Here I must tell you how absolutely heroic the telephone girls have been

at the Exchange. It is in a building a considerable distance from the

G.P.O., and the Sinn Feiners have made great efforts to capture it. The

girls have been surrounded by firing; shots have several times come into

the switch-room, where the men took down the boards from the back of the

switch-boards and arranged them as shelters over the girls’ heads to

protect them from bullets and broken glass. Eight snipers have been shot

on buildings commanding the Exchange, and one of the guard was killed

yesterday, and these girls have never failed. They have been on duty

since yesterday, sleeping when possible in a cellar, and with indifferent

food, and have cheerfully and devotedly stuck to their post, doing the

work of forty. Only those on duty at the outbreak of the rebellion could

remain, those in their homes could never get back, so with the few men

who take the night duty these girls have kept the whole service going;

all telegrams have had to be sent by ‘’phone,’ and they have simply saved

the situation. It has been magnificent!

The shooting is by no means over, as many of the Sinn Fein strongholds

refuse to surrender. Jacob’s biscuit factory is very strongly held, and

when the rebels were called on to surrender they refused unless they

were allowed to march out carrying their arms!

It is said that when Jacob was told that the military might have to blow

up the factory he replied:

‘They may blow it to blazes for all I care; I shall never make another

biscuit in Ireland.’

I don’t know if this is true, but it very well may be, for he has been

one of the model employers in Dublin. He almost gave up the factory at

the time of the Larkin strike, and only continued it for the sake of his

people, and so it will be with the few great industries in the city.

Dublin is ruined!

Yesterday I made a joyful discovery. When we came back from Italy in

March, H. brought back from the office my large despatch-case, in which

I keep all F.’s letters. I did not remember what else was in it, so I

investigated and found my necklace with jewelled cross and the pink

topaz set—both of these, being in large cases, would not go into the

jewel-case,—also the large old paste buckle, so I am not absolutely

destitute of jewelry. But, best of all, there were the three little

handkerchiefs F. sent me from Armentières with my initial worked on them;

for these I was grieving more than for anything, and when I found them

the relief was so great I sat with them in my hand and cried!

This week has been a wonderful week for N. Never before has a boy of

just seventeen had such an experience. Yesterday morning he was at the

Automobile Club filling cans of petrol from casks for the Red Cross

ambulances; he came in to lunch reeking of petrol! In the afternoon he

went round with the Lord Mayor in an ambulance collecting food for forty

starving refugees from the burnt-out district, housed in the Mansion

House, and after tea went out for wounded and brought in an old man of

seventy-eight shot through the body. He was quite cheery over it and

asked N. if he thought he would recover. ‘Good Lord! Yes; why not?’ said

N., and bucked the old man up!

There is intermittent firing in all directions. I doubt if it will quite

cease for some days, as their strongholds will not surrender.

_May 1, 11 a.m._—I had no time to continue this yesterday, but during the

afternoon three of the rebel strongholds surrendered, Jacob’s, Boland’s,

and the College of Surgeons on St. Stephen’s Green. From this last

building 160 men surrendered and were marched down Grafton Street. It is

said that among them was Countess Marcovitz, dressed in a man’s uniform;

it is also said that the military made her take down the green Republican

flag flying over the building herself and replace it by a white one.

When she surrendered she took off her bandolier and kissed it and her

revolver before handing them to the officer. She has been one of the most

dangerous of the leaders. People who saw them marched down Grafton Street

said they held themselves erect, and looked absolutely defiant!

Yesterday H. revisited the Telephone Exchange and a point was cleared up

that had mystified everyone; and that is why, when the rebels on Easter

Monday took every building of importance and every strategic position,

did they overlook the Telephone Exchange? Had they taken it we should

have been absolutely powerless, unable to send messages or telegrams for

troops. The Exchange is situated in Crown Alley, off Dame Street, and

the Superintendent told H. an extraordinary story. It seems when they

had taken the G.P.O. they marched a detachment to take the Exchange,

when just as they were turning into Crown Alley an old woman rushed

towards them with arms held up calling out ‘Go back, go back; the place

is crammed with military.’ And, supposing it to be in the hands of our

troops, they turned back! This was at noon; at 5 P.M. our troops arrived

and took it over.

This saved the whole situation! Whether the woman was on our side, or if

she thought she had seen soldiers, will never be known....

I have just returned from walking round the G.P.O. and Sackville

Street with H. and some of the officials. It passes all my powers of

description; only one word describes it: ‘desolation.’ If you look at

pictures of Ypres or Louvain after the bombardment, it will give you some

idea of the scene.

We looked up through the windows of the G.P.O. and saw the safe that was

in H.’s room still in the wall, and the door does not appear to have been

opened or the safe touched; but the whole place has been such an inferno,

one would think that door must have been red-hot. Among all the débris

the fire was still smouldering, and we could not penetrate inside. Do you

realise that out of all H.’s library he does not possess a single book,

except one volume of his Dante, and I not even a silver teaspoon!

Everything belonging to F. has gone; as he gave his life in the war, so

an act of war has robbed us of everything belonging to him, our most

precious possession!

_May 2, 10 a.m._—Last evening I walked all round the ruined district.

The streets were thronged with people, and threading their way among

the crowd were all sorts of vehicles—carts carrying the bodies of dead

horses, that had been shot the first day and lain in the streets ever

since; Fire Brigade ambulances followed by Irish cars bringing priests

and driven by Fire Brigade men. The motors with Red Cross emblems,

carrying white-jacketed doctors, would dart along, followed by a trail of

Red Cross nurses on bicycles, in their print dresses and white overalls,

their white cap ends floating behind them, all speeding on their errand

of mercy to the stricken city.

From time to time we came across on the unwashed pavement the large

dark stain telling its own grim story, and in some places the blood had

flowed along the pavement for some yards and down into the gutters; but

enough of horrors. We came sadly back, and on the steps we met Mr. O’B.

returning from a similar walk. He could hardly speak of it, and said he

stood in Sackville Street and cried, and many other men did the same.

Out of all the novel experiences of the last eight days, two things

struck me very forcibly. The first is that under circumstances that might

well have tried the nerves of the strongest, there has been no trace of

fear or panic among the people in the hotel, either among the guests or

staff. Anxiety for absent friends of whom no tidings could be heard,

though living only in the next square, one both felt and heard, but of

fear for their own personal safety I have seen not one trace, and the

noise of battle after the first two days seemed to produce nothing but

boredom. The other fact is a total absence of thankfulness at our own

escape.

It may come, I don’t know; others may feel it, I don’t. I don’t pretend

to understand it, but so it is. Life as it has been lived for the last

two years in the midst of death seems to have blunted one’s desire for

it, and completely changed one’s feelings towards the Hereafter.

_AN AMERICAN AMBULANCE IN THE VERDUN ATTACK._

BY FRANK HOYT GAILOR

‘Our artillery and automobiles have saved Verdun,’ French officers and

soldiers were continually telling me. And as I look back on two months of

ambulance-driving in the attack, it seems to me that automobiles played

a larger part than even the famous ‘seventy-fives,’ for without motor

transport there would have been no ammunition and no food. One shell,

accurately placed, will put a railway communication out of the running,

but automobiles must be picked off one by one as they come within range.

The picture of the attack that will stay with me always is that of the

Grande Route north from Bar-le-Duc, covered with the snow and ice of the

last days of February. The road was always filled with two columns of

trucks, one going north and the other coming south. The trucks, loaded

with troops, shells, and bread, rolled and bobbled back and forth with

the graceless, uncertain strength of baby elephants. It was almost

impossible to steer them on the icy roads. Many of them fell by the

wayside, overturned, burned up, or were left apparently unnoticed in the

ceaseless tide of traffic that never seemed to hurry or to stop.

All night and all day it continued. Soon the roads began to wear out.

Trucks brought stones from the ruins of the Battle of the Marne and

sprinkled them in the ruts and holes; soldiers, dodging in and out of

the moving cars, broke and packed the stones or sprinkled sand on the

ice-covered hillsides. But the traffic was never stopped for any of these

things. The continuous supply had its effect on the demand. There were

more troops than were needed for the trenches, so they camped along the

road or in the fields. Lines of _camions_ ran off the road and unloaded

the reserve of bread; the same thing was done with the meat, which kept

well enough in the snow; and the shells, which a simple _camouflage_ of

white tarpaulins effectually hid from the enemy airmen.

At night, on the main road, I have watched for hours the dimmed lights of

the _camions_, winding away north and south like the coils of some giant

and luminous snake which never stopped and never ended. It was impressive

evidence of a great organisation that depended and was founded on the

initiative of its members. Behind each light was a unit, the driver,

whose momentary negligence might throw the whole line into confusion.

Yet there were no fixed rules to save him from using his brain quickly

and surely as each crisis presented itself. He must be continually awake

to avoid any one of a thousand possible mischances. The holes and ice on

the road, his skidding car, the cars passing in the same and opposite

directions, the cars in front and behind, the cars broken down on the

sides of the road—all these and many other things he had to consider

before using brake or throttle in making his way along. Often snow and

sleet storms were added to make driving more difficult. Objects six feet

away were completely invisible, and it was only by watching the trees

along the side of the road that one could attempt to steer.

I was connected with the _Service des Autos_ as a driver in Section No.

2 of the Field Service of the American Ambulance of Neuilly. We had

the usual French section of twenty ambulances and one staff car, but,

unlike the other sections, we had only one man to a car. There were two

officers, one the Chief of Section, Walter Lovell, a graduate of Harvard

University and formerly a member of the Boston Stock Exchange; and

George Roder, Mechanical Officer, in charge of the supply of parts and

the repair of cars. Before the war, he was a promising bacteriologist

in the Rockefeller Institute. Our section was one of five which compose

the field service of the American Ambulance, and are located at various

points along the front from Dunkirk to the Vosges. The general direction

of the Field Service is in the hands of A. Piatt Andrew, formerly

professor at Harvard and Assistant Secretary of the United States

Treasury. He has organised the system by which volunteers and funds are

obtained in America, and is the responsible link between the work of the

service and the will of the French authorities.

In each of the five sections there are twenty drivers, all Americans and

volunteers. Most of them are college men who have come over from the

United States to ‘do their bit’ for France and see the war at the same

time. Certainly our section was gathered from the four corners of the

‘States.’ One, a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania, had worked

for two years on the Panama Canal as an engineer; another, an Alaskan,

had brought 200 dogs over for the French Government, to be used for

transportation in the Vosges; a third was a well-known American novelist

who had left his home at Florence to be a chauffeur for France. There

were also two architects, a New York undertaker, several soi-disant

students, and a man who owned a Mexican ranch that was not sufficiently

flourishing to keep him at home.

The term of service required by the French authorities is now six months,

though, of course, some of the men have been in the section since the

Battle of the Marne. We all got five sous a day and rations as privates

in the French army, which was represented in our midst by a lieutenant, a

_maréchal de logis_, a mechanic, and a cook.

On February 22 our French lieutenant gave us our ‘order to move,’ but

all he could tell us about our destination was that we were going north.

We started from Bar-le-Duc about noon, and it took us six hours to make

forty miles through roads covered with snow, swarming with troops,

and all but blocked by convoys of food carts and sections of trucks.

Of course, we knew that there was an attack in the neighbourhood of

Verdun, but we did not know who was making it or how it was going. Then

about four o’clock in the short winter twilight we passed two or three

regiments of French colonial troops on the march with all their field

equipment. I knew who and what they were by the curious Eastern smell

that I had always before associated with camels and circuses. They were

lined up on each side of the road around their soup kitchens, which were

smoking busily, and I had a good look at them as we drove along.

It was the first time I had seen an African army in the field, and though

they had had a long march they were cheerful and in high spirits at the

prospect of battle. They were all young, active men, and of all colours

and complexions, from blue-eyed blonds to shiny blacks. They all wore

khaki and brown shrapnel casques bearing the trumpet insignia of the

French sharpshooter. We were greeted with laughter and chaff, for the

most part, in an unknown chatter, but now and again some one would say,

‘Hee, hee, Ambulance Americaine,’ or ‘Yes, Ingliish, Good-bye.’

I was fortunate enough to pick up one of their non-commissioned officers

with a bad foot who was going our way. He was born in Africa, which

accounted for his serving in the colonials, though his mother was

American and his father French. From him I learned that the Germans were

attacking at Verdun, and that, to everyone’s surprise, they were trying

to drive the point of the salient south instead of cutting it off from

east to west. As we were passing along, one of his men shouted something

to him about riding in an ambulance, and I remarked that they all seemed

in a very good humour. ‘Oh yes,’ he answered; ‘we’re glad to be on the

move, as we’ve been _en repos_ since autumn in a small quiet place south

of Paris.’ ‘But it means trouble,’ he added proudly, ‘their sending

us up, for we are never used except in attacks, and were being saved

for the summer. Six hundred have been killed in my company since the

beginning, so I have seen something of this war. Now my regiment is mixed

up with two others, and altogether we make about 4000 men.’

As we talked, I realised that his was a different philosophy from that of

the ordinary _poilu_ that I had been carrying. Certainly he loved France

and was at war for her; but soldiering was his business and fighting was

his life. Nothing else counted. He had long since given up any thought of

coming out alive, so the ordinary limitations of life and death did not

affect him. He wanted to fight and last as long as possible to leave a

famous name in his regiment, and to add as many _citations_ as possible

to the three medals he had already gained. He was the only man I ever met

who was really eager to get back to the trenches, and he said to me with

a smile when I stopped to let him off, ‘Thanks for the lift, my old, but

I hope you don’t have to carry me back.’

After that we rode north along the Meuse, through a beautiful country

where the snow-covered hills, with their sky-lines of carefully pruned

French trees, made me think of masterpieces of Japanese art. In the many

little villages there was much excitement and activity with troops,

artillery, and munitions being rushed through to the front, and the

consequent wild rumours of great attacks and victories. Curiously enough,

there were few who thought of defeat. They were all sure, even when a

retreat was reported, that the French were winning, and that spirit of

confidence had much to do with stopping the Germans.

At about six in the evening we reached our destination some forty miles

north-east of Bar-le-Duc. The little village where we stopped had been a

railroad centre until the day before, when the Germans started bombarding

it. Now the town was evacuated, and the smoking station deserted. The

place had ceased to exist, except for a hospital which was established on

the southern edge of the town in a lovely old chateau, overlooking the

Meuse. We were called up to the hospital as soon as we arrived to take

such wounded as could be moved to the nearest available railhead, which

was ten miles away, on the main road, and four miles south of Verdun. We

started out in convoy, but with the then conditions of traffic, it was

impossible to stick together, and it took some of us till five o’clock

the next morning to make the trip. That was the beginning of the attack

for us, and the work of ‘evacuating’ the wounded to the railway stations

went steadily on until March 15. It was left to the driver to decide

how many trips it was physically possible for him to make in each

twenty-four hours. There were more wounded than could be carried, and no

one could be certain of keeping any kind of schedule with the roads as

they then were.

Sometimes we spent five or six hours waiting at a cross-road, while

columns of troops and their equipment filed steadily by. Sometimes

at night we could make a trip in two hours that had taken us ten in

daylight. Sometimes, too, we crawled slowly to a station only to find

it deserted, shells falling, and the hospital moved to some still more

distant point of the line. Situations and conditions changed from day to

day—almost from hour to hour. One day it was sunshine and spring, with

roads six inches deep in mud, no traffic, and nothing to remind one of

war, except the wounded in the car and the distant roar of the guns,

which sounded like a giant beating a carpet. The next day it was winter

again, with mud turned to ice, the roads blocked with troops, and the

Germans turning hell loose with their heavy guns.

In such a crisis as those first days around Verdun, ammunition and

fresh men are the all-essential things. The wounded are the _déchets_,

the ‘has-beens’, and so must take second place. But the French are too

gallant and tender-hearted not to make sacrifices. I remember one morning

I was slapped off the road into a ditch with a broken axle, while passing

a solitary _camion_. The driver got down, came over, and apologised for

the accident, which was easily half my fault. Then we unloaded four

cases of ‘seventy-five’ shells that he was carrying, and put my three

wounded in on the floor of his car. He set out slowly and carefully up

the ice-covered road, saying to me with a smile as he left, ‘Don’t let

the Boches get my marmites while I’m gone.’ For some time I sat there

alone on the road, watching the shells break on a hill some miles away

to the north, and wondering when I could get word back to the ‘base’ of

my mishap. Then a staff car appeared down the road making its way along

slowly and with difficulty, because, being without chains, it skidded

humorously with engine racing and the chauffeur trying vainly to steer.

There was a captain of the _Service des Autos_ sitting on the front seat,

and he was so immaculately clean and well groomed that he seemed far away

from work of any kind. But when the car stopped completely about half-way

up the little hill on which I was broken down, he jumped out, took off

his fur coat, and using it to give the rear wheels a grip on the ice, he

swung it under the car. As the wheels passed over it, he picked it up and

swung it under again. So the car climbed the hill and slid down the other

slope round the curve and out of sight. It was just another incident

that made me realise the spirit and energy of the French Automobile

Service. But the captain had not solved any of my difficulties. He had

been too busy to notice me or wonder why an American ambulance was

sprawled in a ditch with four cases of shells alongside.

I had been waiting there in the road about two hours when another

American came by and took back word of my accident and of the parts

necessary to set it right. Then about noon my friend came back in his

_camion_ to take up his cases of shells and report my wounded safe at the

railway station. We lunched together on the front seat of the _camion_ on

bread, tinned ‘monkey meat,’ and red wine, while he told me stories about

his life as a driver. He had been on his car then for more than twenty

days without leaving it for food or sleep. That morning his ‘partner’ had

been wounded by a shell, so he had to drive all that day alone. Usually

the two men drive two hours, turn and turn about; while one is driving,

the other can eat, sleep, or read the day before yesterday’s newspaper.

The French _camions_ are organised in sections of twenty. Usually each

section works in convoy, and has its name and mark painted on its cars.

I saw some with elephants or ships, some with hearts or diamonds, clubs

or spades, some with dice—in fact every imaginable symbol has been used

to distinguish the thousands of sections in the service. The driver

told me there were more than ten thousand trucks working between Verdun

and Bar-le-Duc. There is great rivalry between the men of the several

sections in matters of speed and load—especially between the sections of

French and those of American or Italian cars. The American product has

the record for speed, which is, however, offset by its frequent need of

repair.

My friend told me about trips he had made up as far as the third line

trenches, and how they were using ‘seventy-fives’ like machine-guns in

dug-outs, where the shells were fired at ‘zero’ so that they exploded

immediately after leaving the mouth of the gun. The French, he said,

would rather lose guns than men, and according to him, there were so many

guns placed in the ‘live’ parts of the sector that the wheels touched,

and so formed a continuous line.

As soon as we had finished lunch he left me, and I waited for another

two hours until the American staff car (in other surroundings I should

call it an ordinary Ford touring car with a red cross or so added), came

along loaded with an extra ‘rear construction,’ and driven by the chief

himself. It took us another four hours to remove my battered rear axle

and put in the new parts, but my car was back in service by midnight.

That was a typical instance of the kind of accident that was happening,

and there were about three ‘Ford casualties’ every day. Thanks to the

simplicity of the mechanism of the Ford, and to the fact that, with the

necessary spare parts, the most serious indisposition can be remedied

in a few hours, our section has been at the front for a year—ten months

in the Bois-le-Prêtre, and two months at Verdun—without being sent back

out of service for general repairs. In the Bois-le-Prêtre we had carried

the wounded from the dressing stations to the first hospital, while at

Verdun we were on service from the hospital to the railheads. In this

latter work of _évacuation_ the trips were much longer, thirty to ninety

miles, so the strain on the cars was correspondingly greater. As our

cars, being small and fast, carried only three wounded on stretchers or

five seated, our relative efficiency was low in comparison with the wear

and tear of the ‘running gear’ and the amount of oil and petrol used. But

in the period from February 22 to March 13, twenty days, with an average

of eighteen cars working, we carried 2046 wounded 18,915 miles. This

would be no record on good open roads, but with the conditions I have

already described I think it justified the existence of our volunteer

organisation—if it needed justification. Certainly the French thought so,

but they are too generous to be good judges.

Except for our experiences on the road, there was little romance in

the daily routine. True, we were under shell fire, and had to sleep in

our cars or in a much-inhabited hayloft, and eat in a little inn, half

farmhouse and half stable, where the food was none too good and the

cooking none too clean; but we all realised that the men in the trenches

would have made of such conditions a luxurious paradise, so that kept us

from thinking of it as anything more than a rather strenuous ‘camping

out.’

During the first days of the attack, the roads were filled with refugees

from the town of Verdun and the country north of it. As soon as the

bombardment started, civilians were given five hours to leave, and we

saw them—old men, women, and children—struggling along through the snow

on their way south. It was but another of those sad migrations that

occur so often in the ‘Zone des Armées.’ The journey was made difficult

and often dangerous for them by the columns of skidding trucks, so the

more timid took to the fields or the ditches at the roadside. They were

for the most part the _petits bourgeois_ who had kept their shops open

until the last minute, to make the town gay for the troops, who filed

through the Promenade de la Digue in an endless queue on their way to

and from the trenches. Most of them had saved nothing but the clothes

on their backs, though I saw one old woman courageously trundling a

barrow overflowing with laces, post cards, bonbons (doubtless the famous

_Dragées Verdunoises_), and other similar things which had been part of

her stock-in-trade, and with which she would establish a Verdun souvenir

shop when she found her new home. There were many peasant carts loaded

with every imaginable article of household goods from stoves to bird

cages, but no matter what else a cart might contain, there was always a

mattress with the members of the family, old and young, bouncing along on

top. So ubiquitous was this mattress that I asked about it, and was told

that the French peasant considers it the most important of his Lares, for

it is there his babies are born and his old people die—there too, is the

family bank, the hiding-place for the _bas de laine_.

All the people, no matter what their class or station, were excited. Some

were resigned, some weeping, some quarrelling, but every face reflected

terror and suffering, for these derelicts had been suddenly torn from the

ruins of their old homes and their old lives after passing through two

days of the heaviest bombardment the world has ever seen.

I did not wonder at their grief or terror when I had seen the town from

which they fled. Sometimes it is quiet, with no shells and no excitement;

at others it is a raging hell, a modern Pompeii in the ruining. Often I

passed through the town, hearing and seeing nothing to suggest that any

enemy artillery was within range. But one morning I went up to take a

doctor to a near-by hospital, and had just passed under one of the lovely

old twelfth-century gates, with its moat and towers, when the Germans

commenced their morning hate. I counted 150 shells, ‘arrivés,’ in the

first quarter of an hour.

After making my way up on the old fortifications in the north-eastern

quarter, I had an excellent view of the whole city—a typical garrison

town of Northern France spreading over its canals and river up to the

Citadel and Cathedral on the heights. Five and six shells were shrieking

overhead at the same time, and a corresponding number of houses in the

centre of the town going up in dust and débris, one after another, almost

as fast as I could count.

During this bedlam a military gendarme strolled up as unconcerned as if

he had been looking out for a stranger in the Champs Elysées. He told

me about a dug-out that was somewhere ‘around the corner.’ But we both

got so interested watching the shells and their effect that we stayed

where we were. The gendarme had been in the town long enough to become

an authority on bombardments, and he could tell me the different shells

and what they were hitting, from the coloured smoke which rose after each

explosion and hung like a pall over the town in the windless spring air.

When the shells fell on the Cathedral—often there were three breaking

on and around it at the same time—there sprang up a white cloud, while

on the red tiles and zinc roofs they exploded in brilliant pink and

yellow puffs. The air was filled with the smell of the burning celluloid

and coal-tar products used in the manufacture of the high explosive

and incendiary shells. It was very impressive, and even my friend the

gendarme said, ‘_C’est chic, n’est-ce pas?_ It’s the heaviest rain we

have had for several days.’ Then he pointed to the left where a column

of flame and smoke, heavier than that from the shells, was rising, and

said, ‘Watch them now, and you’ll understand their system, the _cochons_.

That’s a house set afire with their incendiary shells, and now they will

throw shrapnel around it to keep our firemen from putting it out.’ And so

they did, for I could see the white puffs of the six-inch shrapnel shells

breaking in and around the column of black smoke, which grew denser

all the time. Then two German Taubes, taking advantage of the smoke,

came over and dropped bombs, for no other reason than to add terror to

the confusion. But the eighty firemen, a brave little band brought up

from Paris with their hose-carts and engine, refused to be confused or

terrified. Under the shells and smoke we could see the streams of water

playing on the burning house. ‘They are working from the cellars,’ said

the gendarme. It was fortunate there was no wind, for that house was

doomed, and but for the fact that all the buildings were stone, the fire

would have spread over all that quarter of the town despite the gallantry

of the firemen.

The bombardment continued steadily for about two hours and a half, until

several houses were well alight and many others completely destroyed.

Then about noon it stopped as suddenly as it had started. I wanted to go

down and watch the firemen work, but the gendarme, who had produced an

excellent bottle of no ordinary ‘_pinard_,’ said, ‘Wait awhile, my old,

that is part of the system. They have only stopped to let the people

come out. In a few minutes it will start again, when they will have more

chance of killing somebody.’

But for once he was wrong, and after waiting with him for half an hour,

I went down to the first house I had seen catch fire. The firemen

were still there, working with hose and axe to prevent the fire from

spreading. The four walls of the house were still standing, but inside

there was nothing but a furnace which glowed and leapt into flame with

every draught of air, so that the sparks flew over the neighbouring

houses, and started other fires which the firemen were busy controlling.

These _pompiers_ are no longer civilians. The black uniform and gay

brass and leather helmet of Paris fashion have been replaced with the

blue-grey of the _poilu_, with the regulation steel shrapnel casque or

_bourguignotte_. The French press has had many accounts of their heroism

since the beginning of the attack. Certainly if any of the town is left,

it will be due to their efforts among the ruins. There are only eighty of

them in the town. Half of them are men too old for ‘_active service_,’

yet they have stayed there for two months working night and day under the

shells, with the strain of the bombardment added to the usual dangers

from falling walls and fire. They are still as gay and eager as ever.

Their spirit and motto is the same as that of every soldier and civilian

who is doing hard work in these hard times. They all say, ‘It is war,’ or

more often, ‘It is for France.’

I left them saving what they could of the house, and walked on over the

river through the town. It is truly the Abomination of Desolation. The

air was heavy and hot with the smell of explosives and the smoke from the

smouldering ruins. Not a sound broke the absolute quiet and not a soul

was in sight. I saw two dogs and a cat all slinking about on the search

for food, and evidently so crazed with terror that they could not leave

their old homes. Finally, crossing over the canal, where the theatre, now

a heap of broken beams and stones, used to stand, I met an old bearded

Territorial leaning over the bridge with a net in his hand to dip out

fish killed by the explosion of the shells in the water. He did not

worry about the danger of his position on the bridge, and, like all true

fishermen, when they have had good luck, he was happy and philosophical.

‘One must live,’ said he, ‘and it’s very amiable of the Boches to keep us

in fish with their marmites, _n’est-ce pas, mon vieux_?’ We chatted for a

while of bombardments, falling walls, and whether the Germans would reach

Verdun. He, of course, like every soldier in that region, was volubly

sure they would not. Then I went on up the hill towards the Cathedral, by

the old library, which was standing with doors and windows wide open, and

with the well-ordered books still on the tables and in the shelves. As

yet it is untouched by fire or shell, but too near the bridge to escape

for long.

I continued my way through streets filled with fallen wires, broken

glass, and bits of shell. Here and there were dead horses and broken

waggons caught in passing to or from the lines. There is nothing but

ruins left of the lovely residential quarter below the Cathedral. The

remaining walls of the houses, gutted by flame and shell, stand in a

wavering line along a street, blocked with débris, and with furniture and

household articles that the firemen have saved. The furniture is as safe

in the middle of the street as anywhere else in the town. As I passed

along I could hear from time to time the crash and roar of falling walls,

and see the rising clouds of white stone dust that has settled thickly

everywhere.

The Cathedral, with its Bishop’s Palace and cloisters—all fine old

structures of which the foundations were laid in the eleventh and twelfth

centuries—must from its commanding position overlooking the town, be

singled out for destruction. I watched ten shells strike the Cathedral

that one morning, and some of them were the terrible ‘380’s,’ the shells

of the 16-inch mortars, which make no noise as they approach and tear

through to the ground before their explosion.

The interior of the Cathedral, blurred with a half-inch layer of stone

dust, is in most ‘unchurchly’ disorder. Four or five shells have torn

large holes through the roof of the nave, and twice as many more have

played havoc with the chapels and aisles at the side. One has fallen

through the gilded canopy over the high altar and broken one of the four

supporting columns, which before were monoliths like those of St. Peter’s

at Rome. Of course, most of the stained glass windows are scattered

in fragments over the floor, and through the openings on the southern

side I could see the ruins of the cloisters, with some chairs and a bed

literally falling into them from a room of the Bishop’s Palace above.

This destruction of the Cathedral is typical of the purposeless barbarity

of the whole proceeding. The wiping out of the town can serve no military

purpose. There are no stores of munitions or railway communications to

be demolished. Naturally there are no troops quartered in the town, and

now all extensive movements of convoys are conducted by other roads than

those leading through the town. Yet the bombardment continues day after

day, and week after week. The Germans are sending in about £5,000,000

worth of shells a month. ‘It’s spite,’ a _poilu_ said to me; ‘they have

made up their minds to destroy the town since they can’t capture it; but

it will be very valuable as an iron mine after the war.’

_THE SPINE OF AN EMPIRE._

BY MAJOR-GEN. G. F. MACMUNN, C.B., D.S.O.

_In Agypt’s land on banks of Noile_

_King Pharaoh’s royal daughter went to bath in shtoile;_

_She had her dip and hied into the land,_

_To dry her royal pelt she ran along the sand._

_A Bulrush thripped her and at her foot she saw_

_The little Moases, in a wad of sthraw._

Fragment, _The Finding of Moses_, ANON.

Never in the cinema of all time have there been such films to record as

on the stage of Egypt. Certain localities are preordained to attract

the come and go of the world, and before all others the Nile delta

has this property. Its strategical location in the world’s assembling

has compelled the holders of power and might and majesty and dominion

to crowd therein. No decay of empires can affect the significance of

geographical siting. Mena and Cheops and Khefren give place to Amenemhats

and Thotmes and a host of Rameses, who yield in turn to such modernities

as the Ptolemies, but the Nile remains the Nile, and the Red Sea the

waterway from East to West.

As Darius and Xerxes and Alexander were compelled by the call of

strategical law, so came Salah-ud-Din and Napoleon and Ferdinand de

Lesseps and Sir Garnet Wolseley. And here, too, would come William of

Hohenzollern, boasting to break the spine of the British Empire, in the

vertebræ that Chesney planned and De Lesseps made.

Between Alexander the Great and William of Hohenzollern the host of

moderns has been legion, but it was for Napoleon and his dreams of

Eastern Empire to bring the British into the scene to short circuit their

sea routes. Since the Corsican brought his legions, his savants, and his

artists to the Pyramids, the English have entered into the joint control

of the Levant, and to help them have brought the armies of India. With

Abercromby came David Baird and his sepoys. Sir Garnet Wolseley, in

Egypt and in the Soudan, had Indian troops to help him, and now, lest

William of Hohenzollern and his Ottoman allies should ‘break the British

spine,’ and disturb the peace and plenty of Egypt, not only has India

sent troops, but all elements of the Empire far and near. Never, even in

the days of Alexander’s armies, had so many varied contingents garrisoned

Egypt, as came when the Hun threatened the Canal in force.

In the late autumn of 1915, what time Serbia was broken on the wheel, the

Hun determined to overrun Egypt and Sinai and Goshen, breaking thereby

the British spine. But the Mistress of the Sea said No. The army of

Gallipoli was conjured back from the Hellespont and the outer Empire sent

its levies, and the great plans of the All-Highest were ‘postponed.’

The force gathered in Egypt was the most wonderful combination of the

Empire that can be imagined. To the gathering came first and most famous

a division of the old army, the army that has held the line from the

Yser to the Aisne, and lies in a grave and lives in a memory for its

guerdon, the world round. With them were Territorial divisions, and

divisions of the new army, brigades of yeomen, divisions from Australia

and New Zealand, the Maoris cheek by jowl with the white, a model in this

respect to the rest of the Empire. Not only was the Indian army proper

there—Gurkha, Sikh, and Pathan in due and ancient form—but the armies of

the protected states, those imperial service contingents, the wisdom of

their conception yearly more apparent. But the tally of Empire ended not

with Gwalior, Mysore, and Bikaneer. Hospitals from Canada, Sambo from

the West Indies cleaning his rifle to Moody and Sankey hymns, and the

Afrikander corps of Dutch and English added to that pageant of Empire,

standing four-square with the troops of the Sultan himself.

Strategically to the world’s power and commerce, the situation of Egypt

is as favourable now as in the days of Alexander, and troops are as well

placed there against emergency as anywhere, and as the danger to Egypt

lessened were ready to be sent by those who rule the sea North, South,

East, or West. Troops can come and go and be switched back quicker than

foes can assemble.

The defending of the canal, a waterless tract, void of roads in

its immediate vicinity, is no easy matter and a subject of much

controversy, the manner of its defence depending, like that of most

other localities, on the troops available and the strength of the enemy

threat. The difficulties have been overcome by a herculean effort. Atkins

bathes happily in its water, and watches the ships of allies and of

neutrals—those lesser breeds who wait—pass us safely.

To most of the English the canal has seemed a desert track dotted with

lonely _gares_, akin in their solitude to a Red Sea lighthouse. A further

acquaintance with them has dispelled many imaginings. The _gares_, the

friendly _chefs de gare_, and their brimming quivers have assumed a

different aspect from their ancient one of milestones on the road to

India.

British patrols thread the ancient course of the Nile now dry, the

Pelusiac and Tanaitic channels that found the sea east of the canal and

explain the delta-like lagoons that still remain. The ruins of Pelusium

and the ancient channel explain how Cleopatra, defeated on the high seas,

escaped by water inland to Damietta, and how the Holy Family found the

road to Egypt far easier than it is now. Across Lake Menzalah from Port

Said lie the ruins of Tanais, the capital of the Pharaohs in the time

of Moses. El Qantara, a British post, closes the road from Palestine to

Egypt that has run since time was, and that has seen in our own time the

legions of Napoleon march by the bridge over the arm of the marsh for

Syria. ‘_Partant pour la Syrie_’ with a vengeance, many, poor souls, to

die miserably.

And no doubt over the El Qantara rode also the _savants_ in their

high hats and veils, their long _directoire_ coats and their striped

pantaloons—like any member of the various royal societies of to-day, but

with the chill off—while the escorting _chasseurs_ chaffed them and their

umbrellas.

So to-day Port Said and Suez and Ismailia and Cairo are full of the

soldiery, and a wide camp is spread under the Pyramid of Ghizr, and

young officers walk along the groyne at Port Said, asking ‘what is the

history of that funny old green statue’ which stands a wonder of the

world, like the _Phare_ in ancient Alexandria. Shades of Ferdinand de

Lesseps and Rawdon Chesney! What, indeed, is the history of that ‘funny

old green statue,’ and the ‘spine of the British Empire’ as the Hun

has immortalised it? It is a phrase for which we may thank William of

Hohenzollern.

The mass of the force in Egypt transferred from Gallipoli, rage the

‘_unterseebote_’ never so fiercely, is resting and retraining. If you’ve

been six months on Gallipoli you’ll run a mile to see a nursing sister,

and both Atkins and his officers are soft of heart. Graceful Cairenes in

French cut skirts of black _crépe de chine_ with ever the topmost button

undone, with black head-shawls of the same material, and evanescent veils

that faintly cloud to distraction the face below the eyes, are strong

wine for young soldiers. So attractive is the dress that the old hand

will tell you that many another than Cairenes will don the dress when

out for a spree—a disguise that also enhances attraction is a good find,

_mesdames_!

Atkins himself and Hotspur the yeoman are nothing if not gallant. Here is

a true story from Port Said. Time about 8 P.M. Attractive English lady

hears two soldiers walking fast behind who come up one on either side.

FIRST SOLDIER. Beg pardon, miss, do you speak English?

ATTRACTIVE LADY. Yes.

BOTH SOLDIERS. Oh, you are English!

FIRST SOLDIER. I think we saw you waving out of the window.

ATTRACTIVE LADY. I think you are mistaking me for Mrs. Brown’s nursemaid!

SECOND SOLDIER (_severely_). You must be an ass to take this young lady

for a nursemaid!

BOTH SOLDIERS. Perhaps we ought not to have spoken, but we are very

lonely—may we walk with you?

ATTRACTIVE LADY. I am going this way.

FIRST SOLDIER. Would you tell us who you are, miss?

ATTRACTIVE LADY. I am the chaplain’s sister. (_Sensation and silence._)

FIRST SOLDIER (_plucking up courage_). We never saw a chaplain’s sister

like you before.

SECOND SOLDIER. No, indeed, only one I knew was enough to give you the

’orrors.

ATTRACTIVE LADY (_somewhat flattered, stopping at door of a house under a

street lamp_). I must say good-night now. I live here.

BOTH SOLDIERS. Now we see you we are sorry we spoke to you, for we can

see you are more one for the officers than for us.

(_Exit._)

And so it runs from Putney to Port Said, and from Cambridge to Cairo.

Soldiers are very susceptible gents, as the late Francis Bacon knew and

so stated.

And while one big army has delved and dug and built on the canal and

taken toll of Sinai, another force has chased the Senussi up and down

the Western desert, and yeomen from the shires have watered their horses

at the garden steps of the week-end villa at Matrush, where Antony

entertained Cleopatra. This is no doubt foretold by one of the minor

prophets whom Voltaire considered _capable de tout_. It is certainly a

dramatic event for those who moralise on empires’ rise and wane.

Hardly less striking is the prolonged pursuit and charge of the Senussi

by His Grace of Westminster at the head of the motor bandits—as the army

_will_ call the armoured motor-car—in that same Western desert. The

hyacinth and the iris grew for a wonder on surface free from shifting

sands, and the armoured car trick was brought off in a fashion and with

a dash that its promoters could hardly have hoped for in their most

enthusiastic moments.

War has brought many surprises and troubles to the desert and its

denizens. In Sinai, where the Bedouin lives by the date palm, there has

come starvation, and why? Because the female date must be fertilised by

hand, and the male dates are few and far between. The date fertiliser is

a skilled professional and lives in Egypt, and Turks in Sinai have meant

that date trees go unwed. The which is a parable. There is no remedy

save perhaps one similar to that suggested by the American mayor to the

man who complained that the ‘wather had come into me back cellar and

drowned all me hins.’ ‘Young man, I should advise you to keep ducks,’

and the Bedouin might grow the hermaphrodite date. In the country of the

scarabæus it might well be found as Alexander’s soldiers left it on the

Indus. If war has brought harm to some, it has in Egypt brought profit

to the many, and the Greek is ever ready to trade, and merchants one and

all have risen to the occasion and waxed fat. In Alexandria the Greek

influence is very great and sympathy with the Allies considerable. The

Greek will tell you they come of a northern stock, and will quote the

body worship of the _bel âge_ to illustrate affinity with the English,

and that Greeks alone of all Levantine races or Latin races either have

pronounced ‘_th_’ since time was like the English—which, be it true or

false, all makes for good trade. The soldiery all the year are better

than the Americans in the winter, and Young Australia has money to spend.

Another wonder of the ages is that Egypt from the Pyramids to Tel el

Kebir should be the Aldershot of the Australians and New Zealanders,

where Tommy Cornstalk learns to obey for a common cause and to let off

steam in the process.

And over it all grin in the morning sun the Ethiopian lips of the

Sphinx—noting one more trivial mark of chalk on granite, one more grain

of sand in the hour-glass, one more struggle of the captains and the

kings, one more grim grin at peoples rending themselves—perhaps the

thousand-year-long grin sprang from the knowledge that it had only to

endure long enough to see William of Hohenzollern show the world the way

of peace, while the very sand mocked back again.

‘_SWEET LAVENDER._’

BY GEORGE A. BIRMINGHAM.

Was ever a name less appropriately given? I have heard of a Paradise

Court in a grimy city slum and a dilapidated whitewashed house on the

edge of a Connaught bog which had somehow got itself called Monte Carlo.

But these misfits of names moved me only to mirth mingled with a certain

sadness. Sweet Lavender is a sheer astonishment. I hear the words and

think of the edgings of old garden borders, straggling spiky little

bushes with palely, unobtrusive flowers. I think of linen cupboards, of

sheets and pillow-cases redolent with very delicate perfume. I think of

the women who wander through such gardens, who find a pride in their

store of scented house-linen, delicately nurtured ladies, very gentle,

a little tinged with melancholy, innocent, sweet. My thoughts wander

through memories and guesses about their ways of life. Nothing in the

whole long train of thought prepares me for, or tends in any way to

suggest this Sweet Lavender.

It is a building. In the language of the Army—the official language—it

is a hut; but hardly more like the hut of civil life than it is like the

flower from which it takes its name. The walls are of thin wood. The roof

is corrugated iron. It contains two long low halls. Glaring electric

lights hang from the rafters. They must glare if they are to shine at

all, for the air is thick with tobacco smoke. Inside the halls are

gathered hundreds of soldiers. In one, that which we enter first, the men

are sitting, packed close together at small tables. They turn over the

pages of illustrated papers. They drink tea, cocoa, and hot milk. They

eat buns and slices of bread and butter. They write those letters home

which express so little and, to those who understand, mean so much. Of

the letters written home from camp, half at least are on paper which bear

the stamp of the Y.M.C.A.—paper given to all who ask in this hut and a

score of others. Reading, eating, drinking, writing, chatting, or playing

draughts, everybody smokes. Everybody, such is the climate, reeks with

damp. Everybody is hot. The last thing that the air suggests to the nose

of one who enters is the smell of Sweet Lavender.

In the other, the inner hall, there are more men, still more closely

packed together, smoking more persistently, and the air is even denser.

Here no one is eating, no one reading. Few attempt to write. The

evening’s entertainment is about to begin. On a narrow platform at one

end of the hall is a piano. A pianist has taken possession of it. He

has been selected by no one in authority, elected by no committee. He

has occurred, emerged from the mass of men; by virtue of some energy

within him has made good his position in front of the instrument. He

flogs the keys and above the babel of talk sounds some rag-time melody,

once popular, now forgotten or despised at home. Here or there a voice

takes up the tune and sings or chants it. The audience begin to catch the

spirit of the entertainment. Some one calls the name of Corporal Smith. A

man struggles from his seat and leaps on to the platform. He is greeted

with applauding cheers. There is a short consultation between him and the

pianist. A tentative chord is struck. Corporal Smith nods approval and

turns to the audience. His song begins. If it is the kind of song which

has a chorus the audience shouts it, and Corporal Smith conducts the

singing with wavings of his arm.

Corporal Smith is a popular favourite. We know his worth as a singer,

demand and applaud him. But there are other candidates for favour.

Before the applause has died away, while still acknowledgments are being

bowed, another man takes his place on the platform. He is a stranger,

and no one knows what he will sing. But the pianist is a man of genius.

Whisper to him the name of a song, give even a hint of its nature, let

him guess at the kind of voice, bass, baritone, tenor, and he will vamp

an accompaniment. He has his difficulties. A singer will start at the

wrong time, will for a whole verse perhaps make noises in a different

key; the pianist never fails. Somehow, before very long, instrument

and singer get together—more or less. There is no dearth of singers,

no bashful hanging back, no waiting for polite pressure. Everyone who

can sing, or thinks he can, is eager to display his talent. There is no

monotony. A boisterous comic song is succeeded by one about summer roses,

autumn leaves, and the kisses of a maiden at a stile. The vagaries of a

drunkard are a matter for roars of laughter. A song about the beauty of

the rising moon pleases us all equally well. An original genius sings a

song of his own composition, rough-hewn verses set to a familiar tune,

about the difficulty of obtaining leave and the longing that is in all

our hearts for a return to ‘Blighty; dear old Blighty.’ Did ever men

before fix such a name on the standard for which they fight? Now and

again some one comes forward with a long narrative song, a kind of ballad

chanted to a tune very difficult to catch. It is about as hard to keep

track with the story as to pick up the tune. Words—better singers fail in

the same way—are not easily distinguished, though the man does his best,

clears his throat carefully between each verse and spits over the edge of

the platform to improve his enunciation. No one objects to that. About

manners and dress the audience is very little critical. But about the

merits of the songs and the singers the men express their opinions with

the utmost frankness. The applause is genuine, and the singer who wins it

is under no doubt about its reality. The song which makes no appeal is

simply drowned by loud talk, and the unfortunate singer will crack his

voice in vain in an endeavour to regain the attention he has lost.

Encores are rare, and the men are slow to take them. There is a man

towards the end of the evening who wins one, unmistakably, with an

imitation of a drunkard singing ‘Alice, where art Thou?’ The pianist

fails to keep in touch with the hiccoughing vagaries of this performance,

and the singer, unabashed, finishes without accompaniment. The audience

yells with delight and continues to yell till the singer comes forward

again. This time he gives us a song about leaving home, a thing of

heart-rending pathos, and we wail the chorus:

‘It’s sad to be giving the last hand-shake,

It’s sad the last long kiss to take,

It’s sad to say farewell.’

The entertainment draws to its close about 8 o’clock. Men go to bed

betimes who know that a bugle will sound the réveillé at 5.30 in the

morning. The end is always the same, but always comes strangely, always

as a surprise. We sing a hymn, for choice a very sentimental hymn. We say

a short prayer, often as rugged and unconventional as the entertainment

itself. Then ‘The King.’ In these two words we announce the national

anthem, and the men stand stiffly to attention while they sing. At

half-past eight, by order of the supreme authorities, Sweet Lavender hut

must close its doors. The end of the entertainment is planned to allow

time for a final cup of tea or a last glass of Horlick’s Malted Milk

before we go out to flounder through the mud to our tents. This last

half-hour is a busy one for the ladies behind the counter in the outer

hall. Long queues of men stand waiting to be served. Dripping cups and

sticky buns are passed to them with inconceivable rapidity. The work is

done at high pressure, but with the tea and the food the men receive

something else, something they pay no penny for, something whose value to

them is above all measuring with pennies—the friendly smile, the kindly

word, of a woman. We can partly guess at what these ladies have given

up at home to do this work—servile, sticky, dull work—for men who are

neither kith nor kin to them. No one will ever know the amount of good

they do; without praise, pay, or hope of honours, often without thanks.

If ‘the actions of the just smell sweet and blossom,’ surely these deeds

of love and kindness have a fragrance of surpassing sweetness. Perhaps,

after all, the hut is well-named Sweet Lavender. The discerning eye sees

the flowers through the mist of steaming tea. We catch the perfume while

we choke in the reek of tobacco smoke, damp clothes, and heated bodies.

It is not every Y.M.C.A. which is honoured with a name. Sweet Lavender

stands alone here among huts distinguished only by numbers. But surely

they should all be called after flowers, for in them grow the sweetest

blooms of all.

_BILFRED._

BY JEFFERY E. JEFFERY.

_... Fellow creature I am, fellow-servant_

_Of God: can man fathom God’s dealings with us?..._

_Oh! man! we, at least, we enjoy, with thanksgiving,_

_God’s gifts on this earth, though we look not beyond._

_You sin and you suffer, and we, too, find sorrow_

_Perchance through your sin—yet it soon will be o’er;_

_We labour to-day and we slumber to-morrow,_

_Strong horse and bold rider! and who knoweth more?_

A. LINDSAY GORDON.

I.

In some equine Elysium where there are neither flies nor dust nor steep

hills nor heavy loads; where there is luscious young grass unlimited with

cool streams and shady trees; where one can roam as one pleases and rest

when one is tired: there, far from the racket of gun wheels on hard roads

and the thunder of opposing artillery, oblivious of all the insensate

folly of this warring human world, reposes, I doubt it not, the soul of

Bilfred.

His was a humble part. He was never richly caparisoned with embroidered

bridle and trappings of scarlet and gold. He never swept over the desert

beneath some Arab sheikh with the cry ‘Allah for all!’ ringing in his

ears. He bore no general to victory, no king to his coronation. But he

served his country faithfully, and in the end, when he had helped to make

some history, he died for it.

It is eight years since he joined the battery—a woolly-coated, babyish

remount straight from an Irish dealer’s yard. Examining him carefully we

found that beneath his roughness he was not badly shaped; a trifle long

in the back perhaps, and a shade too tall—but then perfection is not

attainable at the government price. There was no denying that his head

was plain and his face distinctly ugly. From his pink and flabby muzzle a

broad streak of white ran upwards to his forehead, widening on the near

side so as almost to reach his eye. The grotesquely lop-sided effect of

this was enhanced by a tousled forelock which straggled down between his

ears.

The question of naming him arose and some one said: ‘Except for his face,

which is like nothing on earth, he’s the image of old Alfred that we cast

last year.’

Now a system prevailed in the battery by which horses were called by

names which began with the letter of their subsection.

‘Well,’ said some one else, ‘he’s been posted to B sub; why not call him

Bilfred?’

And Bilfred he became.

Our rough-rider at the time was a patient man, enthusiastic enough over

his job to take endless trouble with young horses. This was fortunate for

the new-comer, who proved at first an obdurate pupil. Scientists tell

us, of course, that in relative brain-power the horse ranks low in the

animal scale—lower than the domestic pig, in fact. This may be so, but

Bilfred was certainly an exception. It was obvious, too obvious, that he

_thought_, that he definitely used his brain to question the advisability

of doing any given thing. To his rebellious Celtic nature there must

have been added a percentage of Scotch caution. When any new performance

was demanded of him he would ask himself, ‘Is there any personal risk in

this, and even if not, is there any sense in doing it?’ Unless satisfied

on these points he would plead ignorance and fear and anger alternately

until convinced that it would be less unpleasant to acquiesce. For

instance, being driven round in a circle in the riding school at the end

of a long rope struck him as a silly business; but when he discovered

(after a week) that he could neither break the rope nor kick the man who

was holding it, he (metaphorically) shrugged his shoulders and trotted

or walked, according to orders, with a considerable show of willing

intelligence. It took four men half a day to shoe him for the first time,

and he was in a white lather when they had finished. But on the next and

on every subsequent occasion he was as docile as any veteran.

A saddle was first placed upon him, at a moment when his attention was

distracted by a handful of corn offered to him by a confederate of the

rough-rider’s. He even allowed himself to be girthed up without protest.

But when, suddenly and without due warning, he felt the weight of a man

upon his back, his horror was apparent. For a moment he stood stock

still, trembling slightly and breathing hard. Then he made a mighty bound

forward and started to kick his best. To no purpose; he could not get

his head down, and the more he tried, the more it hurt him. The weight

meanwhile remained upon his back. Exhausted, he stood still again and

gave vent to a loud snort. His face depicted his thoughts. ‘I’m done

for,’ he felt, ‘this thing is here for ever.’ He was soothed and petted

until his first panic had subsided; then coaxed into a good humour

again with oats. At the end of a minute or so he was induced to move

forward—cautiously, nervously at first, and then with more confidence.

‘Unpleasant but not dangerous’ was his verdict. In half an hour he was

resigned to his burden.

Yet not entirely. Every day when first mounted he gave two or three

hearty kicks. He hated the cold saddle on his back for one thing, and

for another there was always a vague hope.... One day, about a fortnight

afterwards, this hope fructified. A loose-seated rider, in a moment of

bravado, got upon him and immediately the customary performance began. At

the second plunge the man shot up into space and landed heavily on the

tan. Bilfred, palpably as astonished as he was pleased, tossed his head,

snorted in triumph and bolted round the school, kicking at intervals.

For five thrilling minutes he enjoyed the best time he had had since he

left Connemara. Then, ignominiously, he succumbed to the temptation of a

proffered feed tin and was caught, discovering too late, to his chagrin,

that the tin was empty. It was his first experience of the deceitfulness

of man, and he did not forget it.

Six weeks later he had become a most accomplished person. He could walk

and trot and even canter in a lumbering way; he answered to rein and leg,

could turn and twist, go sideways and backwards; greatest miracle of all,

he had been taught to lurch in ungainly fashion over two-foot-six of

furze.

But he had accomplished something beyond all this. He had acquired a

reputation. It had become known throughout the battery that there were

certain things which could not be done to Bilfred with impunity. If you

were his stable companion, for example, you could not try to steal his

food without getting bitten, neither could you nibble the hairs of his

tail without getting kicked. If you were a human being you could not

approach him in his stall until you had spoken to him politely from

outside it. You could not attempt to groom him until you had made friends

with him, and even then you had to keep your eyes open. You got used to

the way he gnashed his teeth and tossed his head about, but occasionally,

when you were occupied with the ticklish under-part of him, he would show

his dislike of the operation by catching you unawares by the slack of

your breeches and throwing you out of his stall.

But there was no vice in him. He was always amenable to kindness, and

prepared to accept gifts of sugar and bread with every symptom of

gratitude and approval. Rumour even had it that he had once eaten the

stable-man’s dinner with apparent relish. And he flourished exceedingly

in his new environment. His baby roundness had disappeared and been

replaced by hard muscle. He no longer moved with an awkward sprawling

gait, but with confidence and precision. His dark-bay coat was sleek

and smooth, his mane hogged, his heels neatly trimmed. Only his tail

remained the difficulty. It was long and its hairs were coarse and curly.

Moreover, he persisted in carrying it slightly inclined towards the off

side, as if to draw attention to it. Frankly it was a vulgar tail. But,

on the whole, Bilfred was presentable.

When the time came to complete his education by putting him in draught

he surprised an expectant crowd of onlookers by going up into his collar

at once and pulling as if he had done that sort of work for years. And

so, as a matter of fact, he had. Irish horses are often put into the

plough as two-year-olds—a fact which had been forgotten. But he would not

consent to go in the wheel. He made this fact quite clear by kicking so

violently that he broke two traces, cut his hocks against the foot-board

and lamed himself. Since ploughs do not run downhill on to one’s heels,

he saw no reason why a gun or wagon should. Persuasion was found to be

useless, and for once his obstinacy triumphed. But he did not abuse his

victory nor seek to extend his gains. He proved himself a willing worker

in any other position, and soon, on his merits as much as on his looks,

he was promoted from the wagon to the gun and definitely took his place

as off leader. It was a good team; some said the show one of the battery.

The wheelers were Beatrice and Belinda, who knew their job as well as did

their driver, whom they justly loved. Being old and dignified they never

fretted, but took life calmly and contentedly. In the centre Bruno and

Binty, young, both of them, and rather excitable, needed watching or they

lost condition, but both had looks. The riding leader was old Bacchus,

tall and strong and honest, a good doer and a veteran of some standing.

Moreover, he was a perfect match for Bilfred. All six of them were of the

same mottled dark-bay colour.

In course of time Bilfred, quick, like most horses, to pick up habits,

exhibited all the characteristics of the typical ‘hairy.’ (It is to be

observed that the term is not one of abuse but of esteem and affection.)

He became frankly and palpably gluttonous, stamping and whinnying for

his food and bolting it ravenously when he got it. At exercise he shied

extravagantly at things which did not frighten him in the least. He

displayed an obstinate disinclination to leave other horses when required

to do so; and at riding drill he quickly discovered that to skimp the

corners as much as possible tends to save exertion. Artillery horses are

not as a rule well bred; one finds in their characters an astonishing

mixture of cunning, vulgarity, and docile good-tempered willingness

which makes them altogether lovable. Their condition reflects their

treatment as in a mirror. Properly looked after they thrive; neglected,

their appearance betrays the fact to every experienced eye. They have

an enormous contempt for ‘these ’ere mufti ’orses,’ as our farrier once

described someone’s private hunter. Watch a subsection out at water when

a contractor’s cart pulls up in the lines; note the way they prick their

ears and stare, then drop their heads to the trough again with a sniff.

It is as if they said in so many words ‘Who the deuce are you? Oh! a mere

civilian!’

Bilfred was like them all in many ways. But, in spite of everything, he

never lost his personality. He invariably kicked three times when he

was first mounted—and never afterwards on that particular day; he hated

motors moving or stationary; and he was an adept at slipping his head

collar and getting loose. It was never safe to let go his head for an

instant. With ears forward and tail straight up on end, he was off in a

flash at a trot that was vulgarly fast. He never galloped till his angry

pursuers were close, and then he could dodge like a Rugby three-quarter.

If he got away in barracks he always made straight for the tennis-lawns,

where his soup-plate feet wrought untold havoc. And no longer was he to

be lured to capture with an empty feed tin. Everybody knew him, most

people cursed him at times, but for all that everybody loved him.

II.

I think that when a new history of the Regiment comes to be written

honourable mention should be made therein of a certain team of dark bays

that pulled the same gun of the same battery for so many years. They

served in England and in Ireland, in France and in the Low Countries;

they thundered over the grassy flats of Salisbury Plain; they toiled

up the steep rocky roads of Glen Imaal; they floundered in the bogs of

Okehampton. They stood exposed in all weathers; they stifled in close

evil-smelling billets, in trains, and on board ship. They were present

at Mons; they were all through the Great Retreat; they swept forward to

the Marne and on to the Aisne; they marched round to Flanders in time

for the first battle of Ypres. They were never sick nor sorry, even when

fodder was short and the marches long, even when there was no time to

slake their raging thirsts. They pulled together in patience and in dumb,

pathetic trust of their lords and masters, knowing nothing, understanding

nothing, until at last Fate overtook them.

At the beginning of August 1914 the battery had just returned to its

station after a month’s hard work at practice camp. Bilfred, a veteran

now of more than seven years’ service, had probably never been in better

condition in his life. Ordinarily he would have been given an easy time

for some weeks, with plenty of food and just enough exercise and collar

work to keep him fit for the strain of the big manœuvres in September.

But there were to be no 1914 manœuvres. About August 6 things quite

beyond Bilfred’s comprehension began to happen. Strange men arrived to

join the battery and in their ignorance took liberties with him which

he resented. Every available space in the lines became crowded with

unkempt, queer-looking horses, obviously of a low caste. Bilfred was shod

a fortnight before his time by a new shoeing-smith, for whom he made

things as unpleasant as possible. His harness, which usually looked like

polished mahogany decorated with silver, was dubbed and oiled until it

looked (and smelt) disgusting. When the battery went out on parade, all

these absurd civilian horses with bushy tails (some even with manes!)

went with it, and for a day or two behaved disgracefully. The whole place

was in confusion and everybody worked all day long. Bilfred, ignorant of

the term ‘mobilisation,’ was completely mystified.

A week or so later he was harnessed up in the middle of the night, hooked

in and marched to the station. Now it had been his habit for years to

object to being entrained. On this occasion he was doubly obstinate and

wasted much precious time. Other horses, even his own team-mates, went

in quietly in front of him; it made no difference, he refused to follow

them. A rope was put round his quarters and he was hauled towards the

truck. He dug his toes in and tried to back. Then, suddenly, his hind

legs slipped and he sat down on his haunches like a dog, tangled in

the rope and unable to move. In the dim light of the station-siding his

white face and scared expression moved us to laughter in spite of our

exasperation. He struggled to his feet again, the cynosure of all eyes,

and the subject of many curses. Then, for no apparent reason whatever, he

changed his mind and allowed himself to be led into the next truck, which

was empty, just as though it was his own stall in barracks. And once

inside he tried by kicking to prevent other horses being put in with him.

He continued in this contrary mood for some time and upheld his

reputation for eccentricity. Some horses made a fuss about embarking.

He made none. He showed his insular contempt for foreigners by making a

frantic effort to bite the first French soldier he saw—a sentry on the

landing quay, who, in his enthusiasm for his Allies, came too close. He

got loose during the night we spent at the rest camp, laid flat about

an acre of standing corn, and was found next morning in the lines of a

cavalry regiment, looking wofully out of place.

On the railway journey up to the concentration area, he slipped down in

the truck several times and was trampled on by the other horses. The

operation of extricating him was dangerous and lengthy. When we detrained

he refused food and water, to our great concern. But he took his place in

the team during the twenty-mile march that followed and was himself again

in the evening.

Where everybody was acutely conscious of the serious nature of the

business during the first day or so, it was something of a relief to

watch the horses behaving exactly as they normally did at home. We,

Heaven help us! knew little enough of what was in store for us, but

they, poor brutes, knew nothing. Oats were plentiful—what else mattered?

Bilfred rolled over and over on his broad back directly his harness

was removed, just as he always did; he plunged his head deep into his

water and pushed his muzzle to and fro washing his mouth and nostrils;

he raised his head when he had drunk, stretched his neck and yawned,

staring vacantly into space as was his wont. For him the world was still

at peace. Of course it was—he knew no better. But we who did, we whose

nerves were on edge with an excitement half-fearful half-exultant, saw

these things and were somehow soothed by them.

Bilfred’s baptism of fire came early. A few rounds of shrapnel burst

over the wagon-line on the very first occasion that we were in action.

Fortunately, the range was just too long and no damage was done. Some of

the horses showed momentary signs of fear, but the drivers easily quieted

them; and, besides, they were in a clover field—an opportunity too good

to be wasted in worrying about strange noises. Bilfred, either because

he despised the German artillery or because he imagined that the reports

were those of his own guns, to which he was quite accustomed, never even

raised his head. His curly tail flapped regularly from side to side,

protecting him from a swarm of flies whilst he reached out as far as his

harness would allow and tore up great mouthfuls of grass. He had always

been a glutton, and it was as if he knew, shells or no shells, that this

was to be his last chance for some time. It was; there followed four days

of desperate strain for man and beast. Through clouds of powdery, choking

dust, beneath a blazing August sun, parched with thirst, often hungry

and always weary, Bilfred and his fellows pulled the two tons of steel

and wood and complicated mechanism called a gun along those straight

interminable roads of northern France. Thousands of horses in dozens of

batteries were doing the same thing—and none knew why.

Then, on the fifth day, our turn came to act as rear-guard artillery. The

horses, tucked away behind a convenient wood when we came into action

just before dawn, had an easy morning—and there were many, especially

amongst the new-comers received on mobilisation, who were badly in need

of it. Now the function of a rear-guard is to gain time, and this we

did. But, when at last the order to withdraw was given, our casualties

were numerous and the enemy was close. Moreover, his artillery had

got our range. The teams issuing from the shelter of their wood had

to face a heavy fire, and it was at this juncture that the seasoned

horses, the real old stagers, who knew as much about limbering up as

most drivers and more than some, set an example to the less experienced

ones. Bilfred (and I take him as typical of the rest) seemed with a

sudden flash of intuition to realise that his apprenticeship and all

his previous training had been arranged expressly that he might bear

himself courageously in just such a situation as this. Somehow, in some

quite inexplicable fashion, he knew that this was the supreme moment of

his career. Regardless of bursting shells and almost without guidance

from his driver he galloped straight for his gun, with ears pricked and

nostrils dilated, the muscles rippling under his dark coat and his traces

taut as bow-strings as he strained at his collar with every thundering

stride. He wheeled with precision exactly over the trail eye, checked

his pace at the right moment, and ‘squared off’ so as to allow the

wheelers to place the limber in position. It was his job, he knew what to

do and he did it perfectly. B was the first gun to get away and the only

one to do so without a casualty....

More marching, more fighting, day after day, night after night; men were

killed and wounded; horses, dropping from utter exhaustion, were cut

loose and left where they lay—old friends, some of them, that it tore

one’s heart to abandon thus. But there could be no tarrying, the enemy

was too close to us for that.

Then came the day when the terrible retreat southwards ceased as abruptly

and as unexpectedly as it had begun. Rejoicing in an advance which soon

developed into a pursuit we forgot our weariness and all the trials and

hardships of the past. And I think we forgot, too, in our eagerness,

that for the horses there was no difference between the advance and the

retirement—the work was as hard, the loads as heavy. For our hopes were

high. We knew that the flood of invasion was stemmed at last. We believed

that final victory was in sight. Reckless of everything we pushed on,

faster and still faster, until our strength was nearly exhausted. It

mattered not, we felt; the enemy retreating in disorder before us must be

in far worse plight.

And then, on the Aisne, we ran up against a strong position, carefully

prepared and held by fresh troops. Trench warfare began, batteries dug

themselves in as never before, and the horses were taken far to the rear

to rest. They had come through a terrible ordeal. Some were lame and some

were galled; staring coats, hollow, wasted backs, and visible ribs told

their own tale. A few, at least, were little more than skeletons for whom

the month’s respite that followed was a godsend. Good forage in plenty,

some grazing and very light work did wonders, and when the moment came

for the move round to Flanders the majority were ready for a renewed

effort. Compared with what they had already done the march was easy work.

They arrived on the Yser fit and healthy.

But the first battle of Ypres took its toll. Bringing up ammunition one

dark night along a road which, though never safe, had perforce to be used

for lack of any other, the teams were caught by a salvo of high explosive

shell and suffered heavily. Four drivers and nine horses were killed,

seven drivers and thirteen horses were wounded. Bilfred escaped unhurt,

but he was the only one in his team who did. A direct hit on the limber

brought instantaneous death to the wheelers and their beloved driver. A

merciful revolver shot put an end to Binty’s screaming agony. Bruno and

Bacchus were fortunate in only getting flesh wounds from splinters. It

was a sad breaking-up of the team which had held together through so many

vicissitudes. It comforted us, though, to think that at least they had

died in harness....

The winter brought hardship for horse as well as man. We built stables

of hop-poles and sacking, but they were only a slight protection against

the biting winds, and it was impossible to cope with the sea of slimy mud

which was euphemistically termed the horse lines. In spite of all our

precautions coughs and colds were rampant. About Christmas-time Bruno,

always rather delicate, succumbed with several others to pneumonia, and

a month later Bacchus strained himself so badly, when struggling to pull

a wagon out of holding mud whilst the rest of the team (all new horses)

jibbed, that he passed out of our hands to a veterinary hospital and was

never seen again. Bilfred alone remained, and Nature, determined to do

her best for him, provided him with the most amazingly woolly coat ever

seen upon a horse. The robustness of his constitution made him impervious

to climatic conditions, but the loss of Bacchus, his companion for so

long, distressed him, and he was at pains to show his dislike of the

substitute provided by biting him at all times except when in harness;

then, and then only, was he Dignity personified.

The end came one day in early spring. The battery was in action in a part

of the line where it was impossible to have the horses far away, for in

those days we had to be prepared for any emergency. It so happened that

the enemy, in the course of his usual morning ‘_strafe_,’ whether by

luck or by intention, put an eight-inch howitzer shell into the middle

of the secluded field where a few of our horses were sunning themselves

in the warm air and picking at the scanty grass. Fortunately, they had

been hobbled so that there was no stampede. The cloud of smoke and dust

cleared away and we thought at first that no harm had been done. Then we

noticed Bilfred lying on his side ten yards or so from the crater, his

hind quarters twitching convulsively. As we went towards him, he lifted

his head and tried to look at the gaping, jagged wound in his flank and

back. There was agony in his soft brown eyes, but he made no sound. He

made a desperate effort to get up, but could only raise his forehand. He

remained thus for a moment, swaying unsteadily and in terrible distress.

Then he dropped back and lay still. A minute later he gave one long deep

sigh—and it was over.

Our old farrier, who in his twenty years’ service had seen many horses

come and go and who was not often given to sentiment, looked at him sadly.

‘’E’s gone,’ he said. ‘A good ’oss—won’t see the like of him again in the

batt’ry this trip, I reckon.’

And Bilfred’s driver, the man who had been with him from the start,

ceased his futile efforts to stem the flow of blood with a dirty

handkerchief.

‘Oh! Gawd!’ he muttered in a voice of despair, and turned his back upon

us all to hide his grief.

We kept a hoof, to be mounted for the battery mess when peace comes, for

he was the last of the old lot and his memory must not be allowed to

fade. The fatigue party digging his grave did not grumble at their task.

He was an older member of the battery than them all and a comrade rather

than a beast of burden.

* * * * *

I like to imagine that Bilfred had a soul—not such a soul as we try to

conceive for ourselves perhaps—but still I like to picture him in some

heaven suitable to his simple needs, dwelling in quiet peacefulness

among the departed of his race. What a company would be his and what

tales he would hear!—Tales of the chariots of Assyria and Rome, of the

fleet Parthians and the ravaging hosts of Attila; stories of Charlemagne

and King Arthur, of the lists and all the pomp of chivalry. And so down

through the centuries to the crossing of the Alps in 1800 and the grim

tragedy of Moscow twelve years later. Would he stamp his feet and toss

his head proudly when he heard of the Greys at Waterloo or the Light

Brigade at Balaclava? But stories of the guns would delight him more, I

think—Fuentes D’Onoro, Maiwand, Néry, and Le Cateau.

It pleases me to think of him meeting Bacchus and Binty and the rest

and arguing out the meaning of it all. Does he know now, I wonder, the

colossal issues that were at stake during that terrible fortnight between

Mons and the Marne, and does he forgive us our seeming cruelty?

I hope so. I like to think that Bilfred understands.

_THE SPIRIT OF FRANCE._

BY LIEUT. F. J. SALMON.

We had been away from our area for several days on a special mission

and were the guests of the French Staff at X. The programme for the day

included a visit to an observation post, the exact position of which was

not known to our guide, and it was necessary to call at a French battery

and pick up someone to show us the way. A very cheering description

of the situation at Verdun by an officer who had just come from there

had kept us rather later than usual at lunch, a fact to which we owed

our escape from a very unpleasant bit of ‘strafing.’ We had still some

200 yards to go to reach the battery when the Huns started shelling it

furiously. A few ‘overs’ came within about 100 yards of us and there was

rather an unpleasant whirr of splinters, so we took refuge behind a house.

The crash of the first salvo had aroused a good woman and her baby and

she came out, smiling, to see what was happening. Carrying the baby, she

went out into the road and stood in the line of fire watching the fun.

She occasionally dodged back behind the wall when the bits flew too near,

just as a child would run from a snowball. She said her man was in the

‘Chasseurs Alpins’ and had been in the Vosges since the beginning—he was

not afraid of the Boches, why should she be? A French ‘poilu’ passing by

scolded her for exposing the child and she disappeared.

After five minutes of hot shelling the Huns stopped, and Lieutenant M.,

our guide, proposed that we should continue. The Hun usually caters for

those people who ‘carry on’ at once, so we decided to visit a friend

whose office was only two doors off. Lieutenant R. was delighted to see

us. Yes, this particular Boche battery was ‘dégoûtant.’ It fired like

a mitrailleuse, yes, and some of the ‘overs’ came this way. He had the

honour to announce to us that ‘there was an unexploded 77-shell in his

ceiling—no, it had not been there long and was probably still warm.’ Two

more rounds battery fire then came over and we judged the trouble past

for the time being. When we reached the battery we found they had had a

bad time. It was an old territorial field battery—there was probably not

a gunner less than forty in it. One of the guns had had a direct hit.

The wheel and part of the carriage were smashed. Two of the other gun

emplacements had been knocked in. The German battery responsible for this

had been located, and the bearded old Frenchmen were getting ready for

retaliation. Three of the guns were already ready for action, and efforts

were being made to heave the broken one up on to a temporary carriage so

that at least one more shot might be got out of it! A telephone message

had been sent up from the brigade asking them to have a guide ready for

us, but the matter had been forgotten. There was far more excitement

about this than about the bombardment. Lieutenant M. called up the

Sergeant-Major and ‘strafed’ him unmercifully. The Sergeant-Major was

‘désolé,’ but at the moment he had been ‘très occupé.’ He was ‘confus’

and would ‘mon capitaine’ accept his apology—the ‘cochons de Bosches’

were far more responsible than he was. Lieutenant M. said it was all

right, called him ‘mon vieux,’ and we departed for our post with a fit-up

guide who persisted that he did not know the way, but who nevertheless

got us there in the end and we had a good look at the enemy lines and the

country beyond. On our return we passed a small cottage which had been

hit by something big. More than half of it had been blown away and there

was no roof left at all. The chimney, however, was still there and it

poured forth a defiant stream of smoke as the owner cooked his dinner in

a temporary shelter near the fireplace.

The French Headquarters mess was more than usually cheery that evening.

The enemy had had another setback at Verdun.

The British, too, were going to take over more line from the French,

and this brought the subject round to Great Britain and what she was

doing in the war. This was a point I should have preferred to have

left undiscussed at a time when the French were engaged in perhaps the

greatest struggle in the war with, apparently, no direct assistance from

us. Our hosts, however, insisted that, under the circumstances, we were

doing a good deal more than could be expected of us. They were unanimous

that the most remarkable achievement of this greatest of all wars was the

raising of our large Imperial army. It was one thing to make good use of

a working organisation as the Germans had, but, as staff officers, they

would have believed it impossible for any country to have done what we

have done. Each one was able to show the insuperable difficulties that

would have arisen in his own department, and there was nothing one could

do but bow and agree with them.

Next morning we were off again on our rounds, this time with a different

guide, Captain R.

We had a good view of the enemy’s lines from what had once been a child’s

nursery. Poor kid! if she could see her playroom now! On the floor were

a dismembered doll and part of a brick puzzle. The only furniture was a

broken chair by the window and a toy cot in the corner of the room; the

rest had been taken for some neighbouring billet. Near the window was a

field telephone, and, on the wall near by, some printed instructions to

artillery observers. The walls were decorated with numerous sketches,

some of them quite well done, of French artillerymen and famous generals.

A large hole in the wall and the familiar sickly smell of ‘tear shell’

showed that the enemy had detected the post and that it was no place to

loiter in.

After seeing many interesting things that one cannot write about we

reached one of the big ruined towns near the line, where we were

entertained to lunch by two French officers. This lunch was one of the

most memorable of my experiences at the front.

These officers, being engaged on very special and important work, were

_persona grata_ in the town and had a free hand in the matter of billets.

At the time of our visit they were living in a house that might have been

in Park Lane. A marble hall and staircase, luxuriously furnished rooms

and all modern appointments—central heating, electric light, electric

bells. The dining-room had every aspect of peace, wealth, and comfort.

The table linen and service were of the best. The captain’s servant had

evidently been a _chef_ in private life. There were four courses and a

variety of the best wines. All this was within less than a mile of the

German front line, a fact which it would have been impossible to realise

had it not been for the occasional desultory crack of a rifle and the

regular crash and swirl of the French batteries firing over our heads!

Our hosts were excellent fellows, as amusing and full of ‘esprit’ as

only the French can be. They had been in the town over a year and had

been shelled out of two other billets. They showed us the remains of

their last home which had been even more luxurious than the present one.

One could only gather some vague idea of what it had been like from the

carved oak mantel-piece showing over a pile of débris at the end of the

drawing-room and the torn tapestry hanging from the walls. They had

taken to the cellar just in time!

Experience had taught our friends to gauge the Hun’s intentions to a

nicety. A shell would pass close to the house and burst on the other

side of the road. ‘That’s all right—only a short one for such and such a

public building.’ The Frenchmen put another tune on the gramophone and

the next ‘marmite’ goes several streets away. On another occasion a heavy

shell is heard coming over from another direction. It explodes with a

resounding ‘crump’ a long way down the street. That comes from one of

the batteries that shell this part of the town and our two officers have

their coffee served in the cellar!

This knowing when to take to the cellar is a distinct characteristic of

the French. They are not for taking any unnecessary risks as some of us

are, but, when a dangerous job has to be done, they will go about it

with a careless gaiety that is wholly unforced. It is this spirit which

is holding up the French soldier to the admiration of the whole world;

the spirit that has kept the German hordes out of Verdun, and that will

continue to keep them at bay till the time is ripe for a concerted effort

of the allied forces.

_A WAR SAVING WORTH MAKING._

In theory we are all on saving bent just now, for it is only by saving

that many of us can do anything towards winning the great fight; and

that each one of us must do something, everyone agrees. Unfortunately,

in practice, to us as a nation saving does not come easily: we have not

the instinct to save. We know no more, indeed, than sparrows, of the

art of making sixpence do the work of a shilling. Quite a fair number

of the petty economies we pride ourselves on having effected, of late,

are ending in something nearly akin to waste. Evidently we shall have to

learn from other nations, nations more thrifty than ourselves, if we are

ever to do anything really worth doing in the way of saving. And there

is hardly a nation in Europe from which we might not learn if we would.

The Germans are experts in all that concerns economy: were it otherwise

the war would be nearer its end than it is. The Austrians, too, although

by nature as wasteful as we are, have been driven by lack of means into

cunning devices for making money go far. These are enemy nations, it is

true; still, that is no reason, surely, why we should not learn from

them, even though we may not buy with them, sell with them, or even talk.

Quite recently the Relief Committee in Strassburg issued a most

instructive public notice. It is an appeal to parents to show their

patriotism, as well as their thrift and care for public health, by seeing

to it that their children go barefoot this summer. ‘By economising

in boots you save leather, and thus render valuable service to your

country,’ they are informed.

Now if our School Authorities could be induced to issue some such notice

as this, and to address it imperatively to parents of all classes alike,

not only would much leather be saved, and with it much money, but many

poor little children would have a much better chance than they have, of

living and thriving, while many poor mothers would be able to face the

world more cheerily. It is safer by far to go barefoot, as everyone who

has ever tried it knows, than to wear shoes unless they be good; and in

normal times, for every child who wears good shoes, shoes into which

water cannot make its way, there are legions who wear shoes that leak,

that have gaps through which toes poke out, soles that serve no purpose.

And the end of this is wet stockings, entailing coughs and colds,

croup, and even pneumonia. Really good shoes are expensive, it must be

remembered: to keep a family of sturdy, active youngsters well shod costs

more than to keep them well dressed. ‘We should get along fine if it was

not for the shoes,’ I am always being told by working-class mothers.

‘It’s the shoes that take all the money.’

‘Not a week goes by but there’s mending to be done, even if there’s no

shoes to be bought,’ a very trustworthy woman assures me. ‘Blakies, it’s

true, are a help; but one must have something to fasten them on to.’

‘It’s just heart-breaking work trying to keep them all dry-shod,’ a

mother of five children declares. ‘They have always, one or other of

them, their toes or heels sticking out.’

‘One might think lads had hoofs instead of feet from the way their shoes

go,’ another mother once informed me. ‘These were new a fortnight ago,

and just see! There’s hardly a bit of sole left.’ Tears came into her

eyes as she held the shoes up for me to look at.

Among the respectable poor, not only of the hand-working class, but of

the lower-middle class, and this is the poorer of the two in these war

days, the great trouble in life is the finding of shoes, the hopeless

struggle to keep children’s feet well covered. Year by year, in every

town in England, women are worried into their graves, because, let them

do what they will, one pair of shoes wears out before they have the

wherewithal to buy another. In every town, too, women lose their health

and strength because, when they ought to be asleep, they will persist in

working, that they may have the money to pay the cobbler. To see their

boys and girls going about without even a patch to hide the holes in

their shoes, seems to be more than most mothers can bear. And the saddest

part of the business is they are sacrificing themselves quite uselessly,

to a mere fetish. For very few of them have any thought of hygiene in

their heads, when they toil and moil, pinch and save, that their children

may have shoes: their thought is all of respectability. They are firmly

convinced that to let them go barefoot would be to rob them of all claim

to rank with the respectable, would be to dub them little ragamuffins in

fact, and thus render them pariahs. And better than that work all night,

no matter what it may lead to.

If these mothers were forced to let their children go barefoot, things

would of course be otherwise; and they would be forced, practically,

were they called upon to do so for patriotism’s sake, for the sake of

saving leather that the soldiers might have plenty of good shoes. There

would be no loss of caste then in banishing shoes and stockings; on

the contrary, it would be the correct thing to do, the ‘just so’; and

they would do it right gladly, thankful that they could do it without

exciting comment. And by doing it, they would both lighten immeasurably

the heavy burden they themselves bear, and add to their children’s chance

of developing into sturdy men and women, men and women able to do good

work for their country, securing for themselves a fair share of life’s

comfort and pleasure the while. For there is proof and to spare that

boys and girls alike are better off all round, stronger, more vigorous,

more active, without shoes than with them, unless the shoes be of better

quality than those most of the respectable poor can afford to buy. Never

would the Strassburg Committee have ventured to call upon parents to

let their offspring go barefoot had they not known that, even so far as

health was concerned, quite apart from the saving of leather, good, not

harm, would result. For in Germany, whoever else may go on short commons,

children, the Fatherland’s future defenders, are always well cared for.

One of the reasons, indeed, that the Committee give for issuing their

notice is that going barefoot is not only economical, and therefore, as

things are, patriotic, but also hygienic. And that it is, most of us can

see for ourselves.