THE JOURNEY TO THE FRONT
We made a triumphant departure from Carlow, preceded down to the station
by the band of the N.V. We were told off to prevent anybody entering the
station, but all the men entered magnificently, saying they were
volunteers, and the women and children rushed us with the victorious
cry, "We've downed the p'lice." We steamed out of the station while the
band played "Come back to Erin" and "God save Ireland," and made an
interminable journey to Dublin. At some of the villages they cheered, at
others they looked at us glumly. But the back streets of Dublin were
patriotic enough, and at the docks, which we reached just after dark, a
small, tremendously enthusiastic crowd was gathered to see us off.
They sang songs and cheered, and cheered and sang songs. "I can
generally bear the separation, but I don't like the leave-taking." The
boat would not go off. The crowd on the boat and the crowd on the wharf
made patriotic noises until they were hoarse. At midnight our supporters
had nearly all gone away. We who had seen our motor-cycles carefully
hoisted on board ate the buns and apples provided by "Friends in Dublin"
and chatted. A young gunner told me of all his amours, and they were
very numerous. Still--
For my uncle _Toby's_ amours running all the way in my head,
they had the same effect upon me as if they had been my
own--I was in the most perfect state of bounty and goodwill--
So I set about finding a place for sleep.
The whole of the Divisional Headquarters Staff, with all their horses,
were on the _Archimedes_, and we were so packed that when I tried to
find a place to sleep I discovered there was not an inch of space left
on the deck, so I passed an uncomfortable night on top of some
excruciatingly hard ropes.
We cast off about one in the morning. The night was horribly cold, and a
slow dawn was never more welcomed. But day brought a new horror. The sun
poured down on us, and the smell from the horses packed closely below
was almost unbearable; while, worst of all, we had to go below to wash
and to draw our rations.
Then I was first introduced to bully. The first tin tastes delicious and
fills you rapidly. You never actually grow to dislike it, and many times
when extra hungry I have longed for an extra tin. But when you have
lived on bully for three months (we have not been served out with fresh
meat more than a dozen times altogether),[2] how you long for any little
luxuries to vary the monotony of your food!
On the morning of the third day we passed a French destroyer with a
small prize in tow, and rejoiced greatly, and towards evening we dropped
anchor off Havre. On either side of the narrow entrance to the docks
there were cheering crowds, and we cheered back, thrilled, occasionally
breaking into the soldier's anthem, "It's a long, long way to
Tipperary."[3]
We disembarked at a secluded wharf, and after waiting about for a couple
of hours or so--we had not then learned to wait--we were marched off to
a huge dim warehouse, where we were given gallons of the most delicious
hot coffee, and bought scrumptious little cakes.
It was now quite dark, and, for what seemed whole nights, we sat
wearily waiting while the horses were taken off the transport. We made
one vain dash for our quarters, but found only another enormous
warehouse, strangely lit, full of clattering waggons and restive horses.
We watched with wonder a battery clank out into the night, and then
returned sleepily to the wharf-side. Very late we found where we were to
sleep, a gigantic series of wool warehouses. The warehouses were full of
wool and the wool was full of fleas. We were very miserable, and a
little bread and wine we managed to get hold of hardly cheered us at
all. I feared the fleas, and spread a waterproof sheet on the bare
stones outside. I thought I should not get a wink of sleep on such a
Jacobean resting-place, but, as a matter of fact, I slept like a top,
and woke in the morning without even an ache. But those who had risked
the wool----!
We breakfasted off the strong, sweet tea that I have grown to like so
much, and some bread, butter, and chocolate we bought off a smiling old
woman at the warehouse gates. Later in the morning we were allowed into
the town. First, a couple of us went into a café to have a drink, and
when we came out we found our motor-cycles garlanded with flowers by two
admiring flappers. Everywhere we went we were the gods of a very proper
worship, though the shopkeepers in their admiration did not forget to
charge. We spent a long, lazy day in lounging through the town, eating a
lot of little meals and in visiting the public baths--the last bath I
was to have, if I had only known it, for a month. A cheery, little,
bustling town Havre seemed to us, basking in a bright sunshine, and the
hopes of our early overwhelming victory. We all stalked about,
prospective conquerors, and talked fluently of the many defects of the
German army.
Orders came in the afternoon that we were to move that night. I sat up
until twelve, and gained as my reward some excellent hot tea and a bit
of rather tough steak. At twelve everybody was woken up and the company
got ready to move. We motor-cyclists were sent off to the station.
Foolishly I went by myself. Just outside what I thought was the station
I ran out of petrol. I walked to the station and waited for the others.
They did not come. I searched the station, but found nothing except a
cavalry brigade entraining. I rushed about feverishly. There was no one
I knew, no one who had heard anything of my company. Then I grew
horribly frightened that I should be left behind. I pelted back to the
old warehouses, but found everybody had left two hours ago. I thought
the company must surely have gone by now, and started in my desperation
asking everybody I knew if they had seen anything of the company.
Luckily I came across an entraining officer, who told me that the
company were entraining at "Point Six-Hangar de Laine,"--three miles
away. I simply ran there, asking my way of surly, sleepy sentries,
tripping over ropes, nearly falling into docks.
I found the Signal Company. There was not a sign of our train. So
Johnson took me on his carrier back to the station I had searched in
such fear. We found the motor-cycle, Johnson gave me some petrol, and we
returned to Point Six. It was dawn when the old train at last rumbled
and squeaked into the siding.
I do not know how long we took to entrain, I was so sleepy. But the sun
was just rising when the little trumpet shrilled, the long train creaked
over the points, and we woke for a moment to murmur--By Jove, we're off
now,--and I whispered thankfully to myself--Thank heaven I found them at
last.
We were lucky enough to be only six in our compartment, but, as you
know, in a French IIIme there is very little room, while the seats are
fiercely hard. And we had not yet been served out with blankets. Still,
we had to stick it for twenty-four hours. Luckily the train stopped at
every station of any importance, so, taking the law into our own hands,
we got out and stretched our legs at every opportunity.
We travelled _viâ_ Rouen and Amiens to Landrecies. The Signal Company
had a train to itself. Gradually we woke up to find ourselves travelling
through extraordinarily pretty country and cheering crowds. At each
level-crossing the curé was there to bless us. If we did not stop the
people threw in fruit, which we vainly endeavoured to catch. A halt, and
they were round us, beseeching us for souvenirs, loading us with fruit,
and making us feel that it was a fine thing to fight in a friendly
country.
At Rouen we drew up at a siding, and sent porters scurrying for bread
and butter and beer, while we loaded up from women who came down to the
train with all sorts of delicious little cakes and sweets. We stopped,
and then rumbled slowly towards Amiens. At St Roche we first saw
wounded, and heard, I do not know with what truth, that four aviators
had been killed, and that our General, Grierson, had died of heart
failure. At Ham they measured me against a lamp-post, and ceremoniously
marked the place. The next time I passed through Ham I had no time to
look for the mark! It began to grow dark, and the trees standing out
against the sunset reminded me of our two lines of trees at home. We
went slowly over bridges, and looked fearfully from our windows for
bursting shells. Soon we fell asleep, and were wakened about midnight by
shouted orders. We had arrived at Landrecies, near enough the Frontier
to excite us.
I wonder if you realise at home what the Frontier meant to us at first?
We conceived it as a thing guarded everywhere by intermittent patrols of
men staring carefully towards Germany and Belgium in the darkness, a
thing to be defended at all costs, at all times, to be crossed with
triumph and recrossed with shame. We did not understand what an
enormous, incredible thing modern war was--how it cared nothing for
frontiers, or nations, or people.
Very wearily we unloaded our motor bicycles and walked to the barracks,
where we put down our kit and literally feel asleep, to be wakened for
fatigue work.
We rose at dawn, and had some coffee at a little _estaminet_,[4] where a
middle-aged dame, horribly arch, cleaned my canteen for me, "pour
l'amour de toi." We managed an excellent breakfast of bacon and eggs
before establishing the Signal Office at the barracks. A few of us rode
off to keep touch with the various brigades that were billeted round.
The rest of us spent the morning across the road at an inn drinking much
wine-and-water and planning out the war on a forty-year-old map.
In the afternoon I went out with two others to prospect some roads, very
importantly. We were rather annoyed to lose our way out of the town, and
were very short with some inquisitive small boys who stood looking over
our shoulders as we squatted on the grass by the wayside studying our
maps.
We had some tea at a mad village called Hecq. All the inhabitants were
old, ugly, smelly, and dirty; and they crowded round us as we devoured a
magnificent omelette, endeavouring to incite us to do all sorts of
things to the German women if ever we reached Germany. We returned home
in the late afternoon to hear rumours of an advance next day.
Three of us wandered into the Square to have a drink. There I first
tried a new pipe that had been given me. The one pipe I brought with me
I had dropped out of the train between Amiens and Landrecies. It had
been quite a little tragedy, as it was a pipe for which I had a great
affection. It had been my companion in Switzerland and Paris.
Coming back from the Square I came across an excited crowd. It appears
that an inoffensive, rather buxom-looking woman had been walking round
the Square when one of her breasts cooed and flew away. We shot three
spies at Landrecies.
I hung round the Signal Office, nervous and excited, for "a run." The
night was alive with the tramp of troops and the rumble of guns. The old
108th passed by--huge good-natured guns, each drawn by eight gigantic
plough-horses. I wonder if you can understand--the thrilling excitement
of waiting and listening by night in a town full of troops.
At midnight I took my first despatch. It was a dark, starless night;
very misty on the road. From the brigade I was sent on to an
ambulance--an unpleasant ride, because, apart from the mist and the
darkness, I was stopped every few yards by sentries of the West Kents, a
regiment which has now about the best reputation of any battalion out
here. I returned in time to snatch a couple of hours of sleep before we
started at dawn for Belgium.
When the Division moves we ride either with the column or go in advance
to the halting-place. That morning we rode with the column, which meant
riding three-quarters of a mile or so and then waiting for the
main-guard to come up,--an extraordinarily tiring method of getting
along.
The day (August 21) was very hot indeed, and the troops who had not yet
got their marching feet suffered terribly, even though the people by the
wayside brought out fruit and eggs and drinks. There was murmuring when
some officers refused to allow their men to accept these gifts. But a
start had to be made some time, for promiscuous drinks do not increase
marching efficiency. We, of course, could do pretty well what we liked.
A little coffee early in the morning, and then anything we cared to ask
for. Most of us in the evening discovered, unpleasantly enough,
forgotten pears in unthought-of pockets.
About 1.30 we neared Bavai, and I was sent on to find out about
billeting arrangements, but by the time they were completed the rest had
arrived.
For a long time we were hutted in the Square. Spuggy found a "friend,"
and together we obtained a good wash. The people were vociferously
enthusiastic. Even the chemist gave us some "salts" free of charge.
My first ride from Bavai began with a failure, as, owing to belt-slip, I
endeavoured vainly to start for half an hour (or so it seemed) in the
midst of an interested but sympathetic populace. A smart change saw me
tearing along the road to meet with a narrow escape from untimely death
in the form of a car, which I tried to pass on the wrong side. In the
evening we received our first batch of pay, and dining magnificently at
a hotel, took tearful leave of Huggie and Spuggy. They had been chosen,
they said, to make a wild dash through to Liége. We speculated darkly on
their probable fate. In the morning we learned that we had been hoaxed,
and used suitable language.
We slept uncomfortably on straw in a back yard, and rose again just
before dawn. We breakfasted hastily at a café, and were off just as the
sun had risen.
Our day's march was to Dour, in Belgium, and for us a bad day's march it
was. My job was to keep touch with the 14th Brigade, which was advancing
along a parallel road to the west.[5] That meant riding four or five
miles across rough country roads, endeavouring to time myself so as to
reach the 14th column just when the S.O. was passing, then back again to
the Division, riding up and down the column until I found our captain.
In the course of my riding that day I knocked down "a civvy" in Dour,
and bent a foot-rest endeavouring to avoid a major, but that was all in
the day's work.
The Signal Office was first established patriarchally with a table by
the roadside, and thence I made my last journey that day to the 14th. I
found them in a village under the most embarrassing attentions. As for
myself, while I was waiting, a curé photographed me, a woman rushed out
and washed my face, and children crowded up to me, presenting me with
chocolate and cigars, fruit and eggs, until my haversack was practically
bursting.
When I returned I found the S.O. had shifted to the station of Dour. We
were given the waiting-room, which we made comfortable with straw.
Opposite the station was a hotel where the Staff lived. It was managed
by a curiously upright old man in a threadbare frock-coat, bright check
trousers, and carpet slippers. Nadine, his pretty daughter, was
tremulously eager to make us comfortable, and the two days we were at
Dour we hung round the hotel, sandwiching omelettes and drink between
our despatches.
[Illustration: ROUND MONS]
FOOTNOTES:
[2] This was written in the middle of October.
[3] We became bored with the song, and dropped it soon after for less
printable songs.
[4] The word used in Flanders for a tavern that does not aspire to the
dignity of "restaurant" or "hotel."
[5] The Bavai-Andregnies-Elouges road.