OUR FRENCH BILLETS
The fog is white on Glenties moors,
The road is grey from Glenties town,
Oh! lone grey road and ghost-white fog,
And ah! the homely moors of brown.
The farmhouse where we were billeted reminded me strongly of my home
in Donegal with its fields and dusky evenings and its spirit of
brooding quiet. Nothing will persuade me, except perhaps the Censor,
that it is not the home of Marie Claire, it so fits in with the
description in her book.
The farmhouse stands about a hundred yards away from the main road, with
a cart track, slushy and muddy running across the fields to the very
door. The whole aspect of the place is forbidding, it looks squalid and
dilapidated, and smells of decaying vegetable matter, of manure and every
other filth that can find a resting place in the vicinity of an unclean
dwelling-place. But it is not dirty; its home-made bread and beer are
excellent, the new-laid eggs are delightful for breakfast, the milk and
butter, fresh and pure, are dainties that an epicure might rave (p. 031)
about.
We easily became accustomed to the discomforts of the place, to the
midden in the centre of the yard, to the lean long-eared pigs that try
to gobble up everything that comes within their reach, to the hens
that flutter over our beds and shake the dust of ages from the
barn-roof at dawn, to the noisy little children with the dirty faces
and meddling fingers, who poke their hands into our haversacks, to the
farm servants who inspect all our belongings when we are out on
parade, and even now we have become accustomed to the very rats that
scurry through the barn at midnight and gnaw at our equipment and
devour our rations when they get hold of them. One night a rat bit a
man's nose--but the tale is a long one and I will tell it at some other
time.
We came to the farm forty of us in all, at the heel of a cold March
day. We had marched far in full pack with rifle and bayonet. A
additional load had now been heaped on our shoulders in the shape of
the sheepskin jackets, the uniform of the trenches, indispensable to
the firing line, but the last straw on the backs of overburdened
soldiers. The march to the barn billet was a miracle of endurance, (p. 032)
but all lived it through and thanked Heaven heartily when it was over.
That night we slept in the barn, curled up in the straw, our waterproof
sheets under us and our blankets and sheepskins round our bodies. It
was very comfortable, a night, indeed, when one might wish to remain
awake to feel how very glorious the rest of a weary man can be.
Awaking with dawn was another pleasure; the barn was full of the scent
of corn and hay and of the cow-shed beneath. The hens had already
flown to the yard and the dovecot was voluble. Somewhere near a girl
was milking, and we could hear the lilt of her song as she worked; a
cart rumbled off into the distance, a bell was chiming, and the dogs
of many farms were exchanging greetings. The morning was one to be
remembered.
But mixed with all these medley of sounds came one that was almost new;
we heard it for the first time the day previous and it had been in our
ears ever since; it was with us still and will be for many a day to
come. Most of us had never heard the sound before, never heard its
summons, its murmur or its menace. All night long it was in the air,
and sweeping round the barn where we lay, telling all who chanced (p. 033)
to listen that out there, where the searchlights quivered across the
face of heaven, men were fighting and killing one another: soldiers of
many lands, of England, Ireland and Scotland, of Australia, and Germany;
of Canada, South Africa, and New Zealand; Saxon, Gurkha, and Prussian,
Englishman, Irishman, and Scotchman were engaged in deadly combat. The
sound was the sound of guns--our farmhouse was within the range of the
big artillery.
We were billeted a platoon to a barn, a section to a granary, and
despite the presence of rats and, incidentally, pigs, we were happy.
On one farm there were two pigs, intelligent looking animals with
roguish eyes and queer rakish ears. They were terribly lean, almost as
lean as some I have seen in Spain where the swine are as skinny as
Granada beggars. They were very hungry and one ate a man's
food-wallet and all it contained, comprising bread, army biscuits,
canned beef, including can and other sundries. "I wish the animal had
choked itself," my mate said when he discovered his loss. Personally I
had a profound respect for any pig who voluntarily eats army (p. 034)
biscuit.
We got up about six o'clock every morning and proceeded to wash and
shave. All used the one pump, sometimes five or six heads were stuck
under it at the same moment, and an eager hand worked the handle, and
poured a plentiful supply of very cold water on the close cropped
pates. The panes of the farmhouse window made excellent shaving
mirrors and, incidentally, I may mention that rifle-slings generally
serve the purpose of razor strops. Breakfast followed toilet; most of
the men bought _café-au-lait_, at a penny a basin, and home-made
bread, buttered lavishly, at a penny a slice. A similar repast would
cost sixpence in London.
Parade then followed. In England we had cherished the illusion that
life abroad would be an easy business, merely consisting of firing
practices in the trenches, followed by intervals of idleness in
rest-camps, where cigarettes could be obtained for the asking, and
tots of rum would be served out _ad infinitum_. This rum would have a
certain charm of its own, make everybody merry, and banish all
discomforts due to frost and cold for ever. Thus the men thought,
though most of our fellows are teetotallers. We get rum now, few (p. 035)
drink it; we are sated with cigarettes, and smoke them as if in duty
bound; the stolen delight of the last "fag-end" is a dream of the
past. Parades are endless, we have never worked so hard since we
joined the army; the minor offences of the cathedral city are full-grown
crimes under long artillery range; a dirty rifle was only a matter for
words of censure a month ago, a dirty rifle now will cause its owner
to meditate in the guard-room.
Dinner consists of bully beef and biscuits; now and again we fry the
bully beef on the farmhouse stove, and when cash is plentiful cook an
egg with it. The afternoon is generally given up to practising
bayonet-fighting, and our day's work comes to an end about six
o'clock. In the evening we go into the nearest village and discuss
matters of interest in some _café_. Here we meet all manner of men,
Gurkhas fresh from the firing line; bus-drivers, exiles from London;
men of the Army Service Corps; Engineers, kilted Highlanders, men
recovering from wounds, who are almost fit to go to the trenches
again; French soldiers, Canadian soldiers, and all sorts of people,
helpers in some way or another of the Allies in the Great War.
We have to get back to our billets by eight o'clock, to stop out (p. 036)
after that hour is a serious crime here. A soldier out of doors at
midnight in the cathedral city was merely a minor offender. But under
the range of long artillery fire all things are different for the
soldier.
St. Patrick's Day was an event. We had a half holiday, and at night,
with the aid of beer, we made merry as men can on St. Patrick's Day.
We sang Irish songs, told stories, mostly Cockney, and laughed without
restraint as merry men will, for to all St. Patrick was an admirable
excuse for having a good and rousing time.
There is, however, one little backwater of rest and quiet into which
we men of blood and iron drift at all too infrequent intervals--that
is when we become what is known officially as "barn orderly." A barn
orderly is the company unit who looks after the billets of the men out
on parade. In due course my turn arrived, and the battalion marched
away leaving me to the quiet of farmyard.
Having heaped up the straw, our bedding, in one corner of the barn,
swept the concrete floor, rolled the blankets, explained to the
gossipy farm servant that I did not "compree" her gibberish, and (p. 037)
watched her waddle across the midden towards the house, my duties were
ended. I was at liberty until the return of the battalion. It was all
very quiet, little was to be heard save the gnawing of the rats in the
corner of the barn and the muffled booming of guns from "out
there"--"out there" is the oft repeated phrase that denotes the
locality of the firing line.
There was sunlight and shade in the farmyard, the sun lit up the pump
on the top of which a little bird with salmon-pink breast,
white-tipped tail, and crimson head preened its feathers; in the shade
where our barn and the stables form an angle an old lady in snowy
sunbonnet and striped apron was sitting knitting. It was good to be
there lying prone upon the barn straw near the door above the crazy
ladder, writing letters. I had learned to love this place and these
people whom I seem to know so very well from having read René Bazin,
Daudet, Maupassant, Balzac and Marie Claire. High up and far away to
the west a Zeppelin was to be seen travelling in a westerly direction;
the farmer's wife, our landlady, had just rescued a tin of bully beef
from one of her all-devouring pigs; at the barn door lay my recently
cleaned rifle and ordered equipment--how incongruous it all was (p. 038)
with the home of Marie Claire.
Suddenly I was brought back to realities by the recollection that the
battalion was to have a bath that afternoon and towels and soap must
be ready to take out on the next parade.
The next morning was beautifully clear; the sun rising over the firing
line lit up wood and field, river and pond. The hens were noisy in the
farmyard, the horse lines to the rear were full of movement, horses
strained at their tethers eager to break away and get free from the
captivity of the rope; the grooms were busy brushing the animals' legs
and flanks, and a slight dust arose into the air as the work was
carried on.
Over the red-brick houses of the village the church stood high, its
spire clearly defined against the blue of the sky. The door of the
_café_ across the road opened, and the proprietress, a merry-faced,
elderly woman, came across to the farmhouse. She purchased some newly
laid eggs for breakfast, and entered into conversation with our men,
some of whom knew a little of her language. They asked about her son
in the trenches; she had heard from him the day before and he was (p. 039)
quite well and hoped to have a holiday very soon. He would come home
then and spend a fortnight with the family. She looked forward to his
coming, he had been away from her ever since the war started; she had
not seen him for eight whole months. What happiness would be hers when
he returned! She waved her hand to us as she went off, tripping
lightly across the roadway and disappearing into the _café_. She was
going to church presently; it was Holy Week when the Virgin listened
to special intercessors, and the good matron of the _café_ prayed
hourly for the safety of her soldier boy.
At ten o'clock we went to chapel, our pipers playing _The Wearing of
the Green_ as we marched along the crooked village streets, our rifles
on our shoulders and our bandoliers heavy with the ball cartridge
which we carried. The rifle is with us always now, on parade, on
march, in _café_, billet, and church; our "best friend" is our eternal
companion. We carried it into the church and fastened the sling to the
chair as we knelt in prayer before the altar. We occupied the larger
part of the building, only three able-bodied men in civilian clothing
were in attendance.
The youth of the country were out in the trenches, and even here (p. 040)
in the quiet little chapel with its crucifixes, images, and pictures,
there was the suggestion of war in the collection boxes for wounded
soldiers, in the crêpe worn by so many women; one in every ten was in
mourning, and above all in the general air of resignation which showed
on all the faces of the native worshippers.
The whole place breathed war, not in the splendid whirlwind rush of
men mad in the wild enthusiasm of battle, but in silent yearning,
heartfelt sorrow, and great bravery, the bravery of women who remain
at home. Opposite us sat the lady of the _café_, her head low down on
her breast, and the rosary slipping bead by bead through her fingers.
Now and again she would stir slightly, raise her eyes to the Virgin on
the right of the high altar, and move her lips in prayer, then she
would lower her head again and continue her rosary.
As far as I could ascertain singing in church was the sole privilege
of the choir, none of the congregation joined in the hymns. But to-day
the church had a new congregation--the soldiers from England, the men
who sing in the trenches, in the billet, and on the march; the men who
glory in song on the last lap of a long, killing journey in full (p. 041)
marching order. To-day they sang a hymn well-known and loved, the
clarion call of their faith was started by the choir. As one man the
soldiers joined in the singing, and their voices filled the building.
The other members of the congregation looked on for a moment in surprise,
then one after another they started to sing, and in a moment nearly
all in the place were aiding the choir. One was silent, however, the
lady of the _café_; still deep in prayer she scarcely glanced at the
singers, her mind was full of another matter. Only a mother thinking
about a loved son can so wholly lose herself from the world. And as I
looked at her I thought I detected tears in her eyes.
The priest, a pleasant faced young man, who spoke very quickly (I have
never heard anybody speak like him), thanked the soldiers, and through
them their nation for all that was being done to help in the war;
prayers were said for the men at the front, those who were still
alive, as well as those who had given up their lives for their
country's sake, and before leaving we sang the national anthem, our's,
_God Save the King_.
With the pipers playing at our front, and an admiring crowd of (p. 042)
boys following, we took our way back to our billets. On the march a
mate was speaking, one who had been late coming on parade in the
morning.
"Saw the woman of the _café_ in church?" he asked me. "Saw her
crying?"
"I thought she looked unhappy."
"Just after you got off parade the news came," my mate told me. "Her
son had been killed. She is awfully upset about it and no wonder. She
was always talking about her _petit garçon_, and he was to be home on
holidays shortly."
Somewhere "out there" where the guns are incessantly booming, a
nameless grave holds the "_petit garçon_," the _café_ lady's son; next
Sunday another mourner will join with the many in the village church
and pray to the Virgin Mother for the soul of her beloved boy.