CAMBRAI AND AMIENS
We went to the town of Cambrai on October 13, a famous day in the
history of the town, for it was then that the British handed the
town, captured by them from the Germans, over to the French. Sir
Douglas Haig and Premier Clemenceau were there: the French troops
furnishing a guard of honour.
In the distance, while the French were playing the Marseillaise on
the town square, we could hear the dull thud of shells bursting in
the fields outside the city.
In the afternoon a solemn thanksgiving for the relief of the town
from the Germans was held in the old cathedral amidst the wreckage of
war, Abbé Thuliez, the heroic priest who stayed in the town whilst
it was in the occupation of the enemy, officiating. On entering
the cathedral it could at once be seen that the Germans had left a
trail of ruin over the sacred house of prayer. Seats were broken and
overturned, a chair was attached to the sanctuary lamp and hung there
idly, the pipes of the organ have been wrenched out and taken away,
and candlesticks looted from the altar were found, on the entry of
the British, tied up in bundles ready for removal.
Walking through the wide but irregular streets one was forcibly
reminded of the cunning of those who had been in occupation. Here
and there attached to the doors of houses were notices put up by the
British engineers. One says "Dangerous," meaning that suspicious
objects in the house are not to be touched lest they explode a booby
trap, other houses bear the legend "Suspicious," and a third notice
says "O.K.," meaning that the engineers have examined the house,
removed anything dangerous and rendered it safe for habitation.
The big Town Hall is blown down and gutted with fire. Nothing remains
save the bare walls. The ground floor is littered with rubble,
curtains have been taken down and carried away, statuary and pictures
have been removed.
We visited a large château on the outskirts of Cambrai, which was
once the residence of the German Crown Prince. Inside one could see
where the hand of the spoiler had been busy. Chairs and sofas were
stripped of their tapestry, valuable books had been taken away and
books of lesser value had been tampered with, slashed with knives and
destroyed. In an upper corner of this building was a nursery with the
children's dolls and rocking horses torn and lacerated, the doll's
tea service broken and trampled to the ground.
Outside the house runs a light railway under a line of tall trees.
These trees have been cut down and placed on the rails, blocking
all transport and destroying the picturesque glory of a beautiful
esplanade, on which stands the statue of Baptiste, the first maker of
cambric, from which Cambrai has taken its name.
Many ancient towns of France famous in history and acquiring a fame
even more lasting in their downfall, were visited by our party in
turn. Yesterday it was Peronne, to-day Cambrai, Albert and Amiens
to-morrow. Of Peronne and Cambrai we have spoken, but of the history
of Albert we can say nothing, knowing so little of its past. And the
Albert of to-day is humbled to the dust, its cathedral burned to the
ground, its leaning Virgin gone.
On our way back to England we stopped for a night at Amiens, the
one-time capital of Picardy, the town in which Peter the Hermit,
Apostle of the First Crusade, and Ducange, the greatest of French
scholars, were born.
Amiens was up till quite recently the objective of enemy guns and
the dumping ground of bombs emptied from German aeroplanes. At the
present time the refugees were again returning and many were already
busy at the work of putting the city once again in order. But great
harm has been done to Amiens, and here and there blocks of houses are
levelled to the ground. Even the cathedral, begun in the early years
of the thirteenth century, has not escaped the missiles of war. A
German shell has come through the roof, but by good luck the shell
was a dud and did no injury to the place beyond breaking a few tiles
on the roof and smashing a flag on the floor.
Shells have fallen all round the building, smashing many houses
in the immediate neighbourhood and particularly outside the main
entrance, where a café has been levelled to the ground. In the big
building itself a great deal of stained glass has been broken, its
walls and flying buttresses are scarred and pitted with splinters
from bursting shells. Within, the choir stalls of the Cathedral, the
high altar, the pictures, pillars and statuary are protected by high
sand-bagged walls that reach almost to the roof. It is said that
the Germans did their utmost to spare the building. But judging by
the number of houses in the vicinity knocked down by shell fire and
broken by bombs, it looks as if the Germans tried to save the sacred
pile by just missing it with the narrowest possible margin.
Though but three days had passed since we came through Amiens on our
way to the front, a great change had taken place in the town. Three
days ago it was practically deserted, for most of those who had gone
away in the face of the big German advance had not yet returned.
Windows were then shuttered, doors boarded, no traffic was to be
seen in the street. Lamps were broken and the shattered glass lay
on the pavements. Amiens was a dead city lacking light and radiance
by night, movement and sound by day. Mourning and stupor lay like a
pall over the town. But now on our return we could see that a great
resurrection had taken place. Lights showed in the shops, women
served in the cafés where the red and blue bottles flung back the
reflection of many lamps, children were playing on the pavements, and
newsboys were shouting out the daily papers, English and French, at
every corner. Amiens with usual French perseverance was accommodating
itself to the new life and settling down again to its ordinary
every-day round of business.
Having seen Amiens Cathedral in the darkness, we returned to our
hotel to find a number of fresh visitors who had joined our party.
One was Mr. Hughes, Premier of Australia, who was visiting the troops
then billeted in the back area, drilling and getting fit for further
encounters on the battlefield. For the night he was stopping in
Amiens at our hotel and on the morrow he was going back with us to
London.
On our entrance to the dining-room we found one of the officers
telling the story of the bayonet, which he held to be the greatest
weapon used by the fighting man.
"The best weapon of all," he said. "Other weapons do their bit, the
tank, the big gun, and the rifle, but none are as effective as the
cold steel. When in the early days of the war the British soldiers
went back from Mons 'twas the bayonet that saved them many a time.
The gun did a share, the barbed wire entanglements were of some
service, but when it came to hand-to-hand fighting there was only one
weapon called into play, the bayonet."
"The Germans don't like it," some one said.
"Not they," said the officer, "it's cut and run when they are up
against the steel. But with the Turk it's a different matter. When
he's cornered he'll fight for his life and make a good fight of it.
He's a splendid man, Johnnie Turk, a damned good fellow, and one
that can give you a run for your money when you come in contact with
him. And he has such a queer way of fighting with the steel. Twists
and whirls his bayonet round in a queer tantalizing manner, and you
never know where you are, whether he's doing it for a joke or not.
But there's some plan in his capers, as we saw out on the Peninsula.
Some of our boys were inclined to laugh at Johnnie's capers, but they
knew better after a while, for suddenly the beggar would stop his
gyrations and sweep forward and slash upwards and probably get home.
I saw many of the Diggers fall to the Turks' bayonet, but never from
a straight thrust forward. Johnnie always cut upwards.
"The surgeon has never dressed a bayonet wound," he added. "The
weapon is always fatal."
During the evening we talked of many things, of incidents of war and
peace. The Premier told us many entertaining stories of his life in
Australia, and one I particularly remember.
Mr. Hughes in his early days was put forward as a political candidate
for some little township. This was a place where party strife was
rife and where now and again matters of import were decided not by
peaceful argument and gentle discussion, but by the heavy fists of
angry men. One party put Mr. Hughes forward, another party brought
another person into the limelight and said that he should be a
candidate in preference to Mr. Hughes. Eventually, it was decided to
put the matter to a vote.
While the voting took place Mr. Hughes was in some other part of
the town dealing with other affairs. He happened to be sitting in
some house looking out on the street when he noticed a man in shirt
sleeves coming tearing towards him, his face and neck beaded with
perspiration.
"What's wrong?" Hughes exclaimed.
"The voting," was the answer. "You're chosen. Run for your life!"
THE OLD PLATOON
Soft the night on the black field's face,
And under the lonely moon
The white cross marks your resting-place,
Mate of the old platoon.
Hazards many we both have shared,
Enduring as men endure--
With faith and fire all risks we dared,
Knowing the end was sure.
"The cause is worthy," you often said.
You said, "We're out to win,"
As we looked to the great new day ahead
That ushered Freedom in.
There's a weapon less on the rifle-rack
And gone from the parapet,
Still you guide us now on the cobbled track,
The mate we can't forget.
To the hour ahead our way we wend:
Let it come late or soon,
We know you're with us to the end,
Mate of the old platoon.