THE BEGINNING OF WINTER.
Before we came, Givenchy had been a little forgettable village upon a
hill, Violaines a pleasant afternoon's walk for the working men in La
Bassée, Festubert a gathering-place for the people who lived in the
filthy farms around. We left Givenchy a jumble of shuttered houses and
barricaded cellars. A few Germans were encamped upon the site of
Violaines. The great clock of Festubert rusted quickly against a tavern
wall. We hated La Bassée, because against La Bassée the Division had
been broken. There are some square miles of earth that, like criminals,
should not live.
Our orders were to reach Caestre not later than the Signal Company.
Caestre is on the Cassel-Bailleul road, three miles north-east of
Hazebrouck. These unattached rides across country are the most joyous
things in the world for a despatch rider. There is never any need to
hurry. You can take any road you will. You may choose your tavern for
lunch with expert care. And when new ground is covered and new troops
are seen, we capture sometimes those sharp delightful moments of
thirsting interest that made the Retreat into an epic and the Advance a
triumphant ballad.
N'Soon and myself left together. We skidded along the tow-path, passed
the ever-cheerful cyclists, and, turning due north, ran into St Venant.
The grease made us despatch riders look as if we were beginning to
learn. I rode gently but surely down the side of the road into the
gutter time after time. Pulling ourselves together, we managed to slide
past some Indian transport without being kicked by the mules, who,
whenever they smelt petrol, developed a strong offensive. Then we came
upon a big gun, discreetly covered by tarpaulins. It was drawn by a
monster traction-engine, and sad-faced men walked beside it. The
steering of the traction-engine was a trifle loose, so N'Soon and I drew
off into a field to let this solemn procession pass. One of the commands
in the unpublished "Book of the Despatch Rider" is this:--
_When you halt by the roadside to let guns pass or when you
leave your motor-cycle unattended, first place it in a
position of certain safety where it cannot possibly be
knocked over, and then move it another fifty yards from the
road. It is impossible for a gunner to see something by the
roadside and not drive over it. Moreover, lorries when they
skid, skid furiously._
Four miles short of Hazebrouck we caught up the rest. Proceeding in
single file along the road, we endeavoured not to laugh, for--as one
despatch rider said--it makes all the difference on grease which side of
your mouth you put your pipe in. We reached Hazebrouck at midday.
Spreading out--the manoeuvre had become a fine art--we searched the
town. The "Chapeau Rouge" was well reported on, and there we lunched.
All those tourists who will deluge Flanders after the war should go to
the "Chapeau Rouge" in Hazebrouck. There we had lentil soup and stewed
kidneys, and roast veal with potatoes and leeks, fruit, cheese, and good
red wine. So little was the charge that one of us offered to pay it all.
There are other more fashionable hotels in Hazebrouck, but, trust the
word of a despatch rider, the "Chapeau Rouge" beats them all.
Very content we rode on to Caestre, arriving there ten minutes before
the advance-party of the Signal Company. Divisional Headquarters were
established at the House of the Spy. The owner of the house had been
well treated by the Germans when they had passed through a month before.
Upon his door had been written this damning legend--
HIER SIND GUETIGE LEUTE[22]
and, when on the departure of the Germans the house had been searched by
an indignant populace, German newspapers had been discovered in his
bedroom.
It is the custom of the Germans to spare certain houses in every village
by chalking up some laudatory notice. We despatch riders had a theory
that the inhabitants of these marked houses, far from being spies, were
those against whom the Germans had some particular grievance. Imagine
the wretched family doing everything in its power to avoid the effusive
affection of the Teuton, breaking all its own crockery, and stealing all
its own silver, defiling its beds and tearing its clothing. For the man
whose goods have been spared by the German becomes an outcast. He lives
in a state worse than death. He is hounded from his property, and driven
across France with a character attached to him, like a kettle to a
cat's tail. Genuine spies, on the other hand--so we thought--were worse
treated than any and secretly recompensed. Such a man became a hero. All
his neighbours brought their little offerings.
The House of the Spy had a fine garden, hot and buzzing in the
languorous heat. We bathed ourselves in it. And the sanitary
arrangements were good.
Grimers arrived lunchless an hour later. He had been promoted to drive
the captured car. We took him to the tavern where beauty was allied with
fine cooking. There he ate many omelettes.
In the evening he and I suffered a great disappointment. We wandered
into another tavern and were about to ask for our usual "Grenadine" when
we saw behind the bar two bottles of Worthington. For a moment we were
too stupefied to speak. Then, pulling ourselves together, we stammered
out an order for beer, but the girl only smiled. They were empty
bottles, souvenirs left by some rascally A.S.C. for the eternal
temptation of all who might pass through. The girl in her sympathy
comforted us with songs, one of which, "Les Serments," I translated for
the benefit of Grimers, who knew no French. We sang cheerfully in French
and English until it was time to return to our billet.
In the morning a German aeroplane passed over at a great height. All the
youngsters in the village tumbled over each other for shelter,
shouting--Caput! caput![23]
Later in the day we advanced to Bailleul, where we learnt that the 1st
Corps was fighting furiously to the north. The square was full of
motor-buses and staff-officers. They were the first of our own
motor-buses we had seen out in Flanders. They cheered us greatly, and
after some drinks we sat in one and tried to learn from the map
something of the new country in which we were to ride. We rejoiced that
we had come once again upon a Belgian sheet, because the old French map
we had used, however admirable it might have been for brigadiers and
suchlike people, was extremely unsuited to a despatch rider's work.
Infantry were pouring through, the stern remnants of fine battalions.
Ever since the night after Le Cateau infantry in column of route have
fascinated us, for a regiment on the march bares its character to the
world.
First there were our brigades marching up to Mons, stalwart and
cheering. After Le Cateau there were practically no battalions, just a
crowd of men and transport pouring along the road to Paris. I watched
the column pass for an hour, and in it there was no organised unit
larger than a platoon, and only one platoon. How it happened I do not
know, but, when we turned on the Germans, battalions, brigades,
divisions, corps had been remade. The battalions were pitifully small.
Many a time we who were watching said to one another: Surely that's not
the end of the K.O.Y.L.I., or the Bedfords, or whatever regiment it
might be!
A battalion going into action has some men singing, some smiling vaguely
to themselves, some looking raptly straight ahead, and some talking
quickly as if they must never stop.
A battalion that has come many miles is nearly silent. The strong men
stride tirelessly without a word. Little weak men, marching on their
nerves, hobble restlessly along. The men with bad feet limp and curse,
wilting under the burden of their kit, and behind all come those who
have fallen out by the way--men dragging themselves along behind a
waggon, white-faced men with uneasy smiles on top of the waggons. A
little farther back those who are trying to catch up: these are tragic
figures, breaking into breathless little runs, but with a fine wavering
attempt at striding out, as though they might be connecting files, when
they march through a town or past an officer of high rank.
A battalion that has just come out of action I cannot describe to you in
these letters, but let me tell you now about Princess Pat's. I ran into
them just as they were coming into Bailleul for the first time and were
hearing the sound of the guns. They were the finest lot of men I have
ever seen on the march. Gusts of great laughter were running through
them. In the eyes of one or two were tears. And I told those civilians I
passed that the Canadians, the fiercest of all soldiers, were come.
Bailleul looked on them with more fright than admiration. The women
whispered fearfully to each other--Les Canadiens, les Canadiens!...
We despatch riders were given a large room in the house where the
Divisional Staff was billeted. It had tables, chairs, a fireplace and
gas that actually lit; so we were more comfortable than ever we had been
before--that is, all except N'Soon, who had by this time discovered that
continual riding on bad roads is apt to produce a fundamental soreness.
N'Soon hung on nobly, but was at last sent away with blood-poisoning.
Never getting home, he spent many weary months in peculiar convalescent
camps, and did not join up again until the end of January.
Moral--before going sick or getting wounded become an officer and a
gentleman.
The day after we arrived I was once more back in Belgium with a message
to the C.R.A.[24] at Neuve Eglise. I had last been in Belgium on August
23, the day we left Dour.
The general might have been posing for a war artist. He was seated at a
table in the middle of a field, his staff-captain with him. The ground
sloped away to a wooded valley in which two or three batteries,
carefully concealed, were blazing away. To the north shrapnel was
bursting over Kemmel. In front the Messines ridge was almost hidden with
the smoke of our shells. I felt that each point of interest ought to
have been labelled in Mr Frederic Villiers' handwriting--"_German
shrapnel bursting over Kemmel--our guns--this is a dead horse_."
I first saw Ypres on the 6th November. I was sent off with a bundle of
routine matter to the 1st Corps, then at Brielen, a couple of miles N.W.
of Ypres. It was a nightmare ride. The road was _pavé_ in the
centre--villainous _pavé_. At the side of it were glutinous morasses
about six feet in width, and sixteen inches deep. I started off with
two 2nd Corps motor-cyclists. There was an almost continuous line of
transport on the road--motor-lorries that did not dare deviate an inch
from the centre of the road for fear of slipping into the mire, motor
ambulances, every kind of transport, and some infantry battalions. After
following a column of motor-lorries a couple of miles--we stuck twice in
trying to get past the rearmost lorry--we tried the road by Dranoutre
and Locre. But these country lanes were worse of surface than the main
road--greasy _pavé_ is better that greasy rocks--and they were filled
with odd detachments of French artillery. The two 2nd Corps
motor-cyclists turned back. I crawled on at the risk of smashing my
motor-cycle and myself, now skidding perilously between waggons, now
clogging up, now taking to the fields, now driving frightened
pedestrians off what the Belgians alone would call a footpath. I skidded
into a subaltern, and each of us turned to curse, when--it was Gibson, a
junior "Greats" don at Balliol, and the finest of fellows.
Beyond Dickebusch French artillery were in action on the road. The
houses just outside Ypres had been pelted with shrapnel but not
destroyed. Just by the station, which had not then been badly knocked
about, I learnt where to go. Ypres was the first half-evacuated town I
had entered. It was like motor-cycling into a village from Oxford very
early on a Sunday morning. Half an hour later I saw the towers of the
city rising above a bank of mist which had begun to settle on the
ground: then out rose great clouds of black smoke.
I came back by Poperinghe to avoid the grease and crowding of the direct
road, and there being no hurry I stopped at an inn for a beefsteak. The
landlord's daughter talked of the many difficulties before us, and
doubted of our success. I said, grandiloquently enough, that no victory
was worth winning unless there were difficulties. At which she smiled
and remarked, laughing--
"There are no roses without thorns."
She asked me how long the war would last. I replied that the good God
alone knew. She shook her head--
"How can the good God look down without a tear on the miseries of his
people? Are not the flower of the young cut off in the spring of their
youth?"
Then she pointed to the church across the way, and said humbly--"On a
beaucoup prié."
She was of the true Flemish type, broad and big-breasted, but with a
slight stoop, thick hips, dark and fresh-coloured, with large black eyes
set too closely. Like all the Flemings, she spoke French slowly and
distinctly, with an accent like the German. She was easy to understand.
I stopped too long at Poperinghe, for it was dark and very misty on the
road. Beyond Boescheppe--I was out of my way--the mist became a fog.
Once I had to take to the ditch when some cuirassiers galloped out of
the fog straight at me. It was all four French soldiers could do to get
my motor-cycle out. Another time I stuck endeavouring to avoid some
lorries. It is a diabolical joke of the Comic Imps to put fog upon a
greasy road for the confusion of a despatch rider.
On the next day I was sent out to the 14th Brigade at the Rue de Paradis
near Laventie. You will remember that the 14th Brigade had been left to
strengthen the Indian Corps when the 2nd Corps had moved north. I
arrived at Rue de Paradis just as the Brigade Headquarters were coming
into the village. So, while everybody else was fixing wires and
generally making themselves useful, I rushed upstairs and seized a
mattress and put it into a dark little dressing-room with hot and cold
water, a mirror and a wardrobe. Then I locked the door. There I slept,
washed, and dressed in delicious luxury.
The brigade gave another despatch rider and myself, who were attached,
very little to do beyond an occasional forty-mile run to D.H.Q. and back
over dull roads. The signal office was established in a large room on
the side of the house nearest to the Germans. It was constructed almost
entirely of glass. Upon this the men commented with a grave fluency. The
windows rattled with shrapnel bursting 600 yards away. The house was
jarred through and through by the concussion of a heavy battery firing
over our heads. The room was like a toy-shop with a lot of small
children sounding all the musical toys. The vibrators and the buzzers
were like hoarse toy trumpets.
Our only excitement was the nightly rumour that the General was going to
move nearer the trenches, that one of us would accompany him--I knew
what that meant on greasy misty roads.
After I had left, the Germans by chance or design made better practice.
A shell burst in the garden and shattered all the windows of the room.
The Staff took refuge in dug-outs that had been made in case of need.
Tommy, then attached, took refuge in the cellar. According to his own
account, when he woke up in the morning he was floating. The house had
some corners taken off it and all the glass was shattered, but no one
was hurt.
When I returned to Bailleul, Divisional Headquarters were about to move.
A puncture kept me at Bailleul after the others had gone on to Locre.
Grimers stood by to help. We lunched well, and buying some supplies
started off along the Ypres road. By this time our kit had accumulated.
It is difficult enough to pass lorries on a greasy road at any time.
With an immense weight on the carrier it is almost impossible. So we
determined to go by Dranoutre. An unfortunate bump dispersed my blankets
and my ground-sheet in the mud. Grimers said my language might have
dried them. Finally, that other despatch rider arrived swathed about
with some filthy, grey, forlorn indescribables.
We were quartered in a large schoolroom belonging to the Convent. We had
plenty of space and a table to feed at. Fresh milk and butter we could
buy from the nuns, while a market-gardener just across the road supplied
us with a sack of miscellaneous vegetables--potatoes, carrots, turnips,
onions, leeks--for practically nothing. We lived gloriously. There was
just enough work to make us feel we really were doing something, and not
enough to make us wish we were on the Staff. Bridge we played every hour
of the day, and "Pollers," our sergeant, would occasionally try a
little flutter in Dominoes and Patience.
At Bailleul the Skipper had suggested our learning to manage the
unmechanical horse. The suggestion became an order. We were bumped round
unmercifully at first, until many of us were so sore that the touch of a
motor-cycle saddle on _pavé_ was like hot-iron to a tender skin. Then we
were handed over to a friendly sergeant, who believed in more
gentlemanly methods, and at Locre we had great rides--though Pollers,
who was gently unhorsed, is still firmly convinced that wind-mills form
the finest deterrent to cavalry.
In an unlucky moment two of us had suggested that we should like to
learn signaller's work, so we fell upon evil days. First we went out for
cable-drill. Sounds simple? But it is more arduous and dangerous than
any despatch riding. If you "pay out" too quickly, you get tangled up in
the wire and go with it nicely over the drum. If you pay out too slowly,
you strangle the man on the horse behind you. The worst torture in the
world is paying out at the fast trot over cobbles. First you can't hold
on, and if you can you can't pay out regularly.
Cable-drill is simply nothing compared to the real laying of cable. We
did it twice--once in rain and once in snow. The rainy day I paid out,
I was never more miserable in my life than I was after two miles. Only
hot coffee and singing good songs past cheery Piou-pious brought me
home. The snowy day I ran with ladders, and, perched on the topmost
rung, endeavoured to pass the wire round a buxom tree-trunk. Then, when
it was round, it would always go slack before I could get it tied up
tightly.
It sounds so easy, laying a wire. But I swear it is the most wearying
business in the world--punching holes in the ground with a 16-lb.
hammer, running up poles that won't go straight, unhooking wire that has
caught in a branch or in the eaves of a house, taking the strain of a
cable to prevent man and ladder and wire coming on top of you, when the
man who pays out has forgotten to pay. Have a thought for the wretched
fellows who are getting out a wire on a dark and snowy night, troubled
perhaps by persistent snipers and frequent shells! Shed a tear for the
miserable linesman sent out to find where the line is broken or
defective....
When there was no chance of "a run" we would go for walks towards
Kemmel. At the time the Germans were shelling the hill, but occasionally
they would break off, and then we would unofficially go up and see what
had happened.
Now Mont Kemmel is nearly covered with trees. I have never been in a
wood under shell fire, and I do not wish to be. Where the Germans had
heavily shelled Kemmel there were great holes, trees thrown about and
riven and scarred and crushed--a terrific immensity of blasphemous
effort. It was as if some great beast, wounded mortally, had plunged
into a forest, lashing and biting and tearing in his agony until he
died.
On one side of the hill was a little crazy cottage which had
marvellously escaped. Three shells had fallen within ten yards of it.
Two had not burst, and the other, shrapnel, had exploded in the earth.
The owner came out, a trifling, wizened old man in the usual Belgian cap
and blue overalls. We had a talk, using the _lingua franca_ of French,
English with a Scottish accent, German, and the few words of Dutch I
could remember.
We dug up for him a large bit of the casing of the shrapnel. He examined
it fearfully. It was an 11-inch shell, I think, nearly as big as his wee
grotesque self. Then he made a noise, which we took to be a laugh, and
told us that he had been very frightened in his little house (häusling),
and his cat, an immense white Tom, had been more frightened still. But
he knew the Germans could not hit him. Thousands and thousands of
Germans had gone by, and a little after the last German came the
English. "Les Anglais sont bons."
This he said with an air of finality. It is a full-blooded judgment
which, though it sounds a trifle exiguous to describe our manifold
heroic efforts, is a sort of perpetual epithet. The children use it
confidingly when they run to our men in the cafés. The peasants use it
as a parenthetical verdict whenever they mention our name. The French
fellows use it, and I have heard a German prisoner say the same.
A few days later those who lived on Kemmel were "evacuated." They were
rounded up into the Convent yard, men and women and children, with their
hens and pigs. At first they were angry and sorrowful; but nobody, not
even the most indignant refugee, could resist our military policemen,
and in three-quarters of an hour they all trudged off, cheerfully
enough, along the road to Bailleul.
The wee grotesque man and his immense white cat were not with them.
Perhaps they still live on Kemmel. Some time I shall go and see....
If we did not play Bridge after our walks, we would look in at the
theatre or stroll across to dinner and Bridge with Gibson and his
brother officers of the K.O.S.B., then billeted at Locre.
Not all convents have theatres: this was a special convent. The Signal
Company slept in the theatre, and of an evening all the kit would be
moved aside. One of the military policemen could play anything; so we
danced and sang until the lights went out. The star performer was
"Spot," the servant of an A.D.C.
"Spot" was a little man with a cheerful squint. He knew everything that
had ever been recited, and his knowledge of the more ungodly songs was
immense. He would start off with an imitation of Mr H.B. Irving, and a
very good imitation it would be--with soft music. He would leave the
Signallers thrilled and silent. The lights flashed up, and "Spot" darted
off on some catchy doggerel of an almost talented obscenity. In private
life Spot was the best company imaginable. He could not talk for a
minute without throwing in a bit of a recitation and striking an
attitude. I have only known him serious on two subjects--his master and
Posh. He would pour out with the keenest delight little stories of how
his master endeavoured to correct his servant's accent. There was a
famous story of "a n'orse"--but that is untellable.
Posh may be defined, very roughly, as a useless striving after
gentlemanly culture. Sometimes a chauffeur or an H.Q. clerk would
endeavour to speak very correct English in front of Spot.
"'E was poshy, my dear boy, positively poshy. 'E made me shiver until I
cried. 'Smith, old man,' I said to 'im, 'you can't do it. You're not
born to it nor bred to it. Those that try is just demeaning themselves.
Posh, my dear boy, pure posh.'"
And Spot would give a cruel imitation of the wretched Smith's mincing
English. The punishment was the more bitter, because all the world knew
that Spot could speak the King's English as well as anybody if only he
chose. To the poshy alone was Spot unkind. He was a generous,
warm-hearted little man, with real wisdom and a fine appreciation of men
and things.... There were other performers of the usual type, young men
who sang about the love-light in her eyes, older men with crude songs,
and a Scotsman with an expressionless face, who mumbled about we could
never discover what.
The audience was usually strengthened by some half-witted girls that the
Convent educated, and two angelic nuns. Luckily for them, they only
understood a slow and grammatical English, and listened to crude songs
and sentimental songs with the same expression of maternal content.
Our work at Locre was not confined to riding and cable-laying. The 15th
Brigade and two battalions of the 13th were fighting crazily at Ypres,
the 14th had come up to Dranoutre, and the remaining two battalions of
the 13th were at Neuve Eglise.
I had two more runs to the Ypres district before we left Locre. On the
first the road was tolerable to Ypres, though near the city I was nearly
blown off my bicycle by the fire of a concealed battery of 75's. The
houses at the point where the Rue de Lille enters the Square had been
blown to bits. The Cloth Hall had barely been touched. In its glorious
dignity it was beautiful.
Beyond Ypres, on the Hooge Road, I first experienced the extreme
neighbourhood of a "J.J." It fell about 90 yards in front of me and 20
yards off the road. It makes a curiously low droning sound as it falls,
like the groan of a vastly sorrowful soul in hell,--so I wrote at the
time: then there's a gigantic rushing plunk and overwhelming crash as if
all the houses in the world were falling.
On the way back the road, which had been fairly greasy, became
practically impassable. I struggled on until my lamp failed (sheer
carelessness--I ought to have seen to it before starting), and a gale
arose which blew me all over the road. So I left my motor-bicycle safely
behind a cottage, and started tramping back to H.Q. by the light of my
pocket flash-lamp. It was a pitch-black night. I was furiously hungry,
and stopped at the first inn and gorged coffee with rum, and a large
sandwich of bread and butter and fat bacon. I had barely started
again--it had begun to pour--when a car came along with a French
staff-officer inside. I stopped it, saying in hurried and weighty tones
that I was carrying an important despatch (I had nothing on me, I am
afraid, but a trifling bunch of receipts), and the rest of the way I
travelled lapped luxuriously in soft furs.
The second time I rode along a frozen road between white fields. All the
shells sounded alarmingly near. The noise in Ypres was terrific. At my
destination I came across some prisoners of the Prussian Guard, fierce
and enormous men, nearly all with reddish hair, very sullen and rude.
From accounts that have been published of the first battle of Ypres, it
might be inferred that the British Army knew it was on the point of
being annihilated. A despatch rider, though of course he does not know
very much of the real meaning of the military situation, has unequalled
opportunities for finding out the opinions and spirit of the men. Now
one of us went to Ypres every day and stopped for a few minutes to
discuss the state of affairs with other despatch riders and with
signal-sergeants. Right through the battle we were confident; in fact
the idea that the line might be broken never entered our heads. We were
suffering very heavily. That we knew. Nothing like the shell fire had
ever been heard before. Nobody realised how serious the situation must
have been until the accounts were published.
Huggie has a perfect mania for getting frightened; so one day, instead
of leaving the routine matter that he carried at a place whence it might
be forwarded at leisure, he rode along the Menin road to the Chateau at
Hooge, the headquarters of the 15th Brigade. He came back quietly happy,
telling us that he had had a good time, though the noise had been a
little overwhelming. We learned afterwards that the enemy had been
registering very accurately upon the Hooge road.
So the time passed without any excitement until November 23, when first
we caught hold of a definite rumour that we should be granted leave. We
existed in restless excitement until the 27th. On that great day we were
told that we should be allowed a week's leave. We solemnly drew lots,
and I drew the second batch.
We left the Convent at Locre in a dream, and took up quarters at St Jans
Cappel, two miles west of Bailleul. We hardly noticed that our billet
was confined and uncomfortable. Certainly we never realised that we
should stop there until the spring. The first batch went off
hilariously, and with slow pace our day drew nearer and nearer.
You may think it a little needless of me to write about my leave, if you
do not remember that we despatch riders of the Fifth Division enlisted
on or about August 6. Few then realised that England had gone to war.
Nobody realised what sort of a war the war was going to be. When we
returned in the beginning of December we were Martians. For three months
we had been vividly soldiers. We had been fighting not in a savage
country, but in a civilised country burnt by war; and it was because of
this that the sights of war had struck us so fiercely that when we came
back our voyage in the good ship _Archimedes_ seemed so many years
distant. Besides, if I were not to tell you of my leave it would make
such a gap in my memories that I should scarcely know how to continue my
tale....
The week dragged more slowly than I can describe. Short-handed, we had
plenty of work to do, but it was all routine work, which gave us too
much time to think. There was also a crazy doubt of the others' return.
They were due back a few hours before we started. If they fell ill or
missed the boat...! And the fools were motor-cycling to and from
Boulogne!
On the great night we prepared some food for them, and having packed our
kits, tried to sleep. As the hour drew near we listened excitedly for
the noise of their engines. Several false alarms disturbed us: first, a
despatch rider from the Third Division, and then another from the Corps.
At last we heard the purr of three engines together, and then a moment
later the faint rustle of others in the distance. We recognised the
engines and jumped up. All the birds came home save one. George had
never quite recovered from his riding exercises. Slight blood poisoning
had set in. His leave had been extended at home. So poor "Tommy," who
had joined us at Beuvry, was compelled to remain behind.
Violent question and answer for an hour, then we piled ourselves on our
light lorry. Singing like angels we rattled into Bailleul. Just opposite
Corps Headquarters, our old billet, we found a little crowd waiting.
None of us could talk much for the excitement. We just wandered about
greeting friends. I met again that stoutest of warriors, Mr Potter of
the 15th Artillery Brigade, a friend of Festubert days. Then a battalion
of French infantry passed through, gallant and cheerful men. At last the
old dark-green buses rolled up, and about three in the morning we
pounded off at a good fifteen miles an hour along the Cassel road.
Two of us sat on top, for it was a gorgeous night. We rattled over the
_pavé_ alongside multitudinous transport sleeping at the side of the
road--through Metern, through Caestre of pleasant memories, and south to
Hazebrouck. Our driver was a man of mark, a racing motorist in times of
peace. He left the other buses and swung along rapidly by himself. He
slowed down for nothing. Just before Hazebrouck we caught up a French
convoy. I do not quite know what happened. The Frenchmen took cover in
one ditch. We swayed past, half in the other, at a good round pace.
Waggons seemed to disappear under our wheels, and frightened horses
plunged violently across the road. But we passed them without a
scratch--to be stopped by the level-crossing at Hazebrouck. There we
filled up with coffee and cognac, while the driver told us of his
adventures in Antwerp.
We rumbled out of Hazebrouck towards St Omer. It was a clear dawn in
splashes of pure colour. All the villages were peaceful, untouched by
war. When we came to St Omer it was quite light. All the soldiers in the
town looked amateurish. We could not make out what was the matter with
them, until somebody noticed that their buttons shone. We drew up in the
square, the happiest crew imaginable, but with a dignity such as
befitted chosen N.C.O.'s and officers.
That was the first time I saw St Omer. When last I came to it I saw
little, because I arrived in a motor-ambulance and left in a
hospital-train.
The top of the bus was crowded, and we talked "shop" together. _Sixth
Division's having a pretty cushy time, what?--So you were at Mons!_ (in
a tone of respect)--_I don't mind their shells, and I don't mind their
machine-guns, but their Minenwerfer are the frozen limit!--I suppose
there's no chance of our missing the boat. Yes, it was a pretty fair
scrap--Smith? He's gone. Silly fool, wanted to have a look round--Full
of buck? Rather! Yes, heard there's a pretty good show on at the
Frivolity--Beastly cold on top of this old wheezer_.
It was, but none of us cared a scrap. We looked at the sign-posts that
showed the distance to Boulogne, and then pretended that we had not seen
them. Lurching and skidding and toiling we came to the top of the hill
above Boulogne. With screaming brakes we rattled down to the harbour.
That old sinner, Sergeant Maguire, who was in charge of us corporals,
made all arrangements efficiently. We embarked, and after a year of
Sundays cast off.
There was a certain swell on, and Mr Potter, the bravest of men, grew
greener and greener. My faith in mankind went.
We saw a dark line on the horizon.
"By Jove, there's England!" We all produced our field-glasses and looked
through them very carefully for quite a long time.
"So it is. Funny old country"--a pause--"Makes one feel quite
sentimental, just like the books. That's what we're fighting for, I
suppose. Wouldn't fight for dirty old Dover! Wonder if they still charge
you a penny for each sardine. I suppose we'll have to draw the blinds
all the way up to London. Not a safe country by any means, far rather
stop in the jolly old trenches."
"You'll get the white feather, old man."
"No pretty young thing would give it you. Why, you wouldn't look
medically fit in mufti!"
"Fancy seeing a woman who isn't dirty and can talk one's own lingo!"
So we came to Folkestone, and all the people on the pier smiled at us.
We scuttled ashore and shook ourselves for delight. There was a
policeman, a postman. Who are these fussy fellows with badges on their
arms? Special constables, of course!
Spurning cigarettes and bovril we rushed to the bar. We all noticed the
cleanness of the barmaid, her beauty, the neatness of her dress, her
cultivated talk. We almost squabbled about what drinks we should have
first. Finally, we divided into parties--the Beers and the
Whisky-and-Sodas. Then there were English papers to buy, and, of course,
we must have a luncheon-basket....
The smell of the musty S.-E. & C.R. compartment was the scent of eastern
roses. We sniffed with joy in the tunnels. We read all the notices with
care. Nearing London we became silent. Quite disregarding the order to
lower the blinds, we gazed from the bridge at a darkened London and the
searchlight beams. Feverishly we packed our kit and stood up in the
carriage. We jerked into the flare of Victoria. Dazzled and confused, we
looked at the dense crowd of beaming, anxious people. There was a tug at
my elbow, and a triumphant voice shouted--
"I've found him! Here he is! There's your Mother." ...
* * * * *
This strange familiar country seemed to us clean, careless, and full of
men. The streets were clean; the men and women were clean. Out in
Flanders a little grime came as a matter of course. One's uniform was
dirty. Well, it had seen service. There was no need to be particular
about the set of the tunic and the exact way accoutrements should be
put on. But here the few men in khaki sprinkled about the streets had
their buttons cleaned and not a thing was out of place. We wondered
which of them belonged to the New Armies. The women, too, were clean and
beautiful. This sounds perhaps to you a foolish thing to say, but it is
true. The Flemish woman is not so clean as she is painted, and as for
women dressed with any attempt at fashionable display--we had seen none
since August. Nadine at Dour had been neat; Hélène at Carlepont had been
companionable; the pretty midinette at Maast had been friendly and not
over-dirty. For a day or two after I returned to my own country I could
not imagine how anybody ever could leave it.
And all the people were free from care. However cheerful those brave but
irritating folk who live behind the line may be, they have always
shadows in their eyes. We had never been to a village through which the
Germans had not passed. Portly and hilarious the Teuton may have shown
himself--kindly and well-behaved he undoubtedly was in many
places--there came with him a terror which stayed after he had gone,
just as a mist sways above the ground after the night has flown.
At first we thought that no one at home cared about the war--then we
realised it was impossible for anybody to care about the war who had not
seen war. People might be intensely interested in the course of
operations. They might burn for their country's success, and flame out
against those who threatened her. They might suffer torments of anxiety
for a brother in danger, or the tortures of grief for a brother who had
died. The FACT of war, the terror and the shame, the bestiality and the
awful horror, the pity and the disgust--they could never _know_ war. So
we thought them careless....
Again, though we had been told very many had enlisted, the streets
seemed ludicrously full of men. In the streets of Flanders there are
women and children and old men and others. These others would give all
that they had to put on uniform and march gravely or gaily to the
trenches. In Flanders a man who is fit and wears no uniform is instantly
suspected of espionage. I am grinding no axe. I am advocating nothing or
attacking nothing. I am merely stating as a fact that, suspicious and
contemptuous as we had been in Flanders of every able-bodied man who was
not helping to defend his country, it seemed grotesque to us to find so
many civilian men in the streets of the country to which we had
returned.
Of the heavenly quietness and decency of life, of late breakfasts and
later dinners, there is no need to tell, but even before the week was up
unrest troubled us. The Division might go violently into action. The
Germans might break through. The "old Div." would be wanting us, and we
who felt towards the Division as others feel towards their Regiments
were eager to get back....
On the boat I met Gibson. At Boulogne we clambered into the same bus and
passed the time in sipping old rum, eating chocolate biscuits, reading
the second volume of 'Sinister Street,' and sleeping. At St Omer our
craving for an omelette nearly lost us the bus. Then we slept. All that
I can remember of the rest of the journey is that we stopped near
Bailleul. An anxious corporal popped his head in.
"Mr Brown here?"
"Ye--e--s," sleepily, "what the devil do you want?"
"Our battery's in action, sir, a few miles from here. I've got your
horses ready waiting, sir."
Mr Brown was thoroughly awake in a moment. He disturbed everybody
collecting his kit. Then he vanished.
We were late at Bailleul, and there was no one to meet us. The Cyclists
as usual came to our help. Their gig was waiting, and climbing into it
we drove furiously to St Jans Cappel. Making some sort of beds for
ourselves, we fell asleep. When we woke up in the morning our leave was
a dream.
FOOTNOTES:
[22] Here are kindly people.
[23] French, Flemish, and German slang expression. Done for!
[24] An abbreviation for the general in command of the Divisional
Artillery.