combat is no unusual sight. One hears the drone of the aeroplane
engines and sees the hostile machine speeding along over the line, while
little white puffs, like flakes of cotton-wool, spring suddenly into
being all around it, as the shrapnel shells from anti-aircraft
batteries, familiarly known always as "Archies," burst. Or perhaps the
gunners may favour it with high explosive shells, which leave little
black puffs. On a still day the puffs of smoke linger for several
minutes in the blue sky like tiny clouds and gradually disperse. The
hostile aeroplane darts hither and thither. All eyes are turned
skywards, and the following are the type of comments overheard as the
shells burst: "Just a bit too low," "Too far ahead," "The next'll get
him," "Got him," "No, he's only doing a dive down into his own lines."
Often the whole path which the aeroplane has taken across the sky is
literally covered with these little white puffs of shrapnel smoke. I
have counted as many as a hundred and eighty, and even then the
aeroplane not infrequently escapes without apparent damage. But the
Taube does not have things all its own way, for one or more of our own
'planes rise to attack, and if one is very lucky one sees it descend
with a long and rapid dive--nose first, in flames, a tangled mass of
framework and burning canvas. An air duel on a clear day is not only
wonderful from a spectacular point of view, but the most exciting
episode it is possible to witness. If, however, one happens to be
directly underneath where the shrapnel shells are bursting and realizes
that all that goes up comes down again, one takes more than a
spectacular interest in such an incident. By night aviators afford one
even greater excitement, trying to spot the hostile machine and locate
it by the sound of its engine. Then perhaps a terrific crash as it
drops an incendiary bomb, the explosion of which lights up the whole
neighbourhood with a dull red glow.
The weather all through that month of May 1915 was ideal, and nothing
could have looked more beautiful than the long, straight white roads,
with their line of tall trees on either side that characterize the
Routes Nationales and Routes de Grande Communication, the main arteries
leading across the borders of France into Belgium, and which run through
miles of intensely cultivated land. The main road from Hazebrouck to
Ypres is a typical example of the highways of Flanders; with its strip
of raised _pave_ in the centre, it is flanked by earth on either side
and runs between an avenue of tall and stately poplars. It has been
followed by troops from every part of the world over which flies the
Union Jack or the Tricolour, and they have marched along it on their way
to fight the bloodiest battles of the world's history. The nearer one
gets to the trenches, the worse becomes the condition of the roads, and
that leading through Poperinghe to Ypres was among the roughest on which
I have ever travelled. Leaving Hazebrouck, it gradually became worse
and worse as one approached and crossed the frontier of Belgium. The
_pave_ in the centre is narrow and has a high camber. The earth that
borders it on either side is soft, so that it is particularly difficult
for two heavy motor-lorries proceeding in opposite directions to pass
one another. It is to the credit of British motor-car manufacturers
that the lorries and cars with the Expeditionary Force in France have
stood up so well on roads such as they were never designed or intended
to travel on.
They were sad runs these, up to the trenches, where every village
through which the convoy passed was suffering more from the devastating
effects of shell fire than the last. Every day almost one would notice
a change; another church tower a little more damaged, or a house that
yesterday was proudly standing and a landmark is a victim to German
artillery and a ruined mass to-day. Fewer and fewer buildings left
standing, not a piece of glass remaining in any single window frame; the
bare walls, perhaps, of a house here and there still standing, but
bespattered with shrapnel bullets. The further up one got, the fewer
civilian inhabitants one saw, until the last villages, such as
Vlamertinghe on the road to Ypres, which had been entirely evacuated by
the civilian population, except perhaps for one or two old peasants here
and there, who had possibly spent all their lives in their own
particular village and intended to continue doing so, even if this
entailed living a considerable part of the time in cellars. We often
passed little parties of refugees making their way slowly into France,
there to throw themselves on the hospitality of their more fortunate
friends. Turning their backs for ever on their old homes, which they
instinctively knew they had seen for the last time, a whole family,
perhaps, the father leading a horse and cart piled up with such odd bits
and pieces of household goods as they had managed to save, perhaps all
their worldly possessions--a bed, mattress, and a few sticks of
furniture--the other members of the family either riding on the cart or
following in a sorrowful little procession behind it, their possessions
amongst the animal world not being forgotten, but frequently represented
by a goat and a few chickens. The further up one got, too, the more
congested were the roads with the impedimenta of war: motor-lorries,
ambulances, guns, wagons and the like. The Military Police, being
stationed on point duty on the more important cross roads, with the aid
of red and green flags directed the traffic, and for all the world it
was often like a block of vehicular traffic at Piccadilly Circus, the
usual accompaniment of language not being forgotten!
From the rest huts at Vlamertinghe right into Ypres, or what remained of
it, was only a matter of five minutes on a motorcycle. Never have I
seen or imagined a sight so tragic. Street after street in a state of
absolute wreck and ruin. What had once been beautiful and massive
buildings, such as the famous Cloth Hall, which dates from the
thirteenth century, and the Church of St. Martin, now heaps of debris
and broken glass lying across the road. Houses destroyed, many of them,
beyond recognition; some had been set alight by shells and were slowly
smouldering; others, with their fronts completely blown away, were still
standing and displayed their contents nakedly to the passer-by. Such is
the ugliness of war's destruction--the desolation of desolation,
deserted by every living soul. Never before have I experienced such a
sensation of utter loneliness. This struck me more forcibly, I think,
than anything else. If one had searched amongst those ruins, what
treasures and what gruesome tragedies might one have encountered! Ypres
must once have been a very beautiful city and capital of Flanders; now
it was a city of Death. To visit it in 1915 was to see the eighth
wonder of the world. Surely it will for ever be haunted by the spirits
of the soldiers who have fallen in fighting to hold it. That the Ypres
Salient has been consistently held against fearful odds and the heavy
attacks which the enemy has made on it, with Calais as his objective, is
an everlasting memorial to the valour of British soldiers.
I picked up some pieces of coloured glass, which had once formed part of
the stained-glass windows of St. Martin's Church, now shattered and
littered over the ground around its ruins, to take away as a memento,
and as these thoughts were just passing through my mind, a shell
whistled overhead and burst with a crash a little distance away and
awoke in me a sense of duty. I made my way out of Ypres along the
debris-strewn road, containing here and there some fine examples of
shell-holes in the middle of it. On the way out I passed what had once
been a General Service wagon with horses and riders, now a horrible
inert mass of horse-flesh and wheel-spokes--at least, that is the
impression that this sight left on my mind. A shell had caught it
fair--a direct hit--a few minutes before.
Ypres at this time, it will be seen, was by no means a health resort.
The long straight road leading into it was shelled regularly as
clockwork every day; usually at about five or six o'clock the evening
"hate" started. That is what is meant when the official communique
states that "artillery fire was directed upon billets, railheads, and
communication roads"; for this was a road which much transport loaded
with rations, ammunition, and other material for the trenches there
travelled along, and in the villages along that road troops on their way
up to or out of the trenches were frequently temporarily billeted.
Whether it is a peculiarly machine-like working of the German mind or
due to the fact that German organization is carried to such limits of
mathematical precision I do not know, but the fact remains that this
road was normally quite safe except between certain fixed and regular
hours each evening. So I was never particularly anxious to delay the
return journey of the convoy of empty motor-lorries longer than was
absolutely necessary, and used to leave the danger zone as soon as we
had off-loaded the rations and secured the Supply Officer's receipt for
them. On one occasion only, on the return journey, however, did we have
any excitement. We were travelling in convoy along a narrow road leading
from the huts up to and at right angles to the main road. Just as we
came to the junction of the two a few shells landed in the adjoining
field, planted with tall poles, around which twining hops grew,
doubtless of the famous Popeninghe brand. A few of these were
destroyed, and quantities of earth were thrown up, the shells leaving
dense grey-black clouds of smoke in the air, but doing no other damage.
We were only just in time, though, that day, for a few hours later a
motor-cyclist dispatch rider, who had come along the same road, caught
up the convoy at Hazebrouck and told me that further back the road was
being heavily shelled.
The saddest sight of all is just behind the line, in those roadside
fields where rest the fallen. No matter to what part of the line one
goes, but particularly behind Ypres--and nowhere scarcely along the
whole front has the fighting been heavier than on this bit of the
British line--one sees clustered together in groups here and there the
little wooden crosses which mark the graves of those of whom Robert
Louis Stevenson wrote, "They despised Death and have won their
discharge." They are cared for now and duly registered, and as far as
possible inscribed with names and dates by that excellent department,
the Graves Registration Committee at General Headquarters. "Oh,
Cromwell's England, must thou yield for every inch of ground a son?"
asks the poet; and these little graves will for ever remain, silent
witnesses to the fact that here Death once reaped a rich harvest.
_*Chapter IX*_
_*MR. THOMAS ATKINS AND THE FRENCH*_
As I have already stated, Aire remained our railhead for some months,
and during the first week of August 1915 we left it. What sorrow our
departure caused! As the long procession of lorries pulled out through
the narrow _pave_ streets for the last time, the civilian population
turned out _en masse_ and was literally in tears! It is a noticeable
fact that when British troops arrive to take up their quarters in any
town or village for the first time they are occasionally, but by no
means always, looked upon with a certain amount of suspicion and
distrustfulness by the civilian inhabitants, who sometimes seem
disinclined to offer facilities in the way of accommodation and so
forth. I suppose this is not to be wondered at, and it would be curious
to see what reception Allied foreign troops would receive in an English
village. After a few days, however, they find Tommy is a good fellow
and spends freely what little money he has. The shopkeepers in the
little towns behind the line are as fortunate as the inhabitants of the
invaded towns on the other side of the line are unfortunate. Among
others, the _debitants de boissons_, or Estaminet keepers, do a roaring
trade in such drinks as they are allowed to sell to the troops--very
"small beer," and the usual red and white wines. Occasionally, in some
places, one observes a small notice to the effect that "English Beer and
Stout are sold here." The popular winter drink of 1914, _cafe-rhum_,
came to an end when the veto was put on the sale of spirits to the
troops, and it is impossible now to buy even a whisky and soda, though I
have heard of one being produced by the _garcon_ at a certain cafe on
being asked for a _vin blanc Ecosse_.
It is wonderful how Mr. Thomas Atkins, always adaptable, has mastered
the French language, or rather, I should say, has compounded a language,
half-French and half-English, but which nevertheless enables him to make
himself understood and thoroughly at home in the most trying
circumstances. As a rule, he is able to undertake the most complicated
shopping with the greatest of ease, and carry on long conversations and
arguments with the vendor meanwhile. There are, however, exceptions to
every rule. A friend of mine, on one occasion, arrived late in the
evening in a new village. It had been raining hard all day, as it only
can in Flanders. Being wet through and very tired, he told his orderly
to find the billet allotted to him and make various arrangements with
Madame as to a latch-key and so forth. The orderly returned a little
later with a crestfallen look and an air of dismay. "Can't make Madame
understand, sir," he said. "They seem to talk a different kind of slang
here to the last place we were in."
On another occasion my friend himself went into a chemist's shop at St.
Omer with the object of purchasing some hair-wash. "Huile pour les
chevaux" was the nearest he could think of, and he was greatly alarmed
when the chemist produced a bottle of Elliman's horse embrocation and
proclaimed its excellent qualities at some length. _Huile pour les
chevaux_ and _huile pour les cheveux_ are two very different things! But
Tommy is seldom at a loss. "Deux beers sivous play, Ma'mselle,
compree?" he will demand as he enters an estaminet, and if Ma'mselle in
question has any pretensions to beauty, he will not infrequently at a
later stage of the proceedings, purely, no doubt, by way of paying a
delicate compliment and to further cement the _entente_, add to his
previous remarks some such jocular suggestion as "Promnarde avec moi?"
To which the Ma'mselle will probably reply to the effect that he is
"Tres polisson." Tommy, nothing daunted, will round off the
conversation by some cryptic remark to the effect that she is "no bong"!
Certain phrases, easily acquired orally, and seldom quite
understood--for example, "nar poo," derived from "il n'y-en a plus," do
duty on many occasions and under varying circumstances. Tommy even
sometimes carries his French phrases so far as his letters home,
possibly for "showing off" purposes. His spelling of French words is
usually quaint.
Many of our lorry drivers, as I have explained, were previous to the war
motor-bus and taxi-cab drivers in London. The powers of repartee of
this type of man are proverbial, and with a slight admixture of French
have lost none of their former crispness. On the contrary, his
"vocabulary" has been augmented. It is a pity that we have had to
resort to conscription for the Army, and one can only hope that sooner
or later some distinction will be made between the conscript and the man
who, regardless of age and the cost, volunteered for service in the
early part of the war. In an Army Service Corps unit particularly, one
notices men whose appearance leads one to think that there is, to say
the least, a discrepancy between their real and regimental age as given
on enlistment. I recollect asking one elderly-looking man his age; he
replied, "Forty-two, sir." Noticing that on his breast was the blue and
white ribbon of the Egypt medal of 1882, I remarked, "Then you must have
been eight years old when that was awarded to you!"
It is interesting to note that Indian troops pick up French in many
cases quite readily, and apparently more easily than English. If you
chance on one on the road, trying to find his way to some village or
other, and he cannot speak English and you cannot speak Hindustani, a
little "pidgin" French will usually be found to be a common basis for
conversation, or an old soldier, who has rejoined for the war and who
many years ago perhaps served in India, will come to the rescue and
explain matters with much gesticulation and a curious mixture of
English, French, and Hindustani, the word _compris_, in the form of a
question, usually playing an important part in the conversation. Many
of the Native Cavalry soldiers now speak French quite fluently, their
pronunciation being almost perfect.
There is one excuse for everything which, like charity, covers a
multitude of sins, in France to-day. If one has occasion to suggest to
a shopkeeper that so and so is _tres cher_, or to the _chef de gare_
that the train is late for which you are waiting, no matter what the
complaint, the answer is invariably the same, "C'est la guerre,
monsieur." It is the stock phrase of consolation and explanation. They
accept the war, do these peasants and bourgeois of Northern France, in a
spirit of optimistic fortitude, as something which has unfortunately got
to be, and which shows no sign of ending, at any rate at present. Their
hatred of the Boches, which they readily express, both verbally and by
such cryptic signs and phrases as "Coupez la gorge," etc., is intense,
and of a nature that could hardly be realized by the people of England,
who have not been subjected to the systematic brutality which the Boches
have invariably exercised, or experienced the invasion of Belgium--as
carefully planned as it was diabolically executed.
In no town or village in which I have been have I seen a solitary man of
military age, married or single alike, except, of course, the obviously
physically unfit, who is not in the Army, the Navy, or the workshops,
and this has been the same since the first 1914 mobilization in France.
The older men are employed as sentries at level crossings and on railway
bridges. Even in the munition works, the impression one gains is that
the bulk of the people thus employed are old men, women, or young girls
and boys.
Yet the work of the land, right up almost to the trenches, in this
richly agricultural and intensely cultivated country, is carried on as
usual by those left behind. The old men, women, and children work in a
way that is truly remarkable. Never have I seen women and children do
such an amount of manual work. The pay of the French _poilu_, formerly
five centimes (a halfpenny) and latterly raised to twenty-five centimes
(two-pence halfpenny), together with the small "separation allowance"
paid to his dependents, compel the latter to carry on the work of the
land as of yore and keep things going till the war is ended.
As a contrast to the many posters which placard every available hoarding
and wall in England, there are very few in France. One is to be seen
everywhere--in cafes, railway carriages, in the streets, etc.; and it
contains three lines of straightforward and pungently sound advice,
strictly to the point and commendably brief. It emanates from the
Minister of War, and is as follows:
Taisez-vous!
Mefiez-vous!
Les oreilles des ennemies vous ecoutent!
The only other posters to be seen advertise the advantages of investment
in the French War Loan; they are obviously drawn by artists, and are in
keeping with the best theatrical posters in London, such as one would
see outside His Majesty's Theatre.
The three lines of warning which I have referred to above lead me to the
question of spies. Of course, spies there are, without a doubt,
especially in places which have previously been in enemy occupation, and
through such agents information of military importance is conveyed to
the enemy, by one method or another. There are, however, alleged spies,
who are occasionally reported by different people, soldiers or
civilians, who may have reason to suspect them. The various Assistant
Provost Marshals are, naturally, only too anxious to catch real spies,
and are not only willing but keen to investigate reports and
incidentally inconvenience ninety-nine suspects in the hope of catching
the hundredth. Curious mistakes happen, and did so particularly in the
early stages of the war. On one occasion an apparently eminently
respectable-looking and bearded Frenchman was apprehended. He was
noticed standing in the street making what appeared to be entries in a
pocket-book with the aid of a pencil whilst some batteries of artillery
were passing along through the town.
It was only necessary to put two and two together and use a small amount
of imagination; what could he be taking note of in his pocket-book
except the sizes, number, and such-like particulars of the passing guns?
He protested vehemently and excitedly that so far from being a spy he
hated the Germans. He was, he said, a merchant from Roubaix, and was
not his house and business place in their cursed hands? Which facts
were proved by investigation in due course to be perfectly true. On
being examined, he was asked among other questions if he could produce
what he was alleged to have written in his pocketbook. This, he said,
was a matter of impossibility, but he offered instead an explanation. He
had, he stated, on the previous evening seen a girl who greatly
attracted him; chancing to run across her again the following day, he
hastily pulled out his notebook with the object of scribbling a brief
note to suggest a rendezvous for later in the day. Unfortunately, she
disappeared into a house near by, and he, losing sight of her, was
unable to deliver his note. Naturally, therefore, he could not produce
it; he had torn it up and thrown it in the gutter. I need hardly add
that when the authorities were satisfied as to his identity he was
released, the victim of a mistake and his own indiscretion.
A few days after this incident I happened to notice a report of it in a
French newspaper. With true journalistic ardour for sensational details,
the writer of it added that the supposed spy "swallowed" the note he had
written, rather than produce it for inspection. This is not true, but my
story is an accurate account of the incident, which caused great
amusement at the time.
On another occasion I was Orderly Officer of the Day at Aire, and
"visiting rounds" late at night, a sentry on duty in the town, belonging
to a Scottish regiment, told me that he had a man dressed in officer's
uniform under observation, who aroused his suspicion owing to the
questions addressed to him as to the whereabouts of certain brigades and
regiments. He had already, he said, reported the matter to his
corporal, who had posted two sentries outside the house into which the
suspect had gone. My duty was quite plain: this case was one for
immediate investigation; so, accompanied by the sentry, I went up to the
house, which was only a few yards away, and which happened to be a
_brasserie_. The next thing to be done was to gain admittance to the
_brasserie_. It was now after midnight. Having given the sentries
orders to load their rifles, but only to loose off in the event of their
suspect endeavouring to make his escape or resist escort, and to shoot
low at that, with my revolver in one hand I rang the _brasserie_ bell
with the other. It was one of those large bells suspended at some
height, actuated by a long chain, and which have a way of continuing to
ring for some time after the chain has been pulled. Very soon, up went
a window on the first floor, and out of it appeared the head and
shoulders of a woman, obviously aroused from her slumbers. I inquired
in the best French I could command if there was an "Officier anglais"
billeted in the house. She replied that there was one, and she would go
to his room and wake him. In a few minutes, after much clanking of
chains and bolts, the front door was opened. This, then, was the
critical moment! A Captain of the ---- Regiment emerged and asked what
the ---- I wanted and why the ---- I had woke him up at such an
unearthly hour of the night. The sentry had made a mistake in his
overzealousness. The alleged spy was an officer, who had that night
returned from leave, and finding no one about except a sentry, had
sought from him such information as to the whereabouts of his unit as
would enable him to rejoin it on the following morning. So, apologizing
profusely and explaining my position in the matter, I withdrew, greatly
disappointed at being denied the excitement of catching a real spy.