YPRES
At last we entered the historic town of Ypres. Our first impression
was the flash of bursting shells over a distant corner of the town.
At this time Ypres, although showing traces of recent bombardment,
was in the main intact and we were very much interested in the fine
buildings there. The famous Cloth Hall was in good condition, as was
the splendid church; however, some fine stone buildings lay in ruins.
An amusing incident might here be told of the "lack of humor" of the
Britisher: Two battalions were passing each other in the dead of
night, two companies of one battalion carrying with them wooden
crosses to be placed at the heads of the graves of some of the lads
who had fallen the day before and who were to be buried at the back
of the line. The British Regiment could not see the Colonials, and
vice versa; but an enterprising Cockney determined to identify the
regiment. Stealing away from his ranks, he sidled across, like a
good soldier, stooping to get a better skyline, and just at that
moment a series of bursting flares from up the line lit up the square
for a second, but it was long enough for the keen-sighted Tommy to
see who the other battalion was and what they were carrying. In a
half-whispered, half-hushed shout he turned to his comrades
ejaculating, "Well, strike me pink, mates, if those blokes ain't
carrying their own bloomin' tombstones."
As we were passing through the square it was almost dark and we were
startled to hear a yell from the other side, "We should worry!" It
was the Princess Pats. The usual order for comparative silence was
given, and we knew we were close to business again.
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[Illustration: WHAT IS LEFT OF YPRES CATHEDRAL.]
Ypres Cathedral was considered one of the most beautiful in Europe.
It is now a mass of debris with here and there a spire standing.
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Searchlights were playing everywhere, artillery roared, and bursts of
rapid fire told us we had arrived at the place where "the Allemands
are very truculent," as General Smith-Dorrien put it. It was now the
turn of the other companies for fatigue work and they were placed in
the village about half a mile from the front ditch. Our platoon took
up dugouts under the hedge. So cunningly were these made that a
person walking on the other side of the road would hardly see them,
even in the daytime. They had been occupied by French troops and,
however valiant our Allies are, they are far from being as clean as
the British soldiers, and the first thing we did was to go to work to
make these dugouts a little less offensive to our nostrils. These
holes of ours were only two feet six inches high, just enough room to
turn, and when we wished to sleep, the first man was obliged to crawl
in and the rest follow on. It reminds me of the family who lived in
one room and slept in one bed so closely packed in that when one
wanted to turn there was no way of turning unless all the others did.
We made ourselves comfortable as far as circumstances would permit
and composed ourselves to sleep.
Morning came and we had a look round. Fritz was exchanging
compliments with a battery of French seventy-fives and several shells
whistled most uncomfortably through the poplar trees on each side of
the road. I, for one, considered the dugouts the best place to
observe shell fire. The rest of the boys shared my opinion and we
lay till the gunners had retired to _dejeuner_ (breakfast).
Then we emerged like human rats and breakfasted on hot bacon, bread
and coffee. After washing myself thoroughly in a shell crater, I
felt at peace with all the world, even the Germans, and having
nothing much to do, Morgan and I took a stroll to see the country.
In front of us, on the other side of the road was a row of French
graves, and while we were here we kept them in first-class condition.
A field of "volunteer" wheat waved in the breeze and a shell of a
house surrounded by apple and pear trees in full bloom, stood at the
corner. It must have been a lovely place before this conflict of
hell swept over it.