THE PAINTER AND DECORATOR--FRAGMENTS
FORMING--NIGHT ON THE MUD PRAIRIE
Had a fairly peaceful night. I say fairly because when one has to get up
three or four times to see whether the accumulated rattle of rifle fire
is going to lead to a battle, or turn out only to be merely "wind up,"
it rather disturbs one's rest. You see, had an attack of some sort come
on, yours truly would have had to run about a mile and a half to some
central spot to overlook the machine-gun department. I used to think
that to be actually with one gun was the best idea, but I subsequently
found that this plan hampered me considerably from getting to my others;
the reason being that, once established in one spot during an open
trench attack, it is practically impossible to get to another part
whilst the action is on.
At the Douve, however, I discovered a way of getting round this which I
will describe later.
On this first night, not being very familiar with the neighbourhood, I
found it difficult to ignore the weird noises which floated in through
the sack-covered hole. There is something very eerie and strange about
echoing rifle shots in the silence of the night. Once I got up and
walked out into the courtyard of the farm, and passing through it came
out on to the end of the road. All as still as still could be, except
the distant intermittent cracking of the rifles coming from away across
the plain, beyond the long straight row of lofty poplar trees which
marked the road. A silence of some length might supervene, in which one
would only hear the gentle rustling of the leaves; then suddenly, far
away on the right, a faint surging roar can be heard, and then louder
and louder. "Wind up over there." Then, gradually, silence would assert
itself once more and leave you with nothing but the rustling leaves and
the crack of the sniper's rifle on the Messines ridge.
My first morning at this farm was, by special request, to be spent in
decorating the walls.
There wasn't much for anyone to do in the day time, as nobody could go
out. The same complaint as the other place in St. Yvon: "We mustn't look
as if anyone lives in the farm." Drawing, therefore, was a great aid to
me in passing the day. Whilst at breakfast I made a casual examination
of the room where we had our meals. I was not the first to draw on the
walls of that room. Some one in a previous battalion had already put
three or four sketches on various parts of the fire-place. Several large
spaces remained all round the room, however; but I noticed that the
surface was very poor compared with the wall round the fire-place.
The main surface was a rough sort of thing, and, on regarding it
closely, it looked as if it was made of frozen porridge, being slightly
rough, and of a grey-brown colour. I didn't know what on earth I could
use to draw on this surface, but after breakfast I started to scheme out
something. I went into the back room, which we were now using as a
kitchen, and finding some charcoal I tried that. It was quite
useless--wouldn't make a mark on the wall at all. Why, I don't know; but
the charcoal just glided about and merely seemed to make dents and
scratches on the "frozen porridge." I then tried to make up a mixture.
It occurred to me that possibly soot might be made into a sort of ink,
and used with a paint brush. I tried this, but drew a blank again. I was
bordering on despair, when my servant said he thought he had put a
bottle of Indian ink in my pack when we left to come into the trenches
this time. He had a look, and found that his conjecture was right; he
had got a bottle of Indian ink and a few brushes, as he thought I might
want to draw something, so had equipped the pack accordingly.
I now started my fresco act on the walls of the Douve farm.
I spent most of the day on the job, and discovered how some startling
effects could be produced.
Materials were: A bottle of Indian ink, a couple of brushes, about a
hundredweight of useless charcoal, and a G.S. blue and red pencil.
Amongst the rough sketches that I did that day were the original
drawings for two subsequent "Fragments" of mine.
One was the rough idea for "They've evidently seen me," and the other
was "My dream for years to come." The idea for "They've evidently seen
me" came whilst carrying back that table to St. Yvon, as I mentioned in
a previous chapter, but the scenario for the idea was not provided for
until I went to this farm some time later. In intervals of working at
the walls I rambled about the farm building, and went up into a loft
over a barn at the end of the farm nearest the trenches. I looked out
through a hole in the tiles just in time to hear a shell come over from
away back amongst the Germans somewhere, and land about five hundred
yards to the left. The sentence, "They've evidently seen me," came
flashing across my mind again, and I now saw the correct setting in my
mind: _i.e._, the enthusiastic observer looking out of the top of a
narrow chimney, whilst a remarkably well-aimed shell leads "him of the
binoculars" to suppose that they _have_ seen him.
I came downstairs and made a pencil sketch of my idea, and before I left
the trenches that time I had done a wash drawing and sent it to England.
This was my second "Fragment."
The other sketch, "My dream for years to come," was drawn on one wall
of a small apple or potato room, opening off our big room, and the
drawing occupied the whole wall.
[Illustration: porters]
I knocked off drawing about four o'clock, and did a little of the
alternative occupation, that of looking out through the cracked windows
on to the mutilated courtyard in front. It was getting darker now, and
nearing the time when I had to put on all my tackle, and gird myself up
for my round of the trenches. As soon as it was nearly dark I started
out. The other officers generally left a bit later, but as I had such a
long way to go, and as I wanted to examine the country while there was
yet a little light, I started at dusk. Not yet knowing exactly how much
the enemy could see on the open mud flat, I determined to go along by
the river bank, and by keeping among the trees I hoped to escape
observation. I made for the Douve, and soon got along as far as the row
of farms. I explored all these, and a shocking sight they were. All
charred and ruined, and the skeleton remains slowly decomposing away
into the unwholesome ground about them. I went inside several of the
dismantled rooms. Nearly all contained old and battered bits of
soldiers' equipment, empty tins, and remnants of Belgian property. Sad
relics of former billeting: a living reminder of the rough times that
had preceded our arrival in this locality. I passed on to another farm,
and entered the yard near the river. It was nearly full of black wooden
crosses, roughly made and painted over with tar. All that was left to
mark the graves of those who had died to get our trenches where they
were--at the bottom of the Messines ridge. A bleak and sombre winter's
night, that courtyard of the ruined farm, the rows of crosses--I often
think of it all now.
As the darkness came on I proceeded towards the trenches, and when it
had become sufficiently dark I entered the old farm by the reserve
trench and crossed the yard to enter the field which led to the first of
our trenches. At St. Yvon it was pretty airy work, going the rounds at
night, but this was a jolly sight more so. The country was far more
open, and although the Boches couldn't see us, yet they kept up an
incessant sniping demonstration. Picking up my sergeant at Number 1
trench, he and I started on our tour.
We made a long and exhaustive examination that night, both of the
existing machine-gun emplacements and of the entire ground, with a view
to changing our positions. It was a long time before I finally left the
trenches and started off across the desolate expanse to the Douve farm,
and I was dead beat when I arrived there. On getting into the big room I
found the Colonel, who had just come in. "Where's that right-hand gun of
yours, Bairnsfather?" he asked. "Down on the right of Number 2 trench,
sir," I answered; "just by the two willows near the sap which runs out
towards Number 1." "It's not much of a place for it," he said; "where we
ought to have it is to the right of the sap, so that it enfilades the
whole front of that trench." "When do you want it moved, sir?" I asked.
"Well, it ought to be done at once; it's no good where it is."
That fixed it. I knew what he wanted; so I started out again, back over
the mile and a half to alter the gun. It was a weary job; but I would
have gone on going back and altering the whole lot for our Colonel, who
was the best line in commanding officers I ever struck. Every one had
the most perfect confidence in him. He was the most shell, bullet, and
bomb defying person I have ever seen. When I got back for the second
time that night I was quite ready to roll up in the straw, and be lulled
off to sleep by the cracking rifle fire outside.