Last night I heard your account of your experiences between
September 1 and 9, and it made me boil anew with disappointment
that my attempts to reach Huiry on September 4 were frustrated. I
was disappointed enough at the time, but then my regret was
tempered by the thought that you were probably safe in Paris, and I
should only find an empty house at La Creste. Now that I know that I
should have found you--you!!!--it makes me wild, even after this
interval of time, to have missed a sight of you. Now let me tell you
how it came about that you nearly received a visit from me.
I left England August 17, with the 48th Heavy Battery (3d division).
We landed at Rouen, and went by train, via Amiens, to Houtmont, a
few kilometres west of Mauberge. There we detrained one morning at
two o'clock, marched through Malplaquet into Belgium, and came in
contact with the enemy at once.
The story of the English retreat must be familiar to you by now. It was
a wonderful experience. I am glad to have gone through it, though I
am not anxious to undergo such a time again. We crossed the Marne
at Meaux, on September 3, marching due east to Signy-Signets.
Funnily enough it was not until I had actually crossed the Marne that I
suddenly realized that I was in your vicinity. Our route, unfortunately,
led right away from you, and I could not ask to get away while we
were actually on the march, and possibly going many miles in another
direction. The following day, however--the 4th--we retraced our steps
somewhat, and halted to bivouac a short distance west of a village
named La Haute Maison--roughly about six miles from you. I
immediately asked permission to ride over to Huiry. The Major, with
much regret, declined to let me leave, and, since we received orders
to march again an hour later, he was right. We marched all that night.
I have marked out our road with arrows on the little map enclosed.
We reached a place called Fontenay about 8.30 the next morning, by
which time I was twenty miles from you, and not in a condition to want
anything but sleep and food. That was our farthest point south. But,
sad to say, in our advance we went by a road farther east, and quite
out of reach of you, and crossed the Marne at a place called Nanteuil.
I got your first letter about one day's march south of Mons.
Best love, dearest M------. Write again.
Isn't that a calm way to state such a trying experience as that retreat?
It is only a sample of a soldier's letter.
If he were disappointed you can imagine that I was. Luckily I had
seen him in June, when he was here on a visit, having just returned
from North Nigeria, after five years in the civil service, to take up his
grade in the army, little dreaming there was to be a war at once.
If he had come that afternoon imagine what I should have felt to see
him ride down by the picket at the gate. He would have found me
pouring tea for Captain Edwards of the Bedfords. It would have surely
added a touch of reality to the battle of the next days. Of course I
knew he was somewhere out there, but to have seen him actually
riding away to it would have been different. Yet it might not, for I am
sure his conversation would have been as calm as his letters, and
they read as much as if he were taking an exciting pleasure trip, with
interesting risks thrown in, as anything else. That is so English. On
some future day I suppose we shall sit together on the lawn--he will
probably lie on it--and swap wonderful stories, for I am going to be
one of the veterans of this war.
I must own that when I read the letter I found it suggestive of the days
that are gone. Imagine marching through Malplaquet and over all that
West Flanders country with its memories of Marlborough, and where,
had the Dutch left the Duke a free hand, he would have marched on
Paris--with other Allies--as he did on Lille. I must own that history, with
its records of bitter enemies yesterday, bosom friends today, does not
inspire one with much hope of seeing the dreamer's vision of
universal peace realized.
Still, I must confess that the attitude of French and English to one
another today is almost thrilling. The English Tommy Atkins and the
French poilu are delightful together. For that matter, the French
peasants love the English. They never saw any before, and their
admiration and devotion to "Tommee," as they call him, is
unbounded. They think him so "chic," and he is.
No one--not even I, who so love them--could ever accuse the "piou-
piou" of being chic.
The French conscript in his misfits has too long been the object of
affectionate sarcasm and the subject of caricature to be unfamiliar to
the smiles of the whole world.
You see the army outfits are made in three sizes only. So far as my
observation goes none of the three measurements fits anyone today,
and as for the man who is a real "between"--well, he is in a sad box.
But what of that? He doesn't seem to care. He is so occupied today
fighting, just as he did in the days of the great Napoleon, that no one
cares a rap how he looks--and surely he does not.
You might think he would be a bit self-conscious regarding his
appearance when he comes in contact with his smarter looking Ally.
Not a bit of it. The poilu just admires Tommy and is proud of him. I do
wish you could see them together. The poilu would hug Tommy and
plant a kiss on each of his cheeks--if he dared. But, needless to say,
that is the last sort of thing Tommy wants. So, faute de mieux the
poilu walks as close to Tommy as he can--when he gets a chance--
and the undemonstrative, sure-of-himself Tommy permits it without a
smile--which is doing well. Still, in his own way Tommy admires back--
it is mutual.
The Englishman may learn to unbend--I don't know. The spirit which
has carried him all over the world, rubbed him against all sorts of
conditions and so many civilizations without changing his character,
and made of him the one race immune to home-sickness, has
persisted for centuries, and may be so bred in the bone, fibre, and
soul of the race as to persist forever. It may have made his legs and
his spine so straight that he can't unbend. He has his own kind of fun,
but it's mostly of the sporting sort. He will, I imagine, hardly contract
the Frenchman's sort, which is so largely on his lips, and in his
mentality, and has given the race the most mobile faces in the world.
I am enclosing a copy of the little map Captain S------sent me. It may
give you an idea of the route the English were moving on during the
battle, and the long forced march they made after the fighting of the
two weeks ending August 30.
I imagine they were all too tired to note how beautiful the country was.
It was lovely weather, and coming down the route from Haute
Maison, by La Chapelle, to the old moated town of Crécy-en-Brie at
sunset, must have been beautiful; and then climbing by Voulangis to
the Forest of Crécy on the way to Fontenay by moonlight even more
lovely, with the panorama of Villiers and the valley of the Morin seen
through the trees of the winding road, with Montbarbin standing,
outlined in white light, on the top of a hill, like a fairy town. Tired as
they were, I do hope there were some among them who could still
look with a dreamer's eyes on these pictures.
Actually the only work I have done of late has been to dig a little in the
garden, preparing for winter. I did not take my geraniums up until last
week. As for the dahlias I wrote you about, they became almost a
scandal in the commune. They grew and grew, like Jack's beanstalk--
prodigiously. I can't think of any other word to express it. They were
eight feet high and full of flowers, which we cut for the Jour des Morts.
I know you won't believe that, but it is true. A few days later there
came a wind-storm, and when it was over, in spite of the heavy poles
I put in to hold them up, they were laid as flat as though the German
cavalry had passed over them. I was heart-broken, but Père only
shrugged his shoulders and remarked: "If one will live on the top of a
hill facing the north what can one expect?" And I had no reply to
make. Fortunately the wind can't blow my panorama away, though at
present I don't often look out at it. I content myself by playing in the
garden on the south side, and, if I go out at all, it is to walk through
the orchards and look over the valley of the Morin, towards the south.
My, but I'm cold--too cold to tell you about. The ends of my fingers
hurt the keys of my machine.