ORDERS FOR FRANCE
Not a week had passed after my retreat, when one morning a runner
from divisional headquarters came into my hut, saluted and passed me
a paper. I was ordered to France. This was good news, for I had now
been in the Army over a year. The battalion had been recruited to full
strength early in 1916, and I had hoped to be in France before the end
of that year. It was now June, 1917.
The following morning I left Witley Camp for London, where I was to
receive further orders and equip myself with bed-roll, trench boots,
etc. At headquarters, in London, I learned that I was to go to No. 2
Canadian Infantry Base Depot, at Etaples. From there, after a while, I
would be sent to the trenches.
Etaples is a quaint little fishing village on the Canche River, about
two miles from its mouth. Before the war it had been a famous resort
for artists; quite a colony had lived in the little town. Apart from
its quaintness and the picturesque costumes of the townsfolk, its chief
interest for artists lay in its beautiful sunsets. It was a glorious
sight to look down the Canche, widening between the jack-pine-crested
sand dunes, as it flowed nearer the sea, to the great golden sun
sliding down towards the merry dancing blue waves of the Straits of
Dover, slowly turning red and redder as it sank among the long pencils
or banks of reddening clouds fringed with gold. When the sun would sink
into the waves the water would be crimsoned for miles, and for a long
time after the great red disc had disappeared the distant sails of the
fishing boats made a very pretty picture as they moved silently over
the waves.
Etaples, besides being quaint, was a very dirty little town. At any
hour of the day one might see a good housewife come to the door
and empty a tub of soapy water that had served its use into the
cobbled-street, where it was mingled with other soapy waters that ran
continuously along the gutters. Every morning piles of garbage appeared
in the streets before the houses.
During the war almost every house bore a sign nailed to the door upon
which was written or printed the word “Estaminet,” which signified that
within one might purchase wine, beer, coffee and other refreshments.
Sometimes accompanying the sign was a smaller one, bearing the English
words, “Eggs and chips.”
All the narrow cobble-stoned streets that ran from every direction into
the village stopped at the large market square. Market days were twice
a week, and then it was difficult to find one’s way through the crowds
who came to buy from the black- or white-hooded country women, whose
market wagons, mostly drawn by donkeys, were laden with everything
imaginable from farm, house, and field. It was a striking scene there
in the old market square before the town hall. Soldiers from almost
all the Allied armies could be seen there, while nurses from the great
military hospitals, about one-half mile from the town along the road
that followed the Canche towards Camiers and the sea, moved quickly,
nearly always two by two, carrying small market-baskets.