THE MILITARY SECRET
The second hill was our destination. At the foot of it the car stopped
and we got out. A steep path with here and there a wooden step led to
the summit. At the foot of the path was a sentry and behind him one of
the multicoloured tents.
"Are you a good climber?" asked the officer.
I said I was and we set out. The path extended only a part of the way,
to a place perhaps two hundred feet beyond the road, where what we
would call a cyclone cellar in America had been dug out of the
hillside. Like the others of the sort I had seen, it was muddy and
uninviting, practically a cave with a roof of turf.
The path ceased, and it was necessary to go diagonally up the steep
hillside through the snow. From numberless guns at the base of the
hill came steady reports, and as we ascended it was explained to me
that I was about to visit the headquarters of Major General H----,
commanding an army division.
"The last person I brought here," said the young officer, smiling,
"was the Prince of Wales."
We reached the top at last. There was a tiny farmhouse, a low stable
with a thatched roof, and, towering over all, the arms of a great
windmill. Chickens cackled round my feet, a pig grunted in a corner,
and apparently from directly underneath came the ear-splitting reports
of a battery as it fired.
"Perhaps I would better go ahead and tell them you are coming," said
the officer. "These people have probably not seen a woman in months,
and the shock would be too severe. We must break it gently."
So he went ahead, and I stood on the crest of that wind-swept hill and
looked across the valley to Messines, to Wytschaete and Ypres.
The battlefield lay spread out like a map. As I looked, clouds of
smoke over Messines told of the bursting of shells.
Major General H---- came hurrying out. His quarters occupy the only
high ground, with the exception of the near-by hill with its ruined
tower, in the neighbourhood of Ypres. Here, a week or so before, had
come the King of Belgium, to look with tragic eyes at all that
remained to him of his country. Here had come visiting Russian princes
from the eastern field, the King of England, the Prince of Wales. No
obscurities--except myself--had ever penetrated so far into the
fastness of the British lines.
Later on in the day I wrote my name in a visitors' book the officers
have established there, wrote under sprawling royal signatures, under
the boyish hand of the Prince of Wales, the irregular chirography of
Albert of Belgium, the blunt and soldierly name of General Joffre.
There are six officers stationed in the farmhouse, composing General
H----'s staff. And, as things turned out, we did not require the
white-paper sandwiches, for we were at once invited to luncheon.
"Not a very elaborate luncheon," said General H----, "but it will give
us a great deal of pleasure to share it."
While the extra places were being laid we went to the brow of the
hill. Across the valley at the foot of a wooded ridge were the British
trenches. The ground rose in front of them, thickly covered with
trees, to the German position on the ridge.
"It looks from here like a very uncomfortable position," I said. "The
German position is better, isn't it?"
"It is," said General H---- grimly. "But we shall take that hill
before long."
I am not sure, and my many maps do not say, but there is little doubt
in my mind that the hill in question is the now celebrated Hill 60, of
which so much has been published.
As we looked across shells were bursting round the church tower of
Messines, and the batteries beneath were sending out ear-splitting
crashes of noise. Ypres, less than three miles away, but partly hidden
in mist, was echoing the bombardment. And to complete the pandemonium
of sound, as we turned, a _mitrailleuse_ in the windmill opened fire
behind us.
"Practice!" said General H---- as I started. "It is noisy here, I'm
afraid."
We went through the muddy farmyard back to the house. The staff was
waiting and we sat down at once to luncheon at a tiny pine table drawn
up before a window. It was not a good luncheon. The French wine was
like vinegar, the food the ordinary food of the peasant whose house it
was. But it was a cheerful meal in spite of the food, and in spite of
a boil on General H----'s neck. The marvel of a woman being there
seemed to grow, not diminish, as the meal went on.
"Next week," said General H----, "we are to have two parties of
correspondents here. The penny papers come first, and later on the
ha'pennies!"
That brought the conversation, as usual, to the feeling about the war
in America. Like all the other officers I had met, these men were
anxious to have things correctly reported in America, being satisfied
that the true story of the war would undoubtedly influence any
wavering of public opinion in favour of the Allies.
One of the officers was a Canadian, and for his benefit somebody told
the following story, possibly by now familiar to America.
Some of the Canadian troops took with them to England a bit of the
dash and impatience of discipline of the great Northwest. The story in
question is of a group of soldiers at night passing a sentry, who
challenges them:
"Halt! Who goes there?"
"Black Watch."
"Advance, Black Watch, and all's well."
The next group is similarly challenged:
"Halt! Who goes there?"
"Cameronians."
"Advance, Cameronians."
The third group comes on.
"Halt! Who goes there?"
"What the devil is that to you?"
"Advance, Canadians!"
In the burst of mirth that followed the Canadian officer joined. Then
he told an anecdote also:
"British recruits, practising passing a whispered order from one end
of a trench to the other, received this message to pass along: 'Enemy
advancing on right flank. Send re-enforcements.' When the message
reached the other end of the trench," he said, "it was: 'Enemy
advancing with ham shank. Send three and fourpence!'"
It was a gay little meal, the only breaks in the conversation when the
great guns drowned out our voices. I wonder how many of those round
that table are living to-day. Not all, it is almost certain. The
German Army almost broke through the English line at that very point
in the late spring. The brave Canadians have lost almost all their
officers in the field and a sickening percentage of their men. That
little valley must have run deep with blood since I saw it that day in
the sunlight.
Luncheon was over. I wrote my name in the visitors' book, to the tune
of such a bombardment as almost forbade speech, and accompanied by
General H---- we made our way down the steep hillside to the car.
"Some time to-night I shall be in England," I said as I settled myself
for the return trip.
The smile died on the general's face. It was as if, in speaking of
home, I had touched the hidden chord of gravity and responsibility
that underlay the cheerfulness of that cheery visit.
"England!" he said. That was all.
I looked back as the car started on. A battery was moving up along the
road behind the hill. The sentry stood by his low painted tent. The
general was watching the car, his hand shading his eyes against the
glare of the winter sun. Behind him rose his lonely hill, white with
snow, with the little path leading, by devious ways, up its steep and
shining side.
It was not considered advisable to return by the road behind the
trenches. The late afternoon artillery duel was going on. So we turned
off a few miles south of the hill and left war behind us.
Not altogether, of course. There were still transports and troops. And
at an intersection of three roads we were abruptly halted. A line of
military cars was standing there, all peremptorily held up by a
handful of soldiers.
The young officer got out and inquired. There was little time to
spare, for I was to get to Calais that evening, and to run the Channel
blockade some time in the night.
The officer came back soon, smiling.
"A military secret!" he said. "We shall have to wait a little. The
road is closed."
So I sat in the car and the military secret went by. I cannot tell
about it except that it was thrillingly interesting. My hands itched
to get out my camera and photograph it, just as they itch now to write
about it. But the mystery of what I saw on the highroad back of the
British lines is not mine to tell. It must die with me!
My visit to the British lines was over.
As I look back I find that the one thing that stands out with
distinctness above everything else is the quality of the men that
constitute the British Army in the field. I had seen thousands in that
one day. But I had seen them also north of Ypres, at Dunkirk, at
Boulogne and Calais, on the Channel boats. I have said before that
they show race. But it is much more than a matter of physique. It is a
thing of steady eyes, of high-held heads, of a clean thrust of jaw.
The English are not demonstrative. London, compared with Paris, is
normal. British officers at the front and at headquarters treat the
war as a part of the day's work, a thing not to talk about but to do.
But my frequent meetings with British soldiers, naval men, members of
the flying contingent and the army medical service, revealed under the
surface of each man's quiet manner a grimness, a red heat of
patriotism, a determination to fight fair but to fight to the death.
They concede to the Germans, with the British sense of fairness,
courage, science, infinite resource and patriotism. Two things they
deny them, civilisation and humanity--civilisation in its spiritual,
not its material, side; humanity of the sort that is the Englishman's
creed and his religion--the safeguarding of noncombatants, the keeping
of the national word and the national honour.
My visit to the English lines was over. I had seen no valiant charges,
no hand-to-hand fighting. But in a way I had had a larger picture. I
had seen the efficiency of the methods behind the lines, the abundance
of supplies, the spirit that glowed in the eyes of every fighting man.
I had seen the colonial children of England in the field, volunteers
who had risen to the call of the mother country. I had seen and talked
with the commander-in-chief of the British forces, and had come away
convinced that the mother country had placed her honour in fine and
capable hands. And I had seen, between the first and second lines of
trenches, an army of volunteers and patriots--and gentlemen.