AT BRIGADE HEADQUARTERS AND ST. POL (MAY-JUNE 1917)
About this time Freddie Fane (Major Fane, A.P.M.) sent me up to his
old division, which was then fighting in front of Péronne. We arrived
on a lovely afternoon at Divisional H.Q., which were in a pretty
fir-wood, and consisted of beautifully camouflaged little huts. The
guns were booming a few miles off, but everything was very peaceful
there, and the dinner was excellent; but, just as we finished, the
first shell shrieked overhead, and this I was told afterwards went on
all night. Personally I had another large whisky-and-soda, and slept
like a log.
The next morning the General's A.D.C. motored me to a village about
four kilometres off and handed me over to a 2nd Lieutenant, who walked
me off to Brigade H.Q. These were behind an old railway embankment.
Everyone was most kind, but I saw no quiet place to work. Everyone was
rushing about, and the noise of the guns was terrific. The young 2nd
Lieutenant advised me to take the men I wanted to draw and to go to
the other side of the embankment. He said that there was no one there
and that I could work in peace, and he was right. The noise from our
batteries immediately gave me a bad headache, but apparently the Boche
did not respond at all till the afternoon. Then they started, and the
noise was HELL. Whenever there was a big bang I couldn't help giving (p. 026)
a jump. The old Tommy I was drawing said, "It's all right, Guv'ner,
you'll get used to it very soon." _I_ didn't think so, but to make
conversation I said: "How long is it since you were home?"
"Twenty-two months," said he.
"Twenty-two months!" said I.
"Yes," said he, "but one can't complain. That bloke over there hasn't
been home for twenty-eight."
What a life! Twenty-four hours of it was enough for me at a time.
Before evening came my head felt as if it were filled with pebbles
which were rattling about inside it. After lunch I sat with the
Brigadier for a time and watched the men coming out from the trenches.
Some sick; some with trench feet; some on stretchers; some walking;
worn, sad and dirty--all stumbling along in the glare. The General
spoke to each as they passed. I noticed that their faces had no change
of expression. Their eyes were wide open, the pupils very small, and
their mouths always sagged a bit. They seemed like men in a dream,
hardly realising where they were or what they were doing. They showed
no sign of pleasure at the idea of leaving Hell for a bit. It was as
if they had gone through so much that nothing mattered. I was glad
when I was back at Divisional H.Q. that evening. We had difficulty on
one part of the road, as a "Sausage" had been brought down across it.
Shortly afterwards I went to live at St. Pol, a dirty little town, but
full of character. The hotel was filthy and the food impossible. We
ate tinned tongue and bully-beef for the most part. Here I met
Laboreur, a Frenchman, who was acting as interpreter--a very good
artist. I think his etchings are as good as any line work the war has
produced. A most amusing man. We had many happy dinners together at (p. 027)
a little restaurant, where the old lady used to give us her bedroom as
a private sitting-room dining-room. It was a bit stuffy, but the food
was eatable.
[Illustration: VIII. _Man in the Glare. Two miles from the Hindenburg Line._]
One fine morning I got a message, "Would I ring up the P.S. of the
C.-in-C. at once?" so I went to the Camp Commandant's office. No one
was there except a corporal, so I asked him to get through to Sir
Philip Sassoon, and said that I would wait outside till he did so.
Presently he called me in, and Sassoon said I was to paint the Chief,
and would I come to lunch the next day at Advanced H.Q., G.H.Q.? after
which we talked and laughed a bit. When I hung up the receiver, I
turned round, and there was a large A.S.C. Colonel glaring at me. I
was so taken aback, as I had not heard him come in, that I didn't even
salute him. He roared at me, "Are you an S.S.O.?" (Senior Supply
Officer). "No," said I, "I'm a painter!" I never saw a man in such a
fury in my life. I thought he was going to hit me. However, I made him
understand in the end that I really was speaking the truth and in no
way wanted to be cheeky.
I had lunch at Advanced G.H.Q. the next day. The C.-in-C. was very
kind, and brought me into his room afterwards, and asked me if
everything was going all right with me. I told him I had a few
troubles and was not very popular with certain people. He said: "If
you get any more letters that annoy you, send them to me and I'll
answer them." I went back to St. Pol with my head in the air. A great
weight seemed to have been lifted off me.
Sir Douglas was a strong man, a true Northerner, well inside
himself--no pose. It seemed it would be impossible to upset him,
impossible to make him show any strong feeling, and yet one felt he (p. 028)
understood, knew all, and felt for all his men, and that he truly
loved them; and I knew they loved him. Never once, all the time I was
in France, did I hear a "Tommy" say one word against "'Aig." Whenever
it became my honour to be allowed to visit him, I always left feeling
happier--feeling more sure that the fighting men being killed were not
dying for nothing. One felt he knew, and would never allow them to
suffer and die except for final victory.
When I started painting him he said, "Why waste your time painting me?
Go and paint the men. They're the fellows who are saving the world,
and they're getting killed every day."
The second time I was there, just after lunch, the Chief had gone to
his room, and several Generals, Colonel Fletcher, Sassoon and myself
were standing in the hall, when suddenly a most violent explosion went
off, all the windows came tumbling in, and there was great excitement,
as they thought the Boche had spotted the Chiefs whereabouts. The
explosions went on, and out came the Chief. He walked straight up to
me, laid his hand on my shoulder and said: "That's the worst of having
a fellow like you here, Major. I thought the Huns would spot it," and,
having had his joke, went back to his work. He was a great man. It
turned out to be a munition dump which had exploded near by, and the
noise was deafening for about eight hours.
This was the time of the great fight round the chemical works at
Roeux, and I was drawing the men as they came out for rest. They
were mostly in a bad state, but some were quite calm. One, I remember,
was quite happy. He had ten days' leave and was going back to some
village near Manchester to be married. He showed me her photograph, (p. 029)
a pretty girl. Perhaps he was killed afterwards.
[Illustration: IX. _Air-Marshal Sir H. M. Trenchard, Bart., K.C.B.,
etc._]
The view from Mont St. Eloy was fine, with the guns belching out flame
on the plain in the midday sun.
One day I was painting the C.-in-C., and at lunch-time the news came
in that General Trenchard was there. The C.-in-C. said: "Orpen must
see 'Boom,' he's great," so I was taken off and we met him in the
garden. A huge man with a little head and a great personality, proud
of one thing only, that is, that he is a descendant of Jack Sheppard.
With him, to my delight, was Maurice Baring (his A.D.C.). The General
was told that I wanted to see the aerodromes, and Maurice shyly said:
"May I take Orpen round, sir? I know him." Gee! How happy I was when
the General said: "All right, you see to it, Baring."
I painted "Boom" a few days later in a beautiful château with the most
wonderful old stables. They have all been burnt down since. "Boom"
worked hard all the time I painted. A few days later Baring told me
that he had spoken to "Boom" and told him how much I admired his head.
"Boom" replied: "Damned if he showed it in his painting." And yet he
was worshipped by all the flying boys.
About this time I had sent from England Maurice Baring's "In Memoriam"
to Lord Lucas. It made a tremendous impression on me then, and still
does. I think it is one of the greatest poems ever written, and by far
the greatest work of art the war has produced.
Baring took me out for a great day round the aerodromes. We visited
several and lunched with a Wing-Commander, Colonel Freeman, who was
most kind, a great lover of books, a lot of which Maurice used to
supply him with. After this, we visited a squadron where there was to (p. 030)
be a test fight between a German Albatross, which had been captured
intact, and one of our machines. The fight was a failure, however, as
just after they got up something went wrong with the radiator of the
Albatross; but later Captain Little did some wonderful stunts on a
triplane. I also saw Robert Gregory there, but had no chance to speak
to him. But I learnt that he was doing very well and was most popular
in the squadron, and that he had painted some fine scenery for their
theatre.
St. Pol possessed an open-air swimming-bath, a strange thing for St.
Pol, but there it was--a fine large swimming-bath, full of warm water
which came from some chemical works. I used to swim there every
evening when I got back from work. The one thing that struck me at
that time was the difference between nudity and uniform--while bathing
one could look at and study all these fine lads, and I would think of
one, "Gee! there's an aristocrat. What a figure! What refinement!" and
of another, "What a badly-bred, vulgar, common brute!" Later they
would both come out of their bathing-boxes, and the "brute" would be a
smartly dressed officer carrying himself with ease and distinction,
and the "aristocrat" would be an untidy, uncouth "Tommy" shambling
along. Truly on sight one should never judge a man with his clothes
on.
[Illustration: X. _Howitzer in Action._]