PARIS LEAVE.
_June 1917._
My time for leave was due again, and as we were allowed to spend it in
France without interfering with the number of those who desired to see
their friends in England, I determined to go to Chamounix. I thought
that the sight of a great natural wonder like Mont Blanc would have an
uplifting effect upon the mind, at a time when everything human seemed
to be going to rack and ruin. The white peaks of the Alps in their
changeless purity against the blue of the infinite sky seemed to me a
vision which the soul needed. So I started off one lovely morning on
my way to Paris. I went by side-car to Amiens, where I took the train.
It was a delightful expedition, and I left with a good conscience,
because our men were not expected to attack, and were in a quiet
sector of the line. The driver of the car, with the prospect of a good
meal at Amiens and a good tip, was in the best of humours. The air was
sweet and fresh and the grass wore its brightest green. The sunshine
beat down from a cloudless sky, and when we paused for repairs, as we
had to do from time to time, birds' songs furnished us with a most
enjoyable concert. An expedition of this kind was made doubly charming
by having in it a touch of adventure. When we came to a village, at
once the map had to be studied and the turns in the road noted. A
conversation with some of the villagers as we journeyed, always broke
the sense of loneliness, and gave us an insight into the feelings of
the people. However, on this particular occasion, I was not able to
complete the journey to Amiens in the side-car. Either the car broke
down, or the driver preferred to go on by himself, for the thing came
to a dead stop just as a car from the Corps was about to pass us. The
occupants kindly invited me to go on to Amiens with them. It was a
swifter way of continuing the journey and much more comfortable, so I
said good-bye to my original driver and started off with my new
friends.
Amiens was a bustling place then and very unlike the Amiens I saw a
little over a year later. I started by train at six-thirty p.m., and
at eight-thirty, after a pleasant journey, arrived at Paris, where I
went to the Hotel Westminster. On the next evening, I started off (p. 187)
with some friends for Evians-les-Bains. The train was very full, and
there were no berths in the wagon-lit, so we had to stay up all night
in a crowded first-class carriage. There was an old French Cure at one
end of the compartment, who, quite early in the evening, drew out a
silk handkerchief and covered his head and face therewith, leading us
to suppose that he had sunk into oblivion. We therefore carried on a
very pleasant and vivacious conversation, as the night was warm and we
were not inclined to sleep. Suddenly the old Cure pulled off the
handkerchief and said in a gruff voice, "It is the time for sleeps and
not for talks." and, having uttered this stinging rebuke, re-covered
his head and left us in penitent silence. We arrived at Evians-les-Bains
in good time, and went to a very charming hotel with a lovely view of
the Lake of Geneva in front. Unfortunately, I had hurt my foot some
time before and it looked as if it had got infected. Not wishing to be
laid up so far from medical assistance, I decided to return the same
evening, which I did, and once more found myself at the Hotel
Westminster. I now determined to spend my leave in Paris. There were
many of our men in the city at that time. They were all in a very
impecunious condition, for there was some difficulty in getting their
pay and, in Paris, money did not last long. I did my best to try and
help them, and later our system of payment was improved. It was
perhaps just as well for some of them that their money was short.
Poor old Paris looked very shabby to one who remembered her in former
days with her clean streets and many-fountained parks. She wore the
air of shabby gentility. The streets were not clean; the people were
not well-dressed, the fountains no longer played. France had been hard
hit by the war, and the ruin and desolation of her eastern borders
were reflected in the metropolis. I spent most of my time in Paris
trying to keep men straight, with more or less success. I can imagine
nothing worse for a lonely young fellow, who had taken his leave after
weary months in the front line, than to find himself in the midst of
the heartless gaiety of the French capital. On all sides the minions
of vice, diseased in mind and body, lay in waiting for their prey. To
one who loved Canada and longed for the uplifting of the pure life of
Canadian homes, it was a spectacle which filled the heart with anxiety.
Before I left Paris, I wrote a letter to the Continental Daily Mail
advocating the taking over of some hotels which could be turned into
hostels or clubs for soldiers while on leave. This, I am happy to (p. 188)
say was afterwards done.
I met many of our men at the soldiers' tea-rooms called "A corner of
Blighty" in the Place Vendome, and I organized several dinner and
theatre parties which went off very pleasantly. When the men had
companionship, they did not feel the lure of vice which came to them
in moments of loneliness. I met some interesting people in Paris, and
at a Sunday luncheon in the charming house of the Duchess de la M---- I
met Madame ----, the writer of a series of novels of rather lurid
reputation. The authoress was a large person with rich orange-coloured
hair, powdered cheeks, and darkened eyelashes. She wore a large black
hat, enormous solitaire pearl ear-rings, and, as a symbol of her
personal purity, was arrayed in white. She lamented the fact that
women writers were not allowed to visit the front. When I told her
that Mrs. Humphrey Ward had been there, she said, "Oh yes, they
allowed her to go because they said she could write good English, but
she cannot get the ear of the American people in the way _I_ can."
There were two or three French officers present, one of whom was an
attache at the Embassy in Madrid. I was much impressed by their quiet
dignified bearing, so typical of the chivalrous heroism of France, and
so unlike anything which we could look for in the officers of the
German Army. I could not help observing that the French were much
depressed and filled with anxiety as to the issue of the war. A French
lady said to me "How can we go on much longer; our man-power is nearly
exhausted?" It is a supreme delight to me to think that that wonderful
nation, which suffered and bled so deeply and bore its wrongs so
nobly, has now been avenged on the ruthless enemy, and that the
tricolour once more floats over Alsace and Lorraine. Profoundly
patriotic though we of the British Empire are, there is something in
the patriotism of the French which goes down into the deepest roots of
the human soul. I remember once in the private burying place of a
noble family who owned a chateau not far from our front line, seeing a
little child's grave. The child had died in Canada at the age of two
years, and its body had been brought back to its ancestral resting
place. On the tombstone, under the inscription were the words:--
"Petit ange
Priez pour
la France."
I was very much struck by the prayer. That the sorrow for a (p. 189)
child's death should be coupled with the love of country seemed most
strange and pathetic. I venture to say that it would be impossible to
find a parallel instance of such a blending of emotions in any English
churchyard. The present owner of the Chateau, which was at least two
or three hundred years old, was away fighting for his country, and
long grass and weeds filled the uncared for corner by the side of the
old church. In past history, we have fought with the French again and
again, but we always felt that we were fighting with gentlemen, and
were sure that every courteous deed done by us would meet with an
equally courteous response. One of the saddest things in the war was
that, while we often admired the military efficiency of the Germans,
we had absolutely no respect for their officers or men, nor could we
regard them as anything but well-trained brutes. The ties which bind
us to France now are very intimate and personal, and it is a matter of
thankfulness to all who love human idealism and true culture, that the
reproach of the defeat of 1870 has been washed away in blood, and that
France will emerge from her fiery trial a purer and a loftier nation.
I was not sorry when my Paris leave was over and I returned to my
Headquarters at Chateau d'Acq. It was always delightful to get back to
my war home and settle down again in the midst of those on whose
shoulders the fate of civilization rested. I arrived back on June
29th, just in time to prepare for the special services which were to
be held throughout the Corps on Sunday, July 1st, it being the jubilee
of the Dominion. I made arrangements with the band of the Royal
Canadian Regiment, as our Divisional band was away, to march over from
Villers au Bois and play for us at the service. We had special hymns
and prayers neatly printed on cards, which the men were to retain as
souvenirs. The parade was held just outside St. George's Church, our
new Divisional Commander, General Macdonell, and his staff attending.
The occasion was particularly interesting to me, because I was the
only man in the whole Canadian Corps at the front who could remember
the first Dominion Day. I could remember as a child being taken by my
father on the 1st of July, 1867, to hear the guns firing a salute on
the grounds of McGill College, Montreal. Canada had travelled a long
distance on the path of nationhood since that far-off time, and now,
after fifty years, I had the satisfaction of being with the great (p. 190)
Canadian Army Corps on European soil, engaged in the biggest war of
history. Such an experience is not often the privilege of a human
life, and the splendid body of men before me gave promise of Canada's
progress and national glory in the future. Everyone felt the peculiar
significance of the celebration.
Owing to the fact that my foot was still troubling me, I was sent down
to the rest-camp at Fresnicourt, where I met many of the officers and
men in that delightful old Chateau. The country round about was very
pretty, and the views from the hills were charming. Every night I used
to have either a service, or a talk with the men, on the grass beside
a little stream. They were all enjoying the rest and refreshment that
came from being able to live in pleasant surroundings and away from
shells and work in the trenches. On July 18th, I went by side-car to
St. Omer where the Senior Chaplains of the Army were summoned to a
conference. We were billeted in the large building used as the Chaplains'
Rest Home, and there enjoyed the great privilege, not only of meeting
one another, but of listening to some splendid addresses and lectures
by those in charge. It was pleasant to re-visit St. Omer. The quaint
old French town, with its rambling streets and polite inhabitants,
took one away from the thoughts of war and gave one almost a feeling
of home. In the smoking-room at night, we had the opportunity of
discussing with one another the various moral and religious problems
with which the chaplain had to contend, and many were the interesting
experiences of those chaplains. On the last day of our meetings, at
the early Eucharist, we had an address from the Archbishop of York,
who had just come over to France. Later on, he gave an address at a
general meeting of the chaplains at Bethune.
While at St. Omer I paid a visit to the Second Army School in their
magnificent buildings in Wisques, where I saw the room that my son had
occupied, and met some of the people who remembered him. The place was
used as a training school for officers and was most wonderfully equipped.
The building was a modern convent, and the large unfinished chapel, with
its high vaulted roof, was used as a dining-room. It was inspiring at
dinner to see the hundreds of young officers, all so keen and cheery,
sitting round the tables, while a good band played during the meal. It
was hard to realize that they were only having a momentary respite
from the war, and, in a week or two, would be once more up in the line
facing wounds and death. The Commandant took great pride in the (p. 191)
institution, and told me of the splendid records of the men who had
passed through his hands.
Our Divisional Headquarters now moved to a place called Bracquemont,
near Noeux les Mines. Here I had a very fine room in the house of the
manager of one of the Mines, the offices of which were on the other
side of the road. The house was well built, and had a most charming
garden at the back. It was large and commodious, and I always feared
that my billet would attract the covetous desires of some high staff
officer and that I should be thrown out to make way for him. My room
was on the ground floor with two large windows opening on the street,
enabling me to get the Daily Mail from the newsboy in the morning. The
ceiling was high and the furniture most sumptuous. A large mirror
stood upon the marble mantel-piece. I had linen sheets on the bed and
an electric light at my side. It did not seem at all like war, but the
end of the mahogany bed and some of the chairs, also one corner of the
ceiling, had been perforated by bits of shrapnel. So in the midst of
luxury, there was the constant reminder that the war was still going
on--a death's head at the feast.