THE FAR-FLUNG BATTLE LINE
Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly set
His Britain in blown seas and storming showers,
We have a voice with which to pay the debt
Of boundless love and reverence and regret
To those great men who fought and kept it ours.
TENNYSON.
Then each shall take with stubborn grip
His rifle as he took his whip,
And when the Flag’s unfurled,
The clerk shall drop his futile pen
To lift his well-loved lance—and then
A nation fronts the world!
ARTHUR H. ADAMS.
How long will the War last? No two people agree about this, and that
however wise, however clever, even however experienced in war they may
be. It will be very interesting to see who among our friends have proved
right; those who say it will be over soon, or those others who believe
it may last years.
There is one thing, however, about which even now we all are agreed.
This is that, however long the war may last, Britain and her Allies will
never give up the fight until victory is assured.
This great war has been full of surprises, which soldiers and historians
will go on discussing for many years to come. Never before, as I have
already explained, had such vast masses of men been engaged, never
before had battle fronts extended for two hundred, and even three
hundred, miles. Not so very long ago, battles never took more than a
week or ten days at the most before what soldiers call a “decision” was
reached. By “decision,” soldiers mean the complete defeat of one army or
the other, so that it is unable to gather itself together and fight
again. Even the Battle of the Aisne, which was really a row of battles
on a line as long as from London to Carlisle, did not produce a decision
of that kind.
Without going into a long explanation which you might not be able to
understand, I will try to show how the Battle of the Aisne simply did
not end at all, but gradually melted, so to speak, into what we may call
the Battle of the Dykes.
One great reason for this singular result, or absence of result, is to
be found in the use of aircraft. In the Italian War in Tripoli, and in
the Balkan War, aeroplanes had done good service, but this was the first
occasion on which they had been employed on a great scale, and the
effect of their employment was that neither side could prepare those
surprises for the enemy which, in old days, brought about decisive
victories.
Napoleon used always to feel by means of scouts for the point at which
his enemy was weakest, and against that point he would throw his whole
strength. But if Napoleon were alive now, he could not wage war in that
way. It is true that his aeroplanes would find out the enemy’s weak
point quickly, but the enemy, in his turn, would quickly find out where
Napoleon was bringing up fresh men, and would make arrangements to meet
them.
This is the sort of thing that happened on the Aisne. Both sides pushed
hard, and there was terrible loss of life in numerous battles along the
whole front. Villages were taken and retaken, sometimes five or six
times over, and on the whole the Allies gained a good deal of ground,
and to that extent they defeated the enemy, to whom it was very
important to get on quickly.
England and France were not in such a hurry. They could afford to wait
because fresh troops were constantly coming up, not only French, but
also British, including the magnificent Indian regiments, while the New
Army enlisted on the appeal of Lord Kitchener, and the Canadian and the
Australian forces, were steadily forming and training, ready to be
thrown into the battle. It was quite enough for the Allies simply to
hold the Germans, and prevent them from getting to Paris.
There is reason to believe that the German generals, and the Kaiser in
particular, determined at this crisis to make a great dash for the
coast. If you look at the map you will see that on the Belgian coast,
going westwards beyond Ostend, we come to Dunkirk, in France; and then,
still further on, to Calais.
Calais has had such a long and romantic history that I cannot help being
glad that it has played a part in this great war. The people of Calais
are as brave now as they were in the days when the burghers, themselves
behaving nobly, gave, as the doing of a noble action nearly always does,
the opportunity for the performance of another. Long before the Kaiser
set his heart on occupying the nearest port to England, mighty warriors
had fought for Calais.
“A thousand knights have reined their steeds
To watch this line of sand-hills run,
Along the never silent Strait,
To Calais glittering in the sun;
To look towards Ardres’ golden field
Across the wide aerial plain,
Which glows as if the Middle Age
Were gorgeous upon earth again.”
The Kaiser wanted to get to Calais for two reasons; one was to encourage
the people in Berlin, and the second object was to frighten people here,
in England, and to attack the British warships with submarines and
destroyers, working from the harbour of Calais.
But a very disagreeable surprise awaited the Germans when they threw
themselves towards the coast. This surprise was a number of British and
French warships, which shelled them from the sea!
Among the British ships were three very strange-looking craft called
monitors. You know well what a monitor means at school, though in some
schools they are called prefects. The word exactly means a person who
advises, and to whose words attention must be paid.
The Germans certainly had to pay attention to the observations of the
three British monitors. These ships, named the Humber, Severn, and
Mersey, are like nothing else in the Navy—I can only compare them to
floating fortresses. Everything else is sacrificed in building them to
having on board as big guns as possible. They are therefore shaped
rather like barges, so that they may stand the violent shock when their
big guns are all fired. Their speed is not great, and they do not lie
deep in the water, so that they can come very near the coast. They are,
indeed, meant entirely for coast defence.
These three curious-looking ships were being built in this country for
Brazil, and our Admiralty very cleverly took possession of them, of
course paying the full price, and very useful they turned out in this
Battle of the Dykes.
You can easily understand that the German trenches and other positions
had to be mostly, not alongside the coastline, but at right angles to
it, so that the monitors could fire their shells lengthwise at the
doomed Germans, and so they killed many more than they would otherwise
have done.
The country in which the battle was fought is covered with little rivers
and canals and dykes, and that is why I have called it the Battle of the
Dykes. Parts of it also were flooded, and the German advance became
extremely difficult. The British destroyers used to run up the rivers
and canals and shell any German position which had escaped the shells of
the monitors.
The loss of life was terrible, and not on the German side only. The
gallant Belgian Army, though a good deal diminished in numbers, fought
magnificently. The Germans, however, continually brought up fresh
troops, regardless of the terrible slaughter. And there came a day at
the end of October when the Belgian forces found that they were running
short of cartridges and shells. It was then that the Germans had their
great chance, but for some extraordinary reason they missed it. If they
had pressed on, they must have driven their enemy before them and
obtained an important success. Instead of that, to the astonishment and
delight of the Belgians, they actually fell back, and the golden
opportunity was gone.
What a lesson this is in the value of perseverance! The Romans had an
excellent proverb, namely, “Opportunity is bald behind”; meaning that
when you have once allowed your chance to pass you, there is nothing by
which you can catch hold of it to drag it back.
You may have heard the expression “the romance of war.” Even in this
awful conflict, where there has been so much that was frightful, certain
romantic facts have come to cheer the heart of the nation. Thus, under
Rear-Admiral Horace Hood, who commanded the flotilla off the Belgian
coast, was Commander Charles Fremantle. They are both descended from
heroes of the Napoleonic wars. A Fremantle commanded a line of
battleships at Copenhagen and Trafalgar. It was Viscount Hood who, in
1759, destroyed the transports which had been got ready by the daring of
the French for the invasion of England. Another Hood served with Nelson
in the Mediterranean; this was Samuel Hood. His elder brother,
Alexander, commanded the Mars, which fought a duel with the French
warship Hercule, and he died of his wounds just as the sword of the
French captain was placed in his hands.
The British Army never fought more bravely, more doggedly, and with more
splendid cheerfulness than during this fierce, water-logged battle. The
enemy, even with his great advantage in numbers and in weight of
artillery, was no match for our men. The London Scottish, the first
complete unit of our Territorial Army to fight by the side of Regulars,
covered themselves with glory by magnificent charges, again and again
repeated, at a place called Messines. It was at this time, too, that the
Indian troops first came into action, with terrible results for the
Germans.
It is difficult to select what to tell you about the Indians, there is
so much that is curious and interesting. What struck me personally most
was the fact that their batteries of mountain guns and Maxims, according
to an observer who saw them in their French camp, are carried on
mule-back. Being in Europe has made no difference at all to these
wonderful people’s immemorial traditions. Thus, they have brought all
their food from India, and they live when on foreign soil exactly as
their ancestors lived. There are thousands of goats in the Sikh lines,
and very well they bore the long journey from India.
Some of the Indian troops cannot eat any food over which has passed even
the shadow of a person belonging to another religious creed. Some of the
Indians, also, can only take their food separately, and as it were in
secret. But, with the help of the native officers and of white officers
who had served in India, such difficulties were easily met, and these
gallant Sikhs, Rajputs, Gurkhas, and Pathans suffered no injury to their
religious faith, while at the same time they fought shoulder to shoulder
with their white comrades in defence of the British Empire.
It would be a great mistake to suppose that the enemy was content only
to fight in the cockpit of Europe. The far-flung battle line reached at
last from Belgium to Switzerland, something like three hundred miles,
and all along there was constant fighting. The struggle swayed backwards
and forwards—indeed, for weeks it seemed like a joust between two
determined wrestlers, each of whom, if he gave way an inch one day, got
back an inch the next.
Particularly violent was the struggle round and for Arras. This quaint
town has been described as the most picturesque in Northern Europe. This
was partly owing to the fact that it still retained great traces of the
old Spanish occupation. One square in Arras looked as if it had been
lifted bodily out of Spain. Like so many north of France and Belgian
towns, it also had a singularly beautiful town hall and belfry. Alas!
all this beauty, including the little Spanish square, was bombarded and
destroyed. But, sad as was the fate of Arras, it was shared by many
other historic towns.
All along the battle line deeds of valour, of daring, and of quiet,
unostentatious heroism were daily performed. Many of our soldiers and
airmen earned not only the Legion of Honour, but the Médaille Militaire,
which is only awarded for deeds of exceptional daring performed on
active service.
Private F. W. Dodson, of Meadowwell, North Shields, serving with the 2nd
Coldstream Guards, was recommended for the V.C. for saving a wounded
comrade under fire. When writing to his wife on their wedding
anniversary an account of what had happened he said:
“You will know by the time you receive this that I have been recommended
for the V.C., an honour I never thought would come my way. I only took
my chance, and did my duty to save my comrade. It was really nothing,
but I shall never forget the congratulations and praise I received from
our officers, my comrades, and our Brigadier-General. I shall ever
remember them.”
Mrs. Dodson must have been a proud woman when she read this modest,
manly letter, as also when she received yet another letter from the wife
of her husband’s commanding officer, Captain Follett. Lady Mildred
Follett sent her the following extract from a letter received from her
husband:
“A thick fog came down, so I sent a group of three men out 100 yards to
our front to warn us of an attack from the enemy. After they had been
there an hour, the fog suddenly lifted, and they were fired on at close
range by the Germans. One man was killed, one was wounded badly, and one
crawled back. I didn’t know how to get the wounded man back, so I had to
call for a volunteer, and a reservist, Dodson, at once responded, and
went out and fetched him. He was heavily fired at, but not hit. He is
quite all right.”
It is comforting to know that the bravest, even the most reckless, men
constantly have marvellous escapes. Take the case of Lieutenant A. C.
Johnston, the Hampshire county cricketer. The day before he was wounded,
the nose of a shell hit a wall six inches above his head. Shortly after
that a bullet hit the ground half a yard in front of him, bounded up,
and hit him on the body, bruising his ribs. Then a bullet hit him over
the heart, but was “spent” before reaching him. Finally, while he was
sitting on the steps of a house, half the building was blown up, and he
was not even touched!
You will often hear contemptuous allusions to “amateurs” and their
doings. But amateurs have proved, especially in this war, that they
often are just as good as those who have been carefully trained to do a
special job.
One of the finest “amateur” corps in this war was that of the British
Volunteer Despatch-riders. Thanks to their work the generals commanding
were able to keep in constant touch with one another, a matter of vital
importance in warfare.
Many of these young fellows were just fresh from their Universities, and
had no previous military experience, but they showed remarkable dash and
bravery while travelling on motor-cycles through a country infested with
enemies.
Many and thrilling were their adventures. On one occasion an Australian
from Cambridge, while speeding along a country road, suddenly came upon
a party of fourteen German cavalrymen. With characteristic audacity he
drew his revolver and shot down an officer and one man, whereupon the
others ran away. Thus the Australian was able to deliver his despatch,
which informed a corps commander that Germans were in the neighbourhood,
and so prevented what might have been a disagreeable surprise.
The spy service, or, as they prefer to call it, the Secret Intelligence
Department, has always been very cleverly conducted by the German War
Office. Of the many devices resorted to by the enemy to convey secret
information to those whom it concerned, the most curious and original
was that known as the sign of the Black Cow.
All over the area of war the French and British troops were much
surprised and mystified by seeing rough sketches of a black cow on walls
and the sides of houses, even on gates and fences. Sometimes it was a
small cow, sometimes a large cow; sometimes the cow was standing,
sometimes she was lying down.
At last a French officer, cleverer or blessed with more imagination than
his fellows, suddenly “tumbled to” the explanation. The small cow meant
that the road in front was weakly defended. The large cow conveyed the
warning that the enemy were strongly entrenched near by. Always the
direction in which the head pointed told where the enemy lay. Only when
the head was tossed back, and the horns were long and pointed, did it
indicate to the enemy that an aeroplane reconnaissance would be valuable
over there.
I think one of the stories of plain-man valour which impressed me most
was that of a young telegraphist at Lille. He managed to move his
instruments into the cellar of the house next to the Post Office. He
then went and installed himself there; and for three weeks, helped by a
few faithful friends who managed to give him food and water at certain
long intervals, he conveyed valuable information to the Allied forces.
Now one of the most extraordinary features of this war has been the way
in which towns and villages, aye, and even houses, have been taken and
retaken alternately by friends and enemies. When the French had a
temporary success the young telegraphist did not come out, as most
people would have done; he remained where he was, knowing how probable
was the presence of spies. Thus, when Lille was once more in German
occupation, he was able to go on with his valuable help to the Allies.
A good many of us just now are anxious about some prisoner of war, and
it is curious how few people know the pains, penalties, and privileges
to which the prisoner of war is doomed or entitled. To begin with, the
person of a prisoner of war is sacred, and on the whole he is well
treated. Thus his captors have not the right to ask him for information
which would do harm to his own side. He can, however, be forced to work
for his captors. The Germans are said to make their prisoners work at
digging trenches and making earthworks, which is not fair, for of course
such defences are intended to be used against the prisoner’s own side.
If a prisoner of war gives his word not to escape he is often allowed
much more liberty, but, as a rule, British and French officers refuse to
give any such promise. Should one of them escape, he may be fired at,
but if he is retaken he may not be punished for having tried to escape.
In this war, Britain has treated her prisoners in a very generous and
humane fashion. Those among them who are wounded were actually visited
by our King and Queen, who spoke to them kindly in their own language,
and gave orders that their comfort should be studied.
Immediately after what I have called the Battle of the Dykes, came one
of the fiercest struggles of the war, that which centred round the
curiously-named town of Ypres. This quaint, beautiful, old town was
once, strange to say, besieged by an English Churchman, Henry Spencer,
Bishop of Norwich. He failed to take Ypres because of the stout
resistance offered to his soldiers by a hedge of thorn-bushes! This
hedge grew on the ramparts, and proved a very real defence. In memory of
their preservation the people of Ypres hold a fair every August, and in
the Cathedral is a fine painting called “Our Lady of the Garden,” to
show that the aid of Heaven as well as of the thorns had been invoked.
One wonders if the Kaiser had heard of that old siege, when he issued
his cruel and wanton order commanding that Ypres, with its lovely old
houses, and its famous Cloth Hall, should be razed to the ground. Such
destruction could bring no military advantage. In fact, the British held
on to Ypres with splendid tenacity, though many gallant and noble young
lives were laid down during the fierce fighting which went on there.
Other cities, not less beautiful than Ypres, and not less famed in
history, were the scene of awful battles during this phase of the great
war.
Tournai, where an important engagement was fought, is a quiet, placid
town where are made what are called “Brussels” carpets. According to
tradition, the art of weaving these carpets was brought home from the
Crusades by Flemish soldiers, who had learnt it from the Saracens.
Tournai is quite used to being the scene of fierce and bloody conflicts.
It was splendidly defended nearly five hundred years ago by a woman,
Princess Christine d’Espinoy, an ancestor of the Comte de Lalaing who is
now Belgian Minister in England. It was said of this princess that she
united the skill of a prudent general to the valour of a brave warrior,
and, although she was herself badly wounded, she only gave in when
three-fourths of her garrison were either dead or unable to fight. You
may be interested to learn that Tournai is not far from the famous
battlefield of Fontenoy, where English, Dutch, and Austrians were
defeated by the French with the help of the gallant Irish Brigades which
had been raised by, and for, the Stuarts.
Then there is the town of Courtrai, where was fought the
beautifully-named battle of the Golden Spurs. This must not be confused
with the Battle of the Spurs which was fought two hundred years earlier.
The Battle of the Golden Spurs was won by the weavers of Ghent and
Bruges, fighting against the French. Hundreds of gilt spurs worn by the
French officers were gathered on the field where British and French have
now fought side by side.
Round Peronne, too, fierce fighting went on during the struggle in
Northern France and Flanders. This town has had the honour of holding
more than one king captive. King Charles the Simple was imprisoned there
for fifteen years, and is even said to have been starved to death there.
When Louis XI came to Peronne to meet Charles the Bold, the latter shut
him up for two days in his castle to punish him for having stirred up
Liège to rebel, and only released him when Louis consented to sign the
Treaty of Peronne. The town was once finely defended by a woman,
Catharine de Poix, five hundred years ago, and the fortress never fell
till the Duke of Wellington took it in 1815.
I suppose there has never been before so long a battleline as that which
extended from the sea at Ostend right across Flanders and through
Northern and Eastern France to the borders of Switzerland. The armies of
the Allies were under the supreme command of General Joffre, whom Lord
Kitchener described at the Guildhall banquet as not only a great soldier
but a great man. Sir John French and the British Army fought mostly in
Flanders, where they repulsed terrific onslaughts delivered by the
flower of the enemy, notably by the famous Prussian Corps of the Guards.
It is interesting to recall that among the British and French who thus
fought side by side were descendants of heroes who had fought against
one another on the field of Waterloo. For instance, a great grandson of
the Duke of Wellington was, through his work in the Flying Corps,
brought into daily touch with the Duke of Elchingen, a direct descendant
of Marshal Ney.
As the fighting grew fiercer, so the number of the wounded rose to
terrible proportions. Splendid deeds of valour were performed by the men
and women, doctors, nurses, and ambulance men, whose duty it is to bring
in and care for the soldiers who have fallen on the battlefield.
I must tell you of one truly heroic deed done by an English officer:
After an engagement in which the Germans were repulsed, they fell back,
taking with them all their wounded except one, who was overlooked. An
English officer, having given the order “Cease fire,” himself went out
into the open to pick up the wounded German. He was struck by several
German bullets and badly wounded, but the Germans, as soon as they saw
what his object was, also ordered the “Cease fire.” Thereupon our
officer staggered to the fallen man and carried him to the German lines.
A German officer received him with a salute, and, calling for cheers,
pinned upon his breast an Iron Cross. Then the officer returned to his
own trenches. He was recommended for the Victoria Cross for this notable
example of chivalry, but he died of his wounds.
The German soldier is sometimes a more gallant foe than is his
commander. A couple of wounded Germans arrived at the hospital of Saint
Mandier, Toulon, bearing round their necks cards on which had been
written by the senior surgeon who had sent them there, the words: “These
two Germans are recommended to the special care and attention of my
colleagues, because they have saved a French officer.”
It then appeared that on the field of battle these Germans lay by the
side of a French officer, who, like themselves, was badly wounded.
Presently there came along a party of German cavalry, who, seeing the
Frenchman, proposed in a mean and cowardly way to finish him off. But
the two Germans—believed to be Bavarians—would have none of it, and
themselves defended the wounded Frenchman. When all three reached
hospital, the French officer told the story.
While our men were fighting and dying for their country in Flanders,
people at home did all they could to help them. No one was too great, no
one too humble, to support the many kindly and ingenious schemes which
were devised.
Lord Roberts, by a personal appeal, obtained thousands of field-glasses
for the use of our officers, and then, with like success, he obtained
great numbers of saddles for our cavalry. To each donor, whether of the
field-glasses or of the saddles, he sent a personal letter of thanks.
You know, of course, that Lord Roberts died as he would have wished to
die—with the Army. It was about the middle of November that he went to
France to see and speak with the Indian troops, and there he caught a
chill which, alas! he had not strength to resist.
It would take a great book to tell you all that Lord Roberts tried to
do, and all that he succeeded in doing, for his country. I can only here
give you the splendid and heartening message which he sent to the
children of the Empire:
“You have all heard of the war; you have all heard of the fighting
forces sent from every part of the Empire to help the Mother Country.
Why are we fighting? Because the British Empire does not break its
promises, nor will it allow small nations to be bullied.
“Now, the British Government promised, with all the Great Powers of
Europe, including Germany, that no army should set foot on the territory
of the little nation of Belgium without her leave; in other words, she
‘guaranteed the neutrality of Belgium.’
“Germany, however, was bent on war, and on dominating other nations.
Britain did her best to keep the peace, but Germany (breaking her word)
marched her armies into Belgium to try and conquer France.
“Children of the Empire, this is why we are at war—to hold our promise,
to help our friends, and to keep the Flag of Liberty flying, not only
over our own Empire, but over the whole world.
“God Save our King and Empire.
“ROBERTS (Field-Marshal).”
Truly to Lord Roberts may be applied the famous lines:
“Great in council and great in war,
Foremost captain of his time,
And, as the greatest only are,
In his simplicity sublime.”
You will remember my telling you of the exploits of the German cruiser
Emden. Well, early in November she was caught and destroyed by the
cruiser Sydney, of the Australian Navy.
The captain of the Emden, whose name is Karl von Müller, became a sort
of hero of romance. This was partly because of his extraordinary
ingenuity and daring, partly because he treated the crews of the liners
he captured with humanity and politeness. Our seamen chivalrously gave
him and his officers all the honours of war, allowing them to keep their
swords.
Von Müller was accused by the crew of at least one of his captures of
having sent out S.O.S. signals to lure merchant ships into his net.
These signals, as you know, mean, “I am in great distress. Come as quick
as you can to the rescue.” If he really played this trick, I find it
difficult to admire him for it.
I do not know whether Captain von Müller is a reader of Mr. Cutcliffe
Hyne’s entertaining books, but he certainly repeated in real life an
exploit of Commander M‘Turk in “The Western Ocean Pirate.” He added a
sham funnel to the Emden, and crept into Penang Harbour, pretending to
be a British cruiser. He was thus able to dispose of two warships, one
of them Russian.
As winter drew near, everyone turned their thoughts to providing warm
garments and warming comforts for the troops. The Queen appealed to the
women of the Empire and splendidly they responded. Young and old fingers
knitted socks, mittens, comforters, and body belts, till hundreds of
thousands were despatched to the front and to the Fleet.
Always remember that a deed of real kindness warms the heart as truly as
a cosy garment warms the body. Our brave men, as we know by their
grateful letters home, felt ever so much heartened by these and other
signs of our gratitude.
And while we were all working here, French women, Russian women, and
German women, helped by their children, were also all intent on
providing their soldiers with winter comforts. But thinking of those
industrious, devoted German mothers and wives, I wonder if they ever
give a thought to those Belgian women who, homeless wanderers owing to
Germany’s ruthless inhumanity, can provide nothing for _their_ sons and
brothers, but have to rely entirely on the kindness of their Allies and
of America.
I do not think I can end this record of gallant, merciful, and kindly
deeds without telling you of the Santa Claus ship from America.
The poor little Belgians, and those French boys and girls whose homes
have been destroyed by fire, shell, and shot, are not likely to have any
Christmas presents this year. Neither are the children of the other
combatant nations likely to have a very happy Christmas. So a kind
American editor bethought himself that here was a chance for the boys
and girls of America. The American Government entered very heartily into
the project of sending what is now known as the Santa Claus ship to
Europe with Christmas presents for the children of the warring nations,
and they offered the use of a United States battleship. It was settled
that the battleship should fly at her foremast a large white flag, with
a red Star of Hope in the centre, and under it the word “Inasmuch.” It
was further arranged that the Santa Claus ship should proceed first to
England, then to France, and then to Belgium, the German children’s
presents being sent through Rotterdam.
I want you to try and make a special effort to remember the following
deed of heroism, because it seems to me to be in some ways the most
moving and splendid told you in this book. That is why I have put it
last.
It was during an engagement near Nancy that Corporal Lancaster, of the
Coldstream Guards, was shot in the neck. It was a terrible wound, and
his comrades dragged him into the shelter of a haystack. “Be quiet,”
they whispered, “for if you groan you will give away the position.”
Lancaster remained silent for six hours.
At last the Germans advanced. At a hundred yards from the haystack they
were met by the blinding hail of the machine-gun section of the
Coldstreams, and the silence of Corporal Lancaster was rewarded. Still
grimly silent, he was gathered in by the Red Cross men at the end of a
terrible day, and was soon on his way to England, who, we may safely
assert, has never borne a braver son.
As the War Christmas drew in sight, kind Princess Mary suddenly
bethought herself how nice it would be to send each of our sailors and
soldiers a Christmas gift, or rather a Christmas parcel. Her Royal
Highness accordingly issued a touching appeal to the public. It was
responded to with great eagerness and enthusiasm. As a result five
articles were sent to each man on active service, from Sir John French
and Sir John Jellicoe to the youngest private or sailor serving under
him. Every parcel contained some tobacco in a brass box on which was
engraved, in a medallion, the names of the Allies, the proud words
“Imperium Britannicum,” and a portrait of Princess Mary.
I feel I cannot end a record of gallant and merciful deeds more suitably
than with the beautiful supplication for peace written by a French
prince, Charles of Orleans, when a prisoner in England five hundred
years ago.
I have not attempted to find or to provide a translation, for this poem,
written in what a boy poet once called stained-glass-window French, is
perfect, full of the humble piety and unquestioning faith of an age more
trusting and holier than ours.
“Priez pour paix, douce Vierge Marie,
Reine des cieux et du monde maistresse,
Faites prier, par vostre courtaisie,
Saints et saintes, et prenez vostre adresse
Vers vostre fils, requérant sa hautesse
Qu’il lui plaise son peuple regarder
Que de son sang a voulu racheter,
En déboutant guerre que tout désvoie;
De prières ne vous veuillez lasser,
Priez pour paix, le vrai trésor de joie.”
Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO. at Paul’s Work, Edinburgh
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.