I
The Somme Front, January 1915.
There is an avenue of noble beeches leading to the Chateau, and in the
shadow of each glimmers the pale oblong of an ambulance. We have to keep
them thus concealed, for only yesterday morning a Taube flew over. The
beggars are rather partial to Red Cross cars. One of our chaps, taking
in a load of wounded, was chased and pelted the other day.
The Chateau seems all spires and towers, the glorified dream of a
Parisian pastrycook. On its terrace figures in khaki are lounging. They
are the volunteers, the owner-drivers of the Corps, many of them men of
wealth and title. Curious to see one who owns all the coal in two
counties proudly signing for his _sou_ a day; or another, who lives in a
Fifth Avenue palace, contentedly sleeping on the straw-strewn floor of a
hovel.
Here is a rhyme I have made of such an one: