BACK IN FRANCE (JULY-SEPTEMBER 1918)
Early in July I returned to France. My brother had now left me, and
was doing regular Army work, and I brought Dudley Forsyth over with
me. We stayed in Boulogne a few days till our billets were fixed at
St. Valery, and during this time I painted a portrait at "Bumpherie"
of Lee, who had then become the boss of Intelligence (F) Section and
was Colonel A. N. Lee, D.S.O. Things had changed. "The stream of
goodwill, it would turn a mill" at "Bumpherie." "Dear old
Orps"--nothing was too good for him. "Do you think you could put in a
word for me to ----?" "If ---- speaks of the matter to you, just
mention my name." Oh yes, the Colonel was really my friend now, and
all the underlings appealed to me--and a good friend he has been ever
since. Dear old Tuppenny Lee; I hope he'll forgive me writing all
this, but he was a bit tough on me that first year, and he knows it
jolly well, but he has more than made up for it since by a long chalk.
There was only one wrong note in the harmony at "Bumpherie" then, and
that was a "Colonel" with a large head and weak legs. He never forgave
me--he wasn't that sort of fellow.
St. Valery-sur-Somme is a very pleasant little town at the mouth of
the river, and the Allied Press held a nice château with a lovely
garden. When things were quiet they used to have musical evenings,
when Captain Douglas would sing most charmingly, and Captain Holland (p. 076)
would play the fool well. Poor Theo! The Boche were at it hard now,
and they were bombing all round every night. One night my window and
wooden shutters were blown in--four bombs came down quite close. The
roar of their falling was terrific. I remember well, after the second
had burst, finding myself trying to jamb my head under my bed, but
there wasn't room. I was scared stiff.
Soon after this great things happened. The whole world changed--the
air became more exhilarating, birds seemed to sing happier songs, and
men walked with a lighter step. One great thing happened quickly after
another. Ludendorff's black day arrived, and the Boche were driven off
the heights of Villers-Bretonneux, and they lost sight of Amiens
Cathedral. One day news came that the French had attacked all along
the line from Château Thierry to Soissons, and had taken four thousand
prisoners! It was all wonderful! Any day on the roads then one passed
thousands of field-grey prisoners--long lines of weary, beaten men.
They had none of the arrogance of the early prisoners, who were all
sure Germany would win, and showed their thoughts clearly. No, these
men were beaten and knew it, and they had not the spirit left even to
try and hide their feelings.
That great French song, "La Madelon de la Victoire," connecting the
names of Foch and Clemenceau, was sung with joy, and yet, when sung,
tears were never far away--tears of thankfulness! Many have I seen
pour down the cheeks of great, strong, brave men at the sound of that
song and the tramp of the sky-blue poilus coming along in the glare
and dust.
Forsyth had a song which became very popular about this time. The
chorus ran:--
"Mary Ann is after me, (p. 077)
Full of love she seems to be;
My mother says, it's clear to see
She wants me for her young man.
Father says, 'If that be true,
John, my boy, be thankful, do;
There's one bigger bloody fool in the world than you--
That's Mary Ann.'"
[Illustration: XXXIII. _Marshal Foch, O.M._]
In August I went down South to paint Marshal Foch at Bon Bon. General
Sir John Du Cane kindly put me up at the British Mission, which was
quite close to the Marshal's château, and I had a most interesting
week. The morning after I arrived, General Grant brought me over to
the Marshal's H.Q., a nice old place. We were shown into a
waiting-room, and in a couple of minutes General Weygand (Chief of
Staff) came in, a quiet, gentle, good-looking little man. It was
impossible to imagine him carrying the weight of responsibility he had
at that time. He was perfectly calm, and most courteous, and after
talking to General Grant for a few minutes, brought us in to the
Marshal. And there was the great little man, deep in the study of his
maps, very calm, very quiet. He would certainly sit. How long did I
want him for? An hour and a half each day, for four or five days?
Certainly. When did I wish to start? The next day? Certainly. He would
sit from 7 a.m. to 8.30 a.m. for as many mornings as I wished. Might
he smoke while he sat? Yes! Bon! Would I go and look out what room
would suit me to work in? Any room I liked except the one I was in
with the maps. I fixed up a little library to work in--a long, narrow,
dark little place, but with a good light by the window. I got up very
early the next morning and arrived there about 6.15 a.m., and as
nobody seemed to be about, I walked in, and as the only way I knew (p. 078)
how to get to the library was through the room with the maps, I opened
its door, and there he was, deep in study. He got up, shook hands, and
said he would be with me at 7 a.m. In he came at 7 a.m., very quietly,
and sat like a lamb, except that his pipe upset him. It seemed that
some of his English friends thought he was smoking too many cigars,
and they had given him a pipe and tobacco, and asked him to try and
smoke it instead. But up to that date the Marshal was not a star at
pipe-smoking. He could light it all right, but after about two minutes
it would begin to make strange gurgling noises, which grew louder and
louder, till it went out. The next day I brought some feathers and
cotton wool, and the Marshal looked on me as a sort of hero, because
each time we rested I used to clean out the pipe and dry it.
During all the time he was sitting great battles were going on and the
Germans were being driven back. News was brought to him about every
ten minutes. If it was good, he would say "Bon!" If it was bad, he
just made a strange noise by forcing air out through his lips. During
that time the Americans were having their first big "do," and I
remember he was very upset at the Boche getting out of the St. Mihiel
pocket in the way they did, without being caught.
I remember one morning (the Marshal did not know I understood any
French at all) a General came in and sat with him, and the Marshal,
very quietly, gave him times, dates, places where battles would be
fought up to the end of December 1918, naming the French, British and
American Divisions, and so forth, which would be used in each. When I
got back to the Mission, I wrote down some dates and places I
remembered, but told no one, and, as far as I could judge, everything
went exactly as he said it would till about the middle of October, (p. 079)
when the Boche really got on the run. Then things went quicker than he
expected.
[Illustration: XXXIV. _A German 'Plane Passing St. Denis._]
It seemed amazing, the calmness of that old château at Bon Bon, yet
wires from that old country house were conveying messages of blood and
hell to millions of men. What must the little man have felt? The
responsibility of it all--hidden in the brain behind those kind,
thoughtful eyes. Apparently, his only worry was "Ma pipe." His face
would wrinkle up in anger over that. That, and if anyone was late for
a meal. Otherwise he appeared to me to be the most mentally calm and
complete thing I had ever come across. I would have liked to have
painted him standing by his great maps, thinking, thinking for hours
and hours. Yes, the three memories I brought away from Bon Bon were
maps, calmness, and a certainty that the Allies would be victorious.
While I was there General Grant brought me over to Vaux. What a hall!
Surely the most beautiful thing of a private nature in existence, with
its blue dome and black eagle at the top.
I left one evening and stopped in Paris that night. There were two air
raids, and in the morning I heard Big Bertha for the first time, and
when we left about 10 o'clock, just past St. Denis, a Boche 'plane
came over to see where the shells were falling.
There was a wonderful service in the Cathedral at Amiens one morning,
the first since the bombardment, a thanksgiving for the deliverance of
the city from shell-fire. The Boche had been driven further back and
the old city was out of shell-range and at peace. It was a lovely
morning with a strong breeze, a little sixteenth-century Virgin had
been rescued from Albert Cathedral, and it was set up on a pedestal
in the middle of the chancel. There was a guard of honour of (p. 080)
Australians; birds were flying about above and singing; they had made
the interior of the Cathedral their own. Bits of glass kept falling
down, and the wind made strange whistling noises through the smashed
and battered windows. It was all very impressive. General Rawlinson
and his staff came over from Bertangles, a few natives of Amiens came
into the town for it, otherwise the whole congregation was British. It
was strange! Australian bugles blaring away inside those walls!
I painted Maude and Colonel du Tyl, the brave defenders of the
interior of the city during the bombardment, in Maude's cellar in the
"Hôtel de Ville." General Rogers (then Colonel Rogers) used to come in
constantly--a charming man, very calm, with a great sense of humour,
and as brave as a lion. His little brother was working under Maude. At
that time his little brother was very silent--one could not get a word
out of him. Maude used to call him "my little ray of sunshine." Now he
is as cheerful a "Bean" as you could wish to find.
The day the Boche were driven out of Albert, General Rogers went there
and brought back the story of the cat. When the Tommies got into the
town, even through the din, they heard the wailing of a cat in agony,
and they found her crucified on a door, so they naturally went to take
her down, but as they were pulling the first nail out, it exploded a
bomb and many were killed. It was a dirty trick! Yet they who did it
may be sitting beside me now in the little Parisian café in which I
write--it is full of Boche. It's a strange thought, almost beyond
understanding.
The light in Maude's cellar was most interesting to paint, and I'm
afraid I spent far too long at it, but Maude was a good companion.
Things were changing now daily. Instead of feeling the sea just (p. 081)
behind one's back, so to speak, each day, it was getting further
and further away, and there were fresh fields to explore. I was due
officially to leave for Italy, but I couldn't go. Why leave France
when wonder after wonder was happening? Hardly a day passed that some
glorious news did not come in. No, I couldn't tear myself away from
Picardy and the North. I felt that I would feel more out of it in
Italy than in London, and now I know I was right. I did not do much in
the way of my own work, but I saw and felt things I would never have
got down South--things which were felt so much that their impression
increases rather than diminishes. It is difficult at times to realise
what is happening. Somehow other things keep one from realisation at
the moment, but afterwards these other things diminish in importance
and the real impression becomes more clearly defined.
[Illustration: XXXV. _British and French A.P.M.'s Amiens._]
I painted General Lord Rawlinson at Bertangles, which was then his
headquarters, a charming man with a face full of character. He paints
himself, and was good enough to take great interest in the sketch I
painted of him. He had a mirror put up so that he could see what I was
doing. This wasn't altogether a help to me, because, at times, perhaps
when I was painting the half-light on his nose, he would say: "What
colours did you mix for that?" By the time I had tried to think out
what colours I had mixed--most probably not having the slightest
idea--I would have forgotten what part of the head I was painting and
what brush I was using. But Bertangles in August was lovely, and the
lunches in the tent, even though full of wasps, were excellent.
Certainly H.Q. 4th Army was well run.
A little later the H.Q. 4th Army moved to the devastated country close
to Villers Carbonelle on the Péronne side. It was a wonderful bit of (p. 082)
camouflage work. This great H.Q. just looked like an undulating bit of
country even when right up beside it. I remember standing in the
middle of it one frosty moonlight night, and it was impossible to
believe that there were hundreds of human beings all around me there
in the middle of that abomination of desolation.
I also painted Brigadier-General Dame Vaughan Williams of the
Q.M.W.A.A.C.'s at her H.Q., St. Valery--a strong-minded, gentle,
earnest worker, much loved by those under her. She held a château in a
large garden and held it well. The mess was excellent.
Some civilians had now come back to Amiens, and it was possible to get
a room in the "Hôtel de la Paix," so I left St. Valery and came to
live there. This hotel escaped better than any other house in Amiens
from the shells and bombs. The glass was, of course, broken, and
slates knocked off, but that was all, except where little bits had
been knocked out of the walls by shrapnel. It was wonderful to be
there and watch the town coming to life again week by week.
After a time the Allied Press came and patched up their château, or
parts of it. Some of the correspondents slept there and some got
billets outside. Shops began to open. The _Daily Mail_ came once more,
and gradually the streets filled with people, these streets, the
pavements of which were now more hostile than ever. Even a few of the
girls came and settled there--"early birds."
That sweet, natural woman, Sister Rose, had remained in Amiens all
through the bombardment, and when the people began returning, she was
asked one day: "Are not you pleased, Sister Rose, to have the people
round you again?" To which she replied: "Yes, of course I am in some
ways, but I loved the bombardment. I felt the whole city was mine, (p. 083)
each street became very intimate, and I could walk through them and
pray out loud to my God in peace. But now! why, if I prayed to my God
in the streets of Amiens they would think me a damned lunatic!" I can
understand her very human feeling at that time--people who had run
away from the city in its agony returned when its tribulation was
over, and claimed it as their own again when the calm of evening had
come; while she, Sister Rose, had borne the burden and heat of the
day. But this feeling soon left her, and she worked whole-heartedly
once more to succour the poor in distress in the city she loved so
well.
[Illustration: XXXVI. _General Lord Rawlinson, Bart., G.C.B., etc._]