THE MOTOR-BUS IN WAR (continued 2)

It is interesting at this point to note that during this time a British Cavalry Regiment, forming part of a Native Cavalry Brigade, assisted in the attack and capture of Hooge Château, which has changed hands so many times.

The rendezvous for the motor-lorries on these occasions was at some shelter huts on an open, flat piece of ground, where once grass had grown and now used as a camping-ground for troops recently out of, or about to take their turn in, the trenches just beyond. On it are erected a number of huts, similar to those which can be seen in many parts of England where troops in training have been encamped. A road runs through the middle of this plain, and at a prearranged point on it was the ration dumping-ground. Here the motor-lorries were met by the Supply Officer and their contents off-loaded. The use made by us of this ground as a camp was, of course, not unknown to the Germans, who occasionally favoured it with a certain amount of shelling. On one or two occasions they shelled it at a most inopportune moment. A smoking concert had been got up and was to take place in one of the largest huts. It was to start at 8 p.m., and no sooner had the first performer on the programme mounted the improvised platform than a shell landed just outside; it was followed by several others. There was only one thing to be done, and the senior officer present ordered the hut to be evacuated. So everyone departed, cursing the Huns roundly for being so extremely inconsiderate as to spoil an evening's amusement.

One Sunday a Church Parade was being held, and those present were lustily singing a hymn, the opening line of which is, "Stand up, stand up for Jesus." As the words "Stand up" were leaving their lips, a shell came screaming over and exploded near by. Every one, the padre included, instinctively "ducked"!

From the rest camp, as from many other points behind the line, an aerial 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 pavé 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 pavé 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 pavé 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, café-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 garçon at a certain café on being asked for a vin blanc Ecossé.

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 "Très 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 très 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 cafés, 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!

Méfiez-vous!

Les oreilles des ennemies vous écoutent!

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.

A friend of mine was travelling along a country road in a motor-car and noticed a man walking who aroused his suspicions. He was dressed in an odd assortment of military uniform and civilian clothes, and on his coat were several regimental buttons, both French and English. Moreover, he was unable to produce any pass or papers of identification. My friend, first ascertaining that his prisoner was unarmed, invited him to get into the back of the car, which he did, not neglecting at the same time to pull over his knees a fur rug which happened to be there—one of those magnificent bear-skin rugs which were sent out as presents to certain members of the Expeditionary Force by the Grand Duke Michael of Russia in the winter of 1914. In a few minutes the next village was reached, and passing through it my friend noticed with some surprise that his fellow-traveller was being greeted with cheers, thrills of laughter and hand-waves by the children and a few people who happened to be about. Stopping at the mairie, the man was at once identified. He was the local "rag and bone" man, quite harmless, though somewhat mad. Nevertheless, he thanked my friend profusely for the lift, which he explained had not only saved him a two or three miles walk on a dusty road, but provided for him a new sensation and experience, for this had been his first ride in a motor-car. I need scarcely add that spies have since been a sore point with my friend.

And here I must tell a story against myself. Returning to railhead about ten or eleven o'clock one evening, I had occasion to halt the convoy en route, as I noticed that it was beginning to spread out too much and several vehicles in the rear were becoming "stragglers." As I pulled up, a man approached from the direction in which I had been proceeding and walked past along the line of lorries drawn up on the roadside. He aroused my suspicions, for although he wore the usual service jacket of a British officer, he appeared in the dim light to be also wearing red-coloured "slacks" of apparently the same hue as a French soldier. My first impression was that he was dressed in a mixture of British and French uniform, possibly an ill-informed German spy, who, having heard of the belle alliance, imagined it to be carried to such lengths in practice that the uniforms of the two Armies were combined. I watched him for a minute, then followed, and getting even with him, wished him "Good-evening." There was no time to lose, so I got straight to the point and asked him his name and regiment. He inquired the reason of my apparent curiosity, and I admitted that the shade of his trousers had aroused my suspicions. He replied that he was in the 11th Hussars—the only regiment in the British Army, he added, who were privileged to wear "cherry-coloured" slacks. I apologized and withdrew, feeling quite crestfallen. The following day I told this to a cavalry officer who had been a good many years in the Service. He was much amused, and said, "Oh yes, that's quite right; no doubt he belongs to the 11th, always known in the Service as the 'cherubims'!" I have never run up against my cherubim friend again, but if he should ever chance to read these lines and recalls the incident, I trust he will forgive me, and realize that I only carried out what I deemed, in my innocence, to be my duty.

Chapter X

WITH THE R.H.A. BATTERIES

(CONTRIBUTED BY A LORRY DRIVER IN THE COLUMN)

In the capacity of motor-lorry driver on a converted London General Omnibus attached to the —— Indian Cavalry Supply Column, and carrying rations to the Royal Horse Artillery Batteries of the Division, I have been fortunate in having had the opportunity of driving my lorry as near the line as lorries go, and have witnessed many exciting incidents. The author of this book has asked me to record some of the more interesting of them.

My first occasion to leave the Column was in the early part of 1915, when, amongst others, my lorry was for a time "on detachment" and we left Aire for ——, from which latter railhead we rationed the batteries whilst in action. Leaving ——, we early sighted hostile aircraft, flying fairly low, passing over the lorries. We quite expected some bombs to be dropped, but as nothing of the kind occurred, the machines may only have been out on a reconnaissance flight. On this particular day, having returned to our own lines, our load being dumped, we had not been there many minutes when I observed an aeroplane bearing the British mark, a red bull's-eye on a target of blue and white circles, which distinguishes our aeroplanes from those of the enemy, the latter being marked with the familiar "Iron Cross." The signs are, of course, readily distinguishable from the ground, being painted on the underside of the planes. Much to my surprise, on the aeroplane coming over us, there was a loud report in the field alongside where I was standing, followed by four others in rapid succession. After the disguised hostile machine, as it proved to be, had disappeared into the blue, we made for the field and found deep holes, measuring some five or six feet in diameter, in the soft ground. One bomb exploded close beside a cottage, but fortunately no one was near at the time, so no casualties occurred. At the Gendarmerie, where I was billeted, a note, dropped from one of the aeroplanes evidently, was picked up, bearing the message, "A present from Uncle: many happy returns." This was on April 1st, but as the only victim of the "raid" was an old hen, the "fool" can scarcely be described as having been a success. One bomb certainly succeeded in claiming the back premises of an estaminet, but this was the full extent of its day's work. We dug up a "dud" bomb in a newly ploughed field, which was at once taken apart and "flogged," as we term it, for a few francs by the finder. Its propeller now forms part of a lady's hat-pin.

Our journeys were now to ——, by no means a healthy spot, but there was too much interest attached to the job for time to think of the dangers lurking around.

We watched the church being shelled—twenty-seven shells in all were sent over by the Huns; but they did not get the tower, which, was, no doubt, their objective. The deserted village afforded considerable interest—the village pump standing over at an angle of 45 degrees, the unroofed houses and roads ploughed up with shell holes. The various notices on the doors, to be seen in every shell-shattered village, such as "Men must not linger here," "Out of bounds," etc., were hardly needed, for no one desired to linger any longer than curiosity prompted him. As I returned to my lorry, one of the R.H.A. batteries was just starting to make itself heard. Although at this time the guns were only 13-pounders, they spoke volumes, and to be a short distance away in line with the firing gun was as much as one wanted. On one occasion, when we went in advance of the gun-pits to dump the rations, a salvo was fired just as we approached the battery; a terrific flash came through the hedge, a matter of thirty yards away. We scarcely needed the order given by the battery sergeant to "halt."

Constantly we met parties of weary, wounded Tommies, walking cases, making their way to the —— Field Dressing Station, smoking and always cheery—no doubt thankful to get off so lightly: one had an arm in a sling, while he wielded a mouth-organ with the other. Those passing in the opposite direction on their way up to the trenches were a contrast. The only semblance of cheerfulness was a slight wink given from a very sober countenance. Their jaws set, there was no "Tipperary" here. The contemplation of what is to come precedes the indifference in the heat of battle, when the time arrives to go over the parapet and excitement is at its highest pitch.

I had many talks with fellows just out of the trenches, mud-clobbered and wet. One I recollect who had lost his mate beside him, taken by a stray bullet penetrating his forehead, his brains falling in his lap; the mud-plastered and blood-stained tunic, turned back for my inspection, showing the truth of the boy's statement. Such incidents, alas! are an everyday occurrence. Neuve Chapelle claimed an army almost in itself. One had only to see at railhead lorry loads of rifles twisted beyond recognition almost, with bullet holes through the stocks, in some cases stockless; blood-smeared and broken bayonets, which had done their work and whose period of usefulness had for the time being passed—all on their way to the Base, there to be sorted out, and, where possible, overhauled for further service; kits, which were hardly to be recognized as such, German knapsacks and accoutrements all mixed up in utter confusion with those of our men.

German prisoners we saw daily brought in. Yellow-faced as Chinese, due to lyddite or high explosive shells and gas fumes, which had changed the colour of everything. Big men, many of them, of fine physique; others spectacled, or puny little baby-faced boys, all bearing the same dazed expression of men who have been through "Hell's gates." This phrase I borrow from one who was in the first gas attack at Ypres. He was resting on account of broken nerve when I met him, having carried out no less than eighteen of his comrades, some never to recover, who had lain down oblivious of the gas being heavier than air, the communication trenches being choked with men who had dropped from the suffocating fumes. How many cases of "unconspicuous" and unnoticed gallantry occur almost hourly!

On April 24, 1915, we left this part of the line with many regrets. The forest of Nieppe is one of the most beautiful that I have ever seen; thickly timbered and with innumerable ponds and lakes in its interior was an easy matter to lose one's way, unless one kept to the paths. The length and breadth of the forest are twenty-six and five kilometres respectively. My temporary home was built by bending and crossing branches of nut-trees, the young foliage forming a roof or covering. Some fellows erected most elaborate bivouacs, approached by a pergola of nut-trees. Beside a railway level crossing near by was the grave of a Private, who was shot dead by a French sentry, through failing to reply to his challenge. This was in the days when parties of Uhlans were still in the locality. Nightingales sang at night overhead and frogs croaked on the ground as an accompaniment, the concert being at times interrupted by the bombardment of the guns, which resounded through the forest. The earth shook and the din reminded one of a number of traction engines travelling over sets, only louder; the sky was lit up by the gun flashes, intermingled with star shells. The batteries around were all in action from Fleurbaix to south of Béthune. This necessitated our moving about a great deal. On one occasion we left —— at 2.45 a.m. Taking the road to Béthune, which town was then under shell fire—several French soldiers and civilians were killed there during this particular night—from there we went on through Hinges, passing across former German trenches and over the La Bassée Canal. There were many graves of soldiers dotted about in the fields; one we passed by the roadside had received special attention, having been planted with rose-trees and evergreens.

After receiving directions from the battery quartermaster-sergeant, we made our way up the road to a moat farm, the road being screened by a wood, the interior of which was a mass of earthworks and fortifications. Desperate hand-to-hand fighting had taken place here; now, all was peaceful and quiet. Hundreds of crosses were dotted about the fringe of the wood, and the bodies of some of those who had fallen during the night before were being placed in their last resting-places. The road was lined on either side with tall trees, now clothed in young foliage, silhouetted against rugged timber which would never see the green on it again. A nightingale, oblivious of what was going on underneath, was singing as I walked down the road, in close proximity to the line. Having a few minutes to spare, I took a turning to my left, when a voice from behind a hedge demanded, "Where are you going?" "Just having a look round," I answered. "Well, I should come down if I was you." The voice came from the communication trench, and I about-turned, following the further advice of the man who had just come out.

The battery wagon lines were shelled that night and the camp had to be shifted, which was scarcely to be wondered at, for the field in which it was pitched, whilst we were dumping the rations in it earlier in the day, was under shell fire; several, screaming over us, had burst within a matter of a few yards from our dumping-ground. The battery being on the move, we took up a fresh position, this time at a little place near Béthune. I had a bed for the first time for many months, but was unable to sleep, owing, I suppose, to the sudden change from the hard floor-boards of the lorry to the softness of a box-spring mattress. Early the following morning shells were bursting in the town, and the strafe continued for about half an hour. Once again it was the unhappy inhabitants who suffered. Two women and a child were killed.

Our next delivery of rations was well within range of the German gunners, who had pretty well knocked the place to pieces; there were shell craters all around. We halted at a farmhouse for the night, and the following morning a shell carried away the roof of our improvised cook-house. Nobody, however, was injured. It is really amazing what good luck follows some of our men; they seem to have charmed lives. Three of the gunners while at —— were sitting in a garden, where the guns had been placed; a few yards divided them. They were chatting, seated on ration boxes, and a little peasant girl was amusing herself standing behind them, tickling the ear of one of the gunners with a straw. A shell burst directly in front of one of the guns. Two of the gunners were killed outright, the little girl was very severely injured, and the third gunner was simply knocked over by the force of the explosion, but absolutely untouched. The same man, on another occasion, was with the Commanding Officer of the battery, looking for suitable positions for guns, when a shell burst quite near them. Seeing an old French dug-out, the Major dived in and the gunner did so simultaneously. The result was a jamb, neither being able to get right in. The Major asked him where the devil he was going to. "Same place as you, sir," was his quiet retort. On another occasion an R.H.A. gun was knocked out by a direct hit. Parts of one of its wheels were found almost a hundred yards away from the gun, and pieces of it were scattered everywhere, yet an officer who was sleeping on the ground only ten yards from the gun was untouched. Towards the end of August 1915 the rumour "Batteries on the move again" came through, generally from the battery cook-house, where all matters, military and otherwise, are discussed. The 1st of September found us on the road again, this time to Corbie, near to which town the batteries had taken up their position on the Somme. To reach the wagon lines, where rations were dumped, it was necessary to travel along a road under enemy observation, along the Somme Valley, a beautiful part of the country. At that time we saw the French troops leaving this part of the line to make room for our men. The Saxon regiments were in the trenches just across the valley, their line being visible on the side of a hill. A distance of three hundred yards has to be maintained between each lorry on such roads, it being possible to only use this road after dark; no lamps were allowed on the lorries. This, of course, made driving exceedingly difficult, especially on one occasion when it happened to be a particularly dark night and a lot of horse transport was on the road. One could only judge the centre of it by the camber and listen for the jangle of chains, the only means of knowing when we near the horse wagons. That night a thunderstorm raged nearly the whole of the way to the batteries, the flashes lighting up the road at intervals and making matters even worse. One might as well have driven blindfolded as be dazzled by the lightning and star-shells. The risk of delivering rations at night being so great, the order was given to deliver in the early morning, trusting that the mist would hide the lorries as they travelled over the roads under observation. Very often such roads run between high banks on either side, and if one clambers up to the top (which, of course, must be done very stealthily, otherwise there is always liability to draw fire), a perfect view of the trenches may be obtained.

I took a walk with my glasses one day and found a more or less concealed position from which I could see both lines clearly, and traces of the German attempts to shell the road below, which were evident everywhere. Here it seemed was a veritable dumping-ground for their shells, which had been, however, used to no account. Many had fallen in the marshes—no less than thirty fell in an hour, prior to our arrival, nearly all in marshland within a small radius.

Our journeys were not without excitement; one, particularly, I shall not easily forget. We were first forced to make a halt outside Bray, on account of the very heavy shelling which was in progress at the time. During the halt we filled in the time by going round a very fine garden. The inhabitants having left, we regaled ourselves with some luscious pears which lay ripe on the ground, when suddenly a shell burst within forty yards of the roadside. We picked up a large piece, weighing seven or eight pounds at least. A few minutes later the order was given to continue our journey. This we did, although the shelling was still going on. It is an uncanny feeling, driving a motor-lorry along roads under observation or under shell fire.

Whilst at Corbie I paid a visit to a large woollen thread manufactory, which was still being worked, almost entirely by women—a staff of forty against four hundred men prior to the war. I don't think I ever saw such beautiful gardens as those which lay at the back of the château belonging to the factory proprietor. Carpet-bedding and elaborate borders, most beautifully kept, led down to a natural and intensely cultivated garden—lakes fed by the Somme, connected up by rustic bridges; weeping willows fringing the banks, and waterlilies floating on the water by hundreds. Such a contrast to the country only a few miles beyond, made ugly and desolate by war.

The lakes were full of fish, and many a good dinner I made off a pike boiled in white wine. The French bourgeois of the Somme district knows how to cook fish as I have never before tasted it.

Where I was billeted the worthy grand'-mère cooked my rations for me and supplemented them with delicacies which I had not tasted since I left England. Omelettes au rhum, confiture of any variety I cared for, was always made ready. Poulet en casserole frequently awaited me on my return at midday. So I lived royally, and it was a sad day when I had to leave such very charming friends.

Chapter XI

ALONG THE SOMME VALLEY

The move from Aire at the beginning of August 1915 was for the purpose of taking up a position to the rear of the most southern portion of the line that the British Armies then held, and for the time being the Division came under the orders of the 3rd Army. To reach this position entailed a move to some considerable distance for the cavalry; it was a three days' march, and necessitated the loading of their rations from two intermediate railheads en route and "rationing" at different points on the line of march. Eventually, we took up our quarters at the new railhead, on the River Somme, situated between Abbeville and Amiens, and here we found ourselves amongst entirely new surroundings—the beautiful scenery of the Somme Valley.

Those large lakes or tracts of water which seemed to stretch for miles gave splendid and, I should think, almost unsurpassed opportunities for swimming, fishing, and boating, which we were not slow in taking advantage of. The O.C. Workshops, who was, of course, equal to dealing with any opportunity for ingenuity that might arise, immediately procured some timber, and with the aid of his workshops staff, after working hours, produced in an incredibly short space of time the most ideal and comfortable 24-foot Thames punt imaginable—not to mention its accompanying boat-hook, pair of paddles, and plush cushions, all of which emanated from the same source. The punt was the envy of the entire Division, not to mention the French inhabitants for miles around; from it we bathed and fished daily throughout those summer months.

During August and September the cavalry were again given some spells of trench fighting, for which they gained the thanks and appreciation of the General Officer Commanding the 3rd Army. These spells in the trenches gave the Supply Column some very long runs, with which were mingled a certain amount of excitement, for the road was not infrequently under shell fire.

Taking up convoys of motor lorries with rations to the R.H.A. batteries was also a job not entirely devoid of interest and excitement at this period. The batteries were in action at various points of the line due east of Amiens, around which towns the lorries with rations had to pass to reach them. Amiens is a picturesque and interesting town. It has one of the most beautiful cathedrals in France, and its inhabitants being naturally anxious that it shall not share the same fate as Rheims, have taken the precaution of barricading it with piles of sandbags, which if the worst came to the worst would at any rate, to a certain extent, save the adornment of its exterior—porches and the like—from utter destruction.

On these occasions we used to off-load the rations at the wagon line of the battery, to reach which it was necessary to travel along roads that were anything but healthy. One road which we frequently used was particularly unhealthy, and was seldom safe, except after dark, for transport of any kind. This was the long open road leading from the village of Bray-sur-Somme towards Suzanne. The German gunners had registered its range accurately, and no transport was allowed along it in daylight without a special pass or permit from the Divisional Headquarters. We frequently took convoys along it by day, however, without any mishap of any kind, always taking the precaution, of course, to keep the lorries a good two or three hundred yards apart from one another. Taking these precautions, the possibility of a shell putting the whole convoy or any part of it out of action is reduced to a minimum.

Bray was a particularly interesting place—now, alas! much shattered through heavy shelling. The main road running through it is a steep hill, from the top of which, just before entering the village, was to be obtained a most beautiful landscape view, in which was included the lines of British and German trenches, which could be distinctly seen from this point on a clear day with the naked eye. At this time our —— Army had just taken over from the French an additional bit of the line north of the Somme and east of Albert, which stretched approximately from Hebuterne in the north to Carnoy in the south, and at these points our trenches linked up with those of the French. So, passing through the villages in this district, it was not uncommon to find khaki-clad British Tommies in one village and blue-clad French poilus in the next, each out of the trenches for a few days' rest in billets. A small village full of French troops, dressed in their looped-up-at-the-knee greatcoats of that wonderful pale blue which is the colour of the service uniform of the French Army, and with their blue anti-shrapnel steel helmets—the mass of colour vying with the blue of a summer sky—presents a wonderful picture. The colour of their uniform is, in fact, officially designated le bleu d'horizon, and is, I believe, particularly indistinguishable at a distance. If there was a shortage of anti-shrapnel helmets in the British Army in 1915, there was certainly none in the French. Every soldier seemed to have been provided with one, even down to the old Territorials employed in repairing the roads in the lines of communication; and the gendarme fifty miles behind the line would wear one, presumably for the same reason that a miller wears a white hat. The British variety, which is of a pale sea-green colour, round in shape and with a flat brim, and frequently has a home-made cover of drab sackcloth, is certainly not so beautiful either in shape or colour as the oval French casque, and reminds one rather of the head-dress of a Korean. It is heavier, and, I believe, has proved itself more effective in actual practice, than the French type, as a protection against shrapnel bullets.

This was our first view of French troops en masse. First-line regiments of the French Army are composed of men of fine physique and sound discipline. It would be ridiculous to discuss their qualities as fighting men: one has only to think of Verdun. Their equipment is extremely heavy; they never seem to march in step; they attack with extraordinary "dash," and they "get there" every time. Their artillery, so largely composed of the famous soixante-quinze guns, is incomparable. I remember at Lillers, in 1914, seeing batteries of these 75's on the move and passing through the town one after the other continuously for seven hours.

There is one thing which differentiates Monsieur le Poilu from Mr. Thomas Atkins in the matter of smartness, and that is that the former will not shave himself regularly. Tommy, on the other hand, no matter under what difficulties he is existing, is always well groomed and has a clean chin.

I have already referred to Bray. Amongst the little towns of interest on this part of the front is Albert. It is possessed of a large Byzantine church, which is reported to have taken fourteen years of labour to build and fourteen minutes of shell fire from the Hun gunners to destroy. Surmounting the church tower is a large gilded statue of the Virgin, holding in her arms the Holy Child. Glittering in the sunshine, it must have been a good target, and for some time has hung suspended in mid air, almost at right angles to its original position, having been displaced by shells. It bends over the almost deserted streets of the little town, which has suffered so sorely at the hands of the enemy, in an attitude of benediction, and presents a picture which cannot but impress one. The superstition amongst the inhabitants is that the day on which the statue falls to the ground from its present position is the day that the war will end.

This is perhaps the place to add a few words on German "Kultur," of which so much has been heard and written, and the nature of which, after investigation and the careful sifting of evidence, has been proved up to the hilt by competent committees. I have myself seen what remains of the large church at the village of Doulieu, near Estaires. Doulieu was formerly in German occupation; its church suffered no damage from shelling, but had been destroyed by being used as a crematorium, for the Germans placed in it many of their dead, and, having saturated it with petrol or paraffin, set it alight. Its outer walls, blackened by fire, now only remain. A friend of mine on one occasion got into conversation with a German officer prisoner, who spoke excellent English, having resided for some years in London. My friend, discussing the war with him, remarked: "Your army has played a pretty dirty game in Belgium." The Hun replied, "It would certainly appear so, unless you have heard our side of the story. It must be obviously a difficult matter for an invading army to operate in a hostile country, and in one which has been so wickedly wronged at that, and has a just grievance. Stern disciplinary action in regard to civilians must be essential, and this has led to calculated and systematic brutality."

It will be within the recollection of many that Christmas Day 1914, on certain parts of the line, notably where the trenches opposite ours were occupied by Saxons, was observed as a day of peace and a temporary armistice was unofficially agreed on. Soldiers of the opposing armies climbed over the parapet, and it was reported, though I cannot vouch for the accuracy of the statement, played a football match in "no man's land" at one point on the line. I do know that one regiment of London Territorials exchanged presents with "brother Boche," a jar of ration rum being thrown over to the Saxons, who returned the compliment by a roll of barbed wire, of which, an accompanying message said, they had reason to believe our fellows were short at the time. Since then, however, times have changed, and subsequent events have put a stop to anything of this kind. In fact, strict orders on the subject were issued just before Christmas Day 1915.

Towards the end of September our railhead was "moved up," this time to Doullens. The Indian cavalry were in "close billets" and "standing to" under an hour's notice to move. During the days and nights immediately preceding the attack on Loos, the bombardment by our guns of every calibre was terrific and incessant; it seemed to never stop, day or night, the continuous deep reverberating boom. The air trembled, window panes thirty miles behind the line rattled in their frames, and at night the sky was lit up by the flickering of the gun flashes. One wondered how men could live in such a hell, for as such its effects can only be adequately described. Such a bombardment is the essential prelude to an attack by infantry, and the transport of the immense amount of ammunition that is necessary to keep the guns fed is a task which devolves on the Army Service Corps.

The system adopted for transporting and issuing ammunition to the guns is to all intents and purposes a parallel to that for transporting and issuing rations to the troops, which I have described in a previous chapter. The "Ammunition Parks" of motor-lorries are to the guns what "Supply Columns" are to the personnel. The lorries comprising an ammunition park are loaded up from the ammunition train at railhead, and off-loaded to the limbered horse wagons of the Ammunition Column, the function of which corresponds to that of the horse train in the Supply scheme.

But to return to Doullens. It is a small town, boasting of nothing of great interest, but was at one time in German occupation; only, however, for a matter of days. The inhabitants will tell you that the Germans, contrary to custom, did not treat them badly during their stay; they paid for their billets and everything else they had, making no civilians prisoners and exacting no money from the population. Doubtless, however, they would have done so had their departure not been of necessity a hurried one.

Shortly after the attack on Loos had been made, the cavalry were again sent back to their former billeting area, no opportunity for cavalry fighting having presented itself. It was sad indeed to see these fine troops, superbly mounted and in perfect fighting trim, marching back from the front, useless for the time being in the general scheme of things.

Any descriptive account of the Indian Cavalry would be incomplete without mention of its veteran Rajput warrior, Lieut.-General Sir Pertab Singh. He is in a sense the raison d'être of the Indian Cavalry. Over seventy, short, but as alert and erect as a man half his age, he has literally lived in the saddle, and is a born fighting man. "'One charge, one bullet' sums up his philosophy, and it is not a bad one to live up to in these times," remarked a writer in Blackwood's recently.

Sir Pertab, before leaving India to come to France with the Indian Cavalry, made over his principality to his descendants, in the belief that he would never return to his native country. He is frequently to be seen—his breast covered with the ribands of many decorations and medals—amongst his regiment, the Jodhpur Lancers, and his wish is to lead them into action, charge and "pig-stick the German brutes," as I believe he once expressed it. Writing of him in 1897, Winston Churchill, in The Story of the Malakand Field Force, remarks: "The spectacle of this splendid Indian Prince, whose magnificent uniform in the Jubilee procession had attracted the attention of all beholders, now clothed in business-like khaki and on service at the head of his regiment, aroused the most pleasing reflections."

So history repeats itself twenty years later!

Chapter XII

BETWEEN THE ANCRE AND THE SOMME

In previous chapters I have referred to the intense bombardment which preceded the attacks on Neuve Chapelle and Loos during 1915. Looking back they seem as nothing compared with what our artillery has been able, thanks to the munition workers at home, to treat the Huns to in August, 1916, a bombardment audible very far back from the scenes of action. At, say, nine o'clock one night the guns will suddenly start: one man turns to another and remarks, "There must be a strafe on to-night." The guns continue without cessation, till perhaps just as daylight is stealing across the sky they stop for a time abruptly. This may signify that at this very moment the infantry are over the top, or parapets, of the trenches at the particular point where the attack is being made. More names for the Roll of Honour, for "Somewhere in the universe, God's awful dawn is red."

Newspaper correspondents at the front have recently, in a sense, come into their own: they have been granted more latitude in writing and allowed to see something of the show. It is good that this should be so, both from the point of view of the fighting-men themselves and also that of the people at home. Much has, therefore, appeared in the Press and elsewhere on the subject of the advance north and south of the Somme, and for this reason there remains little left unwritten, so far as the actual fighting and the scenes of its surroundings arc concerned.

On many occasions, in the course of duty, I have had the opportunity of going over a good deal of the ground captured from the enemy in the great Allied push which started on July 1, 1916. It almost baffles description. Without actually seeing the results, it is difficult to realize the pulverizing effect of continued and heavy artillery bombardment.

In this sector, such villages as Contalmaison, Fricourt, and Pozières, to mention only three, have literally ceased to exist; the fact that there have ever been villages in these particular spots is indicated only by their names on the map and heaps of debris and rubbish. They are not like such places as Ypres or Arras, where still here and there remain standing a few forlorn-looking bits of outer walls and the skeletons of destroyed houses. To give one instance, the curé of a village in the Somme district, after it had been taken from the Germans, sought leave from the British authorities to be conducted to it in order to see if it were possible for him to recover any of the possessions, or relics, of his church. The privilege was duly afforded him, and thither he was escorted. Unfortunately, however, he was quite unable to find either the church, his own house, or even his way about "the village"; but then, as the officer remarked who told me this story, all these things were scarcely to be wondered at, for Monsieur le Curé had only spent forty years of his life there! I give this story to indicate what is the state of the land over which this heavy artillery preparation has been necessary in order to dislodge the Hun and destroy his ramifications.

The impression of the whole scene of the captured ground (July 1916)—or, at least, that part of it which I have seen—remaining in my mind is an undulating plateau extending as far as the eye can see. In more peaceful times it was perhaps arable land. Now it is arid and dead: nothing grows there, not a blade of grass; even the trees of such woods as the Bois de Mametz do not boast of a green leaf—they are splintered and torn down by shells. Those that still stand are withered and brown, the results of continual high explosive and gas shells. It reminds you of nothing so much as land which is suffering from the effects of very severe volcanic eruption, for it is everywhere pitted with craters and shell holes of all sizes and depths. On this plateau are quantities of transport wagons, limbers, and heavy draft horses, their bay coats shimmering in the sun; these are the wagon lines of the many artillery batteries that are operating in the sector. As you proceed along the road, which runs through it, you will note that it crosses more than one line of former trenches which have been wrested from the enemy at great cost.

At the point of the road-crossing they have been filled in. Almost all along the road are well-constructed old German dug-outs, many of them spacious, dug a considerable depth into the bank on the side of the road and surrounded by layers of sand-bags. They must have taken considerable time and labour to construct, many of them being a series of cellars, connected by passages, at least fifteen or twenty feet deep. If you care to climb down into them, frequently you will come upon sights which are, to say the least, gruesome. There is a cold, clammy feeling in the air in some of these dugouts; they reek of death. Some have been luxuriously fitted up, walls plastered and papered; traces of electric wiring and lamp fittings and stolen French furniture and beds are still visible. I have before me a scrap of torn and blood-stained paper, part of a leaf from a Field Message Book. On it is written the following, which it is just possible to decipher. It was picked up in a dug-out in the old British line, north of the Somme, over which British troops have advanced:

... high state of efficiency. An important section of these operations has been entrusted to this battalion, and the Commanding Officer feels sure that every one belonging to it will rise to the occasion and "do his bit" for the regiment and his country. A man, no matter what his position, who sits down or otherwise idles when he ought to be working, is failing both one and the other.

No doubt the remains of an order issued by the C.O. of a battalion in a tight corner, with perhaps a difficult job ahead to accomplish and an important part to play in the "Big Push." There is no signature or clue which would enable the writer of this inspiring human document or the regiment referred to in it to be identified. Perhaps his men obeyed his order and with him have earned their discharge and joined the great majority. To see the captured ground and its network of trenches and dug-outs is to realize what a tremendous achievement it has been on the part of British troops to dig the Huns out like rats from their strongholds and drive them back, and what artillery preparation must have been necessary to break down their defences. In passing, there are also the other rats, and the shelter afforded by dug-outs is shared by men and rats alike. It is scarcely necessary to add that the latter are a veritable plague, not only in the trenches themselves, but behind them as well. There is a story—I cannot vouch for its truth, though it certainly has a Bairnsfather touch about it—of an officer commanding a battalion who received orders from his Brigade Headquarters to "render a return" to that office by such and such a date, stating the number of rats in the trenches occupied by the unit under his command. The nature of his alleged reply I have not, however, heard. It is better, no doubt, left to the imagination. The Army lives on "returns." Every unit in the field, no matter under what conditions it is living, has to "render returns" on at least a dozen different things each week. In that most priceless little book of wit, which contains so much that is in reality true, The Young Officer's Guide to Knowledge, we find that "a return" is a document sent to a superior authority and comprises lists of persons or things in your charge. This document, quite contrary to what you might suppose from its title, never returns to you, unless the person to whom you have sent it thinks it requires attention. It is probably called "a return" for this very reason, as it is the most unlikely name for it, and so cultivates a taste for the eccentric in the Service. Returns are always being "called for" by somebody. You must be prepared to "render" these "returns" at all times at a moment's notice, e.g. "the average number of men who have had sore feet between January 1st and April 1st."

But to return to the scenery between the Ancre and the Somme.

Cunningly hidden away at different points, the guns will make their presence constantly known to you. Here a battery of ugly-looking howitzers is loosing off salvos into the Hun trenches, and a little further along, perhaps, a 6-inch gun by the roadside will every now and then belch forth a sheet of flame, as with deafening row it throws a projectile, weighing about 100 pounds, screeching through the air, which explodes perhaps five or ten miles behind the German lines. Guns of every size, from the 13-pounders of Royal Horse Artillery batteries to 12- and 15-inch Naval guns, can be seen and heard pounding away at the enemy when a big strafe is in progress. No one appears to pay any attention to these deafening distractions. Adaptability to circumstances and surroundings is a cardinal principle of war.

It is amongst such scenes as these that the Army Service Corps motor-lorries roll up as usual with their loads of rations for the personnel and horses of the guns. A little way behind a battery, it will be noted, is a bivouac. It is the improvised mess of the Gunner officers, and here you may meet these priceless desperadoes discussing "direct hits" that have been recorded to their guns by the observation officer ahead, narrow escapes and recent adventures amongst "Grannies," "Crumps," "Whiz-bangs" and "Heavies," whilst they consume delicacies from Fortnum and Mason with the utmost sang-froid and complacency, merely remarking that they hope the Huns won't strafe them to-night! They are totally unconcerned with the dangers that are constantly lurking around; thus does familiarity breed contempt of even Death itself.

Now and again one notices roadside groups of the graves of German soldiers, all of uniform size and design. They almost invariably consist of a wooden cross about 3 feet high, surmounted by a little oval-shaped roof or shelter, to protect them from the weather—to such lengths in thoroughness do the Huns go and so far do they see ahead! Painted a grass-green colour, they are strangely out of keeping with the present hue of the soil and of vegetable life, so conspicuous by its absence. On each is painted in white characters the name and regiment of the man whose memory it perpetuates. This follows some such inscription as "Hier ruht in Gott" or "Unserem gutem Kameraden dem," etc. Not far from them are groups of British graves. The inscriptions on two plain wooden crosses that I noticed have particularly lingered in my mind: "Here lies a British soldier. Name unknown. Devon Regiment. He died fighting." The second, the epitaph of a horse: "To the memory of my dumb pal, Queenie. Killed in action, July 6th, 1916," gives an insight to the character of the British soldier and his love for the animals that work with him.

In the sky is an irregular line of watchful captive observation balloons for observing officers. In the language of the front they are known as "sausages," from their similarity in shape to that domestic commodity. Away in the distance is another line of stationary balloons of almost similar shape, for the Huns, also, are not unobservant. The barbed-wire cage, a temporary home for recently made prisoners, is always an object of interest; and everywhere one notices salvage parties clearing up and collecting together the quantities of waste metal, spent ammunition, accoutrements, etc., which litter the ground. Piled up at various points are stacks of empty shell cases, which by their size indicate the enormous quantity of ammunition that is being used by our guns in their work of pulverizing the German trenches and fortifications. Every one is busy—the newly won ground is being cleared, positions are being consolidated, roads are being made up, telegraph poles and wires erected, standard-gauge railway lines are being laid down. Whether at the Base or the trenches, war is carried on methodically and with the regular routine of a factory. It would appear to have become an institution. The whole war zone is linked up with a telephone system which compares favourably with that of London.

Along the road one may encounter parties of prisoners being marched back from the line, and occasionally little groups of wounded being helped towards the ambulances. So much for the ground taken from the Huns in the Great Push of August 1916.

To turn for a moment to another part of the line. From the gaunt and shell-shattered tower, which stands a landmark for miles around, on the summit of Mont St. Eloi I have looked across "the Labyrinth," as it is called, and watched the shells from our batteries beneath explode in the German trenches, or amongst their wire between our trenches and theirs, known as "No Man's Land." It is an amazing and uncanny sight. Not a single sign of life, not a single human being, is to be seen; only the results of human and mechanical activity are visible. The guns below loose off with terrific noise, then in the distance there is a dull and heavy thud, as a huge solid-looking mass of black smoke suddenly rises up in a cloud from the ground and remains a few moments before gradually dispersing. To the right can be discerned the battered towers of Arras, and between this point and the trenches is the little village of Maroeuil, which nestles hidden away in a hollow and has been scarcely affected by enemy fire. There, crimson ramblers still blossom and roses flourish in the gardens, now almost choked with weeds, of its deserted cottages.

Sights like the view from the top of Mont St. Eloi bring home to one the fact that modern methods of warfare are accompanied by few scenic effects or dramatic spectacles. War, like its results, is invariably ugly. Engineers and chemists have made it so by their ghastly appliances and materials, which have put the open fighting of former days on horseback out of the question. Cavalry charges, as portrayed by Lady Butler, are indeed a thing of the past. A few machine guns, suitably concealed, could hold up squadrons of advancing cavalry. The only human element left is the infantry charge, with fixed bayonets. To be killed by the explosion of a shell or asphyxiated by gas, miles behind the line, cannot be described as a heroic death—it is not even fair on the individual who so meets his end. He is not in a position to combat his invisible enemy; sometimes he has not even a sporting chance of escape from an attack which he is powerless to combat or avert. Is it, then, to be wondered at that men living under such conditions, namely, in places which are periodically or continuously strafed, become fatalists? They cease to worry, take everything that comes as a matter of course, never knowing when their turn may come.

Not infrequently we have taken convoys by night to within a matter of a few hundred yards of the line. The absence of lamps and travelling along bad and often narrow roads make slow speed imperative and the utmost care in driving essential. The only light available is provided by the moon and the many star-shells over the trenches, which seem to light up the whole horizon, and remind one of so many shooting stars, or a pyrotechnic display at the Crystal Palace seen from a distance.

Convoying along roads which are in view and under observation of the enemy, even by night, is as exciting as it is a fascinating game, for even if the convoy is, by the absence of headlights, to all intents and purposes made invisible, the enemy is able to assume from their geographical positions what roads are of strategical importance and being made use of for transport purposes to the trenches. He may at any time train a gun on those particular roads, on the off-chance of bagging a convoy, or at any rate of making the road in question so dangerous as to necessitate it being put out of bounds for transport, thus making the approaches to the line more difficult and fewer in number.

Was it not Field-Marshal Sir John French who, some years ago, while speaking of "Night Operations," remarked that "the darker the night, the more inclement the weather, the better the exercise"? "Strong words of comfort these," says The Young Officer's Guide to Knowledge.

Chapter XIII

FROM ARRAS TO ALBERT

In the preceding chapters I have endeavoured to narrate a selection from many and various episodes, disconnected, perhaps, due to the omission of details of long periods of enforced inactivity or hum-drum daily routine, during times spent miles behind the line, rationing the cavalry in such places as the neighbourhood between Abbeville and Le Tréport on the seacoast. In this area our second Christmas was spent, and the cavalry were billeted in winter quarters far from the scenes of action, waiting, always waiting, for their chance. Then we moved up again and settled down to our usual duties, seizing the opportunity of putting our house in order, and for the time being carrying out the work with the use of one echelon of motor-lorries only. The other echelon was refitted, thoroughly overhauled in the workshops, and all the lorries were given a coat of fresh paint, so that by the beginning of April they looked brand spanking new, in keeping with their springtime surroundings. During the spring and early summer nothing of importance occurred. The cavalry were continually being shifted from one billeting area to another, but always within the same neighbourhood, not so much for strategical reasons as for the purpose of making room for new Divisions of infantry from home and on their way up to the line. Cavalry, it will be readily understood, has, under existing circumstances, had to take quite a back seat on the Western front. As usual, the R.H.A. batteries attached to the Division were almost continually in action, and the cavalry regiments supplied a constant stream of "digging parties," not only for reserve trench digging, but chiefly for assisting in mining operations from the front line trenches, such operations not being carried out without casualties.

The job of rationing the personnel so engaged and of moving them from their billets to the trenches and back, or from one part of the line to another, as occasion required, devolved, of course, on the motor lorries and entailed a fair amount of work, including a good number of all-night jobs on dangerous roads. During this time the Column was parked near Arras, on the main roads leading thither. Dusty is not the word for one of these on an August day, but it is straight, broad, and of good surface, wide enough in many parts for three lines of traffic.

So time went on, and during July and August 1916 we surveyed "the big push" from a little village not far from Arras, marking in daily on the large-scale map which hung on the wall, with red pencil, the villages captured from day to day, and the advance of the British and French line on the Somme. The nearer one is to the front, the less one knows of the news. The men in the front line trenches know nothing, except what has happened in their immediate vicinity, and even then they are not able to form an opinion of its relative importance, in comparison with what has happened elsewhere, of which they know nothing. Further back there are two sources of information: one is "rumours," on which some people thrive. There are fresh rumours every day, and they invariably contradict one another. The other never-failing source of news is the Paris Continental edition of the Daily Mail, which reaches the uttermost parts of the front by teatime daily and is well worth the 15 centimes usually exacted for it, and universally looked forward to daily.

All day long and often all through the night there was a hum of aeroplanes in the sky; fleets of them seemed to be always rising from the flying-ground, a neighbouring village, departing on bombing raids and reconnaissance flights. The Germans knew of this flying-ground, and occasionally one or two stray Taubes managed to reach Savy at a very great altitude and drop a few bombs, which usually landed in the cornfields—the invaders being invariably driven off by British machines and anti-aircraft guns. Doubtless they returned home to report the complete and utter destruction of the aerodrome! Nevertheless, the few and far between visits of the Hun planes caused a certain amount of interest and excitement during the course of an otherwise dull existence.

Wondering always how soon or if ever our Division would be called on to play a part in the advance, we received quite a shock when one day, towards the end of August, the entire —— Indian Cavalry Division was sent back to ——, only however, for a matter of a week. Here the Division put in some manoeuvres and field-days, and immediately after things began to get a move on at last. A little town, near which the week was passed, nestles comfortably in a hollow at the foot of steep hills, and possesses a large and beautiful cathedral, of Gothic architecture, with a very decorative west portal. Its interior is bold, and, unlike that of many such churches, has not been spoilt by the addition of tawdry decoration and gilt paint. From the top of its square tower can be seen a magnificent panorama of the surrounding country. Incidentally, it contains a life-sized beautifully carved wooden crucifix, in which the detail is marvellous. It is said to be the most perfect example of its kind in the world. The story goes that an American offered to pave the church with gold if he were allowed to take it away. I do not know how true the story is, but, needless to say, his offer was not accepted.

The initial move towards the line —— for the Column was to ——, the first railhead from which the troops were rationed on the line of march. Being quite near Doullens, the country was very familiar to us. From there we moved to the environs of Amiens, a new railway recently laid by Royal Engineers being made use of for the supply train, whilst —— was railhead. Around here the country is flat and covered with cornfields; by this time the harvest was just gathered in, and on these fields the whole Division, including, of course, the Supply Column, bivouacked for the night. What a wonderful sight was the arrival of the cavalry that evening, miles of mounted men marching from all directions to the huge camp. Every one was optimistic; the air was full of rumours. At last, after all the weary months of waiting, the hour was soon to strike. Cavalry was at length to have a "show." French, British, and Indian Cavalry Divisions were "going through." On the 14th we packed up and were on the move again and bivouacked for the night on the roadside just short of ——, which was our railhead the following day. A sudden move is no light matter! More fortunate than other branches of the Service in the matter of carrying capacity, A.S.C. motor-lorries, when loaded up to their utmost capacity with rations and forage, do not offer as much accommodation for the carrying of kits and mess gear, though, as might at first sight appear. With matters properly organized, and after a little practice, it is quite possible to arrive at the resting-place for the night, and within an hour of doing so the men's cookhouse is set up and dishing out hot tea and rations—bivouacs and tents are in course of erection, the officers' mess tent is pitched, and dinner is being served. All is accomplished in an incredibly short space of time, even in pouring rain.

However, during these moves we were particularly lucky in this respect, for not only was there no rain, but we were favoured with a very bright full moon.

During the night of the 14th and the following day, cavalry was to be seen on the line of march across the country—massed cavalry marching towards a point of concentration. Towards evening we got orders to pack up at once, and later that night we arrived at Albert, pitching our tent by the side of the main Amiens-Albert road. All night long our guns just ahead were bombarding, whilst enemy artillery was by no means inactive. We could see their shells bursting over Albert and the other side of it, like huge balls of fire in the sky. In front and on each side Verrey lights, which linger about thirty seconds in the air before falling, lit up the whole horizon. There was, in fact, a "proper strafe" on that night.

The following day, the 16th, in company with some ten other Divisions, we refilled the lorries from the supply train, which, however, did not arrive till the early hours of the following morning. I was continually reminded of my first visit to Albert, over a year before, and which I have referred to in a previous chapter. Then it was deserted, except by a very few French civilians, who, in spite of periodic shelling, still remained. They were still there in September 1916, and mostly made a living by selling such provisions to the troops as they were able to obtain—and goodness knows how the supplies ever reached them. Scarcely any troops were to be seen there at the time of my first visit. Now, more than a year later, it was a hive of activity, and the town was literally packed with troops and motor-lorries, a constant stream of traffic passing through its streets and along the main roads leading into it—loaded supply and ammunition lorries and wagons going up, ambulances full of wounded and empty lorries coming back. Cavalry horse lines and troops bivouacked in almost every field on its outskirts. A far greater number of vehicles passed any given point in an hour than would travel along Piccadilly during the same time at the height of the season. Motor-ambulances, the most frequent users of the roads, passed to and fro constantly in streams—towards the line, very fast; on their way back, very slowly, laden with wounded, British soldiers and German wounded prisoners alike receiving the same care and attention, each man with a label or ticket pinned on to his coat, giving particulars of his wounds and recent medical history. The more severe, lying-down cases were in ambulance cars; the slightly wounded in motor-char-à-bancs or empty lorries, all the latter with a Blighty smile, as it is called, if they were fortunate enough to have got off with a slight wound which would send them home. It is really marvellous how the wounded are bandaged up at the first-aid posts and field dressing stations. I have stood at a first-aid post and watched the R.A.M.C. officers at work. The post is usually just behind the trenches and indicated by a Red Cross flag, visible from a good distance. The wounded make for this flag, and one sees them, some walking, others crawling, coming from all directions towards it. It is a pathetic sight; even sadder is it to see those who do not survive, but eventually succumb to their wounds, perhaps on their way to the field dressing station.

Close to our camp a battery of big howitzers was loosing off in the direction of Thiepval at the rate of about two shells per minute. It was only one of many within a radius of a few miles, and all were equally active. Later in the day the Column was moved off the main road and parked in a narrow street. I have previously described the hanging statue that surmounts the church tower. It was still in the same position as it was a year previously, and to the minds of many the most striking and wonderful sight of the war.

On the afternoon of the 16th I went out with the convoy and delivered the supplies, as usual, to the cavalry, who were still bivouacking in fields around Albert. Returning to Albert, we stopped for two or three minutes on the road to pick up a few men on the empty lorries. They were carrying their rifles and packs, and being bound for the same place as the convoy, naturally got a lift. As matters turned out, it was rather fortunate that the convoy did halt these few minutes; the slight delay probably saved us. We proceeded on our journey, and when about a kilometre short of Albert there was a terrific crash, and the town was momentarily hidden from view by a huge black cloud of smoke and dust. The Huns had put a "crump" right in the middle of the town. We pulled up, and as we did so, crash went another as it burst on an already demolished house by the roadside just ahead of us. The air was thick with smoke and dust. A good many troops that were on the road at the time dived headlong into the nearest dug-outs. Several more shells whistled over and exploded. Fortunately, there was a small turning at right angles to the road, almost exactly where we had stopped. Up it we were able to run the lorries one by one, and thus turn them round in the opposite direction. We then proceeded home by making a detour into Albert, leaving the road that was being shelled to its fate. Reaching our camp, we found that some twenty or more shells had dropped all around it, and more on other parts of the ruined town. Several landed within a few yards of the lorry lines, one beside the men's cookhouse. Fortunately, there were no casualties amongst our men or lorries. One unfortunately exploded in a bit of ground where vegetables were growing, and thus deprived us of cabbages: not one was to be seen the following morning. The shelling lasted from 7 to 8.30, and at that hour the episode ended. The Huns, by way of letting us know that they were still there, had a little evening "hate" regularly at this hour every day. We were indeed lucky to get the convoy turned round and safely away, for almost on the very spot where we had pulled up when the shelling started, some limbers were knocked out a few minutes after we had got away, three men and several horses being killed. After all, the Hun gunners could scarcely be blamed for sending over a few "five point nines"; doubtless they were quite friendly towards us personally, but the column of lorries was parked midway between a large ammunition dump and a battery of our own guns. No doubt it was these latter that they were searching for. During the whole of that night the British gunners returned the compliment, and all the batteries in the sector seemed to loose off continually. Sleep for us was almost out of the question, as the shells whistled over our bivouacs. "Whistle" is the word, I believe, usually employed in describing the sensation; as a matter of fact, the noise of a shell passing overhead is more comparable with the screech of an express train passing through a railway station.

Sunday, 17th, was a gloriously fine and sunny day, and during the morning a Taube circled around very high, but was quickly chased away by our 'planes. It was very seldom that an enemy 'plane was able to remain for long over our lines or behind them. The number that our airmen brought down, and the hot reception which invariably awaited the invader, were the simple reasons. Fifteen hostile machines were destroyed on the 15th September, nine others being driven down in a damaged condition.

During this period, smoke helmets and gas goggles were invariably carried, and anti-shrapnel helmets always worn. The Native Cavalry soldiers looked strange in this form of head-dress, after seeing them in the familiar turban. All wore them except the Sikhs, whose caste does not allow them to completely cover their heads and their long hair. This is never cut, and is tied in a kind of bun on the top of their heads, and would, of course, make the wearing of the helmet a matter of impossibility in any case.

Our time for loading at railhead was usually about midnight, and at about this hour on the night of the 17th the weather changed, and the heavens began to pour forth rain and continued to do so throughout the night. We were not the only Division to be loading at the time, and the chaos of traffic in the pitch-black darkness and pouring rain can only be described as appalling. The amazing thing is that accidents and collisions between lorries are of such rare occurrence; their almost entire absence is due to the careful handling of the vehicles by the drivers. To back a heavy lorry up against a railway truck in the dark without damaging the tail-board or trying to knock the train over requires care and much practice. During the night a few shells came over; they fell in a field at the far side of the railhead yard, doing no damage. The change in the weather had evidently upset the Hun gunners. It had been very cloudy in the earlier part of the evening of the 17th, and they had even omitted the usual hour of "hate," except for a salvo of shrapnel shells, some half-dozen or so, which went over Albert and burst on a brow of a hill beyond. No doubt they were trying to strafe the guns, which from that direction had been firing at them continuously all the previous day and night. Loading being finished, we got back to our camp and between the blankets at 4 a.m. Fortunately, we had by now been issued from Ordnance with a few bell tents, which we pitched alongside the entrance to a dug-out. A subterranean gallery, some forty or fifty yards long, ran underneath, and opening out of it were several spacious dug-outs—some of the best I have seen; as good as many German ones, which is saying a good deal. The whole earthwork was dug deep into the chalky soil, its perpendicular walls wire netted; it was roofed with stout tree-trunks, and laid across these were sandbags. It was conveniently situated for us to beat a hasty retreat into when the shells became too frequent and fell sufficiently close to make us wonder how much nearer the next might come. This dug-out was behind a row of shell-shattered and deserted small suburban houses, and extended under the back gardens of some of them, now all joined into one. These had evidently once been well stocked and cultivated gardens, as there were the remains of strawberry beds and patches of all the domestic vegetables. Our mess cook was not long in discovering and picking enough spinach for dinner one night, and a patch of thriving young turnips provided the vegetable courses for several days following. What, one wondered, would be the feelings of the unfortunate owner of one of these houses should he one day come back to find his garden connected by subterranean passages with those of his neighbours? Incidentally, there is little to be seen above the surface of the ground to indicate the existence of the large cellars and passages underneath.