On one occasion after motoring through towns that are a household word,
both at home and with our Allies, towns which have seen the Germans
in them and then driven out of them, places where the buildings are
practically level with the ground, the limit for vehicular traffic is
reached and one goes forward on foot. Soon you reach a cutting in the
ground and you begin to walk along a trench. You turn now and again
either to right or left, seeing sign-posts telling sometimes in comic
language and sometimes only by number the name, as it were, of the
underground street; you then rise a little and find yourself walking
in the inside of houses so shattered that you cannot tell much about
what they originally were until you are told that they formed a street
in a little overgrown village of which nothing is left, and the last
inhabitant of which was the station-master, who refused to leave though
there was neither train, station nor house for himself left, because
so long as he remained on the spot he could claim his pay. Forcible
measures had at last to be used to secure his departure. Where you are
walking you are yourself hidden from the enemy, but are within the
range of their fire. You are taken up to an observation post, where one
of your companions incautiously takes out a white pocket-handkerchief
and is hurriedly told to put it back in his pocket.
You come down again and proceed cautiously along trenches. Now and
again shells pass over, and your careful guide looks to see in what
direction they are falling, as, though he is quite unconcerned for
himself, he knows that he is responsible for the safety of the
troublesome visitor. You are told to keep your head down and not to
show, for the moment at any rate, any desire to view the landscape.
Soldiers are dotted about here and there, all of them ready to give a
kindly greeting, and then at last you reach a point where you are told
not to speak loudly because practically only a few yards away is the
enemy, who, were he to hear conversation, might think it worth while
to throw over a hand grenade. What looks like a tiny bit of glass at
the end of a short stick is there before you, and you are asked to look
into it; when you do the enemies' trenches are visible to you. Beyond
an occasional ping against a sandbag, you have heard nothing to note
the existence of rifle fire, except that the men you have passed have
got these weapons to hand. You tell the men at the advanced posts how
proud their country is of them, how thankful you are to have seen them,
how you pray that God may bring them back safe to their homes; you get
rid of all cigars or cigarettes you may have upon you, wishing that you
had thousands more, and then you return home, varying perhaps the route
through the communication trenches.
On another occasion our way took us through a town which is absolutely
razed to the ground and is still under shell fire. There I saw two
soldiers busy with spades, and I asked what kind of fortification they
were putting up, to which, with a broad grin, one replied that they
were looking for souvenirs. He was kind enough to give me a complete
German cartridge case, for which he refused to take any remuneration.
Going on a little farther in this town, we went down some steps and
found ourselves in an underground club full of soldiers, who were
having a hot meal, were reading papers and playing games, everything
being presided over by perhaps the most magnetic person I met on my
travels, a young Chaplain to the Forces, who would not wish his name
to be mentioned, though there is probably no one out at the Front who
will not know to whom I refer. When we went from this place towards the
more advanced trenches, I was taken along a road which looked perfectly
harmless, when suddenly a stalwart Scotchman told my companion and
myself that we must get off it at once as it was a favourite target
for German Maxims. Never was a General more obediently submitted to than
was this, I believe, private soldier. It was on this occasion that we
had tea in the dugout of the Colonel, who bears a name distinguished
in English naval, military and sporting life. A characteristic of the
German trenches which I noticed on this and other occasions, was that
their sandbags seemed to be generally white in colour, at any rate in
those of the first line. Leaving the trench on this particular day, we
had to go through an almost alarming thunderstorm, which in the course
of half an hour made a sea of mud of the place which had been quite
dry before. It was curious to notice how petty the sound of the guns
appeared as compared with the artillery of heaven.
Pathetic incidents occur and touching scenes are visible on these
journeys to the Front. One looked in the trenches upon little mounds
and crosses, marking the resting-places of men who had been hurriedly,
but reverently, buried. There they are side by side with their living
comrades, who are doing their work whilst their brothers sleep. Dotted
all about the country are little cemeteries, which tell of devotion
unto death, and which remind one of all the sorrow this war has
caused. It is strange to see how religious emblems appear to have been
strong against shell. Constantly you would see a church almost totally
destroyed and yet the crucifix untouched, and who will ever forget that
sight which can be seen for miles around, of the tower which has been
almost shattered to pieces and yet the statue of the Virgin and Child,
which was near the top of it, though bent over completely at right
angles, still remains, as it were blessing and protecting the whole
neighbourhood.