UP COUNTRY
_So be there 'twixt your kingdoms such a spousal,
That never may ill office, or fell jealousy,
* * * * *
Thrust in between the paction of these kingdoms,
To make divorce of their incorporate league:
That English may as French, French Englishmen,
Receive each other!_
Patience, still a little patience! The stage is not yet set. The
actors have not yet reached the theatre. Very soon now shall you see
unfolded the opening scenes of the Great Drama, and hear the first
clash of the armies. Soon shall you have your fill of the horror and
splendour of modern warfare.
We have seen the Force into the French troop trains, horse, guns and
foot. But not all journeyed thus to the frontier. Some of the units,
the most mobile, went by road. Units which were intended to take their
places in the reserve lines, and especially the A.S.C. motor transport,
ammunition or supplies. Let us move forward with one of these and see
a little of the France through which so soon the armies will come
rolling back.
Out from Rouen and across the lovely Normandy country. You picture the
excitement and amusement of the country folk as a great procession of
those motor lorries, which we have seen coming into Avonmouth, pants
heavily through the towns and villages.
Here is a part of a letter, from an officer in one of those units,
which appeared in the _Times_ towards the end of August. It seems to
give a very happy picture of the French reception of our men.
ROSES, ROSES, ALL THE WAY
I can, of course, tell you nothing of our movements, nor where we are.
I can, however, say something of the reception we have met with moving
across country. It has been simply wonderful and most affecting. We
travel entirely by motor transport (if the censor will allow that), and
it has been flowers all the way. One long procession of acclamation.
By the wayside and through the villages men, women, and children cheer
us on with the greatest enthusiasm, and everyone wants to give us
something. Even the babies in arms have been taught to wave their
little hands.
They strip their flower gardens, and the cars look like carnival
carriages. They pelt us with fruit, cigarettes, chocolate, bread,
anything, and everything. It is simply impossible to convey an
impression of it all. One village had stretched across the road a big
banner, "Honour to the British Army." Always cries of "Vivent les
anglais, vive l'Angleterre," etc., and often they would make the sign
of hanging, and cutting the throat (the Kaiser), pointing forward along
the road. This always struck me as so curious.
Yesterday, my own car had to stop in a town for petrol. In a moment
there must have been a couple of hundred people round, clamouring.
Autograph albums were thrust in front of me; a perfect delirium. A
tray of wine and biscuits appeared, and before we started again the car
had come to look like a grocery delivery van with a florist's window
display in front.
In another town I had to stop for an hour and took the opportunity to
do some shopping. I wanted some motor goggles, an eye bath, some
boracic, provisions, etc. They would not let me pay for a single
thing, and there was lunch and drinks as well.
The farther we go the more enthusiastic is the greeting. What it will
be like at the end of the war one cannot attempt to guess.
This all sounds like a picnic, but the work is hard and continuous.
One eats and sleeps just when one can. There is no division between
night and day. But we are all very fit and well, and the men, who have
an easy time compared to the officers, look upon it as a huge joke--at
present.
My French is, of course, simply invaluable, and each day I can
understand and talk better and better. It is extraordinary that I am
absolutely the only officer I have come across (except one or two Staff
men) who can speak it with any fluency. Well, this will surely be the
last of war amongst civilised peoples, and the dreams of the idealists
will be fulfilled. The French seem to think that it will all be over
certainly by Christmas. I wonder?
Thus the men came to see something of French life away from the beaten
track of the tourist, and, needless to say, they made friends at every
stopping-place.
"Mais, si polis, ces messieurs anglais," everyone remarks. And how
could "ces messieurs" refuse some little trifles in return for such
hospitality? The word "souvenir" soon became a nightmare in their
dreams. There was a peculiar bleat in the intonation of the word which
was, after a time, positively hateful. But during the first few days
the men gave readily enough all sorts of little articles for which they
had no immediate use, and others for which they had.
Before a week had elapsed very few had any buttons left. It was a
mystery how they kept their trousers up. Regimental badges on caps and
shoulder-straps were much appreciated, especially the Gunners' letters.
It did not take long for the quick-witted French girl to discover that
R.F.A. was obviously intended to represent the Triple Entente--Russie,
France, Angleterre.
When these units eventually rolled up at their destination it was found
that about half the men had lost not only all their buttons and badges
but their caps as well, getting in exchange some horrible provincial
product in the shape of a rakish tweed cap. Bits of tape and string
held coats and trousers together.
But long ere this Thomas Atkins was fed up with souvenir-hunters, and
one recalls a _Punch_ picture which showed a weary and wounded soldier
sitting by the roadside with what remained of his kit and arms.
"'Souvenir' is it you want?" he remarks in reply to a little urchin who
is bleating the hateful word at him. "Here, you can take the ----
lot." And he pitches his rifle and kit at the youngster's head.
The officers and men who came up by road must have had a very cheery
time in the various towns where they were billeted. The route lay, I
believe, by way of Amiens, and so up through St. Quentin and Bohain to
Le Cateau.
Hardly was there a hint of war in all that lovely country-side. What
war could ever touch those glowing cornfields, those orchards heavy
with plum and apple, the stately châteaux or dim cloisters of mediæval
church or convent? As little can we conceive our fragrant villages of
Kent or Surrey blasted and devastated by poisonous shells.
Very, very few men were to be seen anywhere; only Government officials
and others over military age. Such guards or sentries as were posted
were somewhat decrepit-looking Territorials, with arms and
accoutrements which looked as if they had done good service in 1870.
But they made up for their deficiencies in other respects by an excess
of zeal in carrying out imaginary orders.
Their method of challenging, in particular, had the merit of simplicity
and, at the same time, involved no undue straining of the vocal powers.
It was merely the thrusting of a rifle-barrel into the face or chest of
the passer-by. And when there is a very shaky hand on the trigger you
don't lose much time in getting out your credentials.
One of these men caused much excitement one evening by holding up and
clapping into the guardroom every single individual who attempted to
pass him. He was performing sentry duty across a certain main road.
This went on for a couple of hours, and the guardroom was becoming
uncomfortably crowded with a very miscellaneous assortment of
travellers. In fact, when a particularly plump matron, carrying a
basket of particularly evil-smelling cheeses, was incontinently thrust
in, to fall heavily across the toes of an already irate railway porter,
there was very nearly a riot.
At length a gilded Staff officer came along. He too was held up. But
this time the sentry met his match. The officer demanded to see the
N.C.O. of the guard. Whereupon the sentry, who was really somewhat the
worse for drink, fell down upon his knees in the road, and with salty
tears coursing down his cheeks piteously besought the officer to allow
him to go home and get his supper.
But French Territorials did their "bit" gallantly enough a few days
later, away on the British left. Old reservists as they were, they
hung on splendidly at Tournai, and, led by de Villaret, fought
gallantly against overwhelming numbers until they were surrounded,
killed, or captured.
So, on through the golden August sunshine or beneath the heavy harvest
moon. Interminable processions of columns, horsed and petrol-driven,
threading their way along the endless, poplar-lined roads of France;
the white dust churned up and drifting over men and vehicles until they
look like Arctic adventurers.
No one knows what is happening in the great "beyond." No one very much
cares. "Let's get on and have it over," is the philosophy of the hour.
"Expect those Germans are being held up a bit in Belgium; wonder where
we shall come in?"
The enemy had marched in triumph through Brussels on August 20th. The
British Force was not actually in position until two days later: and
Brussels is only 30 odd miles from Mons.
After it was all over; after the tide of war had crashed forward almost
to the gates of Paris and then rolled sullenly back, one saw a little
of the devastation it had left behind. Here are two pictures.
* * * * *
_August_ 20_th_. Can you, too, see that little vicarage hard by the
tiny church? (Think, it might have been plucked from a Surrey hamlet.)
The cool, veranda-shaded rooms filled with a hundred homely treasures;
the tiled kitchen with its winking copper pots and pans. Out through
the flagged yard, where pigeons coo in gentle defiance of predatory
sparrows, and down to a miniature farmstead. The pretty alleyed garden
of roses, hollyhocks and the flowers and sweet herbs of English
garden-lovers.
Can you see the old curé as he browses over a volume of Renan? He has
tended his flock in that village for a quarter of a century. A pretty
niece keeps house for him; and her dainty herb-potions and unwearied
nursing have saved many a life in the little community. They think of
her as of an angel from heaven.
_September_ 7_th_. A fortnight later! The village street has
disappeared beneath the debris of what was once the village. One
cow-shed is still miraculously intact, and from it creeps a gaunt,
haggard old crone. They have not touched her. She was too old and
infirm to make good fun, even for the rank and file.
She points with shaking finger to the wayside crucifix from which the
Christ looks down with infinite patience. He also has been
miraculously preserved. He gazes still over His tiny sanctuary, now
but two blackened, battered walls. The vicarage has disappeared as
though in an earthquake. The incendiary tablets have done their work
well. The little garden with its pretty rose trees has been ploughed
up, it would seem, by giant shares.
Stay, in one corner, down by the brook, there is planted a rough wooden
cross.
The old curé had refused to leave his post when the stream of refugees
had passed through. They told him of the horror behind them. He stood
firm. Jeannette, too, would stay with her uncle.
_They_ came. The curé, they said, must be a spy left behind by the
French troops. Besides, he had carrier-pigeons. "What need have we of
further witnesses?"
And so they tied him against the stem of his pigeon-cote. He met his
death as a gallant gentleman of France.
The girl. Ah, young and tender! Good sport for the plucking! First
let her bury the old man. "Rather hard work using a spade when you're
not used to it, isn't it?--Done? Good, now get us dinner."
After dinner, a dance--Eastern slave fashion. First, good sport for
the officers. "When we have finished throw her to the men."
What need to tell the horrors of it? The village marked the ebb of the
tide. The French and British had turned at last. Hurried orders came
to retire at dawn. The girl had not been such good sport after
all--fainted too easily.
A leering, drunken satyr slashes at her naked breasts with his bayonet
and Jeannette falls dead over the threshold. The house is fired, the
body is pitched on to the pyre.
One village in France? No, one of a hundred where such things were
done. And this is almost as nothing beside such as this England of
ours has, by God's gracious mercy, been spared. What does England know
of this war?
* * * * *
Now the various units begin to converge and concentrate on the French
frontier. "Each unit," says the G.O.C.-in-Chief in his first dispatch,
"arrived at its destination in this country well within the scheduled
time."
For some days past the French troop trains have been disgorging their
living freight at a number of stations and sidings, most of them
hastily improvised, within a few miles' radius on a line
Valenciennes-Maubeuge.
The columns which came by road halted in various little villages about
the town of Le Cateau. You will get the general lie of the land and
the principal points of interest from the picture-map.
Now to set the stage.