MY DEAR CHARLES,--No "Tourists' Guide to Northern France" would be
complete without some mention of the picturesque town of A., a point
at which even the most progressive traveller is likely to say that
he's had a very pleasant journey so far, but now thinks of turning
back. It boasts a small but exceedingly well-ventilated cathedral,
many an eligible residence to let, and the relics of what was once
a busy factory, on the few remaining bricks of which you are
particularly requested to "afficher" no "affiches." It is approached
by a railway, prettily overgrown with tall grasses and wild-flowers,
and never made hideous these days by the presence of hustling, smoky
trains. Entering daintily from the back, the tourist will soon find
himself in its main street, devoid of ladies out shopping, but not
without its curious collection of exuberant drain-pipes and recumbent
lamp-posts. It lies, pleasantly dishevelled, in the sun, having the
appearance of the bed of a restless sleeper who has shifted about
somewhat in the night and made many abortive efforts to get up in the
morning. Its streets are decorated with a series of dew ponds, dotted
about with no apparent regard to the convenience of the traffic, and
you may while away many an idle hour trying to discover where the
street ends and the houses begin. You will not be interrupted if you
detach, for your collection of curios, a yard or so of the dislodged
statue of the leading municipal genius, and even the old man at the
barrier of the eastern gate will only attempt to deter you by friendly
advice if you persist in ignoring the notice, "This Road is Unfit for
Vehicular Traffic." I am told that discipline is automatic at this
point; it requires no browbeating military policemen to control the
traffic here.
The town of A. has given up work. It has also given up trying to look
smart. It still spreads itself over many acres and it has a population
of twenty-five, not including the Town Major.
Town Majors, of the more permanent sort, are a race apart. Being older
men, who have done their turn in the trenches and are now marked down
for the less actively quarrelsome life, they nevertheless prefer
to live in this sort of place. When a man gets to their age he has
apparently grown too fond of his old friends, the shells, to be parted
from them altogether till he absolutely must; also he likes a row of
houses to himself to live in. A street cannot be so quickly demolished
as to give him no time to select another one, and business can always
be carried on at the one end while structural alterations are taking
place at the other. This fluctuation of town property is a thing to be
reckoned with in his life; and so on his office wall you will find
a list of billets occupied by units, and where you see a blue mark
you'll know the unit has gone, and where you see a red mark, you'll
know the billet has.
The Town Major of A. is a great friend of mine; fortunately we are
able to reserve our differences of opinion for the telephone, and even
so neither can ever be sure whether the other lost his temper or the
"cutting off" was done elsewhere. When we meet I find him the victim
of so many other troubles that I always spare him more. He is one of
those little old Majors, more like walnuts than anything else--the
hardest, most wrinkled but best filled walnuts. He acts as the medium
between the relentless routine of a high administrative office and
the complex wants of the local warrior. I don't think he has ever yet
decided whether his true sympathies lie with the machine or with the
men. Once I was in his office when a weather-beaten young Subaltern
arrived, requiring fuel for his R.E. Company. He knew of the
whereabouts of just the very thing. True, it was a standing door at
the moment, but no doubt that condition was only temporary. It led
from a room, which was half demolished, into a passage which had
ceased to exist. But the Town Major did not concern himself with this.
An order was an order, and a door was a door, and the order decreeing
that doors should remain, the Subaltern had better get quick. He tried
arguing, but you don't crack a walnut that way. He tried pleading, and
the walnut creaked a little, yet remained whole. "Understand," said
he, very authoritatively, "not only do I forbid you to enter that
house for the purpose you propose, but I have stationed at the front
entrance a picket to prevent you. If you so much as set foot on the
front doorstep he will arrest you and bring you here. I shall know how
to deal with you, Sir." The Subaltern, who had no doubt suffered much,
turned away with a weary sigh; the Town Major ignored his salute, but,
before his complete withdrawal, did happen to mention (so to speak)
that he'd been told there was a _back_ entrance to the house in
question and he had some idea of putting another picket there
to-morrow.
The Subaltern heard all right, and, from the further and additional
salute he now gave, it appeared that he knew how to deal with that.
The Town Major looked at me, faintly representing for the moment
the machine, and, blushing dismally, bribed me into silence with a
cigarette. Yet here I am telling you all about it! Never mind; the
house and all its entrances and exits have long since disappeared,
and as to the Subaltern himself--who knows?
On Saturday, June 3rd (that black Saturday which was not quite so
black as it was painted) he received an urgent call, as if he was
a doctor, to attend the oldest and least movable inhabitant in the
acuteness of her distress. Town Majors are good for anything; though
I suppose I oughtn't to mention it, I knew of one who assisted
single-handed at a birth, mother and son both doing well
notwithstanding interim bombardment. They are at anybody's disposal
for any purpose; it is merely a question of first come first served.
He went to the old lady's house; he found her in a paroxysm of tears
over the news of the Naval disaster. For an hour he tried to comfort
her, being limited to the methods of personal magnetism, in the
absence of his interpreter and the scarcity of his French. She refused
to take comfort; it was not sorrow for the gallant dead, but terror of
the atrocious living which moved her. She was mortally afraid, she to
whom salvoes of big guns were now matters of passing inconvenience.
The English Navy had taken a knock; the War was therefore over and we
had lost. There was no hope for any of us, and any moment the Bosch
might be expected on her threshold, arriving presumably from the rear.
The magnificence of the Army of France had been in vain; it was no
use going on at Verdun. She was still weeping spasmodically when the
better news arrived.
Now, Charles, if that is how a French peasant took the first news, how
do you suppose the German peasants are digesting the second and better
version?
Yours ever,
HENRY.
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[Illustration: _Shivering Tommy (to red-headed pal)._ "'URRY UP,
GINGER, AND DIP YER 'EAD UNDER. IT'LL WARM THE WATER!"]
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"Athens, Monday.--I learn in a well-informed quarter that the
Allies are expected to communicate to the Greek Government
almost immediately a further Note relative to the restrictions
imposed on Greek sipping."
_Provincial Paper._
At present, we understand, Greek sippers are strictly confined to
Port.
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