evidently he was about to signal the
engineer to start.
"Stop! I command you to stop!" shouted the major again.
The Frenchman understood the action, if he failed to understand the
words. "_Il faut partir tout de suite, monsieur_," he replied with
respectful firmness, and then, placing the bugle to his lips, he blew a
signal to the engineer and the train started.
The major sprang from the platform just in time to catch his coach. He
had not received the papers, and had had an unintelligible wordy duel in
which he had been vanquished. He was boiling with rage.
"If I had my way," he stormed, "there would be only _one_ language in
the world!"
We were off once more. We had but a faint idea of where we were going,
but we were on our way.
*CHAPTER VI*
When we awoke the sun was high in the heavens, and through the train
windows we could see the steep banks of the Seine as we wound along that
picturesque river toward Rouen. From time to time we passed small
villages, the red tile of their roofs contrasting prettily with the
snow-white of the walls. Some houses were decorated with bright blue or
green, and as they swept by the window in kaleidoscopic array, the scene
was one of manifold variety.
The French love a dash of colour; it is manifest everywhere--in their
clothes, their houses and their military uniforms. In the larger cities
where civilisation is over-developed, and humanity is more effete, the
bright colours have given place to pale and delicate shades--an
indication of that transformation of life which we call art. But in
these little country villages, a thousand years or more behind the
times, Dame Nature still holds sway, and the primary colours riot in
their rugged strength. Centuries from now these rural hamlets, grown to
greater size, losing their primitive audacity, will fade as well; and
looking back will marvel at the boldness of their youth.
Every quarter-mile along the track a lone sentinel, in sky-blue coat and
scarlet cap, guarded our path. With fixed _baionette_ he stood hour by
hour, watchful and keen. He had a little thatched sentry-box into which
he might retire when it rained, and through the small round windows
watch on either side.
As we pulled into the railway station at Rouen, we could see resourceful
"Tommy" cooking his breakfast on a little charcoal stove. "Tommy" is
always at home, no matter where we find him--whether it be on the
battlefields of France or Belgium, or on the rock-bound shores of
Gallipoli.
Our men descended from their coaches, lugged out their bags of bread,
their cheese and jam and "bully-beef." The sergeant-cook meted out each
share, and they soon were at their morning meal.
A few hours later Reggy and I were seated at luncheon in the _Hotel de
la Poste_. The _salle a manger_ was filled with English, French and
Belgian officers, and their wives or friends, and to the casual observer
the place was as gay as in times of peace. But in spite of the bright
colours of the uniforms, in spite of the "chic" Parisian hats and pretty
faces of the ladies, one felt over all an atmosphere subdued and
serious.
It is true wine sparkled upon almost every table, but in France this
doesn't necessarily mean gaiety. Every Frenchman drinks wine, but it is
very rare indeed to see one drunk. Wine, like water at home, is used as
a beverage--not as an intoxicant.
Imbued with the spirit of the time and place, Reggy and I called for a
bottle of old _Chambertin_, and under its mellowing influence, care and
the war were soon forgotten.
Of course we visited the Cathedral, and listened to the old sexton
pouring incomprehensible data into our stupid ears for half an hour
while we examined the rare stained windows and the carved oak door.
When we returned to the train, the senior major and the transport
officer were deep in conversation: "But where are your papers?" the
R.T.O. was asking.
"We haven't any," the major replied. "That French conductor wouldn't
hold the train until they arrived. Can't we go on without them?"
"Where are you going?"
"We presume to Boulogne--the rest of the unit is there, but we have no
orders. When does the train leave, please?"
"There'll be one at 3 p.m., and if you wish to take that, get your men
aboard."
We might have been touring France--he was so nonchalant, and there was
such an absence of "red-tape." Imagine in these hyper-martial days
being told to "take the 3 p.m. train if we wished!" Nowadays it is not
a matter of volition; units go where and when they are commanded, and a
definite system has replaced haphazard. But the old way had its good
points--it still let one believe he was in part his own master.