Chapter IXMR. THOMAS ATKINS AND THE FRENCHAs 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 narrowpavéstreets for the last time, the civilian population turned outen masseand 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, thedebitants 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 thegarçonat a certain café on being asked for avin 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 chevauxandhuile pour les cheveuxare 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 theentente, 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 wordcompris, 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 istrès cher, or to thechef de garethat 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 Frenchpoilu, 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 abrasserie. The next thing to be done was to gain admittance to thebrasserie. 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 thebrasseriebell 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 themairie, 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 convoyen 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 thebelle 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 XWITH 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 thestrafecontinued 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 worthygrand'-mèrecooked 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 XIALONG THE SOMME VALLEYThe 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 railheadsen routeand "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 Frenchpoilusin 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 designatedle 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 troopsen 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 famoussoixante-quinzeguns, 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 theraison d'êtreof 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 inBlackwood'srecently.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, inThe 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 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 narrowpavéstreets for the last time, the civilian population turned outen masseand 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, thedebitants 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 thegarçonat a certain café on being asked for avin 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 chevauxandhuile pour les cheveuxare 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 theentente, 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 wordcompris, 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 istrès cher, or to thechef de garethat 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 Frenchpoilu, 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!
Taisez-vous!Méfiez-vous!Les oreilles des ennemies vous écoutent!
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 abrasserie. The next thing to be done was to gain admittance to thebrasserie. 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 thebrasseriebell 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 themairie, 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 convoyen 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 thebelle 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 thestrafecontinued 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 worthygrand'-mèrecooked 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 railheadsen routeand "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 Frenchpoilusin 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 designatedle 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 troopsen 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 famoussoixante-quinzeguns, 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 theraison d'êtreof 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 inBlackwood'srecently.
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, inThe 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!