SILHOUETTES OF MARS W.G.PETERSON l*. A /3o UfiSfi HBRARt ON ACTIVE SERVICE SERIES SILHOUETTES OF MARS SILHOUETTES OF MARS MAJOR W. G. PETERSON, D.S.O. Late the Royal Canadian Regiment and Royal Highlanders of Canada LONDON: JOHN LANE: THE BODLEY HEAD NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY Printed, by Miller, Son et- Co.. Fakenham and London. To MY FATHER As To ALL MoGiLL MEN WHO GAVE THEMSELVES IN THE WAR. PEEFACE THE following sketches, products of various moods, wore written In many quite different places trench and hospital, camp and barracks, mess-room and billet. Yet as all these are avenues or side-tracks of war, so it is hoped that the same connecting link will be found visibly stringing together the former. They are BO bound in the writer's mind by his admiration of the men who won the war, the British private, from whatsoever part of the Empire he came, and his junior officers more particularly of such as wore the kilt 1 Of these "essays," five have already been published in the University Magazine, Montreal, and one in that of Christ's College, Cambridge. UNITED UNIVERSITY CLUB, LONDON, Qth October, 1919. CONTENTS PAGE I. THE LOST LEGION ... 1 II. THE FIELD TELEPHONE SPEAKS . 9 III. THEIR VILLAGE . . . .16 IV. PARIS LEAVE . . . .21 V. THE BURGOMASTER OF DICKEBUSCH 29 VI. A VISIT TO ARRAS ... 49 VII. IN HOSPITAL .... 56 VIII. SIGNA SEVERA .... 64 IX. PASSCHENDAELE .... 74 X. AVE C^SAR IMMORTALIS ! . . 86 XI. AN INTERLUDE OF WAR . . 125 XII. THE BATTLE 136 XIII. THE LAST NIGHT . . . .143 XIV. MONS, 1918 152 XV. BILLETING IN BELGIUM . . .158 XVI. DIARY OF A JOURNEY FROM ARRAS TO COLOGNE IN THE FALL OF 1918 169 XVII. CITIES OF THE SOUL . . ,185 XVIII. A MILITARY FUNERAL . . . .196 XIX. THE CITY OF FRIENDS . . . 200 XX. OF NEWSPAPER BOYS . . . 209 XXI. "KiT INSPECTION" . , ' .217 XXII. ROSES OF PICARDY . . . 237 XXIII. THE GAS ATTACK . . . .244 XXIV. To THE UNKNOWN DEAD . . 254 XXV. RETROSPECT OF WAR . 259 SILHOUETTES OF MARS SILHOUETTES OF MARS i THE LOST LEGION WE had dreamed of war ; now we lived amidst its realities. We had often read of battles ; now, at last, we fought them. The Oxford don, learned in the latest theory of the true inwardness of the battle of Marathon, gave his mind to planning a trench raid which should be better than the other fellow's. It seemed months since that hot sunny afternoon in August when we marched off from our Surrey parade ground to a bourne at which even the Brigadier could only vaguely guess. So much had happened since then. In reality, it was only a fortnight, but already we had looked upon our dead. For war had gripped us swiftly, pulling off his mask and suddenly disclosing the hideousness of the face beneath. One night upon an ancient highway death had spoken out of the darkness swiftly, mercilessly, with no chance of retaliation. Back in rest billets we had counted our losses. Strange to think that the friend who had shared your blanket upon the stone floor of a cellar in Ypres a short twenty hours ago would never ask for anything again. The papers were right then ! This is war ! 2 Silhouettes of Mars Slowly, half dazedly, the battalion, which had never moved before save circumspectly to the sound of whistle or long drawn-out word of command, adjusted its mind to the new conditions. The flinty stones of the Belgian roads hurt its feet in the fre- quent treks from one night's rest to another. This is war. But the sudden hardships were more than counter- balanced by the novelty of it all ! The windmills, the Flemish farm-houses, the long straight roads with the lofty poplars on either side we had never seen any- thing like this before. Surely the horrors of which we had read must be far removed from these quaint towns and smiling orchards. One would have thought so ; but we knew. None who has been there will ever forget the first few days at the front. They will live daily in the memory for ever, vivid, bright-hued, though it be with the colour of blood or of the poppies which grow scarlet in the fields and disused trenches around Ypres. Looking back, they seem to be more than half of one's life. Each incident, and there were many such, stands out clear-cut in cameo -like relief. Do you remember, my friend, that reconnaissance we made together the first time we were in the trenches ? How you stopped to talk to a mere General while I, pushing boldly past, wandered up a sap ? At the head there was a periscope; and through it, under the tutelage of a friendly N.C.O., I had my first glimpse of the enemy, or rather of the enforced habi- tation thereof. Then, in answer to my low call, you sped the General on his way in peace and came to me, stepping delicately the while with those long legs The Lost Legion 3 of yours over the interjacent obstacles. You too had a " look see," and expressed entire contentment with the view. Did the thought cross your mind that perhaps now we might go home in peace ? Strange to think now of the fascination held by the first view of that scarred line of dirty grey soil and broken rusty wire for those eyes which were to close for ever amid the thunder of the Somme ! One knew how he met death, even though not there oneself. There had been an incident some- what similar already in his life. German shells falling along a front line trench in Flanders, and a Company Commander who rushes out of his dug-out to see that his men are safe. Re- assured on this point, a laugh and a joke for the unique fowl, which was to have been the chief feature of a marvellous dinner, flung high upon the top of the wrecked company kitchen. Comedy. German shells dropping along a front line trench in Picardy. A Company Commander who rushes out of his dug-out to see if his men are safe. A whizz- bang pitches right at his feet. Tragedy. The two were strangely mixed in that life, as in this war, but through them both there run the same grand loyalty and devotion to duty. He lies at Contay ; the most gallant soldier and the very greatest gentleman whom any of us will ever know. But the Somme was not yet for us and new faces appeared from England to take the places of the old. Fresh friends were made and old ones found again. Men last seen in Canada were discovered in other divisions of the corps. One found again the regiment which he had left at Bermuda, upon the ramparts of Ypres. It was curious, moreover, to 4 Silhouettes of Mars see how the personal peculiarities of some came more and more to the front under the conditions of active service. Jones, who was darkly reputed to be some- thing of a poet himself, could always be trusted to produce a book or magazine from the depths of his pack, so if you could find the candle you need not go to sleep too soon. How convenient again of Patterson always to carry around with him more kit than he could ever possibly need even for a second Hundred Years War, so that a lost trench coat could always be replenished from his ample store 1 Over it all was an atmosphere of fellowship and open-air health. Some there were, however, who were fit neither physically nor spiritually to be mem- bers of the British Expeditionary Force. Useless to expect to command others when one cannot com- mand oneself. These, however, did not last long. For the younger ones among us the novelty of the life was its great attraction even though they did not phrase it to themselves thus. There was so much that was new to be done and seen. Even the ordinary routine of life took on a fresh colour of romance from the new surroundings. Life in the back areas behind the trenches and on the lines of communication approximates more nearly to that depicted in the novels of Stanley Wey- man than anything else on earth. The solitary cavalier riding on duty through the sunny land of France comes at evening to some ancient town. He rides at sunset through the gate-way, and at dusk of the short wintry day reaches his lodging in some inn. His horse is stabled in the courtyard along with others. Then dinner in the long low wains- coted salle a manger, the light of the candles reflected The Lost Legion from the keen ruddy faces of the diners, officers from perhaps twenty different regiments. Then a night's sound sleep in bed. Up betimes in the morn- ing, to ride off after a light breakfast. So rode d'Artagnan when he was here ! Then the bustle, confusion and excitement of it all ; the sights to be seen on the roads ! Imagine the quiet of some little Flemish village behind the line broken by the blare of a military band, all the remaining inhabitants turning out to see an Ontario battalion marching through to the strains of the " Marseillaise." The regular soldier took a quiet professional joy in seeing all the paraphernalia and frillings of war laid out for his inspection on a scale previously undreamed of. All this may be the lighter and brighter side of war, but the ability to appreciate its picturesqueness goes far to sustain us when confronted with the reverse side of the shield. But it is the other memories that will dwell with most of us for ever. Memories of friends whom we were never to see again, though unwittingly we bade farewell to them casually, as if for an afternoon. It is of the boys who will never come marching home that those of us who survive will always think, when- ever in the happy years to come the great war is mentioned the boys who have " gone West " ; further West than Canada. God grant that they have reached those western isles, the islands of the blest ! The death of battalions at the front is, however, worse even than that of individuals to those who survive. There were two battalions in the Canadian Army Corps which went up the slope of the Vimy 6 Silhouettes of Mars Ridge on the 9th of April, 1917, with the knowledge that what might be left of them when the day was over would be broken up to make room for fresh units from Canada. Theirs was an austere devotion like unto despair. Such things are not conducive to that esprit de corps which lies at the base of all military organisation. It is treachery to the memory of these young heroes whose bodies, clad in the uniform of the regiment they loved so well and for which they died so gloriously, lie far within the German lines. You know the story of Kipling's and the pity felt by the Sikhs for the sahib who, though a soldier, was without a regiment. What shall they answer in Valhalla when asked the name and number of the regiment for which they gave their lives so gladly ? We who survive feel that the strongest link with our dead is broken in our hand. For we are all that is left of the Lost Legion and we are scattered throughout the army the one not witting where the others are. We are bound together, however, by the fine cord of memory, for together we first entered upon the great adventure. And what memories they are I For the Lost Legion before it disappeared from the Army List had served in each of the three great theatres of war of the Canadian Corps Flanders, Picardy, and the Artois. We can remember together Ypres gleaming white in the moonlight like a dead city of romance, and the quaint Flemish country-side known equally to our forefathers in the days " quand Malbrouck s'en va-t'en guerre." Together we marched down to the Somme and saw from afar the great golden Virgin of Albert, which still stands bent but not broken, above the plain of The Lost Legion 7 Picardy. To some of us the greatest contrast our lives have yet furnished has been to pass in a single day out of the noise and fury of the battle of the Somme to the majestic mediaeval peace and quiet of Amiens Cathedral, set in its quaint old square. Then the winter shut down on the armies and for long we saw no further than the Vimy Ridge. Bleak and grim it lay across our path through the long months of snow and rain limiting the vision of those who clung like ants to its side, to a few yards. Bleak and hostile it looked in the grip of an iron frost, but when the snow fell it grew strangely familiar to Canadian eyes. Then the spring came. The barrier was broken and we emerged upon the promised land. To-day, in June, the writer came back from the trenches across the Vimy Ridge. It is a beautiful summer's day. In La Folie wood the birds are sing- ing and the grass is dotted with flowers, red, white, and blue. Bright-winged insects fly past one's head. Only occasionally does a shell now burst on that ground once daily so rent and riven. Pausing on the top of the ridge one has a view of the whole theatre of the surrounding war of the rolling plains of Douai scarred with the white chalk seams of the trenches of the opposing armies. In the distance Lens and Avion are burning. Here is peace, and birds and flowers. This is a view which few of the Lost Legion have ever seen, though many of them died to realize it. As I came back I thought of these, of our Bayard our knight sans peur et sans reproche who sleeps by the Somme ; of the gallant boy who fell here gloriously leading his men that bleak February day ; of many others. 8 Silhouettes of Mars And it seemed to me that they were all around me, that once more I marched in the midst of the legion that was lost. And I knew that all was well, that the legion was not really lost, that such a legion could not be lost for ever, and that somewhere, sometime, per- haps beyond the sunset and stars, the " Assembly " will surely sound for us again. II THE FIELD TELEPHONE SPEAKS SEEST in daylight Watling Street was not a thing of beauty ; was, indeed, emphatically all that a properly constructed communication trench should not be. It lagged far behind the regulation dimensions for such things, in respect of both breadth and depth. Perhaps it had never been built to conform to them ; or per- haps again it was, but had been almost immediately battered out of every likeness to its original plan by the German artillery. Certainly it bore no resemblance to the broad spacious Roman highway, from which presumably it derived its name, save that it too had been constructed as a passage-way for troops. In this very similarity of function, indeed, lay the greatest incongruity be- tween the two ; an incongruity best expressed by saying that whereas the original, after the lapse of centuries, could still sustain the stately march of the legions, the more hasty construction of a later war had become, within a month of its completion, an object of malediction to every unfortunate working party that had painfully to make their way along it in single file. Even the telephone wire had been lifted out of the trench to run above ground, despite the risk of shell-fire. Only the old German wires were left, twisted congeries of various coloured threads, sagging and drooping underfoot from both walls of 10 Silhouettes of Mars the trench where they had been torn from their staples. Narrow it was, yet shallow, combining the maximum of inconvenience with the minimum of safety to the hardy voyager who attempted to follow its tortuous sinuous course. More than one full-bodied brigadier, pursuing his bustling way to the front line, was said to have stuck fast between its clammy sides until extricated by his staff and foisted heavily to the realms above, henceforward to continue his journey along the berm. Lesser men habitually disdained it, preferring the overland route. And, indeed, this was the best course, for in places the trench was hard to distinguish from the debris of the surrounding fields. Here, both sides had caved in and their fall had rendered the trench impassible ; there, it had widened out and merged into the surrounding shell-holes, like a stream that has overflowed its banks. It resembled an Earl's Court switchback, up here, down there, so that at one moment the wayfarer was lost to view, while the next he would emerge visible from the ankles upwards, fair mark for a wakeful sniper's bullet, as he strove to surmount a mound of earth where the trench had fallen in. It was a journey up hill and down dale. Elsewhere the trench in summer resembled a country lane, for, owing to its comparative disuse for reasons above stated, wild flowers had overgrown both its banks and stretching out towards each other formed a mass of blooms, cornflowers, poppies, even wild roses, through which the hasty traveller had to force his way, his passage being clearly marked by the agitation of the foliage above his head, as if The Field Telephone Speaks 11 he were voyaging up some virgin off-shoot of the Amazon. When on a night like this, however, the full moon hung low in heaven, it threw a silvery glamour over what was merely crude and ugly seen by day. The dirty white chalk of this trench in Picardy turned to marble, and the shadows of poppies in the wind seemed like the swaying of palm-trees on a tropic shore. The discarded rifle and battered helmet became relics of an older, knightlier, more romantic war, and the broken rusty wire some web of elfish weaving. A Company Headquarters stood in the trench not far from its junction with the front line, and the moonlight, as it fell down the sodden steps of the dug- out, mingled with the light of the guttering candle within. The Company Commander was sitting on a rude wire bed of enemy construction writing a letter with his knees for a desk. On an upturned wooden box beside him stood his field telephone. From time to time the officer looked up at the instrument as if he knew that it would ring sooner or later. He was expecting a message from the Adjutant about some rations which had not yet reached the company. The Company Commander closed his writing tablet and looked up at the telephone. He was very tired, and it struck him that here was an opportunity to snatch a little sleep. Everything was in order in his sector of the trenches save these confounded rations and he could do nothing to hurry them up. The senior subaltern was on duty, the rest of the company officers asleep in the next dug out. If the telephone rang it would awaken him, or the runner standing outside the entrance would hear. He called 12 Silhouettes of Mars to the soldier and gave him instructions to rouse him if the bell rang, then, resting head on hand, closed his eyes. The last thing he saw as he did so was his telephone. The light from the flickering candle threw dancing shadows on the walls of the dug-out. Once he turned, and half opening his eyes looked at the telephone as if he had heard it ring. It stood on its box, a little squat black thing, save where the moon fell on the steel parts of it, with its black tentacles trained along the wall and passing up the steps into the darkness of the trench outside. Though silent for the moment it had a sinister look of waiting, as if to say : " Yes, I am here your master. You never knew me before you came to war. At home I was merely a necessary drudge in your business, a slave of your every whim, a convenience for the use of your wife in assembling her dinner parties. Here it is different and our positions are reversed. I am the master, you are the slave." The mouth of the telephone appeared to have grown in size, to have become a well of inky depth ming- ling with the black fantastic shadows on the walls. It seemed to fascinate him, to be drawing him to- wards it, to be engulfing him. " Here am I, the modern voice of Mars, able with my tinkle to summon his votaries, and you my ser- vant, more loudly and quickly with the very noise of battle than ever did clarion or bugle, watchfire or beacon. And you can never escape me, you who are sworn to my service, or refuse to listen to me, when I call, and to do my bidding, for I am with you by day in dug-out and billet, and at night I sit by your bedside The Field Telephone Speaks is and the thought of my voice disturbs your rest and mingles with your dreams." The man on the bed stirred uneasily in his sleep, but the telephone went on : " I am with you always, whether templed in state at headquarters with a room given up solely to me and my companions, tended by acolytes with the blue and white band of my service on their arms ; or whether you worship me alone by night in a little dug-out in the front line where I can stand up straight, but you perforce must bend before me when you wish to have speech with me. " To whom do you turn save to me in times of sudden peril when the panting runner falls into your dug-out with news of the attack ! Then my voice wakes those of my other servants, the guns, in swift retalia- tion and all is well. Or perchance it is not, and then I give warning to others, sound the alarm. You do not know whether I have spoken well or ill, and yet your life and trust depends upon my answer. If my voice sounds clear and distinct and speaks in time, to you come the guns ringing you round, as you cower in the trench, with a safety curtain of steel, the friendly barrage. Speak I ill or late and it is the Hun who comes. Do you see his grey-clad figures rising above the parapet ? " Again, my servants carry my missives hither and thither at top speed and great doings wait upon my word to start. " You take great care of me, as well you may. When I am injured anywhere throughout my length, you send my best attendants forth to find the place and mend it if they can. At all times go they forth, even when death rains thickest on the ground ; 14 Silhouettes of Mars and if they return not again, why then you send others and if need be yet again others till I am whole. For I am your hope of victory." The noise of laughter and men talking came from outside, but it did not wake the sleeper. The candle was burned out now, but the moon still shone. It was not yet " stand to." " Generals are my servants, and in the great hours they do naught but commune with me, clasping me to them, holding me tight to one ear while they muffle the other so as to hear me alone. I am alike the friend and the curse of subalterns. I crawl with them through sap and along trench. I go with them, paying out my length across no man's land, close behind the thundering reeking barrage. I am first into the captured trench, and it is my voice that proclaims it ours to those that wait behind. Men have died clutching me, spending their last breath in the effort to talk to me and I, I have not always chosen to hear. It is I who give news of victory, and the sudden ceasing of my voice is often alike the first warning of danger and the final presage of disaster. I am Life, I am Death. I am Victory, I am Defeat. I am all that the brain and science of man can devise to make certain an event and yet a thing of chance. For I am War." There came a sudden commotion in the trench without, mingled with the crash of shells in front. A runner, out of breath with haste, steel helmet gone from his head, his kilt caked with mud, stumbled down the steps of the dug-out. It was nearing dawn and the V6ry lights were pale against the growing greynese of the sky. The Company Commander awoke with the ringing of the telephone bell in his ears. The Field Telephone Speaks 15 The panting runner spoke. " Sir, Mr. Jones says that they've blown in the para- pet in two bays and " " Which ones ? " He was wide awake now. " K3 and K4, sir." The Company Commander seized the phone. He did not appear to hear its ringing. But when he took up the receiver the nicely modu- lated voice and crisp intonation of the youthful adjutant first met his ear. " That you, old man ? The C. 0. wants you to detail an officer, a sergeant and four other ranks to attend a lecture on Christianity in war at Warloy to-morrow at What's that ? " " Damn," said the Company Commander, " they are shooting up K.3 and K.4. Put the battery on, will you ? " He stood and waited, till the swish of out-going shells overhead told him that his request had been attended to, then seizing his trench stick and helmet turned to the door. The telephone rang again and, cursing, he went towards it. " Is that enough, old thing, or shall I ask the L. O. to give you another fifteen per gun ? All right. " Oh, about those rations. I am afraid that we shall not be able to get them up before to-morrow night. But I will ring you up later. You don't see any Boche about, I suppose ? Well, ta-ta." He rang off. Was it a trick of a late moonbeam on the steel cap of the telephone, or had it really winked at him ? ( 16) in THEIR VILLAGE THE cross-roads had certainly been the centre of the village's life, while the village yet lived ; the biggest heaps of ruins are near-by. Now the whole village lies prostrate, in form a rough parallelogram, around the cross-roads. Perhaps this mound already overgrown with grass, and crowned with a litter of broken pottery and bits of twisted iron-work which stick out from amidst the nettles, was once the mairie ; that other, there, the auberge. Here, at evening, when the day's work on the fields or roads was done, the inhabitants came to sit at the little trim round iron-tables and drink a glass of wine together and gossip pleasantly, while the children played around the edges of the square, or on the doorsteps, which were not then overgrown with weeds. No children play in the streets to-day, or have done for these three long years ; or, if they did, it was before we came and must have been in fear and trembling. The village has no life of its own to-day, though it stands on one of the great highways of France. An alien soldiery tenants its ruins and cellars, and the moon, as it comes out of a late afternoon, must won- der where these mild revellers have gone. A field dressing-station is housed among the most imposing pile of ruins at one corner of the otherwise Their Village n deserted square. The Red Cross flag, stuck on the highest part of the building the top of one of the door- posts proclaims its mission. The sick and wounded lie on stretchers, underground, in its roomy cellars. The village stands in the middle of a valley which runs north and south. The valley is bounded by a long ridge on one side and by broken heights and fertile fields on the other. In the distance rise the gaunt towers of an ancient abbey, a landmark for miles around. A little stream runs through the valley, choked and diverted throughout much of its course by shell- holes. Close by the village it runs smooth and deep, however, for a little ; and here at all hours of the day and evening the English come to bathe themselves in peace, like Pisan soldiery, for there is none, save them- selves, to see. It is easy to picture the life of the village, because it must have been so simple. It stood in the valley for centuries, almost within sight of the " dreaming spires " of Douai and of Arras. Day after day the men would arise and go to work in the fields and the women busy themselves with housework. Then at night there would be a welcome from the little populace in the square to the home- coming carts. Some one would read aloud extracts from yesterday's Paris paper, with news perhaps of the war in the Balkans. "Chut! Chut!" the wise- acres would say. " What have we to do with war, and what do the Serbians matter to us ? " and call for another glass of vin blanc or rouge. Then, at six o'clock precisely, monsieur le notaire, he who lives at the chateau beyond the village, would drive through on his way back from his office at Douai, and is Silhouettes of Mars perhaps give the loungers in the square news later still. " Good luck to you, monsieur le notaire, your house still stands, though the windows are shattered and your library is not in good repair ! Moreover, the furniture is broken and many of the pictures are missing. Perhaps they are in Berlin ! " Ah, we cannot tell you about your office and the law-courts at Douai. But your house for many years has given shelter to the headquarters of many British brigades, and we should be glad to meet you in the flesh, we, who so often have sat at your hearth and, by the light of the guttering candles, gazed up into your kind old face surmounting your black frock- coat, above the fireplace. Kind, despite that Ger- man sword-cut 1 " No, it was not we who burned your barns and out-houses for fire-wood." Then on Thursdays many went marketing. Arras was nearer, but probably things were cheaper at B6thune. To get to Douai one would have to cross the ridge. You can picture the old family voiture crawling a black speck along the road, smothered in white dust, in the morning sunlight, towards Bethune. Neigh- bours, perhaps about to start themselves, would shout greetings from the outlying farms, which link village to village, as it passed. There were cattle, then, which lowed in the fields, and young colts which frisked and cantered, or stood leaning their long faces over the hedges to watch the travellers go by. There would be a day of great doings and vast ex- penses in the market square of the old Spanish town, under that tower which seems like a shadow of Their Village 19 the Escurial set up amidst the sunny fields of France. Then the drive home in the early evening, when the light was beginning to fail and the stars hung low above the black shadow of the ridge. There would be excitement and little laughters at their purchases. Had Marie really paid only ten francs for that neck- lace and surely Pierre did not need another pipe 1 And all the time the Ridge would block the sky to eastwards. Home again, they would look once more at what they had bought and then seek their beds, after prayers to the crucifix on the wall. And the moon- light would come in at the windows, and the soft scent of the new-cut hay, of the lilac, and all the night fragrance of that country-side in summer. To-morrow they would be up before the morning sun- light had filled the room. The younger ones perhaps called the life uneventful, and wished for something to happen to break its monotony. Peaceful indeed was their existence, each quiet day followed by its quieter night in one long tranquil never- ceasing round. Their lives began diversely in the different little whitewashed houses, thatched or tiled to end, all alike, in the village churchyard. The church stood on a knoll in the centre of the village and the churchyard lay around it. It seemed very enduring and orderly, as if set up for ever in the faith of the country-side. Surely those who had found their haven here might rest in peace. So the father must have thought, as passing the gate, he looked in at his parents' graves and shrewdly calculated that there was yet room for himself, his wife, and his 20 Silhouettes of Mars children possibly even his children's children in the family plot. But over it all was the Ridge, and its shadow was black on the country-side. Pregnant with fate was the Ridge to many in far lands who had never yet heard its name. Surely it looked ominous and forbidding, even then when there were yet trees on it bearing branches, and with leaves on the branches. For the Ridge knew what lay behind it. And because of the Ridge, and of the terror that was to come over it, it was not to be. But no one in the village guessed that this remote country graveyard would ever be ploughed through and through with German shells, its stones, torn and uprooted, to be flung cracked and splintered to posture indecently for all. That these quiet dead would yet arise, before their time, to greet the fresh dead, their sons and grandsons, and the peaceful order of their last rustic resting-place be turned into a hideous chaos of splintered stone, twisted iron-work, and up- ploughed fearful earth. Only the Ridge knew what was behind it and waited for its coming. To-day the village is dead and a broken shattered corpse. Those of the villagers who creep back to unearth their little savings buried in the soil of their kitchens have first to remove the wreckage of their homes before they can reach the ground. House is confused with house and garden runs into garden, in the common soil which is the country for miles around. To-day the village is the sign-manual of the great beast that is German war. (21) IV PARIS LEAVE THE advantages, if any, of the above proceeding are hotly debated at the Front. " Why go to Paris when you can go to Blighty ? " asks one school of thought. The idea strikes them as absurd. The answer is that one never knows when one may go to Blighty, that one may make a hurried exit there any day. Why not then take advantage of one's temporary position out here to see life and Paris? So it comes about that a minority of pleasure seekers continue to visit the French capital, if only to prove to themselves that there exist in France boulevards as well as communication-trenches, hotels besides dug-outs. Safely returned to the bosom of their unit, they affect superiority : Paris is all very well for once, but next time and every subsequent next time give them home ! Slowly and reluctantly the train, one of these rustic affairs, a cross between a real train and an electric street-car, pulled out of the station and started to chug-chug its way towards St. Pol, at the rate of ten miles an hour. There were no doors to the car- riages and no glass to the windows, so that the cool autumn breezes could wander in and play with the knees of the Highlanders. Never was there a more dismal method of starting out upon a holiday. 22 Silhouettes of Mars Every now and then the train stopped, apparently to regain its breath. These arrests usually took place in the midst of ploughed fields. Once, how- ever, it selected a place immediately opposite a large canteen of the British Expeditionary Force. Im- mediately there was a concerted movement out of the train and into the canteen. Fifty different com- mercial transactions were commenced simultaneously with the harassed staff. Suddenly some one discovered that the train had gone, had in fact sneaked quietly away with none of the snorts and grunts with which it had previously never failed to herald its intention of getting a move on. I would like to know the balance of profit and loss in the books of that canteen. An impromptu Marathon along the railway track at once commenced. One by one the competitors reached their goal, and climbed or were hauled into the train. At last there were only two in the running, a Brigadier and a subaltern. The Brigadier was one of those youthful old-boys, and ran well, but was obviously not in the same condition as his opponent, who had got away to a late start. Still he had a good lead and struggled gallantly to maintain it. The thing became quite exciting. Heads were poked out from both sides of the train and bets freely offered against the Brigadier, who, with his face as red as his gorget patches, was now steadily losing ground. They reached the last carriage together, though the Brigadier was obviously all in. Perhaps the sub- altern was in the Brigadier's brigade and was aware that the other knew it. In one last gallant effort to spring upon the step, the Brigadier tripped over his own spurs which, quite contrary to dress regulations Paris Leave 23 and clothing allowance even to brigadiers when travelling by train, he wore over a pair of top boots of the most nutty nut-brown shade. He was got on board at last, his late rival being particularly solicitous, and dusted down inside the train. Then there were tales of the Brigadier's youth. One of the advantages of Paris leave is the ability to break the journey for a night at Amiens with its wonderful cathedral. There is plenty of khaki in the streets there, but on the whole sky-blue is more predominantly the colour motif than in Paris. It is nice to drink coffee in the beautiful little walled garden of the Hotel du Rhin, which has changed its proprietor since the war but not its name as in- deed why should it, for the Rhine is as much French as German ? It is strange to sit in the new Officers' Club, and hear once more all the old place names of the Somme, and get the gossip from the line beyond Bapaume ! Next day on to Paris in the Boulogne-Paris ex- press, which is full of officers British, French, Portu- guese, Belgian, Russian, and American, in a kaleido- scope of uniforms. One resolves to study the rank badges of our Allies so as to be able to determine whether it was a General who offered one a cigarette or merely a sous-lieutenant. One's first impression of Paris is strangely reminis- cent of London seen under similar conditions. There is the same long-drawn-out approach through streets after streets of houses, culminating in the same vast ill-lit station. There is the same crowd at the barriers awaiting the return of their menfolk ; the same diffi- culty in obtaining a taxi. This latter obstacle over- come or circumvented, the Red Caps satisfied that one 24 Silhouettes of Mars really has a right to be in Paris, and you are free of the city. Your leave has begun. Paris in September, with the first few brown leaves beginning to swirl down upon the streets, with the heat of summer melting into the cool of autumn, is very lovely. The boulevards are crowded. Every second man you see is in uniform, and nearly every French soldier has the Croix de Guerre or of the Legion. It is not yet too cold to sit outside the Cafe de la Paix and watch the passing crowd on the Boulevard des Italiens. This is the real panorama of the Allied armies that flows past your chair. This is the real distinction of Paris, the number of foreign uniforms that it con- tains. The French, of course, predominate, but to nothing like the extent that the British army does in London. Every shade of " bleu horizon " is to be seen here, from the blue-black of the Chasseurs Alpins to the lightest shade of April skies. Infantry, cavalry, artillery, engineers, they pour past by the hundred. Then there are Belgians, familiar in London, not too uniformly clothed, but with their little coloured tassels hanging down in front of their forage caps. Portuguese in grey, cut on the lines of our own uniform but with the French kepi. Tall Russians in their smartly cut abbreviated smocks and breeches of various shades of green, with bright rainbows of ribbons across their breasts. Soft, hatted Australians, Highlanders, troops of the line all are there. Perhaps the smartest of them all are the French flying men in their blue and black with the silver laurel wreath on their breasts. It is the Americans, however, who are at present Paris Leave 25 the lions and novelty in Paris. They are everywhere. Either the percentage of leave allowed from American battalions is very high or there must be an immense American army somewhere in France larger than the Germans care to admit. Tall, youthful, slim, with their closely-fitting khaki tunics w T hich one hears have been in many instances remade by English tailors one cannot remember ever seeing finer look- ing troops. They are just now the most popular strangers in Paris, with the exception of " les Ecossais " the kilt has a unique and never-failing attraction for the Parisian, and still more for the Parisienne. Regular or Reserve or National Guard, they will give a good account of themselves. The most strikingly individual corps in Paris are the different orders of the Red Cross ambulance drivers. The majority of these are Americans, serv- ing with the French or Belgian armies. Each man gives one the impression of having chosen his own uniform, and of endeavouring to show by the varied nature of its composition, firstly the nationality of the forces with which he is himself serving, and secondly his practical realization of the fact that these forces constitute part of a larger international whole. One American youth in an English officer's jacket, without the rank badges of course, a Belgian cap and sky blue puttees, particularly took my fancy. He also wore a white hunting stock round his neck. Unquestionably the thing best worth doing in Paris is to pay a visit to the Invalides that hospital built by Louis le Grand for his old soldiers, veterans of Flanders and the Artois. The museum of arms and armour, dating from far back in French history, has overflowed into the great courtyard. Here is 26 Silhouettes of Mars massed together a whole Hunnish armament, quick- firers, bomb-throwing trench mortars, monstrous Krupp guns the fruits of victory in the Somme and Cham- pagne offensives. Cheek by jowl with these, going up the steps, one passes the antique cannon which Charles of Bourbon, High Constable of France, dragged against the walls of Rome. And so we pass on to the inner shrine of him whose spirit, purged of its egotism, surely breathes on France to-day. Perhaps you have visited Napoleon's tomb in peace-time, to look in company with a few tourists at the last resting-place of the great Emperor. You may then have hurried away to complete the round of sightseeing. Now it is very different. Here to this shrine come soldiers from all the armies which are to-day fighting the battles of that cause of which France has always been the reckless standard-bearer. From Ypres to Verdun they come to look upon the Great Captain. Here comes the Russian, forgetting the humiliation of Moscow ; the Englishman regretting that of St. Helena. Here comes the youthful American soldier to gaze with clear young eyes upon him whom he may have been taught to regard as a " militarist," but whom he feels perhaps that he understands better now. The wounded poilu comes here, and standing rev- erently at the brink gazes down upon the magnificent sarcophagus of porphyry which contains the remains of Napoleon. Here he lies, winged with the names of his victories and girdled with captured Teuton ban- ners : as he wished to rest on the banks of the Seine among that French people whom he loved so well and who stand fast in his memory to-day. Paris Leave 27 And the soldier of France, down-gazing, smiles to himself. The golden eagle of Austerlitz soared to heights where the black eagles of the Hohenzollerns and Hapsburgs could never have lived. This is the great disproof of the boastings of the enemy, even upon his own chosen ground. For this was the greatest soldier of them all, to whom the choicest products of the Great General Staff would have been but as marshals or chiefs of staS, his Berthiers and Ber- trands. The main note of Paris to-day, as of all France, is the military one. The life of the " Quarter " is dead. Far more than in London have the normal lives of the place been thrown out of gear. Any description of Paris to-day must be one of a city given over wholly to soldiers. Many of the big hotels, such as the Elysee, have been turned into hospitals. The wounded and convales- cent are everywhere, on the boulevards, in the Bois, in the parks of Fontainebleau and Versailles. There seems to be less grumbling than in London. Ten days in Paris admit of visits to Versailles and Fontainebleau. As one passes through these ornate rooms, with their memories of the Grand Monarque and of Napoleon, one muses furiously on the per- mutations and combinations of history. At night, motoring back to the city, one is stopped at the barriers and scrutinized while the great search- lights flit through the sky in the hunt for enemy air- craft. Ten days are soon finished, and the return journey comes in the nature of an anti-climax. One is glad, however, to have seen Paris in September, when the summer heat is melting into the coolness of autumn, 28 Silhouettes of Mars when the first leaves are falling ever so gently, not with the dry whirr that comes later, down upon the boulevards, as if tired of affording shade to ungrate- ful man. Or perhaps they know that he will soon need all the sunshine he can get. Above all, one is glad to have seen Paris in war- time. THE BURGOMASTER OF DICKEBUSCH (N.B. This tale disclaims all historical accuracy.} IT was the great Retreat and the first battalion of the Campbell Highlanders were in it, as they had been in the thick of the fighting after Mons. Dazed and tired they struggled along the flinty Belgian road. Many a man was asleep in the ranks, but borne up by the shoulders and elbows of his comrades, with his feet still mechanically trudging on. Gone was the swing of the kilts ; gone, too, save in a few instances, the jaunty cock of the Highland bonnets. In these some had placed scarlet poppies, plucked from the surrounding corn-fields with their petals half blown away ; and, as all Scotland knows, the poppy is the emblem of death. Certainly the wearers seemed to be thereto dedicate. Even the pipes were still ; which was probably just as well, as right and left on parallel roads moved long grey columns of German infantry. These, some miles away, had failed to notice the British regiment, or seeing them with their tartans covered with the dust, which was rising in a steady cloud from the road, judged them to be long-coated infantrymen like themselves and pressed on with the pursuit. On his side Captain Jack Macdonald, now in com- mand of the battalion which numbered few more 30 Silhouettes of Mars than the company he had originally taken into action, had serious misgivings. As he sat on his horse at the head of the main-guard, he was wondering whether he ought not to attack and measure his handful against eight times their numbers. A curi- ous sensation this, to be part of the infantry of the German advanced guard. Or should he carry on in peace, if he could, until the line of a general resistance was reached ? A stand ! Could there be such a thing after what he had seen ? As he pondered this, he felt a touch upon his leg. Young Gordon, who walked beside him, his self- appointed adjutant, was trying to attract his atten- tion. " What is it, Billy," he asked. For answer, the boy, one of the few subalterns left in the battalion, pointed ahead to where in the middle distance the spire of a church rose from out of surround- ing gardens and corn-fields. " That's Dickebusch in front," he said. " Yes, and Berlin behind," growled Macdonald. " And I don't see how either fact is going to help us, my son, even if your highly accurate map happens not to be wrong this time for once," he added with bitter emphasis. Gordon merely remarked in aggrieved tones that at least they now knew where they were, at least roughly. " Damned roughly," was the unfeeling reply. " We seem to have been retreating in quite a different direction from the rest all along." At this moment there came the noise of shells bursting in the air on either side, followed by the long drawn-out whine of their flight. Looking up, they saw the sky dotted with little The Burgomaster of Dickebusch 3i soft white fleecy clouds, like so many balls of cotton- wool, which began at once to dissolve. Each cloud was followed by a bang and then a whine of its own. " Shrapnel," said the adjutant succinctly. " How did you guess it ? " queried his Command- ing Officer. The shells now began to come fast and furious. Thick black clouds seemed to spring out of the ground, followed by the whump and rush of high explosive. The effect on the Germans was immediate. They seemed literally to leap into artillery formation, and the fields were soon covered with little clumps of men. Here and there a company deployed into extended order. " Ho," said Private Jock Walker, the left hand man in the leading section of fours, company humorist, accepting the occasion as a direct challenge to him- self. " So the Gerboys are scattering, are they ? Why, it's only Sergeant Smith and eight men of the ' Thou shalt not Kills,' fighting a rear-guard action for the British army ! Private Jones has jammed his magazine, and so French has left a few of the heavy howitzers behind to help him a bit ! " His further remarks were drowned in the bang of a shell which came extra near. The death of the explosion caught a thin plaintive voice remarking that : " We are nae Germains, so what's the guid o' treatin' us as sic ? Disowned and r-repudiated by baith sides, that's what we are." The Campbells pushed steadily on, their flankers beating off, not without casualties, the spasmodic attacks that were now made upon them. The enemy, on the other hand, began to halt and dig themselves in ; 32 Silhouettes of Mars and no wonder, as judging by the amount of heavy stuff that was falling they might well feel nonplussed. Some half-mile outside the village Macdonald halted his men; and, after dealing with the Uhlan patrols which were cautiously circling round, started them at digging a fire trench. Gordon he sent on to Dickebusch, if it really were Dickebusch, to find out what was going on. There was not much firing now, though the British covering party was engaged with the enemy, and the boy reached the outskirts of the town in safety. The streets were deserted until he arrived at the large square of open ground where the church stood. There a five-gun field-battery was in action. Gordon approached the Major in command a stout jovial looking officer and told him his mission. " Happy to meet you, I'm sure," said the other. " We must be getting out of here, however, after we have given them five rounds more per gun. Yes, this is Dickebusch. There are other guns behind you though ; Belgian, I believe, now. Come with me, and I will show you our dug-out." The Major led Gordon to a small grey stone house, its front covered with creeping roses, which stood about a hundred yards away. " This is the mayor's burgomaster's house, I mean, and we have our orderly-room here. The telephone is connected with the artillery in rear." The door was opened by one of the most beautiful girls that Gordon had ever seen in his life. Tall, fair, her finely-cut features surmounted by a wealth of golden hair, in which the sun was glinting, she offered a most attractive picture, framed as she was in the roses of the open doorway. The Burgomaster of Dickebusch 33 " Good morning, Mademoiselle Cecile," eaid the Major. " Is your father in ? " " No, monsieur le commandant. He has just gone out." " Well, perhaps I can catch him. We are going away, mademoiselle. This is the officer who is taking over from us. Will you act as his guide ? " So say- ing, the Major saluted and turned busily away. The girl led Gordon down the passage and into a room which had evidently been the mayor's study and just as evidently was now an orderly-room. On a large desk in one corner stood a telephone. Gordon picked up the receiver and when a voice sounded on the other end of the wire he learned the battery's identity, gave his own and explained the situation. It was, as the Major had said, a Belgian battery. Turning suddenly, Gordon found the girl looking at him curiously. She blushed quickly, and then spoke to cover her confusion : " This will be your office now that monsieur le commandant is going. We have the billets for three officers here." " Thank you, mademoiselle, for the office," replied Gordon. " I don't know, however, whether we will need the billets or not. That depends on our plans, and I should be sorry to inconvenience you, perhaps for nothing." " Captain," said the girl, " we have billets for three officers who are fighting the Germans. Me, I hate Germans ! There is only one person I know who hates them more than I do and that is my father. If he was here now he would tell you so himself." " Thank you very much, mademoiselle ; it is very kind of you. I don't know what Captain Macdonald, 34 Silhouettes of Mars my C.O., may do, however. By the way, please do not call me captain. I am not a captain, but a subal- tern, what you call sous-lieutenant" The girl laughed. " Why, I am sure you are a captain, and I shall call you captain, as I choose, to show you that you will be one soon, Captain ! " They both laughed, and at this moment the door opened and somebody entered. Turning round, Gordon saw that this was a tall dark man with a very pale complexion, and jet black hair. He wore a neat blue suit and his eyes were covered by tinted glases. " Father " C6cile was beginning. " I know, I know, child," said the new-comer. " I have just met Major Burns. How do you do, Mr. Gordon ? I am the burgomaster of Dickebusch, and needless to say in times like these entirely at your service. Is there any information that I can give you ? " " Not much just now, thank you, Sir," said Gordon, " until I find out what we are going to do." " You must be in great force out there," said the burgomaster, " to hold the Germans off like that. I don't know why they don't advance." " Oh, we will hold them off all right," said Gordon cheerfully. ' I am glad to hear you say so. What regiment do you belong to ? Highlanders, I see ! " Gordon admitted the self -evident fact that he was a Highlander. " I imagine that the enemy are frightened of being surrounded if they follow you too closely," continued the burgomaster. " I suppose you have considerable reinforcements in rear." The Burgomaster of Dickebusch 35 " Oh, of course, all kinds of troops," replied the boy. " You must pardon my curiosity, but I am a Belgian. Moreover, I spent five years in England once, and it was actually there that my daughter and I learned to speak your language. Naturally, we both feel particular interest in English troops who are fighting for Belgium." " Not at all, sir. I only wish that I could tell you more. I was wondering how you could speak English so well. Now, if you will excuse me, I must be going. If we move back here I will bring my C.O. to see you." He bowed to them both and left the room, being accompanied to the gate by the burgomaster with fresh offers of any help he might require. Going back was more difficult than coming had been, and there were bullets whistling all round now. Once, as one of these flew past his head, he stumbled and discovered a ditch by the simple process of falling into it. Soon, however, he found a sunken road which served as a communication trench to the battalion. He reached Macdonald and delivered his report. The Germans were firing steadily now, but instead of coming on and overwhelming the defenders, as they could easily have done, they had halted to dig themselves in. " They will rush us at night," said Macdonald, " only we won't be there. As they appear to have no guns I shall withdraw to the town, as soon as it gets dark." But the Campbells did not move that night, nor the next, nor indeed for many nights to come. In a few hours Macdonald received orders to hang on where he was ; which gave, moreover, information as 36 Silhouettes of Mars to neighbouring units, the line to be held, etc. Accordingly darkness was used to deepen the fire trench and to dig others for support and communi- cation. For three days Macdonald kept Battalion Head- quarters up in the line ; and then, as the situation appeared to have steadied down, he and Gordon with their satellites moved back to Dickebusch and established themselves at the burgomaster's house. By this time they were linked up with the front line by telephone. Evidently they were outside the main route of French's retreat and in the Belgian zone. Curiously enough the Germans did not attack, though they had brought up artillery and shelled the village as well as the trenches. It seemed as if they were waiting for something. To the enemy's fire the Belgian battery, which was supporting the Campbells, made a hot but rather in- effective return. Gordon was constantly receiving complaints from the company commanders in the line as to the futile nature of the return fire. Our shells were said to be grazing our own parapet, or to be exploding harmlessly in no man's land. Many and frequent were the expostulations addressed to the supporting battery, but the consequent improvement was only partial and shortlived. Artillery officers came up to the line, looked, smiled, promised, and went their way, but the shooting remained as bad as ever. At last Macdonald could stand it no longer, and one day Gordon sent an urgent message over the phone, asking if Major Vachel, of the Belgian Field Artillery, could make it convenient to join the officer The Burgomaster of Dickebusch 37 commanding the nth battalion Royal Campbell High- landers in doing a tour of the line with a view to improving the liaison between the two arms. The answer came back that Major Vachel would call upon Captain Macdonald at 9 a.m. next morning. " Good," said Macdonald, when he heard the news. " I wonder what excuse he will be able to dig up this time. Beer Company had a bit of their parados blown in by the fools yesterday. They can't blame the cold weather for their short shooting anyway." Punctual to the minute Major Vachel was ushered into the orderly-room. He was a man of forty-five or so, in close-fitting dark uniform. Like many Belgian officers, he wore a beard. After mutual introductions the artilleryman went off with Macdonald. That evening his C.O. told Gordon that Vachel had been extremely solicitous and had made copious notes of everything. " He was certainly tremendously interested in the line ; the fellow seems keen enough." For some days the situation remained unchanged. Macdonald was daily expecting to be superseded in his command by a senior officer sent out from England. In the meantime, he and his little staff were made very comfortable by Monsieur Bourget, and his daughter. Cecile was anxious to do everything that could be done for " les Ecossais," while her father was always equally keen to receive or impart information. The shooting of the Belgian battery had grown better, but there was still plenty of room for improve- ment. Their Major kept coming and going in and out of the trenches, and proved on better acquaintance to be an affable cosmopolitan, though he drew a line at Germans. Strangely enough, he and the bur- 38 Silhouettes of Mars gomaster did not appear to hit it off together any too well. It would appear that the one was a Walloon and a Red, the other Flemish and Catholic. One day Cecile came to Gordon in great distress. She had evidently nerved herself for the interview, but broke down and wept before she could begin. " Monsieur Gordon," she began, " I want to tell you something. But before I tell it to you, you must promise me to keep it a secret. Perhaps it will be nothing, rien du tout that which I shall say ; perhaps again it will be a good lot. That will be duty for you to find out, but if it is nothing all what you call tommy nonsense you will say of it nothing. Is it so to be ? " Gordon, of course, promised faithfully. " Last night I woke up. I sleep in a little room opening off our sitting-room. My door was half jar, and my father was standing there with the lamp in his hand trying to see into the room. As the door closed I thought I heard him speak. ' It is all right, she is sleeping,' he said. I was only half awake and must to sleep have gone again, because when I woke up next I heard voices in the salon, those of my father and of monsieur le commandant Vachel. Monsieur Gordaine, they were talking about you." ' Yes, but, mademoiselle," began Gordon, " I don't see how Major Vachel got in without letting us know." " About you but not of yourself, but of your regiment. They were saying the most awful things. Oh ! I must have had a mare of the night and dreamed it all ! " " What things ? " asked Gordon curiously. " They did not seem to wish you us, I mean to win. They talked of the sacres Anglais coming where The Burgomaster of Dickebusch 39 they were not wanted. Oh, Monsieur Gordaine, can it be true ! He he even said " " Go on," said Gordon. " He my father spoke of some attack which was to be made on your regiment and our guns were to fire at you instead of at the Allemands. It was too horrible." " But, good heavens, mademoiselle, are you cer- tain that you were awake. Surely your father and " ' "He is not my father, monsieur, but only my step-father. I thought you did not know ! But still I would save him. But I could not keep quiet, so I come to you." ' YCB, but I must act if you are not mistaken ; if what you say is true." " I know ; that is why I tell you. But you will not shoot my stepfather, will you ? Oh, monsieur, I know it was true, I know that. I was not dream- ing ! " " Yes, mademoiselle, I promise, but you in return must promise me one thing." " Oh, but yes, monsieur." " That you will not mention this to any other soul." " I promise, monsieur, and I feel that a load is gone from my heart." Gordon went straight to Macdonald and told him of the conversation. The senior was frankly incredu- lous, but, with Scots canniness, he determined to take no chances. Between the two of them they concocted a scheme. Thus it came about that Major Vachel, coming to visit Macdonald at the latter's request, found that the Scotsman had been obliged to go to the trenches at 40 Silhouettes of Mars a moment's notice, taking Gordon with him. Tea was, however, laid for him in the orderly-room, and a note had been left saving that Macdonald hoped the Belgian would be able to await his return as there were matters of mutual importance to discuss. What more natural than that the burgomaster should come in to bear his fellow countryman company, or that Gordon through a hole in the ceiling should hear every word of their conversation ? For some time the two men in the room below were silent while drinking their tea. They sat at either end of a small oblong table, Vachel in a brand new uniform of khaki, over which his black beard spread itself impressively, the burgomaster in a dark blue suit with a black tie. His black glasses gleamed like two ink-wells above his high stiff collar, set in the midst of that cavernous white face. At last Vachel pushed his plate away from him with a little sigh of satisfaction. " Many thanks to our Scottish friend for this good cheer," he said. And Gordon could almost have sworn he gave a wink. The burgomaster arose and went to the door, opened it casually, and looked out. Apparently there was no one near, for he closed it again softly and re- sumed his seat. " Ah ! " said the other, " that is good ; now listen attentively to what I am going to say." They had been speaking in French, but did not continue the conversation in that or any other lan- guage. Instead, Vachel drew a little tablet of paper from his pocket, wrote something on the top sheet, and then, tearing it off, passed it to his companion. The burgomaster read it quickly, turned it over and The Burgomaster of Dickebusch 4i wrote something on the back, and in his turn pushed it across the table. And so this strange conversa- tion, if conversation it can be called, went on. Each slip in turn was carefully burned by Vachel and the ashes pressed into the bowl of his pipe. Once a piece of paper fluttered gently to the floor and the heart of the watcher above gave a bound ; but both men had seen it and it shared the common fate. Once the burgomaster did not appear to agree with what he read, and started to speak, but was cut short by the other : " No words if you please, monsieur ; be BO good as to write anything you may have to say. I thought you were too rash the other day. We will run no risks this time." The watching Gordon was in a quandary. He could see every detail of the room beneath him with its heavy oaken dressers, and the Dutch tiles in the fire- place. He could see the faces of the two men be- low ; the one heavy and impassive, even apart from his great beard ; the other expressing in his nervous features every mood as it mastered him, of doubtful questioning or enthusiastic acquiescence. Only these little fateful bits of paper he could not read and it was maddening to watch them being burned, one after the other. He lay in an agony of doubt won- dering whether he should give the alarm. In that case, they would have the men certainly, but the last paper would surely be burned. Better wait and see. That he was on the track of some vile con- spiracy he knew well, when he remembered that they were in the Flemish country around Ypres and thought of the tales he had heard of white cows and the like being driven about in the fields of the farms 42 Silhouettes of Mars behind our lines to act as guides to the German gunners. At last it was over. Vachel was speaking : "The final memoranda are there, Burgomaster, I should advise you to burn them too." He passed over a slip of paper in the writing of which he had spent rather more time. The other read it carefully, and then with a half defiant glance at his companion opened his cigarette-case and put the bit of paper inside. Vachel watched, but beyond shrugging his shoulders gave no outward expression to his opinion of this proceeding. The two men rose and went to the door. Gordon could even hear Vachel telling Cecile how sorry he was that he could wait no longer. " Give my compliments to Captain Macdonald when he returns, if you please, mademoiselle, and do not forget to tell him how much I have enjoyed his hospitality." Macdonald, when told the story, put away all doubt. He, too, knew what his junior told him of the doubtful fidelity of so many of the Flemish to the allied cause. To Gordon's eager question as to whether ho had done right in not arresting the con- spirators at once, he replied after some hesitation : " You say that Bourget carried off the last bit of paper in his cigarette-case. It all depends on whether we can get hold of that, and whether it will give us a clue to what is going on. Of course we can lay hold of him at any time though Vachel may be more difficult. We had better get that paper before he destroys it." " Couldn't we get it and read it without his know- ing ? I don't think, somehow, that he means to The Burgomaster of Dickebusch 43 destroy it at once. If he does we can arrest him immediately." " All right, go to it, my son. I will give you twelve hours to get the paper. In the meantime, I shall keep my weather eye open and watch Mr. Burgomaster like a cat. If you don't get that paper in the time, I shall know what to do." " You might try asking him for a cigarette," were Macdonald's last words, as the boy went off. This suggestion was acted upon five minutes later, but Monsieur Bourget was desolated that his case was empty. He opened it in proof thereof, and Gordon was thrilled to see that though innocent of cigarettes it still contained a piece of paper. It needed all his self-restraint to prevent him from throwing himself upon the man and wresting it from him, parti- cularly when the burgomaster, with a smile, held it aloft between his finger and thumb. " Only a scrap of paper, Monsieur Gordon," he said, as the Chancellor I mean the German Chancellor called it. I wonder if it would do to make a cigarette for you to smoke ? " " It will do to light one," said Gordon. " It might do to light a fire, Monsieur Gordon, at which some of us may warm our hands and laugh," replied Monsieur Bourget, restoring the little folded billet to his case, and the case to his pocket, with a smile. The incident more than ever confirmed the young officer in his idea of obtaining a surreptitious perusal of the precious piece of paper, and of thereby per- haps making the enemy fall into the pit which it was evident he was so carefully digging. He resolved to take Cecile into his confidence. 44 Silhouettes of Mars " But of course I will help all I can do possibly, Monsieur Gordon. Is it not for my country as well as yours to win the war ? But you, you will remember not to shoot my step-father, even if he is a bad traitor, for to me he has been often kind. Tell me what it is for me to do." Gordon could only reply by begging her to do her best to get hold of the paper somehow, and to let him have it even if only for a minute. " It may be hardly impossible, monsieur," she replied, " but I will try. I will do my best." Next morning to Gordon's delight she took him apart and handed him the little piece of paper. " Bead it quick," she said, " and I will put it back before he misses it." He did better, for with her help he deciphered and copied the few words in French, and it was not till it had been safely restored whence it came that he asked her how she had succeeded. " In the end it was easy," she said, " my father put his coat down for a moment to wash his hands. I managed to take his case out without his noticing it and to bring you the paper. After you had it copied I put it back in the case, and put the case on the floor beside the chair in his room. When he missed it we had quite a hunt, and it was he himself who found it where he remembered to have put his coat. He has burned the paper now," she added. On that which Gordon took to Macdonald, there were only a few words, which were easily translated : " 28th, at midnight. Fire will fall behind trenches, which should go at once. Push on. On light show- ing in tower fire drops back to village. Will lift at 1 a.m. Tell friends." The Burgomaster of Dickebusch 45 " Now what does that mean ? " said Gordon. " What do you make of it, Skipper ? " " The same as you do, my son," replied his C.O. ; " the wily Hun having completed his arrangements will attack our line at twelve midnight 28/29th of the month. Vachel will drop his barrage, when I ask for it, behind instead of in front of our line, so that the bat- talion will be cut off. He will then bring it back to the village that is us, Billy, my boy and at 1 a.m. shut it off altogether, at which hour precisely his friends will stroll in. Damn him, the infernal scoun- drel ! " he broke off hotly. " Good Lord, what a scheme ! Vachel would appear to be a pukka Hun." " Just as bad as one, at any rate ; but we will be too many for him, thanks to your friend mademoiselle." " What are we going to do ? " " Wait and see, as they say in Parliament. I will tell you about it when I have made arrangements and got my orders." With this answer, Gordon had to be content for a while. Both felt it difficult to live through the in- tervening time under the same roof with the sinister black and white figure of the burgomaster. The duplicity and unctuous hypocrisy of the man were at times unendurable. Nor did the reflection that, but for C6cile, his words and acts would have passed current at their face value, make the situation more palatable. Tact and restraint were necessary, but both were forthcoming. Meantime the Campbells with the help of those in authority had made their arrangements. Thus it came about that the sequence of events on the night of the 28/29th October was not such as 46 Silhouettes of Mars certain gentlemen had willed. For instance, that ener- getic officer, Major Vachel, suddenly found himself under close arrest, just at the moment when he fondly imagined that he was about to endear himself to his masters for ever, and direction of the battery taken over by his Second in Command under the watchful eyes of a representative of the Belgian General Staff. So well was this event timed and so quickly carried out, that the false range tables and subtly inaccurate fire orders were discovered ready and freshly written in the late commander's dug-out, while the battery fought the action without knowing of the change in its command. It was, moreover, helped in its task by many other batteries which appeared to have a night off for the purpose. Nor did things go better for his confederate or for their mutual friends who won through the artillery barrage only to encounter British rifle and machine-gun fire from the trenches. They were beaten back with heavy losses so grievous that they did not come again. Monsieur Bourget was, though he knew it not, a marked man and watchful eyes saw him leave his house, a dark silent figure, at 11 p.m. of that night of battle. It was a moonlight night, and stealthy feet followed him through the routes of the town, half streets, half country lanes, till he came to the church of Dicke- busch, which lifts its squat tower from the midst of an open space. It had been easy from the first to guess that this was his destination there are not many towers in Dickebusch. He entered and mounted, and while he climbed, though he knew it not, silent figures were surrounding the base of his eyrie. There they sat or stood in the dusk like wolves around the prey which they have treed. The Burgomaster of Dickebusch 7 Monsieur Bourget made great play at intervals with his lamp up to 1 a.m., but no shells fell into the village, save a few that came from the east. He must have suspected something then, even if not be- fore, for when Gordon's men came stealing through the night, and mounted the staircase, they thought they heard a shot. Inside the little turret-room at the top of the tower the burgomaster of Dickebusch was lying on the ground with a bullet in his head and the pale face looking paler than ever. What must his thoughts have been, changing from anxiety to despair, from the first dawning of perplexity to the final desperate knowledge that he was betrayed ! By his side, scrawled at the end of a note-book, was his will, leav- ing all his property to his stepdaughter, with the solemn promise of a dying man that none of it rep- resented German gold. He had his points as a father, and private citizen, had Monsieur Bourget 1 So Gordon did not need to keep his promise. In course of time Major Macdonald now Second in Command of the Campbells acquired the right to wear the red and green ribbon of a Belgian decora- tion on his breast, to commemorate the fight that the battalion fought that night. Cecile received a per- sonal letter of thanks from her Sovereign. Major Vachel was not much seen again from the moment when he left his battery under escort in a motor car, bound for the little seaside town which served as headquarters for the Belgian armies in the field, and as a capital for the King of that salient land. Gordon went there too a little later to give evidence at the trial, which ended in front of a fir- ing party on the seashore in the grey of an early 48 Silhouettes of Mars morning. The rest of the story lies under one of the sand-dunes of that low-lying coast. Investigation showed that Vachel had been in German pay ever since he came of age, and his successive rises, as an officer in the Belgian army, were only one more instance of the thoroughness with which the country had been inoculated with spies. Till the end of the war his career furnished a text for lectures de- livered by the intelligence and police officers of the Allied jarmies. VI A VISIT TO ARRAS IT was on a gusty day in early spring that I left the chateau at and struck across the untilled fields to the high road. I had a day's leave and had decided to spend it in a visit to Arras, one of the great show places on the western front. At the cross- roads an empty field ambulance received me, and I was off upon my joy-ride. A change at Aubigny, into the care of a friendly R.F.C. man, and we were out on the great national highway which runs in Roman fashion from St. Pol to Arras. One more transfer to the Ram Corps was necessary, and it was under their friendly care that I rolled under the St. Pol gate to the city, down the Rue Gambetta, and got out at the great Neptune foun- tain which cleaves the street in two. Arras at last ! Not that the ride or rather rides had been unin- teresting, particularly to a Scotsman. Every High- land regiment in existence seemed that day to have one or more battalions in the vicinity, and the roads were gay with the tartans. Moreover, what a con- trast between the long snake-like streams of traffic, the fields scarred by shells, and then close by some little village apparently untouched by the war, save that it is women, old men, and boys who are working in the fields ! Of the rest nefas amplius loqui. This day of 60 Silhouettes of Mars April, 1917, however, the Boche knows part of what I saw. The first view of Arras is disappointing to the con- noisseur in ruins. In degrees of destruction it holds a place midway between the classic fragments of Ypres and the tawdry pretentiousness of Albert. The bulk of the city still stands very much as it must have stood in July, 1914 ; the greater part of the Ger- man fire being concentrated on certain buildings the cathedral, the old episcopal palace, the hdtel de wile, the pride of the Artois. At Ypres the Hun has left himself no marks to range upon. It is but a shell, with its stone ruins gleaming white in the moon- light like a dead city of romance. Arras, like Albert, is built of brick ; some of the houses with their stone facings bear a curious resemblance to a Fifth Avenue mansion done in the colonial style ; but she is saved from the blatant vulgarity of the Somme city by her architectural glories and her associations with the past. For she was the queen of the Artois plain, the bulwark of France against Spanish and Imperial Flanders. It is a curious sensation to walk down one of the long winding streets of the city, keeping close to the houses on either side, for it is forbidden to walk on the road ; far more curious than being in a trench. Every now and then the bang followed by the long- drawn whine of an incoming shell is heard. For aught you know it may have burst just round the corner. The Germans still shell Arras in a desultory fashion now that they have obliterated their principal ranging marks, or else they are firing by the map, so many shells per diem into each section of the city. The majority of the houses are still standing, though A Visit to Arras 51 shaken aa with the palsy. Here and there, however, there is one with its interior indecently exposed, the result of a direct hit by a shell. It is like gazing from the stalls at a house set on the stage of a theatre, or as if some scientific giant had cut a cross-section with a monstrous scalpel. Here are the little intimacies of that particular family life just as they were left immediately before the hurried flight, and all who list can see. It is all so pitiable ! There are only a few civilians in the streets, though I did meet some prosperous looking individuals in the Grande Place, and not many soldiers. The latter strictly obeying the notices posted up at every street corner move along in single file, their shoulders brush- ing against the shuttered and barred windows of the houses, steel helmets on head and gas masks to hand. Even the little children on their way to school carry gas helmets, along with their slates and books, in France to-day ! The state instructs them in the use of both, for the gas like its master is no respecter of persons. The street leading towards the station is barricaded and loop-holed, for no German attack will ever again spill itself on the streets of Arras. These barricades are a model of engineering according to the text book, with their low parapets and trenches dug behind to give the requisite height to fire over. The two sides of the obstacle overlap in the most approved style so as to afford through the centre a narrow crooked channel for traffic. The houses round about are pitted with bullets from the rear-guard action that the Germans fought to cover their evacuation of the town. In front of the station there is a large oval " square " which must be crossed circumspectly, i.e. 52 Silhouettes of Mars not across its diameter but by crawling around the circumference. This takes time, but there are pic- quete posted to enforce the rule ; a very necessary one, as at any moment a German observation balloon may appear like a gigantic slug on the horizon. The trenches are only about a mile away, as the Germans hold the north-eastern parts of the city. The station itself, in its monstrous futility, is in many ways the most tragic sight to be met with on the whole of the western front. Imagine a vast building, red in colour, about hah* the size of the Waverley Station, Edinburgh, and not altogether dissimilar, wrecked by shell-fire. The near platform has been put into a state of defence with a sandbag parapet. The rails lie twisted and broken on the track, mixed with the debris of such sleepers as have not been removed for firewood. Over all is a fine impalpable dust from the glass roof above, the iron supporting stanchions of which have been wrenched asunder by the shock of high explosive. It is well over two years since the last train ran into Arras station. As one goes out one passes the ticket office. Piles of tickets, to Amiens, to Lens, to Lille, to St. Pol, neatly done up in bundles and tied with string, litter the floor. It is as if a devil's child had laughed at its play. The cathedral of Arras has been destroyed ; not wrecked, as has happened to so many, but completely demolished. It would be as easy now to rear an hotel out of its ruins as another house of God. A pile of stone and debris some fifty feet high chokes the side- street. Climb up that, make a similar descent on the other side, and you are in the cathedral. There A Visit to Arras 53 is no roof, and the interior is one vast shambles of broken glass, shattered stone work, and fallen plaster. Here and there an image or altar stands intact amidst the surrounding ruin. In its prune it must have been a florid enough structure, with its great Corinthian capitals ; but that does not excuse the foe who battered Rheims and would like to batter Amiens. Adjoining the ruins of the cathedral are the remains of the Palace of St. Vaast. In this long rambling building, an affair of cloisters and colonnades, for- merly a Benedictine Abbey, there were housed at the time of the bombardment the museum, the picture gallery, and the library of the city of Arras. Very little remains of all these. In particular, of the 50,000 printed books contained in the latter, not a single volume is left, unless the municipality of Karlsruhe with true Teutonic tact means to restore the single volume that it borrowed therefrom before the war. The building was fired by means of incen- diary shells, while it is alleged on good authority that a box barrage was put around it in order to prevent the rescue of its priceless contents. It is difficult to prevent an account like this from becoming an indictment of the enemy for their sense- less brutalities against mankind and its creations. The greatest loss of all from the aesthetic point of view is the destruction of the Grande Place with its hdtel de ville ringed in by old Flemish houses. The hdtel de ville was destroyed in October, 1914, by means of incendiary shells. For its counterpart, with its noble oaken wainscot, its priceless tapestries, its lustres and chandeliers, one has to go to Brussels. A poor consolation under present circumstances. Last of all the superb Belfry came down to the 54 Silhouettes of Mars sound of its own bells. What the golden Virgin of Albert is still to the rolling pastures of Picardy, that was the Belfry of Arras to the Artois plain. For cen- turies it had stood with its Lion and its Golden Sun and its Golden Crown, a guide and a landmark for miles around. It is as if we had gone back in history over two thousand years to the council chamber of some once free city, torn from the diadem of Hellas by a barbarian foe. The last place that I visited in Arras was the citadel, which really forms a quarter of the city itself. Used by the French before the war as an infantry and ar- tillery barracks, it was one of the masterpieces of Vauban. With its massive walls, deep moats, long and low barrack rooms with their quaintly sloping roofs, it reminds one of the fortifications and citadel of Quebec, in New France, and like them sings the swan song of the glories of the Bourbon kings. Mem- ories of the great Turenne cling round the place, though the quaint old garrison church has been wrecked by shell-fire. On my way back along the main street of the city, I paused to watch the efforts of a party of Gordons, who, in conjunction with two French Engineers, are trying to lift from the road a massive bell as tall as the tallest of them, and finely moulded in relief. Per- haps it belongs to the ruined convent close by, or it may be one of the great carillon bells of the Belfry itself. The officer in charge does not know whether it is to be set up once more in its original station or Is to be placed somewhere to serve as a gas alarm. As I watch the Highlanders straining their strong young backs in the effort to lift the monstrous bell, I notice A Visit to Arras 55 every one suddenly look upwards. Then there happens one of those things which seem to stand out with cameo- like distinctness from their setting, and which once seen can never be forgotten. A plane with a broken wing one of ours is com- ing slowly back from the German lines. Like a great stricken bird it is looking for a place to land. Suddenly, as if from nowhere, six enemy machines materialize. Only a thousand feet above our heads the half-dozen Taubes go for our solitary single-seater, who can do little against his foes as they circle round, above, and beneath him, and rake him with their machine guns. We, alas, can do nothing, save watch. It is soon over. Slowly at first, and then with ever increasing speed, the solitary machine with the red, white, and blue target painted on it begins to fall. Five of the Boche planes seeing their work completed make off. The sixth, sportsmanlike, remains hang- ing above its victim, now fast rushing earthwards, and continues to fire on him with its machine gun. But it is quite needless to " mak' siccar." The falling plane bursts into flame, though this does not stop the Ger- man, and the aviator jumps or falls out to drop a few yards from our feet. Satisfied at last the Boche plane flies off. So I passed out through the great gates of Arras, where the British picquet keeps guard over the city of the cave men. (66) VII IN HOSPITAL THERE are many hospitals in France ; BO many places where broken men can be mended and refitted and go up the line again, perhaps to be broken again. Hospitals of all kinds and in all sorts of places, from the great ones housed in the palace hotels of Paris to the first rude dressing-station, in the semi-shelter of a trench, which the wounded man sees as he limps from out the battle. Queerly lodged are some of them, as befits this all subversive war that has turned everything to other uses, in theatres and casinos, churches and libraries. They lie in small sleepy provincial towns, that breathe from the very soul of France, set far off the usual lines of travel, clinging to the sun-mellowed walls or resting among the ruins of their Vauban-built citadels, which seem to waken and preen themselves upon this revival of their old-time glories. They are housed in many a fine chateau, though one does not find in Picardy or the Pas-de-Calais the splendours of Touraine, and up the long avenues between the chestnut-trees come the ambulances with their living, too often dying, loads. From the great base-hospitals of Boulogne and the sea-towns, from ducal Etaples where bands play at the patients and they in turn can play at golf, from the Riviera, In Hospital 57 the vast hospital organization runs through every intermediate stage of stationary hospital, C.C.S. and field ambulance, until, with the stretcher-bearers, it reaches the front line trench. It is like a great chain, the links of which grow ever smaller but more numerous, one end held firm in master hands, while the others are moved up and down, here and there, eager and quivering, ever responsive to the chang- ing surge of battle. This clearing station stood in the fields beside a road which ran to the mining town close by. A little town it was in itself, with its streets paved with duck-boards, its houses of tin or canvas and the busy life within. In the morning the rain fell on it, in the afternoon the sun came out and dried its tents, so that in the evening, when the wind brought the dust, the stiffened canvas sides of the marquees swung, creaked and flapped like so many rusty gates. At night fell other things from above but not from heaven ; things which fell in the fields and exploded while the patients lay in bed and listened to the reports coming ever nearer, and the careful sisters put out the lights. The Hun would not have cared which town he hit. For the hospital lay close behind the line, which gave it a character of its own. Here came patients of all sorts, those who would merely be slightly ill for a short period and whom it was not worth while, having regard to the insistent call for men, to send down the line, and also the badly wounded who could not be moved further back. So for different reasons both stayed here. Many were buried here in the little cemetery which attaches itself to all such places. There was a poignant contrast in the wards, for in 58 Silhouettes of Mars one bed there might be an officer, suffering merely from a little influenza, playing cards, laughing and joking, perhaps, at the prospect of a month on the Riviera and the knowledge that the war will not be over before he gets back ; while his next bed neigh- bour is groaning his life out with a bullet wound in the stomach. It is not insensibility, far less callousness, but merely the familiar philosophy born of war, which reaches beneath the appearance of things and knows it foolish to exchange joy for grief, when the one is fleeting and the other useless. Nor, indeed, would it be expected by the dying man of the laughing boy propped up on his pillows. The one is a sharer in that philo- sophy, the other knows that he can do nothing and that it is not his funeral yet. But given the possi- bility of things, ah, then what tenderness ! He was a Catholic, a French-Canadian officer from a famous battalion, who had led a raid and been caught when our barrage dropped short. They sent for the chaplain to give the dying man the last rites of his faith. He came, a gaunt emaciated figure, a Savonarola in khaki, with a fine open-work garment of white lace thrown over his uniform. Round his neck he wore a stole of purple and gold : the Church militant and universal playing her part, as she has played it so often before in similar scenes throughout the ages. They pulled a screen round the bed, and from behind this came the murmur of the voice of the kneeling priest as he recited the office for the dying. His military boots and puttees and the golden tassels of his stole appeared beneath the screen in full view of the card-players. His penitent died that night and was carried out while the others slept. They In Hospital 59 awoke to find his bed empty and knew what had hap- pened. The officers' ward was in a Nissen hut, a single long low rounded room. Imagine half a dozen half -hoops of barrels stuck in the ground at both ends and then covered over with tin, and you have a model of such a hut. Light came in through the transepts at the top and by the doors at either end. The interior was painted green along the walls and white above. On both sides were ranged the beds, fifteen to a side, with their heads touching the walls. By each stood a little table. Down the whole length of the hut, between the feet of the two rows of beds, ran a narrow passage, the common gangway for all. The clothes of the occupants were folded neatly and placed under their respective beds, for there is no room to spare. In the middle of the hut was a large stove, which heated the whole room in winter. It served also as a centre for the social life of the ward, for the passage somehow widened out there and convalescents sat round it, even in summer, on the wooden chairs, with their feet on the cold stove. There was a continual going up and down of doc- tors, sisters, orderlies and visitors on the narrow cen- tral gangway so strait that two could not pass abreast, and the spaces between the beds had to serve as slit-trenches. The beds held officers from various parts of the Empire English, Scotch, Canadians, Australians, but mostly Canadians for the hospital lies behind their front. Occasionally Flying Corps men are brought in. One was here last week from the great drome near. His life during the war read like a story from the eo Silhouettes of Mars " Arabian Nights." He had flown over Bagdad and Damascus, had been taken prisoner by the Turks and had escaped from them. Transferred to the western front, on his first day up there he fought six Hun planes, bringing down three. Unfortunately, a bullet got him at the tail end of the fight. Now he is dying in a bed in the corner ; will not even live to receive his medal. Poor boy, he is half delirious and talks wildly in his pain, but the sister pretends not to hear him and the others talk as loudly as they can. The burial of an officer in the R.F.C. is quite a cere- mony. A plane flies over the hospital and drops a message with streamers attached giving the details. Next day a Flying Corps car drives up to take away the body. It is borne out on a stretcher, covered by the Union Jack. The Flying Corps always buries its own dead. And so life goes on in the hospital with its ever- changing inhabitants. Men are continually being sent down the line sick, or discharged cured, and their places taken by others. They come and go singly or in batches. Twice a week, if the railway schedule works to time, there take place great evacuations to the stationary and general hospitals down the line. The opportunity is Seized to clear out the place, and it may take much pleading, on the part of one anxious not to lose touch with his unit, that he may be given another four days to see if he does not get better, before he is allowed to stay. Sometimes the powers that be are inexorable, and the victim only knows his destiny when the fatal tag is tied on to his clothing, a few minutes before the arrival of the train. He is hustled off, with his few belongings, protesting volubly that he is really all In Hospital 61 right and his presence indispensable to his C.O. and the winning of the war. These evacuations are great occasions of hurry and bustle. The train does not always come ; while, if it does, its arrival very probably will only emerge from the region of guess-work into that of probability some twenty minutes before it does come if, indeed, it cometh. Those being evacuated have to be dressed in some fashion, their belongings sent off with them, and themselves divided into lying and walking cases. The former class are carried on stretchers to the train. Half an hour before the problematical arrival of the train, these stretcher cases are laid on the floor between the beds and along the aisle. There they become objects of envy or of jeering to those whose con- tinued tenancy of their beds proves them not to have been selected for this particular Hegira. Many are the questions thrown at the labouring attendants. " No, sir, I can't say ; they will tell you at the Base whether you are to go to Blighty or the south of France." Then the signal is given, soldiers troop in, and the stretchers and those on them are carried outside to be put in the waiting ambulances en route for the train. Next day the hospital is quite full again. The men's wards indeed are overflowing with the arrival of a complete platoon, officers, N.C.O's. and all, of Highlanders who have been gassed when ap- parently there was no gas about. The explanation, as furnished from a harassed orderly-room, is of sucti importance as to be sent immediately to G.H.Q., thence to be disseminated in the form of rush notices to all the British armies in France. The night before it had been cold and the Ger- 62 Silhouettes of Mars mans had poured over gas. No casualties had occurred. Next morning the sun came out and liberated the gas from the ground into which it had sunk. The platoon was caught by the noxious upward-stealing fumes before they could put on their masks and literally gassed from the ground. Their kilts were no protection to such an insidious form of attack. Though its personnel is always changing, there are certain stock jokes of the hospital that are handed over from one ephemeral generation to another. The friendship between the pretty, or rather the prettiest, sister and the young doctor is watched with warm approval. The foible, common to all quarter-masters of hospitals, of shutting up officers' kit in a far off in- accessible stronghold, immediately on arrival, from which it is never afterwards allowed to emerge until the final departure of its owner, is a fruitful topic of dis- cussion. The peregrinations of the C.O. and his attendant satellites, medical and otherwise, are closely scrutinized. Above all there is the great grievance of the early morning wash. " Why, oh why, sister " it is always the sister who is addressed " should I be awakened up at six in the morning, made to wash, and then, now thoroughly awake, expected to amuse myself by sleep- ing or otherwise until breakfast at 8.30 ? Surely the days are long enough here as it is 1 " Through all these years of war the same cry has gone up from a million throats. And it has never been answered. It is, indeed, part of the wail of the eternal man-child to the eternal mother, or, from another point of view, one aspect of the conflict between the common sense of the male and the doctrinaire idealism of the in- ferior sex. We do not blame the orderlies, because In Hospital 63 we feel vaguely somehow that, though the hand may be the hand of Jones, it is the brain of Dorcas Florence Delilah that planned this thing. But it is the last for us, for to-day we are to go up the line just in time, though we do not know it until we get there, for the great push. ( 64) - VIII SIGNA SEVERA THE traffic-control man at the cross-roads was busy. It was sunset and both roads were in use : the one which went east to the trenches, and the other which crossed it at right angles. Either way, along each of them, flowed the traffic, strong, silent, and in- sufferably slow. The control man was at the four corners, in the centre of it all, and directed. From him, as their starting-point, the four roads radiated outwards to the four points of the compass. He was the golden mile-stone of that particular little corner of the war. From his position at the hub of its universe, he could see all things. Behind him, the road ran darkly eastwards, to- wards those trenches which were in present occupation. He could not follow its course far through the ruins of the village, as it made a sharp turn past a mound of rubbish and was lost to view. Presumably further on, though lost to sight, it found its way again : per- haps even reached the great mass of the ridge which blocked the sky in that direction, and behind which the sun was sinking. Did it cross that height, or in despair break up into shallow tracks ? In any case the transport men, mules, waggons and horses crossed it to the lines beyond. He was there to set them on their way. In front of him this same road ran back, probably Signa Severn 65 even to the sea. He was not particularly interested in the road in front. It had had its day and history, of triumph and terror, of ground gained and comrades lost. Perhaps to look at it recalled sad memories, old, as the war counts age. On his right the road ran to Be"thune. It was not safe to use this in day-time, however, as though it dipped and was lost to sight in the middle distance it came into view again climbing boldly up a hill which was on its way. Though partially screened and camouflaged throughout its course, it was neverthe- less under direct observation from the enemy lines. On the left it went straight as an arrow for Arras. It is wrong, however, to use the words " right " and " left," with reference to the traffic man. He turned round and about so often. Similarly with " front " and " rear." He was a sentry, and had a post indeed, but no front. As he stood there with his back turned to Germany and gilded by the rays of the setting sun, he looked like a figure of fate ; an incarnation of Nemesis, of which there are many in this country now. He was of the things on our side of the line which were to win the war in two years hence. He stood for chance also. Speak to him for two minutes on your way up the line, and by so much might you miss the rendezvous with a bursting shell that had been otherwise arranged. In this darkening world, with his wide-brimmed steel helmet, his strong-lined thoughtful face impassive beneath it, and the rigidity of outline given him by his long military great -coat, he might have been mis- taken for some warrior-god of old Japan. With one arm frozen majestically above his head, arresting one 66 Silhouettes of Mars line of traffic, while he encouraged the advance of the counter-stream with a gentle benignant swaying of the other from rear to front beneath the shoulder, he might have been a London policeman meta- morphosed and transplanted. Very probably he was. Horse and carts and the men that drive them exhibit the same characteristics, all the world over, when a block occurs. The mules alone imparted the mystery and romance of the unknowable. At one of the four corners of the point man's little circus, not behind other circuses in the traffic that passed it daily, stood his place of rest. This, built like an abbreviated sentry-box, he used when tunes were quiet. Had you passed up the road an hour be- fore, you would have seen him, seated cross-legged within, huddled over his brazier. The figure, with its arms crossed beneath the passive immobile face, would have reminded you irresistibly of a figure of the brooding Buddha, set in its shrine by some road- side in an eastern land. The lowering sun gave to the steel and khaki of him the quality of bronze. And the traffic flowed up to him, past him, and beyond him, steadily without ceasing, save where for a time a little eddy of disturbance might be caused by the originality of a mule, as if conscious that the war must go on, could not go on, in fact, if this were to cease. For the transport in all its branches is the life of the army, the very breath of victory. Strange, how the vision of these slow-moving lines will mingle with all one's recollections of the war ! Transport, moving in two streams going in opposite directions, along an ancient high-road in France or Belgium, and the pedestrian adventure of steering a Signa Severa 67 course between them, for there is no room on either side. A push is on. Transport, rumbling through the great square at Ypres when the night is as black as the mouth of the hell they are nearing, when the rain comes down like arrows ; or when the moon is shining, reflected from helmet and harness, and they move through her great silence past ruined rampart and shattered tower, each dowered for this night by her magic with the grace of silver. Transport, creeping up to the line as close as they can go, perhaps reaching battalion headquarters, halting here but never hurrying there ; to return in the blackness of the early hours of the morning to their lines, but not as many as they went forth, either beasts or men. A journey repeated to-morrow night, as it was last, and will be for many nights to come. The village, in the square of which the four roads meet and over which the traffic man reigns, is now in ruins. Such life as it possesses is one borrowed from overseas. Moreover, this life is a transitory one, here to-day and gone to-morrow. The town is truly a " battered caravanserai," the home of a constantly changing soldiery. Figures flit anxious about its ruined streets, ready, when the warning whine of an incoming shell is heard, to dive down among its cellars. It is fortunate that these are so numerous and so roomy. The village lies in the midst of a valley. The sides of the valley used to be covered with fields. Trim and neat they doubtless looked, with their long straight plough furrows, each field marked off from its neigh- bours by well-kept hedges. The hedges are gone now, merged and obliterated 68 Silhouettes of Mars in the general desolation. German artillerymen are now the only ploughmen, and the furrows made by their shells run criss-cross and zigzag through these old ones in all directions. Some of the fiercest fighting of the whole war took place here. The valley is, as it were, an epitome of these years of conflict. Held, lost, won, lost again, re-won and held till the great advance, that is its record. Here, in the early days of the war, took place a disaster, to the French arms, later retrieved at a cost in lives that shook the republic to its centre. It is a small and narrow valley, yet more than 150,000 French soldiers sleep therein, and since then English and Scots, Canadians and Australians, have fought over its sides. Then, there are always the Germans. Most of the dead have been collected and buried together in different places, up and down the valley. There, by day, the sun shines upon thousands and thousands of little wooden crosses, and its light is re- flected from them, as if in benison and sure promise that the purpose with which they who sleep below last looked upon it will yet be fulfilled. At night the long rows of crosses seem to creak and sway in the wind, as if to ask how long before its completion. They are very patient these soldiers of France. There are other villages in the valley other heaps of ruins scattered up and down its length. Some there are, however, which are still standing. A roof gone here, a wall there, but many houses intact. These have a horror of their own, as if of places over which the breath of plague has passed, sparing only that which had no life before. The belated traveller, losing his way perhaps and coming suddenly upon Signa Severa 69 such a spot, coming upon it of a sudden, as it were, rising to meet him out of moonlight or out of the mist, may well feel a peculiar terror. He hesitates to enter the town, even though his road runs through it. Once in, he walks rapidly or else slowly and fearfully along its streets for there is no middle gait cast- ing sidelong glances at the grim gaunt grey houses as he goes. The empty shell of the town echoes hollowly his footsteps if he runs, while, if he walks, it is so long to go. There are many such places in the valley, and one who had lost his bearing on a dark night of mist might spend the hours till dawn in wandering from one to another. On such a night the whole valley, with all that it contains, seems to be lying beneath its shroud. For it is a vale of death : a valley of death, past, present, and to come. Old death is in the ground beneath one's feet, the death to come, is coming, in the air above. Guns speak in the valley with the very voice of death, their wheels sunk fast into its slime, their fodder ranged beside them. Here is one set amid the ruins of a house. Here, another, behind a pile of debris among the ruins of what once were trees. The gunners serving it sink above their ankles in the mud. Sometimes one trips over a skull which glistens ivory white in the moonshine. There are many such in the valley. Let us follow the road that goes to the trenches, up and through the village. At first it is a mere track of sand and mud running through what once were fields : a guiding line, ever scratched out anew, amid the surrounding desola- 70 Silhouettes of Mars tion. Small trees are planted by its sides to mark the way ; brought from far behind, their branches and withered leaves are strangely out of keeping, as if they were things that have died, a natural death. Far and wide on both sides stretches the broken country-side in one great sea of mud. Here and there a dirty white wall stands up like a broken tooth. For the rest, it is formless and void. A tainted exhalation, part mist, part phosphorus, part God knows what, hangs over it all. There is nothing majestic in the scene, nothing to stir the imagination. One cannot even call it grim or terrible, knows only that it is hate- ful, filling you with jaundiced disgust. It is like those squalid fields of mud, through which Virgil's hero passed on htfs way to hell. It is merely a country-side that has been laid waste by war ; a sordid scene. Even the moonlight cannot make it anything save ugly, and now that she has gone behind a cloud, and a drizzling rain has begun, it is uglier still. We plod on through the mud and filth. Suddenly on the right looms up, gaunt and dark, the remains of a wood. It has been well trimmed by in- visible woodsmen. The spectres of what once were trees, scarred and notched, twisted into monstrous impossible shapes, rise like so many totem-poles out of the sodden ground. The rain glistens on their blackened trunks. Then: branches, snapped off close to the body of the tree, stick out in all directions at strange angles, like the stumps of arms and legs. There is no bark on the trees, no leaves on the branches, no moss or green of any kind in the wood. Yet it is an ancient one. Scarcely can there be a blade of grass in the wood, unless one were to pry Signa Severn ?i and peer among the secrets of the tangled under- growth. The wind blows through the wood without a sigh, the rain comes down upon it with never a rustle. For there is nothing to move or be stirred within it. Not even a single dry and withered leaf left solitary upon a branch. The leaves of three years ago have long since disappeared, ground to powder and mingled with the loathsome paste upon the ground. There is nothing vocal in the wood ; not a bird sings there, all seem to avoid it. Perhaps, however, at night, the rats come forth from the shattered dug-outs. It re- minds one of " Macbeth " with its blasted heath. To look on the black boles of its trees is as if one were to gaze upon black shadows silhouetted on a screen. There is no thought of fire, because fire is pure. At night, looking through the wood at the moon, the trees seem to rise like fingers of fate, and ghosts of the sylvan beauty that once was here, Past the wood, the track runs into a road well- paved save for the shell-holes in it. Some are old, others were not here last night. Fresh earth and splintered stone lie scattered around their margins. High banks rise on either side, full of broken dug-outs and the litter of years of war. Uprooted trees sprawl down their slopes, almost on to the highway. It is one of these sunken roads that have played so sinister a part in the war. Along it goes the traffic. Ever and anon the flare of a match rises out of the darkness for a moment, as some one stops to light his pipe. Otherwise one feels and hears their presence without seeing them. The road runs past a village which is the site of a battery. The guns stand by the roadside while the 72 Silhouettes of Mars men shelter in the vast underground caves, cut from the chalk, which have come down from the religious wars of France. So after nearly four hundred years they are once more tenanted. A gun is fired and its flame lights up the night. For one long second all is revealed, and then is gone again. We have seen the long line of drivers and mules moving unconcernedly on, silhouetted against the background of ruined buildings. The men with their steel helmets and great-coats, some riding and some walking by the side of the waggons, the horses and plodding mules, look like figures from an archaic- frieze. The limbers are like chariots. And so they move through this land lit by the flames of war. We are nearing the ridge now and the road moves on past line after line of old and disused trenches. There they be, one behind the other, broken down and half -buried by shell-fire. Ruins two thousand years old look not so ancient. Think of the mon- strous futility of it all and of the agonies of those that dwelt therein, bearing up against assault after assault, while all the while the artillery was pounding their habitations out of all seeming and recognition. They are half filled with earth and debris. Parapet and parados alike are gone and the traverses demolished, and in many cases the whole trench has been beaten out of all shape, smashed, pulverized, by the German artillery. Branching off from the road lies a support trench, silent and dead. It is half filled with sand which has silted up against both sides, leaving small room to walk. It is an old trench, because the surface of the sand and earth is smooth, as the wind has made it. There are dug-outs in both sides of the trench, their Signa Severa 73 entrances half buried. With their blackened tim- bers, and dark entrances partially covered with the silted earth, they look like so many dead eyes, star- ing at you through the night. They have been smashed by shell-fire. Look down this one, this long deep German one, and you will find the steps gone. Sand has fallen in on top of them, gradually narrowing the descent until the foot of the shaft is completely blocked. One wonders what one would find if one went down. In the trench itself old helmets and broken rifles stick out from the ground in all directions. This trench has had a history of bravery and terror such as has never yet been written. So, on, and up the ridge, past these great craters on its summit which for so many months furnished a debatable-land, fought for as never was pass at Thermopylae or farm at Waterloo. We are on the top now. But we see nothing of the great view that can be seen from here by day. Instead, we see two great arcs of lights, ever bend- ing towards, ever receding from, each other. From both go up rockets, which, bursting into stars, seem to seek to supply a want surely felt on a night like this in heaven. The wider arc, the one further away, from which most of the lights are going up, is the German lines. All along its length go up these signs of fear and watchfulness, rockets, red, green and white, and those great golden clusters of stars. And it looks almost Broadway that we have come so far to see. Meanwhile the slope and black void behind is lit by the flash of the British guns, as of gigantic fire-flies spangling this summer's night. (74) IX PASSCHENDAELE IT seemed as if we had heard of it, under various names, all through that blood-stained Artois summer, into the long months of which was packed perhaps the fiercest fighting of all these weary years of war. It had started as the battle of Messines : had begun when the crest of that old debatable land, the ridge, went up under the feet of the enemy in nineteen separate and gigantic explosions. We knew the ground well ; for these old trenches in front of Kem- mel, which have stood since the war began, from which probably the attacking waves jumped off, had been for long reputed a quiet part of the line and had accor- dingly been used as a training-ground in which to break in successive divisions, raw from England, to the routine of trench warfare. We had done our first tour there and could still picture the view from the front line trenches, east to the red brick powdered ruins of Wytschaete, and the greyness of Vierstraate and the country behind us. The battle was said to have been an immense success as to results and staff -work. Certainly we had scored off the Boche for once, particularly if his view as to the relative importance of this sector had coincided with ours. It must have been the greatest exhibition of pyrotechnics in history, and we Passchendaele 75 could wish to have seen it from the top of Kemmel Hill. Then there was a pause, as the fight passed north to mingle with still older memories round Ypres. Absorbed in our own affairs, we marked it not or followed its course half -consciously. Suddenly, in the early autumn, the rumour ran that the battle was still raging and that we, perhaps a month hence, were to fight in it. Interest revived and we identified our campaign, now figuring in the " Times " as the third battle of Ypres or the battle of Flanders. In a night, as it were, it became the battle of the Menin road, and we followed its course up that grim stretch of horror, halting at a wood here, held up by a village there, but ever going north-east, though at an unutterable cost. Critics of the high command said that it was the Somme over again, without the Somme's strategical excuse, a monstrous folly, and from the list of battalions annihilated it looked to be so. At Poperinghe, on the way up, some first learned to know our battle under the name that it will always bear for us. It was a young Scottish officer who spoke of Paris, where he was going on leave, and of the pill- boxes of the Passchendaele ridge, of which he was glad to have seen the last. Then we tried to learn to spell the village, which was to give its name to our battle, for we, or rather the corps, were destined to finish the battle by taking the village. It has often thus been our luck. We could not quite picture the pill-boxes to ourselves. We laughed at the alliter- ation that was the Scotsman's fate. 76 Silhouettes of Mars It was the night before the attack. In reality, it was no more the attack than any of two dozen previous nights. But this was our attack ; the stage in the great battle, or campaign of battles, was this night being dressed for our entrance on the morrow. The old actors were shuffling off, one by one, as we relieved them. At times the stage was peri- lously crowded. Perhaps the enemy suspected this, for all night his artillery kept up a vicious shelling, sweeping the back areas scientifically with concentrated fire, section by section, trying to overwhelm our guns, for he had learned counter-battery work from us on the Somme. He caught our troops going up and the troops com- ing out. He caught the mules and transport going up part of the way in single file. He put down barrages where there had once been cross-roads. He followed the tracks up and down with his shells. He was nervous, as his planes testified, ever flying over our lines, bombing them and bombing the ramparts of Ypres. Right back they reached to Potijze and the White Chateau, which is neither white nor a house but a heap of blackened ruins. The morning before, a desperate attack had been flung against the right of our predecessors in the line, had broken it, and had only been beaten off by fierce fighting and the rushing up of our reserves. In the evening a Company Commander, shot through the stomach, bade his men lay him on the parados and thence con- tinued to give his orders through the night. He died with the morning. It was a black night with no moon or other light ; a night of unsleeping anxiety, of boundless prepara- tion, of endless confusion. Doubled up in the small Passchendaele 77 rooms at the foot of the captured pill-boxes, like those chambers at the base of pyramids, the staff thought and wrote furiously and continuously. Yet the best laid plans are bound to go wrong when the runners who carry the orders leave and are never heard of again ; when those entrusted with their execution are killed on the way to their positions. The whole ground is a quaking morass of hideous mud and other things. Once leave the narrow duck- boards, which have been laid down from one head- quarters to another, whether by slipping, by losing the way, or as the result of a shell which shakes you off them and blows duck-boards for yards around into the air, and you are stuck fast in the greedy mud. Perhaps you can get out if not alone ; perhaps you will become as the others there. But all night long the work goes on, though many of those who work the hardest and do the most will not live to see the testing of their labours in the morn- ing. All night the doctors prepare ; while up in front the assaulting troops spend the time as best as they can in bits of trenches or curled up in shell-holes. At midnight comes the rain. Through it all men work for the morning's dawn, blindly, unceasingly, confusedly groping through the blackness of the night, falling off the rotten slippery duckboards coated with slime and wet mud, falling into shell-holes full of water, broken wire and un- speakable corruption. An officer stood on the slope that leads to Passchen- daele in the greyness of the early morning. Ever and anon he glanced at his wrist-watch, for dawn 78 Silhouettes of Mars came slowly this 30th of October, 1917. This day Canada was going forward and meant that nothing should stop her ; with guns linked wheel to wheel behind her there was aaid actually to be a gun, great or little, for every fifteen yards of front knew that nothing would stop her. The dawn came slowly. All night long the guns had flamed and their red mist had hung low in the sky, seeming to sit on all sides on the tops of the surrounding hills. Now, however, there was com- parative quiet, as if both sides were saving themselves for what each knew was coming. In the distance the guns still spoke, but the ear, attuned to the night's infernal chorus, did not notice them or the noise of straggling shots near at hand. Suddenly in the silence a single gun spoke. Was there something in its tone to differentiate it from all others of that day and night, as if it spoke with the voice of doom ? A single gun, then two others close together, then hah* a dozen, hurryingly together as if frightened of being late, and with one awful blast, a roar full-throated as from a thousand mouths of hell, with a noise that seemed to shake the earth and rive the ground, the British barrage burst into life. Within half an hour of the firing of the first gun, all objectives were captured. But meantime the German counter-barrage had come down on our support line, to continue in a measure throughout the day. Men went about the business of succouring the wounded, and of getting up supplies to all, amidst a hail of shells. The enemy had every pill-box which he had lost throughout the Passchendaele 79 summer registered, and, as these were the only places where the work of dressing wounds could be carried on, the doctors laboured to save life where men fell dead at every moment. The brigade aid-post was in a ruined Heinie pill- box, which stood on the slope with others around it. It was the centre of a rude ring of similar forts, like another Stonehenge. The dressing -station was under the leeward side of the pill-box, where a rough breast- work of mud-bags had been raised waist-high. This small enclosure was covered over with a tarpaulin, which ran slantwise to the top of the pill-box. A single shell, rightly placed, would have demolished the whole crazy structure, but it is difficult to drop a shell exactly on the far side of a building, and though dozens of direct hits were registered on the pill-box itself, for the Germans naturally had its range to a nicety, and many skimming its edge seemed to brush the tarpaulin in passing, yet it remained intact and was ultimately handed over to the incoming brigade. There have been other miracles. Here in the first moments of victory came the regi- mental stretcher-bearers with those that had paid its price. Here they came in a hurrying crowd, hurry- ing so that they might return for more, with the shells dropping all round and often obliterating bearers, stretcher and wounded. Here, too, came the Ger- man prisoners to be used to carry the wounded fur- ther back and spare the lives of our men. The interior of the lean-to was so small that only four of the wounded men could be treated at once. Nor, indeed, were there more doctors. At first they came in dozens and, though laid behind the pill-box, in old trenches, and anywhere which might give a 80 Silhouettes of Mars little shelter until their turn came inside, yet the shells sought them out and killed them as they lay. It must have seemed hard to them. Meanwhile, inside, the M.O.'s laboured unceasingly each to himself. As soon as he had finished with one man, another was brought in to him. Here, in this rude lean-to, with nothing save a strip of canvas be- tween them and the death that was all around, he dealt, coolly, skilfully and above all quickly, with in- juries which in more leisured times would not have been diagnosed without much consultation and searching of hearts. And great is the need for haste, to save men from what had already been done, and to get them removed from out the shelled area ere a worse befell. Usually the most serious cases are dealt with first ; those obviously hopeless last if at all. A soldier, a mere boy, with a bullet through his knee-cap, is brought inside. He belongs to one of the units of the brigade that we relieved, was wounded in their last attack and has lain two days and nights in what was, until this morning, no man's land. There he was found by our stretcher-bearers, an hour ago, in a shell-hole. His face shows white in the guttering candlelight, and he moans with pain as the doctor, gently as he can, cuts away the cloth from round the wound. They try to stop his mouth with food but he is in too great pain to eat. Some rum gives him strength for the downward journey. And what a journey it is of nearly four miles on stretchers borne by men. The roads have been de- stroyed for far behind, so that it is impossible to bring wheeled traffic up beyond a certain point. To this the wounded must be carried by troops specially de- Passchendaele si tailed for the purpose ; four, or often six, men to a stretcher. So the ragged procession, the long stream of rocking swaying stretchers, the bearers stumbling along, avoiding the shell-holes, sinking up to their ankles or knees in mud at every step, with the wounded groaning on the top, goes downhill out of the fight. They have a long journey before them, passing out of one barrage into another and vexed by other shells between. It is well to send empty stretchers and spare bearers along at intervals with them to pick up the casualties that occur en route. The mud causes many deaths these days ; for, say what you will, a man can sometimes get out of the way when he hears a shell coming at least if his feet are free. On the other hand, the shells seem to nose and bury them- selves in the mud before exploding, and thus their effect is localized. So in the end it is six to one and half a dozen to the other, though not in particular cases. So they pass down the roads littered with dead horses and slain mules, with derelict burning tanks in the fields where men serve the howitzers midst a shower of German shells. A terrific detonation shakes the ambulance as the huge gun leaps back at the report and its orange flames light the darkness of the road. Through it all comes the vicious plop, plop, of fragments of enemy high explosive, which perhaps burst hundreds of yards away, and, if shrapnel, into the lakes and ponds and marshes formed by the intermingling of the shell-holes filled with rain. For they are spraying the battery. So they pass out by stages to Ypres and the hospital beneath its prison and the safety beyond. 82 Silhouettes of Mars Not all are so fortunate, however, and there is a savage irony about the fate of some that- almost out- bounds thought. A young officer looks in at the dressing-station on his way down to get some iodine to put on a cut in his hand. " I was going on leave to Paris to-morrow morning, anyway," he says, " and when I got this they said that I had better not take any more chances of missing my leave but start right away." The orderly turns inside to get the iodine, a shell bursts meantime, and when he comes back the other is dead. Leave is off 1 It is getting late in the afternoon and the light is growing dimmer. The grey ness of the day mingles with the ghastly grey ness of the scene. Grey skies above, grey mud beneath, so that it is hard to say where one leaves off and the other begins. Grimmest of all is the old cemetery a few hundred yards away, lately in German hands and crowded with their dead of past battles. We held it once before, and they say that some Canadians who fell here at the second battle, as this is the third, are surely buried there. There is less pressure of work now, though the shells still fall viciously, and the doctor stands at the entrance to the pill-box smoking. Suddenly, silhouetted against the jagged crosses on the horizon, appears a dark figure, scarce discernible from out the surrounding mud, waving its arms grotesquely. The doctor looks at it and then, realizing that it is a wounded man trying to reach the pill- box, runs to meet it. The wavering figure comes stumbling towards him. When he reaches it he places his arm round the shoulder in spite of the other's protest his trench-coat carries the bloodstains till the end of the war and supports him in. " God Passchendaele 83 bless you, sir," says the wounded man and then, as if remembering something, " there's an officer out there wounded." The doctor shouts to a team of stretcher- bearers to go and find the officer, and as soon as the wounded man is inside, goes after them himself. The doctor finds him first, guided by a low moaning. He is put on a stretcher and brought back to the dressing-station. On the way a shell bursts close beside them and involuntarily the men drop the stretcher. The doctor swore. " You may well say that, sir," said one of the bearers. The officer and his runner had gone up to make a reconnaissance for one of the battalions behind. His case was hope- less from the first, and he died on his stretcher outside the pill-box. German prisoners were made to help to carry the stretchers. Some of them were killed, but as well they as others. Many wore spectacles, which have a curi- ous effect beneath the low-hanging German steel helmet. Among them was a " Privatdocent " of Greek at Leipzig University, and a young Prussian officer who talked quite freely and repeated over and over again this sentence : " You will not take Passch- endaele, you will not take Passchendaele. Our general says you will not take Passchendaele." He had a touching belief in his general. Night came down, covering up some of the ugliness of the battlefield but accentuating more. Through it men groped their way from place to place. It fell on the pill-box, and on those others broken and smashed, standing in the water of the Revelsbeek, which had overflowed its banks when the level of the 84 Silhouettes of Mars surrounding country had been reduced by shell-fire. Ugly and horrible these looked, half sunk in the water and morass with the wire of their defences broken around them. Five of them here in the form of a star, a more powerful fortress with their machine guns than Rhodes or Chateau Gaillard. Go inside one and you are up to your waist in water. Yet the German metal cups of field grey are on the table with German bread and German tobacco. German men may be there too, lying very still on the wire beds in the corner, or you may come upon them beneath the water. This fort lay in a hollow and, as if fearful that troops might be assembling here for a fresh attack, the enemy artillery lashed its waters with their shells. High explosive sank into them and came up again with the roar of a geyser, shrapnel rebounded from the concrete of the pill-boxes and with so many separate splashes as if heaven were raining stones. His barrage caught also a large pill-box much further to the left. This was used as the headquarters of two battalions and also as a brigade dressing-station. Crowds of runners and wounded waited outside, and every now and then a shell would swish down into the crowd and whirl the broken torn bodies aloft. Next morning the inhabitants of the pill-box col- lected the dead that lay near. The identity discs were dealt with and the bodies laid in the old trench which was then filled in. The divisional chaplain came up and read a prayer over the spot. The tall, grey-haired figure stood there with his lips moving^ and they were all that moved when a chance shell came Passchendaele ss near. The few who were left at the pill-box stood around with their tin hats in their hands, and looked out on the empty grey waste of mud and shell-holes that is the scene of a modern victory. (86) AVE CAESAR IMMORTALIS ! " You speak of the transmigration of souls, is it not, messieurs ? Of the passing of the soul of one man into the body of another metempsychosis they call it, I believe, in a language which all can under- stand it sounds so foolish and yet I do not laugh with you. No, Mr. Etherington, I repeat, I do not laugh with you this time. Ah, I was more than like you once, for in the manner of my countrymen I used to laugh at everything. But that was before the war, to hide the ache of our hearts, and now that the pain is gone we are free to smile and weep some- times. Is it not so, messieurs ? " The three men were sitting at one of the little marble- topped tables outside the Caf6 de la Paix. Jones, of the Cheshires, and Etherington, of the Coldstream, were on leave from the army of the Rhine and had formed the habit of dropping in here every evening at 1 1 o'clock, sure of finding Monsieur Tardieu no one ever called him anything save that always seated at the same table with " Le Matin " open before him, and always two vacant chairs, one on either side of him. These chairs seemed somehow to be eternally empty and waiting, even though the rest of the cafe might be filled to overflowing. The two subalterns were too young to have seen very much of the war, which is as much as to say that they were very young indeed. Ave Caesar Immortalis ! 87 Monsieur Tardieu, on the contrary, had seen it all from its tumultuous beginnings, when he was appar- ently a private in the Chasseurs, to the end, which found him attached as interpreter to the British Mission at the Grand Quartier Ge"n6ral. Hence the interest of his conversation. Along the street by their side as they sat passed Paris, victorious Paris, for it was six months after the Armistice. " No," Monsieur Tardieu continued, after having commanded the waiter to produce " encore trois," " I do not choose to believe that the human soul after death is born again with a different body ; it is not an essential doctrine of the early Fathers of the Church, as you, being a bishop's son, are doubtless perfectly aware, Mr. Etherington. Moreover, apart from the danger of being reborn as a sale Boche, for I have led a somewhat variegated life and might perhaps sink down through several thousand stages of animal existence as a punishment, though really I have com- mitted no series of crimes worthy of such a trans- formation, I do not know that personally I would care to begin life again under any circumstances. . . ." " Ah ! You are young, of course, messieurs ; if I may say so, very young, and that makes all the difference in these cases." He sipped placidly for a while at the glass the waiter brought ; his tired old eyes gazing into space while the spring sunlight turned the silver of his hair to gold. He had a fine head, had Monsieur Tardieu, round, yet with a high forehead, and an aquiline nose, which, with the smile on his lips, gave him the appearance of an amiable old eagle or other bird of prey. He gazed benevolently about him, nodding his head slowly as 88 Silhouettes of Mars if drugged with the sunshine and wine, and then with a wave of the thin blue -veined hand at the women in the Boulevard des Italiens he said : " These were doubtless butterflies last time ; since then they have moved one ; whether up or down, who shall say ? " And he laughed quietly to himself. " No, mes enfants. I do not believe in all that. Nevertheless, there is such a thing as the transmi- gration of souls, in the sense of one man's etrer call it personality, individuality, what you will laying hold of another. Such have I seen often in my life. The story which I am going to tell you, or rather read to you, for it is not my story, carries the thing one stage further. With your permission, messieurs ? " He beckoned to the waiter, and with the same move- ment drew from an inner pocket a small roll of ordinary flimsy note-paper, such as was torn in thousands daily during the war from these little " En Campagne " writing- tablets that they sell in France. This he laid on the table before him, where it attracted to itself the contents of a little puddle of spilt wine, drawing an impatient " tcha " " tcha " from its owner; straddled his nose with a pair of pince-nez from which depended a heavy black ribbon, and turned to Etherington. " These papers, Monsieur Etherington, were written by a countryman of yours, and my very good friend. The writer is dead now, he was killed shortly after writing this, and I have never shown them to anyone until now. I do not know why I shall read them to you, save that our conversation points that way. Before I read these " and he lightly touched the papers with his hand " I was sceptical as you are, and should be so still if I did not know the writer. He was a plain honest John Bull of a man, messieurs, Ave Caesar Immortalis ! 89 and like you, messieurs you will pardon me ? bien he laughed at most things that matter. My friend was what you call a very sound man who always slept at night. Between writing these and the time of his death he did brilliant staff-work, work which really mattered. This story is about one whom I was brought up to hate, for I am of the old noblesse, and it has destroyed the settled convictions of my life- time but I am glad that he sent it to me. I received it about a year ago ; my friend spread the writing of it over some time, jotting the details down in the odd moments of many busy days, and evidently trying, as you will see, to give it a literary dress. Immediately I received it, I wrote to him, but he never got my letter. He was then mort pour la patrie. Shall I proceed, messieurs ? Very well." He raised his glass as if in salutation, spread open the thin sheets on the table, and began to read : It was close upon midnight 20th/21st March, 1918 as I, John Marshall Tavernay, Major in the nth Royal Fusiliers, turned out of the Rue de Doullens into the main Amiens road. I remember glancing at the dial of my wrist watch as we passed the red lamp of the Traffic Control Post at the junction of the two streets. Turning to the left I and my two com- panions continued our way towards the great square of Albert. It was a lovely moonlight night, and for once the town looked almost beautiful. Normally, there is little to distinguish Albert from any other large French provincial town that has been destroyed to make a Hunnish holiday. Built entirely of brick, it has an air of commonplace tawdry pretentiousness from 90 Silhouettes of Mars which even its honourable scars scarcely avail to save it. Seen by day, with its few remaining dirty shops and estaminets, its mud and general aspect of tumble-down confusion, it reminds me irresistibly of a blowzy woman in curl-papers. When one walks through its streets and sees so many of the houses, their fronts having fallen in, standing open to the gaze of the passer-by, who can thus inspect every detail of the domestic arrangements of their two or three stories, including the all-pervading grey mud which carpets the floors, one thinks of some vulgar pre- tentious and painted beauty suddenly stricken with paralysis. It is often a queer sensation to gaze from the street as if from the front row of the stalls into such a section of a house, displayed as if it were upon the stage for one's amusement, and to notice the doings of its picturesque soldier inmates, the fire- light dancing upon the bare walls throwing upon them the silhouettes of armed be-helmeted figures, the light from smoky lantern or guttering candle reflected back from bayonet or rifle barrel. By day, as I have said, there is Ijttle to interest a man in Albert ; and I for one hate the town, and after the war is over hope never to set eyes upon it again. To-night, how- ever, the moon, riding high above, threw upon the road before us the shadows of gaping walls and ruined houses, the originals of which one could easily imagine might have been built of granite under the Valois kings. To-night au clair de lune crude modern red-brick Albert had a touch of the grey magic loveli- ness of Ypres with her ruined houses and palaces and grim old battlements. From these thoughts I was brought back to the world of realities by my right-hand companion Ave Caesar Immor tails! 01 Bissette, the interpreter temporarily attached to my unit, gently jogging my arm. Evidently it was his desire that I should join in the discussion that had apparently been raging between himself and young Vaux. I knew and dreaded these arguments that were sure to arise whenever the pair met, for never were two Frenchmen more dissimilar in character, appearance and indeed in everything than my two companions. Bissette, a man of about fifty, black-haired, short, stout, filling to a nicety his green-blue uniform, with its gilt sphinx-head badges of the Corps of Interpreters, had been with us now for some weeks and was very popular with our battalion headquarter mess to which he was attached. Really a sous-oflicier of the French infantry of the line he had served in the Senegalese campaign, as the light blue and white ribbon on his left breast testified. He had been wounded at the Marne, which had caused his transfer to the Interpreters' Corps where, owing to his linguistic powers, he had been given a commission as lieutenant. He was well educated; though, like so many who are not, he prided himself greatly upon being what he called " practical." For the rest he was a black-haired, bright, vivacious little French- man ; could tell a good story and was, as I have said, a great favourite with us all. No greater contrast could have been found to Lieutenant Bissette than his fellow-countryman Armand de Vaux, captain of infantry. Of good family and plentifully blessed with the means to enjoy life, young Armand had been distinctly one of the jeunesse doree of France before the war. A graduate of St. Cyr he had somehow managed not to go into 92 Silhouettes of Mars the regular army, though he had of course served his term. Since then his acquaintance had lain more with the boulevards than the barracks ; he had even posed as an aesthete for a time, attended lectures at the Sorbonne, written poetry and painted in his friends ateliers. He, too, had served since the be- ginning, and had risen to his present rank as the result of an especially daring act before Verdun. Now he was attached to our division as French liaison officer, though I knew that his time was nearly up and that he was shortly to rejoin his regiment. Tall, fair- haired, with features almost classic in their regularity, he was surely the direct antithesis of Bissette in all things, save their temporarily common profession. Perhaps that was why the two, though in reality good enough friends, seemed always to be arguing about something or other. I forget what it was they were discussing on this occasion, and in any case the talk died out and we walked on in silence. We were by this time crossing the square, keeping to the side-walk on the right of the road, which here skirted the dug-outs occupied by a Field Ambulance. Suddenly Bissette asked me that question which is so often asked at the front half in jest and half in earnest when did I think the war would end. I was about to return the usual non-committal answer, when I was interrupted by de Vaux. " Why, when she falls," he said pointing upwards. " What other answer do you expect in this place, Bissette ? " We were opposite the ruined church of Notre Dame de Brebieres, and involuntarily all glanced up to the figure on the top of the tower which dominates Ave Caesar Immortalis ! 93 the country-side for miles around. There she hung, gleaming like electrum in the moonlight ; the great golden Virgin of Albert bent at an absurd and perilous angle over the street. There she will hang according to the prophecy until she marks by her fall the end of the war in victory for the Allies. Only that fall must come naturally it is no good climbing up to the tower one night to expedite matters with a hatchet. "Bah," said Bissette, "you surely don't believe these old wives' stories, do you ? " " No," replied Vaux, " I don't suppose I do, but I like to pretend to myself sometimes that I believe them. To-night, for instance, it is much the best way to answer your question to point to that lady up there." " Well," said the other, " I will answer my own question. The war will end six months from the time when France finds her great general. That is all we need to go through there," and he pointed in the direction of the line. " Another Napoleon, eh, what ? " said I. It was a tactless remark, as I realized a fraction of a second too late, for the Bonaparte cult was the pet aversion of Bissette, an ardent republican, while Vaux's ancestors had fought Hoch in the Vend6e and had been among the Garde Rouge who had protected the flight of Louis XVI. "Napoleon," snorted Bissette, "why, what could he have done ?" I weakly murmured something about having heard somewhere that the person in question had once been considered a very fair general. " My dear man, he was the greatest military genius of all time. Don't imagine that I don't believe that. 94 Silhouettes of Mars But still what could he do now ? Every man, no matter how much of a genius he may be, is the creature of his own time and cannot be expected to deal with circumstances which lie outside its scope. Napoleon, for instance, knew nothing of that." And he pointed upwards, whence from out the darkness came the steady threshing of an aeroplane's wings. " But he would have soon got on to it all, or at any rate as much as he required. In any case his staff would have run all these things for him, don't you think ? " " No, I don't feel any certainty that Napoleon would have done better than anyone else. After all, he had his chance to serve France, did not take it, and we are still paying for his mistake. You agree with me, de Vaux, don't you ? " and he turned to- wards the younger man. " I suppose you are right. Nevertheless, I don't mind confessing that I wish Napoleon was alive to- day. Trenches, bombs, aeroplanes and so on are, I think, excrescences in warfare. He could have taken a few courses in them, you know, and then ' " Jena and Austerlitz, eh, on a bigger scale ? " " Perhaps ; who knows ? At any rate, I should have seen him, and I would give a good deal to have done that 1 " " Why, Vaux," said I, " I did not know that you were such an ardent Bonapartist 1 " " I'm not. My ancestors fought against him for the Bourbons, but he was the greatest man in the world, and I say again, I should like to have seen him." Bissette and I laughed. While talking we had walked some little distance Ave Caesar Immortalis ! 95 along the Albert-Bapaume road and had got clear of the town, save for a few outlying houses. Before us lay the road, fringed at this point on both sides with trees, running almost straight, as we well knew, past the shell-holes and debris that mark the sites of Pozieres and Courcelette to the key of the old German position in this section, the fortified village of Bapaume. In places the light of the moon turned the grey mud to silver. In the far distance the horizon was lit up by a steady glare as if of electricity. Rockets continually arose to burst in showers of many-coloured stars. The noise of the guns came in one continuous rumble, reminding us of old times when the crescendo of the Somme offensive was nearing its climax. We walked on a few hundred yards to Tara Hill, where the brigade was bivouacked. There Bissette and I said good-night to Vaux, struck oS through the mud to the right, and after considerable difficulty found our respective tents. This is the first time that I ever tried to spin a yarn, and I find that I am not much good at it. I don't know why I have written down the above conversa- tion, because I forgot it as soon as I went to sleep that night. The events of the next few days left me small time to think of it again, and it was only when Amiens appeared to be definitely saved for the time, and after I had actually begun to set down on paper the happen- ings that followed, that I recollected it. My story, such as it is, therefore begins here. I must explain that the brigade to which the nth Royal Fusiliers belonged had been sent back to rest for a while at Albert. It was therefore with consider- able disgust that I received next day early morning 96 Silhouettes of Mars instructions from my servant that I must get up at once as the whole brigade had been ordered back into the line tout de suite. It was indeed a poor time to choose for a rest, as that day the great German offensive began, which, as we learned afterwards, was meant to seize Amiens, the lid that guarded the apple of our eye, paralyse our railway communications, and cut us off from the French to the South. It was an anxious time. We moved up in lorries at dawn to- wards we knew not what. I need not recount the events which followed in the next few days ; they are only too well known. You know how the full weight of the German offensive, over forty-five divisions, led by shock troops specially trained in the new tactics of infiltration, were flung against General Gough's fourteen divisions, which were holding, moreover, an impossibly long front. The Fifth Army reeled beneath the shock and broke not in one, but in half a score of places. I suppose it was the greatest military disaster that the British arms have ever undergone. It was always the same old story. First the Boche would dribble a few men with light machine guns around both flanks and then, if that did not dislodge you and it became increasingly difficult to stand when we saw those on both sides of us going back he would hurl his Sturmtruppen led by men, stout fellows, bearing Flammenwerfer at your front. Soldiers are always extremely sensitive about their flanks, you know. We were taught to be in the pre- war text-books. The thing became an obsession at the end ; one platoon or company would withdraw, because it had to, or at least with some excuse ; then the others on both sides would promptly follow suit Ave Caesar Immortalis ! 97 " in order to conform to the line." Of course when you once get a business like that started there is no end to it. It was like an infectious disease, and became a never-ending process. In the end it was a choice between standing and being cut off to a man, or withdrawing. All honour, say I, to those who stood, for they undoubtedly saved the game for their side. Under such circumstances there was not much difference between "withdrawing" and "retiring." That was the hell of it, there was no place to with- draw to. It was the same behind all the armies. Lines pink, green, all the colours of the rainbow existed on paper and on the staff maps, but actually not one of them had been even scratched out. If the powers that be in the Fifth Army it is easy to be wise after the event made a mistake, it was in issuing orders that, if an absolute necessity arose, troops would withdraw to a line of resistance previ- ously prepared in rear. Still these were the orders that all armies were issuing at the time, and it was only in consequence of the lesson learned thank God, in front of Amiens that Haig issued his famous " back to the wall " manifesto. My battalion was in the thick of it from the moment at which we reached what was left of the line, and relieved a company that called itself a battalion. The Colonel was killed almost at once, and I had to take over. Step by step, we fell back, always fighting and always being killed. We seemed to make some sort of a stand in each of the thousand old trenches that run at right angles from the Albert -Bapaume road. It was hateful always to be going back and to see those well-remembered names Bapaume, Courcelette, 98 Silhouettes of Mars Pozi^res, and the rest places for which so many of the best had died pass to the Huns once more. Tired was no word for it ; men fought in their sleep, loading and firing their rifles mechanically, and we fired the Lewis guns until they jammed. All the while they were said to be digging trenches behind us, the staff from all the schools and rest camps down the line. They kept sending us chits telling us to hold on until they had a line ready and then to fall back on that and make a stand there. I used to think that if we ever reached that line all we would be able to do would be to fall back into it ! Always we were retreating and always looking for the reserves which never came, and for the very good reason that there were none between us and the sea. It was the British Empire's supreme hour of destiny. In the early morning of the 30th came another smashing attack by the foe. We seemed to have been doing nothing else for years save empty our rifles at these on-coming grey figures. I thought that this time it would be the last, but by a miracle we staved them off. Then it became a game of bluff, for if the Boche had known how weak we were, and that we had nothing in rear, they would simply have ignored us and walked over us to Amiens and the coast. After it was over, for the time, I received the worst news of all from a brigade runner who found me in my dug-out in a shell-hole. Two of the acting Brigadiers were killed and the Divisional Commander had been thrown from his horse and injured himself severely. Our Brigadier was going to take over the division, and I was bidden to amalgamate my handful of men with another battalion and report to him at Ave Caesar Immortalis ! 99 once. The divisional staff had also apparently been shot to pieces. I did not altogether relish the prospect, for I knew old Fore and Aft as the men called him, on account of his being almost as broad as he was long of old. He was a regular, but one of the rough and ready school, the very antithesis of a staff college man, and had at the start of the war commanded my own battalion. There I had several times come into contact with him, and recalled vividly a particularly irritating trick of his of laying his hand on your shoulder while talking to you. He professed to despise what he called theories and " book-soldiering," and to believe that those who studied their profession were wont to cry " here are the enemy where are my books " when the foe was sighted. General Browne, though well enough liked by the men, was absurdly ignorant on many matters which are usually assumed to be common knowledge. Having once in peace-tune made a trip to Boulogne, he cordially disliked our Allies the French, and it was a great trial to him that he felt in honour bound under present circumstances not to refer to Waterloo. Napoleon, of course, he considered a theorist. However, there was no help for it, so after making the necessary arrangements I made my way to where I judged the Division must be. I found them all in an old farm-house behind a wood. General Browne had already taken over, and as I entered he was engaged in lecturing Bissette on the general slackness of the French in allowing the present situation to develop. He blamed it all on the insistent demands of Paris for an extension of the British front. He had the interpreter backed up into ioo Silhouettes of Mars a corner of the kitchen and pinning him there with his left arm thrust, alternately, his right fore finger and two red cheeks into the Frenchman's face. " You keep talking of Napoleon," he cried poor Bissette obviously had not opened his mouth for many sentences past " well, he's dead, isn't he ? Died at Elba, didn't he, after Wellington licked him, eh ? What I say is, if you have any more Napoleons left, trot them out, man; trot them all out. Very glad to see them I'm sure. Now's the time for them, my boy." He released his prisoner and turned to me. " Glad to see you, Tavernay, my boy, damned glad to see you. Things in a bit of a mess here, I should say, since General WaUingford left. Too bad of the French to leave us in the lurch like this, isn't it ? What I say is where are the reserves, where the hell are the reserves ? Surely we've got some somewhere. Can't expect us to hold without reserves, can they, Taver- nay ? " I soon found out that things were in a bit of a mess, as indeed was only to be expected after the retirement by leaps and bounds that divisional headquarters had been undertaking for many days past. A " carte Taride " of north-eastern France, belonging to Vaux, appeared to be all that was left in the way of maps that were of any use. After giving the General my own report, I set to work to try to locate and to get into touch with our various units. It was a difficult job. All night long we toiled, preparing for the attack which we felt sure would come at dawn. It came, and when it was over we had been pushed back some odd miles along the Albert-Amiens road. At 3 a.m. the General had gone up the line. Mine was the Ave Caesar Immortalis ! 101 harder task of staying with our rapidly moving head- quarters and trying to estabk'sh a report centre for the slowly retreating line. Once more the Germans failed to press home their advantage. It was the only thing that saved us. When you look at a map of the great German offensive of 1918, you will probably see the red line running through Albert town, but, believe me, it did not. Late that afternoon, the General came back, bent and weary, and all the comfort I had for him was two wires from Army to say that such reserves as were available had gone in to the south, but that probably we would be relieved by the French after two nights, and that meantime we must depend on our own exertions alone to prevent a general break-through. For two more days we did it, hanging on by the skin of our teeth, as it were. It was a succession of miracles. Always the Boche seemed to be through, but always at the last gasp there was some one with a Lewis gun to head him off, provide a nucleus to rally on and permit a fresh line to form. We were holding a divisional frontage in terms of platoons and minor tactics. It is the breath after your last that counts in war just as in rowing. General Browne was magnificent ; it was just the sort of situation that brought out all that was best in him. This old man, who rarely wrote his own orders, whether as Battalion Commander or Brigadier, was up the line the whole time. He had grown strangely silent of late, and would return to headquarters, listen to my scanty reports, and then throw himself on the ground to sleep. We had formed a reserve of five hundred of the least -tired men with odds and ends from behind, and used them whenever things 102 Silhouettes of Mars looked blackest. They were led, I remember, by an old dug-out Major, an R.T.O., or something, from Boulogne, who had been pronounced physically unfit for active service. This was his chance, however, and he took it, this man, who had never been nearer fighting before than hearing a bomb burst in front of the Louvre Hotel. I wish the doctors could have seen him ! Well may he rest in peace, for it was he and Vaux, his second in command, who undoubtedly saved us. As it was, the waning of the storm found us perched astride the Albert-Amiens road at the very apex of the German-created British salient. The night of the expected relief was like a repeti- tion of the first that I had spent at headquarters. The General came back from the line at about 7 p.m., and we had supper. He was in very good spirits, more so, I thought, than the receipt of the last wire from Corps, wherein it was stated that the French reserves might be diverted from us " for reasons that may be imperative," justified. " Never mind, Tavernay," he said, " I know they will come ; they cannot fail me again." All through supper he laughed and joked with Vaux, who had come in to make a report, and whom he called " mon capitaine." Bissette he addressed as " mon enfant," and checked all repartee by telling him not to be silly. I saw both Frenchmen looking at him curiously and did not wonder at it. After the meal a curious thing happened. General Browne was standing in front of the empty fireplace with his hands behind his back, laughing and talking to Bissette. Most of the conversation, judged by the scraps that I overheard, was in French. Curiously enough I had never considered the possibility of Old Ave Caesar Immortalis ! 103 Fore and Aft being able to speak French ; indeed, I would almost have sworn, from recollections of him as my battalion O.C., that he could not have framed two consecutive sentences in that language to save his life. Evidently, I was wrong, however. The conversation ended with a quick " Chut! chut! " of impatience from the General, accompanied by his well-known trick of laying his hand on his companion's shoulder. Only this time the hand did not stay on Bissette's shoulder, but crept up to his face and gave what I can only describe as a tug at his ear. I had a curious feeling that I must have seen the General do the same thing often before, without noticing it. The General turned to me. ' The French will come to-morrow, Tavernay, I know it ; but we must hold them to-night. They will attack us in the dark about 2 a.m. Write out an order to all units saying that relief will come to- morrow morning, and that to-night every position must be held to the last man. I am going to have a look round." He left the hut taking Vaux with him, and I turned to the upturned wooden box which did duty as a desk, in order to write the order. It did not take me long, and after I had summoned the runners I lit a pipe and sat looking out of the unglazed window at the gathering darkness. To-night I knew would be the supreme test ; and if we failed now, of what avail all the heroism of the past weeks ? Moreover, I had no confidence in the certainty of the French coming to-morrow. It was dark outside, but no blacker than my thoughts. I knew how tired the men up there must be. 104 Silhouettes of Mars It began to rain, even though the wind was rising. Having nothing to do, I must have fallen into a doze, for the next thing that I remember was the telephone bell ringing. A message from Corps to say that the situation was urgent and that all positions must be held at all costs. The probability was that the French would not arrive for twenty-four hours, even if they were not diverted to the south. Cheerful news 1 As I hung up the receiver, the General entered. One look at him showed me that he was all in. His trench coat was covered with mud, and he had a field dress- ing and his handkerchief tied round his right arm I " A bit of shrapnel," he said. " My God, Tavernay, the men are utterly used up. I don't think we can do it." I told him the purport of the message which I had just logged. He listened in silence, instead of the outburst of profanity which I had half expected, and then, turning his white drawn face to me, said : *' You have issued the orders I suppose ? Good. It is all we can do. The attack will come at 2 a.m. I feel sure. No, I won't worry about my arm now. I have some iodine on it. I must get some sleep ; wake me at midnight. He turned into the inner room, and I heard the creak and rustle of his trench coat as he lay down upon the floor. I lit another pipe and picked up a book. Soon I heard the General's snores. I must have read for some time before there came another noise from the inner room ; the General was getting up, though, as I saw by a glance at my wrist-watch, it was scarcely eleven pip emma. A minute later he passed me on his way to the door. As he reached Ave Caesar Immortalis ! ios it my candle threw his shadow for a second on the wall, and again I had that feeling of something curiously familiar about it, as if I had lived that scene before. As I sat and smoked I could hear him pacing to and fro in the little garden, for it had grown very still with the down-going of the wind. I went to the window, and looked out. The General was walking up and down with his head sunk on his breast and his hands clasped behind him. His gait struck me as very peculiar, being more like a run than a walk. He would take a dozen quick little uneven steps in one direction, turn with a short shrug of his shoulders and take twelve more. General Browne was a short corpulent little man, but like many small men he habitually took some- what long strides when walking, and I can remember thinking how unlike him it was and that it boded no good for our chances that night, before I returned to my chair. Anon as I sat there the sound of these queer little running steps ceased. The moon had come up, and by its light I saw his great black shadow grotesquely outlined on the little patch of grass in front of the window. His steel helmet he had lost his general's cap the day before lent it the appearance of wearing a cocked hat and made me think of a soldier of Marl- borough's time or Washington's. He moved and the illusion was destroyed. A minute later I heard him calling me and went to the door. He was standing at the foot of the solitary tree that the garden possessed, with his legs planted far apart and his chin sunk over his collar. He had placed his wounded arm within the breast of his trench-coat ; the other was still behind him. His 106 Silhouettes of Mars long coat covered with mud looked black, not khaki in that light, and gave the whole figure a strangely foreign appearance. As I approached I realized that he wished to dictate an order and pulled out my A.F.B. 163. He spoke for twenty minutes while I struggled hard to get it all down, and with a lucidity and direct- ness which I would never have expected from him. All the time he was looking at his boots, yet the stac- cato sentences reached my ears, each with the crack of a whip. Never once did he falter or seem at a loss for a word ; it might have been a reading from a type- written manuscript. He spoke of places which I had never heard of before, and which were certainly not on Vaux's map. When I questioned him about them he merely said : "I know this country, sir ; who should know it if I did not ? " and went on with the dictation. It was a marvellous performance, for the man seemed to know the position of the remnants of every platoon in his division and left me breathless but desperate. For these orders were a complete cancellation of the ones already issued. I need not go into details ; but, in brief, all our units were to retire at once for about three quarters of a mile. The old line of resistance was to be held by Vaux and his reserves and held to the last : talk of sacrifice troops, the S.O.S. line for the few guns we possessed was drawn behind them. It was sheer murder for them. With extra flares given them and planes, they were to create the impression of a strong force and then die as best they could. And we had only a couple of hours to arrange it all in ! I resolved to speak to the General and not to let Ave Caesar Immortalis! 10? these extraordinary orders go out under my signature unchallenged. " But, sir," I said, "do you think we can get out orders to all concerned and make the necessary alterations in time ? It is 11.30 now." " We must, Tavernay. I have already given orders to the reserve, through de Vaux. You must see to the rest. Understand me clearly, it must be done. More depends on it than you know. I have just learned from Army, Corps does not seem to be working, that the final German offensive will fall on this front during the night. I regret that I do not feel quite certain whether it will be 2 a.m. or at dawn." " But, sir," I stammered, " how do they know ? We " He cut me short. " I have been studying the map since assuming command, and have communicated my decision to the Staff. Acting on my advice the whole weight of the French reserves is even now being diverted to us again. Saint-Maurice is a good man, I knew er his father, and he will be here in time as I have stated in my orders. Of that all the armies may rest assured. Acting on my orders they are concentrating their planes on this front, and I am guaranteed mastery of the air for some hours from dawn. That is well, for the enemy will not be able to observe us I mean the French coming up." " But, sir," I broke in, in an agony of apprehension, " do you realize what you are doing ? Have you any conception of the responsibility you are taking ? Personally, I do not " He turned on me with the snarl of a tiger on his yellow teeth. The black eyes seemed to blaze like 108 Silhouettes of Mars twin living coals in his face, white and drawn from loss of sleep. " You force me to remind you, Marshall, that I am accustomed to responsibility, but most unaccustomed to hear my decisions questioned by those whom I have made. This is not a council of war, nor are you yet my Chief of Staff. You will issue these orders at once, and report to me when you have done so." I saluted stiffly and, sick at heart, went back into the room. Why had he called me " Marshall " and not " Tavernay ? " Was he mad or shell-shocked ? Still thinking this, I got on the line to Army and asked to speak to Major- General Green of the General Staff. He came at last and summoning up all my courage I gave him a brief precis of General Browne's orders, stated that I did not think the General was very well, and asked for instructions. He heard me with patience to the end, and then asked but one question : How had these orders reached my General ? I replied that he had just dic- tated them to me, ten minutes ago, and that, so far as I knew, they were his own. " Impossible," he replied, and then, " Wait a minute, Tavernay." I could hear him shouting questions at the other end of the phone, and then speaking rapidly in a low voice to some other person near at hand. There came a new voice over the line, quiet and pleasant, which yet thrilled me to hear it, for it was that of the man on whose brain all the Empire de- pended to lead her battered armies home. He was not at Montreuil then, but here behind those scanty divisions which were bearing the shock of battle. Ave Caesar Immortalis ! 109 To him, at his command, I read General Browne's orders, word for word, and then . . . " I do not understand how your General has got hold of these orders, Major Tavernay " there was a note of hesitation and anxiety in that voice " for they are substantially those which are just about to go to him through signals. The French cannot have communicated direct ; but that is a question which must wait. You have not yet issued them ? " " Then please do so at once. You will then report to your General your reasons for having called up these headquarters. The rest I will leave with him." " Then, sir, we are to act on General Browne's orders ? " " You are to act at once on the orders which you have read which have just reached me from General Foch. I have concurred in them. Good night." The orders sent off, I braced myself for a difficult and disagreeable task. I knew quite well what I had done, ruined my career as a soldier, probably irre- trievably, and yet I can say in all humbleness that I had acted as I thought my duty dictated and would do so again under similar circumstances. You see things might have been wrong, and what was my career compared to England's ? I found General Browne in the garden, once more pacing up and down with those cat-like strides, and to him I related my conversation with the Commander- in-Chief and what had lead up to it. He heard me to the end and then gave me a look one long look. I felt as if his eyes were diving down into the depths of my soul searching for whatever of meanness, deceit, or hypocrisy might be there. In my dreams I can still see that white face and those no Silhouettes of Mars implacable eyes. There was a short silence and then he spoke : " Mar er Major Tavernay, I have formed a favourable opinion of your zeal in a subordinate capacity. You will endeavour to see that my opinion of you remains unaltered." I bowed and saluted with a heart too full for words, and turned on my heel, but he called me back. "So you thought fit to question my orders, my boy I Many have done that, but they were never right. I wonder if you will ever know to what a distinguished company you thereby allied yourself." He gave me a smile which I shall always remember, for its wonderful sweetness and sadness. The whole figure of the man seemed to diffuse a personal mag- netism. I felt as if I wanted to die for him for this commonplace looking little British Brigadier in his dirty uniform. He put the hand of his unwounded arm to my cheek and pinched my ear. " So you do not know me even after all these years, Bertram ! " he said. " Bertram " he called me, or at least some name of two syllables, which began with B I wish I could remember what it was and again he smiled. I felt as if I could not speak, and so I left him without asking when the orders had come. My story is growing longer than I had meant, but from now on there is not so much to tell. The enemy attacked at 2 a.m., and thank God wo were ready for them but only just ready. If we had been compelled to wait until we got the orders to change our dispositions through signals, I tremble for the result. We should have been caught on the move. As the attack started I felt strangely elated, Ave Caesar Immortalis ! in for now I saw the practical possibilities of the new scheme. The enemy attacked just before dawn, but it took four successive waves of their infantry to pass our outpost line, for Vaux and his band of heroes played up nobly before they were submerged. The next wave of Germans, evidently according to orders, split up into small bombing parties to overcome the last vestiges of resistance, and there was a distinct pause. The General and I with a field telephone had established ourselves in an improvised O.P. in rear of my own battalion. From there we could see every- thing that was happening. " They think they have carried our main line of resistance," said General Browne, " and have nothing to do save to push on, for I have taken care to let them know that we have no reserves." " It was very simple," he added, seeing my look of amazement. '' You will doubtless remember Captain Robertson of your battalion. He was rather ill and very stupid, but I made good use of him. I sent him with a message to the Corps on our right imploring help, and saying that as we had no reserves behind us an attack would go through us like so much brown paper. He did not know that those on our right had lost ground much ground and so naturally he carried the message to the Germans. This is his work now that you are going to see. I shall award him the Legion of Honour, if he is still alive." Even as he spoke what he had predicted happened. The sixth and following waves of the grey-coated infantry reached the battle line and pushed stolidly through it in artillery formations. Evidently they imagined that they had nothing to do save to carry 112 Silhouettes of Mars out Ludendorff's imperative commands and reach our gun positions immediately after breaking our front line. Already I could see light field pieces galloping forward to support them. " In five minutes time I shall order barrage fire," said the General. " We have not many shells, but we will shoot off what we have then. See, it is getting light ; now for the French ! Only it is imperative for the complete success of my plans that they " he waved a comprehensive hand behind him " keep their promise to me and hold the air for the next couple of hours. Go and look for the French, mon ami." He handed me a battered and black old tele- scope, which he drew out of his pocket, and turned once more to the front. I stood up and looked through the telescope, but it- was not yet light enough to see anything. When I told him so, he merely nodded and continued to stare in front of him. There the small grey columns were steadily cover- ing the ground between our first and second positions. Their advance was now protected by a fringe of men in extended order. Not a sound or a movement on our part. It was uncanny. Suddenly General Browne spoke again : "War is the great game, is it not, Tavernay, and has its own rules which must be followed ? Yet he who never departs from them will always miss its greatest prizes. It can be played in two moods, that of the mathematician handling a chess problem or that of the poet writing a sonnet to his mistress. Yet neither by itself is sufficient, for the one may conceivably win a campaign, if he does not lose the most important battle, and to win battles is, after Ave Caesar Immortalis 1 us all, the chief end in war I do not believe in planning campaigns until you have won your first battle while the other might possibly win all his battles and yet be no nearer his goal. I hope you follow me, Tavernay. It is the great lover who is also the great soldier, the man who can write the most beautiful verses without ever having seen a woman who was worthy to read them, and who can work out the most difficult chess problem in a way which was never conceived by its author as possible. The enemy have come far enough, sir ; give the artillery orders to open fire." I did so and that moment a runner came up to report from the Signal Officer at the farm that all lines were down past the artillery control post. He handed me the last mutilated message that had come through ! " Y Division AAA French two divisions reported at " the rest, as Shakespeare says, was silence. Our guns opened with a roar, to which the Germans almost immediately replied with twice the volume. But whereas they were searching for our battery positions we laid down a definite barrage. It caught their infantry midway between the two lines of trenches, some shells bursting harmlessly between the small shallow columns, others annihilating a whole squad or platoon at a time. It caught their field pieces galloping up in support, or in the act of unlimbering, and blew their carriages to pieces. Still, however, the enemy infantry pushed steadily on, winding their way through the barrage. Suddenly, when they were within about four hundred yards of our lines, their scouts seemed to take alarm. I saw signals being passed back, and 114 Silhouettes of Mars their leading columns began to shake themselves out into extended order. At the same moment, we opened fire and seemed literally to blow their leading files off the ground. They melted and withered, but, as our surprise fire sank down in volume and as fresh waves caught them up, came gallantly on again. It was enthralling to watch them. Suddenly, I noticed that General Browne was no longer beside me. He had repossessed himself of the telescope, and was standing some little distance away from the O.Pip endeavouring to ^ook through the telescope which he held unsteadily in one hand. " What is the use of looking in front of you, Tavernay ? " he called out to me. " I know perfectly well what will happen there. We shall hold them once but not twice. It is here behind you that the battle is being won or lost. If the French are at Epernay " naming a village which was hidden in a dip of the country behind us " we shall win ; if not, we won't. Come here ! " I went to him, and standing behind me he laid the telescope over my right shoulder and turned it on the road behind us. I remember that I had to bend over to enable him to see. Long and anxiously he scanned the roads now plainly visible in the growing light. Suddenly, with a yell of rage, he dropped the tele- scope and danced upon it, and then kicked it away with his foot. His features were contorted with passion, and he shook his fist towards the West. "They are not coming," he yelled. "These dam- ned French will be too late again. I tell you they are fools and cannot march. All my generals are fools. Was ever a man so unfortunate to have only idiots and imbeciles to command ! Come, I will go and Ave Caesar Immortalis ! 115 die at the head of my troops. We must hold them yet." He turned and set off at an ungainly trot for the line. I gave the A.D.C. some instructions and then followed him. Never have I run such a race. In spite of the seriousness of it all, I could hardly keep from laughing, so ridiculous did the fat little figure, with the wind blowing his coat out behind him, appear. On and on he went, falling into shell-holes and scrambling up again, tearing himself on bits of forgotten wire, cursing and screaming. When I at last caught up to him he was almost crying with pain and rage. I took his arm and together we hurried on, the shells dropping all round us. Once a big one burst close beside us and blew us off our feet. I do not know how we ever got through. Even as we ran I was able to notice the turmoil that was going on above us. We must have massed, I don't know how many squadrons, behind this front. Apparently this fight meant more than I had dreamed. Two machines dropped close beside us, both, as I was glad to note, were Huns. Evidently, we were holding our " ground " in the air. At last we got to the trenches where a desperate struggle was in progress. In places, as I could see at a glance, the Germans would never reach us in face of our rifle and machine-gun fire ; elsewhere they had already done so, and a hand to hand fight was going on. Straight for one of these made General Browne, and flung himself into the fray, with me after him. A huge German rifleman had got a boy officer of ours down, and was in the act of bayoneting the lad through the stomach as he lay on the ground, when General Browne hurled his steel hat in the man's face, and 116 Silhouettes of Mars followed this up by falling upon him literally with tooth and nail, biting and scratching. It was as if a fat little pug-dog were trying to worry a mastiff, for the German was a huge flaxen bearded brute of a man and stood at least six foot high. He flung the General gasping from him with a drive of his rifle butt to the stomach, and was in the act of administering the coup de grace when I shot him through the head. There came a rush with bayonet and bomb, led by the subaltern whom we had just rescued, and the enemy were driven out. I helped the General, gasp- ing and panting, to his feet, and ventured to remon- strate with him on his foolhardiness. As soon as he had got his breath he screamed at me : " I cannot die, I tell you. I cannot die. Mon dieu, how often have I tried to die ! " and then in a calmer voice, " But you are right. Come." Up and down the line we went, encouraging, en- treating. " Courage, my children," the General would cry, " hold but this once and the French will be here. They are coming even now. Only this once, mes enfants. I swear to you. I, your General." Those who heard him seemed highly amused, but I noticed that the men around him, wherever he was, fought like demons and no Huns got to him again. At last it was over ; and pursued by our fire the enemy broke for their trenches, so lately ours. There they would lick their wounds like tigers and like tigers come again. Back we went to our O.Pip, for the General's position was obviously there. On the way he pointed out to me how our planes still held the air, and with the sloping country behind our ridge the enemy would not be able to observe the coming of the French if they came. Ave Caesar Immortalis ! " These English fight well," he said. " They always told me that, but I did not believe it until I knew. Now I wish there were more of them instead of less. Only once have I seen them tight before." I thought him quite mad, but we were obviously doing well under a mad general ! Back at our old position he seized my field-glasses and with a shaking hand put them to his eyes. No sooner had he done so then he gave a shout of joy. " They come ; they come," he cried, " see them as they come. Look you, Tavernay, and tell me who they are ! " He thrust the glasses at me, and I looked long and carefully. Far off along the brown winding road I could just see a moving smudge, tipped with some- thing that shone and gleamed. French or British I knew not. I heard an oath beside me. " Who are they, I say ? Can't you see, man ? " He thrust a face distorted with passion into mine and shook his fist at me. " They are not Prussians ; surely they can't be Prussians. If you say they are Prussians, man, I will have you shot. It's him at last. Damn you, don't you know Frenchmen when you see them ? I know it is him. They can't they must not be Prussians ! " At that moment a figure in a sky-blue uniform coated with dust came round a bend in the road immediately below us on a motor bike. He was head- ing for our headquarters in the farm-house. All doubts were set at rest though why he should imagine Prussians in his rear I could not guess they were French . " Come," he said, " we will go and meet them. I told you they were French, not Prussians. They could not be Prussians, you know. My God ! How 118 Silhouettes of Mars I loathe the sight of Prussians stealing up behind one. I don't know why I should have thought them Prussians, save that I dream of them so often. But he could not fail me twice, could he ? Come ! " Hardly had we reached the farm-house when a grey French staff-car drove up, and a tall distinguished looking officer with grey hair entered the room, followed by his staff. General Browne stepped for- ward to meet them. " Have I the honour of speaking to the Commander of this so gallant division ? " asked the Frenchman and promptly embraced the General. I extricated them with difficulty and the two general officers sat down at my box with their two maps. " I have one division here, mon general," said the Frenchman, " and another is close behind. As you are so hard pressed I shall counter-attack at once, here, I think," and he laid his finger on the map. " No, sir, these are not my orders and I am in com- mand of the defence of this section." The Frenchman raised a deprecating palm in the air. " Oh, monsieur le general, let us not converse on these terms." " Very well. But please, sir, understand that you are under my orders as officer commanding this sector of the defence." The other general flushed. " I will have two complete French divisions here within an hour, monsieur ; you, I imagine " and he bowed " are, to your honour be it said, less than a brigade." " Nevertheless, sir, your orders are to act under me. Is it not so ? " Ave Caesar Immor tails ! H9 The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. " It is true that my instructions are to assist the local commander on the spot in carrying out any plan that he may have conceived to aid the defence. You have a plan, air, different from mine ? " " I have. These are your orders. You will move your advanced troops up to this line which I draw on the map here. Not a man under your command will cross it until I give the word. The enemy will attack again in an hour's time. He cannot know that you are here." " But, mon general, can you hold him this time ? " " No, but we can do better ; we can throw him into confusion and then " he swept his hand over the map. " Do not dig your field guns in, sir, you will be moving them soon." " But when I attack, if I open fire, shall I not kill some of your so gallant soldiers ? " " When you attack, sir, there will be so few of them left that you will probably miss them " He stood up and so did the other. I can see that scene now, in that little whitewashed room, if I shut my eyes. The tall old Frenchman confronting our Brigadier. Then they shook hands and saluted. As the French general reached the door General Browne started speaking again in French. Never have I heard French spoken so quickly. As far as I could follow it he was going over the general scheme for the day, amplifying it and filling in details. At the end the Frenchman replied meekly : " Oui, mon general," saluted again and left the room. A minute later General Browne went out into the garden. 120 Silhouettes of Mars Bissette turned an amazed face to me. "Where did the General learn to speak French like that, Major ? It was Gascon ; no Prove^al. I am of the South, but I never heard anything quite like it before. I should not say that he was born in France." " Don't be a fool, Bissette," I said crossly, for the thing was getting on my nerves. " Of course he wasn't born in France. You know quite well he was born in Glasgow." In a quarter of an hour we all went back to the old O.Pip, where we were joined by General de Saint - Maurice with a few of his officers. The Hun attack when it came was a repetition of the last one on a larger scale. Our line held them up for half an hour before it gave and by that time had disorganized the whole attack, except for the German reserves. These were now pushed recklessly in from the flank with the evident intention of overrunning our gun positions. Not a Frenchman was to be seen and our planes were still in the ascendant. General Browne stood upright beside the O.Pip making no attempt at concealment. One arm was still in the breast of his coat ; the other clutched the lapel. The rest of us stood or lay behind him. Shells began to drop round. At last he turned to the other and spoke : " Laissez-aller, monsieur le mare"chal." A French officer seized the phone and spoke down it, and in ten seconds' time the noise of the German guns was broken by a greater impact of sound. The air seemed to quiver with the deep boom of the heavies, and to be stabbed again and again by the angry bark Ave Caesar Immortalis ! 121 of the seventy-fives. Behind their barrage the French infantry began to advance. They came on in perfect order in artillery formation, preceded by lines of infantry in extended order. At the sight General Browne seized General de Saint- Maurice by the lobe of his left ear. " Ah, that is the way to do it, mon ami," he cried, " first a cloud of skirmishers and then your columns behind them." The other rubbed his ear and said something which I could not catch. The French were now almost up to the broken German advance. The leading columns had already extended. Nothing could stop them. The German infantry went down submerged before them, as does a sand bar before some gigantic wave, but did not reappear. Instead, the whole mass rolled back upon the line of trenches. The barrage lifted and came down behind them. Suddenly General Browne turned furiously on Saint-Maurice. " God damn you, sir, you are killing my men. Stop your infernal guns at once I say. Look at that one dropping short." He swore at him again savagely. The Frenchman kept calm under the insult. " They are your own orders, sir," he said, " and the barrage will lift now." Even as he spoke it did so, and the French reached the line. It hung for a minute like a long cluster of bees swaying both ways at once before it broke. Then I could see the French seventy-fives pulled and manhandled into action between the columns of their infantry and the gunners shooting over open sights at five hundred yards range and tearing red lanes through 122 Silhouettes of Mars the broken enemy. It was an hour such as pays the artillery for weeks and months of the dull and danger- ous routine work that usually falls to their share. " It is all over," said General Browne. " This is how I planned it. This is how it should have gone." He turned to the few men the offscourings of headquarters who were behind, held his hat above his head, and shouted something at them to which they replied with a cheer. I did not hear what he said, for at that moment I heard a shell coming. It came and burst some distance away, throwing up a cloud of earth and stones which rattled off our helmets. I turned laughing, as did the others, to see the General lying upon the ground with the blood oozing from his head. It is strange how a big shell can burst two hundred yards off, apparently harm- lessly, and just one small fragment catch a man. Bissette, who was nearest to him raised him in his arms, but he was dead. We advanced two miles before we were halted by orders from behind. We carried the General back and laid him upon two chairs in the inner room. Bissette would not believe that he was dead. We buried him next day beneath the lone tree in the little garden. I remember that Bissette threw some early spring violets which he had gathered into the grave, and talked a lot of nonsense afterwards. He seems to be full of silly ideas and theories. I am writing this account of what happened in hospital where I have been for six weeks. Of course I do not believe what Bissette says, but it is very strange. The strangest thing of all, in my opinion, is that our Signals have no record of any orders coming Ave Caesar Immortalis ! 123 to General Browne before my telephone conversation with Army Headquarters. I cannot imagine how he got them. Bissette does not see anything strange in this at all. I have been reading a lot of books while in bed about Napoleon and Waterloo, which Bissette has sent me. He wants to make me agree with him " con- vert " me, he says. He will never do that. It is all very curious, however. Thank heaven the French came up, or our goose would have been burnt to cinders. Our battle certainly did bear some resemblance on a small scale to Waterloo. I have been looking at a picture of Napoleon at Austerlitz standing on the top of a hill with his staff behind him. I can see this quite clearly until I shut the book. Then it becomes blurred and Napoleon's face changes to that of General Browne. It is the same with a lot of other pictures. " That is my friend's story," said Monsieur Tardieu, laying his hands on the top of the manuscript and studying the backs of his fingers. " He was not, as you will have perceived, an imaginative man." " But surely " broke in Jones. " But how else do you account for it ? " said Mon- sieur Tardieu. " No, messieurs," he continued, " nor am I over- much given to believing things, but yet it is possible that, given certain conditions, certain things happen. Why may we not at certain crises come under the influence of a personality greater than our own and all the stronger for being incorporeal ? I have seen General Foch praying by himself in the little church at Cassel in the hour of tribulation, and walking by himself in 124 Silhouettes of Mars the garden at Doullens in the hour of anxiety and perplexity. I have seen Marshal Foch tracing plans in the gravel in that same garden with his stick before the hour of triumph. I for one believe that when General de Saint-Maurice, general of division of the armies of the Republic, stood at the salute, rigid as the ramrod from one of the rifles with which he fought in his youth, before the body of General Browne, the soul of a greater soldier than either was near at hand. One who at Jena and Auerstadt broke the military domination of Prussia in two battles on a single day. We have also, have we not, seen miracles in our time, messieurs ? They talk of Gouraud's tactics in the Champagne, which three months later saved Rheims again and Paris, but I, messieurs, saw them first that day employed by a British brigadier." There was a pause while he studied the blue veins in his hands. " Shall I tell you, messieurs, the words which General Browne spoke to his little reserve just before he was killed the words which Major Tavernay did not hear ? They were ' Up Guards, and at them,' and he was smiling as if amused at something, and yet sadly, when he was killed. You are in the Garde Anglaise, are you not, Mr. Etherington ? " " Did Bissette hear what he said ? " asked Jones. " Perhaps I was Bissette, Mr. Jones," replied Monsieur Tardieu. " And you really believe that, sir ? " asked Jones again. " How else do you account for it, messieurs ? " said Monsieur Tardieu. ( 125 ) XI AN INTERLUDE OP WAR THE village lies on the main road from St. Pol to Boulogne, which here runs through neat whitewashed cottages, overgrown with climbing honeysuckle and roses and shaded by the chestnut -trees, instead of the open fields. Go east, up the vanishing road, and a few hours' ride or drive will bring you to the war-zone proper with its ring after ring of deserted broken trenches ; west, and you will reach in shorter time the revelry of Etaples or Boulogne. Groups of soldiers seem to be perpetually standing, with their packs on their backs and steel helmets strapped on top, outside the door of the village inn in the little square. Some are dusty and travel-stained, others not. They are looking for suitable transport up or down the road. One pictures them standing thus these past four years. Doubtless in the days before the war mine host would often sit on the little rustic bench, which en- circles the bole of the great chestnut-tree planted with Gallic precision in the exact centre of the square. The gossips of the village society would assemble here of a May evening, as now, when all the flowers of the tree are out above their heads, and discuss the doings of greater and lesser men. Not these days, however, for it would be too dusty a business. The eternally 126 Silhouettes of Mars passing traffic holds undisputed title to the main street of the village ; not even an errant hen, or child, seems ever to cross it now. Only the soldiers use the bench to-day ; sometimes an odd permissionnaire, from the armies to the south, returned to his native village for a while. The blue of his uniform blends strangely well with the rest of the scene. It is a charming peaceful village, even though set out along one of the main arteries of war, though many soldiers inhabit here. The dust from the high- road, raised by every species of military vehicle, from the stately cloud of the ponderous slow-moving lorry, to the lighter and more volatile essence of the aristo- cratic staff-car, seems not to settle on those gardens behind the houses. The leaves of the creepers on the fronts, of the trees in the street, may be covered over with a grey film turning their verdant springtime green to the darker shade of August, but there the lilac and roses of Picardy bloom unstained. It is a tangle and riot of flowers, growing over the low stone walls and peering above the fences, which are meant to keep garden from garden. There are not many men in the village apart from the British soldiers. Old men and boys, for the rest are soldiering elsewhere. The women seem to do everything in the fields and gardens, and in the houses where are lodged their guests. Shrewd, practical, and kindly, as all French women in the country are, they remind one of the Scotch in many ways, and seem to change in a few years from young girlhood to middle age. There would appear to be but few women here who are in their thirties. Only in their sublime indifference to the most elementary principles of sanitation do they fail to win our confidence. We An Interlude of War 12? cannot treat an open midden in the courtyard, or last year's refuse amidst the rose garden, as anything save out of place. Perhaps in a few more years, how- ever 1 The village lies in the midst of a valley which runs almost as straight as a furrow for miles. At the foot of the valley is a little stream, dignified on the maps with the title of river clear, limpid, and withal swift- flowing. Up from this level rise on both sides the hills, the gently sloping flanks of the valley, here wooded and there billowing outwards in fields of corn. Half-way up one side, mid-way between the river and the top, lies the village with its old church standing apart on a knoll by itself. All up and down the valley, far as the eye can reach, rise other spires, each standing for its own village lost among the dense foliage of the trees. At one point another valley runs at right angles to the first on the heights above, but not so deep as it. It stops up there and seems shut off from the greater, and then to fall down towards it, on a convex slope. A road, white amidst the surrounding green, goes winding up, and where it crosses the main road is the village square. The road continues upwards, BO that looking down we can see the village, all white and green and lilac, and then falls into the other valley, along the bottom of which it runs, parallel to its stream a tributary of the first. Above is the blue horizon and light fleecy clouds of early summer. Words may perhaps give a geometric idea of the lie of the land ; but none can paint its beauty, with such diversity of stream, here lost in the woods, there running clearly to be seen through a few scattered trees, of field and wooded knoll, garden and little dell. 128 Silhouettes of Mars Half-way up this valley, which like the other runs from village to village, is situated the military school. Once it had lain nearer feudal St. Pol, but in March the enemy had begun to shell the place as they crept ever nearer Arras. No use in that, so it had been moved here, where the twin valleys lent many features for mimic tactics, where the wooden bridges over the river could be held or blown up at will. Here, for a month at a time, came sixty officers and others from out the line to rest and practise open warfare, then to return again and help to stay the battle. For most it was an interlude of war. The village held many delights which might have passed unnoticed in days of peace, but now were luxuries and all the more valued from old associations. One could stand on the bridge and watch the fish and think of past conquests over salmon. There was one estaminet, that purported to be an officers' club, where the French beer was disguised in English bottles. At another a musical box and C6lestine to set it going. The school lay in a field, which sloped gently down from the wood to the road. The buildings, wooden huts, formed four sides of a square, with the parade ground in the centre. Some of the huts seemed to be set actually in the wood, so thick was the foliage at its outskirts. Below the road there ran a little silvery stream where all day long soldiers seemed to bathe. It is a most fair forest, one of the favourite hunting- grounds of the old French kings. A great forest covering the country-side for miles. The govern- ment has taken care to preserve it, so that not a stick is ever taken away, and throughout its length it is as nature is making it every day. One meets no woods- An Interlude of War 129 men therein or hunters ; can walk for miles without seeing anyone at all. There is no order there which is not nature's, and the ferns and undergrowth grow as they please in wild profusion according to her plan. Wild flowers pick out the rich ancient grass and spread to the edges of the wood which, strengthened with the small trees and undergrowth that find room to grow there, seem almost as impassable as the heart of the forest itself. There are few paths throughout the wood to thread its glories, yet underneath its green welkin it has a topography of its own of hill and dale and running water. Here the great trees grow close together, and at noon between their trunks it is dark as night ; there they open out so that the eye can separate the foliage and branches of each above, can even catch glimpses of the blue sky which seems, thus seen, to belong to another world. The eye can pass down deep glades, long alley-ways of trees, their branches twined above, and understand whence came the dream of Canterbury and of Rheims. The sun pierces through the boughs and weaves a dancing golden pattern on the grass. The air is full of the scent of wild-flowers and of spring. The birds sing in the trees and bright- coloured butterflies flit from bush to bush. The wood has thrown its spell over the inhabitants of the camp, as it has done over others of their pro- fession for so many years. In the early morning, while yet abed or shaving beneath the trees, they can hear the cuckoo there and at night the nightin- gale. In the afternoon, when the day's work is over, there are always some who walk through the wood to the ancient town beyond, whose battlements are washed on two sides by its sea of green. 130 Silhouettes of Mars To walk in the wood then, when the soft afternoon sunlight has filled it, mingling its warm gold with all the greens and other tints, when a gentle breeze is scarce stirring in the tree-tops and beneath the ferns are dancing gently to the tune, is to forget the war and think of beauty only. One-half expects to find the boastful Bottom and his simple crew rehearsing their interlude, here in this dell, for instance. Hesdin is a picturesque old mediaeval town, now the headquarters of the British Third Army. One sees its towers, rising out of the hollow in which the town is set, through openings in the wood. It is a town of old streets and houses, of boulevards where once were ramparts, a delight to the eye that has been surfeited by the raw crudity of modern war. The river runs through the town, and the quaint old houses grow sheer to its bank, affording a vista most pictur- esque to those who stand upon the bridge. Buy a picture-postcard of the town as it was three hundred years ago, and you will notice no difference save that the walls are gone. The history of Hesdin is one of warfare and capture oft repeated, so that it accords well with its past that it should be full of soldiers to-day. Charles V founded it in 1554 on a new site, five kilometres away from that more ancient Hesdin which the year before he had taken from the French and sacked. A quiet village stands on the site of Viel Hesdin now ; and the soldier returning to the school at night, as he passes through it, hears but from high aloft the chime of its old clock to remind him that this should not be as other villages ; and, as he looks up, a cloud drifts over the moon and the face of the clock disappears with its last note. The French re-took Hesdin in 1639, An Interlude of War isi their general, the Due de la Meilleraye, receiving the baton of Marshal of France in the breach of the town's wall. Dumas is said to have used this incident in his account of the death of d'Artagnan. To-day the town is full of military bustle, as befits an army headquarters at the climax and crisis of the war. Staff-cars flash up and down its streets, trans- port goes rattling over its ancient cobbles. There is much saluting, and notices in French and English posted up at every corner. Yet, sitting on the bench in the square, under the Jidtel de wile, or outside the courtyard of the inevitable Hotel de France, it is easy to picture again the days when vivacious French- man and stately Spaniard jostled each other in her streets. The cars change to chargers, the steel helmets to morions, the atmosphere remains the same. Though French now, as is all this country, Hesdin will always be half-Spanish in appearance, a reminder, like Arras and Bthune, of the days when it was part of the Hapsburg empire of the Spains and took its laws from Madrid and not from Paris. Returning to camp, the moon is up and the gold of the forest turned to silver : the young grace of the spring leaves and delicate tracery of the ferns are like fine fretwork washed in silver. One passes many a grassy bank, overgrown with flowers, where Titania might be resting had we but eyes young enough to see. This might be that other wood near Athens, which is yet in Warwickshire, and the figures of the fantastic pah's of lovers flitting by at the end of yonder glade. But all we see is a charcoal-burner going home to his rough hut of unpainted pine in the midst of one of the clearings in the forest. At the week-ends, there is the chance of going 132 Silhouettes of Mars farther afield. The method is always the same : to wait at the corner and hail a passing vehicle going west. The request for a ride is never refused, for such is the unwritten law of the road throughout the British zone in France ; an enactment as well known as others more official. So off one goes on car or lorry, ambulance or trailer. It is only a two hours' ride along the dusty road to reach the coast, to bathe in the sea and eat lobsters at Paris Plage, or to the more stern delights of the Officers' Club at Boulogne. Thus can one gain Montreuil, its ancient battle- ments and walls rising high above the road on the left-hand side, while on the right it sinks down to the valley, the railway station and the more modern town. But we go to the left, and up and through the long winding approach to the city set on the top of the hill. It is like entering Mont St. Michel on the Norman coast. The houses seem to hang over the narrow road. We pass through the massive gateway, fronting the little square, and are challenged by a khaki-clad sentry instead of the more normal man-at- arms. Inside in the winding streets the enchantment is redoubled of the mediaeval town which has outgrown its walls. All the houses are old, but here and there is set one that seems no older than the seventeenth century among the rest, built of old brick and old stone, with quaintly carved and jutting gables and narrow slits of windows. There can be seen here every style of domestic architecture known to France from the days of the Valois kings. To walk along the top of the ramparts is to realize the enormous strength of the place throughout the An Interlude of War 133 middle ages. The glacis falls down from the foot of the monstrously thick walls at a sheer smooth angle to mingle with the corn-fields at its foot. There is a broad view of the smiling country-side for miles around. The great deep moat between the two circuits of walls is like the bed of an ancient river with a tangled stream of flowers. The grass has overgrown the mellow old brick walls and has climbed out here and there among its crannies. At one corner of the town is the ancient citadel where died Queen Berthe deserted of Philip I. There are Roman re- mains beneath the mediaeval aspect of the town, and in the old church spoils of the crusades from Venice and Byzantium. In summer, when the chestnut-trees are in bloom with the lilacs and magnolias, the old town, set on a high hill, is like a sweetly-scented missal of the middle ages that has come down to us mellowed but not gnawed by time ; and to wander from one of its quaint old gardens to another, set among the ancient houses and fortifications, is to understand why the garden figures so largely in the French romance of the twelfth century and thus through the whole of mediaeval literature ; is to see places where the Rose might have grown and all fair ladies dwelt. The old inn, the Hotel de France, which looks as if it might have sheltered those who rode from Paris on the morrow of St. Bartholomew, has grown round its court, now full of vines. One sleeps in low ceilinged rooms, in vast beds ; and at night, leaning out of the window, the stone street beneath is bathed in moon- light, which lies on every sloping roof and ancient niche and cornice. Lying in bed one hears the voices and challenge of the picket as it passes, as it must 134 Silhouettes of Mars have done here so often, on so many different occa- sions and in diverse forms and garments, throughout these centuries. Look out of the window again, and you will see the lantern they carry gleaming in the darkness below. Anon silence falls, save for the jokes of Whitechapel called across from house to house in this heart of mediaeval France. A popular song of the London music halls is whistled in the street be- neath the open window, sounds of laughter and women's voices from the next garden suggest that the entente is progressing and that Montreuil, grown old in the wars, is used to foreign soldiers within its gates and knows how to give and take. Later in the night a shrill whistle sounds and there is the crash and blinding flash of exploding bombs. The raiding squadrons seem to hum directly over the house, to brush its roof with their wings. A lone airship looks like a gigantic moth against the moon. There is a continuous whirr and noise in the streets of the little town, for all the staff-cars packed in the big square, under orders, seek the open country. It is as if in the darkness the street below were again full of figures in armour, mounted upon snorting, prancing steeds canopied alike in mail. The raiders pass and are gone, though they may return. In any case the night will not regain its silence before the coming of the dawn. To-morrow nay, to-day rather mine host will talk of his experiences, and there will be fresh regulations enacted anent the showing of candles at a window. It is an historic stretch of road from Etaples to Arras, running past many an ancient town and attend- ant fortress. To-day with its parallel railroad feeding the fighting troops in front of Arras, it is one of the An Interlude of War 135 main arteries in a war greater than any of those looked out on, in all their history that is past. There is many a crossing there to-day that may prove as dangerous as the " pont perilous " of these older times. ( 136) XII THE BATTLE THE sun beat vertically down on both sides alike ; and, what with its rays and those others that came from the guns, the heat was terrific. It was an inferno of noise and smoke, of blood and the noxious reek of high explosive and of gas. The gunners laboured at the guns, feeding their charges, now grown hot from surfeit of such fare like so many brazen images of Moloch, with bare bodies and matted clinging hair. The infantry fought and died in their shirt sleeves, and coming upon one of these quiet bodies among the fields, with the young smooth face upturned to heaven and clear unwinking eyes, it might have been a farmer's boy resting, with his head on his arm, at the noonday heat. It was the beginning of the end. The great four years' battle was opening out like a river, which no longer thunders along in full spate, one mighty flood confined in a single channel ; but now, as if conscious that its end is near, meeting the tenacious resistance of the sand, which may be submerged but never removed from its course, spreads out into a dozen shallow channels over its surface and thereby glides quietly to the sea. The country over which they were fighting was a pleasant landscape of field and orchard, meadowland and plough. All the shell- holes there were new and fresh, for, in those early The Battle 137 months, the German river of war had flowed over it without stopping ; and now, being dammed, was hither come again on its backward course. The ground furnished too great a contrast to what was being done thereon, and those accustomed to the eternal slaughter, in its proper setting of mud and filthy grey trench, were startled to find it still here among the corn and flowers. Mars and his close friend and ally, the Devil, were here fouling the country-side ; would they pass and leave the trail of their slime behind them, or camp for some days, or weeks, and blot its beauty out for ever ? Meantime, while the question was being decided, men no longer died in swathes, but here and there over a larger area in pairs and bunches. Old women came from behind the barns and showed our scouts the figures of their predecessors lying stiff and soiled beneath the hayrick or in the shadow of the wall. There was blood among the roses in the garden, splashes of it on the white walls of the cottages ; blood lent a darker shade to the poppies in the field, turning their flaunting scarlets to a common shade of crimson. A battle fought here seemed more than ever a desecration. And all the while the August sun beat down on the steel-helmeted heads and naked chests. There was so little to throw a shadow in all that country-side. Even the trenches were too rude and hasty to give much shade unless one crouched in the foot, and then the sun seemed always directly overhead. This battle was the turn of the tide and, like that, came slowly at first but inevitably and with ever in- creasing speed. Only a few months before this same brigade had made a relief here in the line, on the very 138 Silhouettes of Mars fringe of the German offensive. They had found their predecessors, shaken but tenacious, and holding grimly on; though the whole line south of them had gone to blazes and their right was resting on a newly - created vast German salient. There they were, perched high and dry on the edge of the boiling hostile flood below, which every moment threatened to wash away their foundations. It had been a hurried relief, carried out confusedly in darkness and great dread lest it should be interrupted. The new-comers, in single file, went stumbling upwards throughout the night towards they knew not what. Meanwhile, in a broken dug-out in rear the Brigadier who was being relieved, a choleric Anglo-Indian veteran, a chutney and curry soldier, was endeavour- ing to withdraw his shattered legions. He was in telephonic communication with Major Jones, com- manding the 9th Battalion of the Londonehire Regi- ment, surrounded bv his prompting staff. " Is that you, Jones ? How are you getting on, eh ? " The General was all benignity in the certainty of being relieved. " Well, we're going now. You know those two lots of yours, that I told you to send to a certain place, get them in. And, by the way, Jones, what did you send there ? " " No, no, what strength did you send there ? " " Where ! Where I told you to, of course. I'm not going to give you names over the phone, man." The General's face was beginning to assume a deeper tinge of red. " Well, look here, you've got four somethings in your battalion, haven't you ? " The General's face was now very red indeed. The Battle 139 " Very well then, how many have you sent to this place that I'm talking about ? " " No, damn it all, I'm not talking about machine guns. Look at my message, will you." " Oh, you haven't had my message. Well, look here, Jones, you have got four somethings in the battalion. Every battalion has 'em you know. What I want to know now is whether they are all with you or not. The message told you to send two, if possible, somewhere else." " Yes, but every battalion has four of them ; for- mations you know " with the air of one explaining things to a child. " Well, God-damn it, man, you don't want me to use the word ' COMPANIES ' over the phone, do you ? " The fatal word was roared out at the top of a crescendo wave of bitterness at the denseness of his subordinate, and to the great delectation of the new- comers in his dug-out office. Such are the difficulties of carrying on a war in accordance with the spirit which speaks of a box of Mr. Mill's best as a box of Chocolates Mark I. It was strange to be back once more where this little comedy, an interlude in a far greater all- embracing tragedy, had been played ; to be once more in that railway cutting, quiet now, which had then been shelled so heavily, so that the Brigade-Major, passing to his breakfast in the dug-out, would be blown through the open door by a bursting shell. We had started from here again and pushed the battle back beyond. To-day the attack had been meant as a surprise ; but quick as we had been, the enemy's barrage had 140 Silhouettes of Mars seemed only a few seconds later than our start, though it appeared somehow always to miss our troops going steadily forward in artillery formations. Our attack had been made without artillery support, perhaps for the sake of the surprise, or else because the guns were moving forward. A battalion headquarters in a concrete gun- emplacement lay in the midst of the beaten zone. In front of the entrance, sunk beneath the ground, was a small trench lined also with concrete and like nothing so much as the " area " of a London dwelling. It looked to be a safe refuge and was full of the battah'on runners. A shell lit right in it, in front of the door, where two runners were sitting on the concrete step. It broke the arm of one and removed the face and scalp of the other. Those within heard a cry, "Oh, sir, I'm hit," and through the entrance saw the wounded man start up. The other fell over on to his shoulder as he rose, and turning his head he found himself staring into the red mask of his comrade's face. " Oh, look at Bill, sir," he cried out to his colonel inside and broke down in hysterical laughter. And the attack goes on ; past where the German soldiers had risen to meet it, coming from their little two-man bivouacs of field grey. Peep inside one of these and see their metal cups and gaudy boxes of cigarettes from Leipzig or Cologne. Their bodies lie there now, and the succeeding waves of our infantry, parched with thirst, imsling the dead men's water- bottles as they pass through, but cannot drink the villainous acorn coffee which seems to be the German field ration. Here, at the juncture of the track with the sunken road, a light machine gun has made a stout resistance. The Battle 141 It is thrown down now among its victims, and he that served it writhes pinned to the side of the trench with a bayonet, and the staff-captain coming on with the next wave is glad that he carries a revolver. And the attack goes on until it reaches the village, where the German shells are now raising alternate geysers of thick black smoke and red brick dust, and passes through, removing more machine guns as it goes, and out at the other side. Here it reaches its objective in a sunken road and, the impetus that has carried it on now spent, crouches there cowering and quivering under the rain of shells. The men of two battalions seem jammed into a single company and, the other leaders gone, a captain takes command. The attack is spent, has just managed to reach its line ; and perhaps will have strength to cling there until the arrival of night and the relief. The men are "all in," after a night of waiting and the fighting of the day ; strange how, once the objective gained, this is made visible and manifest. And so they stay there, cling- ing to the side of the sunken-road while the shells whistle overhead and not always overhead. Lewis guns are planted at intervals along the line, for six hundred yards away at the other end of a level field are the Germans with their machine guns too, and perhaps a counter-attack will come. Messages go back to turn our artillery on. And so the long hours pass, the worst torture of all that day, while men burrow into the bank for a few inches shelter and pray for night. Every now and then the Lewis guns sputter and chuckle to them- selves in glee at nipping the counter-attack in the bud. Always the shells fall along the road carrying death and destruction to its occupants. Pass along 142 Silhouettes of Mars it and you will Bee, besides all the men's backs, many a white-faced figure, with clenched hands, that has toppled backwards on to the road. There are no marks on some to account for the look in their grey ashen faces. At last the guns come and bring a relief, though there is no diminution in the fierceness of the enemy's shelling. Night comes at last ; and through the fields behind, reeking with the stench of powder and of carrion and noisome with gas, that seems to thrust itself upwards from these shell-holes and hang above and over the whole battlefield like a foul cloud or vapour, which one senses in some degree everywhere and in every- thing, moves the relief. They will begin it all over again in the morning. And the defenders of the road, still shelled, go out backwards over the way which they have come, and see its grim horrors now some hours cold. Thus they will remember it when the weary march to rest is long forgotten. But the gate had been forced open and is now ajar, and through it the water has begun to enter which is to widen outwards into an all-subduing flood. Hence- forth the battle will need a wider canvas and have to be drawn in larger lines. Henceforth the flood of victory will flow past towns, with never a ripple, which would have been only half-gained before after long months of mutual carnage. And in the turnip fields outside their gates there will lie on their faces a few burly bearded figures clad in grey, their helmets pointing westwards, scarcely distinguishable from the ground around them, mute witnesses to the cause that has lost. ( 143 ) XIII THE LAST NIGHT THE officer on duty at brigade headquarters, the night of the lOth/llth November, 1918, sat on a swivel chair at the quaintly carved old table of Flemish oak in the library of the chateau at Mesvin which is just outside of Mons. A log fire burned brightly in the wide open hearth ; its light flung off from the glazed surface of the old Dutch tiles, to be reflected again from the pictures and glass of the bookcases which covered the walls. Heavy crimson curtains, on which the glow from the fire played rosily, were drawn over the long windows. Nothing in the room spoke of war, save the untidy litter of steel helmets, gas masks, and revolvers in the corner, dumped there by the brigade staff ere they sought their beds in the upper regions of the house. The field telephone on the table was for the moment silent. The officer gazed round at the unusual luxury of his surroundings, and thought with a half -smile of the very many quite different places in which he had been so often on similar duty ; perhaps burrowing beneath the ground for safety or squeezed against the side of some rotten stinking trench. He could remember long months and years of monotonous trench warfare, varied by " shows " of ever increasing carnage. Then this season of 1918, how badly it had begun in March 144 Silhouettes of Mars with the great German drive on Amiens ! Last August and Amiens again, our battle of Amiens this time, and that dazzling first day's advance with its great toll of ground gained and prisoners taken. The desperate fighting which followed ; that had marked the past summer as perhaps the bloodiest in all the long history of war ! He thought of the swift move northwards of the corps ; marching and entraining by night ; hiding by day in the empty villages, so that the Taubes might not see. That midnight departure from Boves, the suburb station of Amiens, and the crush in the train, and the ludicrous plight of those left stranded there. Then Arras and the breaking of the Drocourt-Queant line, the beginning of that great battle which had led them, thus far, half-way across Belgium. In his mind's eye he could see the long stretch of the Arras-Cambrai road, running like a dusty grey thread through the shell-marked country. By many a ruined village it runs, each one marking a day's stage in the great advance ; each one the scene of combat far sur- passing Waterloo. He saw, set off a little from the road, the blood- stained crest of Monchy raising its jagged fringe of shattered houses around the crucifix. Monchy-le- Preux it is called, and proud it should be, for these battered German pill-boxes have changed hands more often than did Hougomont. Step by step the corps had fought its way along both sides of that shell-swept road to Cambrai and beyond. A triumphal way it is, a via sacra, but a via dolorosa too, to many a Canadian mother. If the stones of those that died to win it were set up along its banks, instead of the tall slender trees that once The Last Night us grew there, it would be a road of victory over death, a holy way for ever. He thought of Bourlon wood and of his friend that died there at the second coming; the time we came to stay. The last fortnight had been a stirring one. Ever since the capture of Cambrai semi-open warfare had livened out into an affair of long marches and advanced- guard actions. Companies went swinging in fours down good metalled highways, as often as not of recent and German construction, most unlike those shell-tossed ones known now for so many years. To men accustomed to slink along a road, keeping close to one side, or to force their way knee deep in mud through the intricacies of a half -known C.T., rarely daring to raise a nose above its sides, the sense of freedom and the prospect of the open country were alike exhilarating in their novelty. The glorious uncertainties of the early days of the war seemed to have returned, though there were but few left now to make comparisons. This time, moreover, we were the hunters. One never knew what the next turn in the road would bring. Scouts had pressed on through villages where the inhabitants turned out to greet them, the women hanging flowers and favours around their helmets and pressing on them cakes and ale. Stone-flagged kitchens in ancient farm-houses saw again such fraternizations and echoed with such laughter, as if the troopers of Eugene and of Marlborough were here once more, each fighting hard to understand the other. Fall out your men for the ten minutes' rest and, if not wise, you might have to search a dozen back parlours to find them again. Yet over and 146 Silhouettes of Mars above it all was a tense electric excitement saying ever, " On, press on," and speeding up the whole. The war had suddenly become a musical comedy, unexpected in the situations ever freshly created, fantastically incredible, so inconsistent was it with all previous experience. This army had been bred on trench warfare. A farce, moreover, in which each soldier felt that he was himself in some part the hero. For they knew that they were part of the great advance ; were rolling up the retreat from Mons at last. It thrilled them to march eastwards along roads the sign-posts of which bore the magic legend, in strange Gothic characters, " Nach Mons." There was a novelty and spacious adventure about it all. Each man hugged the secret feeling to himself that he was at long last vindicating something, though it might be only his own unpreparedness of four years ago. " We always knew that you English would come again," shrilled the Walloon women, and " lea sales Bodies might have known it too ! " These men were Canadians but that mattered less than nothing. It was all in the family. " There," said a man. " No, at that corner over there, a party of your soldiers, four years ago when the war began, fought to the last around their officer. f t They were Ecossais, Ecossais with jupons noirs, but we knew that they would come back." Well, the Canadian Black Watch were nearing Mons. To one old dame, bed-ridden and feeble of intellect, the years were as nought. All she knew was that French's army had turned at last and that the Boches were gone. The retreating enemy fought fierce rear-guard actions, mainly with machine guns, and conscienti- The Last Night 147 ously gas-shelled each village in turn after being obliged to relinquish it. The inhabitants would come out in the intervals of the shelling to view the " battle " and encourage our men it reminded one irresistibly of spectators cheering on a lot of Marathon runners and at the first near-by explosion scurry back to their well-known abris and shelters. It is to be feared that they had often sought refuge there from British bombs. Only two days before the brigade had delivered what many thought and some openly predicted would be its last attack. For there was a sense of great events on the move in the world behind our battles. The fight itself, though it brought death to some, was laughable in the sense of vast efforts planned to overcome a resistance that, when the test came, had vanished simply was not there. Nothing could stop or keep up with the advancing troops. Intelligence officers found their carefully chosen observation posts of naught save a moment's value in that hilly country. The panting staff were left far in the rear. Headquarters were chosen on the map and never occupied, being rendered im- possibly useless almost immediately. The brigade trailed a long string of such, left high and dry behind it monuments of useless foresight. As for the parties sent to occupy them, they simply waited for a reasonable time and then pushed on for the next likely looking spot. There, if they were lucky, they might get in touch with the Brigadier ; or again they might not. The fight was like a set battle piece from a classic historian ; followed the type that the experience of the last few weeks had made familiar. A brigade in front 148 Silhouettes of Mars was leap-frogged and a village entered, which the Germans had left the night before. There were the same enthusiastic people there, the same civic re- ception in the midst of what after all was supposed to be a battle, the same monstrous excavations blown in the market-place and at the cross-roads. Only the timely arrival of a shell could have put a term to the impassioned eloquence of the soi-disant maire and released the Brigadier from its spell, so that the pursuit could go on. The advance that night stopped when it was tired and when darkness came on ; for one must still walk warily and the brigade had marched far and fought hard that day. Night came down on the enemy fighting a fierce rear-guard action to cover Mons. It was even said of some that they meant to make a stand here ; had to, indeed, to get their transport clear of the town. For the country around Mons is undulating, full of low hills, which, crowned with woods, offered every advantage to the machine-gun tactics of the foe. So the line lay that night outside of Mons, with other brigades to the right and left, groping and calling to each other through the darkness. Messages went backwards and forwards, from brigade to brigade, from brigade to division and from brigade head- quarters to the two battalions in front line. The figure at the desk in the library was kept busy with the telephone continually in his ears and the opening and shutting of the door, as " signals " brought in messages received or came for others to go out. Most important of all was it to maintain liaison with the brigade coming on in rear, which before daybeak was to " leap-frog " and continue the attack. The Last Night H9 The line in front was bent backwards, for the left battalion had come under fierce machine-gun fire from Bois de Haut and had not made as much ground as its neighbour on the right. The village of Hyon, which guards the south of Mons, was still holding out and an advance was planned in the morning, even before the relief, to get astride the Mons-St. Symphorien road. This would mean the getting to the east of Hyon, and if the brigade on the left did as much Mons must fall. Useless to attack, however, before morning in this country, at the cost of valuable lives. There was no lateral communication between the two front line battalions, so all night the officer on duty talked to the two commanding officers, trans- mitting the plans and intentions of the one to the other for the morning. It was like to be a bloody morn, just as the evening twilight had fallen on many corpses around the foot of these low hills. It was long past midnight now and the messages kept crowding in. On the left patrols are pushing into the outskirts of Mons, fighting as they go. The parish priest has girded up his loins and leads the first patrol through the dark streets of Hyon. A company headquarters is actually in Mons. And so it goes up there, while here down in their cellar the signals sweat amidst the constant ticking of their instru- ments, in the guttering flare of their sunken candles. It looks to be a slow bitter fight with worse to come in the morning. Then, doubtfully and tentatively at first, but soon with increasing boldness as more and more definite patrol reports come in, the battalion C.O.'s send back word that the Boche is not now where he was an hour ago. Message follows message, as the fighting 150 Silhouettes of Mars patrols go out, with increasing wideness. Companies are pushed boldly forward to exploit the situation, where before scouts had only ventured. Then sud- denly the news, " We are through Hyon," and again, " Our patrols have crossed the Symphorien road." It is as if an iron bar, which had long held the door, had suddenly given. Has it merely bent backwards, or is it perchance broken never to be mended again ? The brigade in rear calls agitatedly for checking and confirmation of these suddenly changing reports. There is nought to do save to repeat. And so the night wears on. Soon it will be dawn and already the advance parties of the relief are here. Once more the telephone sounds and the officer on duty takes up the receiver wearily. Little he knows that it is the most dramatic moment of his life. " Who is that ? " " Well, take down this message : ready ? " "Hostilities will cease at 11 a.m. A.A.A. Troops will stand fast on the line reached at that hour, which will be reported to these headquarters immediately. A.A.A. All the usual precautions -against surprise will be maintained. A.A.A. There will be no com- munication of any kind whatsoever with the enemy. A.A.A. Acknowledge. A.A.A." He writes it down with his hand almost trembling so it has come at last and repeats it to the sender. Puts down the receiver, waits five minutes, and then calls up his late informant by name at Divisional Headquarters. " Did you send the message, sir, beginning * Hostilities will cease ' ? " " All right, sir, I just wanted to be sure it was you." So it has really come at last. He must tell the The Last Night 151 General first and then the battalions. A pleasant duty this last, as he hears those at the other end puffing and blowing into the receiver in their excite- ment. It will have to be confirmed by wire, of course. While he calls up the next unit, the one he spoke to last is already on his track, questioning, imploring. " Yes, sir, it is really O.K." " Yes, sir, it will be confirmed by wire but you can act on this." And so it goes. Officers come in eager to talk. His work at the telephone done, he goes to the window and opens the shutters. It is past daybreak now and the cold grey light filters into the room. The sparrows are already chirping on the grass. A horse neighs in the stables. Dark figures move, ghostly, on the road outside. In the distance the first sun of victory is rising over the roofs and houses of Mons. ( 152 ) XIV MONS, 1918 THAT is the vision that will remain with some of us for ever, a final consummation. You would not have thought that the greatest war in history had ended a few short hours before, here in the very streets which are now crowded with towns- folk in their gala dress and smiling beflowered soldiers. Yet so it is. All through the night the fight went on ; patrols stealing softly through the darkened streets out and into the country beyond. The same day saw both war and peace, the end of one and beginning of the other, and this morning, when these same good citizens of Mons peeped timidly from out their windows, they could not have known at first whether it would be German or Allied soldiers that they would see. But now they know and are all out in the streets rejoicing. The shops are crowded, the red, white and blue of France and Britain, the colours of Belgium on every house. It is a mystery where they got or how they managed to keep these flags. On the march every farm-house in each poverty-stricken village had its tricolour, which appeared as if by magic the moment the Huns were gone. Did they keep them four long years hidden beneath the eaves or under the flagstones in the cellar ? There have been other and greater marches in the Mons, 1918 153 past six months ; King Albert has entered Brussels ; the French, Strassburg ; every town in Canada has had its homecoming. This was the first of them all, came before the aftermath of war, so that men scarce knew yet whether it was war or peace, did not realize the magnitude of the victory that had come. It was a symbol of empire, a paying of the debt, so far as it ever can be paid, yet discharged in that currency which they would have liked best, to those who had given their all that we might wear the laurels of victory. It was the end of a crusade. The torch has passed through many hands, most of them now dead and cold, has often flickered, almost gone out in the rain as its bearer sank to earth yet trying ever to hold it erect against the coming of his relief ; but now it has passed the goal, and it is the same fire that last night lit the final beacon, the flame from which grew and grew until it merged with this morning's dawn to become the full glory of the noonday sun. The old-world square of Mons is crowded ; since this morning all roads lead to it. People cling to the tall, quaint, gabled houses like flies. They are at every window, on every balcony. Flags fly everywhere, and down in the square the crowd seems like a sea of white faces relieved by the bright colours of the Allies in every buttonhole and on every cap. Girls push their way through, distributing small flags and rosettes. There is a smile on the face of all. For Mons, that ancient town which has stood so many sieges in times past, has fallen again. Orange and Alva in their turn have entered here. Eugene chased hence, following hard upon their heels, the generals of Le Roi Soleil. To-day another victor comes, and it is doubtful whether ever Mons saw so 154 Silhouettes of Mars many kilts within her walls, not even four years ago, certainly not when Douglas of Findsland, that Jaco- bite exile and soldier, wrote " Annie Laurie " in the French trenches which then lay against her gates. A trumpet sounds and a thrill goes through the crowd. Already they can be seen in the distance at the end of a strip of white road, which, as they wind their way down and into the square, seems ever to march before them in the sunlight. Is it really empty or do the ghosts of all the dear dead move there ahead, a fitting vanguard to our triumph ? Surely it is so and they recalled to earth or not recalled, for have they not been here through four long years still carrying on to see Mons once more and enter it again at last ! By each horseman rides another shadowy figure ; and the wail of their pipes and fifes mingles with our bands. It is their day at last. Here they come, winding down into the Grande Place. A quiver goes through the crowd, not only through the Belgian spectators who have so long awaited this event, but the onlooking soldiers too, as if they saw their comrades translated and trans- figured. Two by two the horsemen ride, looking, in their steel helmets, bearing in their hands long lances with fluttering pennants of red and white, like Red Cross knights or so many St. Georges newly come from the fresh slain dragon. The commander with his staff comes next. What matter that the speeches in front of the hdtd de ville are scarce heard in the open air and above the mur- murs of the crowd ! All wait patiently until the troops line up for the march past. Then crash the bands into the " Marseillaise," and cheer after cheer Mons, 1918 155 goes up as the long lines of troops, Highlanders and infantry, swing past. The square rocks with the noise now where before there was reverent silence. For this is no parade review, but the entry of a con- queror into a city he has saved, his soldiers fresh from battle and flushed in the first hour of triumph. It is a sight, when one considers all the circumstances, such as will not readily be seen again. The marching soldiers pass and are gone. The steel helmets, with the sun on them, hemmed in by more helmets and bonnets and black hats, move slowly out of the Grande Place and are swallowed up in the narrow side-streets. The last soldier has passed and the crowd breaks bounds and closes in behind. But for a brief second the road in rear is free. And, as if in a vision, we see all those other roads, behind the column that has passed, full of marching troops. They lie far behind, these great highways of France, and reach back to the sea. We have seen them so often, clear and straight and white, shaded with graceful poplars on each side and so, past many a whitewashed village, buried with chestnut-trees and honeysuckle and roses, to Calais or Boulogne. They go past other villages too, or where once they were, known by the signpost now " Pozieres " or " Cource- lette," and by that alone : their houses naught save splintered matchwood, kneaded into a paste with their lime and the rain. By many a ruined city they run amid belts of stricken country, their course half lost in shell-holes. And all along these roads the victor dead are stir- ring and falling in, and thickest here where they run 156 Silhouettes of Mars through these ancient battlefields. Each wooden cross, every lone shell-hole gives up its dead. And there will be much laughter and many a recollection and marching jest among these heavenly hosts. The roads reach the coast, and who shall trace their courses over the sea to the lands beyond ? They merge with many another street in distant countries, and the great national highway of France, broad and spacious, breaks up into many trails. Rough country tracks some of them, which have grown, rougher in these last four years, ending at a lonely log-wood cabin in the backwoods of Canada or by a windswept hut on the Scottish moors. The trails are long and distant and wind in and out of many places, but none so far or dim but that at the end of it at least one figure appears hastening to the call. The trail has been long, too long and yet too short for many, but it is ending now and all roads to-day surely lead to Mons. So they come on behind, the real victors, both quick and dead, those who fell that others might win through, and all these our living armies, marching, marching, over the well-remembered roads. And in the vision all end in Mons. We go home too, and as we ride think of the last time that Mons saw British soldiers in her streets. Be sure there were many ghosts in the Grande Place to-day. And so back to the chateau where the first Gordons lived in those few days before the Retreat began. Our host and hostess have been persuaded to come out of the dug-out in the garden where they have dwelt for days. That night we dine with the great portraits of King Albert and his Queen at the head Mons, 1918 157 of the table. For the King has come into his own again. All the old tapestries and Flemish pictures are gradually resurrected from the orchard. So is the chateau's wine. And the chorus and speeches last long into the night, though the air still seems sultry and to throb from those last hours' furious firing when the Hun, conscious that his time was up at 11 a.m., loosed off all he'd got that had powder behind it. ( 158) XV BILLETING IN BELGIUM " Tms, I take it, is the place," said the Staff Captain, and stopped the car, " let's get out and see." We got out as was inevitable, but the Staff Captain promptly got in again and shut the door. " We came here to billet," he was speaking all tho time, " and I brought you along because you talk French so well " a cunning touch this " so mind you get me a good billet and office, near each other of course ; remember the batmen and don't forget about the General. You will be all right, for the brigade will probably be here in a day of so." I murmured meekly a vital question vital to me, I mean for I already foresaw my fate. " Well, it's not my fault that you didn't bring any rations with you ; you should have guessed where we were going when I asked you to come for a drive with me." " Pleasure ! nothing. You don't need to try to be a damn fool. Besides you'll be quite all right. These hens look as if they might do you an egg, if you asked them romantically enough, and I think we passed a pump a mile or so up the road. There's a war on. Well, good-bye, be good, and here's a piece of chalk." The car gave a mocking honk-honk, as if in derision Billeting in Belgium 159 of the solitude to which I was being abandoned, and the perfidious fellow kissed his hand to me, left stranded in the midst of the vast cobbled square, to gaze disconsolately at the unsympathetic faces of the barred and shuttered houses. I had been through it all many times before, but never in such a repulsive cold-blooded fashion as this. Indeed, every move in the great game of billeting among our voluble Allies was known to me ; from the first interview with the maire, when all would be smiles, bows, gesticulating politeness, our conversation pleasantly flavoured with many a " Vive 1'Angle- terre," " Vive Belgique," " Vivent les Canadiens," to our mutual satisfaction, until that last when he would be transformed, at least in my eyes, into a mulish, disobliging peasant, careless who won the war, whether it was won at all indeed, and as to where the would-be saviours of his country were to sleep whether they slept at all, in fact, so long as they did not do it in his town. Doubtless at the same time I would seem to him a brutal licentious and quite unwanted condottiere, who had crossed the Atlantic in a totally unnecessary manner to speak to him, the maire, of martial law, common politeness, and inter- national obligation. Already I saw myself the hunted pariah of the village, slinking through its streets followed by a crowd of old women with their interminable chant, " Pas de soldate, monsieur, settlement les officiers." Only the estaminet keepers, if indeed there were any left, would be my friends. For days I should lead a comfortless, cheerless, possibly oh, the horror of it ! foodless existence, pursued by the scorn of all good citizens, who would 160 Silhouettes of Mars probably not trouble to conceal their inmost con- viction that I must be either a deserter from our own armies, or else a spy in disguise left behind, for bad reasons of their own, by the departing Germans. The brigade would be late, possibly days late, and the later they were the more would the public scorn and suspicion grow. Lucky I should be if no other unit surreptitiously occupied some outlying portion of the billeting area, to my eternal obloquy. For I was the forlorn hope whose duty it was to hold the fort against all the brass-hats in Flanders. Perhaps in time reinforce- ments would arrive ; perhaps they would lose their way. In any case, damn Jones, that Machiavelli and all his works. A cat, as if in sympathy with my mood, crossed the square and rubbed herself against my legs. Softly and gently, yet obviously with every intention of per- sisting, it began to rain. I took out my field-message book and pencil and began to make calculations. Sub-staff forty ; trans- port they would need lots of room say sixty ; bombers, one must not forget the bombers, and so on. Then I began a peregrination of the vast silent square, knocking or ringing at all the doors. The cat came with me in my round, as if hoping that one door at least would open and permit her to take refuge inside. But, knock or ring as I would, I could not raise a voice from within a single one. It was surely very strange, for the town could not be deserted : there were thin wisps of smoke rising from some of the chimneys and the cat herself was evidence to the contrary. Poor pussy, she was wet now indeed, and trying to dry her bedraggled fur by Billeting in Belgium iei rubbing her arched back against my puttees. Then suddenly the explanation struck me. It must be Sunday, for at the front one remembers the date of the day but never its position in the week, and all the inhabitants were apparently inside the squat dumpy church at the far end of the square. I should have to postpone any further exploring until the service was over. Yet, where was the village atheist ? At this moment the inevitable small boy appeared upon the scene. Whence he came I cared not, whither he went I could never afterwards discover. One moment the square was empty, save for me and the now thoroughly disgusted cat ; the next, he was cross- ing it towards me with the air manifestly of one who will view this phenomenon no longer from afar. There was something detached, yet suspicious, in the manner of his approach that awoke old memories. Slowly but steadily he came towards me, sucking the while at something with one hand and his mouth. Anon he would discontinue this occupation in order to whistle, using therefor his mouth and the other. He appeared to be quite unconscious that one tide of battle had so recently receded from him while another was even then waiting to engulf him and bear him off. When hell freezes over, a small boy will be first out upon the ice. Steadily, employing all my personal magnetism for the purpose, I lured him on. Nearer and nearer he fluttered towards me with upturned eyes, as if fasci- nated by the dignity of my mien. He even forgot to suck. At last, in one instant as it were, he fluttered too near, stumbled over the cat, and then I had him. 162 Silhouettes of Mars He was a quick-witted youth, and as soon as he under- stood that I was not a Boche and that his release would be conditioned by his profession of ability to understand my French, he rose to the occasion of serving his country's Allies. Monsieur le maire, why certainly who but he should find the maire ? Which maire did I desire to see, the real one or the one " les sales Boches " here he spat effusively with emphasis " had wanted ? " I replied, expressing my willingness to take a chance on the one the Germans had not wanted, the name of the other was elicited for future reference, and the procession started in single file. The cat went first, the small boy came next and I, as I usually do, brought up the rear. I followed the boy whom I regarded as my guide. Whether he had similar views with respect to the cat I do not know. It was only later that I learned that the mairie lay in the opposite direction, and remembered to think it strange that both cat and boy should have made for the same door. This belonged to an estaminet and opened upon the usual scene. Some men were industriously knocking the chipped balls about on an old French billiard table placed in the centre of the room. Others were drinking alternately at two little marble-topped bars which plied in different corners. The entrance of my uniform caused a commotion. " Les Anglais ! " cried an elderly, comfortably rounded dame, and with arms outstretched she gasped her way towards me. Taught by past experience I waited till the last possible moment ; and then stepping aside, with what I flatter myself can only be characterized as extreme Billeting in Belgium 163 dexterity, I managed to elude the lady's obvious intentions. At the same moment I disclosed check from the cat which, having thus done its bit, left the room with what degree of dignity the circumstances permitted. Henceforth enthusiasm flowed in more moderated channels. I was English ! No, I was Scotch. " Do you not see the little beret with strings ? " " Ah, I knew Monsieur was Canadian because he speaks the French so well." Shades of my professor of romance languages ! There was romance enough and to spare. " In any case Monsieur must have a drink where- with to drink to the victory so soon to come, and then we will take monsieur to the maire. He will be so full of joy to see monsieur and to know that les sales Bodies have gone, never to come back any more oh, les sales Boches. Figure to yourself, monsieur " General Chorus. " Oh, les sales Boches ! " " . . . in Montreal, yes, I, and so I say vive le Canada." General Chorus now greatly augmented and going strong " Vive le Canada." "... and vive la Belgique too, Monsieur, for Monsieur knows " General Chorus, " Vive la Belgique." Monsieur had a drink, indeed Monsieur had two by way of an introduction the patriotic fervour having by now somewhat abated to the personal history of all the maladies, many highly complicated in their affinities and various, which afflicted all the members, all women, and occupying all the beds in madame'a all so small establishment. " But Madame Bompard now, most assuredly. 164 Silhouettes of Mars Monsieur does not know her, but she is kind, she is good and of large hospitality and the large house. She will doubtless be charmed to receive and entertain all the army under the command of monsieur. Let us to Madame Bompard." " Well, no, to the maire first, if Monsieur so prefers." The procession forms up minus the small boy and the cat this time ; some one sets off the musical box and to the stirring strains of the " Marseillaise " out we go. The maire lives in a white house on the outskirts of the town, and was discovered feeding his chickens in the garden. After expressing his gratification at the final departure of the Germans and the great joy which it would give him to behold his deliverers, he was brought rapidly to business by the chance of actually beholding them within a few hours. The prospect sobered his transports and reduced him to figures. He produced his rolls and gave me a general account of billeting prospects in the town. They were not, it would appear, so good as they would have been if we had not come quite so soon. Finally, after interminable discussion, all was settled, and he accompanied me to where his gate had been. There he passed me on to a gorgeous individual in a tarnished livery of blue and gold braid, who com- bined in his single person the functions of town-crier, parish beadle, leader of patriotic opinion in the town, and deputy-mayor. Under his protection I entered upon the serious business of the day. And a most serious business it always is. For do not think, poor reader, that because this was war and I represented you and all you stand for in that town, Billeting in Belgium 165 had seen the maire and received from him the delega- tion of his thunder, all was easy. Far from it. It is not difficult to stumble between those who do not wish to house a single soldier for a single night and the estaminet people, who, in joy at the sudden appear- ance of so much potential revenue, loudly proclaim their willingness to provide standing room for a whole battalion. All want officers and officers alone : in- deed it would appear that the late German army contained nothing but such. All watch anxiously as I write in chalk on the various doors or door-posts such legends as these "three officers," "four sol- dats," "T.M.B.'s nth, C.I.B.," "twenty soldats." There is great outcry at this last but let it pass, for the rooms are large. Always when the clamour breaks out too shrilly it is checked in mid-stream by the dam of my companion's authority and impassioned appeals to gratitude, liberty and patriotism. The people, too, are sound at bottom, and who shall wonder at surface grumbling from those who have suffered all that this war has brought them and are but late released from under the German heel ? The humours of human nature come out strangely during our progress from house to house. Opportunity is seized to gratify little neighbourly predilections. Those who have lost the battle themselves become at once anxious to see the foe carry the war into the houses of their friends and neighbours. " Eh bien, if Monsieur will insist upon giving me, who already have a husband and two sons in my so small house, four soldiers as well, Madame Huesch at numero neuf should have ten at least, for her house is more than twice as large as mine." The taint of Teutonism must now be avenged, and 166 Silhouettes of Mars it would go hard with the pro-Germans of the town. " Ah, Monsieur, Madame Guyot was a friend of the Boches. She turned her house into a casino for them, the pig-dogs. Give Madame Guyot more soldiers and me less. I am known to be a good patriot. I have two sons with the king, and I have not heard of them for years." And so it goes on until at last, by cajoling and coax- ing here, by threatening there, all are provided with billets. All save the transport, that is to say. This is the greatest problem of all, for sixty men with the horses and vehicles appertaining to a brigade headquarters take up a lot of room. A large building with a courtyard is required. So back to the maire we go. " Ah, yes," says that worthy, " the school is what you will need. You had better go to visit the cure." He speaks some words in rapid French to his deputy and off we go, headed for the cure's house. Fortunately, the cure is at home, is perhaps resting after his weekly labour. He receives us with all that humanity and large -mindedness which is so often met with in the catholic clergy the world over. "The school, why certainly. If monsieur le com- mandant will come with me I will show him over it. Who told Monsieur about my school ? Ah, mon- sieur le maire. He is a good man a very good man." We seemed to be taking rather a round-about, circuitous route, judged by where I thought the school was. Soon we passed a large brick building with an open court in front of it, possessing wide gates Billeting in Belgium 167 and everything desirable from a transport point of view. " Is not this the place, father," I said. " It is just what I need." " Ah, no, monsieur, my school is not nearly so big as that. You would not confuse them if you had only seen them both. Among other differences the one you are to have has no courtyard with posts and sheds which would do for the horses, as this school has." " But is this a school too, father ? Why can't I have this one ? I will go and speak to the maire about it." " Ah, monsieur, he will not give it to you. This is the communal school. True, it stands empty most of the time and has not classes in every room as mine has, but " He shrugged his shoulders. Back I went to the maire and in the name of King George, King Albert and General Foch not to mention President Wilson demanded his school. In the end I got it and the keys. One more little act in the great drama, mediawal but not yet played out, of Church v. State. Once again the former had won by appealing to the bar- barian stranger within her gates. It was the same spirit that drew Henry to Canossa. There but remained to find billets for the officers. This did not take long, and I spent more time in finding Jones a bad billet than in getting good ones for all the rest. That night my own host had prepared a little sur- prise at supper. He lined up his four little children who sang in unison all the verses of the national anthem. I wondered how many of my brother officers could have done the same. He had taught 168 Silhouettes of Mars them the tune and words, he explained, under the very ears of the Hun, in preparation for the day of deliver- ance of which he accepted me as the symbol. Then we had the " Brabanyonne " with its catching lilt. That night I dreamed that the brigade never came for a week, and did not care. ( 169) XVI DIARY OF A JOURNEY FROM ARRAS TO COLOGNE IN THE FALL OF 1918 ARRAS looked less disturbed than Amiens had done, yet the tide of battle had rolled just as near her, if not nearer. Nevertheless, while the Somme city appeared stricken with fright, Arras looked much the same as ever, at least to one who had not seen her since before Vimy. True, there was said to have been an intervening period, which had boasted an officers' club until a shell hit it, when tea-shops, though not of the Bond Street type, had flourished; but this surely must be a myth. For the city looks the same as ever, is still overhung by the close imminent cloud of war. It was more used to this sort of thing per- haps and therefore less perturbed to see the Hun helmets again on the top of Monchy hill. While remembrance of Amiens, seen before, was of a proud city with open shop windows and thronged streets, which heightened the contrast with the deserted stricken town, quite empty save for small groups of soldiery, with broken roofless railway station, from which one used to leave for Paris, and barred and shuttered houses. But there was little time for sentiment or reflection, for the work of preparing once more to shift the menace was hard-pressing : work that was to go on, stage by stage, up the Arras-Cambrai road until it slackened for a while perforce amidst the swamps 170 Silhouettes of Mars and bogs of the Canal du Nord. There we had lain in the midst of the German lines of supply. Their little huts of wood, and tarred cardboard and rushes, so like our own and yet so indefinably unlike, were all around one. Vast dumps of supplies and of am- munition were there untouched. All the little every- day occurrences of the lives of men German men whose lines had been cast in pleasant places, out of harm's way save from the chance reach of a long- distance shell, were there exposed for us to view. That long low building of yet unpainted pine, standing amidst reeds and rushes by the water's side, was a hut wherein lay sixty German soldiers. Go inside and pick up a copy of a leaflet propaganda for the last German war loan ; or into this house and view the library and smoke the tobacco of the Herr Zahlmeister, or of the German town-major, who has lived these four years past in this gaping empty town through which our soldiers now tread softly. It is much more pleasant than some black night entering a German front line trench where the fresh killed dead lie stark and grim on the parados, to go peering down the dug- outs and mark the helmets thrown here and there. It is a watery indefinite no man's land in exchange for the well-known hundred yards which lay between trench and trench. Through it and through the woods our patrols go, blundering, groping for the foe, following up old German trails " Fussweg nach Arleux." They come on cities cold and silent, lifeless beneath the harvest moon, with the outline of each house clear and distinct in her bright light. German posts hold the sylvan paths through the forest with machine guns, and when they meet there follows a fierce sharp fight in the midst of nature's solitude Diary of a Journey ni as of red Indians or primeval man and the water underfoot grows red and one side goes home. Then Cambrai and the fierce fighting there, the Huns' last real effort to stay the tide, the bursting of his dam, and so on from city unto city. Through many a town standing on French soil where yet the names of the streets are German, where no Frenchman has lived for years and which, now that the military colonists are gone, stands empty, wounded and gaping, seeming to cry out for kind hands to come and remove all these notice boards, " Durchgang verboten," " Nach Eisenbahn " and the rest, the taint of their German shame. We lay in many a village which the Hun had defiled for years with his presence ; where, on leaving, he had gutted the houses inside and out, ripping up the mattresses, tearing the up- holstery from the chairs, and heaping everything else into an indiscriminate litter. And so the advance goes on by fits and jerks, past city after city where the German dead are thick- strewn in the fields outside the walls. A grim sight they present, these solid lumpish bodies in grey, scarce distinguishable from the ground, lying on their faces w r here they fell, their rifles by their sides, in turnip patch or field. And so on through proud Valenciennes to the crowning miracle of Mons. From there, whence the retreat began, we begin the great advance, as is right and fitting. We wait there some days till orders come from headquarters de- tailing the troops who are to proceed to the Rhine ; just as four years ago they waited for the attack. Then on, marching two days behind the retreating German army. 172 Silhouettes of Mars At first the way lies through a populous part of Belgium with good billets for each night. Every evening sees a " party " in chateau or in cottage. The cavalry are supposed to be ahead ; but, save for them, we are the first troops to pass through these towns and villages. And the tales that are told ; are poured into our ears ! At one town there dwells a great nobleman, Monsieur le Prince de Croye. He was ill when the war began, and the Boches took possession of his magnificent chateau. There, for four years, he has been the unwilling host of one German general after another. They have sat in his library and picture gallery and drunk his wine. They have felled all the trees in his noble parks and orchards. But that, after all, may be the fortune of war ; even when it does not take two to make a quarrel. It is the little petty insults, the unreasoning betises that, in such a case, are most hard to bear. Fines everywhere, each time a child goes out without her German identification card tied on to her pinafore. The Germans were evidently on the make. They tried to take a large sum, to be precise 10,000 pounds sterling, from the Prince the day his son escaped to join the Belgian army. That or death was the choice offered him by the rough general of Uhlans who was his guest for the moment. The Prince ignored the alternative until the last moment, and then, when confronted with a cheque on one hand and a firing party on the other, appealed to the German Emperor through his officer. For he was Prince of the Holy Roman Empire and Knight of the Golden Fleece, a Grandee of Spain, holding lands in Austria as well as in Flanders. He seemed a very Diary of a Journey ITS link with the past as he talked to us in perfect English, as all his tongues were doubtless perfect, of his service in the army and as ambassador to half the courts of Europe. His appeal to William, in the name of the courts of Vienna and Madrid, was too much for William's general, and nothing more was heard of this particular matter. The Prince spoke of that last day when at 11 a.m. the guns on their emplacements in his park ceased firing. He had not been told or had only gleaned a half guess from the conversation of his " guests." "It is the end, thank God," said the German colonel of artillery ; and his major added, " Yes, sir, it is the end for us." So the Prince knew and went out and walked in his battered treeless park, where four long years ago the British and German patrols had first met. This part of the advance was made a delight by the enthusiasm of the inhabitants. Each night we lay among friends, whether it was in a little town, at the mayor's house or that of one of the burghers, where there was civilized dinner at night with women and children and all the ritual anent the proper succession of Burgundy and Bordeaux played out on top of a white tablecloth ; or in the country where the brigade headquarters was quartered at some vast old chateau of which the owner, looking a perfect gentleman of Spain, would be disappointed that we had not come across and could not, therefore, give him news of Raoul or Jan, " Mon fils, monsieur, avec le roi et son arm6e et de qui je n'ai rien 6cout6 il y a plus que quatres anne'es maintenant." Let us hope that so much patience sometimes found its reward, and that all these Baouls and Gastons were not cold and stiff in the north by Dixmude and the Yser. 174 Silhouettes of Mars And so on to Namur, that knot of so many wars and campaigns, lying beneath its mighty fortress at the juncture of the two historic rivers ; Namur, where the striped black and white sentry boxes of the in- vaders still are standing before the hdtel de ville, where the shops are full of life and the streets of released French prisoners of war, their sky-blue uniforms covered with mud and dirt and eked out with strange garments and patched with sacking all huddled together in the rain to await supplies of bread outside the cathedral where Don John of Austria sleeps and dreams of wars and Spain. The estaminets in the narrow dirty streets down by the Meuse are full of our soldiers ; and go into one of the great caf6s opposite the station and sit down at the next table to the one at which there are six war-correspondents, men whose names have been familiar words in all English speak- ing households since the beginning of the war. The second part of the march through " la region des Walloons," was very different from the first. It was a miserable poverty-stricken country that we soon entered upon, in striking contrast to that of towns and villages through which we had come. Now two dozen thatched houses constitute a market place for miles around, and such few horses and pigs as are left in the country-side live under the same roof as their owners. The inhabitants seemed dazed by the cumulative effect of men superimposed upon their original poverty. There is dirt and filth everywhere in these miserable barns, only to be exceeded by the horrors of such places as had been used as field hos- pitals and pent-houses for their prisoners by the Germans. The sight of one of these, with its litter of sodden dirty straw, its broken roof placed next to Diary of a Journey 175 a door the notice on which says that those within are dying from dysentery or typhoid serves to awaken the hatred for the beastly Hun which might other- wise have grown cool since the 1 1th of November. The march was through the Ardennes, now staging fifteen miles a day through the beautiful barren country, one of Europe's main holiday resorts before the war. You can go for miles without seeing a house or a soul. Sometimes the road follows the course of a stream that runs among the hills, or again it climbs up one such and curls around its top to fling itself down into the corresponding valley and then to climb again. It is hard walking with no possi- bility of replacing these boots which are now worn through. Men march on their uppers with their socks peering through their boots. There is no leather in the villages to make repairs overnight. We find Austrian coins in the scattered estaminets, and one Rumanian soldier, released from a labouring gang, wandering among these hills. Everywhere there was evidence that the Boche had travelled these roads before us. Here is a field gun scuppered in the ditch, there a German field ambu- lance one shudders to think of the sufferings of the badly wounded in that vehicle with its solid tyres has been dragged clear of the road and lies now amidst the autumn trees. At another place the road runs along the edge of a ravine, and looking down one can see pile after pile of the familiar German steel helmets lying at the foot. Apparently a whole battalion has been seized here with a simultaneous idea and acted, for the last time perhaps, as one man. It seems impossible to obtain any reliable infor- mation as to the march of the retreating enemy. Some 176 Silhouettes of Mars of the " friendly inhabitants " speak of him as march- ing well, behind his bands, while others say that the red flag is everywhere, all discipline gone, and the officers browbeaten and insulted. Soon a pleasant story floats back on the breeze if not true it is certainly well invented and comes supported by a mass of circumstantial and corroborative detail of one of our generals who, in his car scouting adventurously ahead of the advanced troops, is met, greeted, we do not believe that he was actually kissed but certainly hailed as Kamerad and brother, and congratulated on having overthrown his officer caste and joined the " reds," as had these stragglers and apparently the whole German army and all on the strength of the red around that general's cap and his neat little triangular red flag perched so jauntily on the nose of his car 1 And so the march goes on, literally up hill and down dale, halting at noon for dinner by one of these fast-flung mountain torrents where the brown Novem- ber leaves swirl down among the dixies and the cold nip of winter begins to creep into the air. It is exhilarating but somewhat monotonous, after the war. At last came the morning on which we rise in the " region des Walloons," as the old chronicler puts it, and knew that that night we should lie in the land of the " Almain." A light drizzle, was falling. The march was directed on the German frontier town of St. Vith. I had resolved to watch carefully for the crossing of the frontier but yet was taken by surprise. A straggling street, with one house apart from the rest, with the white malevolent face of a woman appearing as if decapitated above the sash of an upper window, a man in a war correspondent's uni- Diary of a Journey 177 form who steps suddenly forward and clicks a camera whence had he it ? right under my horse's nose. That is all, but we have crossed the frontier. That is all ; yet stay, for there, uprooted and flung dishonoured among the bushes from off the roadside, lie the German frontier posts with their black and white stripes and black eagle near the top, looking precisely the same as when last seen nine years before standing majestic and impressive among the mountains of the Vosges. St. Vith reached, proved a largish village or smallish town, where the brigade installed itself amid the sour faces of the inhabitants. Strange yet delightful, like the yielding of a nightmare to pleasant dreams at last, to sleep that night in German beds, or to lie awake listening to the sound of German clocks and the noise of our horses' hoofs on German cobbles. " Kaput " with a hunch of the lumpish shoulders and a scowl on the square face seems the nearest that this nation, which has produced so many philoso- phers, can get to the " C'est la guerre, monsieur " and quick shrug that has carried France through four years of hell. Nowhere can more picturesque towns be found than Blankenheim and Munsterburg, with their mediaeval walls and gates and houses and churches. We march very much at ease, save when we near a town and then, under the arch of the gateway, the Colonel raises his hand. " Give it to them, boys," and the band crashes into the " Marseillaise." It is our sole revenge in the name of France. And so to that tune alone, with the Union-Jack, new-sent from England, at the head, we march through these towns and many more. At one village the officers of the battalion take 178 Silhouettes of Mars lunch in the front " parlour " of a substantial brick house, commandeering nothing save, temporarily, the crockery. We did not see the owner but only his Frau, who was fat and appeared to wish to be sociable. As we left, however, he was standing at the window, a tall iron figure, in his stained uniform of Jaeger green, with the iron cross of 1870 and the iron cross of 1914 upon the breast of his tunic. And the sun was going down in the west before him, throwing a rosy light upon window and man. But for that red glare, which played upon his hands, it might have been pathetic. Even so must the figure of Moloch have looked at evening when the lights were dead upon his altars and the fires within him, fed with the living flesh of his victims, were dying down, so that he glowed with a dull expiring red and his courts were empty and all gone save the last old priest, who knew no other home save there. There were many incidents during the march to the Rhine, some comic, as when we spent a night at a Hun munition factory, newly erected amidst a solitude, and decked and adorned at every corner with " Einzug verboten " and " Kein Einzug," and listened to the amazing confession of the manager that the Kaiser had lost the war for his side by being too kind and friendly to the English ! Some were less subtly comic, as when a country lad riding a donkey omitted to salute the colours, and the Colonel turned to the adjutant and with a lordly wave of his hand bade him see to it that the republic took no harm. All would have been well if the adjutant had observed the ordinary gradations and preliminaries of military action by calling upon the sergeant-major, but he was youthful and full of zeal. Diary of a Journey i?9 So he turned his horse and went after the offender himself. The German boy, seeing an officer gesti- culating at him, set spurs to his donkey. The other boy broke into a trot, thence to a canter and a gallop. The battalion enjoyed the sight, especially when the donkey rider right-wheeled, or whatever the correct cavalry term is, up a blind-alley road. Run to earth there, he appeared convinced that the efforts of his pursuer's cane to dislodge his headgear were aimed at his life. The cap, being safely lodged in the mud, the adjutant rejoined his chief with the comfortable feeling that the consuls had seen to it and the march continued looking for fresh conquests. For the future, however, the Colonel put out scouts to deal with the headgear of passing traffic. Inasmuch as during their occupation of France and Belgium all male civilians had been rigorously obliged to take their hats off to all German officers when they passed them in street or on road, our High Command had, perhaps with a sense of humour or more likely at the instigation of our Allies, brought in the Germans' own enactment with the implication reversed. Hence grew many comic incidents like the above. It was found impossible, however, to maintain this regu- lation with proper dignity in cities like Cologne and Bonn, so its application was subsequently limited to the country districts. It was most trying alike to the modesty and the sense of humour of the average British officer. At first the young subaltern fresh from school would blush crimson when a well-groomed Hun, old enough to be his father, removed his bowler or felt hat with an impressive circular sweep. It was curious to survey the different combinations of military and civilian costume worn by our lately 180 Silhouettes of Mars active enemies. Speaking generally, the German army appears to have demobilized itself piece by piece as it went backwards, by the simple process of each man falling out when he reached his home town and exchanging as many different portions of his uniform as he could obtain a civilian equivalent of. In our own ranks it was curious to see how, through all the history of society, given new conditions, new factors of differentiation arise. But lately we had been divided into those who believed in the possi- bility of peace within ten years and those who held to a state of eternal war ; into the believer in a coming breakthrough and the supporters of the theory of attrition. In another connection we were divided into disciples of Blighty or foreign leave. Now our moving state fell sharply into two classes, those who would take coffee and omelettes with the Hun and those who would not. The Scotch are usually credited with always being on the qui vive to obtain something for love or nothing, but I have never seen a High- lander in a German kitchen. The Gael has a longer memory than the Saxon. One night's stand we stopped at a vast and oldish Schloss, a typical Junker's stronghold in Rhenish Prussia. The huge reception-room with the portraits of the noble owner and his wife at either end, with its sparse but massive furniture, and the arms and quarterings of all the count's ancestors everywhere, on tablecloth and worked on mantle-cover, blazoned on the panels and hung in hatchments on the walls, spoke of the pride of a dominant caste, proud of its past, real or imaginary. They had one end of the castle, we the other, and we never met ; very different from billeting in Belgium. Diary of a Journey It was raining when we reached the Rhine, and in the pouring rain we marched through the streets and squares of Bonn to the Rhine Brilclce, and so crossed at last that river which for long had been our Jordan and which we had reached at last by many devious routes and wanderings circuitous, passing through so many muddied streams of France and by these other waters of Damascus. We scarce saw the river for the driving rain that soaked us to the bone ; if we had seen it we would have expected to view it red with the colour of blood and hate. At the same hour others were crossing also by other bridges to north and south, the Highlanders and Guards at Cologne, the Americans at Coblenz and the French by Frankfurt and by Mainz. The brigade crossed and settled down at Sieges- burg, a busy town east of the Rhine, which clusters with its houses round a sharp high hill on the top of which there is a castle now a hospital. It has been many times a hospital before, this castle, and a priory also, and from its tower on a clear day to the north- west across the river one can see afar off the twin spires of Cologne. Its ancient rooms are full of sick and wounded soldiers, mostly French and German, looked after by monks and what of the personnel of a German war hospital is still left here. To walk through its low cloistered rooms and see the pale forms there wasted with fever, and the helmets old and new there, and the black-robed priest still tending the dying soul, is to be transplanted to the middle ages, or rather to see that if all the world's a stage and life but a play enacted there, it is at most a tragedy that is shown, the parts of which may be offered in varying order, but are all based on the same old plot 182 Silhouettes of Mars of love and death and fame and death and hope and death. Headquarters is in a fine house, the home of a wealthy German manufacturing family. The son of the house was in the war as an officer of Uhlans and staff captain for a German cavalry brigade. He is a graduate of Bonn and of Oxford, and on the wall of the dining-room one sees a print of a man on a bicycle on the towing path at Oxford coaching an eight upon the river, which we saw every day so many years ago it seems in a window on the High. The touch of the mighty mother is here too, has been all through these years of hate and strife, even in the house of the enemy. One goes back to Bonn to visit the home of Beet- hoven and of Arndt, who seems to have been a com- bination of Garibaldi and John Stuart Blackie. There are even some students, women, working in the library and the philosophy seminar of the old uni- versity where Bismarck studied, and William II. and Bethmann-Hollweg. There is an austerity of learning about these German universities, but little of grace or beauty even when, as here, the walls have been touched by the mellowing hand of time. Yet outside there is a broad square where Canadians and Ameri- cans are playing football, and with the creeper it looks like one of the more modern colleges of Oxford or of Cambridge. It is amusing to go into the shops and buy pictures of the Kaiser and of Hindenburg " unsere Stolze," and of the hymn of hate, and lurid pictures of the sinking of the British fleet. They are sold readily enough, and if the seller is conscious of any tragic irony here he does not show it. Yet one feels that one walks the streets amidst an alien hostile Diary of a Journey 183 people. To stay long here would grow to depres- sion. Cologne, the capital of the Rhineland, is a wonder- ful sight just now, with the smart Guards' sentries and her streets so full of soldiers. There are Highlanders everywhere, Black Watch, and Seaforths and Argyll and Sutherland, visiting the cathedral and buying souvenirs in the shops. Canadians and Australians from far around come here, for in the Ringstrasse one can buy iron crosses and the shining steel German Kilrassier helmets for a few marks. The streets indeed are a wonderful sight, but one does not quite know what to do when in the hotel, the Grosser Kur- fiirst, smart young German flying officers rise and click their heels together and bow from the waist when you enter. They look very spick and span in their steel-grey well-cut tunics hung with crosses, and are indeed the only Germans who still seem to care to go in uniform. One knows that they have a repu- tation for chivalry that is not common to the German army, and their pictures in the shops post cards with the portraits of the most famous German knights of the air show many grave young faces as of public school boys. It is strange to take tea at the next table to a party of German women. At Coblenz, where the Americans are, things are rather different. One knows of an American colonel from Virginia who goes out at night and solicits passes methodically from belated Hun pedestrians. If they have them not, for perhaps they are at home for- gotten, the forgetful owner is kicked to the lock-up ; if they have them, nevertheless, he is kicked for going in the wrong direction, is turned about and started off afresh with another kick. There are Americans 184 Silhouettes of Mars in Ehrenbreitstein, and that night the Prince of Wales is dancing at the Officers' Club. We go to the opera and the house is full. Only the colossal statue of William I. on horseback, on top of the Denkmal, at the junction of the Rhine and Moselle, seems desolate. Back in Bonn one hears that the city fathers are in commotion because one, by night, a Canadian surely, has chipped off the spike from the helmet of another statue of William I., the pride of Bonn, presumably for a souvenir. Most reprehensible of course, but the term " vandalism " which is freely used seems slightly exaggerated in the ears of one who has come from Ypres and Arras. One is not altogether sorry when his time comes to leave Germany, for to sojourn there is too much of an anticlimax, though there is ample time to change one's mind in the course of the two and a hah* days that it takes the hospital train, converted into a leave train, to make the journey from Cologne to Boulogne. We pass the shell-skeleton of Arras and many a scene of harrowing recollections which already seem " Tales of far off unhappy things And battles long ago." ( 185 ) XVII CITIES OF THE SOUL " The poet has said ' dear city of Cecrops,' wilt not thou say ' dear city of God ' t " (St . Aug. de Civ. Dei.) IF, as Sophocles says, there is nothing so wonderful in the universe as man, then, certainly, there is not anything more interesting than the habitations that he has made for himself therein. The cities of the world are like milestones on the path of progress ; a history well-nigh universal might be compiled out of their records, from the baked clay tablets of Nineveh and Babylon to the pages of the Chicago " Herald." A city is far more than an expression of the wills, individual or universal, of those who built it. Hero in bricks or stone maybe even in wood we find play given to the will of the community, with regard to one of the most important things for any community to think clearly on, its own immediate surroundings. The city may be built where it is by chance, but more often it is the concrete embodiment of the idea of its builders as to the way in which best to live a reso- lution of their " where " and " how." In either case it possesses an historic interest. There, is a running tangible commentary on the daily lives of the peoples. One, indeed, that is far more permanent than any ephemeral legislation. A tyrant can make or unmake a constitution by a stroke of the pen, but 186 Silhouettes of Mars it takes some time for even the most democratic of plumbers to mend a cistern. When Schliemann excavated the hill of Ilion it was like deciphering a manuscript already four times a palimpsest, and the ruins of Pompeii are as fruitful a commentary upon the daily life of the Romans as the poems of Horace. The explanation is only partly that men take more trouble with their houses than with their souls. A city, far more than a man, is the most interesting and individual thing under the sun. It is a microcosm of the universe, a quintessence of its exhalations, not in the schoolman sense of that fifth part which gives life to the whole, but rather as containing within itself in miniature a copy of all there is outside its walls. Generations of men have gone to the making of it ; it has grown from one to another as an idea that has filtered through countless experiences and, in seeing it, you survey the lives of all its builders. His ancestors may move as a potent factor in a man's character, but we perceive them not, for we did not know them when alive and their names now would be less than nothing to us. His antecedents, except in so far as we shared them, are meaningless ; we cannot otherwise trace their effect upon the known man, and probably we went to another college ! It is different with an old city. Such has all its goods on fair and we may view them as we walk. A turn in the street will bring us to new and unsuspected beauties, a gem, small perchance, but great in its novelty ; such as must greet the eye of even a life- long dweller in Oxford each time that he walks abroad. It may be only the sun upon it, or the moonlight falling athwart it, disclosing a new facet of beauty, but he has never seen it thus before. To walk in such a city is like Cities of the Soul is? unwinding the experiences of a garrulous old man. At each turn we light on half forgotten traits, to which their owner furnishes a copious commentary. They say that of our senses the one of scent is most linked with memory. Nothing can awaken past remembrance like an old familiar smell, or conjure up the recollections of a scene that we once knew well. The almost lost perfume of a rose, residing, indeed, more in the paper with which it is wrapped than in the flower itself, reminds the girl who takes it out of the drawer of last year's ball, and the roses of yesterday recall the sights and senses of all the long past summers. It follows, then, that nothing can bring more poig- nant recollections than a perfume which is associated with some famous or endeared spot. The conjunc- tion is irresistible and the picture conjured up before the eye of the soul vivid in the extreme. The smell of new leather recalls days in the saddle; that of a spent cartridge, out on a day's shooting, will make us hear again the very guns of France. London has its own peculiar odour, an insidious compound of brick and tan and tar and the hot sun on rubber tires, and, in whatever city of the world we may sense part of this mixture, one who has once known London thinks of the greatest of them all. The smell of an orange peel suggests to the stay at home the streets of his native town, with the sun melting the asphalt of the pavements, and the ice-cream, bananas, and sweets in the Greek store at the corner ; to him that hath " swam in a gondola," days spent in the groves of Seville or Cadiz. For man ever looks towards the city, and the turning point in the history of a community is reached when the outlying settlements coalesce into a walled town ; 188 Silhouettes of Mars when the pagani become villani. For the city was before the State, was the State, and those nations which have not fair towns within their bounds are but little heard of in history. Men look towards the city as the only place where they can give full expression to themselves, the only place really worth living in, whether they build their house in Kallipolis or Zion, and it is in virtue of no poetic fancy that the state of righteousness is likened unto the city of God let down from out of heaven. The history of the word pagan illuminates much. Originally the word meant countryman ; and passed to its present meaning when, under the emperors after Constantine, the cities of the empire gradually passed to the faith of Christ. But the old faiths lingered longest in the country among the pagani, as the fashionables said with contempt when they had them- selves adopted the court religion. Lost causes do not dwell in the cities, not even in Oxford. There is little genuine pastoral in literature that has not been strained through the sieve of the city ; Phoebes are many, while Audreys are rare but uninteresting, and no less than the very few was Horace a country- lover. There are many cities. Some are cities of power, astonishing only by the size of them. They founded and controlled vast empires, were full of stupendous monuments, and in their day their wealth was fabulous. Yet were they not real cities, though doubtless men loved and died for them. They gleam, with strange fierce light, like huge Eastern gems, from out the night or early morning of the world. A second class of cities there is, partaking of the nature of the first, but adding thereto something. Cities of the Soul 189 Mighty they are and vocal, cities of power and song. Such are Rome, London, Paris. Only one class greater is there than these, and that the highest ever seen of mortal eyes. They are the cities which sway the minds of men throughout the ages ; the cities of the thousand lovers. Athens is one, and Florence and Jerusalem. Oxford and Edin- burgh can claim a place beside them. Their size matters not, nor whether they are now as great as they have been. Their power is not temporal but eternal, for their hold is on the spirit and imagination of man- kind. Each has the gift of eternal youth, or rather that bestowed on those of mortals who die young in the full flush of their youth and beauty. Their old age mellowed or troubled is remembered not. Athens is always the city of song, crowned with fresh violets, the bulwark and pride of Hellas, numbering the souls of men as of her lovers. Each is remembered in the hour of her full flower, of the bestowal of her crown ; and the glories of Solomon's city must yield to that which can claim Nazareth and Galilee within her spiritual walls. These are the cities of the great lovers ; of Thucydides as of a thousand others, of him whose name is love, of Dante. Of all who have loved with a love passing that of women. For the love of a city has been an even more potent factor in history than the love of a woman, and has marched with greater events. We view Italy, when the curtain goes up, as a welter of warring cities, until she of the seven hills gradually brings down the others : those fair cities of Italy, all so unique, of which Virgil sang, each on its hill with its own river winding be- neath the ancient walls. Then, when the Latins of central Italy rose up against the dominance of Rome, 190 Silhouettes of Mars their first act was to build a new city, Italica, the city of Italy par excellence, which should stand to the whole peninsula as a symbol of their faith. The love of the Greeks for their native town is famous; and, while it gave birth to an art and literature, both sprung from a life which could not otherwise have been, yet it furnished the main obstacle to the uniting of that wandering gifted race. It was his city that the youthful wrestler or runner strove for in the dust at Olympia, and whether it was a rude wind-swept town, issuing a semi-barbaric coinage, on the shores of the Euxine, yet clinging to the commonwealth of Hellas through her temples; or an unwalled village, its agora little more than a grazing-ground for horses, in the uplands of Thessaly, this town meant more to him than the splendours of imperial Athens. It was the idea for which he lived and for which he could die if need be, as witness the sacred band, those golden young warriors of Thebes who fell at Chaeronea. That was a higher city-love than the lust of the conqueror, which fills the city of his choice and build- ing with the loot of his victims. Thus grew Nineveh and Babylon, those great rulers of the East whose names can still be seen through the mist of history. They grew like vampires fattening on the blood of others weaker than themselves. Such love as this destroyed an empire by moving its capital across the sea. It is akin to hate as was the vision that led Alaric onward, of a Rome that was to be seen first and then destroyed, and marched with his marching Goths. And the cities of Italy new awakened to their ancient heritage : these of the north, each beside its rushing mountain torrent and possessed of a beauty Cities of the Soul 191 matched by itself alone. The cities of Lombardy that laugh with the hot sun upon their red beds of flowers, even through the blood that is hotter and redder than either. Bologna, Padua, Pisa, where first grew learning in our times. Last and most beautiful of all, Venice, smiling from both sides of her fair face, westwards to France and western chivalry and eastwards to that new Rome, which guards the locked gates of the rich lands beyond. Yet all the while are her eyes bent on her own bosom and the jewels there. Are they then the greatest cities, these Romes and Florences, with their power of lording or queening it over the hearts of humanity ? Nay, there are yet greater than these. The city by the purple flowing Arno, through which the Tuscan poet wandered, is fair, but fairer still are those of which such as he have sung. For men have always pictured their dreams in the likeness of cities. It matters not whether these exist or are but as the vision of that glittering golden El Dorado of the West which the conquist- adores followed through the swamps and miasma of a continent. It is a necessity laid upon the soul of man. These are the great dream cities ; the Republics and Utopias of this world. They were limned by the poet's clear vision piercing beneath the imper- fections of all mortal and visible abiding place for mankind. They were " Built to music : therefore never built at all And therefore built for ever." These are the cities universal, transcending time and existence because they are changeless. We can all be dwellers in them : must, indeed, if we are to preserve o 192 Silhouettes of Mars our souls from death. We can all see them, if we lift up our eyes, hanging mid-way between earth and heaven, their towers and battlements mingling with the clouds. Every man is a citizen of at least one such city, owes allegiance to it and has in fancy built his home therein. It matters not whether the house be a fair one, whitewashed within and without, in a clear northern air, with paths which lead directly to and fro ; or a marble villa set midst deep beds of flowers on a promontory lapped by the blue waters of a spark- ling sea. It makes no difference, provided that we obey the by-laws of the town and have in our house a tower, or other lofty-hanging window, from which we can view the city as a whole. That is the trouble ; for at normal times we catch but a glimpse, half-seen, of the cities of our desire, so dense and black are the clouds and pendulous with rain. But even that half -caught vision may serve to set us on our way. Some have been great travellers in the endeavour to find their city. They have glimpsed it shining from afar, and have straight left friends and the accustomed life behind to view it nearer. Many have started and never reached it, stopping too long at some tavern on the road. Others have taken the last short journey for its sake and entered the city only through the gate of death. Some, after a rough hard journey up hill, seem yet to have reached only the outskirts of the city of their soul. And the way is still long and they are old and spent and their time short. They feel that they will never reach the city now, but must be content with the vision of it shining afar on the top of the high Cities of the Soul 193 mountains, and others passing them on the road and winning thereto. And yet who knows ; perhaps if they will sit down and rest by the wayside for a while the city will come to them ! The way to the city is rough and uphill and choked with thorns and overgrown with brushwood. For the cities were built so long ago, that men have for- gotten the paths that were used of old and can only win to them by strange new routes. The city does not always show itself the same, for it has many quarters and each different. Its appear- ance varies according to the light in which we view it. Moreover, as it can be reached by many and diverse routes, so it ever offers a different side of itself to him that approaches it. Yet all must meet in the market- place. For years, in far lands, we have had our cities. At times they were called Bapaume, at others, Cambrai, or a village on these low Flanders hills. And they have said " win this city " or " gain these heights " and it will be all over and you may rest and then enter upon the promised land. We have taken the cities and mounted the heights, and there were ever other cities and more hills, range upon range, behind ; until that day when the hills were made level and the walls of the cities seemed to fall down as they flew past us, as suddenly and miraculously it appeared as ever did those of Jericho. So we marched to the great river, which guarded the cities in the land that held the grail that was holy for us. For much blood of those we loved had been spilt in and out of it, and we were sworn to look therein. At times it had seemed as if we would never see the old city of the double spire holding the Roman gateway of the Rhine. 194 Silhouettes of Mars There were long days and months when it looked as if, so far from reaching the city, we could scarcely stay us on the road that we had come. A day in April, 1918, and for four years Titan and Atlas had been tossing the ball of the world's debate backwards and forwards. Which would tire the first ? The ridge had stood for long guarding the city behind it ; would it stand this ? A great effort must be parried first before the counterstroke, and the cities seemed very far away. A Highland division coming into the line ; one old in fame and therefore full of youth. None more than eighteen did these boys look, with not a moustache to a platoon, careless and whistling, an untried soldiery. Boys led by youths, for they were Scotland's all ; all she had left to give to fill her city. One met them at night swing- ing in fours up the line, their first time in, and wondered if they could stand. When the storm spent itself the young division, old again in war, was standing there, and the city saved. Many sought the city for strange chance reasons born of no necessity : started out light-heartedly, then lost themselves in the search. Doubtless the city was none the less fair for that and the inhabitants did not mind, but smiled kindly upon these boyish travellers who scarce knew their way about her streets. For her squares and pleasant places must be full of such. " They cannot call us ' Saturday night soldiers ' now, can they, sir," said a dying lad of the London Scottish to his Company Commander, after that great charge at Loos, which lifted the fame of the territorial army of Britain out of the slough of despondency and criticism in which it had long sojourned and set it en- Cities of the Soul 195 throned for ever on the twin peaks of glory and duty done. The girls of London town, having the Guards before them, were critical of soldiers, at least of those who were so only once a week. A humble garret room in the great city may have been all he sought, but surely the girl angels breached the walls to let him and all those others in ! In these years the city has grown full of youth and her streets crowded with laughing boys. For youth fleet-footed, though starting later, has passed all others on the road and reached his eager goal. For us, their entrance there has requickened what we had almost lost and brought us nearer home. It has regilded the roofs of the city and set a new cross upon its central dome. ( 196) XVIII A MILITARY FUNERAL THE road to the cemetery seemed unending ; like a great white snake it lay athwart the landscape, un- folding coil after coil of its dusty length at each successive bend. Overhead there was spring sun- shine and the blue Canadian sky. In the fast -opening hedges by the wayside the birds were singing merrily, but underfoot there was only the road, its hardness belied by the clouds of dust which arose from it and hung like a pall in the wake of the trudging plodding funeral-party. The fine white dust lay thick on the khaki tunics of the soldiers ; it was even spread like a film over the Union Jack which covered the coffin on the gun-carriage. Useless to brush it off, for more to settle. The whole country-side was awakening at the touch of the soft finger of spring ; the air was warm and balmy, and through the midst of all this new life passed the slow cortege of death. They had come a long way already. Leaving the barracks the platoon had marched in fours through the city to the military hospital. There they had fallen out while permission had been given to the more intimate friends of the deceased, or to those who were curious to look upon the face of death, to go inside and view the body before it was placed within the coffin. Many had gone ; the remainder mean- while standing in the street exchanged remarks with A Military Funeral 197 the crowd or with the blue-uniformed patients who thronged the hospital windows. At last, after the stragglers had rejoined, the coffin came through the gateway, borne on the shoulders of the more lusty of the dead man's friends. Draped with the flag it was placed on the gun- carriage drawn by mounted men of the Army Service Corps. The procession was reformed, regimental band in front, and moved slowly off to the mournful strains of the Dead March. In this manner, first the band, next the gun-carriage guarded by the firing party marching with arms reversed, then the platoon march- ing in fours, it moved through the streets of Halifax. The next halt was at the church. He had been a Catholic, and was carried in and lay for a while within the circle of lighted candles, which cast fantastic shadows of the coffin upon the walls. A few, in- cluding the officer in charge, went in with him, but the majority stayed in the street outside. There they lounged apathetically or kicked stones across the road until it was over, and he came out again. The little procession re-formed for a fresh start, and went off again at the same slow gait. Soon, once more in the country, the order was given to march at ease. Perhaps they moved a little faster now away from curious eyes in busy streets ; still it was slow work. Once there was a halt. Not many of the platoon had known the dead man well. He had been with them so short a time ! How he had got past the doctor in this early time of war was a mystery, for even the life of training had been too much for him. His soldiering had been short and painful, an effort hardly to be borne, and this was 198 Silhouettes of Mars the end. These others would soon go overseas to die in France or Flanders. He was the first to fall, ere yet the runners were set upon the mark. For the moment the idea of their first casualty made them thoughtful and seemed to bring the war nearer to the monotonous daily round of drill and marching. This was his last route-march along the familiar road ! But soon he would be forgotten, and the memory of this would become blurred and blend with that of many other Calvaries. To-morrow they would debate whether his name should stand first on the battalion roll of honour or whether it would be there at all. " Yes, he was married. That was his missus with the kids in church, the one in black who cried." " Well, don't suppose he would have stood it long out there." " Lungs, no heart, the doctor said." Arrived at the cemetery the platoon lined the entrance on either side, and the body was borne down and between their ranks standing at the " reverse." Then it was lowered into the waiting grave and the padre did his bit. A straggling volley rang out from the firing party and the bugler blew the " Last Post" indifferently well, and it was over. The march home was made in quicker time and to a merrier tune. They did not mean their comrades there in barracks to have more than their proper share of tea. Only the woman in black stood still by the now filled-in grave and wept and prayed. She blamed these long route-marches from which her man had come back white-faced, but still trying to smile. Per- haps she blamed the M.O. A Military Funeral 199 Or perhaps she went past them to first causes and her tears helped to swell the mighty tide of such water, daily rising higher, which was to grow and grow throughout these years, until at last it should reach Olympus and bear the vessel of wrath and of vengeance through the empty gates of a deserted palace in Berlin. ( 200 ) XIX THE CITY OF FRIENDS THERE is a fair city in England, set by the crossing of an ancient stream, and crowned with a lovely diadem of graceful spires which weave their fretwork, as of angels' sighs transfixed and turned into stone, against the greater dome above. Here are sun-steeped courts, holding in their bosom, like a green oasis there, the cool grass of piled velvet and as smooth as the grey mediaeval setting in which it lies ; here are river-reaches where the willows bend to the stream that flows by low stone bridge and ancient wall. It is a city of narrow winding streets which seem to meet at will, each with a different glory at either end, and through these channels the stream of youth has flowed for centuries is pouring now. There will always be the sound of running feet upon these pavements, and the lilt of clear voices coming in at the open windows. It is a city where, in many characters and different books of stone, one may read from century to century the story of the island race which raised these walls and towers. For here, so long ago that we know not when, learning and piety joined together to lay somewhere that first stone which was to grow and expand and blossom to this miracle of stone. It may have been in Alfred's time, when Saxon peasants drove their The City of Friends 201 oxen across the ford around which lay the little town of wooden houses and wattled roofs, that the work began, not surely with a conscious design of con- tinuity of growth, but as all best things in the world have come, from small beginnings and, as it almost were, by chance. The city itself was old when they began the new university there, which is yet the most ancient of the English-speaking world ; how old it matters not, for these meadows were there then as now, running smooth and lush down to the river, and seeming to invite the building of church and college on their broad swelling bosoms. Since then she has kept pace with the history of the builders. Rude were her beginnings at first, as rude the age. The mediaeval scholar, sleeping five to a bed as soon as it got dark in that low-lying city when the mists began to steal upwards from the river, for he had no light, studying by day sitting on the straw on the floor around a single manuscript while the damp air came in by the unglazed windows, might indeed blow on his fingers in default of a fire, but he had the heat and glow of the desire for knowledge within his soul. Hither came the youth of all nations as to another Paris, thronging along the main trade-routes of mediaeval learning, and here king and noble and great ecclesiastic raised in emulation coverings for their heads. From the dim light of the early middle ages the university passed into the grace of chivalry and sun- shine of romance, not then abstractions, as until late we viewed them, for they who were these things did pass each other in her courts and streets. The Black Prince was here, and Raleigh. Hall after hall arose, each more stately than the other, and of many it can 202 Silhouettes of Mars be said that they have listened alike to the drone of the schoolmen and to the new-come youth telling the latest gossip from town of Drake's last fight with the Spaniard and the finding of another isle. These gardens, that lie now so peaceful in the sun, a fair exercise for fairer learning, have been the drill ground of the youths who swore to defend their king from the great Englishman. More than two centuries later they awoke again to make the same defence, this time in a better cause. Some have called her dreamer, dreaming of her spires, but who has done so much to fetch wisdom from the clouds and set her daughter corporeal and visible in street and market- place ? It is in her despite that eyes were blind and ears deaf, until almost too late. And wisdom has been justified of her children, and Rachel mourns her sons. For in every crisis through which the national spirit has passed Oxford has led, not in the politician's understanding of the word, troubling only to keep one step ahead of the Great Beast, and to be out of reach when the jaws clash together, making it their success to have guessed aright down which path he would turn, and to be there a pace ahead ; but in the spirit which says, " This road we will take because it is the straight one and, as it is rough and difficult, I will go ahead and clear the way. Then, if I should chance to fall, I will give a shout so that ye may either press on over my body, or else betake yourselves safely to a better way." That is what leading meant to Hampden and to Sidney, if not to those dodderers who wait and see or spin a coin to fix the choice twixt cowardice and folly. We cannot always, as now, approve the cause in The City of Friends 203 which she fought, even by living backwards to the times of those decisions. Yet has she fought nobly and with a high design, even if sometimes under the wrong banner. Who, indeed, shall speak of " right " and "wrong" in certain cases, as when the great dragon standard of Wessex went down on Senlac hill, before the hoofs of perjured free-booters or Norman knights, it may have been better for England and the Englands that were to be, but in which cause fell it the just or unjust ? Who shall say ? She has often lost with the seeming wrong, but never triumphed with it, and by the greatness of her sacrifices distilled a sweet essence from the losing side, making it to show a victor. We must beware lest the adorable old sophist make the worse appear the better cause by finding there some rare seam of gold the like of which we vainly seek in a far richer mine. She has the gift divine of finding or causing beauty everywhere, of eliciting whatever of nobility there may be in a poor cause ; and to the victor standing over her she presents a rich ruby, which she has dug from out the ground, and says, " Add that to your triumph." There is a loveliness in her defeat far surpassing the blowzy fresh -grown triumph. There is a magic in her name. Certain it is that she has always had an irresistible attraction for the doers as well as the dreamers of this world. They dwell in the fascination of their remem- brance of her, when May is there and the hawthorn out in these gardens and by the river ; or when she lies covered with a mantle of snow, man's handiwork overlaid by God's, which gives a fresh grace to her roofs and buildings. If they have ever wished to change her it was only that she might better fulfil 204 Silhouettes of Mars the hopes which she alone has the right to hold. It is thus that his spirit thinks of her when he walks at night on the tops of the Matoppo hills and views those lands far-stretched which he won to her ideals and she for his. His body lies in Africa but still stands in stone above the High. But indeed the city has many lovers in many lands wherever her tongue has gone. Thither comes the soul at last, remembering the knowledge gained here and seeking again the friends that once she knew. For it is the city of friends ; and these roofs to- night house the same spirit as they have done for centuries. Youth is the time for friendship, and this is youth's eternal dwelling-place, where he abideth for ever. Youth, naked and unashamed, walks these streets still walks these same streets which once we walked and knew so well. Not a day passes without these little incidents, the casual greet- ing, the laughter on field or river, the jest in hall, which mean so little now as between friends, but in the years to come will outweigh the recollection of all the rest. These are the friends with whom, if we could choose, we would walk through life, and, as the evening shadows began to fall, we would enter the shadowy valley arm in arm together, cross that darker river in the same boat as one punt so often bore us from side to side of Isis, and so walk through what- ever of sunshine or brightness may lie amidst those woods on the farther shore. Certainly we should have held company together, even though at long intervals, throughout our lives, visiting our city perchance together, as friends bound by the same chain of recollection, which may be lengthened link by link, but never overlaid with any metal foreign The City of Friends 205 to itself ; or paid out across whole continents, yet never broken. But it was not to be : for a great wind was coming from the East, parched and sere from gas, and reeking of corruption, blown hither and thither throughout the world by foul men's breaths, and when it passes we shall not see most of our friends again. We heard its first stirrings in our time, its first dry whisperings as of dead leaves in summer, and built us, half-heartedly, crazy shelters against its coming, laughed at by some, who were the first to die. Even then the first mutter- ings of the storm that was to come and uproot the tall cedar and bending sapling was heard in these gardens, sighing at the end of the long corridor, blowing through the low arch, and brushing the leaves by the chapel wall. It kissed the brows of those we walked with, scorching their curls, for, though we knew it not, they bore the brand of Cain, the mark which he set upon his brother, and were to stain a drier browner ground than our lawns with their blood more crimson than these roses. The youth of the generation in which we moved were marked and doomed to slaughter. There were three friends ; and one, coming in to hall that first night, sat down at the scholars' table, though far more than such, whence warned by the attendant scout, his masterly inactivity awoke a responsive chord and the desire to know him better which ripened into friendship. Scot and hard rugby player, none save those who knew him best would have suspected him of sentiment ; yet he went down for good late one evening without saying farewell, sneaked off like a thief in the night to avoid that parting. " Should take a commission," said the adjutant, but the powers 206 Silhouettes of Mars at home thought otherwise. Returned from India, on purpose, at the beginning of the war, he fell at Loos with that Black Watch battalion for which he had always longed a soldier after all. And one in a far-off garrison isle opened a letter from him, seen last at tennis in our city, and laying it down, picked up a paper to scan the leaves idly ; to see him there again among those who fell for Scotland. And another, seen since those days indeed, but next after long years again at B6thune in the Club there a few months before the end. Changed he was, and worn by war, but still the same. It did not last long afterwards, but yet for him the Armistice came too late. There were many others, fresh, shining and brilliant, like a May morning or the noon of a summer's day in June. Of some we did not know until we saw the list on the chapel door. It will be hard now to visit the city as of yore. While the war lasted, it was not so, for the streets were full of khaki as he had wished them, and death then seemed glory, and so much better than not to have dared at all. Moreover, one knew not chance and fortune; so perhaps that band, fast growing on the other side, would soon welcome you among its ranks, converting loss to gain. There were no ghosts there then ; all those fresh spirits were surely overseas among their friends still " carrying on." Nor were there many before that August day but jolly eman- ations of corporeal presences, pillars of Church and State, dwelling in the country, in India or in other cities. The very contrast between Jones of Trinity and the Right Reverend Mitre-aspirant which is Jones now, would lay all such, the contrast was so great. The City of Friends 207 It is too great to-day, and we must either not go at all or else walk carefully, as men do who fear at every corner to run into some ghost. For now, with victory, they have all come back to the place which they loved best of all, and her streets bear a greater throng than meets the eye. They hurry, running or walking fast, but these others linger and loiter round each well- known spot. Well-remembered faces seem to peer from the old windows as in the past, and the figures that pass and repass each other in the quad seem other forms and to answer to different names than those they bear. " Was it a hand then clapped thy shoulder 1 Only the wind by the chapel wall " and the creeper will redden and fall in many an autumn ere they come again to the city that they loved. This has been the world's great tragedy, this holo- caust of youth, only felt chiefly here where youth was centred. " Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friend," and greater shame hath no man than this that he prove unworthy of the sacrifice. Those who are left can only live so as to realize all that those others died for that it may never happen again, or, at least, if there is something so eternally bestial in the nature of man that all this blood and anguish and misery and destruction may come again, that right may again triumph, this time at lesser cost. Then perhaps we shall see our friends again, when we too have crossed that western stream, and if we have kept faith, look them in the face and smile and talk over those old battles. 208 Silhouettes of Mars In the meantime : " God rest you, merry Gentlemen, That laid your good lives down, That took the khaki and the gun Instead of cap and gown. God bring you to a fairer place Than even Oxford town ! " And in the meantime this our city on earth will grow in the image of that laid up in heaven, until her spires reach and pierce these skies. Then on a May morning, when we greet the sun, we shall hear those other boyish voices answer us from over there, and say" All's well." In the meantime we can still view her spires from the top of Headington Hill, even as for long years past we have seen those other spires of Douai, set in a broad plain, from the top of a different ridge. There was remembrance then at all times of rain and snow and sunshine but chiefly of rain. For the spires stand for remembrance as half-way between heaven, where these are, and the earth from which they grew. ( 209 ) XX OF NEWSPAPER BOYS Somewhere Else in France, 1st April, 1917. DEAR GEORGE, It is with great pleasure that I comply with your unexpected request to send you a letter con- taining some bright newsy chit-chat about the doings of Joffre and Haig and others of my friends at the Front, for insertion in the pages of the Parish Magazine. Not forgetting myself I trust, not forgetting myself ! The fact is, however, dear boy, that I have not seen any of the old bunch to talk to for quite a while, though they have by no means been latent of late. Still I will do the best I can for you. Have just re-read your letter ! George, do you really mean it ? Am I actually henceforward to consider myself the War Correspondent and Special Representative at the Front of the Witting Workers' Magazine of Mudtown-on-Slush ? Let me see, Little Dumpshire, is it not ? Of course ! This will set me up, you know, and give me something to do with my leisure time six days in, you know, George, and then six days out resting at working parties. It is good of you to think of me, it really is. But, George, does your Vicar know of the arrange- ment, and does he approve ? Somehow I don't think he quite liked me when I was home on leave. Re- 210 Silhouettes of Mars member I am a Canadian, though you will remember this, won't you, George ? not a Rhodes scholar. He, if I mistake not, is a Tab. But, of course, you would not have asked me unless he had been an accessory to the act. One gets such groundless alarms out here at times. I cannot, however, write to you about the front, as the Vicar and you desire. It would not be right you know, George; would, in fact, be acting a lie, which would never do for the class of periodical that we all three have in mind. The front is always changing ; for instance it has changed quite a lot down Bapaume way since I was nearly there last. So you see that if you were to publish my letter, the front might have changed BO much in the meantime as to be quite unrecognizable to anyone save Major Moraht. So that you would be telling the Willing Workers what was not true, George ! Think how bad that would be for the childish mind, and how it would destroy their bright young faith in the curate ! No, George, no ! Besides we don't get the papers out here regularly enough to know what is really doing at the Front. I'll tell you what I can do, however. I shall write you a letter all about the funny things that have happened to me when my platoon has been resting in billets behind the line, " beyond the behind," as Stephen Leacock puts it. One thing I can safely promise both you and the Vicar, I will never write a word that could make the Censor blush. For instance, I can talk to you of newspaper boys. All about newspaper boys I have met. " Why news- paper boys ? " you ask ! Well, why not ? Other people collect china and postage stamps or mummies. Of Newspaper Boys 211 I collect newspaper boys. What is the difference ? I am afraid, George, that you are sadly lacking in imagination. I suspect that to you a newspaper boy is nothing more than a boy who sells newspapers. You have no idea of the infinite diversity of species that exists within the genus. Lots of books have been written about newspapers, so why not a few lines in praise of the kindly beings that proffer them in the street ? The labourer is worthy of his hire, George, as the dear Vicar would say. Number one in my collection is a wee Highland laddie in a kilt and bare legs. He sold me my first newspaper. It was a halfpenny one and I gave him a penny. Needless to say this was before the war. He, of course, said he had no change, but being a Scotch newspaper boy he was comparatively honest, and though he would not surrender my halfpenny he gave me two papers. One of these, on my way home, I gave to a working man. Now tell me, George, which of us two, me I mean I or the boy was it who did this good to the working man ? There is a problem for your Jesuitical mind. But say, George, I must really tell you about our Canadian newspaper boys at home. They are some youths, believe me, kid. So delightfully free and easy and independent and democratic. Why, they don't sell you a newspaper ! You have to run across the car tracks from one side-walk to the other and tear it away from them. Then they get quite annoyed with you for interrupting their private reading. Some hustlers well, I guess not ! When I am at home, in Montreal, I usually go out on Sunday morning to buy a newspaper in order to 212 Silhouettes of Mars find out which side won the hockey match that I witnessed the night before at the Arena, and whether the police did really rescue the referee who gave that off-side decision against the home team, and, if so, how much. On these occasions it is a match between me and the newspaper boy. Of course, true to the traditions of his profession, he has no change. Neither have I, as it is Sunday. So I give a quarter for a five cent paper. A quarter, you know, George, is just a nickel, or half a bit, more than two bits, and in Canada they do up five cents in an elegant little silver coin, which gets lost just as easily as a three-penny piece. The move is now up to the boy who starts to give me my change. In this my opponent is obviously playing for time. First he unbuttons his overcoat, then he unbuttons his jacket, then he unbuttons hip breeches pocket. All this takes time, and if the thermometer is anywhere in the vicinity of Zero you kind of get tired waiting. By now he is shovelling out the change, one copper cent at a time, into my expectant palm. There are, I know, twenty of these coming to me, if I wait long enough, in as many separate instalments. I usually fail to last. The odds are all in favour of my opponent who probably wins by eight up and twelve to come, or thereabouts. Once, however, I had my fur cap and overcoat on and I froze him out. In London they are quite different. There the newsvendors hunt in packs and charge the pedestrians in extended order, like so many bombers rushing a machine gun, so that if one does not get him another does. It is impossible to escape them all. My collection includes some rare exotic growths. You will perhaps remember, George, that early in Of Newspaper Boys 213 the war I accompanied my regiment to Bermuda at the special and united request of Lord Kitchener and the Admiralty, in order to defend the coral crop against German raiders. How well I did my job is not for me to say. Suffice it that the Bermudas are still afloat, and not a coral the worse. It is not, how- ever, of these high problems of Imperial strategy that I wish to talk, but of the Bermudan newspaper boys. George, they are black and wonderful they make so much of nothing ! In Hamilton they publish two newspapers, one green, the other white. One appears in the morning, the other at any old time. The purpose of the latter is apparently to tone down, rarely to substantiate, the highly improbable statements of its matutinal predecessor. In other words, it contains the same items of news, with sometimes the addition of a question mark. Both papers are highly condensed. Epoch-making events to which the " Times " would devote columns and an editorial are given in a few lines, without any comment, in the very words of the cable. These are the wares which the boys hawk in the streets and the other places with remarkable success. One wakes up in the morning to the prospect of one's quarters full of sunshine, oleander leaves, black beetles, and black newspaper boys. Before one is half awake one has accepted a paper, the vendor receiving in exchange a watch or pair of gold sleeve links, or some little trifle of that sort. Strange to say he rarely comes again. I went out to France with lively anticipations of adding some unique specimens to my collection. In particular I had heard of a fair newspaper girl who was said to haunt the trenches and the deserted streets of 214 Silhouettes of Mars Arras. I have been to Arras but saw no she there, only she-lls, George, only she-lls. After the Somme, however, I found that I had considerable leisure to spend on my researches. Then during my temporary residence in hospital at Doullens I devoted considerable study to the Gallic news- paper boy and girl. No, I was not wounded, nor yet was I suffering from some merely civil complaint, such as I might have received in London. Perhaps, " suffering from injuries inflicted by nature in the presence of the enemy," best describes my condition. At Doullens, George, the boys run through the streets with shouts of "Dee-ly Mail," "Dee-ly Mail." Do you remember, old thing, the cry of " Star-ry View," " Starry View," in the Corn of Saturday nights ? It was only, though, when up the line once more that I met the prince of newsboys. His name is Jean, and there are many boys, but only one Jean. In him the spirit of the Paris gamin Victor Hugo's Gavroche seemed to live again in a smaller edition. With no fixed abode, and apparently no parents, he earned all the living he cared about selling newspapers up and down the line^ His habits were nomadic, and one was quite likely to meet him one day at Aubigny and the next at B6thune, supposing oneself so lucky as to get a day off at the latter place. It was at neither of these places that I first saw him ! My eyes were first attracted to him by the singu- larity of his dress. It was a bitterly cold day, yet he wore no coat. He had velvet corduroy breeches fastened round his waist with a red cotton handker- chief. The rest of his costume testified to his belief in the indissolubility of the Franco-British entente. He wore puttees of a peculiarly offensive yellow shade Of Newspaper Boys 215 of khaki, while on his head there was perched, jauntily, a sky-blue French forage-cap. This bore the cap badge of the Royal Canadian Regiment which, as you know, George, was my regiment. Probably it still is, but I have been so bandied about recently that I am not quite sure. Ask him not where he got it, George, as a free though forbidden gift in answer to his appeal- ing cry for " souvenir," or whether it was seques- trated during its owner's temporary absence in an estaminet cementing the entente. Ostensibly, and as an excuse for his comings and goings, Jean sold English newspapers at an altogether exorbitant profit. I buy one when I meet him, or I used to. On these occasions I usually speak French of a quality altogether superior to the ordinary B. E. F. brand of that long suffering language. Jean, poor boy, uses as an intermediary the few words that he does not know of what he probably takes to be English. I had always understood that Jean's respect for my linguistic attainments could be taken for granted. Imagine then one day the shock that I experienced when on asking for my usual " Times " I received this reply, delivered in a most casual manner, " Onlee zee Matin and P'tit Parisien thees morning, zare, no bong fir you zare at all." Horrid little boy, I feel sure that the cap badge was stolen ! I have not seen Jean since, but to-day, in spite of his impertinence, I can say with true Christian charity mark that, George, in capitals that I forgive him and hope he is still alive. This, I am sure, he is not, unless he managed to cure his propensity for being wherever the next shell might be expected, in the hunt for souvenirs. Well, George, I feel that I have done you and the 216 Silhouettes of Mars parish proud. You know all about my innocent recreations at the Front, with not a touch of rum. I feel sure that the Vicar will approve of all that I have written. So, as the last letter that I censored said, "here's hoping that this finds you in the pink, dear, as it leaves me, dearest." Yes, George, he was writing to his wife. How I anticipate your every want ! Well, I shall say adieu, old man, and not au revoir, as I hope soon to see you all again. Your affectionate cousin by marriage, (Yours, not his), Archie . XXI " KIT INSPECTION " (An immediately pre-war farce of the old Army.) CHARACTERS. PTE. KNOW ALL, a boy of the old brigade. PTE. SNOOKS, a good recruit. PTE. BIFFIN, a bad recruit. L/CPL. DRINKDOWN, an old timer left over from the Boer War. SERGEANT-MAJOR STICKIT. PROVO. -SERGEANT CATCHEM. LIEUT. BOBBY SETON, a blushing subaltern. CAPTAIN DUKES, his Company Commander. MAJOR KEMP. MAJOR-GENERAL CUTOFF, K.C.B. Other soldiers, good, bad, but mostly indifferent. SCENE. Any Old Barracks. TIME. The summer of 1913. SCENE I. (The interior of the barrack-room of which DRINKDOWN is in charge. According to K.R. and 0. he is there as an example and restraint to the other occupants. In reality he owes his position solely to alcoholic, presumably constitutional, inability to keep more than one stripe at a time on the upper portion of his right arm. The room 218 Silhouettes of Mars is bare, no carpet, but neat there is nothing to get out of place and scrupulously clean. Down each side, are ranged ten little iron bedsteads (bedsteads, barrack, soldiers, for the use of, as the Q.M. calls them). Under each is a small box containing all the owner's worldly possessions ; his name is on the card at the head of the bed. On the top of nearly all reclines the owner himself, for it is afternoon and the British soldier is, as the snores show, exercising his inalienable right to pursue therein his favourite form of recreation. Enter DRINKDOWN, a still martial figure, though somewhat overgrown in parts, with a red nose and a red ribbon above his stomach.) DRINKDOWN. Well, boys, I've a good bit of news fur yez all to-day ; nice and spicy it is. Don't say that I never brings yez nothing ! (Complete lack of response from the beds ; continues in an aggrieved manner and higher key.) Do ye not 'ear me, boys, or must I make myself 'card ? It's news I'm bringing yez ; mind I'm telling ye all, so don't say as yez wasn't warned. It's not my fault if ye won't listen to me. FIRST SOLDIER (on nearest bed, uncocking one eye). Well, you damned old tub of guts, what are you standing there for making all that blasted row ? Can't a gentleman sleep sometimes, even in the harmy ! DRINKDOWN (turning on him). You blasted fool, you , you poor civvy, here you've been all asleep. Well, there will be a war on soon, so don't say as you wasn't warned. (Makes to go out.) SECOND SOLDIER. Ere, 'arf a mo, Drinky ! What's all the fuss about anyway ? DRINKDOWN. Ain't I a tellin' yez. You'll know soon enough, oh yes, you'll know. Only don't say I u Kit Inspection " 219 didn't tell yez of it, like what you did last time. Lazy lubbers don't even know there's a war on ! FIRST SOLDIER. 'As Bloodthirsty an' 'is Bulgars won another bleedin' battle, Drinky ? DRINKDOWN. No, me lad, it's a real war this time ; worse than that at any rate. Oh, it is rich, rare news ! SECOND SOLDIER. Well, for Gawd's sake shut up and tell us about it and then get out. DRINKDOWN (taking a deep breath and puffing out his chest, as one who has at last secured his audience). Well, fellow-soldiers, brave canteen fighters, know ye by my being 'ere that I 'ave just been conversating with our 'ighly respectable and honoured Colonel, who sez to me ye know his style, short and sharp, that's 'im, and what friends we is " Corporal Drinkdown," sez 'e, "I would'st that thou would'st go and hinform thy trusty comrades, my brave soldiers, that the Lord 'Igh ' Aught iness 'is Himperial Stoutness the Fortress Commander, damn 'is buttons, will hinspect these 'ere barracks at four pip emma precisely. So go thou and tell the boys, particularly them 'as is in room B., wot is a blooming lazy lot of swine, to prepare and get ready." FIRST SOLDIER. . SECOND SOLDIER. . DRINKDOWN. It's no use, boys ; I feels that way myself and so I tell's 'im. But it's no use ; for sure there's a war on I'm thinkin.' FIRST SOLDIER. It's not true, Fatty, is it ? SECOND SOLDIER. Oh, sergeant dear, I prithee say that it be not true. DRINKDOWN. It's true right enough ; am I not saying that I 'ad it from the Old Man 'imself ? 220 Silhouettes of Mars THIRD SOLDIER. And what for would the Ould Man be talking to the likes of you fur, Corporal Drinkdown ? Tell me that, ye spalpeen ? FIRST SOLDIER. Oh, Fatty, you're a bloody liar ! FOURTH SOLDIER. Ye're a domned lear I'm thinking, corporal. DRINKDOWN (with futurist reminiscence of an- other great man). Well, all I say is, wait and see. You'll see all right, and be damned to yez all. (Goes to his bed and begins slowly to get out his kit, arranging it for the inspection. The others watch him for a moment and then, as if realizing the full import of his proceeding, get off their beds, each in his own fashion, and proceed to imitate him. PTE. SNOOKS is first. Some, however, remain asleep. Others are wakened in various fashions by their resentful comrades. They work busily for a while.} PTE. SNOOKS. Corporal. DRINKDOWN. Well ! SNOOKS. Corporal, I am not very sure about arranging these things, I DRINKDOWN. Well find out, my lad, find out, only don't bother me. SNOOKS But, corporal DRINKDOWN. Well, again ! SNOOKS. I really am not sure ; you might just show me. DRINKDOWN. Look 'e 'ere, my lad, I've told you once, don't bother your superior officer. It's not 'ealthy in the harmy. SNOOKS. But, corporal, the Captain said that when I joined I was to go to you in any difficulty. DRINKDOWN. Well, go, lad, go ! Only mind I am " Kit Inspection " 221 your superior orficer, that's me ; you are in the army, that's you ; so don't you worrit me, that's us both SNOOKS (appealing to the room in general). Will some one kindly tell me whether my socks go on the right or the left of my under-wear ? FIRST SOLDIER. That depends on whether you wear them on the right or left foot, sonny. SECOND SOLDIER. Bill, 'elp the young lidy with 'er lingerie. PTE. KNOWALL. Well, now I'll tell you, my lad, it all depends on who is going to do the inspecting. If it is the Captain, he likes 'em on the left and I would put them there. But, mind you, I don't know what the Colonel likes. Probably he has marked pre- ferences one way or the other, and will give emphatic emphasis to them if you do not respect his convictions in the matter of your socks. Young Seton now, he generally likes 'em on the right, and if he is coming we puts 'em there. Then the Captain comes and changes 'em again, and there is 'ell while young Seton 'e looks down 'is bloody nose and smiles sickly like with his ruddy mouth. FIRST SOLDIER. 'Oo cares for the bloody loot, anyway ? KNOWALL Oh, he's all right. The General will go by the Colonel and the Colonel will watch the Adjutant, who will pretend he really knows. Yes, decidedly the Adjutant is the man. I should go and ask him if I were you. Don't go to the sergeant- major, he is too shy, or perhaps you had better see him first and ask for an interview with the Adjutant on the subject. That would be the safest way. Oh, yes, decidedly, so. 222 Silhouettes of Mars SNOOKS. Thanks, I will, since none of you can help. (Turns to the door.) SECOND SOLDIER. Here, kid, come back, they're making game of you. Look at the plate and put your darned old socks the way shown there. One on each side of your little pants it is. FIRST SOLDIER. There ain't no plate. Hi, Drinky, where's your plate, it ain't on its 'ook ? SECOND SOLDIER. Drinky pawned it at the canteen. Shocking, I calls it. DRINKDOWN. Blast it. I forgot to get the com- pany orfice to indent for another. The Captain spoke about its habsence last time too. FIRST SOLDIER. Yes, and you'll get 'ell if it ain't 'ere to-day. SECOND SOLDIER. You'll be for orfice, Drinky ; petty larceny '11 be the charge. FIRST SOLDIER. Too bad, Corporal Drinkdown, too bad ! Boom B. still deficient of its plate. Where am I to look to for these things if not to you, corporal?" SECOND SOLDIER. Yes, you'll 'ave to show 'im a plate to-day, Drinky, for the credit of the room. DRINKDOWN. Well, I'll borrow one from another room. (Exit.) KNOWALL. Here, look here, you put these there, and this 'ere here. No, the soap goes in its box oh, lay it on the blanket then. FIRST SOLDIER (strolling over to SNOOKS'S bed). Got your socks dressed by the right yet, kid ? That's right then. Quite a wit I am, I don't think. Hi, Bill, come and look at the display of fancy-work and undies in this ere window. Indecent I calls it (Re-enter DRINKDOWN.) Well, 'ave you got another " Kit Inspection " 223 pretty picture to take the place of the one wot you swiped for beer, as is now 'ung in the canteen ? DRINKDOWN. No, blast it, I couldn't borrow one anywhere. They was all in. FIRST SOLDIER. Well, I'm not worrying it's your funeral, old thing. PTB. BIFFIN (entering). Who says there's a ruddy kit-inspection on to-day ? That's what I want to know. FIRST SOLDIER. Ho yes, there is. BIFFIN. Well, I don't know as I've got much in the old kitty. (Goes to his box and opens it.) As I thought. Deficient, tins blacking, soldiers, for use of, one ; hold-all, one ; housewife, well I'm a bachelor, so let it pass ; boot polish, crdme de la cr&ne, alias blacking, tins, one, nothing doing. Say, Drinky, its hardly seems worth while to hold an inspection to-day, does it ? DRINKDOWN. That don't make no difference, go on with you. BIFFIN. Here, Snooks, lend us a pair of socks. SNOOKS. I really must protest. These are my only spare pair. BIFFIN. Well, what's the odds ? What's a pair of socks anyway to this outfit ? I'm going sick. DRINKDOWN. No you don't, not if I knows it. BIFFIN. Oh, corporal, I am so ill, so very ill. Fetch the M.O., corporal, please do, there's a good man. DRINKDOWN (in an official voice). Are you report- ing sick, Private Biffin ? BIFFIN. You fat, old wheezer ! Ain't I reporting sick as hard as I know how ? Do you want me to die to convince you that I'm not well ? Oh, I have such a pain in my tummy. Q 224 Silhouettes of Mars DRINKDOWN. Well, if you ain't really got no kit perhaps it's the best thing. Who's the orderly cor- poral ? Hi, you, Jones, take 'im down, and hand 'im over to the M.O.'s horderly, will you ? (Exit JONES with BIFFIN.) SCENE II. (The same) but even cleaner and tidier. All are discovered putting the finishing touches to their kits, now displayed on the beds.} FIRST SOLDIER. Spoiling a man's afternoon rest like this ! I shaU write to " John Bull," I shall ! DRINKDOWN. Well, is we all ready now ; young Twinkle- Star '11 be here soon ? FIRST SOLDIER. All ready but the plate, Drinky. SECOND SOLDIER. Come on, Field-Marshal, give us a look over. I ain't got no blacking, so let's 'ave a tin wot you've complicated from the Q.M.S. DRINKDOWN (ignoring the insinuation goes solemnly round the room and inspects the kits while the men stand in attitudes of mock attention and respect). Well, thet'll do, boys ! (All throw up their hands and sink down wearily on the beds as if exhausted by their labours. A knock is heard and simultaneously the door is thrown open, and LIEUTENANT BOBBY SETON preceded by the company orderly sergeant, enters.} DRINKDOWN (in a voice that shakes the dust and flies from the windows}. Room, 'shun ! LIEUT. SETON (a mild-faced youth with rosy cheeks and a flaxpod of a moustache}. All-right, corporal, as you were. Carry on, men. I want to have a look at the kits of the half company, Drinkdown, before Captain Dukes goes round. Are you all ready ? u Kit Inspection " 225 DRINKDOWN (paternally, yet heartily). Pretty near, sir ! SETON (pacing slowly round the room and gazing fixedly at each bed in turn as if he were an old do' man come to appraise and depreciate wares before investing). Ah, yes. Quite so. Where are your gloves, Jones ? Oh, yes, I see. Two shirts here, Simpson ? Well, what have you got on ? Oh, well, it is warm, as you say. Good, good. (Comes to a halt suddenly before SNOOK'S bed.) Put your socks right, you what is this man's name, corporal ? DRINKDOWN (promptly). Snooks, sir, one of the recruits. SETON. Well, put your socks on the left of your drawers, Snooks. Where's this man, corporal ? DRINKDOWN. Private Biffin, another recruit, sir ; gone sick, sir. SETON. What's the matter with him ? DRINKDOWN. No kit I mean severe gastric ulcer, sir. SETON. Well, the room's all right, corporal, but see that they all have their socks on the left of their drawers. It's that way on the plate, is it not ? DRINKDOWN. Yes, sir, oh, certainly, on the left. I was looking at the plate myself, only this morning. SETON. Well, see that they all have it right, cor- poral. Captain Dukes will be round immediately, I expect. DRINKDOWN. Right it is, sir. (Exit SETON.) DRINKDOWN. Now boys, get all them socks over on the left. Look sharp now and get them right. FIRST SOLDIER. It's not right by the plate, corporal. DRINKDOWN (witheringly). Ho yus, a fat lot you knows about it. 226 Silhouettes of Mars (Door is again thrown open as if by a hurricane. Enter in the same manner CAPTAIN DUKES, a tall, dark thin man sporting a monocle, which he screws impartially into either eye.) DEINKDOWN (in a voice that shakes the dust and flies from the windows and ceiling). Room, 'shun ! CAPTAIN DUKES Stand easy, men ! Come round with me, corporal, please. (He goes round the room and screwing his eye-glass firmly into his eye appears to be trying to burn a hole in the articles which he surveys. DBINKDOWN accom- panies him.) CAPTAIN DUKES (his peregrination finished). Quite good, corporal, but why have all the men got their socks on the left instead of the right ? That's not right, is it ? DRINKDOWN (promptly, in tones of intense con- viction). No, sir ; not at all, sir. DUKES. Well, see to it, man ; see to it. The General will be round soon. (Goes towards the door but suddenly halts and turns round.) Where's the plate, corporal ? DBINKDOWN. Plates, sir ; they're all down in the mess-room, sir. DUKES. No ; plate, man, plate. The kit-plate, I mean. DBINKDOWN. Oh, that, sir ! DUKES. Yes, where is it ? DBINKDOWN (scandalized). Where is it, sir ! DUKES. Yes, where is it ? DBINKDOWN. Stolen by Don Company. DUKES Well, find it at once. Get it, man ; it's the first thing the Colonel will notice. DBINKDOWN. We'll get one all right, sir, from friends. u Kit Inspection v 227 DTTKES. Well, mind you do. (Exit DUKES.) DRINKDOWN (rapidly, in the manner of a General issuing final instructions berfore battle). Now, listen to me, all you, Snooks, what are you gaping like an oyster for ? the next'll be the Colonel either with or without the hadjutant. If the Ole Man come by 'imself 'e likes 'is socks on the left, so put 'em there. If 'e brings the hadjutant along with 'im 'e'll want 'em the other way, on the right. Now 'ere's where strategy comes in ; I wasn't in South Africa chasm' the Wily Burger for nothin', me sons. You, Bill, goes outside and loiters inconspicuous and casual like in the passage. As soon as you see 'em coming give us a whistle and then nip in and stand beside your bed. If the Ole Man is by 'isself whistle " God Save the King ! " If the hadjutant is with 'im " Soldiers of the King." Understand ? Know both them tunes ? Right ' I'll look after your socks myself. Now all the rest take your socks in yer 'ands and then wait for 'is whistle. If 'e whistles the " King " put 'em on the left, if 'is " Soldiers " on the right. Quite simple, ain't it, if you can think? All right, go on, Bill. (Exit KNOWALL. DRINKDOWN follows him to the door. The others take up their socks and sit down again on the beds.) FIRST SOLDIER. Silly, I calls it. SNOOKS. Yes, surely there must be one way that is right, and I should have thought that the corporal with all his service would have known it ! FIRST SOLDIER. A fat lot you knows about it. This is the army, son, and will be the harmy when you are dead and gone. Hi, Drinky, what about the plate ? 228 Silhouettes of Mars DRINKDOWN (turning from the door). Damn it all, I was forgetting it. Let me think again. 'Ere, Joe, go along to the end of the passage and wait behind the door. After they have been into the first room nip in and borrow the kit-plate from Corporal Jenkins. Say it is for me. Then put it under your jacket, double along the passage, and there we are ! (Exit, THIRD SOLDIER.) FIRST SOLDIER. Well, I calls that real smart corporal. Smuggling ain't hi it with you ! DRINKDOWN (complacently). Ah ! I allus had a big head ; lots of room for my brains to grow when I was a kid ! SECOND SOLDIER. Fat head, you mean ! FIRST SOLDIER. Well, why haven't they ? DRINKDOWN. Haven't what ? FIRST SOLDIER. Grown ! SECOND SOLDIER. There's still lots of room, ain't there ? DRINKDOWN. Now 'oos got a musical ear to listen to Bill a' whistlin' ; I doubts if I would recergnize them tunes myself leastways not the way 'e'll do 'em. (A confused noise of many footsteps, and made up of the banging of doors and of words of command spoken in either throaty or rich and fruity tones, comes from down the passage. Evidently the inspection has begun.) DRINKDOWN (going to the door and peeping cau- tiously out). They've started. (Disgustedly.) I can't see no one ! FIRST SOLDIER. Where's Bill ? DRINKDOWN. Oh, yes, there 'e is. FIRST SOLDIER. Why don't 'e whistle ? " Kit Inspection " 229 DRINKDOWN (crossly). Because 'es a' talking to the horderly corporal, thet's why. Enter THIRD SOLDIER (unbuttoning himself as he comes). I've got the plate, corporal, darlint. DRINKDOWN (impassively). 'Ang it on the 'ook. 'Oos taking the hinspection, Joey ? THIRD SOLDIER. I couldn't see. DRINKDOWN. Didn't yer ask ? (Witheringly.) Hand yer calls yerself a Scout ; one of the Battalion Intelligence Section ; I don't think. Why, you ain't fit to be in the blooming Band. THIRD SOLDIER. But sure that's Bill Kno wall's job! DRINKDOWN. Ho, is it ? Ho ! Mark my words, my lad, this specialishun of functions will be the ruin of the 'ole blooming harmy. THIRD SOLDIER. I thought DRINKDOWN. Yer wot ! Ain't yer drawin' a bob a day for not thinking ! The harmy is plumb full of traditions, but I can't remember as I ever 'eard as 'ow thinkin' was one of 'em. Why, where would we be to-day if we 'ad thought ? I asks you ! Ain't you in the harmy so wot's the use of thinkin' you you bloody 'Ouse of Commons ? THIRD SOLDIER. Well, what is Knowall doing ? DRINKDOWN (unappeased). Ain't wot's good enought for the War Horfice good enough for you, eh ! Wot do you want to think for, eh ! Breaking down the traditions of the harmy like that, and breakin' up wot the Furrin Orfice is founded on. You're no patriot, but a low-down rad, that's wot you are, and no mistake. (A confused noise of whistling is heard. The tune finally resolves itself into " God Save the King.") 230 Silhouettes of Mars DRINKDOWN. On the left with your socks, boys. Thank Gawd the Old Man 'asn't brought 'im with 'im. (They all put their socks on the left of the beds. The whistling changes to a rather free version but still recognizable as " Soldiers of the King.") By Gawd, 'e 'as. Change them socks to the right, boys ; look slippy now. (The unseen musician carries on with two bars of " Hail, hail, the Gangs all here," but breaks off suddenly in the middle. ) DRINKDOWN. Now wot in 'ell does that mean ? That ain't either of them tunes, is it ? (All stand irresolute. Feet are heard approaching the door of the barrack-room.) DRINKDOWN (in an agitated whisper). Put them on the right, put them on the right, quick. All except you, Snooks, you put them on the left. That will give 'im a safety-valve, and if 'e leaves the had- jutant houtside you will be an hexample to us all. Go on, take a chance, man ! (The door is burst open as if fleeing before an Asiatic typhoon. In reality it is only SERGEANT-MAJOR STICKIT'S voice, upraised in the well-known formula that has frightened it. The sergeant-major stands framed in the vacant door-way, a man of leather, with a blue jowl and a ram-rod for a back. Behind him he holds back an imposing cortege in which MAJOR-GENERAL SIR JEREMIAH CUTOFF, K.C.B. (very military), Fortress Commander, is evidently intended to be the most striking figure.) SERGEANT-MAJOR STIOKIT (in case there should be any doubts as to his not having been heard the first time, and resolved to be plainly audible this, in a voice that almost shuts the door again). Room, 'shun ! (For a moment DRINKDOWN looks as if he were " Kit Inspection" 231 about to repeat but restrains himself from entering the unequal contest, and under the protective barrage formed by the final reverberations of the sergeant-major's voice, SIR JEREMIAH and his satellites advance into the room preceded by MAJOR KEMP.) GENERAL CUTOFF (a short fat little man in blue, with a, little, bottle scarred red face, with fierce bristling grey moustache, and liberally splashed with red as to various outlying portions of his person). I am sorry the Colonel is indisposed, Major Kemp. Per- haps these socks have put him off. Ha ! Let me see ; let me see now ! (GENERAL CUTOFF'S manner of inspection differs from that of lesser men. Standing in the centre of the room he slowly revolves on his own axis and gazes fixedly with a blood-shot but martial eye upon each bed in turn and upon its owner standing at attention beside it. This method combines the maximum of effect that is compatible with the minimum of effort, and is therefore eminently suited to a Staff -Officer.} GENERAL CUTOFF (having finished his orbit round himself). Ha ! Let me see now ; let me see ! (Apparently satisfied that no one intends to interfere with this necessary process of illumination he goes on, transfixing MAJOR KEMP with his eye.) Very creditable, I am sure, Major ; very creditable indeed. Let me see, this is the last room, is it not ? Ha I Hum ! I have inspected the battalion, as you know yesterday on parade, and the day before in field exercises. Very creditable indeed, I am sure. You have a very fine lot of men too ; well set up fellows, if I may say so. Yes, I am sure they are ; a credit to their commanding officer, to their profession and to themselves. Ha ! Hum ! But the socks, Major 232 Silhouettes of Mars Kemp, are deplorable, deplorable, sir. It is ex- cessively painful that so many of your men should be remiss on this most vital point. There's no excuse for it, sir, none whatever. Have you not got a plate in each room ? (Transfixes plate with his eye.) Ha ! Hum ! Of course I know that the plate is wrong, but still it shows you one way to avoid. I am glad that so many have successfully avoided it, but regret that they have had apparently no better guidance. Let me show them now, eh ! ( With a coquettish air the GENERAL looks round and selects PTE. SNOOKS as his victim. With his own, podgy fingers he arranges SNOOK'S socks to his satis- f action, and steps backwards to admire his handiwork. ) Now, that is the way I like to see them. Neat effect, eh ! Is it not ? That's the way I always had 'em in the old Fat Guts when I commanded them. Fine battalion, sir, but no finer than this, save for their socks. They were sound on that point before I left 'em, sir ! You, my man, what is your name Tooks ? Well, Tooks, you appear to be able to think for yourself ; always a good thing in the army. Cultivate it, my man, cultivate it. It's brains that tells now ha ! hum ! Yes, brains. You know, Major, I always say what is it wins a war ? The infantry, of course. And what helps the infantry to win a war. Why, the feet with which they march ; and those feet march in their socks, eh ! So it's socks that win. Neat, isn't it ? Must put it in the new edition of Lord Wolseley's Pocket Book ! " Well, Major, I expect to see the socks right next time. " Kit Inspection " 233 (The procession stumps out in reverse order.) DRINKDOWN. Well, I did think as 'ow the Ole Man would have come round fust by 'imself . FIRST SOLDIER. Didn't you serve under Ole Jerry Cutty in Africa, Drinky ? DRINKDOWN. I did, and he used to give us socks, me lad. Only I remembers one field inspection when we 'adn't got none. Then 'e didn't like the looks of our feet, and said so. Told me to wrap mine up in a copy of the " Daily News," and me a Conservative too. COMPANY ORDERLY CORPORAL (putting his head in at the door). You're for office to-morrow, Drink- down. Socks ! (Vanishes.) DRINKDOWN. That comes of representing the room ! FIRST SOLDIER. I don't like being misrepresented by you, Drinky, even in the orderly-room. SCENE III (The outside of the battalion orderly-room, a low unpretentious building of pine boards painted black. Immediately opposite is the guard-room, and between the two the gate. As any intending recruit must neces- sarily enter by the latter he cannot fail to see, at the very outset of his military career, in the other two a symbol of how speedily judgment and execution follow upon wrong-doing in his chosen profession. Those also who come home late and merry on Saturday nights need not trouble to walk far. A line of officers is stand- ing beside, or leaning against, the outside of the building. Some are there as witnesses or because they are the company officers of the accused; the youngest looking 234 Silhouettes of Mars probably for purposes of edification and instruction. Enter MAJOR KEMP. All spring to attention and salute.) MAJOR KEMP. Good morning, gentlemen. GENERAL CHORTTS. Good morning, sir. (MAJOR KEMP proceeds on his may, passing in the, entrance to the orderly-room the queue of company orderly sergeants, marshalled under the watchful eye of SERGEANT-MAJOR STICKIT, and each with his book of conduct sheets under his arm. He passes through the orderly-room, where the ADJUTANT rises from a table littered with papers and salutes, and enters the sanctum sanctorum the little C.O.'s office behind. This is a small room, containing no furniture save a single table and chair. On the walls there is a map and a printed copy of the Scale of Fines for Drunken- ness ! A glass case, containing sealed patterns of the regimental buttons and badges, stands on the mantel- piece. There is no fire.) MAJOR TCrcMp (after a few minutes). Ready, Anderson. (Mars has now laid aside his armour, and definitely assuming the attributes of Themis prepares to measure out justice ; sometimes with a heavy hand, though often with one that is curiously light. The company commander of the accused stands on his right ; the adjutant on the left. One by one the accused are marched in and told off by their C.O., the procedure never varying. It does not usually take long. DRINKDOWN is the last on the list.) SERGEANT-MAJOR STICKIT (by way of introduction, paying no attention to stops or punctuation, and getting it all out in one breath, as if he were a candidate for the comic stage at ancient Athens). Accused and hescort " Kit Inspection " 235 shun take off 'is cap right turn left wheel quick march right wheel 'alt left turn right dress Lance-Corporal Drinkdown, sir ! ADJUTANT (reading). " Charge against No. 879153 L/Cpl. J. Drinkdown, Wellington Barracks, August 3rd, Untidy Kit. Witnesses, Lieut. Seton, Company Orderly Sergeant Catchem." MAJOR KEMP. Mr. Seton. CAPTAIN DUKES. Mr. Seton is ill, sir. I may mention that all the men in L/Cpl. Drinkdown's room had their socks displayed wrongly, and that it was I who gave the order to bring him up. MAJOR KEMP. Sergeant Catchem. (Sergeant Catchem, a short bandy-legged little man with red hair and a big blackthorn as badge of office, takes the Bible which is pressed upon him.) THE ADJUTANT (speaking with the ease of long practice but without conviction). You swear that the evidence which you are about to give take off your caps, gentlemen will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God. Amen. Kiss the book, Sergeant Catchem. SERGEANT CATCHEM (who has remained waiting throughout this caution, recognises the executive word of command and imprints a hearty smack upon the Bible with his lips ; he speaks with a rich Irish brogue). Sor, at the toime and place in question at Welling- ton Barracks at or about 5 p.m. on the 27th of August, Captain Dukes spoke to me. Oi looked at the socks in room in charge of the accused. They were wrong, sor. MAJOR KEMP. That was after the inspection, was it not ? SERGEANT CATCHEM. It was, sor. 236 Silhouettes of Mars MAJOR KEMP. What have you to say, Drinkdown ? DRINKDOWN. The socks was wrong, sir, but it was not my fault, sir. I did my best to 'ave 'em right hand to give saisfaction to all. MAJOR KEMP. Rest of room all right, I suppose ? CAPTAIN DUKES. Yes, sir. You will remember that you told me to bring this case before you. MAJOR KEMP. Ah, yes. What is accused's character, Captain Dukes ? CAPTAIN DUKES (showing sheet). His sheet, sir. MAJOR KEMP (looking at sheet which is liberally splashed with red). Ha ! Hum ! He appears to have a good many drunks. CAPTAIN DUKES. A good man, but cannot keep away from the drink, sir. MAJOR KEMP. Well, we must all try to pull up our socks. Oh ! Admonished, admonished ! SERGEANT-MAJOR STICKIT (speaking his parabasis on the march). Accused hand hescort shun left turn quick march left wheel right wheel 'alt give 'im 'is cap fall out ! MAJOR KEMP. All right, Dukes, thanks ! We must all pull up our socks next time. ( 237 ) XXII ROSES OF PICARDY THE road ran, a grey seam, through the pleasant green country. Birds were singing among the bushes in the fields by its side, where the lambs were frisking gaily. All around lay the rolling pastures of Picardy, and in the middle -distance perched half-way up the gentle slope of a low hill was a town which, surrounded by its battle mented walls, with the slender stem of a tower terminating in a thicker ring of masonry at the top, and the squatter mass of the church rising above them, looked like a city from out a toy-box. Over it was all the sun of a Picard spring. Down the road came the minstrel riding on his mule . Many a league had he passed thus through the pleas- ant poplar land with his company of jongleurs trudg- ing dustily afoot behind him. That which rose from their passage settled lightly on the leaves of the fring- ing poplars and turned them grey too. When the moon came out doubtless it would be all silver. The marchers talked and laughed among them- selves. Sometimes one or another would break into a short song or a stanza from a longer poem. One black -haired youth bore a vielle slung across his shoulder, on which he played from time to time as his companions sang. With their bright though some- what tawdry garments they formed, with the spring 238 Silhouettes of Mars flowers, one more oasis of colour amidst the prevailing greens and browns. But he at the head of the little troupe did not laugh or sing. Rather he rode with his head carried for- ward so that his beard, plentifully silvered, reached to his belt. On his brow was the frown of a man in doubt, but his followers gave no mark to these hunched shoulders, which swayed slightly above the rump of the mule, for he had been thus since they had started in the early morning. They knew what he was thinking, had been think- ing of all day, for there were still two left who had been with him ever since he had begun these annual pilgrimages from his native Limousin up the Rhone to the Loire and thence half -right to the eastern marches. For years he had been their leader in a triumphal progress from castle to castle and often from court to court. He wrote the songs they sang sometimes, when they had failed to please, sang them himself. He was their leader and they had never known him to fail until last night. Was he then growing old and should they leave him even though reluctantly ? Perhaps he guessed what they were saying in their hearts, each man to himself, but gave it no thought, too full of his own memories, which yet did not seem able to reach back two days. This had happened to others, he knew that ; but that it should happen to him was past believing ! Always his mind made a fresh start, when last night, it seemed ages ago, they had marched proudly with trumpet blowing over the lowered drawbridge into that castle. Yet it was not very far away ; almost if he tumed round he could see it. But he did not want to see it again ever, or his companions now. Roses of Picardy 239 The rest had all been of a familiar piece, one which he knew well. The lady of the castle seated beneath the tree in the courtyard, with her retainers and servitors grouped round her. Here and there was a knight ; her husband was at the wars, she had said. There were always wars ; how he hated them and having to sing of them ! Perhaps she would not expect it, but then there were the knights, now lying at her feet ; and the others certainly would ! What had gone wrong ? He hardly knew. Per- haps Pierre had not sung so well as usual to his vielle, but that was no reason why the men should have grown restive. He remembered that he had caught cold that night they lay in the fields, so to save the boy's face had taken up the refrain himself, and she had yawned. " A love -song is not best sung by a child with a cold in its head nor yet by an old man, Sir Minstrel," she had said, and the others laughed. He had half thought to try her with his new song, but, no, she was not worthy to hear it first, and while he hesitated a fat knight spoke up : " Give us a song of war, old man, of Messire Ber- tran de Born. He is dead long ago, but at least he wrote of something that is always living and is still with us." She had pouted at that, but, perhaps because of it, he had begun " The Joys of War." Half-way through it his voice cracked, and became thin and weak, but he recovered himself and went on. Yet at the end there was some applause, and the knight spoke again : "With that song, old minstrel, not quite spoiled, you have earned supper and bed for the lot of you," and threw him a piece of gold. 240 Silhouettes of Mars " It grows cold,'* she had said, " and we were best indoors, unless the old man knows some tricks to show us or any of his young colts can use their legs better than their lips." He had remained silent, with rage at his heart ; and so they went inside. The seneschal had come up and led them off and fed them, and after supper some one, he knew not which, had sung again. They had housed them in a barn amongst the hay but he had felt suffocated there, though there were many holes and windows, and so had chosen the fields. They had left before the castle was astir, and broken their fast on the road. Well, he must try his new song now. They were passing through the outskirts of a small village, a mere collection of farm-houses set far apart from each other. A wandering friar met them and gave a scowl in exchange for a wholly irreverent greeting. In church or at confession it might be different, but here on the open country road they were rival traders in the fears and joys of society. No longer was the road set and accompanied by the tall slender poplars on either side. A rose-bush was growing part over and part through a rough stone wall which fenced a compound. Red were the flowers and one of surpassing depth. The old man snatched and missed. " Pierre," he called, turning in his saddle, " pluck me yon rose, the one dark crimson," and as the boy came alongside he kept him there with one hand rested lightly on the shoulder, a while in silence. " Pierre," he said, sniffing, " in this country all the roses are red, for it is the colour of blood. There are few white ones large and blowzy, as in Provence Roses of Picardy 24i but rather are they small and tight -folded, as this one, like unto a spear -head, hard and of an exceeding redness. Hast thou not noticed ? " " Or like Dan Cupid's arrows, Master." " Which again draw blood too often, boy, and are not playthings as with us. It is all red and war in this country. What care I for war ? I wish to sing in praise of love and they make me sing war always war. It has ever been thus since first, so long ago, they went out to the Holy Land ; war and the church their only themes." " Is it time to try the new song, Master ? " " Yes, lad, the time has come. Oh, we will show them, you and I together if the others go. It was not for nothing that we lay up last winter in Bethune and I wrote words and notes, which you learned to sing and play. Oh, it is a song which Messire Quesnes himself would be proud to have made, if he were not dead. I will speak, boy, and you will sing and play, and alternately we will ravish their ears by turns." " It is a great song, Master." " The best I have ever made or shall. We will show them with their everlasting war a young knight better than the best of them, who would only fight because he loved ; who shall flout their church- man's paradise to hell. Did you see the look in that friar's eyes ? " " And Nicolette, Master, I liked her better." " So will they all, the men at least, and, for the others, we will show them one set far apart from their golden feathers and fine gowns, which yet trail in the dust. Ay, she will live, that one, and her lover with her. I have thought out more of it. We will show them a girl against whose fair ankles the whitest 242 Silhouettes of Mars flowers will be shadows as she steals across the grass." " To-morrow ? " " To-morrow and every to-morrow of our lives ; for having once sung it we will sing it every day until this red rose turns white. It will be immortal, that tale, in spite of friars and churchmen. ' Old villain/ he called me, that grey slug ! Well, not all of them together will be able to prevent the old villain singing from out his grave." And so they passed on down the road ever between the poplars on either side. Down the same road a few centuries later rode another minstrel and saw the same view, save that in places the old town had now straggled beyond its walls. But it was the same road and still the poplars grew on either side. Past the village there were bees droning among the flowers, yet scarcely heard in the louder sounds that came from eastwards. Perhaps it was sprung from the same root, the rose-tree which grew among and over the few remaining stones of an old wall. Behind the minstrel came his troupe, musicians culled from all the units in the division, marching on each side of the small limber that held the fittings of their stage. They whistled and smoked as they marched, and the dust trailed behind their shoulders down the road. The " Tom-Tits " were shifting camp. He who rode in front was thinking of the land through which they went, this Picardy whose soil has been drenched red with the blood of so many Roses of Picardy 243 wars. Here epic was re-born and the great love- song written, and so many tales of many wars. Yet it was now no place to sing of war but rather of love in various forms. " Land of Hope and Glory " had been a frost at their last stand at Warloy in this country, whence all hoped to get, leaving the glory to him who cared to dig it from out the mud. Even that tense ditty " Holding down the Old Front Line " had been sung without conviction. A change of tactics was implied, which would probably involve the sacrifice of the new song which he had written on his last leave and was longing to try out. He sighed. " Jones," he called. And the slim black-haired private who played principal girl ranged alongside. " We must do more ' sob stuff ' next time. I am afraid we'll have to bar things about the war. Do you know any good new ones ? " " Well, sir, I can do that " Roses of Picardy " which they're doing in London now. It ought to go all right, if I sing it in costume with roses like that one there in my hair. They're all sick of war here. By the same token I'll bring these roses along with me ; they may come in handy." And so until yesterday they were passing down this and other roads between the tall poplar-trees and the roses red as the soil from which they sprang. ( 244 ) XXIII THE Lieutenant-General sat in his gilt chair, the one with the arms, at the Louis Quinze escritoire in the Versailles salon of the chateau that had been selected as his headquarters. So sumptuous it was that its ornateness moved him to frequent outbursts of fervent admiration before the staff, even though his eye missed the finer lines beneath ; crammed, more- over, with objects of art that appealed to his strong albeit somewhat indiscriminate passion for collect- ing, one that had been growing daily for some time with the opportunities afforded for its indulgence. The chateau lay very far behind the men who were merely fighting, because he was a very great soldier indeed so far behind that to its inmates the war for long had been only viewed on maps, across which they drew coloured lines and into which, daily, they stuck pins. These were their battles. They were well satisfied with the chateau, where no intruding objects ever came to disturb the intellectual work which, they were all agreed, was so much more important for winning campaigns than that other work up there. The great stately room was in good order, save for the maps that littered all its tables and half its chairs. Maps were pinned to the walls too, and figures flitted from one to another like grey moths in the glare of the electrics. There were no signs of revelry or in- The Gas Attack 245 discriminate looting, because the one simply does not happen at well-ordered headquarters on the eve of a great offensive ; while, as for the other, everything that was of any value had been already inventoried in the name and under the personal supervision of the Lieutenant-General himself. It was all yet in situ, but only awaiting an opportunity of transport to be gone. The past few weeks had been decidedly anxious even for a man who had risen so steadily in his pro- fession that he had not heard the crack of a rifle, save of one which his late servant had let off by accident in the chateau before last, since he had been a young officer in 1870. There had been so much to do, so much to conceal too, now that the enemy had almost as many eyes in the air. It had been simple at the start, this war which was now rapidly growing ex- tremely complex ! Moreover, the General, in spite of the fact that he had led or handled or pushed on so many victorious offensives that his portrait had once a year ago adorned the front page of a promi- nent Berlin daily with the legend underneath " The man who has really won the war," had never yet commanded so many men as now. Why in a sense it was really his offensive ! Buist had never had so big a command, and a pretty mess he would have made of it if he had ! No, decidedly this was no war for men who, in spite of the reputation which they appeared to have somehow acquired for a time were, as some people had known all along, nothing but old women ! But it was over now, the final order issued. To all practical intents and purposes the battle was already won. And he had done it ! He knew that he would 246 Silhouettes of Mars get the credit of it, just as he would have been ruth- lessly eliminated to a second-class job if he had failed. Failed ! he would show them ! Who was it who had said at the War College in 1890 no '91 that Germany would have to wait another century for a new Moltke ? If only that old fool Martzdorf did not get them to make him send reinforcements, if only he did not narrow his front and then howl for some one else to fill the gaps for him, he would show them this time ! After all they deserved it, since at last they had given him a free hand. So he lay back in his seat, sitting limply, if one so imposing can ever be thus described, with his arms along those of the chair. Underneath the table his neat spurred field-boots were crossed. His collar was open to give the bull neck free play, and with the regular heavy breathing the medals and crosses on the breast of his tunic tinkled melodiously and much more tunefully than those other rows of creaking swaying crosses up there. He was well satisfied, for was not success on the morrow assured ! Nay, rather say that it is already here, and not waiting until the hands of the clock reached that fatal and zero-like conjunction which would set long lines of men in motion towards their death. Nothing could prevent it now save an order to cancel the operations, and that he had the best reasons for knowing would not come. Even if it did, his scheme would remain an unfulfilled monument of genius ; and henceforth, in the hour of victory or defeat, men would murmur with bated breath of what would assuredly have happened if von Hutten had been given a free hand. He felt the necessity of demonstrating that he was human like other men ! The Gas Attack 247 " Kurt ! " he called. One of his aides-de-camp, a tall fair-headed young Bavarian, was at his chair, rigid as a poker, in a moment. " Excellenz" The General turned his face towards the boy, a look of jovial condescension playing over the fleshy austerity of his features. He slapped his hand down on a pile of papers before him. " You see those, Kurt ? " he said. " Jawohl, Excellenz." " Well, to-morrow, my boy, or rather early oh so early in the morning of the next day they will have won the war with me behind them. Kolossal, is it not, Kurt ? " " Yes, Excellenz:' " So you will soon be back riding in the Tiergarten with the girls again, eh ? " " Yes, Excellenz" " And that is all it means to you, eh ? " " Yes no, of course not, Excellenz." " Well, it means the end at last, Kurt. Kolossal, is it not ? " " Kolossal, as you say, Excellenz." " And you are privileged to be here with me with us just now ! " " Highly privileged, Excellenz." " Remember nothing can stop it, Kurt. It is as certain as as we are. Their front is not too strongly held here. Going over without a barrage will sur- prise them and we will simply stroll across. Theirs will be too late, and from all accounts they have not many guns. Our men will be packed into the front system of trenches, but they will be out before the English begin to fire. They have practically no 248 Silhouettes of Mars reserves. It means Amiens at last, boy. I cannot see how I we can fail. Do you ? " " No, of course not, Excellenz unless " and he left off. " Unless what ? " " I was going to say but of course it is not prob- able unless they got to know that we were coming and put then* barrage down before we got off. With all these men " The General leaned back in his chair with a laugh, and raised his finger and shook it in the air. Con- descension and expensive Parisian hair-oil oozed from hjm, " You are right, Kurt, that is the danger ; or would be if it existed. I am taking no chances with all these men. No, I am too old a dog for that. I have reports from the dug-out of the British general himself that they think it quite safe and a quiet part of the line. We have held the air supremacy for a long time now. Why " and he laughed suddenly " they are even sending raw new troops into the line to-night, into this quiet sector where we are, Kurt ! in order to break them in gently to a winter of trench warfare. Ha ! ha ! ha ! " " Ha ! Ha ! Excellenz." " There will be no question of gas this time, Kurt. I don't like gas. They have none, and we won't use it. No, there will be no question of gas. If I could, I would have advanced the attack twenty-four hours and caught them making the relief. But perhaps it is better as it is. In any case it is certain. We have them, Kurt. Nothing can save them. Nothing under God, at any rate, and He won't as He is on our side." The Gas Attack 249 The General waved his hand with languid benignity in the air and the young man seemed to slide away. He lay back in his chair thinking and revelling in what he thought. It was all so simple and complete. Still chuckling he rose and made for bed, where his last thought was again : " We have them, nothing can save them." The General had never heard of Captain Browne. God he felt he knew. He was on the same side as the Kaiser. But God's fool was a new conception to this country-man of Luther. He had never heard of Captain Browne. John Todington Browne, who is the hero of this story though he made his entry into it so late, had not joined the army because he wanted to, but because his sister had told him that he ought. Looking back he seemed to have been doing things that he did not want to do all his life because other people, who were in no danger of being called upon to essay them, had told him that he ought. He felt vaguely resentful, as in this case if he had wanted to be a soldier he would have joined the army class at school and gone to Sand- hurst instead of to a stockbroker's office. Still, if he must go, he had probably joined up at the right time ; not too soon, he had seen to that ; not too late, thanks to his sister. John Todington Browne looked forward to many months' preliminary training in a pleasant rural district of England before being called upon to take the plunge. He was in complete agreement with the authorities as to how much he needed that. Perhaps it would not be so unpleasant. Meantime he bought 250 Silhouettes of Mars kit, principally patent field cooking stoves and camp beds. Thus it was with deep disgust nay more with the first active resentment that he had felt for a long time that he learned that Second-Lieutenant John Todington Browne along with many others must proceed abroad almost immediately. This was not, as the G.O.C. Training Area was careful to explain, at his instigation, or the desire of the War Office, but due solely to the importunate efforts which the enemy had chosen to make, unfortunately at that moment, to win the war. John Todington Browne felt that it displayed very bad generalship somewhere to allow the Germans to run the English training camps as well as other places. So he went to France, feeling remarkably ill-pre- pared therefor. He rarely hit the bull's-eye at musketry owing to his glasses, and the remark of the sergeant-instructor that he would find it easier to hit a man at ten yards with the knowledge that if he did not the man would hit him, left him cold and uncon- vinced. The thought of sticking his bayonet into anyone made him feel sick. In one direction alone did John progress greatly in his military studies. In the direction of gas. On his first joining, the battalion had been allotted one place for one second-lieutenant for a course at a neighbouring gas school, and as all the other subalterns were wanted by their company commanders, John Todington Browne, who as yet had none, was sent. He became obsessed with gas. He worked fever- ishly at gas in a kind of desperate haste. He read all the little gas publications which the War Office issued from time to time, and became well acquainted The Gas Attack 251 on paper with different kinds of gas red, white, and green and their various methods of approach. It would not be his fault if he did not know gas when he saw it out there. Frankly he was nervous of gas, first for his " professional reputation," secondly for his men, and lastly for his own safety. His brother subalterns in time called him the " Gas Man." Arrived in France, he had been sent to another gas course, apparently for the reason that having already had one he might be expected to do his battalion credit there. This did not lessen his gas obsession any more than did his promotion to the rank of acting captain when at the School on account of the heavy casualties, largely from gas, suffered by his battalion in their first engagement. Among these was his best friend. So it fell out by decree of the fates that the Company commanded by Acting-Captain John Todington Browne occupied a conspicuous position in the line on the night on which General von Hutten designed to make it his own. Captain Browne had never heard of General von Hutten. He knew nothing of his intention to attack without gas, or indeed to attack at all. If he had known, his feelings would have been a strange com- pound of relief and dismay. He had just read the British Intelligence Summary, which spoke of this sector of the front with contempt as quiet and un- interesting; whereas, as Captain Browne thought, hell was continually loose here, presenting daily an infinite variety of diabolical sights and sounds. Captain Browne's sentries always had extra-special instructions to be on the look out for gas. So far, few of them had seen it. 252 Silhouettes of Mars This night, however, one of them did or thought he did, which was strange, considering the declared intentions of General von Hutten. He summoned his section commander and shortly after Captain Browne was beside him. The two men stood on the fire-step and gazed steadily at the oncoming cloud of Flanders' mist, white and opaque, which was rolling from the trenches opposite with a steady resistless progress familiar to one of them in his dreams. Another man might have doubted and guessed the truth and waited. Given this one, that which followed was inevitable. The fateful word " gas " went back. Men wearing gas helmets lined the parapet and opened rapid fire at nothing. Shortly after, with an ever increasing infernal crescendo of hurricane fire, the British artillery opened on the streets and houses across the way. The alarm was taken up on both flanks, up and down the line, where more gasping men in gas masks, the lines of them stretching for miles, stood on the fire-steps of innumerable fire bays and with rifle and Lewis gun opened rapid fire at nothing. The whole of Hutten's destined objective awoke of its own volition to life, a bare quarter of an hour too soon. But that quarter of an hour was all-important. In a sense it won the war ; for henceforth its effects were felt to the end of all. Jammed in their trenches so that they could hardly move, packing slip and communication trenches, the men who were to have been victorious in another twenty minutes could do nothing save be killed. The attack was strangled at birth, and all its thousands of dead bodies whirled and tossed up and down, here and there, around The Gas Attack 253 corners and across trenches, blocking the retreat for those few who might have escaped, in a hideous burlesque of life. Only here and there did the Germans spill out into no man's land, and their bodies were not there in the morning. It was the end for Hutten. He had sinned against God who must ever be victorious. Moved to the eastern front, he found equal personal security there but far less glory. He never heard of Captain Browne, but did contrive to read the enemy intelligence sum- mary for that particular twenty-four hours. There he saw his supreme and colossal offensive not ignored because unknown. A reference to a false gas alarm along our front on the last night of his independent command was all he read. He could not curse his Emperor's ally and he did not wish to die. It was the end also for Captain Browne as a fighting man. He could not stand up against the blood- thirsty demands of an enraged C.R.A. who had shot off all his ammunition " for " as he explained " and at nothing." His fate led him down the line henceforth to live in peace at a small school of instruction at the base as Gas Instructor. He felt happier there about gas, because no one could let it off anywhere without his permission ; so he always knew when it was coming. No one on either side ever knew that he had really won the crucial battle of the war ; and, as his name was not really Browne, no one knows now. ( 254 ) XXIV TO THE UNKNOWN DEAD These are they who fell in the War in Cyprus, in Egypt, in Palestine, on the Coasts and Islands, and on the Western front of battle. (Adaptation of stele of the Erectheid tribe, 458 B.C.) THERE are many cenotaphs to-day in the country which is no longer the " Merry England," the " Anglia plena jocis " of the old chronicler, but a land sore and proud of heart for the sons she has lost, whose dust in mingled inextricably with that of so many lands. They stand in town or village, in church or nailed to the chapel door, mute witnesses to the in- tention of those who placed them there never to forget those others who have died for liberty. Their bodies they could not always save, so for better they have erected them a shrine unto their spirits. A national monument stands already, soon to be converted into stone. There only remains, of what we can do, the greatest and most difficult thing of all. That is for an orator to arise and utter words which may stand with the two great speeches of history, both spoken of those fallen in battle. Pericles, in the cemetery of the Cerameicus suburb of Athens, Lincoln, on the platform at Gettysburg, spoke so as to throw a shadow over all other oratory. Yet have we not a greater subject and more cause to be eloquent ? To the Unknown Dead 255 Pericles, speaking in remembrance of the young Athenians who fell in the first few months of the war, and ignorant of the long years of misery ahead, uttered words and phrases which break through the rhetoric of the historian as the sun through clouds. He sets before us the highest ideal which humanity can pursue, provided that it starts from a broader base than that afforded by the city state. Many of his sentences must have been constantly in the minds, even of those who did not recognize them, during the last few years. He speaks of " setting one's teeth," of " grinning and bearing it," of " going through with it " ; for he at least had no illusions as to the length of the way to be traversed ; only he did not live to see that day when the Lacedaemonians and their allies to the sound of flutes broke down the long walls of the city and of PiraBus. Turning to the soldiers among his audience, for all Athens was not yet in khaki, though that was to come, he bade them, in words that are older than St. Paul's : " Quit ye like men." And then in his peroration, turning to the wives and mothers and fathers and sisters and lovers of these young Athenian hoplites who had given their lives for the State whom they remembered seeing so well last when they marched down from the Parthenon on their way to the front he bade them bethink them that though no more could they behold their loved ones again, whose bodies lay on the borders of Attica, in the Megarid and among the islands, yet it was in reality no empty shrine that they were consecrating that day ; nor were these really graveless, for they had died for their country and of such famous men the whole earth is the sepulchre. So the red-eyed mother went home comforted, for 8 256 Silhouettes of Mars she knew that her son had achieved immortality through death and was henceforth numbered by his country among her heroes, with Theseus and with Harmodius, with Aristides and with Cimon ; " for," she thought, " all these did not really die in battle ! " And the young wife saw a new glory in him she had no sooner won but lost, and felt that though she might marry again for the sake of Athens, yet she would never forget that first soldier-love of hers ! We have fought on a scale undreamed of by Brasidas and Thucydides, and have lost the spring, not of one, but of many years some, of their whole lives ! Lincoln could speak but for half a people, and not so whole-heartedly, in his task of binding up a rupture, as to leave a sting with those who had lost so well. Yet into a few words he has packed the very quintes- sence of oratory. It was a good thing for these others on the platform, great speakers though they were, that he was the President and so spoke last. Gone was the man, who by his attempts at strategy, almost lost the war for his side, as some more than whispered Pericles had done for Athens, merged into the great healer who bade his countrymen consecrate not alone that battle-field, but far more themselves and all their lives, to the cause for which these others died. We have charity for all who have not trodden her underfoot and malice is far removed from our hearts. We, too, have stood on the razor edge of chance as did the blue legions on these slopes that he sees now, up which Longstreet's Virginians might have gone. Our orator must speak for many nations, even if only for those within the empire. It is this very immensity of the task which delays his coming. Yet come he will. It may not be at the imperial To the Unknown Dead 257 rite in London that he will appear, but rather in some outlying parish of the empire when met to dedicate itself to its dead. No otherwise appointed laureate, but in the college chapel after the reading of the roll of honour he may speak, or as chaplain of a battalion on foreign service. He will be heard when he comes, for the world is waiting for him. And in the fore-front let him place commemoration of the " unknown dead." Not of these whose bodies known rest in graves that are lost, but where the grave is unknown because the man was nameless. Poor battered wrecks of battle, features gone, limbs melting into the mud, which the dirty khaki so much resembles, they were buried so often where they lay. In the list of those who lie here scrawled under shell-fire by the officer in charge of the burial party, they figure as A. N. OTHER ; for identity disc, pay book, badges ; all are gone or unrecognizable. Did he play up weU for his side, this A. N. OTHER, in the great game of war ? Yes ! he must have, or else died trying, for the evidence is here. He got no decoration, qualified for only one cross, and is men- tioned in but a single list. Yet who can say ; perhaps before he lost his name he did some deed of which we know not, that turned the wavering tide of battle so that all those others live ! Therefore, as the Athenians built an altar to the "unknown god" not in questioning or on the off chance of there being really a God somewhere, but because they felt that He was, even if unknown so let us have a shrine to our " unknown dead " for all the wonders that they did. Cromwell died and was buried in Westminster Abbey. A few years later the baser sort of his foes 258 Silhouettes of Mars dug up and scattered to the four winds of heaven the remains of one of the greatest of Englishmen ; whom they had never dared to face, or at least to stand long against, in the field ; who had flung their vaunted horse before him in charge after desperate charge, and winnowed their infantry from the field as the farmer winnows corn. Of these, at least, their bodies lie beyond the malice of a beaten foe, while their memories live enshrined with that of the greatest and noblest of our race. ( 259 ) XXV RETROSPECT OF WAR THE war seems to have ended long ago, even to those who were there at the finish, and to those others who started with its beginning the final act seems already far past a page of ancient history. The end came suddenly, even in a night, and the strangeness of its coming is with us now, will be, indeed, for ever. That does not yet seem old, but only the noise of war. For a unique event is always close-present to the recollection, a measuring-rule of wonderful adventure which we keep in our waist- coat pocket, as it were at the end of our watch-chain, wherewith to check the appearance of the passing hour ; while a state of life to which we had grown used for years, being gone, we think of as a past existence. Yet it is strange to be at peace again, just as it was novel to be in uniform and at war. We awake to this strangeness at odd times, with the conscious effort that is needed to put on a waistcoat, for example, but that does not bring the past years nearer, for the first thought is " this is peace," and the memory does not go further back than the day on which we first got out of uniform. Even that day is not thought of as im- portant in itself, but as a symbol to be associated in a mystical sense with the llth of November, 1918. For that day, the pre-eminence of which we did not grasp at the time, seems to project itself forward and 260 Silhouettes of Mars to mingle with the other ; is seen to be part of the same divine event. The possibility of all that we have done since was present, but latent and only dimly perceived, in that autumn morning. For that was the end of the war, though, it would now appear, only the beginning of peace. But what cared we for such nice distinctions ! Old Mars re- ceived his death wound that morning at precisely eleven o'clock. What matter that he is not quite dead yet ; he has sunk to his knee now, he has been beaten to the ground. These cheers from the gallery are not really premature but, in strict logical sequence, well bestowed at the proper time, the climax of the play. The critics are right, for only one other scene, that in the second act where the Lusitania is sunk, can compare with this as necessary to the action and denouement of the plot. Indeed, the two are closely connected, the one leading up to the other. So Mars is dead ! Come away ; ring down the cur- tain and let us be off as quickly as we may. We have done our bit, and perhaps can slip off the stage by the eaves and join the outgoing spectators. It sounds loud in the fast emptying theatre, but really it is only the echoes of the clash that his armour made when he went down, or perhaps, if he is not really dead, he is yet beating his arms and the flat of his sword on the boards. The manager will see to the rest and the emptying of the stage. Come away. Now that we are outside it all seems like a vision. Have we really sat there so long, all through the action which moved so quickly sometimes and at others dragged so wearily ? They have played the same piece in many houses all over the world, and we, per- haps, have only been in one and know not with what Retrospect of War 261 variety of scene and setting it could be viewed else- where. Or, again, we do, having been moved swiftly from one theatre to another when our call was on ; for we have been actors too, and can remember long months of waiting, lined up in the aisles or behind the scenes, ready to leap upon the stage at the word of command and there briefly play our little part as best we may. We were playing that night when the news came, and for a time were left suspended in our action, frozen stiff, as it were, in the attitude of attack or defence, with swords charmed in our hands. They turned the lights low to save expenses, and gave no more free passes to the stalls. Even now we are scarcely re- covered from the wonderment of it. Have we really been dressed like this for four long years? Has there all that time been so much sunshine in the streets outside ? Yet, on second thoughts, they looked like this when we saw them last on leave. It is, of course, nonsense, the world can never be the same again ; but is it possible that there are parts of it that have scarcely changed at all, and people who lived as if there had been no play enacting around the corner from their well-fenced houses ? It has been a grim tragedy of blood and battles ; full of sudden exits and appearances ; bound by no unities of time and place. Not many an actor who took the boards when the curtain first went up is left there now to join the epilogue. Some have come and gone, and come and gone again ; others were no sooner on than off for ever. More and more crowds of supers have been required as time went by ; and, even of the principals, there are those grown hoarse from shouting and obliged to leave to the substitutes their stage. 262 Silhouettes of Mars The piece has been put on with various settings in diverse climes. It has played in town and country, in great city and virgin forest. Sometimes the scene was laid in a city like to ours, of school and market, factory and church, until that day thought of assured progress in the future as in the past ; or, again, midst eastern palms by hideous temples and slow-moving streams, sluggish with the unstirred filth of centuries > where the very moon shines strange at night. An- cient cities have seen it and remembered the theme as an old one seen by them oft of yore ; yet has their part in it been no greater than that of many a humble village, never heard of otherwise. It has been long a-playing : thank God, it is over now. And we who are come safely off the stage, what do we feel in retrospect of war ? We have seen the play through, trembled at its storm of tragedy and mingled with the comedy that was ever there. For this, too? it has had as appertaining also to Common Humanity, its hero, who could not perchance have survived if not for this relief, so insistent otherwise would have been death and terror. The laughter in the billet may have been only an interlude, but it made possible the continuance of the main action and will perhaps be last forgot. And we have seen Romance, as we dreamed of her of old. Not an adventure book of childhood which, has not come to life for us. We have seen and acted all that we read before, as children with trust and hope that these things were really so ; that steel-clad knights might still ride the streets of other cities than our own, that there swords yet waited for us, that there were left islands of the Spanish main, the shores Retrospect of War 263 impressed of keel since the long black pirate barque put in for the last time to bury the ill- won treasure ; and then put by with maturer years, half wistfully perhaps, in the fancied knowledge that these things were not for us and that adventure had perished from off the earth with the world we used to know. We know better now, though later still. For there was not an incident or a situation in the early books which we have not ourselves glimpsed in these last four years, if not acted for ourselves. Not a fear nor a hope which filled the heart of the favourite Henty hero, which he so often felt for us, that we have not now been forced to feel again of ourselves. Romance still lives and we may have touched the fringe of her fair garment ; or wrested it completely from her, yet found her fairer still. Previously those who were children, the elect of the earth because nearer to her bosom, might still have seen, if they had kept the clearer vision, Romance bringing up the 9.15. We have done more, for we have boarded the engine and gone for a ride with him. The lands we have fought in have been full of old shadows from out of former wars. We have soldiered with d'Artagnan and trembled on night patrol almost as did Parolles, but with better cause. We have lain outside the gates of Arras and seen the sun rise over her battered walls with Cyrano and Carbon de Castel Jaloux and their Cadets de Gascogne. The Cornet of Horse followed Marlborough over that same Flanders through which we, in our humble way, have tried to keep up with Foch. Henceforth, indeed, we must beware lest all our life remaining be not merely a remembrance of the speed with which then we travelled, lest it appear as 264 Silhouettes of Mars an anti-climax to what has gone before. We feel perhaps that we have passed the top of the hill, whether it be in the morning, in the full glare of the noonday sun, or when the trees are beginning to lengthen their shadows on the grass, and that hence- forth there is nothing but a gentle downhill journey, be it long or short, over rich swelling downs to the burn that flows brown and golden at the foot. We may recall with regret, heightened by the contrast, these rough days of toil and striving on the other side, ere we topped the crest. But the sun is in front of us, and therefore the shadow of the ridge and the way we have come should not lie too heavy on the future save by rights in memory. Henceforth we shall look with fresher eyes on litera- ture, finding new beauties there along paths of which the entrance we never knew before. What was old and dull will take on fresh meaning to eyes reopened by increased contact with humanity. Experiences which the greatest names but constructed from their own souls have been lived by us. Now we can under- stand them. Past history will put on new meaning to those concerned in the making of the present and future fashioning. Like the writers and readers of the days of Elizabeth, we shall have lived as well ; have fought in Flanders as did " rare Ben Jonson " and the rest. Above all, we have looked on man and, like his Maker, found him good and always greater than his instruments. We have seen the victor spirit which lies beneath our common humanity, as the poor human soul, stripped bare by terror, quivered and cowered under the iron hail and yet went marching forward, the true hero of the war. The great goodness there is Retrospect of War 265 in every common clay has been made visible and mani- fest to all. Henceforth there should be no doubts. There have been moments nay, seconds rather when the whole of one's past existence went flashing by with a speed excelling that of any cinema on earth, since for what it knew its show-time was but short. Then we have vowed to see more in life, if spared to live it more. There have been many hun- dred yards in France, desperate spaces of death, which we entered upon without ever expecting to win through. The world seemed fair and now, having thus unex- pectedly regained it, we shall look again in a new light and eyes born fresh to wonder. And Death too, we have often see him, and though the flesh may quail yet will the spirit welcome him as an old remembered friend when he comes at last. We have often met him striding visible over these fields. Some he has shaken hands with as he went, at others merely nodded and passed by. These will know him when they meet again and hail him as an old acquain- tance come to take them to their friends. Until then, for each of us, there will be many vacant places in mess and street, somewheres that we can scarce bear to enter. Perchance, awakening from a dream, we may see the old familiar figures still sitting in these club chairs which once seemed their preroga- tives. And as we look they fade and dislimn from out our sight. It is a goodly company that has gathered through- out these years in the bright western courts. At sun- set standing by the sea we may see their shadows in the clouds, and hear the oft remembered voices in the soft dying of the day's winds as they sink to sleep upon the waves, hushing them into calm. And the down- 266 Silhouettes of Mars going sun lays a narrow golden path of glory westwards over the seas, until it mingles with his splendour and is gone. We knew them well out there, but often could scarce bear to look upon their faces ; so brightly shone these young eyes, beneath the steel helmets, amidst the surrounding darkness of the world. Say not that their light is quenched, but rather that with the lifting of the cloud it has mingled with the brightness of the sun, brought back once more by them. We shall never forget them, but shall hear their foot- steps always, growing fainter perhaps down the corri- dors of time, but never lost, the myriad footsteps of the mightiest and the most gallant armies that have ever moved through history. THE END THE ROAD TO EN-DOR By E. H. JONES, Lt., I.A.R.O. With Illustration* by C. W. HILL, Lt, R.A.F. Sixth Edition, 8. 6d. net This book, besides telling an extraordinary story, will appeal to everyone who is interested in Spiritual- ism. The book reads like a wild romance, but it is authenticated in every detail by fellow-officers and official documents. Morning Post. " It is easily the most surprising story of the escape of prisoners of war which has yet appeared. ... No more effective exposure of the methods of the medium has ever been written. . . . This hook is indeed an invaluable reduction to absurdity of claims of the spiritualist coteries." Timti. "Astounding ... of great value." Daily Graphic. "The most amazing story of the war." Dundee Advertiser. " The most amazing hoax of the war." Daily Telegraph. " This is one of the most realistic, grimmest, and at the same time most entertaining, books ever given to the public. ... The Road to En -dor ' is a book with a thrill on every page, is full of genuine adventure. . . . Everybody should read it." Birmingham Post. " The story of surely the most colossal 1 fake ' of modern times." Evening News. " The tale of the two lieutenants is perhaps the noblest example of the game and fine art of spoof that the world has ever seen, or ever will see ... their wonderful and almost monstrous elaboration ... an amazing story." Glasgow Evening News. " An absolutely fresh, unexpected, and inimitable true story of what we fancy is the greatest spoof of the Great War." Everyman. " One of the most amazing tales that we have ever read. The gradual augmentation of the spook's power is one of the most preposterous, the most laughable histories in the whole literature of spoofing. Lieut. Jones has given us a wonderful book even a great book." JOHN LANE, The Bodley Head, Yigo Street, W. 1 W. J. LOCKE'S NEW NOVEL The House of Baltazar Second Large Edition, 7s. net. Daily Telegraph. " An entertaining story, very ingeniously contrived. ... In John Baltazar there is real and original character-drawing. His abrupt changes of front, his glowing energy, his eager, impetuous heart, and his superb capacity for work make him a truly lovable figure." Morning Post. " The light touch ia perhaps the most fortunate asset of a novelist, and Mr. Locke has it pre-eminent. It enables him to fashion a story which we read with pleasure. . . . Mr. Locke as a story-teller is both happy and lucky." Pall Mall Gazette. " Mr. Locke scores with ' The House of Baltazar ' by giving us the full piquancy of the improbable and yet holding us deeply engrossed in the personalities of those who are involved in it. ... Handled with fine discrimination." Truth. " ' The House of Baltazar ' has all the old charms which has won for Mr. Locke such popularity. It may be assured of the warmest of welcomes." Tatl&r. " Very Locke-ish. There is a charm about the story which is very endearing." Liverpool Courier. " ' The House of Baltazar ' ia a fine novel. . . . John Baltazar will pass into the glorious company of Marcus and Simon and Septimus and Paragot. We are glad, for Mr. Locke's picturesque heroes are among the few precious things left in modern English fiction." Yorkshire Post. " Most original in both its plot and its characters. John Baltazar is a very human personality . . . intensely lovable ... a very delightful story." Scotsman. " The reader will retain the most enjoyable recollections." JOHN LANE, The Bodley Head, Yigo Street, W. 1 UCSB LIBRARY