THE SOMME IN SUMMER-TIME (AUGUST 1917)
Never shall I forget my first sight of the Somme in summer-time. I had
left it mud, nothing but water, shell-holes and mud--the most gloomy,
dreary abomination of desolation the mind could imagine; and now, in
the summer of 1917, no words could express the beauty of it. The
dreary, dismal mud was baked white and pure--dazzling white. White
daisies, red poppies and a blue flower, great masses of them,
stretched for miles and miles. The sky a pure dark blue, and the whole
air, up to a height of about forty feet, thick with white butterflies:
your clothes were covered with butterflies. It was like an enchanted
land; but in the place of fairies there were thousands of little white
crosses, marked "Unknown British Soldier," for the most part. (Later,
all these bodies were taken up and nearly all were identified and
re-buried in Army cemeteries.) Through the masses of white
butterflies, blue dragon-flies darted about; high up the larks sang;
higher still the aeroplanes droned. Everything shimmered in the heat.
Clothes, guns, all that had been left in confusion when the war passed
on, had now been baked by the sun into one wonderful combination of
colour--white, pale grey and pale gold. The only dark colours were the
deep red bronze of the "wire" and one black cat which lived in a
shelter in what once was the main street of Thiepval. It was strange,
this black cat living there all alone. No humans, or those of her own (p. 037)
species, lived within miles of her. It took me days to make friends
and get her to come to me; and when at last I succeeded, the
friendship did not last long. No matter where I worked round that
district, the black cat of Thiepval would find me, and would approach
silently, and would suddenly jump on my knees and dig all her long
nails deeply into my flesh, with affection. I stood it for a little
time, and then gave her a good smack, after which I never saw my
little black friend again.
[Illustration: XIII. _German Prisoners._]
Thiepval Château, one of the largest in the north of France, was
practically flattened. What little mound was left was covered with
flowers. Some bricks had been collected from it and marked the grave
of "An Unknown British Soldier." Even Albert, that deadly
uninteresting little town, looked almost beautiful and cheerful.
Flowers grew by the sides of the streets; roses were abundant in what
were once back-gardens; a hut was up at the corner by the Cathedral
and _Daily Mails_ were sold there every evening at four o'clock, and
the golden leaning Lady holding her Baby, looking down towards the
street, gleamed in the sun on top of the Cathedral tower.
A family had come back from Corbie and re-started their restaurant--a
father and three charming girls. They patched up the little house by
the station and did a roaring trade, and some few other families came
back. Once more a skirt could be seen, even a few silk stockings
occasionally tripping about.
Péronne was now like a polished skeleton--very clean, but very
brittle: a little breeze, and whole houses would tumble to bits. I
started painting, one day, a little picture from the hall of the
College for Young Ladies. When I went the next day I found my point of
view had been raised several feet: the top walls had come down. But (p. 038)
here again they had patched up a great big house as a club. It was
airy, not intentionally so, but on a hot day it was ideal, with its
view down over the Somme. Bully-beef pie, cheese and beer--if one
could only have had French coffee instead of that terrible black
mixture imported from England, things would have been more perfectly
complete.
About August, a burial party worked round Thiepval. Lieutenant Clark
was in charge of it, a sturdy little Scot. During the month or so they
worked there, they dug up, identified and re-buried thousands of
bodies. Some could not be identified, and what was found on these in
the way of money, knives, etc., was considered fair spoil for the
burial party.
Often, coming down Thiepval Hill in the evening, everything golden in
the sunlight, one would come across a little group of men, sitting by
the side of the battered Hill Road, counting out and dividing the
spoils of the day. It was a sordid sight, but for a non-combatant job,
to be a member of a burial party was certainly not a pleasant one, and
I do not think anyone could grudge them whatever pennies they made,
and most of them would have to go back in the trenches when their
burial party disbanded.
Down in the Valley of the Ancre, just beside the Thiepval Hill Road,
there was a great colony of Indians. They were all Catholics, and were
headed by an old padre who had worked in India for forty-five years--a
fine old fellow. He held wonderful services each Sunday afternoon on
the side of the Hill in the open air; he had an altar put up with
wonderful coloured draperies behind it, which hung from a structure
about thirty feet high. In the mornings, it was a very beautiful (p. 039)
sight to see these nut-brown men washing themselves and their bronze
vessels among the reeds in the Ancre; one could hardly believe one was
in France. And where was one? Surely in a place and seeing a life that
never existed before, and never will again. The rapidity with which
these Indians (they were a cleaning-up party) changed the whole face
of Thiepval and that part of the Ancre Valley was incredible.
[Illustration: XIV. _View from the Old English Trenches. Looking
towards La Boisselle._]
When working in the Valley of the Ancre region, coming home in the
evening, we would bring the car down to the water near Aveluy. It is a
long stretch of water, and the Tommies had put up a springboard. It
was a joy to take off one's clothes in the car and jump into the cool
water and watch all these wonderful young men stripping, diving,
swimming, drying and dressing in the evening sun, all full of life and
health. At one period, Joffroy, a very good French artist, who had
lost a leg, right up to his trunk, early in the War, used to swim
there with me. He had been a great athlete, and had a very strong
arm-stroke, and possessed one of the most beautifully-developed bodies
I have ever seen. One evening, after bathing, as we were driving back
to Amiens in the car, he stretched out his arms and said, "Orpen, I
feel like a young Greek god!" And, after a pause, added: "But only a
fragment, you know, only a fragment." He was a great man, and could
clamber over trenches with his wooden stump in a marvellous way.
I remember that summer a strange thing happened. One day I found, and
started painting, the remains of a Britisher and a Boche--just skulls,
bones, garments--up by the trenches at Thiepval. I was all alone. My
faithful Howlett was about half a mile away with the car. When I had
been working about a couple of hours I felt strange. I cannot say (p. 040)
even now what I felt. Afraid? Of what? The sun shone fiercely. There
was not a breath of air. Perhaps it was that--a touch of the sun. So I
stopped painting and went and sat on the trunk of a blown-up tree
close by, when suddenly I was thrown on the back of my head on the
ground. My heavy easel was upset, and one of the skulls went through
the canvas. I got up and thought a lot, but came to the conclusion I
had better just go on working, which I did, and nothing further
strange happened. That night I happened to meet Joffroy, and told him
about these skulls, and how peculiar one was, as it had a division in
the frontal bone (the Britisher's). He said he would like to go and
make a study of it; so I brought him out the next morning to the
place, I myself working that day in Thiepval Wood, about half a mile
further up the hill. I left him, saying I would come back and bring
him lunch from the car, as it was difficult for him to get about. When
I did get back I found him lying down, not very near the place, saying
he felt very ill and he thought it was the smell "from those remains."
He had done no work, and refused even to try to eat till we got a long
way away from the skulls. I explained to him that there was no smell,
and he said, "But didn't you see one has an eye still?" But I knew
that all four eyes had withered away months before. There must have
been something strange about the place.
Most of these summer months John Masefield was working on the Somme
battlefields. He preferred to work out there on the spot. He would get
a lift out from Amiens in the morning on a motor or lorry, work all
day by himself at some spot like La Boisselle, and walk back to the
bridge at Albert and look out for a lift back to Amiens. If we worked
out in this direction, on the way home our eye was always kept on the (p. 041)
look-out for him; but really it never appeared to matter to him if he
got back or not. I don't believe he minded where he was as long as he
could ponder over things all alone.
[Illustration: XV. _Adam and Eve at Péronne._]
The small towns and villages in this part of the country, behind the
old fighting line of 1916, were, for the most part, dirty and usually
uninteresting; but once clear of them the plains of Picardy had much
charm and beauty, great, undulating, rolling plains, cut into large
chequers made by the different crops. When a hill became too steep to
work on, it was cut into terraces, like one sees in many of the
vineyards in the South; these often have great decorative charm. A
fair country--I remember Joffroy sometimes used the word "graceful"
regarding different views in those parts, and the word gives the
impression well.
There is a beautiful valley on the left, as one goes from Amiens to
Albert: one looked down into it from the road, a patchwork of greens,
browns, greys and yellows. I remember John Masefield said one day it
looked to him like a post-impressionist table-cloth; later, white
zigzagging lines were cut all through it--trenches.
In the spring of 1917 it was strange motoring out from Amiens to
Albert. Just beyond this valley everything changed. Suddenly one felt
oneself in another world. Before this point one drove through ordinary
natural country, with women and children and men working in the
fields; cows, pigs, hens and all the usual farm belongings. Then,
before one could say "Jack Robinson!" not another civilian, not
another crop, nothing but a vast waste of land; no life, except Army
life; nothing but devastation, desolation and khaki.