[Illustration: _Route taken by Fifth Division_] Adventures of a Despatch Rider Adventures ofA Despatch Rider BY CAPTAIN W. H. L. WATSON _WITH MAPS_ William Blackwood and Sons Edinburgh and London 1915 _TO__THE PERFECT MOTHER, _ _MY OWN. _ A LETTER BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION. _To_ 2nd Lieut. R. B. WHYTE, 1st Black Watch, B. E. F. MY DEAR ROBERT, -- Do you remember how in the old days we used to talk about my first book?Of course it was to be an Oxford novel full of clever littlecharacter-sketches--witty but not unkind: of subtle and pleasurablehints at our own adventures, for no one had enjoyed Balliol and the cityof Oxford so hugely: of catch-words that repeated would bring back thethrills and the laughter--_Psych. Anal. _ and _Steady, Steady!_ of namescrammed with delectable memories--the Paviers', Cloda's Lane, and thenotorious Square and famous Wynd: of acid phrases, beautifully put, thatwould show up once and for all those dear abuses and shams that go tomake Oxford. It was to surpass all Oxford Novels and bring us alleternal fame. You remember, too, the room? It was stuffy and dingy and the pictureswere of doubtful taste, but there were things to drink and smoke. Theimperturbable Ikla would be sitting in his chair pulling at one of hisimpossibly luxurious pipes. You would be snorting in another--and Iwould be holding forth ... But I am starting an Oxford novelette alreadyand there is no need. For two slightly senior contemporaries of ourshave already achieved fame. The hydrangeas have blossomed. "The Home"has been destroyed by a Balliol tongue. The flower-girl has died herdeath. The Balliol novels have been written--and my first book is this. We have not even had time to talk it over properly. I saw you on myweek's leave in December, but then I had not thought of making a book. Finally, after three months in the trenches you came home in August. Iwas in Ireland and you in Scotland, so we met at Warrington just aftermidnight and proceeded to staggering adventures. Shall we ever forgetthat six hours' talk, the mad ride and madder breakfast with old PeterM'Ginn, the solitary hotel at Manchester and the rare dash to London?But I didn't tell you much about my book. It is made up principally of letters to my mother and to you. My mothershowed these letters to Mr Townsend Warner, my old tutor at Harrow, andhe, who was always my godfather in letters, passed them on until theyhave appeared in the pages of 'Maga. ' I have filled in the gaps theseletters leave with narrative, worked the whole into some sort ofconnected account, and added maps and an index. This book is not a history, a military treatise, an essay, or a scrap ofautobiography. It has no more accuracy or literary merit than lettersusually possess. So I hope you will not judge it too harshly. My onlyobject is to try and show as truthfully as I can the part played in thismonstrous war by a despatch rider during the months from August 1914 toFebruary 1915. If that object is gained I am content. Because it is composed of letters, this book has many faults. Firstly, I have written a great deal about myself. That is inevitable inletters. My mother wanted to hear about me and not about those whom shehad never met. So do not think my adventures are unique. I assure youthat if any of the other despatch riders were to publish their lettersyou would find mine by comparison mild indeed. If George now could bepersuaded ... ! Secondly, I have dwelt at length upon little personal matters. It maynot interest you to know when I had a pork-chop--though, as you nowrealise, on active service a pork-chop is extremely important--but itinterested my mother. She liked to know whether I was having good andsufficient food, and warm things on my chest and feet, because, afterall, there was a time when I wanted nothing else. Thirdly, all letters are censored. This book contains nothing but thetruth, but not the whole truth. When I described things that wereactually happening round me, I had to be exceedingly careful--and when, as in the first two or three chapters, my letters were written severalweeks after the events, something was sure to crop up in the meantimethat unconsciously but definitely altered the memory of experiences.... We have known together two of the people I have mentioned in thisbook--Alec and Gibson. They have both advanced so far that we have losttouch with them. I had thought that it would be a great joy to publish afirst book, but this book is ugly with sorrow. I shall never be able towrite "Alec and I" again--and he was the sweetest and kindest of myfriends, a friend of all the world. Never did he meet a man or womanthat did not love him. The Germans have killed Alec. Perhaps among themultitudinous Germans killed there are one or two German Alecs. Yet I amstill meeting people who think that war is a fine bracing thing for thenation, a sort of national week-end at Brighton. Then there was Gibson, who proved for all time that nobody made a bettersoldier than the young don--and those whose names do not come into thisbook.... Robert, you and I know what to think of this Brighton theory. We areonly just down from Oxford, and perhaps things strike us a little morepassionately than they should. You have seen the agony of war. You have seen those miserable peoplethat wander about behind the line like pariah dogs in the streets. Youknow what is behind "Tommy's invincible gaiety. " Let us pray togetherfor a time when the publishing of a book like this will be regarded withfierce shame. So long and good luck! Ever yours, WILLIAM. PIRBRIGHT HUTS, 1/10/15. * * * * * The day after I had written this letter the news came to me that RobertWhyte had been killed. The letter must stand--I have not the heart towrite another. W. H. L. W. PIRBRIGHT HUTS. CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I. ENLISTING 1 II. THE JOURNEY TO THE FRONT 12 III. THE BATTLE OF MONS 26 IV. THE BATTLE OF LE CATEAU 40 V. THE GREAT RETREAT 51 VI. OVER THE MARNE TO THE AISNE 76 VII. THE BATTLE OF THE AISNE 105 VIII. THE MOVE TO THE NORTH 140 IX. ROUND LA BASSÉE 167 X. THE BEGINNING OF WINTER 197 XI. ST JANS CAPPEL 230 XII. BEHIND THE LINES 253 LIST OF MAPS. PAGE ROUTE TAKEN BY FIFTH DIVISION _At beginning_ ROUND MONS 25 THE MARNE (LAGNY TO CHÂTEAU-THIERRY) 87 THE AISNE (SOISSONS TO VAILLY) 104 ROUND LA BASSÉE 166 YPRES TO LA BASSÉE 197 LINE OF RETREAT AND ADVANCE _At end_ Adventures of A Despatch Rider. CHAPTER I. ENLISTING At 6. 45 P. M. On Saturday, July 25, 1914, Alec and I determined to takepart in the Austro-Servian War. I remember the exact minute, because wewere standing on the "down" platform of Earl's Court Station, waitingfor the 6. 55 through train to South Harrow, and Alec had just remarkedthat we had ten minutes to wait. We had travelled up to London, intending to work in the British Museum for our "vivas" at Oxford, butin the morning it had been so hot that we had strolled round Bloomsbury, smoking our pipes. By lunch-time we had gained such an appetite that wedid not feel like work in the afternoon. We went to see Elsie Janis. The evening papers were full of grave prognostications. War betweenServia and Austria seemed inevitable. Earl's Court Station inspired uswith the spirit of adventure. We determined to take part, and debatedwhether we should go out as war correspondents or as orderlies in aServian hospital. At home we could talk of nothing else during dinner. Ikla, that wisest of all Egyptians, mildly encouraged us, while thefamily smiled. On Sunday we learned that war had been declared. Ways and means werediscussed, but our great tennis tournament on Monday, and a dance in theevening, left us with a mere background of warlike endeavour. It wasvaguely determined that when my "viva" was over we should go and seepeople of authority in London.... On the last day of July a few of us met together in Gibson's rooms, those neat, white rooms in Balliol that overlook St Giles. Naymier, thePole, was certain that Armageddon was coming. He proved it conclusivelyin the Quad with the aid of large maps and a dissertation on potatoes. He also showed us the probable course of the war. We lived in strainedexcitement. Things were too big to grasp. It was just the other daythat 'The Blue Book, ' most respectable of Oxford magazines, hadpublished an article showing that a war between Great Britain andGermany was almost unthinkable. It had been written by an undergraduatewho had actually been at a German university. Had the multitudinousAnglo-German societies at Oxford worked in vain? The world came crashinground our ears. Naymier was urgent for an Oxford or a Balliol Legion--Ido not remember which--but we could not take him seriously. Two of usdecided that we were physical cowards, and would not under anycircumstances enlist. The flower of Oxford was too valuable to be usedas cannon-fodder. The days passed like weeks. Our minds were hot and confused. It seemedthat England must come in. On the afternoon of the fourth of August Itravelled up to London. At a certain club in St James's there was littlehope. I walked down Pall Mall. In Trafalgar Square a vast, serious crowdwas anxiously waiting for news. In Whitehall Belgians were doing theirbest to rouse the mob. Beflagged cars full of wildly gesticulatingBelgians were driving rapidly up and down. Belgians were haranguinglittle groups of men. Everybody remained quiet but perturbed. War was a certainty. I did not wish to be a spectator of the scenesthat would accompany its declaration, so I went home. All the night inmy dreams I saw the quiet, perturbed crowds. War was declared. All those of us who were at Balliol togethertelephoned to one another so that we might enlist together. Physicalcoward or no physical coward--it obviously had to be done. Teddy andAlec were going into the London Scottish. Early in the morning I startedfor London to join them, but on the way up I read the paragraph in whichthe War Office appealed for motor-cyclists. So I went straight toScotland Yard. There I was taken up to a large room full of benchescrammed with all sorts and conditions of men. The old fellow on my rightwas a sign-writer. On my left was a racing motor-cyclist. We waited forhours. Frightened-looking men were sworn in and one phenomenally gravesmall boy. Later I should have said that a really fine stamp of man wasenlisting. Then they seemed to me a shabby crew. At last we were sent downstairs, and told to strip and array ourselvesin moderately dirty blue dressing-gowns. Away from the formality of theother room we sang little songs, and made the worst jokes in theworld--being continually interrupted by an irritable sergeant, whom wecalled "dearie. " One or two men were feverishly arguing whether certainphysical deficiencies would be passed. Nobody said a word of his reasonfor enlisting except the sign-writer, whose wages had been low. The racing motor-cyclist and I were passed one after another, and, receiving warrants, we travelled down to Fulham. Our names, addresses, and qualifications were written down. To my overwhelming joy I wasmarked as "very suitable. " I went to Great Portland Street, arranged tobuy a motor-cycle, and returned home. That evening I received a telegramfrom Oxford advising me to go down to Chatham. I started off soon after breakfast, and suffered three punctures. Themending of them put despatch-riding in an unhealthy light. At RochesterI picked up Wallace and Marshall of my college, and together we went tothe appointed place. There we found twenty or thirty enlisted orunenlisted. I had come only to make inquiries, but I was carried away. After a series of waits I was medically examined and passed. At 5. 45P. M. I kissed the Book, and in two minutes I became a corporal in theRoyal Engineers. During the ceremony my chief sensation was one ofthoroughgoing panic. In the morning four of us, who were linguists, were packed off to theWar Office. We spent the journey in picturing all the ways we might bekilled, until, by the time we reached Victoria, there was not a singleone of us who would not have given anything to un-enlist. The War Officerejected us on the plea that they had as many Intelligence Officers asthey wanted. So we returned glumly. The next few days we were drilled, lectured, and given our kit. We beganto know each other, and make friends. Finally, several of us, who wantedto go out together, managed by slight misstatements to be put into onebatch. We were chosen to join the 5th Division. The Major in commandtold us--to our great relief--that the Fifth would not form part of thefirst Expeditionary Force. I remember Chatham as a place of heat, intolerable dirt, and a bad sorethroat. There we made our first acquaintance with the army, which weundergraduates had derided as a crowd of slavish wastrels andempty-headed slackers. We met with tact and courtesy from the mercenary. A sergeant of the Sappers we discovered to be as fine a type of man asany in the wide earth. And we marvelled, too, at the smoothness oforganisation, the lack of confusing hurry.... We were to start early on Monday morning. My mother and sister rusheddown to Chatham, and my sister has urgently requested me to mention in"the book" that she carried, with much labour, a large and heavy pair ofski-ing boots. Most of the others had enlisted like myself in a hurry. They did not see "their people" until December. All of us were made to write our names in the visitors' book, for, asthe waiter said-- "They ain't nobodies now, but in these 'ere times yer never knows whatthey may be. " Then, when we had gone in an ear-breaking splutter of exhausts, heturned to comfort my mother-- "Pore young fellers! Pore young fellers! I wonder if any of 'em willreturn. " That damp chilly morning I was very sleepy and rather frightened at thenew things I was going to do. I imagined war as a desperate continuousseries of battles, in which I should ride along the trenchespicturesquely haloed with bursting shell, varied by innumerableencounters with Uhlans, or solitary forest rides and immense tiringtreks over deserted country to distant armies. I wasn't quite sure Iliked the idea of it all. But the sharp morning air, the interest intraining a new motor-cycle in the way it should go, the unexpectedpopping-up and grotesque salutes of wee gnome-like Boy Scouts, soonmade me forget the war. A series of the kind of little breakdowns youalways have in a collection of new bikes delayed us considerably, andonly a race over greasy setts through the southern suburbs, overWaterloo Bridge and across the Strand, brought us to Euston just as theboat-train was timed to start. In the importance of our new uniforms westopped it, of course, and rode joyfully from one end of the platform tothe other, much to the agitation of the guard, while I poseddelightfully against a bookstall to be photographed by a patrioticgoverness. Very grimy we sat down to a marvellous breakfast, and passed the timereading magazines and discussing the length of the war. We put it atfrom three to six weeks. At Holyhead we carefully took our bikes aboard, and settled down to a cold voyage. We were all a trifle apprehensive atour lack of escort, for then, you will remember, it had not yet beenproved how innocuous the German fleet is in our own seas. [1] Ireland was a disappointment. Everybody was dirty and unfriendly, staring at us with hostile eyes. Add Dublin grease, which beats theBelgian, and a crusty garage proprietor who only after persuasionsupplied us with petrol, and you may be sure we were glad to see thelast of it. The road to Carlow was bad and bumpy. But the sunset wasfine, and we liked the little low Irish cottages in the twilight. Whenit was quite dark we stopped at a town with a hill in it. One of our menhad a brick thrown at him as he rode in, and when we came to the inn wedidn't get a gracious word, and decided it was more pleasant not to be asoldier in Ireland. The daughter of the house was pretty and passablyclean, but it was very grimly that she had led me through an immensegaudy drawing-room disconsolate in dust wrappings, to a little roomwhere we could wash. She gave us an exiguous meal at an extortionatecharge, and refused to put more than two of us up; so, on the advice oftwo gallivanting lancers who had escaped from the Curragh for somesupper, we called in the aid of the police, and were billetedmagnificently on the village. A moderate breakfast at an unearthly hour, a trouble with the startingup of our bikes, and we were off again. It was about nine when we turnedinto Carlow Barracks. The company sighed with relief on seeing us. We completed theestablishment on mobilisation. Our two "artificers, " Cecil and Grimers, had already arrived. We were overjoyed to see them. We realised thatwhat they did not know about motor-cycles was not worth knowing, and wehad suspected at Chatham what we found afterwards to be true, that noone could have chosen for us pleasanter comrades or more reliableworkers. A fine breakfast was soon prepared for us and we begun looking round. The position should have been a little difficult--a dozen or so 'Varsitymen, very fresh from their respective universities, thrown as corporalsat the head of a company of professional soldiers. We were determinedthat, whatever vices we might have, we should not be accused of "swank. "The sergeants, after a trifle of preliminary stiffness, treated us withfatherly kindness, and did all they could to make us comfortable andteach us what we wanted to learn. Carlow was a fascinating little town. The National Volunteers stilldrilled just behind the barracks. It was not wise to refer to theBorderers or to Ulster, but the war had made all the difference in theworld. We were to represent Carlow in the Great War. Right through thewinter Carlow never forgot us. They sent us comforts and cigarettes andChristmas Puddings. When the 5th Signal Company returns, Carlow will gomad. My first "official" ride was to Dublin. It rained most of the way thereand all the way back, but a glow of patriotism kept me warm. In Dublin Iwent into a little public-house for some beer and bread and cheese. Thelandlord told me that though he wasn't exactly a lover of soldiers, things had changed now. On my return I was given lunch in the Officers'Mess, for nobody could consider their men more than the officers of ourcompany. The next day we were inoculated. At the time we would much rather haverisked typhoid. We did not object to the discomfort, though two of usnearly fainted on parade the following morning--it was streaminglyhot--but our farewell dinner was absolutely spoilt. Bottles of the bestMoselle Carlow could produce were left untouched. Songs broke down incurses. It was tragic. FOOTNOTES: [1] This was written before the days of the "Submarine Blockade. " CHAPTER II. THE JOURNEY TO THE FRONT We made a triumphant departure from Carlow, preceded down to the stationby the band of the N. V. We were told off to prevent anybody entering thestation, but all the men entered magnificently, saying they werevolunteers, and the women and children rushed us with the victoriouscry, "We've downed the p'lice. " We steamed out of the station while theband played "Come back to Erin" and "God save Ireland, " and made aninterminable journey to Dublin. At some of the villages they cheered, atothers they looked at us glumly. But the back streets of Dublin werepatriotic enough, and at the docks, which we reached just after dark, asmall, tremendously enthusiastic crowd was gathered to see us off. They sang songs and cheered, and cheered and sang songs. "I cangenerally bear the separation, but I don't like the leave-taking. " Theboat would not go off. The crowd on the boat and the crowd on the wharfmade patriotic noises until they were hoarse. At midnight our supportershad nearly all gone away. We who had seen our motor-cycles carefullyhoisted on board ate the buns and apples provided by "Friends in Dublin"and chatted. A young gunner told me of all his amours, and they werevery numerous. Still-- For my uncle _Toby's_ amours running all the way in my head, they had the same effect upon me as if they had been my own--I was in the most perfect state of bounty and goodwill-- So I set about finding a place for sleep. The whole of the Divisional Headquarters Staff, with all their horses, were on the _Archimedes_, and we were so packed that when I tried tofind a place to sleep I discovered there was not an inch of space lefton the deck, so I passed an uncomfortable night on top of someexcruciatingly hard ropes. We cast off about one in the morning. The night was horribly cold, and aslow dawn was never more welcomed. But day brought a new horror. The sunpoured down on us, and the smell from the horses packed closely belowwas almost unbearable; while, worst of all, we had to go below to washand to draw our rations. Then I was first introduced to bully. The first tin tastes delicious andfills you rapidly. You never actually grow to dislike it, and many timeswhen extra hungry I have longed for an extra tin. But when you havelived on bully for three months (we have not been served out with freshmeat more than a dozen times altogether), [2] how you long for any littleluxuries to vary the monotony of your food! On the morning of the third day we passed a French destroyer with asmall prize in tow, and rejoiced greatly, and towards evening we droppedanchor off Havre. On either side of the narrow entrance to the docksthere were cheering crowds, and we cheered back, thrilled, occasionallybreaking into the soldier's anthem, "It's a long, long way toTipperary. "[3] We disembarked at a secluded wharf, and after waiting about for a coupleof hours or so--we had not then learned to wait--we were marched off toa huge dim warehouse, where we were given gallons of the most delicioushot coffee, and bought scrumptious little cakes. It was now quite dark, and, for what seemed whole nights, we satwearily waiting while the horses were taken off the transport. We madeone vain dash for our quarters, but found only another enormouswarehouse, strangely lit, full of clattering waggons and restive horses. We watched with wonder a battery clank out into the night, and thenreturned sleepily to the wharf-side. Very late we found where we were tosleep, a gigantic series of wool warehouses. The warehouses were full ofwool and the wool was full of fleas. We were very miserable, and alittle bread and wine we managed to get hold of hardly cheered us atall. I feared the fleas, and spread a waterproof sheet on the barestones outside. I thought I should not get a wink of sleep on such aJacobean resting-place, but, as a matter of fact, I slept like a top, and woke in the morning without even an ache. But those who had riskedthe wool----! We breakfasted off the strong, sweet tea that I have grown to like somuch, and some bread, butter, and chocolate we bought off a smiling oldwoman at the warehouse gates. Later in the morning we were allowed intothe town. First, a couple of us went into a café to have a drink, andwhen we came out we found our motor-cycles garlanded with flowers by twoadmiring flappers. Everywhere we went we were the gods of a very properworship, though the shopkeepers in their admiration did not forget tocharge. We spent a long, lazy day in lounging through the town, eating alot of little meals and in visiting the public baths--the last bath Iwas to have, if I had only known it, for a month. A cheery, little, bustling town Havre seemed to us, basking in a bright sunshine, and thehopes of our early overwhelming victory. We all stalked about, prospective conquerors, and talked fluently of the many defects of theGerman army. Orders came in the afternoon that we were to move that night. I sat upuntil twelve, and gained as my reward some excellent hot tea and a bitof rather tough steak. At twelve everybody was woken up and the companygot ready to move. We motor-cyclists were sent off to the station. Foolishly I went by myself. Just outside what I thought was the stationI ran out of petrol. I walked to the station and waited for the others. They did not come. I searched the station, but found nothing except acavalry brigade entraining. I rushed about feverishly. There was no oneI knew, no one who had heard anything of my company. Then I grewhorribly frightened that I should be left behind. I pelted back to theold warehouses, but found everybody had left two hours ago. I thoughtthe company must surely have gone by now, and started in my desperationasking everybody I knew if they had seen anything of the company. Luckily I came across an entraining officer, who told me that thecompany were entraining at "Point Six-Hangar de Laine, "--three milesaway. I simply ran there, asking my way of surly, sleepy sentries, tripping over ropes, nearly falling into docks. I found the Signal Company. There was not a sign of our train. SoJohnson took me on his carrier back to the station I had searched insuch fear. We found the motor-cycle, Johnson gave me some petrol, and wereturned to Point Six. It was dawn when the old train at last rumbledand squeaked into the siding. I do not know how long we took to entrain, I was so sleepy. But the sunwas just rising when the little trumpet shrilled, the long train creakedover the points, and we woke for a moment to murmur--By Jove, we're offnow, --and I whispered thankfully to myself--Thank heaven I found them atlast. We were lucky enough to be only six in our compartment, but, as youknow, in a French IIIme there is very little room, while the seats arefiercely hard. And we had not yet been served out with blankets. Still, we had to stick it for twenty-four hours. Luckily the train stopped atevery station of any importance, so, taking the law into our own hands, we got out and stretched our legs at every opportunity. We travelled _viâ_ Rouen and Amiens to Landrecies. The Signal Companyhad a train to itself. Gradually we woke up to find ourselves travellingthrough extraordinarily pretty country and cheering crowds. At eachlevel-crossing the curé was there to bless us. If we did not stop thepeople threw in fruit, which we vainly endeavoured to catch. A halt, andthey were round us, beseeching us for souvenirs, loading us with fruit, and making us feel that it was a fine thing to fight in a friendlycountry. At Rouen we drew up at a siding, and sent porters scurrying for breadand butter and beer, while we loaded up from women who came down to thetrain with all sorts of delicious little cakes and sweets. We stopped, and then rumbled slowly towards Amiens. At St Roche we first sawwounded, and heard, I do not know with what truth, that four aviatorshad been killed, and that our General, Grierson, had died of heartfailure. At Ham they measured me against a lamp-post, and ceremoniouslymarked the place. The next time I passed through Ham I had no time tolook for the mark! It began to grow dark, and the trees standing outagainst the sunset reminded me of our two lines of trees at home. Wewent slowly over bridges, and looked fearfully from our windows forbursting shells. Soon we fell asleep, and were wakened about midnight byshouted orders. We had arrived at Landrecies, near enough the Frontierto excite us. I wonder if you realise at home what the Frontier meant to us at first?We conceived it as a thing guarded everywhere by intermittent patrols ofmen staring carefully towards Germany and Belgium in the darkness, athing to be defended at all costs, at all times, to be crossed withtriumph and recrossed with shame. We did not understand what anenormous, incredible thing modern war was--how it cared nothing forfrontiers, or nations, or people. Very wearily we unloaded our motor bicycles and walked to the barracks, where we put down our kit and literally feel asleep, to be wakened forfatigue work. We rose at dawn, and had some coffee at a little _estaminet_, [4] where amiddle-aged dame, horribly arch, cleaned my canteen for me, "pourl'amour de toi. " We managed an excellent breakfast of bacon and eggsbefore establishing the Signal Office at the barracks. A few of us rodeoff to keep touch with the various brigades that were billeted round. The rest of us spent the morning across the road at an inn drinking muchwine-and-water and planning out the war on a forty-year-old map. In the afternoon I went out with two others to prospect some roads, veryimportantly. We were rather annoyed to lose our way out of the town, andwere very short with some inquisitive small boys who stood looking overour shoulders as we squatted on the grass by the wayside studying ourmaps. We had some tea at a mad village called Hecq. All the inhabitants wereold, ugly, smelly, and dirty; and they crowded round us as we devoured amagnificent omelette, endeavouring to incite us to do all sorts ofthings to the German women if ever we reached Germany. We returned homein the late afternoon to hear rumours of an advance next day. Three of us wandered into the Square to have a drink. There I firsttried a new pipe that had been given me. The one pipe I brought with meI had dropped out of the train between Amiens and Landrecies. It hadbeen quite a little tragedy, as it was a pipe for which I had a greataffection. It had been my companion in Switzerland and Paris. Coming back from the Square I came across an excited crowd. It appearsthat an inoffensive, rather buxom-looking woman had been walking roundthe Square when one of her breasts cooed and flew away. We shot threespies at Landrecies. I hung round the Signal Office, nervous and excited, for "a run. " Thenight was alive with the tramp of troops and the rumble of guns. The old108th passed by--huge good-natured guns, each drawn by eight giganticplough-horses. I wonder if you can understand--the thrilling excitementof waiting and listening by night in a town full of troops. At midnight I took my first despatch. It was a dark, starless night;very misty on the road. From the brigade I was sent on to anambulance--an unpleasant ride, because, apart from the mist and thedarkness, I was stopped every few yards by sentries of the West Kents, aregiment which has now about the best reputation of any battalion outhere. I returned in time to snatch a couple of hours of sleep before westarted at dawn for Belgium. When the Division moves we ride either with the column or go in advanceto the halting-place. That morning we rode with the column, which meantriding three-quarters of a mile or so and then waiting for themain-guard to come up, --an extraordinarily tiring method of gettingalong. The day (August 21) was very hot indeed, and the troops who had not yetgot their marching feet suffered terribly, even though the people by thewayside brought out fruit and eggs and drinks. There was murmuring whensome officers refused to allow their men to accept these gifts. But astart had to be made some time, for promiscuous drinks do not increasemarching efficiency. We, of course, could do pretty well what we liked. A little coffee early in the morning, and then anything we cared to askfor. Most of us in the evening discovered, unpleasantly enough, forgotten pears in unthought-of pockets. About 1. 30 we neared Bavai, and I was sent on to find out aboutbilleting arrangements, but by the time they were completed the rest hadarrived. For a long time we were hutted in the Square. Spuggy found a "friend, "and together we obtained a good wash. The people were vociferouslyenthusiastic. Even the chemist gave us some "salts" free of charge. My first ride from Bavai began with a failure, as, owing to belt-slip, Iendeavoured vainly to start for half an hour (or so it seemed) in themidst of an interested but sympathetic populace. A smart change saw metearing along the road to meet with a narrow escape from untimely deathin the form of a car, which I tried to pass on the wrong side. In theevening we received our first batch of pay, and dining magnificently ata hotel, took tearful leave of Huggie and Spuggy. They had been chosen, they said, to make a wild dash through to Liége. We speculated darkly ontheir probable fate. In the morning we learned that we had been hoaxed, and used suitable language. We slept uncomfortably on straw in a back yard, and rose again justbefore dawn. We breakfasted hastily at a café, and were off just as thesun had risen. Our day's march was to Dour, in Belgium, and for us a bad day's march itwas. My job was to keep touch with the 14th Brigade, which was advancingalong a parallel road to the west. [5] That meant riding four or fivemiles across rough country roads, endeavouring to time myself so as toreach the 14th column just when the S. O. Was passing, then back again tothe Division, riding up and down the column until I found our captain. In the course of my riding that day I knocked down "a civvy" in Dour, and bent a foot-rest endeavouring to avoid a major, but that was all inthe day's work. The Signal Office was first established patriarchally with a table bythe roadside, and thence I made my last journey that day to the 14th. Ifound them in a village under the most embarrassing attentions. As formyself, while I was waiting, a curé photographed me, a woman rushed outand washed my face, and children crowded up to me, presenting me withchocolate and cigars, fruit and eggs, until my haversack was practicallybursting. When I returned I found the S. O. Had shifted to the station of Dour. Wewere given the waiting-room, which we made comfortable with straw. Opposite the station was a hotel where the Staff lived. It was managedby a curiously upright old man in a threadbare frock-coat, bright checktrousers, and carpet slippers. Nadine, his pretty daughter, wastremulously eager to make us comfortable, and the two days we were atDour we hung round the hotel, sandwiching omelettes and drink betweenour despatches. [Illustration: ROUND MONS] FOOTNOTES: [2] This was written in the middle of October. [3] We became bored with the song, and dropped it soon after for lessprintable songs. [4] The word used in Flanders for a tavern that does not aspire to thedignity of "restaurant" or "hotel. " [5] The Bavai-Andregnies-Elouges road. CHAPTER III. THE BATTLE OF MONS We knew nothing of what was going on. There was a rumour that Namur hadfallen, and I heard certain officers say we had advanced dangerouslyfar. The cavalry was on our left and the Third Division on our right. Beyond the Third Division we had heard of the First Corps, but nothingof the French. We were left, to the best of our knowledge, a tenuousbulwark against the German hosts. The 14th Brigade had advanced by the Andregnies road to Elouges and theCanal. The 13th was our right brigade, and the 15th, at first inreserve, extended our line on the second day to Frameries. The Cyclistswere reconnoitring north of the Canal. The roads round Dour were of the very worst _pavé_, and, if this werenot enough, the few maps we had between us were useless. The villages ofWaasmes, Paturages, and Frameries were in the midst of such a networkof roads that the map could not possibly be clear. If the country hadbeen flat, we might at least have found our way by landmarks. It wasnot. The roads wandered round great slag-heaps, lost themselves inlittle valleys, ran into pits and groups of buildings. Each one tried tobe exactly like all its fellows. Without a map to get from Elouges toFrameries was like asking an American to make his way from Richmond Parkto Denmark Hill. About ten o'clock on the morning of August 23rd I was sent out to findGeneral Gleichen, who was reported somewhere near Waasmes. I went overnightmare roads, uneven cobbles with great pits in them. I found him, and was told by him to tell the General that the position wasunfortunate owing to a weak salient. We had already heard guns, but onmy way back I heard a distant crash, and looked round to find that ashell had burst half a mile away on a slag-heap, between Dour andmyself. With my heart thumping against my ribs I opened the throttle, until I was jumping at 40 m. P. H. From cobble to cobble. Then, realisingthat I was in far greater danger of breaking my neck than of being shot, I pulled myself together and slowed down to proceed sedately home. The second time I went out to General Gleichen I found him a littlefarther back from his former position. This time he was on the railway. While I was waiting for a reply we had an excellent view of German gunsendeavouring to bring down one of our aeroplanes. So little did we knowof aeroplanes then, that the General was persuaded by his brigade-majorto step back into shelter from the falling bits, and we all staredanxiously skywards, expecting every moment that our devoted aviatorwould be hit. That evening Huggie and I rode back to Bavai and beyond in search of anerrant ammunition column. Eventually we found it and brought news of itback to H. Q. I shall never forget the captain reading my despatch by thelight of my lamp, the waggons guarded by Dorsets with fixed bayonetsappearing to disappear shadowy in the darkness. We showed the captain ashort-cut that avoided Bavai, then left him. His horses were tired, buthe was forced to push them on another ten miles to Dour. We got back at10, and found Nadine weeping. We questioned her, but she would not tellus why. There was a great battle very early the next morning, a running-aboutand set, anxious faces. We were all sent off in rapid succession. I wasup early and managed to get a wash at the station-master's house, hiswife providing me with coffee, which, much to my discomfiture, sheliberally dosed with rum. At 6. 30 Johnson started on a message to the15th Brigade. We never saw him again. At 9. 15 three despatch riders whohad gone to the 15th, George, Johnson, and Grimers, had not returned. Iwas sent. Two miles out I met George with Grimers' despatches. Neitherof them had been able to find the 15th. I took the despatches and sentGeorge back to report. I went down a road, which I calculated ought tobring me somewhere on the left of the 15th, who were supposed to besomewhere between Paturages and Frameries. There were two villages onhills, one on each side. I struck into the north end of the village onmy left; there was no road to the one on my right. [6] I came across alot of disheartened stragglers retreating up the hill. I went a littlefarther and saw our own firing line a quarter of a mile ahead. There wasa bit of shrapnel flying about, but not much. I struck back up the hilland came upon a crowd of fugitive infantry men, all belonging to the13th Brigade. At last I found General Cuthbert, the Brigadier of the13th, sitting calmly on his horse watching the men pass. I asked himwhere the 15th was. He did not know, but told me significantly that ourrallying-point was Athis. I rode a little farther, and came upon his signal officer. He stopped meand gave me a verbal message to the General, telling me that the 15thappeared to be cut off. As I had a verbal message to take back there wasno need for me to go farther with my despatches, which, as it appearedlater, was just as well. I sprinted back to Dour, picking my way througha straggling column of men sullenly retreating. At the station I foundeverybody packing up. The General received my message without a word, except one of thanks. The right flank of the 13th has been badly turned. Most of our officers have been killed. Some companies of the K. O. S. B. Are endeavouring to cover our retreat. We viciously smashed all the telegraph instruments in the office and cutall the wires. It took me some time to pack up my kit and tie it on mycarrier. When I had finished, everybody had gone. I could hear theirhorses clattering up the street. Across the way Nadine stood weeping. Afew women with glazed, resigned eyes, stood listlessly round her. Behind me, I heard the first shell crash dully into the far end of thetown. It seemed to me I could not just go off. So I went across toNadine and muttered "Nous reviendrons, Mademoiselle. " But she would notlook at me, so I jumped on my bicycle, and with a last glance round atthe wrecked, deserted station, I rode off, shouting to encourage moremyself than the others, "Ça va bien. " I caught up the General, and passed him to ride on ahead of the SignalCompany. Never before had I so wished my engine to turn more slowly. Itseemed a shame that we motor-cyclists should head the retreat of ourlittle column. I could not understand how the men could laugh and joke. It was blasphemous. They ought to be cursing with angry faces, --at theleast, to be grave and sorrowful. I was told that Divisional Headquarters would be established atVillers-Pol, a little country village about ten miles west of Bavai andeight miles south-east of Valenciennes. I rode to St Waast, a few milesout of Bavai, and, finding there a cavalry colonel (of the 2nd LifeGuards, I think), gave him all the news. I hurried on to Jenlain, thinking I might be of some use to the troops on our right flank, butJenlain was peaceful and empty. So I cut across low rolling downs toVillers-Pol. There was nobody there when I arrived. The sun was shiningvery brightly. Old women were sleeping at the doors; children wereplaying lazily on the road. Soon one or two motor-cyclists dribbled in, and about an hour later a section of the Signal Company arrived after arisky dash along country lanes. They outspanned, and we, as always, madefor the inn. There was a mother in the big room. She was a handsome little woman ofabout twenty-four. Her husband was at the war. She asked me why we hadcome to Villers-Pol. I said we were retreating a little--pour attaquerle mieux--un mouvement stratégique. She wept bitterly and loudly, "Ah, my baby, what will they do to us? They will kill you, and they willill-treat me so that never again shall I be able to look my husband inthe eyes--his brave eyes; but now perhaps they are closed in death!"There was an older, harsh-featured woman who rated the mother for hersilliness, and, while we ate our omelette, the room was filled with theclamour of them until a dog outside began to howl. Then the mother wentand sat down in a chair by the fire and stopped crying, but every nowand then moaned and clasped her baby strongly to her breast, murmuring, "My poor baby, my poor baby, what shall we do?" We lounged about the place until a cavalry brigade came through. TheGeneral commandeered me to find his transport. This I did, and on theway back waited for the brigade to pass. Then for the first time I sawthat many riderless horses were being led, that some of the horses andmany of the men were wounded, and that one regiment of lancers waspathetically small. It was the 2nd Cavalry Brigade, that had charged theenemy's guns, to find them protected by barbed wire. Sick at heart I rode back into Villers-Pol, and found the Signal Companyhastily harnessing up. Headquarters had been compelled to go fartherback still--to St Waast, and there was nobody, so far as we knew, between us and the Germans. The order caught George with his gear down. We made a marvellously rapid repair, then went off at the trot. A mileout, and I was sent back to pick up our quartermaster and three otherswho were supposed to have been left behind. It was now quite dark. Inthe village I could not find our men, but discovered a field ambulancethat did not know what to do. Their horses were dead tired, but Iadvised them strongly to get on. They took my advice, and I heard atSerches that they left Villers-Pol as the Germans[7] entered it. Theywere pursued, but somehow got away in the darkness. I went on, and at some cross-roads in a black forest came across aregiment of hussars. I told them where their B. H. Q. Was, and theirColonel muttered resignedly, "It's a long way, but we shall never get our wounded horses thereto-morrow. " I put two more companies right, then came across a littlebody of men who were vainly trying to get a horse attached to a S. A. A. Limber out of the ditch. It was a pitch-black night, and they werebravely endeavouring to do it without catching a glimpse of the horse. Igave them the benefit of my lamp until they had got the brute out. Twomore bodies of stragglers I directed, and then pushed on rapidly to StWaast, where I found all the other motor-cyclists safe except Johnson. Two had come on carts, having been compelled to abandon theirmotor-cycles. George had been attached to the 14th. He had gone with them to thecanal, and had been left there with the Cornwalls when the 14th hadretired to its second position. At last nobody remained with him excepta section. They were together in a hut, and outside he could hear thebullets singing. He noticed some queer-looking explosives in a corner, and asked what they were for. He was told they were to blow up thebridge over the canal, so decided it was time for him to quit, and didso with some rapidity under a considerable rifle fire. Then he was sentup to the Manchesters, who were holding a ready-made trench across themain road. As he rode up he tells me men shouted at him, "Don't go thatway, it's dangerous, " until he grew quite frightened; but he managed toget to the trench all right, slipped in, and was shown how to crawlalong until he reached the colonel. N'Soon and Sadders were with the 13th. On the Sunday night they had tomarch to a new position more towards their right. The Signal Sectionwent astray and remained silently on a byroad while their officerreconnoitred. On the main road between them and their lines were somelights rapidly moving--Germans in armoured motor-cars. They successfullyrejoined, but in the morning there was something of a collision, andSadders' bicycle was finished. He got hold of a push-bike alongside thewaggons for some distance, finishing up on a limber. Spuggy was sent up to the trenches in the morning. He was under heavyshell fire when his engine seized up. His brigade was retreating, and hewas in the rear of it, so, leaving his bicycle, he took to his heels, and with the Germans in sight ran till he caught up a waggon. Heclambered on, and so came into St Waast. I had not been in many minutes when I was sent off to our Army H. Q. AtBavai. It was a miserable ride. I was very tired, the road was full oftransport, and my lamp would not give more than a feeble glimmer. I got to bed at 1 A. M. About 3. 30 (on August 24) I was called anddetailed to remain with the rear-guard. First I was sent off to find theexact position of various bodies posted on roads to stem the Germanadvance. At one spot I just missed a shell-trap. A few minutes after Ihad left, some of the Manchesters, together with a body of the D. Cyclists who were stationed three miles or so out of St Waast, wereattacked by a body of Jaegers, who appeared on a hill opposite. Foolishly they disclosed their position by opening rifle fire. In a fewminutes the Jaegers went, and to our utter discomfiture a couple offield-guns appeared and fired point-blank at 750 yards. Luckily therange was not very exact, and only a few were wounded--those who retireddirectly backwards instead of transversely out of the shells' direction. The H. Q. Of the rear-guard left St Waast about 5. 30. It was cold andchilly. What happened I do not quite know. All I remember was that at agiven order a battery would gallop off the road into action against anenemy we could not see. So to Bavai, where I was sent off with animportant despatch for D. H. Q. I had to ride past the column, andscarcely had I gone half a mile when my back tyre burst. There was notime to repair it, so on I bumped, slipping all over the road. AtD. H. Q. , which of course was on the road, I borrowed some one else'sbicycle and rode back by another road. On the way I came across Huggiefilling up from an abandoned motor-lorry. I did likewise, and then toreinto Bavai. A shell or two was bursting over the town, and I was nearlyslaughtered by some infantrymen, who thought they were firing at anaeroplane. Dodging their bullets, I left the town, and eventually caughtup the H. Q. Of the rear-guard. It was now about 10. 30. Until five the troops tramped on, in a scorchingsun, on roads covered with clouds of dust. And most pitiful of all, between the rear-guard and the main body shuffled the wounded; for wehad been forced to evacuate our hospital at Bavai. Our men were mad atretreating. The Germans had advanced on them in the closest order. Eachfellow firmly believed he had killed fifty, and was perfectly certainwe could have held our line to the crack of doom. They trudged andtrudged. The women, who had cheerily given us everything a few daysbefore, now with anxious faces timorously offered us water and fruit. Great ox-waggons full of refugees, all in their best clothes, came infrom side-roads. None of them were allowed on the roads we wereretreating along, so I suppose they were pushed across the German frontuntil they fell into the Germans' hands. For us it was column-riding the whole day--half a mile or so, and then ahalt, --heart-breaking work. I was riding along more or less by myself in a gap that had been left inthe column. A curé stopped me. He was a very tall and very thin youngman with a hasty, frightened manner. Behind him was a flock ofpanic-stricken, chattering old women. He asked me if there was anydanger. Not that he was afraid, he said, but just to satisfy his people. I answered that none of them need trouble to move. I was too ashamed tosay we were retreating, and I had an eye on the congestion of the roads. I have sometimes wondered what that tall, thin curé, with the sallowface and the frightened eyes, said about me when, not twelve hourslater, the German advance-guard triumphantly defiled before him. Late in the afternoon we passed through Le Cateau, a bright little town, and came to the village of Reumont, where we were billeted in a largebarn. We were all very confident that evening. We heard that we were holding afinely entrenched position, and the General made a speech--I did nothear it--in which he told us that there had been a great Russiansuccess, and that in the battle of the morrow a victory for us wouldsmash the Germans once and for all. But our captain was morepessimistic. He thought we should suffer a great disaster. Doubting, wesnuggled down in the straw, and went soundly to sleep. FOOTNOTES: [6] I had no map with me. All the maps were in use. Looking afterwardsat the map which I obtained later in the day, I am unable to trace myroute with any accuracy. It is certain that the Germans temporarilythrust in a wedge between the 13th and 15th Brigades. [7] A small patrol of cavalry, I should imagine, if the tale I heard atSerches be true. CHAPTER IV. THE BATTLE OF LE CATEAU The principal thing about Le Cateau is that the soldiers pronounce it torhyme with Waterloo--Leacatoo--and all firmly believe that if the Frenchcavalry had come up to help us, as the Prussians came up at Waterloo, there would have been no Germans to fight against us now. It was a cold misty morning when we awoke, but later the day was fineenough. We got up, had a cheery and exiguous breakfast to distant, intermittent firing, then did a little work on our bicycles. I spent anhour or so watching through glasses the dim movement of dull bodies oftroops and shrapnel bursting vaguely on the horizon. Then we were allsummoned to H. Q. , which were stationed about a mile out from Reumont onthe Le Cateau road. In front of us the road dipped sharply and roseagain over the brow of a hill about two miles away. On this brow, stretching right and left of the road, there was a line of poplars. Onthe slope of the hill nearer to us there were two or three fieldbatteries in action. To the right of us a brigade of artillery waslimbered up ready to go anywhere. In the left, at the bottom of the dipthe 108th was in action, partially covered by some sparse bushes. A fewambulance waggons and some miscellaneous first-line transport were drawnup along the side of the road at the bottom of the dip. To the N. W. Wecould see for about four miles over low, rolling fields. We could seenothing to the right, as our view was blocked by a cottage and sometrees and hedges. On the roof of the cottage a wooden platform had beenmade. On it stood the General and his Chief of Staff and our Captain. Four telephone operators worked for their lives in pits breast-high, twoon each side of the road. The Signal Clerk sat at a table behind thecottage, while round him, or near him, were the motor-cyclists andcyclists. About the battle itself you know as much as I. We had wires out to allthe brigades, and along them the news would come and orders would go. The ---- are holding their position satisfactorily. Our flank is beingturned. Should be very grateful for another battalion. We are under veryheavy shell fire. Right through the battle I did not take a singlemessage. Huggie took a despatch to the 13th, and returned under veryheavy shrapnel fire, and for this was very properly mentioned indespatches. How the battle fluctuated I cannot now remember. But I can still seethose poplars almost hidden in the smoke of shrapnel. I can still hearthe festive crash of the Heavies as they fired slowly, scientifically, and well. From 9 to 12. 30 we remained there kicking our heels, feverishly calm, cracking the absurdest jokes. Then the word went roundthat on our left things were going very badly. Two battalions werehurried across, and then, of course, the attack developed even morefiercely on our right. Wounded began to come through--none groaning, but just men with theireyes clenched and great crimson bandages. An order was sent to the transport to clear back off the road. There wasa momentary panic. The waggons came through at the gallop and with themsome frightened foot-sloggers, hanging on and running for dear life. Wounded men from the firing line told us that the shrapnel wasunbearable in the trenches. A man came galloping up wildly from the Heavies. They had run out offuses. Already we had sent urgent messages to the ammunition lorries, but the road was blocked and they could not get up to us. So Grimers wassent off with a haversack--mine--to fetch fuses and hurry up thelorries. How he got there and back in the time that he did, with thetraffic that there was, I cannot even now understand. It was now about two o'clock, and every moment the news that we heardgrew worse and worse, while the wounded poured past us in a continuousstream. I gave my water-bottle to one man who was moaning for water. Ahorse came galloping along. Across the saddle-bow was a man with abloody scrap of trouser instead of a leg, while the rider, who had beenbadly wounded in the arm, was swaying from side to side. A quarter of an hour before the brigade on our right front had gone intoaction on the crest of the hill. Now they streamed back at the trot, alltelling the tale--how, before they could even unlimber, shells had comecrashing into them. The column was a lingering tragedy. There were teamswith only a limber and without a gun. And you must see it to know what atwistedly pathetic thing a gun team and limber without a gun is. Therewere bits of teams and teams with only a couple of drivers. The faces ofthe men were awful. I smiled at one or two, but they shook their headsand turned away. One sergeant as he passed was muttering to himself, asif he were repeating something over and over again so as to learn it byrote--"My gun, my gun, my gun!" At this moment an order came from some one for the motor-cyclists toretire to the farm where we had slept the night. The others went on withthe crowd, but I could not start my engine. After trying for fiveminutes it seemed to me absurd to retreat, so I went back and found thatapparently nobody had given the order. The other motor-cyclists returnedone by one as soon as they could get clear, but most of them werecarried on right past the farm. A few minutes later there was a great screaming crashoverhead--shrapnel. I ran to my bicycle and stood by waiting for orders. The General suggested mildly that we might change our headquarters. There was a second crash. We all retired about 200 yards back up theroad. There I went to the captain in the middle of the traffic and askedhim what I should do. He told us to get out of it as we could not doanything more--"You have all done magnificently"--then he gave me somemessages for our subaltern. I shouted, "So long, sir, " and left him, notknowing whether I should ever see him again. I heard afterwards that hewent back when all the operators had fled and tried to get intocommunication with our Army H. Q. Just as I had started up my engine another shell burst about 100 yardsto the left, and a moment later a big waggon drawn by two maddenedhorses came dashing down into the main street. They could not turn, sowent straight into the wall of a house opposite. There was a dull crashand a squirming heap piled up at the edge of the road. I pushed through the traffic a little and came upon a captain and asubaltern making their way desperately back. I do not know who theywere, but I heard a scrap of what they said-- "We must get back for it, " said the captain. "We shall never return, " replied the subaltern gravely. "It doesn't matter, " said the captain. "It doesn't matter, " echoed the subaltern. But I do not think the gun could have been saved. About six of us collected in a little bunch at the side of the road. Onour left we saw a line of infantry running. The road itself wasimpassable. So we determined to strike off to the right. I led the way, and though we had not the remotest conception whether we should meetBritish or German, we eventually found our way to 2nd Corps H. Q. I have only a dim remembrance of what happened there. I went into thesignal-office and reported that, so far as I knew, the 5th Division wasin flight along the Reumont-Saint-Quentin road. The sergeant in charge of the 2nd Corps Motor-cyclists offered us somehard-boiled eggs and put me in charge of our lot. Then off we went, andhitting the main road just ahead of our muddled column, halted at thedesolate little village of Estrées. It now began to rain. Soon the column came pouring past, so miserably and so slowly, --lorries, transport, guns, limbers, small batches of infantrymen, crowds ofstragglers. All were cursing the French, for right through the battle wehad expected the French to come up on our right wing. There had been awhole corps of cavalry a few miles away, but in reply to our urgentrequest for help their general had reported that his horses were tootired. How we cursed them and cursed them. After a weary hour's wait our subaltern came up, and, at my request, sent me to look for the captain. I found him about two miles this sideof Reumont, endeavouring vainly to make some sort of ordered processionout of the almost comically patchwork medley. Later I heard that thelast four hundred yards of the column had been shelled to destruction asit was leaving Reumont, and a tale is told--probably without truth--ofan officer shooting the driver of the leading motor-lorry in a hopelessendeavour to get some ammunition into the firing line. I scooted back and told the others that our captain was still alive, anda little later we pushed off into the flood. It was now getting dark, and the rain, which had held off for a little, was pouring down. Finally, we halted at a tiny cottage, and the Signal Company outspanned. We tried to make ourselves comfortable in the wet by hiding under dampstraw and putting on all available bits of clothing. But soon we wereall soaked to the skin, and it was so dark that horses wanderedperilously near. One hungry mare started eating the straw that wascovering my chest. That was enough. Desperately we got up to look roundfor some shelter, and George, our champion "scrounger, " discovered achicken-house. It is true there were nineteen fowls in it. They died asilent and, I hope, a painless death. The order came round that the motor-cyclists were to spend the night atthe cottage--the roads were utterly and hopelessly impassable--whilethe rest of the company was to go on. So we presented the company with afew fowls and investigated the cottage. It was a startling place. In one bedroom was a lunatic hag with somefood by her side. We left her severely alone. Poor soul, we could notmove her! In the kitchen we discovered coffee, sugar, salt, and onions. With the aid of our old Post Sergeant we plucked some of the chickensand put on a great stew. I made a huge basin full of coffee. The others, dead tired, went to sleep in a wee loft. I could not sleep. I was always seeing those wounded men passing, passing, and in myear--like the maddening refrain of a musical comedy ditty--there wasalways murmuring--"We shall never return. It doesn't matter. " Outsidewas the clink and clatter of the column, the pitiful curses of tiredmen, the groaning roar of the motor-lorries as they toiled up the slope. Then the Staff began to wander in one by one--on foot, exhausted andbedraggled. They loved the coffee, but only played with the chicken--Iadmit it was tough. They thought all was lost and the General killed. One murmured to another: "Magersfontein, Dour, and this--you've had somesuccessful battles. " And one went to sleep, but kept starting up, andgiving a sort of strangled shout--"All gone! All gone!" When each hadrested awhile he would ask gently for a little more coffee, rub hiseyes, and disappear into the column to tramp through the night to SaintQuentin. It was the purest melodrama. And I, too tired to sleep, too excited to think, sat sipping thickcoffee the whole night through, while the things that were happeningsoaked into me like petrol into a rag. About two hours before dawn Ipulled myself together and climbed into the loft for forty minutes'broken slumber. An hour before dawn we wearily dressed. The others devoured cold stew, and immediately there was the faintest glimmering of light we wentoutside. The column was still passing, --such haggard, broken men! Theothers started off, but for some little time I could not get my engineto fire. Then I got going. Quarter of a mile back I came upon a littledetachment of the Worcesters marching in perfect order, with a cheerysubaltern at their head. He shouted a greeting in passing. It wasUrwick, a friend of mine at Oxford. I cut across country, running into some of our cavalry on the way. Itwas just light enough for me to see properly when my engine jibbed. Icleaned a choked petrol pipe, lit a briar--never have I tasted anythingso good--and pressed on. Very bitter I felt, and when nearing Saint Quentin, some French soldiersgot in my way, I cursed them in French, then in German, and finally ingood round English oaths for cowards, and I know not what. They lookedvery startled and recoiled into the ditch. I must have lookedalarming--a gaunt, dirty, unshaven figure towering above my motor-cycle, without hat, bespattered with mud, and eyes bright and weary for want ofsleep. How I hated the French! I hated them because, as I then thought, they had deserted us at Mons and again at Le Cateau; I hated thembecause they had the privilege of seeing the British Army in confusedretreat; I hated them because their roads were very nearly as bad as theroads of the Belgians. So, wet, miserable, and angry, I came into SaintQuentin just as the sun was beginning to shine a little. CHAPTER V. THE GREAT RETREAT On the morning of the 27th we draggled into Saint Quentin. I found theothers gorged with coffee and cakes provided by a kindly Staff-Officer. I imitated them and looked around. Troops of all arms were passingthrough very wearily. The people stood about, listless and sullen. Everywhere proclamations were posted beseeching the inhabitants to bringin all weapons they might possess. We found the Signal Company, and rodeahead of it out of the town to some fields above a village calledCastres. There we unharnessed and took refuge from the gathering stormunder a half-demolished haystack. The Germans didn't agree to ourremaining for more than fifty minutes. Orders came for us to harness upand move on. I was left behind with the H. Q. S. , which had collecteditself, and was sent a few minutes later to 2nd Corps H. Q. At Ham, aride of about fifteen miles. On the way I stopped at an inn and discovered there three or four of ourmotor-cyclists, who had cut across country, and an officer. Theofficer[8] told us how he had been sent on to construct trenches at LeCateau. It seems that although he enlisted civilian help, he had neitherthe time nor the men to construct more than very makeshift affairs, which were afterwards but slightly improved by the men who occupiedthem. Five minutes and I was on the road again. It was an easy run, somethingof a joy-ride until, nearing Ham, I ran into a train of motor-lorries, which of all the parasites that infest the road are the most difficultto pass. Luckily for me they were travelling in the opposite directionto mine, so I waited until they passed and then rode into Ham anddelivered my message. The streets of Ham were almost blocked by a confused column retreatingthrough it. Officers stationed at every corner and bend were doing theirbest to reduce it to some sort of order, but with little success. Returning I was forced into a byroad by the column, lost my way, tookthe wrong road out of the town, but managed in about a couple of hoursto pick up the Signal Co. , which by this time had reached the Chateau atOleezy. There was little rest for us that night. Twice I had to run into Ham. The road was bad and full of miscellaneous transport. The night wasdark, and a thick mist clung to the road. Returning the second time, Iwas so weary that I jogged on about a couple of miles beyond my turningbefore I woke up sufficiently to realise where I was. The next morning (the 28th) we were off before dawn. So tired were wethat I remember we simply swore at each other for nothing at all. Wewaited, shivering in the morning cold, until the column was well on itsway. At Oleezy the Division began to find itself. Look at the map and thinkfor a moment what the men had done. On the 21st they had advanced fromLandrecies to Bavai, a fair day's march on a blazing day. On the 22ndthey had marched from Bavai to the Canal. From the morning of the 23rdto midday or later on the 24th they had fought hard. On the afternoonand evening of the 24th they had retired to the Bavai-Saint-Waast line. Before dawn on the morning of the 25th they had started off again andmarched in column of route on another blazing day back to a position afew miles south of Le Cateau. The battle had begun as the sun rose onthe 26th, and continued until three o'clock or later in the afternoon. They plodded through the darkness and the rain. No proper halt was madeuntil midday of the 27th. The General, who had escaped, and the Staff worked with ferociousenergy, as we very painfully knew. Battalions bivouacked in the openfields round Oleezy collected the stragglers that came in andreorganised themselves. The cavalry were between us and Saint Quentin. We were in communication with them by despatch rider. Trains full ofFrench troops passed westwards over Oleezy bridge. There were, Ibelieve, General d'Amade's two reserve divisions. We had walked awayfrom the Germans. We rode after the column. On the way we passed a battalion of men whohad been on outpost duty with nothing but a biscuit and a half apiece. They broke their ranks to snatch at some meat that had been dumped bythe roadside, and gnawed it furiously as they marched along until theblood ran down from their chins on to their jackets. I shall never forget how our General saw a batch of Gordons and K. O. S. B. Stragglers trudging listlessly along the road. He halted them. Somemore came up until there was about a company in all, and with one piper. He made them form fours, put the piper at the head of them. "Now, lads, follow the piper, and remember Scotland"; and they all started off aspleased as Punch with the tired piper playing like a hero. Oving or the Fat Boy volunteered to take a message to a body of cavalrythat was covering our rear. He found them, and then, being mapless (mapswere very scarce in those days), he lost his way. There was no sun, sohe rode in what he thought was the right direction, until suddenly hediscovered that he was two kilometres from Saint Quentin. As the Germanswere officially reported to be five miles south of the town he turnedback and fled into the darkness. He slept that night at a cottage, andpicked up the Division in the morning. I was sent on to fill up with petrol wherever I could find it. I wasforced to ride on for about four miles to some cross-roads. There Ifound a staff-car that had some petrol to spare. It was now very hot, soI had a bit of a sleep on the dusty grass by the side of the road, thensat up to watch lazily the 2nd Corps pass. The troops were quite cheerful and on the whole marching well. Therewere a large number of stragglers, but the majority of them were notmen who had fallen out, but men who had become separated from theirbattalions at Le Cateau. A good many were badly footsore. These werebeing crowded into lorries and cars. There was one solitary desolate figure. He was evidently a reservist, afeeble little man of about forty, with three days' growth on his chin. He was very, very tired, but was struggling along with an unconquerablespirit. I gave him a little bit of chocolate I had; but he wouldn't stopto eat it. "I can't stop. If I does, I shall never get there. " So hechewed it, half-choking, as he stumbled along. I went a few paces afterhim. Then Captain Dillon came up, stopped us, and put the poor fellow ina staff-car and sent him along a few miles in solitary grandeur, morenervous than comfortable. Eventually the company came along and I joined. Two miles farther wecame to a biggish town with white houses that simply glared withheat. [9] My water-bottle was empty, so I humbly approached a good ladywho was doling out cider and water at her cottage door. It did tastegood! A little farther on I gave up my bicycle to Spuggy, who was ridingin the cable-cart. We jolted along at about two miles an hour. For some time two spiesunder escort walked beside the limber. Unlike most spies they lookedtheir part. One was tall and thin and handsome. The other was short andfat and ugly. The fear of death was on their faces, and the jeers of ourmen died in their mouths. They were marched along for two days until aCourt could be convened. Then they were shot. Just before Noyon we turned off to the left and halted for half an hourat Landrimont, a little village full of big trees. We had omelettes andcoffee at the inn, then basked in the sun and smoked. Noyon wasunattractive. The people did not seem to care what happened to anybody. Perhaps we thought that, because we were very tired. Outside Noyon Idozed, then went off to sleep. When I awoke it was quite dark, and the column had halted. The ordercame for all except the drivers to dismount and proceed on foot. Thebridge ahead was considered unsafe, so waggons went across singly. I walked on into the village, Pontoise. There were no lights, and themain street was illuminated only by the lanterns of officers seekingtheir billets. An A. S. C. Officer gave me a lift. Our H. Q. Were right theother end of the town in the Chateau of the wee hamlet called LaPommeraye. I found them, stumbled into a loft, and dropped down for asleep. We were called fairly late. [10] George and I rode into Pontoise and"scrounged" for eggs and bread. These we took to a small and smellycottage. The old woman of the cottage boiled our eggs and gave uscoffee. It was a luxurious breakfast. I was looking forward to a slacklazy day in the sun, for we were told that we had for the momentoutdistanced the gentle Germans. But my turn came round horribly soon, and I was sent off to Compiègne with a message for G. H. Q. , and orders tofind our particularly elusive Div. Train. It was a gorgeous ride along amagnificent road, through the great forest, and I did the twenty oddmiles in forty odd minutes. G. H. Q. Was installed in the Palace. Everybody seemed very clean andlordly, and for a moment I was ashamed of my dirty, ragged, unshornself. Then I realised that I was "from the Front"--a magic phrase toconjure with for those behind the line--and swaggered through longcorridors. After delivering my message I went searching for the Div. Train. First, I looked round the town for it, then I had wind of it at the station, but at the station it had departed an hour or so before. I returned toG. H. Q. , but there they knew nothing. I tried every road leading out ofthe town. Finally, having no map, and consequently being unable to makea really thorough search, I had a drink, and started off back. When I returned I found everybody was getting ready to move, so I packedup. This time the motor-cyclists rode in advance of the column. Abouttwo miles out I found that the others had dropped behind out of sight. Iwent on into Carlepont, and made myself useful to the Billeting Officer. The others arrived later. It seems there had been a rumour of Uhlans onthe road, and they had come along fearfully. The troops marched in, singing and cheering. It was unbelievable whathalf a day's rest had done for them. Of course you must remember that weall firmly believed, except in our moments of deepest despondency, first, that we could have held the Germans at Mons and Le Cateau if theFrench had not "deserted" us, and second, that our retreat was merely a"mouvement stratégique. " There was nothing doing at the Signal Office, so we went and had somefood--cold sausage and coffee. Our hostess was buxom and hilarious. There was also a young girl about the place, Hélène. She was of a middlesize, serious and dark, with a mass of black lustreless hair. She couldnot have been more than nineteen. Her baby was put to bed immediatelywe arrived. We loved them both, because they were the first women we hadmet since Mons who had not wanted to know why we were retreating and hadnot received the same answer--"mouvement stratégique pour attaquer lemieux. " I had a long talk that night with Hélène as she stood at herdoor. Behind us the dark square was filled with dark sleeping soldiers, the noise of snoring and the occasional clatter of moving horses. Finally, I left her and went to sleep on the dusty boards of an attic inthe Chateau. We were called when it was still dark and very cold (August 30). I wasvainly trying to warm myself at a feeble camp fire when the order cameto move off--without breakfast. The dawn was just breaking when we setout--to halt a hundred yards or so along. There we shivered for half anhour with nothing but a pipe and a scrap of chocolate that had got stuckat the bottom of my greatcoat pocket. Finally, the motor-cyclists, totheir great relief, were told that they might go on ahead. The Grimersand I cut across a country to get away from the column. We climbed animmense hill in the mist, and proceeding by a devious route eventuallybustled into Attichy, where we found a large and dirty inn containingnothing but some bread and jam. The column was scheduled to go tenmiles farther, but "the situation being favourable" it was decided to gono farther. Headquarters were established by the roadside, and I wassent off to a jolly village right up on the hill to halt some sappers, and then back along the column to give the various units the names oftheir billets. We supped off the sizzling bacon and slept on the grass by the side ofthe road. That night George burned his Rudge. It was an accident, but wewere none too sorry, for it had given much trouble. There were messagesright through the night. At one in the morning I was sent off to aChateau in the Forest of Compiègne. I had no map, and it was a pureaccident that I found my way there and back. The next day (Aug. 31) was a joyous ride. We went up and down hills to acalm, lazy little village, Haute Fontaine. There we took a wrong turningand found ourselves in a blackberry lane. It was the hottest, pleasantest of days, and forgetting all about the more seriousthings--we could not even hear the guns--we filled up with the softest, ripest of fruit. Three of us rode together, N'Soon, Grimers, and myself. I don't know how we found our way. We just wandered on through sleepy, cobbled villages, along the top of ridges with great misty views and byquiet streams. Just beyond a village stuck on to the side of a hill, wecame to a river, and through the willows we saw a little church. It wasjust like the Happy Valley that's over the fields from Burford. We all sang anything we could remember as we rattled along. The bits ofcolumns that we passed did not damp us, for they consisted only oftransport, and transport can never be tragic--even in a retreat. Themost it can do is to depress you with a sense of unceasing monotonouseffort. About three o'clock we came to a few houses--Béthancourt. There was anomelette, coffee, and pears for us at the inn. The people werefrightened. Why are the English retreating? Are they defeated? No, it is only a strategical movement. Will the dirty Germans pass by here? We had better pack up our traps and fly. We were silent for a moment, then I am afraid I lied blandly. Oh no, this is as far as we go. But I had reckoned without my host, a lean, wiry old fellow, a bit stiffabout the knees. First of all he proudly showed me his soldier'sbook--three campaigns in Algeria. A crowd of smelly women pressed roundus--luckily we had finished our meal--while with the help of a fewknives and plates he explained exactly what a strategical movement was, and demonstrated to the satisfaction of everybody except ourselves thatthe valley we were in was obviously the place "pour reculer le mieux. " We had been told that our H. O. Were going to be at a place calledBéthisy St Martin, so on we went. A couple of miles from Béthisy we cameupon a billeting party of officers sitting in the shade of a big tree bythe side of the road. Had we heard that the Germans were at Compiègne, ten miles or so over the hill? No, we hadn't. Was it safe to go on intoBéthisy? None of us had an idea. We stopped and questioned a "civvy"push-cyclist. He had just come from Béthisy and had seen no Germans. Theofficers started arguing whether or no they should wait for an escort. We got impatient and slipped on. Of course there was nothing in Béthisyexcept a wide-eyed population, a selection of smells, and a vastcongregation of chickens. The other two basked on some hay in the sun, while I went back and pleased myself immensely by reporting to theofficers who were timorously trotting along that there wasn't a sign ofa Uhlan. We rested a bit. One of us suggested having a look round for some Uhlansfrom the top of the nearest hill. It was a terrific climb up a narrowtrack, but our bicycles brought us up magnificently. From the top wecould see right away to the forest of Compiègne, but a judicious bit ofscouting produced nothing. Coming down we heard from a passing car that H. Q. Were to be atCrêpy-en-Valois, a biggish old place about four miles away to the souththe other side of Béthancourt. We arrived there just as the sun wasgoing to set. It was a confusing place, crammed full of transport, but Ifound my way to our potential H. Q. With the aid of a joyous littleflapper on my carrier. Then I remembered I had left my revolver behind on the hill aboveBéthisy. Just before I started I heard that there were bags of Uhlanscoming along over the hills and through the woods. But there was nothingfor it but to go back, and back I went. It was a bestial climb in thedusk. On my way back I saw some strange-looking figures in the groundsof a chateau. So I opened my throttle and thundered past. Later I found that the figures belonged to the rest of themotor-cyclists. The chateau ought to have been our H. Q. , and arrivingthere they had been entertained to a sit-down tea and a bath. We had a rotten night--nothing between me and a cold, hard tiled floorexcept a waterproof sheet, but no messages. We woke very early (September 1st) to the noise of guns. The Germanswere attacking vigorously, having brought up several brigades of Jaegersby motor-bus. The 15th was on our left, the 13th was holding the hillabove Béthancourt, and the 14th was scrapping away on the right. Theguns were ours, as the Germans didn't appear to have any with them. Idid a couple of messages out to the 15th. The second time I came backwith the news that their left flank was being turned. A little later one of our despatch riders rode in hurriedly. He reportedthat, while he was riding along the road to the 15th, he had been shotat by Uhlans whom he had seen distinctly. At the moment it was of theutmost importance to get a despatch through to the 15th. The Skipperoffered to take it, but the General refused his offer. A second despatch rider was carefully studying his map. It seemed to himabsolutely inconceivable that Uhlans should be at the place where thefirst despatch rider had seen them. They must either have ridden rightround our left flank and left rear, or else broken through the line. Sohe offered boldly to take the despatch. He rode by a slightly roundabout road, and reached the 15th in safety. On his way back he saw a troop of North Irish Horse. In the meantime theDivisional Headquarters had left Crépy in great state, the men withrifles in front, and taken refuge on a hill south-east of the town. Onhis return the despatch rider was praised mightily for his work, but tothis day he believes the Uhlans were North Irish Horse and the bullets"overs"[11]--to this day the first despatch rider contradicts him. The Division got away from Crépy with the greatest success. The 13thslaughtered those foolish Huns that tried to charge up the hill in theface of rifle, machine-gun, and a considerable shell fire. The Duke ofWellington's laid a pretty little ambush and hooked a car containing thegeneral and staff of the 1st Cavalry Division. The prisoners wereremorsefully shot, as it would have been impossible to bring them awayunder the heavy fire. We jogged on to Nanteuil, all of us very pleased with ourselves, particularly the Duke of Wellington's, who were loaded with spoils, anda billeting officer who, running slap into some Uhlans, had been firedat all the way from 50 yards' range to 600 and hadn't been hit. I obtained leave to give a straggler a lift of a couple of miles. He wasembarrassingly grateful. The last few miles was weary work for the men. Remember they had marched or fought, or more often both, every day sinceour quiet night at Landrecies. The road, too, was the very roughest_pavé_, though I remember well a little forest of bracken and pines wewent through. Being "a would-be literary bloke, " I murmured "Scottish";being tired I forgot it from the moment after I saw it until now. There was no rest at Nanteuil. I took the Artillery Staff Captain roundthe brigades on my carrier, and did not get back until 10. A bit of hotstew and a post-card from home cheered me. I managed a couple of hours'sleep. We turned out about 3, the morning of September 2nd. It was quite darkand bitterly cold. Very sleepily indeed we rode along an exiguous pathby the side of the cobbles. The sun had risen, but it was still coldwhen we rattled into that diabolical city of lost souls, Dammartin. Nobody spoke as we entered. Indeed there were only a few haggard, uglyold women, each with a bit of a beard and a large goitre. One came up tome and chattered at me. Then suddenly she stopped and rushed away, stillgibbering. We asked for a restaurant. A stark, silent old man, with agoitre, pointed out an _estaminet_. There we found four motionless men, who looked up at us with expressionless eyes. Chilled, we withdrew intothe street. Silent, melancholy soldiers--the H. Q. Of some army ordivision--were marching miserably out. We battered at the door of ahotel for twenty minutes. We stamped and cursed and swore, but no onewould open. Only a hideous and filthy crowd stood round, and not one ofthem moved a muscle. Finally, we burst into a bare little inn, and hadsuch a desolate breakfast of sour wine, bread, and bully. We finished assoon as we could to leave the nightmare place. Even the houses weregaunt and ill-favoured. On our way out we came across a deserted motor-cycle. Some one suggestedsending it on by train, until some one else remarked that there were notrains, and this was fifteen miles from Paris. We cut across country, rejoined the column, and rode with it toVinantes, passing on the way a lost motor-lorry. The driver was tearinghis hair in an absolute panic. We told him the Germans were just a fewmiles along the road; but we wished we hadn't when, in hurriedlyreversing to escape, he sent a couple of us into the ditch. At Vinantes we "requisitioned" a car, some chickens, and a pair ofboots. There was a fusty little tavern down the street, full of laughingsoldiers. In the corner a fat, middle-aged woman sat weeping quietly ona sack. The host, sullen and phlegmatic, answered every question with ashake of the head and a muttered "N'importe. " The money he threwcontemptuously on the counter. The soldiers thought they were spies. "Asspeaking the langwidge, " I asked him what the matter was. "They say, sir, that this village will be shelled by the cursed Germans, and the order has gone out to evacuate. " Then, suddenly his face became animated, and he told me volubly how hehad been born in the village, how he had been married there, how he hadkept the _estaminet_ for twenty years, how all the leading men of thevillage came of an evening and talked over the things that werehappening in Paris. He started shouting, as men will-- "What does it matter what I sell, what I receive? What does it matter, for have I not to leave all this?" Then his wife came up and put her hand on his arm-- "Now, now; give the gentlemen their beer. " I bought some cherry brandy and came away. I was sent on a couple of messages that afternoon: one to trace atelephone wire to a deserted station with nothing in it but a sack ofexcellent potatoes, another to an officer whom I could not find. Iwaited under a tree eating somebody else's pears until I was told he hadgone mad, and was wandering aimlessly about. It was a famous night for me. I was sent off to Dammartin, and knewsomething would go wrong. It did. A sentry all but shot me. I nearlyrode into an unguarded trench across the road, and when I started backwith my receipt my bicycle would not fire. I found that the mechanic atDammartin had filled my tank with water. It took me two hours, two luridhours, to take that water out. It was three in the morning when I gotgoing. I was badly frightened the Division had gone on, because I hadn'tthe remotest conception where it was going to. When I got back H. Q. Werestill at Vinantes. I retired thankfully to my bed under the stars, listening dreamily to Grimers, who related how a sentry had fired athim, and how one bullet had singed the back of his neck. We left Vinantes not too early after breakfast, --a comfort, as we hadall of us been up pretty well the whole night. Grimers was still upsetat having been shot at by sentries. I had been going hard, and had hadonly a couple of hours' sleep. We rode on in advance of the company. Itwas very hot and dusty, and when we arrived at Crécy with several hoursto spare, we first had a most excellent omelette and then a shave, ahair-cut, and a wash. Crécy was populous and excited. It made us joyousto think we had reached a part of the country where the shops were open, people pursuing their own business, where there was no dumblyreproaching glance for us in our retreat. We had been told that our H. Q. That night were going to be at thechateau of a little village called La Haute Maison. Three of us arrivedthere and found the caretaker just leaving. We obtained the key, andwhen he had gone did a little bit of looting on our own. First we had agreat meal of lunch-tongue, bread, wine, and stewed pears. Then wecarefully took half a dozen bottles of champagne and hid them, togetherwith some other food-stuffs, in the middle of a big bed of nettles. Amiscellaneous crowd of cows were wandering round the house lowingpitifully. We were just about to make a heroic effort at milking when the 3rd Div. Billeting officer arrived and told us that the 5th Div. H. Q. Would bethat night at Bouleurs, farther back. We managed to carry off thefood-stuffs, but the champagne is probably still in the nettles. And thebottles are standing up too. We found the company encamped in a schoolhouse, our fat signal-sergeantdoing dominie at the desk. I made himself a comfortable sleeping-placewith straw, then went out on the road to watch the refugees pass. I don't know what it was. It may have been the bright and clear eveningglow, but--you will laugh--the refugees seemed to me absurdly beautiful. A dolorous, patriarchal procession of old men with white beards leadingtheir asthmatic horses that drew huge country carts piled with clothes, furniture, food, and pets. Frightened cows with heavy swinging udderswere being piloted by lithe middle-aged women. There was one girldemurely leading goats. In the full crudity of curve and distinctness ofline she might have sat for Steinlen, --there was a brownness, too, inthe atmosphere. Her face was olive and of perfect proportions; hereyelashes long and black. She gave me a terrified side-glance, and Ithought I was looking at the picture of the village flirt in sereneflight. I connect that girl with a whisky-and-soda, drunk about midnight out ofa tin mug under the trees, thanks to the kindness of the DivisionalTrain officers. It did taste fine. The next day (September 4th) I was attached to the Divisional Cyclists. We spent several hours on the top of a hill, looking right across thevalley for Germans. I was glad of the rest, as very early in the morningI had been sent off at full speed to prevent an officer blowing up abridge. Luckily I blundered into one of his men, and scooting across amile of heavy plough, I arrived breathless at the bridge, but just intime. The bridge in the moonlight looked like a patient horse waiting tobe whipped on the raw. The subaltern was very angry. There had been analarm of Uhlans, and his French escort had retired from the bridge tosafer quarters.... I shared Captain Burnett's lunch, and later went to fetch some men froma bridge that we had blown up. It seemed to me at the time that thebridge had been blown up very badly. As a matter of fact, Germaninfantry crossed it four hours after I had left it. We had "the wind up" that afternoon. It appears that a patrol of sixUhlans had either been cut off or had somehow got across the river atMeaux. Anyway, they rode past an unsuspecting sleepy outpost of ours, and spread alarm through the division. Either the division was panickyor the report had become exaggerated on the way to H. Q. Batteries wereput into position on the Meaux road, and there was a general liveliness. I got back from a hard but unexciting day's work with the Cyclists tofind that the Germans had got across in very fact, though not at Meaux, and that we were going to do a further bunk that night. We cursed thegentle Germans heartily and well. About 10. 30 the three of us who weregoing on started. We found some convoys on the way, delivered messages, and then I, who was leading, got badly lost in the big Villeneuveforest--I forgot the name of it at the moment. [12] Of course I pretendedthat we were taking the shortest road, and luck, which is always with mewhen I've got to find anything, didn't desert me that night. At dead of night we echoed into the Chateau at Tournan, roused someservants, and made them get us some bread, fruit, and mattresses. Thebread and fruit we devoured, together with a lunch-tongue, from thatexcellent Chateau at La Haute Maison--the mattresses we took into alarge airy room and slept on, until we were wakened by the peevishtones of the other motor-cyclists who had ridden with the column. One ofthem had fallen asleep on his bicycle and disappeared into a ditch, butthe other two were so sleepy they did not hear him. We were all wearyand bad-tempered, while a hot dusty day, and a rapid succession oflittle routine messages, did not greatly cheer us. At Tournan, appropriately, we turned. We were only a few miles S. -E. OfParis. The Germans never got farther than Lagny. There they came intotouch with our outposts, so the tactful French are going to raise amonument to Jeanne d'Arc--a reminder, I suppose, that even we and theycommitted atrocities sometime. FOOTNOTES: [8] I do not know who the officer was, and I give the story as I wroteit in a letter home--for what it is worth. [9] It must have been Guiscard. [10] August 29th. [11] Stray bullets that, fired too high, miss their mark, andoccasionally hit men well behind the actual firing line. [12] Forêt de Crécy. CHAPTER VI. OVER THE MARNE TO THE AISNE The morning of September 5th was very hot, but the brigades could easilybe found, and the roads to them were good. There was cheerfulness in theair. A rumour went round--it was quite incredible, and we scoffed--thatinstead of further retreating either beyond or into the fortificationsof Paris, there was a possibility of an advance. The Germans, we weretold, had at last been outflanked. Joffre's vaunted plan that hadinspired us through the dolorous startled days of retirement was, itappeared, a fact, and not one of those bright fancies that the Staffinvents for our tactical delectation. Spuggy returned. He had left us at Bouleurs to find a bicycle in Paris. Coming back he had no idea that we had moved. So he rode too far north. He escaped luckily. He was riding along about three hundred yards behindtwo motor-cyclists. Suddenly he saw them stop abruptly and put up theirhands. He fled. A little farther on he came to a village and asked forcoffee. He heard that Uhlans had been there a few hours before, and wastaken to see a woman who had been shot through the breast. Then he wentsouth through Villeneuve, and following a fortunate instinct, ran intoour outposts the other side of Tournan. We all slept grandly on mattresses. It was the first time we had beentwo nights in the same place since Dour. We awoke early to a gorgeous day. We were actually going to advance. Thenews put us in marvellous good temper. For the first time in myrecollection we offered each other our bacon, and one at the end ofbreakfast said he had had enough. The Staff was almost giggling, and abattalion (the Cheshires, I think) that we saw pass, was absolutelyshouting with joy. You would have thought we had just gained a famousvictory. Half of us went forward with the column. The rest remained for aslaughterous hour. First we went to the hen-house, and in ten minuteshad placed ten dripping victims in the French gendarme captain's car. Then George and I went in pursuit of a turkey for the Skipper. It was anelusive bird with a perfectly Poultonian swerve, but with a bagful ofcurses, a bleeding hand, and a large stick, I did it to death. We set out merrily and picked up Spuggy, Cecil, and George in the bigforest that stretches practically from the Marne to Tournan. Theythought they had heard a Uhlan, but nothing came of it (he turned out tobe a deer), so we went on to Villeneuve. There I bought some biscuitsand George scrounged some butter. A job to the 3rd Division on our rightand another in pursuit of an errant officer, and then a sweaty andexiguous lunch--it was a sweltering noon--seated on a blisteringpavement. Soon after lunch three of us were sent on to Mortcerf, avillage on a hill to the north of the forest. We were the first Englishthere--the Germans had left it in the morning--and the whole population, including one strikingly pretty flapper, turned out to welcome us intheir best clean clothes, --it may have been Sunday. We accepted any quantity of gorgeous, luscious fruit, retiring modestlyto a shady log to eat it, and smoke a delectable pipe. In a quarter ofan hour Major Hildebrand of the 2nd Corps turned up in his car, andlater the company. Pollers had had a little adventure. He was with some of our men when hesaw a grey figure coming down one of the glades to the road. We knewthere were many stray Uhlans in the forest who had been left behind byour advance. The grey figure was stalked, unconscious of his danger. Pollers had a shot with his revolver, luckily without effect, for thefigure turned out to be our blasphemous farrier, who had gone into theforest, clad only in regulation grey shirt and trousers, to find somewater. Later in the afternoon I was sent off to find the North Irish Horse. Idiscovered them four miles away in the first flush of victory. They hadhad a bit of a scrap with Uhlans, and were proudly displaying to anadmiring brigade that was marching past a small but select collection ofhorses, lances, and saddles. This afternoon George smashed up his bicycle, the steering head givingat a corner. We bivouacked on the drive, but the hardness of our bed didn't matter, as we were out all night--all of us, including the two, Grimers andCecil. It was nervous riding in the forest. All the roads looked exactlyalike, and down every glade we expected a shot from derelict Uhlans. That night I thought out plots for at least four stories. It would havebeen three, but I lost my way, and was only put right by striking awandering convoy. I was in search of the Division Train. I looked forit at Tournan and at Villeneuve and right through the forest, butcouldn't find it. I was out from ten to two, and then again from two tofive, with messages for miscellaneous ammunition columns. I collared anhour's sleep and, by mistake, a chauffeur's overcoat, which led torecriminations in the morning. But the chauffeur had an unfairadvantage. I was too tired to reply. Grimers, who cannot see well at night, was terrified when he had to takea despatch through the forest. He rode with a loaded revolver in onehand, and was only saved from shooting a wretched transport officer by awild cry, "For God's sake, look what you're doing. " The eldest Cecil reported a distinct smell of dead horses at the obeliskin the forest. At least he rather thought they were dead donkeys. Thesmell was a little different--more acrid and unpleasant. We told himthat there were eight dead Germans piled at the side of the road, and wereminded him that it had been a sweltering day. We were terribly tired in the morning. Spuggy, George, and Orr went offto Paris for new bicycles, and we were left short-handed again. Anothertropical day. The Skipper rode the spare bike with great dash, the elder Cecil and Iattendant. We sprinted along a good straight road to the cobbled, crowded little town of Faremoutiers. Then we decided to advance toMouroux, our proposed headquarters. It was a haggard village, just offthe road. We arrived there about twelve: the Germans had departed atsix, leaving behind them a souvenir in the dead body of a fellow fromthe East Lancs. Crumpled in a ditch. He had been shot while eating. Itwas my first corpse. I am afraid I was not overwhelmed with thoughts ofthe fleetingness of life or the horror of death. If I remember myfeelings aright, they consisted of a pinch of sympathy mixed with atrifle of disgust, and a very considerable hunger, which some apples bythe roadside did something to allay. I shall never forget Mouroux. It was just a little square of old houses. Before the Mairie was placed a collection of bottles from which theSales Boches had very properly drunk. French proclamations werescribbled over with coarse, heavy jests. The women were almosthysterical with relieved anxiety. The men were still sullen, and, thoughthey looked well fed, begged for bread. A German knapsack that I hadpicked up and left in charge of some villagers was torn to shreds infierce hatred when my back was turned. It was very lonely there in the sun. We had outstripped theadvance-guard by mistake and were relieved when it came up. We made prisoner of a German who had overslept himself because he hadhad a bath. I rushed back with Grimers on my carrier to fetch another bicycle. On myreturn my engine suddenly produced an unearthly metallic noise. It wasonly an aeroplane coming down just over my head. In the late afternoon we marched into Coulommiers. The people crowdedinto the streets and cheered us. The girls, with tears in their eyes, handed us flowers. Three of us went to the Mairie. The Maire, a courtly little fellow intop-hat and frock-coat, welcomed us in charming terms. Two fat old womenrushed up to us and besought us to allow them to do something for us. Weset one to make us tea, and the other to bring us hot water and soap. A small girl of about eight brought me her kitten and wanted to give itme. I explained to her that it would not be very comfortable tied withpink ribbons to my carrier. She gravely assented, sat on my knee, toldme I was very dirty, and commanded me to kill heaps and heaps ofGermans. She didn't like them; they had beards! You know those fierce middle-aged Frenchwomen of the _bourgeois_ class, hard as Scotsmen, close as Jews, and with feelings about as fine asthose of a motor-bus. She was one of them, and she was the foremost of alargish crowd that collected round me. With her was a pretty girl ofabout twenty-two. The mother began with a rhetorical outburst against all Germans, anathematising in particular those who had spent the last fortnight inCoulommiers, in which town her uncle had set up his business, which, though it had proved successful, as they all knew, &c. , &c. The crowdmurmured that they did all know. Then the old harridan chanted thewrongs which the Germans had wrought until, when she had worked thecrowd and herself up to a heat of furious excitement, she lowered hervoice, suddenly lowered her tone. In a grating whisper she narrated, inmore detail than I cared to hear, the full story of how her daughter--towhom she pointed--had been shamefully treated by the Germans. The crowdgrowled. The daughter was, I think, more pleased at being the object ofmy sympathy and the centre of the crowd's interest than agonised at theremembrance of her misfortune. Some of the company coming up saved me from the recital of furtheroutrages. The hag told them of a house where the Germans had left arifle or two and some of our messages which they had intercepted. Thegirl hesitated a moment, and then followed. I started hastily to go on, but the girl, hearing the noise of my engine, ran back to bid me anunembarrassed farewell. I rode through Coulommiers, a jolly rambling old town, to our billet ina suburban villa on the Rebais road. The Division was marching past inthe very best of spirits. We, who were very tired, endeavoured to makeourselves comfortable--we were then blanketless--on the abhorrentsurface of a narrow garden path. That night a 2nd Corps despatch rider called in half an hour before hisdeath. We have heard many explanations of how he died. He crashed into aGerman barricade, and we discovered him the next morning with his eyesclosed, neatly covered with a sheet, in a quaint little house at theentrance to the village of Doué. At dawn (Sept. 8th) the others went on with the column. I was sent backwith a despatch for Faremoutiers, and then was detailed to remain for anhour with Cecil. Ten minutes after my return the Fat Boy rode in, greatly excited. He had gone out along the Aulnoy road with a message, and round a corner had run into a patrol of Uhlans. He kept his head, turned quickly, and rode off in a shower of bullets. He wastremendously indignant, and besought some cavalry who were passing togo in pursuit. We heard the rumble of guns and started in a hurry after the column. Sergeant Merchant's bicycle--our spare, a Rudge--burnt out its clutch, and we left it in exchange for some pears at a cottage with a deliciousgarden in Champbreton. Doué was a couple of miles farther on. Colonel Sawyer, D. D. M. S. , stopped me anxiously, and asked me to go andsee if I could recognise the despatch rider's corpse. I meditated overit for a few minutes, then ran on to the signal-office by the roadside. There I exchanged my old bike for a new one which had been discovered ina cottage. Nothing was wrong with my ancient grid except a buckled backrim, due to collision with a brick when riding without a lamp. One ofthe company rode it quietly to Serches, then it went on the side-car, and was eventually discarded at Beuvry. I found the Division very much in action. The object of the Germans was, by an obstinate rearguard action, to hold first the line of the PetitMorin and second the line La Ferté to the hills north of Méry, so thattheir main body might get back across the Marne and continue northwardtheir retreat, necessitated by our pressure on their flank. This retreatagain was to be as slow as possible, to prevent an outflanking of thewhole. Our object was obviously to prevent them achieving theirs. Look at the map and grasp these three things:-- 1. The two rivers--the Petit Morin debouching so as to cover the German left centre. 2. From La Ferté westwards the rivers run in deep ravines, hemmed in by precipitous thickly-wooded hills. 3. Only two bridges across the Marne remained--one large one at La Ferté and one small one at Saacy. When I arrived at Doué the Germans were holding the Forest of Jouarre inforce. They were in moderate force on the south bank of the Petit Morin, and had some guns, but not many, on the north bank. Here is a tale of how glory may be forced upon the unwilling. There were troops on the road running south from Jouarre. They might beGermans retreating. They might be the 3rd Corps advancing. The Staffwanted to know at once, and, although a despatch rider had already beensent west to ride up the road from the south, it was thought thatanother despatch rider skirting the east side of the Bois de Jouarremight find out more quickly. So the captain called for volunteers. [Illustration: THE MARNE(LAGNY _TO_ CHÂTEAU-THIERRY)] Now one despatch rider had no stomach for the job. He sat behind a treeand tried to look as if he had not heard the captain's appeal. Thesergeant in charge had faith in him and, looking round, said in a loudvoice, "Here is Jones!" (it is obviously impolitic for me to give evenhis nickname, if I wish to tell the truth). The despatch rider jumpedup, pretended he knew nothing of what was going forward, and asked whatwas required. He was told, and with sinking heart enthusiasticallyvolunteered for the job. He rode off, taking the road by La Chevrie Farm. Beyond the farm theGermans sniped him unmercifully, but (so he told me) he got well down onthe tank and rode "all out" until he came to the firing line justsouth-west of the farm to the north of Chevrie. Major Buckle came out ofhis ditch to see what was wanted. The rifle fire seemed to increase. Theair was buzzing, and just in front of his bicycle multitudinous littlespurts of dust flecked the road. It was distinctly unpleasant, and, as Major Buckle persisted in standingin the middle of the road instead of taking the despatch rider with himinto his ditch, the despatch rider had to stand there too, horriblyfrightened. The Major said it was impossible to go farther. There wasonly a troop of cavalry, taking careful cover, at the farm in front, and-- "My God, man, you're under machine-gun fire. " So that's what it is, murmured the despatch rider to himself, notgreatly cheered. He saw he could not get to any vantage point by thatroad, and it seemed best to get back at once. He absolutely streakedalong back to D. H. Q. , stopping on the way very much against his will todeliver a message from Major Buckle to the Duke of Wellington's who werein support. He gave in his report, such as it was, to Colonel Romer, and waspraised. Moral: Be called away by some pressing engagement _before_ thecaptain calls for volunteers. May _Gott strafe_ thoroughly allinterfering sergeants! The Headquarters Staff advanced in an hour or so to some houses. The 3rdCorps, consisting of the 4th Division and the unlucky 19th Brigade, hadpushed on with tremendous dash towards Jouarre, and we learnt from anaeroplane which dropped a message on the hill at Doué that the generalsituation was favourable. The Germans were crowding across the bridge atLa Ferté under heavy shell fire, but unluckily we could not hit theblighted bridge. It was now midday and very hot. There was little water. We had beenadvancing over open fields without a vestige of shade. Under cover of their guns the Germans fled across the Petit Morin insuch confusion that they did not even hold the very defensible heightsto the north of the river. We followed on their heels through St Ouenand up the hill behind the village. Three of us went on ahead and satfor two hours in a trench with borrowed rifles waiting for the Germansto come out of a wood. But it began to rain very hard, and the Germanscame on the other side and were taken by the Cyclists. It was just getting dark when we rendezvoused at the cross-roads ofCharnesseuil. The village was battered by our guns, but the villagersdid not mind a scrap and welcomed us with screams of joy. The local innwas reopened with cheers, and in spite of the fact that there were twodead horses, very evil-smelling, just outside, we had drinks all round. We were interrupted by laughter and cheers. We rushed out to see thequaintest procession coming from the west into Charnesseuil. Seventy oddimmense Prussian Guards were humbly pushing in the bicycles of forty ofour Divisional Cyclists, who were dancing round them in delight. Theyhad captured a hundred and fifty of them, but our guns had shelled them, luckily without doing much damage to the Cyclists, so loading up theprisoners with all their kit and equipment, and making them lead theircaptors' bicycles, the Cyclists brought them in triumph for theinspection of the Staff. It was a great moment. I was very tired, and, careless of who passed, stretched myself at theside of the road for a sleep. I was wakened an hour later, and we allwent along together to the chateau. There we slept in the hall beforethe contented faces of some fine French pictures--or the majority ofthem, --the rest were bestially slashed. At the break of dawn (Sept. 9th) I was sent off to the 14th Brigade, which composed the advance-guard. Scouts had reported that Saacy hadbeen evacuated by the enemy. So we pushed on cautiously and tookpossession of the bridge. I came up with the Brigade Staff on a common at the top of thesucceeding hill, having been delayed by a puncture. Nixon, the S. O. , told me that a battery of ours in position on the common to the south ofthe farm would open fire in a few minutes. The German guns would reply, but would be quickly silenced. In the meantime I was to take shelter inthe farm. I had barely put my bicycle under cover in the courtyard when theGermans opened fire, not at our guns but at a couple of companies of theManchesters who were endeavouring to take cover just north of the farm. In the farm I found King and his platoon of Cyclists. Shrapnel bulletssimply rattled against the old house, and an occasional common shelldropped near by way of variety. The Cyclists were restive, and I wastoo, so to relieve the situation I proposed breakfast. King and I hadhalf a loaf of Saacy bread and half a pot of jam I always carried aboutwith me. The rest went to the men. Our breakfast was nearly spoilt bythe Manchesters, who, after they had lost a few men, rushed through thefarm into the wood, where, naturally enough, they lost a few more. Theybesought the Cyclists to cover their retreat, but as it was fromshrapnel we mildly suggested it was impossible. The courtyard was by this time covered with tiles and pitted withbullets. We, close up against the wall, had been quite moderately safe. The shelling slackened off, so we thought we had better do a bunk. Withpride of race the motor-cyclist left last. The 14th Brigade had disappeared. I went back down the track and foundthe General and his staff, fuming, half-way up the hill. The German gunscould not be found, and the German guns were holding up the wholeDivision. I slept by the roadside for an hour. I was woken up to take a message to2nd Corps at Saacy. On my return I was lucky enough to see a veryspectacular performance. From the point which I call A to the point B is, or ought to be, 5000yards. At A there is a gap in the wood, and you get a gorgeous view overthe valley. The road from La Ferté to the point B runs on high ground, and at B there is a corresponding gap, the road being open completelyfor roughly 200 yards. A convoy of German lorries was passing with anescort of infantry, and the General thought we might as well have a shotat them. Two 18-pdrs. Were man-handled to the side of the hill andopened fire, while six of us with glasses and our lunch sat behind andwatched. It was a dainty sight--the lorries scooting across, while the escorttook cover. The guns picked off a few, completely demolishing twolorries, then with a few shells into some cavalry that appeared on thehorizon, they ceased fire. The affair seemed dangerous to the uninitiated despatch rider. Behindthe two guns was a brigade of artillery in column of route on anexceedingly steep and narrow road. Guns firing in the open can be seen. If the Germans were to spot us, we shuddered to think what would becomeof the column behind us on the road. That afternoon I had nothing more to do, so, returning to the common, Idozed there for a couple of hours, knowing that I should have littlesleep that night. At dusk we bivouacked in the garden of the chateau atMéry. We arrived at the chateau before the Staff and picked up somewine. In the evening I heard that a certain captain in the gunners wentreconnoitring and found the battery--it was only one--that had held upour advance. He returned to the General, put up his eyeglass anddrawled, "I say, General, I've found that battery. I shall now deal withit. " He did. In five minutes it was silenced, and the 14th attacked upthe Valley of Death, as the men called it. They were repulsed with veryheavy losses; their reinforcements, which had arrived the day before, were practically annihilated. It was a bad day. That night it was showery, and I combined vain attempts to get to sleepbetween the showers with a despatch to 2nd Corps at Saacy and another tothe Division Ammunition Column the other side of Charnesseuil. Towards morning the rain became heavier, so I took up my bed--_i. E. _, mygreatcoat and ground-sheet--and, finding four free square feet in theS. O. , had an hour's troubled sleep before I was woken up half an hourbefore dawn to get ready to take an urgent message as soon as it waslight. On September 9th, just before dawn--it was raining and very cold--I wassent with a message to Colonel Cameron at the top of the hill, tellinghim he might advance. The Germans, it appeared, had retired during thenight. Returning to the chateau at Méry, I found the company had goneon, so I followed them along the Valley of Death to Montreuil. It was the dismallest morning, dark as if the sun would never rise, chequered with little bursts of heavy rain. The road was black with mud. The hedges dripped audibly into watery ditches. There was no grass, onlya plentiful coarse vegetation. The valley itself seemed enclosed byunpleasant hills from joy or light. Soldiers lined the road--some weredead, contorted, or just stretched out peacefully; some were wounded, and they moaned as I passed along. There was one officer who slowlymoved his head from side to side. That was all he could do. But I couldnot stop; the ambulances were coming up. So I splashed rapidly throughthe mud to the cross-roads north of Montreuil. To the right was a barn in which the Germans had slept. It was litteredwith their equipment. And in front of it was a derelict motor-cardripping in the rain. At Montreuil we had a scrap of bully with a bit of biscuit forbreakfast, then we ploughed slowly and dangerously alongside the columnto Dhuizy, where a house that our artillery had fired was still burning. The chalked billeting marks of the Germans were still on the doors ofthe cottages. I had a despatch to take back along the column to theHeavies. Grease a couple of inches thick carpeted the road. We allagreed that we should be useless in winter. At Dhuizy the sun came out. A couple of miles farther on I had a talk with two Germanprisoners--R. A. M. C. They were sick of the war. Summed it up thus: Wir weissen nichts: wir essen nichts: immer laufen, laufen, laufen. In bright sunshine we pushed on towards Gandeln. On the way we had abit of lunch, and I left a pipe behind. As there was nothing doing Ipushed on past the column, waiting for a moment to watch some infantrydraw a large wood, and arrived with the cavalry at Gandeln, a rakish oldtown at the bottom of an absurdly steep hill. Huggie passed me with amessage. Returning he told me that the road ahead was pitiablydisgusting. You must remember that we were hotly pursuing a disorganised foe. Infront the cavalry and horse artillery were harassing them for all theywere worth, and whenever there was an opening our bigger guns wouldgallop up for a trifle of blue murder. From Gandeln the road rises sharply through woods and then runs on highground without a vestige of cover for two and a half miles into Chézy. On this high, open ground our guns caught a German convoy, and we sawthe result. First there were a few dead and wounded Germans, all muddied. The menwould look curiously at each, and sometimes would laugh. Then at the topof the hill we came upon some smashed and abandoned waggons. These werehastily looted. Men piled themselves with helmets, greatcoats, food, saddlery, until we looked a crowd of dishevelled bandits. The Germanwounded watched--they lay scattered in a cornfield, like poppies. Sometimes Tommy is not a pleasant animal, and I hated him thatafternoon. One dead German had his pockets full of chocolate. Theyscrambled over him, pulling him about, until it was all divided. Just off the road was a small sandpit. Three or four waggons--thehorses, frightened by our shells, had run over the steep place into thesand. Their heads and necks had been forced back into their carcasses, and on top of this mash were the splintered waggons. I sat for a longtime by the well in Chézy and watched the troops go by, caparisoned withspoils. I hated war. Just as the sun was setting we toiled out of Chézy on to an upland ofcornfields, speckled with grey patches of dead men and reddish-brownpatches of dead horses. One great horse stood out on a little cliff, black against the yellow of the descending sun. It furiously stank. Eachtime I passed it I held my nose, and I was then pretty well used tosmells. The last I saw of it--it lay grotesquely on its back with fourstiff legs sticking straight up like the legs of an overturned table--itwas being buried by a squad of little black men billeted near. They werecursing richly. The horse's revenge in death, perhaps, for itsill-treatment in life. It was decided to stay the night at Chézy. The village was crowded, dark, and confusing. Three of us found the signal office, and madeourselves very comfortable for the night with some fresh straw that wepiled all over us. The roads were for the first time too greasy fornight-riding. The rest slept in a barn near, and did not discover thesignal office until dawn. We awoke, stiff but rested, to a fine warm morning. It was a quiet day. We rode with the column along drying roads until noon through peacefulrolling country--then, as there was nothing doing, Grimers and I rode tothe head of the column, and inquiring with care whether our cavalry wascomfortably ahead, came to the village of Noroy-sur-Ourcq. We"scrounged" for food and found an inn. At first our host, a fatwell-to-do old fellow, said the Germans had taken everything, but, whenhe saw we really were hungry, he produced sardines, bread, butter, sweets, and good red wine. So we made an excellent meal--and were notallowed to pay a penny. He told that the Germans, who appeared to be in great distress, hadtaken everything in the village, though they had not maltreated any one. Their horses were dropping with fatigue--that we knew--and theirofficers kept telling their men to hurry up and get quickly on themarch. At this point they were just nine hours in front of us. Greatly cheered we picked up the Division again at Chouy, and satdeliciously on a grass bank to wait for the others. Just off the road onthe opposite side was a dead German. Quite a number of men broke theirranks to look curiously at him--anything to break the tedious, deadeningmonotony of marching twenty-five miles day after day: as a major of theDorsets said to us as we sat there, "It is all right for us, but it'shell for them!" The Company came up, and we found that in Chouy the Germans hadoverlooked a telephone--great news for the cable detachment. After aglance at the church, a gorgeous bit of Gothic that we had shelled, wepushed on in the rain to Billy-sur-Ourcq. I was just looking after aconvenient loft when I was sent back to Chouy to find the Captain'swatch. A storm was raging down the valley. The road at any time wascovered with tired foot sloggers. I had to curse them, for they wouldn'tget out of the way. Soon I warmed and cursed them crudely and glibly infour languages. On my return I found some looted boiled eggs andcaptured German Goulasch hot for me. I fed and turned in. This day my kit was left behind with other unnecessary "tackle, " tolighten the horses' load. I wish I had known it. The remaining eggs for breakfast--delicious. Huggie and I were sent off just before dawn on a message that took us toSt Rémy, a fine church, and Hartennes, where we were given hot tea bythat great man, Sergeant Croucher of the Divisional Cyclists. I rodeback to Rozet St Albin, a pleasant name, along a road punctuated withdead and very evil-smelling horses. Except for the smell it was a goodrun of about ten miles. I picked up the Division again on the sandy roadabove Chacrise. Sick of column riding I turned off the main road up a steep hill intoAmbrief, a desolate black-and-white village totally deserted. It came onto pour, but there was a shrine handy. There I stopped until I waspulled out by an ancient captain of cuirassiers, who had never seen anEnglishman before and wanted to hear all about us. On into Acy, where I decided to head off the Division at Ciry, insteadof crossing the Aisne and riding straight to Vailly, our proposed H. Q. For that night. The decision saved my life, or at least my liberty. Irode to Sermoise, a bright little village where the people were actuallymaking bread. At the station there was a solitary cavalry man. In Ciryitself there was no one. Half-way up the Ciry hill, a sort of drywatercourse, I ran into some cavalry and learnt that the Germans wereholding the Aisne in unexpected strength. I had all but ridden round andin front of our own cavalry outposts. Two miles farther back I found Huggie and one of our brigades. We had abit of bully and biscuit under cover of a haystack, then we borrowedsome glasses and watched bodies of Germans on the hills the other sideof the Aisne. It was raining very fast. There was no decent cover, so wesat on the leeward side of a mound of sand. When we awoke the sun was setting gorgeously. Away to the west in thedirection of Soissons there was a tremendous cannonade. On the hillsopposite little points of flame showed that the Germans were replying. On our right some infantry were slowly advancing in extended orderthrough a dripping turnip-field. The Battle of the Aisne had begun. We were wondering what to do when we were commandeered to take a messagedown that precipitous hill of Ciry to some cavalry. It was now quitedark and still raining. We had no carbide, and my carburetter hadjibbed, so we decided to stop at Ciry for the night. At the inn we foundmany drinks--particularly some wonderful cherry brandy--and a friendlymotor-cyclist who told us of a billet that an officer was probably goingto leave. We went there. Our host was an old soldier, so, after his wifehad hung up what clothes we dared take off to dry by a red-hot stove, hegave us some supper of stewed game and red wine, then made us cunningbeds with straw, pillows, and blankets. Too tired to thank him wedropped asleep. That, though we did not know it then, was the last night of our littleOdyssey. We had been advancing or retiring without a break since mytragic farewell to Nadine. We had been riding all day and often allnight. But those were heroic days, and now as I write this in ourcomfortable slack winter quarters, I must confess--I would give anythingto have them all over again. Now we motor-cyclists are middle-agedwarriors. Adventures are work. Experiences are a routine. Then, let's besentimental, we were young. [Illustration: THE AISNE(SOISSONS _TO_ VAILLY)] CHAPTER VII. THE BATTLE OF THE AISNE. I'm going to start by giving you an account of what we thought of themilitary situation during the great marches and the battle of theAisne--for my own use. What happened we shall be able to look upafterwards in some lumbersome old history, should we forget, but, unlessI get down quickly what we thought, it will disappear inafter-knowledge. You will remember how the night we arrived on the Aisne Huggie and Istretched ourselves on a sand-heap at the side of the road--just aboveCiry--and watched dim columns of Germans crawling like grey worms up theslopes the other side of the valley. We were certain that the oldDivision was still in hot cry on the heels of a rapidly retreating foe. News came--I don't know how: you never do--that our transport andammunition were being delayed by the fearsome and lamentable state ofthe roads. But the cavalry was pushing on ahead, and tired infantry werestumbling in extended order through the soaked fields on either side ofus. There was hard gunnery well into the red dusk. Right down the valleycame the thunder of it, and we began to realise that divisions, perhapseven corps, had come up on either flank. The ancient captain of cuirassiers, who had hauled me out of my shrineinto the rain that afternoon, made me understand there was a great andunknown number of French on our left. From the Order before the Marne Ihad learnt that a French Army had turned the German right, but the firstnews I had had of French on our own right was when one staff-officersaid in front of me that the French away to the east had been held up. That was at Doué. Our retreat had been solitary. The French, everybody thought, had leftus in the lurch at Mons and again at Le Cateau, when the cavalry we knewto be there refused to help us. For all we knew the French Army had beenswept off the face of the earth. We were just retiring, and retiringbefore three or four times our own numbers. We were not even supportedby the 1st Corps on our right. It was smashed, and had all it could doto get itself away. We might have been the Ten Thousand. But the isolation of our desperate retreat dismayed nobody, for we allhad an unconquerable belief in the future. There must be some Frenchsomewhere, and in spite--as we thought then--of our better judgments, westuck to the story that was ever being circulated: "We are luring theGermans into a trap. " It was impressed upon us, too, by "the Div. " thatboth at Mons and Le Cateau we were strategically victorious. We hadgiven the Germans so hard a knock that they could not pursue us at once;we had covered the retirement of the 1st Corps; we had got awaysuccessfully ourselves. We were sullen and tired victors, neverdefeated. If we retreated, it was for a purpose. If we advanced, theGermans were being crushed. The Germans thought we were beaten, because they didn't realise we knewwe were victorious the whole time. I do not say that we were always monotonously cheerful. The night afterLe Cateau we all thought the game was up, --until the morning, whencheerfulness came with the sun. Then we sighed with relief andremembered a little bitterly that we were "luring the Germans on. " Many a time I have come across isolated units in hot corners who didnot see a way out. Yet if a battery or a battalion were hard hit, therealisation of local defeat was always accompanied by a fervent faiththat "the old Fifth" was doing well. Le Cateau is a victory in thesoldier's calendar. Lè Cateàu and Là Bassèe, It jolly well serves them right. We had been ten days or more on the Aisne before we grasped that theforce opposite us was not merely a dogged, well-entrenched rearguard, but a section of the German line. Soon after we arrived a French cavalry officer had ridden into D. H. Q. , and after his departure it was freely rumoured that he had ridden rightround the German position. News began to trickle in from either flank. Our own attacks ceased, and we took up a defensive position. It was thebeginning of trench-warfare, though owing to the nature of the countrythere were few trenches. Then we heard vaguely that the famous series ofenveloping movements had begun, but by this time the Division was tiredto death, and the men were craving for a rest. Strategy in the ranks--it was elementary stuff pieced vaguely together. But perhaps it will interest you at home to know what we thought outhere on this great little stage. What we did you have heard. Still, here is the play as we acted in it. * * * * * Along the Aisne the line of our Division stretched from Venizel to thebridge of Condé. You must not think of the river as running through agorge or as meandering along the foot of slopes rising directly from theriver bank. On the southern side lie the Heights of Champagne, practically a tableland. From the river this tableland looks like aseries of ridges approaching the valley at an angle. Between thefoothills and the river runs the Soissons-Rheims road, good _pavé_, andfor the most part covered by trees. To the north there is a distance oftwo miles or so from the river to the hills. Perhaps I shall make this clearer if I take the three main points aboutthe position. * * * * * _First. _ If you are going to put troops on the farther side of the riveryou must have the means of crossing it, and you must keep those meansintact. The bridges running from left to right of our line were atVenizel, Missy, Sermoise, and Condé. The first three were blown up. Venizel bridge was repaired sufficiently to allow of light traffic tocross, and fifty yards farther down a pontoon-bridge was built fit forheavy traffic. Missy was too hot: we managed an occasional ferry. I donot think we ever had a bridge at Sermoise. Once when in search of theC. R. E. I watched a company of the K. O. S. B. Being ferried across underheavy rifle fire. The raft was made of ground-sheets stuffed, I think, with straw. Condé bridge the Germans always held, or rather neither ofus held it, but the Germans were very close to it and allowed nobody tocross. Just on our side of the bridge was a car containing two deadofficers. No one could reach them. There they sat until we left, ghastlysentinels, and for all I know they sit there still. Now all communication with troops on the north bank of the river had topass over these bridges, of which Venizel alone was comparatively safe. If ever these bridges should be destroyed, the troops on the north bankwould be irrevocably cut off from supplies of every sort and fromorders. I often used to wonder what would have happened if the Germanshad registered accurately upon the bridges, or if the river had risenand swept the bridges away. _Second. _ There was an open belt between the river and the villageswhich we occupied--Bucy-le-Long, St Marguerite, Missy. The road thatwound through this belt was without the veriest trace of cover--so muchso, that for a considerable time all communication across it was carriedon by despatch riders, for a cable could never be laid. So if ouracross-the-river brigades had ever been forced to retire in daylightthey would have been compelled, first to retire two miles overabsolutely open country, and then to cross bridges of which thepositions were known with tolerable accuracy to the Germans. _Third. _ On the northern bank four or five spurs came down into theplain, parallel with each other and literally at right angles to theriver. The key to these was a spur known as the Chivres hill or plateau. This we found impregnable to the attack of two brigades. It was steepand thickly wooded. Its assailants, too, could be heavily enfiladed fromeither flank. * * * * * Now you have the position roughly. The tactics of our Division weresimple. In the early days, when we thought that we had merely adetermined rearguard in front of us, we attacked. Bridges--you willremember the tale--were most heroically built. Two brigades (14th and15th) crossed the river and halted at the very foot of the hills, wherethey were almost under cover from alien fire. The third brigade was ontheir right in a position I will describe later. Well, the two brigades attacked, and attacked with artillery support, but they could not advance. That was the first phase. Then orders camethat we were to act on the defensive, and finally of our three brigades, one was on the right, one across the river, and one in a second line oftrenches on the southern bank of the river acted as divisional reserve. That for us was the battle of the Aisne. It was hard fighting allthrough. [13] Under these conditions there was plentiful work for despatch riders. Iam going to try and describe it for you. When D. H. Q. Are stationary, the work of despatch riders is of two kinds. First of all you have to find the positions of the units to which youare sent. Often the Signal Office gives you the most exiguousinformation. "The 105th Brigade is somewhere near Ciry, " or "The Div. Train is at a farm just off the Paris-Bordeaux" road. Starting out withthese explicit instructions, it is very necessary to remember that theymay be wrong and are probably misleading. That is not the fault of theSignal Office. A Unit changes ground, say from a farm on the road to afarm off the road. These two farms are so near each other that there isno need to inform the Div. Just at present of this change of residence. The experienced despatch rider knows that, if he is told the 105thBrigade is at 1904 Farm, the Brigade is probably at 1894 Farm, half amile away. Again, a despatch rider is often sent out after a unit has moved andbefore the message announcing the move has "come through" to theDivision. When the Division is advancing or retiring this exploration-work is theonly work. To find a given brigade, take the place at which it was lastreported at the Signal Office and assume it was never there. Prefer theinformation you get from your fellow despatch riders. Then find out theroad along which the brigade is said to be moving. If the brigade may bein action, take a road that will bring you to the rear of the brigade. If there are troops in front of the brigade, strike for the head of it. It is always quicker to ride from van to rear of a brigade than fromrear to van. The second kind of work consists in riding along a road already known. Aclever despatch rider may reduce this to a fine art. He knows exactly atwhich corner he is likely to be sniped, and hurries accordingly. Heremembers to a yard where the sentries are. If the road is under shellfire, he recalls where the shells usually fall, the interval between theshells and the times of shelling. For there is order in everything, andparticularly in German gunnery. Lastly, he does not race along with noseon handle-bar. That is a trick practised only by despatch riders who arerarely under fire, who have come to a strange and alarming country fromCorps or Army Headquarters. The experienced motor-cyclist sits up andtakes notice the whole time. He is able at the end of his ride to givean account of all that he has seen on the way. D. H. Q. Were at Serches, a wee village in a hollow at the head of avalley. So steeply did the hill rise out of the hollow to the north thatthe village was certainly in dead ground. A fine road went to the westalong the valley for three miles or so to the Soissons-Rheims road. ForVenizel you crossed the main road and ran down a little hill through athick wood, terribly dark of nights, to the village; you crossed thebridge and opened the throttle. The first time I rode north from Venizel, Moulders was with me. On theleft a few hundred yards away an ammunition section that had crossed bythe pontoon was at full gallop. I was riding fast--the road wasloathsomely open--but not too fast, because it was greasy. A shellpitched a couple of hundred yards off the road, and then others, farenough away to comfort me. A mile on the road bends sharp left and right over the railway and pasta small factory of some sort. The Germans loved this spot, and wouldpitch shells on it with a lamentable frequency. Soon it became too muchof a routine to be effective. On shelling-days three shells would bedropped one after another, an interval of three minutes, and thenanother three. This we found out and rode accordingly. A hundred yards past the railway you ride into Bucy-le-Long and safety. The road swings sharp to the right, and there are houses all the way toSt Marguerite. Once I was riding with despatches from D. H. Q. It was a heavy, misty day. As I sprinted across the open I saw shrapnel over St Marguerite, but Icould not make out whether it was German shrapnel bursting over thevillage or our shrapnel bursting over the hills beyond. I slowed down. Now, as I have told you, on a motor-cycle, if you are going rapidly, youcannot hear bullets or shells coming or even shells bursting unless theyare very near. Running slowly on top, with the engine barely turningover, you can hear everything. So I went slow and listened. Through theair came the sharp "woop-wing" of shrapnel bursting towards you, themost devilish sound of all. Some prefer the shriek of shrapnel to thedolorous wail and deep thunderous crash of high explosive. But nothingfrightens me so much as the shrapnel-shriek. [14] Well, as I passed the little red factory I noticed that the shrapnel wasbursting right over the village, which meant that as 80 per cent ofshrapnel bullets shoot forward the village was comparatively safe. As amatter of fact the street was full of ricochetting trifles. Transport was drawn up well under cover of the wall and troops weremarching in single file as near to the transport as possible. Two horseswere being led down the middle of the street. Just before they reachedme the nose of one of the horses suddenly was gashed and a stream ofblood poured out. Just a ricochet, and it decided me. Despatch ridershave to take care of themselves when H. Q. Are eight miles away by roadand there is no wire. I put my motor-cycle under cover and walked theremaining 200 yards. Coming back I heard some shouting, a momentary silence, then a flare ofthe finest blasphemy. I turned the bend to see an officer holding hissevered wrist and cursing. He was one of those dashing fellows. He hadridden alongside the transport swearing at the men to get a move on. Hehad held up his arm to give the signal when a ricochet took his hand offcleanly. His men said not a word, --sat with an air of calm disapprovallike Flemish oxen. It was one in the morning and dark on the road when I took my nextdespatch to St Marguerite. Just out of Bucy I passed Moulders, whoshouted, "Ware wire and horses. " Since last I had seen it the villagehad been unmercifully shelled. Where the transport had been drawn upthere were shattered waggons. Strewn over the road were dead horses, ofall carcasses the most ludicrously pitiful, and wound in and out ofthem, a witches' web, crawled the wire from the splintered telegraphposts. There was not a sound in the village except the gentle thump ofmy engine. I was forced to pull up, that I might more clearly see myway between two horses. My engine silent, I could only hear a littlewhisper from the house opposite and a dripping that I did not care tounderstand. Farther on a house had fallen half across the road. Iscarcely dared to start my engine again in the silence of this desolatedestruction. Then I could not, because the dripping was my petrol andnot the gore of some slaughtered animal. A flooded carburettor is anuisance in an unsavoury village. At the eastern end of St Marguerite the road turns sharply south. Thisis "Hell's Own Corner. " From it there is a full and open view of theChivres valley, and conversely those in the Chivres valley can see thecorner very clearly. When we were acting on the offensive, a section of4. 5 in. Howitzers were put into position just at the side of the road bythe corner. This the Germans may have discovered, or perhaps it was onlythat the corner presented a tempting target, for they shelled todestruction everything within a hundred yards. The howitzers wererapidly put out of action though not destroyed, and a small orchard justbehind them was ploughed, riven, and scarred with high explosive andshrapnel. The day St Marguerite was shelled one of the two brigadiers determinedto shift his headquarters to a certain farm. N'Soon and Grimers wereattached to the brigade at the time. "Headquarters" came to the corner. N'Soon and Grimers were riding slowly in front. They heard a shellcoming. Grimers flung himself off his bicycle and dropped like a stone. N'Soon opened his throttle and darted forward, foolishly. The shellexploded. Grimers' bicycle was covered with branches and he with earthand dust. N'Soon for some reason was not touched. The General and his staff were shelled nearly the whole way to the farm, but nobody was hit. The brigade veterinary officer had a theory that thesafest place was next the General, because generals were rarely hit, butthat day his faith was shaken, and the next day--I will tell you thestory--it tottered to destruction. I had come through St Marguerite the night after the brigade had moved. Of course I was riding without a light. I rounded Hell's Own Cornercarefully, very frightened of the noise my engine was making. A littlefarther on I dismounted and stumbled to the postern-gate of a farm. Iopened it and went in. A sentry challenged me in a whisper and handed meover to an orderly, who led me over the black bodies of men sleeping toa lean-to where the General sat with a sheltered light, talking to hisstaff. He was tired and anxious. I delivered my despatch, took thereceipted envelope and stumbled back to the postern-gate. Silently Ihauled my motor-cycle inside, then started on my tramp to the Generalwho had moved. After Hell's Own Corner the road swings round again to the east, andruns along the foot of the Chivres hill to Missy. A field or so away tothe left is a thick wood inhabited for the most part by German snipers. In the preceding days N'Soon and Sadders had done fine work along thisroad in broad daylight, carrying despatches to Missy. I was walking, because no motor-cyclist goes by night to a battalion, and the noise of a motor-cycle would have advertised the presence ofbrigade headquarters somewhere on the road. It was a joyous tramp of twomiles into the village of dark, ominous houses. I found a wearysubaltern who put me on my way, a pitch-black lane between high walls. At the bottom of it I stepped upon an officer, who lay across the pathasleep with his men. So tired was he that he did not wake. On over afield to the farm. I delivered my despatch to the Brigade-Major, whoseeyes were glazed with want of sleep. He spoke to me in the pitifulmonotone of the unutterably weary. I fed off bully, hot potatoes, breadand honey, then turned in. In the morning I had just finished my breakfast when a shell explodedfifty yards behind the farm, and others followed. "Headquarters" turnedout, and we crawled along a shallow ditch at the side of a rough countryroad until we were two hundred yards from the farm. We endeavoured toget into communication with the other brigade by flag, but after thefirst message a shell dropped among the farther signallers and we saw nomore of them. Shells began to drop near us. One fellow came uncomfortably close. Itcovered us with dirt as we "froze" to the bottom of the ditch. A littlescrap of red-hot metal flew into the ground between me and the signalsergeant in front of me. I grabbed it, but dropped it because it was sohot; it was sent to the signal sergeant's wife and not to you. We crawled a hundred yards farther along to a place where the ditch wasa little deeper, and we were screened by some bushes, but I think theGeneral's red hat must have been marked down, because for the next hourwe lay flat listening to the zip-zip of bullets that passed barelyoverhead. Just before we moved the Germans started to shell Missy with heavyhowitzers. Risking the bullets, we saw the village crowned with greatlumps of smoke. Our men poured out of it in more or less extended orderacross the fields. I saw them running, poor little khaki figures, anddropping like rabbits to the rifles of the snipers in the wood. Two hundred yards south of the St Marguerite-Missy road--that is, between the road and the ditch in which we were lying--there is a singleline of railway on a slight embankment. Ten men in a bunch made for thecover it afforded. One little man with an enormous pack ran a few yardsin front. Seven reached the top of the embankment, then three almostsimultaneously put their hands before their eyes and dropped across therails. The little man ran on until he reached us, wide-eyed, sweaty, andbreathing in short gasps. The Brigade-Major shouted to him not to comealong the road but to make across the field. Immediately the little manheard the voice of command he halted, stood almost to attention, andchoked out, "But they're shelling us"--then, without another word heturned off across the fields and safely reached cover. In the ditch we were comfortable if confined, and I was frightened whenthe order came down, "Pass the word for the motor-cyclist. " I crawledup to the General, received my despatch, and started walking across thefield. Then I discovered there is a great difference betweenmotor-cycling under rifle fire, when you can hear only the very closeones, and walking across a heavy turnip-field when you can hear all. Two-thirds of the way a sharp zip at the back of my neck and aremembrance of the three men stretched across the rails decided me. Iran. At the farm where the other brigade headquarters were stationed I metSadders with a despatch for the general I had just left. When Iexplained to him where and how to go he blenched a little, and thebursting of a shell a hundred yards or so away made him jump, but hestarted off at a good round pace. You must remember we were not used tocarrying despatches on foot. I rode lazily through St Marguerite and Bucy-le-Long, and turned thecorner on to the open stretch. There I waited to allow a battery thatwas making the passage to attract as many shells as it liked. Thebattery reached Venizel with the loss of two horses. Then, just as I wasstarting off, a shell plunged into the ground by the little red factory. As I knew it to be the first of three I waited again. At that moment Colonel Seely's car came up, and Colonel Seely himselfgot out and went forward with me to see if the road had been damaged. For three minutes the road should have been safe, but the German machinebecame human, and in a couple of minutes Colonel Seely and I returnedcovered with rich red plough and with a singing in our ears. I gave theColonel a couple of hundred yards start, and we sprinted across into thesafe hands of Venizel. Beyond Missy, which we intermittently occupied, our line extended alongthe foot of the hills and crossed the Aisne about three-quarters of amile short of Condé bridge--and that brings me to a tale. One night we were healthily asleep after a full day. I had been "nextfor duty" since ten o'clock, but at two I began to doze, because betweentwo and five there is not often work for the despatch rider. At three Iawoke to much shouting and anxious hullabaloo. The intelligence officerwas rousing us hurriedly--"All motor-cyclists turn out. Pack up kit. Seven wanted at once in the Signal Office. " This meant, firstly, that Divisional Headquarters were to move at once, in a hurry, and by night; secondly, that the same despatch was to besent simultaneously to every unit in the Division. I asked somebody toget my kit together, and rushed upstairs to the Signal Office. There onthe table I saw the fateful wire. "Germans entrenched south side of Condé bridge and are believed to becrossing in large numbers. " I was given a copy of this message to taketo the 15th Brigade, then at St Marguerite. Away on the road at fullspeed I thought out what this meant. The enemy had broken through ourline--opposite Condé there were no reserves--advance parties of theGermans might even now be approaching headquarters--large numbers wouldcut us off from the Division on our right and would isolate the brigadeto which I was going; it would mean another Le Cateau. I tore along to Venizel, and slowing down at the bridge shouted the newsto the officer in charge--full speed across the plain to Bucy, andcaring nothing for the sentries' shouts, on to St Marguerite. I dashedinto the general's bedroom and aroused him. Almost before I had arrivedthe general and his brigade-major--both in pyjamas--were issuingcommands and writing messages. Sleepy and amazed orderlies were sent outat the double. Battalion commanders and the C. R. E. Were summoned. I started back for D. H. Q. With an acknowledgment, and rattling throughthe village came out upon the plain. Over Condé bridge an ochreous, heavy dawn broke sullenly. There was nonoise of firing to tell me that the men of our right brigade were makinga desperate resistance to a fierce advance. A mile from Serches I passeda field-ambulance loaded up for instant flight; the men were standingabout in little groups talking together, as if without orders. AtHeadquarters I found that a despatch rider had been sent hot-foot tosummon two despatch riders, who that night were with the corps, andothers to every unit. Everybody carried the same command--load up and beready to move at a moment's notice. Orders to move were never sent. Our two ghastly sentinels still held thebridge. It was a SCARE. The tale that we heard at the time was the tale of a little Germanfiring--a lost patrol of ours, returning by an unauthorised road, mistaken in the mist for Germans--a verbal message that had gone wrong. As for the lieutenant who--it was said--first started the hare, his namewas burnt with blasphemy for days and days. The only men who came out ofit well were some of our cyclists, who, having made their nightly patrolup to the bridge, returned just before dawn to D. H. Q. And found theDivision trying to make out that it had not been badly frightened. I did not hear what really happened at the bridge that night until Ipublished my paper, "The Battle of the Aisne, " in the May 'Blackwood. 'Here is the story as I had it from the officer principally concerned:-- Condé bridge was under our control by shell-fire alone, so that we wereobliged to patrol its unpleasant neighbourhood by night. For thispurpose an "officer's patrol" was organised (in addition to the"standing patrol" provided by the Cyclists) and supplied every night bydifferent battalions. So many conflicting reports were received nightlyabout the bridge that the officer who told me the story was appointedBrigade Patrolling Officer. He established himself in a certain wood, and on the night in questionworked right up beyond Condé bridge--until he found a burning houseabout 200 yards beyond the bridge on the south side of it. In the flareof the house he was surprised to discover Germans entrenched in an olddrain on the British side of the river. He had unknowingly passed thisbody of the enemy. He heard, too, a continuous stream of Germans in the transport marchingthrough the woods towards the bridge. Working his way back, he reportedthe matter personally to the Brigadier of the 13th, who sent the famousmessage to the Division. It appears that the Germans had come down to fill their water-carts thatnight, and to guard against a surprise attack had pushed forward twoplatoons across the bridge into the drain. Unfortunately one of ourpatrols disobeyed its orders that night and patrolled a forbiddenstretch of road. The officer shot two of these men in the dark. Three days later the outpost company on Vesle bridge of the Aisne wassurrounded, and, later still, Condé bridge passed out of our artillerycontrol, and was finally crossed by the Germans. I have written of this famous scare of Condé bridge in detail, notbecause it was characteristic, but because it was exceptional. It is theonly scare we ever had in our Division, and amongst those who were onthe Aisne, and are still with the Division, it has become a phrase forencouragement--"Only another Condé. " During the first days on this monotonous river, the days when weattacked, the staff of our right brigade advanced for a time into opencountry and took cover behind the right haystack of three. To thisbrigade Huggie took a message early one morning, and continued to takemessages throughout the day because--this was his excuse--he knew theroad. It was not until several months later that I gathered by chancewhat had happened on that day, for Huggie, quite the best despatch riderin our Division, would always thwart my journalistic curiosity byrefusing resolutely to talk about himself. The rest of us swopped yarnsof an evening. These haystacks were unhealthy: so was the approach to them. First onehaystack was destroyed. The brigade went to the next. This second wasblown to bits. The staff took refuge behind the third. In my letters Ihave told you of the good things the other despatch riders in ourDivision have done, but to keep up continuous communication all day withthis be-shelled and refugee brigade was as fine a piece of despatchriding as any. It received its proper reward, as you know. Afterwards the brigade emigrated to a hillside above Ciry, and remainedthere. Now the German gunner in whose sector Ciry was included shouldnot be dismissed with a word. He was a man of uncertain temper andaccurate shooting, for in the first place he would shell Ciry for a fewminutes at any odd time, and in the second he knocked a gun out in threeshells and registered accurately, when he pleased, upon the road thatled up a precipitous hill to the edge of the Serches hollow. On thishill he smashed some regimental transport to firewood and killed a dozenhorses, and during one of his sudden shellings of the village blew ahouse to pieces just as a despatch rider, who had been told the villagethat morning was healthy, rode by. You must not think that we were for ever scudding along, like thetypical "motor-cyclist scout" in the advertisements, surrounded withshells. There was many a dull ride even to Bucy-le-Long. An expeditionto the Div. Train (no longer an errant and untraceable vagabond) wassafe and produced jam. A ride to Corps Headquarters was only dangerousbecause of the innumerable and bloodthirsty sentries surrounding thatstronghold. One afternoon a report came through to the Division that a motor-car layderelict at Missy. So "the skipper" called for two volunteers who shouldbe expert mechanics. Divisional Signal companies were not then providedwith cars, and if the C. O. Wished to go out to a brigade, which might beup to or over eight miles away, he was compelled to ride a horse, experiment with a motor-cycle that was probably badly missed by thedespatch riders, or borrow one of the staff cars. Huggie and the elderCecil volunteered. As soon as it was dusk they rode down to Sermoise, and crossing by theferry--it was perilous in the dark--made their way with difficultyacross country to Missy, which was then almost in front of our lines. They found the car, and examining it discovered that to outwardappearance it was sound, --a great moment when after a turn or two of thehandle the engine roared into the darkness, but the noise was alarmingenough because the Germans were none too far away. They started on their journey home--by St Marguerite and Venizel. Justafter they had left the village the beam of an alien searchlight camesweeping along the road. Before the glare had discovered their nakednessthey had pulled the car to the side of the road under the shelter of thehedge nearest the Germans, and jumping down had taken cover. By all therules of the game it was impossible to drive a car that was not exactlysilent along the road from Missy to Hell's Own Corner. The searchlightshould have found them, and the fire of the German snipers should havedone the rest. But their luck was in, and they made no mistakes. Immediately the beam had passed they leaped on to the car and torescathless into St Marguerite and so back to the Division. After its capture the car was exhibited with enormous pride to all thatpassed by. We should not have been better pleased if we had captured thewhole Prussian Guard. For prisoners disappear and cannot always be shownto prove the tale. The car was an [Greek: aei ktêma]. In the morning we rode down into Sermoise for the motor-cycles. Sermoisehad been shelled to pieces, but I shall never forget a brave andobstinate inhabitant who, when a shell had gone through his roof anddemolished the interior of his house, began to patch his roof withbully-tins and biscuit-tins that he might at least have shelter from therain. Elated with our capture of the car we scented greater victories. Weheard of a motor-boat on the river near Missy, and were filled withvisions of an armoured motor-boat, stuffed with machine-guns, plying upand down the Aisne. Huggie and another made the excursion. The boat wasin an exposed and altogether unhealthy position, but they examined it, and found that there was no starting-handle. In the village forge, whichwas very completely fitted up, they made one that did not fit, and thenanother, but however much they coaxed, the engine would not start. Soregretfully they left it. To these adventures there was a quiet background of uncomfortable butpleasant existence. Life on the Aisne was like a "reading party"--onlyinstead of working at our books we worked at soldiering. The night that Huggie and I slept down at Ciry, the rest of the despatchriders, certain that we were taken, encamped at Ferme d'Epitaphe, forthe flooded roads were impassable. There we found them in the morning, and discovered they had prepared the most gorgeous stew of all myrecollection. Now, to make a good stew is a fine art, for a stew is not merely aconglomeration of bully and vegetables and water boiled together untilit looks nice. First the potatoes must be cut out to a proper size andput in; of potatoes there cannot be too many. As for the vegetables, asuperfluity of carrots is a burden, and turnips should be used with asparing hand. A full flavour of leek is a great joy. When the vegetablesare nearly boiled, the dixie should be carefully examined by all to seeif it is necessary to add water. If in doubt spare the water, for a richthick gravy is much to be desired. Add bully, and get your canteensready. This particular stew made by Orr was epic. At all other good stews itwas recalled and discussed, but never did a stew come up to the stewthat we so scrupulously divided among us on the bright morning of Sept. 12, 1914, at Ferme d'Epitaphe, above Serches. Later in the day we took over our billet, a large bicycle shed behindthe school in which D. H. Q. Were installed. The front of it was open, thefloor was asphalt, the roof dripped, and we shared it with theDivisional Cyclists. So close were we packed that you could not turn inyour sleep without raising a storm of curses, and if you were called outof nights you were compelled to walk boldly over prostrate bodies, trusting to luck that you did not step on the face of a man who wokesuddenly and was bigger than yourself. On the right of our dwelling was a little shed that was once used as aguard-room. A man and woman were brought in under suspicion ofespionage. The woman was put in the shed. There she shrieked the nightthrough, shouted for her husband (he had an ugly-sounding name that wecould not understand), and literally tore her hair. The language of theCyclists was an education even to the despatch riders, who once had beentold by their Quartermaster-Sergeant that they left the cavalrystanding. Finally, we petitioned for her removal, and once again sleptpeacefully. The Court of Inquiry found the couple were not spies, butunmarried. So it married them and let them go. The Cyclists were marvellous and indefatigable makers of tea. At anyunearthly hour you might be gently shaken by the shoulder and a voicewould whisper-- "'Ave a drop o' tea--real 'ot and plenty o' sugar. " Never have I come back from a night ride without finding a couple ofcyclists squatting out in the gloom round a little bright fire of theirown making, with some fine hot tea. Wherever they go may they never wanta drink! And never shall I forget that fine bit of roast pork my friend SergeantCroucher insisted on sharing with me one evening! I had not tasted freshmeat for weeks. George was our unofficial Quartermaster. He was and is a great man, always cheerful, able to coax bread, vegetables, wine, and otherluxuries out of the most hardened old Frenchwoman; and the French, though ever pathetically eager to do anything for us, always charged agood round price. Candles were a great necessity, and could not bebought, but George always had candles for us. I forget at the momentwhether they were for "Le General French, qui arrive, " or "Les pauvres, pauvres, blessés. " On two occasions George's genius brought him intotrouble, for military law consists mainly of the commandment-- "Thou shalt not allow thyself to be found out. " We were short of firewood. So George discovered that his engine wanted alittle tuning, and started out on a voyage of discovery. Soon he cameupon a heap of neatly cut, neatly piled wood. He loaded up until heheard shouts, then fled. That night we had a great fire, but in themorning came tribulation. The shouts were the shouts of the C. R. E. Andthe wood was an embryonic bridge. Severely reprimanded. Then there was the Honey Question. There were bees in the village and wehad no honey. The reputation of George was at stake. So one night wewarily and silently approached some hives with candles; unfortunately wewere interfered with by the military police. Still an expedition intothe hedgerows and woods always had an excuse in time of war, and we madeit. The village of Acy, high on the hill above the road to Venizel, was therichest hunting-ground. First, there was a bread-shop open at certainhours. George was often late, and, disdaining to take his place in thelong line of those who were not despatch riders, would march straight inand demand bread for one of his two worthy charities. When these werelooked upon with suspicion he engineered a very friendly understandingwith the baker's wife. Then there was a dark little shop where you could buy good red wine, andbeyond it a farmer with vegetables to sell. But his greatest find wasthe chateau, which clung to the edge of the hill and overlooked thevalley of the Aisne to Condé Fort and the Hill of Chivres. Searching one morning amongst a pile of captured and derelict stuff wediscovered a canvas bath. Now, not one of us had had a bath since Havre, so we made arrangements. Three of us took the bath up to the chateau, then inhabited by a caretaker and his wife. They brought us great pailsof hot water, and for the first time in a month we were clean. Then wehad tea and talked about the Germans who had passed through. The Germanofficer, the old woman told us, had done them no harm, though he hadseized everything without paying a sou. Just before he left bad news wasbrought to him. He grew very angry, and shouted to her as he rode off-- "You shall suffer for this when we return;" but she laughed and shoutedback at him, mocking-- "When you return!" And then the English came. After tea we smoked our pipes in the terraced garden, watched theGermans shelling one of our aeroplanes, examined the German lines, andmeditated in safety on the war just like newspaper correspondents. It was in Serches itself that George received the surprise of his life. He was after potatoes, and seeing a likely-looking old man pass, D. H. Q. Ran after him. In his best French--"Avez-vous pommes-de-terre à vendre?"The old man turned round, smiled, and replied in broadest Yorkshire, "Wanting any 'taters?" George collapsed. It seems that the old fellow had settled in Serches years and yearsbefore. He had a very pretty daughter, who spoke a delectable mixture ofYorkshire and the local dialect. Of course she was suspected of being aspy--in fact, probably was--so the military police were set to watchher, --a job, I gathered later from one of them, much to their liking. Our life on the Aisne, except for little exciting episodes, was restfulenough. We averaged, I should think, a couple of day messages and oneeach night, though there were intermittent periods of high pressure. Webegan to long for the strenuous first days, and the Skipper, findingthat we were becoming unsettled, put us to drill in our spare time andgave some of us riding lessons. Then came rumours of a move to arest-camp, probably back at Compiègne. The 6th Division arrived to takeover from us, or so we were told, and Rich and Cuffe came over withdespatches. We had not seen them since Chatham. They regarded us asveterans, and we told them the tale. One afternoon some artillery of this division came through the valley. They were fine and fresh, but not a single one of us believed theyequalled ours. There was a line of men to watch them pass, and everybodydiscovered a friend until practically at every stirrup there was a maninquiring after a pal, answering questions, and asking what they thoughtin England, and how recruiting was going. The air rang with crude, great-hearted jokes. We motor-cyclists stood aside just criticising theguns and men and horses. We felt again that shyness we had felt atChatham in front of the professional soldier. Then we remembered that wehad been through the Retreat and the Advance, and went back to teacontent. FOOTNOTES: [13] I do not pretend for a moment that all these details aremeticulously accurate. They are what I knew or thought I knew at thetime this was written. [14] Curiously enough, months after this was written the author waswounded by shrapnel. CHAPTER VIII. THE MOVE TO THE NORTH. We left Serches at dusk with little regret and pushed on over the hillpast Ferme d'Epitaphe of gluttonous memory, past the Headquarter clerks, who were jogging peacefully along on bicycles, down the other side ofthe hill, and on to the village of Maast. Headquarters were in a curious farm. One side of its court was formed bya hill in which there were caves--good shelter for the men. There wasjust one run that night to Corps H. Q. In a chateau three miles fartheron. The morning was clear and sunny. A good, lazy breakfast preluded a greatwash. Then we chatted discreetly with a Paris _midinette_ at the gate ofthe farm. Though not in Flanders, she was of the Flemish type, --brightcolouring, high cheek-bones, dark eyes. On these little socialoccasions--they came all too rarely; that is why I always mentionthem--there was much advantage in being only a corporal. Officers, evenStaff Officers, as they passed threw at us a look of admiration andenvy. A salute was cheap at the price. In the afternoon there was a run, and when I returned I found that therest-camp rumour had been replaced by two others--either we were goinginto action immediately a little farther along the line beyond Soissons, or we were about to make a dash to Ostend for the purpose of outflankingthe Germans. We moved again at dusk, and getting clear of the two brigades with H. Q. Rode rapidly twenty miles across country, passing over the road by whichwe had advanced, to Longpont, a big dark chateau set in a wood and witha French sentry at the gate. Our third brigade was trekking away intothe darkness as we came in. We slept in a large room on strawmattresses--very comforting to the bones. The morning was again gorgeous, and again we breakfasted late and well. The chateau we discovered to be monumental, and beside it, set in abeautiful garden, was a ruined chapel, where a service was held--thefirst we had been able to attend since the beginning of the war. Our host, an old man, thin and lithe, and dressed in shiny black, cameround during the day to see that we had all we needed. We heard atale--I do not know how true it was--that the Crown Prince had stayed atthe chateau. He had drunk much ancient and good wine, and what he hadnot drunk he had taken away with him, together with some objects of art. The chateau was full of good things. During the day I had a magnificent run of forty miles over straight dryroads to Hartennes, where, if you will remember, that great man, Sergeant Croucher of the cyclists, had given us tea, and on to Chacriseand Maast. It was the first long and open run I had had since the daysof the retreat, when starting from La Pommeraye I had ridden through theforest to Compiègne in search of the Divisional Train. Just after I had returned we started off again--at dusk. I was sentround to a place, the name of which I cannot remember, to a certaindivision; then I struck north along a straight road through the forestto Villers-Cotterets. The town was crammed with French motor-lorries andcrowded with French troops, who greeted me hilariously as I rode throughto Véze. There we slept comfortably in the lodge of the chateau, all, that is, except Grimers, who had been seized with a puncture just outside themain hotel in Villers-Cotterets. In the morning I had a fine run to a brigade at Béthancourt, the littlevillage, you will remember, where we lunched off an excellent omelette, and convinced the populace, with the help of our host, that the Germanswould come no farther. While I was away the rest discovered some excellent white wine in thecellar of the lodge, and before starting again at dusk we made a finemeal. Cecil and I remained after the others had gone, and when the wifeof the lodge-keeper came in and expressed her utter detestation of alltroops, we told her that we were shedding our blood for France, andoffered her forgetfully a glass of her own good wine. That night we slept at Béthisy St Martin. On the retreat, you willremember, the lord of the chateau had given some of the despatch ridersdinner, before they learnt that D. H. Q. Had been diverted toCrécy-en-Valois. He recognised us with joy, allowed us to take thingsfrom the kitchen, and in the morning hunted out for us a tennis set. Four of us who were not on duty played a great game on a very passablegravel court. We now heard that "the Division" was convinced that we were going tomake a dash for Ostend, and rumour seemed to crystallise into truthwhen orders came that we were to entrain that night at Pont St Maxence. The despatch riders rode ahead of the column, and received a joyouswelcome in the town. We stalked bravely into a café, and drank loud andhearty toasts with some friendly but rather drunk French soldiers. Gascons they were, and d'Artagnans all, from their proper boasting--theheart of a lion and the cunning of a fox, they said. One of us wascalled into a more sober chamber to drink ceremonious toasts inchampagne with their officers. In the street another of us--I would notgive even his initial--selecting the leading representative of young, demure, and ornamental maidenhood, embraced her in the middle of themost admiring crowd I have ever seen, while the rest of us explained toa half-angry mother that her daughter should be proud and happy--asindeed she was--to represent the respectable and historic town of PontSt Maxence. Then, amidst shrieks and cheers and cries of "Brave Tommy" and "We loveyou, " the despatch riders of the finest and most famous of all Divisionsrode singing to the station, where we slept peacefully on straw beside alarge fire until the train came in and the Signal Company arrived. Our entraining at Pont St Maxence began with a carouse and ended with acumulative disappointment. In the middle was the usual wait, a tiresomebut necessary part of all military evolutions. To entrain a SignalCompany sounds so simple. Here is the company--there is the train. Butfirst comes the man-handling of cable-carts on to trucks that were builtfor the languid conveyance of perambulators. Then follows a littlehorseplay, and only those who, like myself, regard horses asunmechanical and self-willed instruments of war, know how terrifying asight and how difficult a task the emboxing of a company's horses canbe. Motor-cycles are heavy and have to be lifted, but they do not makenoises and jib and rear, and look every moment as if they were going tofall backward on to the interested spectator. We despatch riders fetched a great deal of straw and made ourselvescomfortable in one of those waggons that are marked outside, with suchsplendid optimism-- _Chevaux_ . . . . 8 _Hommes_ . . . . 40-5 With our friend the Post-Sergeant and his underling there were roughly adozen of us and no superfluity of space, but, seeing men wanderingfiercely up and down the train under the command of our Sergeant-Major, we took in a H. Q. Clerk. This ruffled us, but it had to be done. TheSergeant-Major came to our waggon. We stood at the door and pointed outto him that we had in our waggon not only all the despatch riders, butalso the whole of the Postal and Headquarters Staffs. He said nothing tous--only told ten more men to get in. Finally we were twenty-five inall, with full equipment. Thinking of the 40-5 we settled down andmanaged to effect a compromise of room which, to our amazement, left usinfinitely more comfortable than we had been in the III^{me} coming upfrom Havre to Landrecies. The train shuffled out of the station just before dawn. We slept a bit, and then, just as it was getting light, started our pipes and began totalk of the future. The general opinion favoured Ostend, though a sergeant hazarded that wewere going to be shipped swiftly across to England to defend the EastCoast. This suggestion was voted impossible and tactless--at least, wedidn't put it quite like that. Ostend it was going to be--train toAbbéville, and then boat to Ostend, and a rapid march against the Germanflank. The discussion was interrupted by somebody saying he had heard fromsomebody who had been told by his Major, that 60, 000 Germans had beenkilled in the last two days, Von Kluck had been killed by a lucky shell, and the Crown Prince had committed suicide. We were bringing thecynicism of youth to bear on the trustfulness of a mature mercenary whenthe train arrived at Amiens. Some washed. Some meditated on a train of French wounded and anothertrain of Belgian refugees, humble and pitiful objects, very smelly. Two, not waiting for orders, rushed to the buffet and bought beer andsardines and chocolate and bread. One of these was cut off from hiswaggon by a long goods train that passed through, but he knew the waysof military trains, waited till the goods had passed, then ran after usand caught us up after a mile's jog-trot. The good people of Amiens, whohad not so very long before been delivered from the Germans, wereexceedingly affectionate, and threw us fruit, flowers, and kisses. Thoseunder military age shrieked at the top of their shrill little trebles-- Engleesh--Tipperary--Biskeet--Biskeet--Souvenir. We have never understood the cry of "Biskeet. " The fat little fellowswere obviously well nourished. Perhaps, dog-like, they buried theirbiscuits with a thought for the time when the English should beforgotten and hunger should take their place as something very present. So joyously we were rushed north at about five miles an hour, or eightkilometres per hour, which sounds better. Early in the afternoon we cameto Abbéville, a hot and quiet station, and, with the aid of some LondonScottish, disembarked. From these Scots we learnt that the French werehaving a rough time just north of Arras, that train-load upon train-loadof wounded had come through, that our Corps (the 2nd) was going up tohelp. So even now we do not know whether we really were going to Ostend andwere diverted to the La Bassée district to help the French who had gotthemselves into a hole, or whether Ostend was somebody's little tale. We rode through the town to the Great Barracks, where we were given alarge and clean ward. The washing arrangements were sumptuous and we hadtruckle-beds to sleep upon, but the sanitation, as everywhere in France, was vile. We kicked a football about on the drill-ground. Then some ofus went down into the town, while the rest of us waited impatiently forthem to come back, taking a despatch or two in the meanwhile. From the despatch rider's point of view Abbéville is a large andadmiring town, with good restaurants and better baths. These baths werefiner than the baths of Havre--full of sweet-scented odours and thedeliciously intoxicating fumes of good soap and plenteous boiling-water. In a little restaurant we met some friends of the 3rd Division and acouple of London Scots, who were getting heartily sick of the L. Of C. , though taking prisoners round the outskirts of Paris had, I gather, itscharm even for the most ardent warriors. In the morning there was parade, a little football, and then a strollinto the town. I had just finished showing an Intelligence Officer howto get a belt back on to the pulley of his motor-cycle when Cecil met meand told me we were to move north that evening. We had a delectable little tea, bought a map or two, and then strolledback to the barracks. In half an hour we were ready to move off, kitpiled high upon our carriers, looking for all the world (said our C. O. )like those funny little animals that carry their houses upon their backsand live at the bottom of ponds. Indeed it was our boast that--such wasour ingenuity--we were able to carry more kit than any regimentalofficer. It was dusk when N'Soon and I pushed off, --we had remained behind todeal with messages that might come in foolishly after the Division hadleft. We took the great highroad to Calais, and, carefully passing theGeneral, who was clattering along with his staff and an escort ofHussars, we pulled up to light our lamps at a little estaminet withglowing red blinds just like the blinds of certain hospitable taverns inthe city of Oxford. The coincidence was so remarkable that we werecompelled to enter. We found a roaring, leaping log-fire, a courteous old Frenchman whodrank our healths, an immense omelette, some particularly good coffee, and the other despatch riders. That night it was freezing hard. With our chairs drawn in close to thefire, a glass of something to keep the cold out ready to hand, and pipesgoing strong, we felt sorry for the general and his escort who, probablywith chilled lips and numbed fingers, jogged resoundingly through thevillage street. Twenty minutes later we took the road, and soon, pretending that we hadlost our way, again passed the general--and lost our way, or at leastrode well past our turning. Finally, colder than we had ever beenbefore, we reached the Chateau at Gueschart. There we found a charmingand hospitable son of the house and a pleasantly adoring lad. Withtheir aid we piled the floor of the harness-room with straw, and thoseof us who were not on duty slept finely. From the dawn of the next morning we were working at top pressure rightthrough the day, keeping in touch with the brigades which were billetedin villages several miles distant. Late in the afternoon we discovered we were very short of petrol, so Iwas sent off to Crécy in our famous captured car, with a requisition. Wearrived amidst cheers. I strode into the nearest garage and demanded 100litres of petrol. It was humbly brought and placed in the car: then Isent boys flying round the town for jam and bread and butter, and in themeantime we entertained the crowd by showing them a German helmet. Iexplained volubly that my bandaged fingers--there was an affair ofoutposts with an ambulance near Serches--were the work of shrapnel, andthey nearly embraced me. A boy came back and said there was no jam, sothe daughter of the house went to her private cupboard and brought meout two jars of jam she had made herself, and an enormous glass of wine. We drove off amidst more cheers, to take the wrong road out of the townin our great excitement. The brigades moved that night; headquarters remained at Gueschart untildawn, when the general started off in his car with two of us attendant. Now before the war a motor-cyclist would consider himself ill-used if hewere forced to take a car's dust for a mile or so. Your despatch riderwas compelled to follow in the wake of a large and fast Daimler fortwenty-five miles, and at the end of it he did not know which was himand which dust. We came upon the 15th, shivering in the morning cold, and waiting forsome French motor-buses. Then we rushed on to St Pol, which was crammedfull of French transport, and on to Chateau Bryas. Until the otherdespatch riders came up there was no rest for the two of us that hadaccompanied the car. The roads, too, were blocked with refugees flyingsouth from Lille and men of military age who had been called up. Onceagain we heard the distant sound of guns--for the first time since wehad been at the Chateau of Longpont. At last we were relieved for an hour, and taking possession of a kitchenwe fried some pork-chops with onions and potatoes. It was grand. Wewashed them down with coffee, and went back to duty. For the remainderof that day and for the whole of the night there was no rest for us. At dawn the Division marched in column of route north-east towards thesound of the guns. Half of us at a time slipped away and fed in stinking taverns--but thefood was good. I cannot remember a hotter day, and we were marching through athickly-populated mining district--the villages were uncomfortably likethose round Dour. The people were enthusiastic and generous with theirfruit and with their chocolate. It was very tiring work, because we werecompelled to ride with the Staff, for first one of us was needed andthen another to take messages up and down the column or across countryto brigades and divisions that were advancing along roads parallel toours. The old Division was making barely one mile an hour. The road wasblocked by French transport coming in the opposite direction, by 'busesdrawn up at the side of the road, and by cavalry that, trekking from theAisne, crossed our front continuously to take up their position away onthe left. At last, about three o'clock in the afternoon, we reached the outskirtsof Béthune. The sound of the guns was very near, and to the east of thetown we could see an aeroplane haloed in bursting shrapnel. The Staff took refuge first in an unsavoury field and afterwards in alittle house. Despatch after despatch until evening--and then, orderedto remain behind to direct others, and cheered by the sight of our mostrevered and most short-sighted staff-officer walking straight over alittle bridge into a deep, muddy, and stinking ditch, I took refuge inthe kitchen and experienced the discreeter pleasures of "the Force. " Thehandmaidens brought coffee, and brushed me and washed me and talked tome. I was sorry when the time came for me to resume my beat, or ratherto ride with Cecil after the Division. We passed some Turcos, happy-looking children but ill companions in ahostile country, and some Spahis with flowing burnous, who lookedridiculously out of place, and then, after a long search--it was dark onthe road and very cold--we found the Division. I dined off a maconochie, and was wondering whether I dare lie down tosleep, when I was called out to take a message to and remain at the 13thBrigade. It was a bad night. Never was a man so cold in his life, andthe brigade had taken up its quarters in a farm situated in the centreof a very labyrinth of country roads. But I had four hours' sleep when Igot there, while the others were up all the night. There was no hurry in the morning. The orders were to join the Divisionat a bridge just outside Béthune, a point which they could not possiblyreach before ten. So I got up late and had a glorious meal of soup, omelette, and fruit in the town, waited on by a most excellent flapperwho wanted to know everything about everything. I reported at the SignalOffice, then occupying the lodge of the town cemetery, and was sent offto catch the Devons. At the village where I waited for them I found someCuirassiers, genial fellows; but living helios in the burning sun. WhenI returned the Division had moved along the north bank of the Canal toBeuvry Station. The post picked us up, and in the joyous possession oftwo parcels and some letters I unpacked my kit. We all settled down onsome moderately clean straw in the waiting-room of the station, andthere we remained for three full weeks. Men talk of the battle of Ypres[15] as the finest achievement of theBritish Army. There was one brigade there that had a past. It had foughtat Mons and Le Cateau, and then plugged away cheerfully through theRetreat and the Advance. What was left of it had fought stiffly on theAisne. Some hard marching, a train journey, more hard marching, and itwas thrown into action at La Bassée. There it fought itself to astandstill. It was attacked and attacked until, shattered, it wasdriven back one wild night. It was rallied, and turning on the enemyheld them. More hard marching--a couple of days' rest, and it staggeredinto action at Ypres, and somehow--no one knows how--it held its bit ofline. A brigade called by the same name, consisting of the sameregiments, commanded by the same general, but containing scarce a man ofthose who had come out in August, marched very proudly away from Ypresand went--not to rest--but to hold another bit of the line. And this brigade was not the Guards Brigade. There were no picked men inthe brigade. It contained just four ordinary regiments of the line--theNorfolks, the Bedfords, the Cheshires, and the Dorsets. What the 15thBrigade did, other brigades have done. Now little has been heard of this fighting round La Bassée in October, so I wish I could tell you about it in more detail than I can. To mythinking it was the finest fighting I have seen. You will understand, then, how difficult it is for me to describe thecountry round La Bassée. I might describe it as it appeared to me whenfirst we arrived--sunny and joyous, with many little farms and thickhedges and rare factories--or as I saw it last, on a horrible yellowishevening, shattered and black and flooded and full of ghosts. Now when first we arrived news filtered through to us that La Bassée washeld only by a division of Jägers, plentifully supplied with artilleryand machine guns. I believe this was the fact. The Jägers held onstubbornly until reinforcements came up. Instead of attacking we werehard pressed, and had more than we could do to prevent the Germans intheir turn from breaking through. Indeed we had not a kick left in uswhen the Division was relieved. At the beginning it looked so simple. The British Army was wheelinground on to the German right flank. We had the shortest distance to go, because we formed the extreme British right. On our left was the 3rdDivision, and beyond the 3rd was the First Corps. On the left of theFirst the Third Corps was sweeping on to Armentières. Then Antwerp fell suddenly. The First Corps was rushed up to help theSeventh Division which was trying to guard the right flank of theBelgians in retirement along the coast. Thus some sort of very weak linewas formed from the sea to La Bassée. The Germans, reinforced by themen, and more particularly by the guns that the fall of Antwerp had letloose, attacked violently at Ypres and La Bassée. I do not say this iswhat really happened. I am trying to tell you what we thought washappening. Think of us, then, in the heat of early October going into action on theleft of the French, confident that we had just a little opposition tobrush away in front of us before we concentrated in the square at LaBassée. At first the 13th Brigade was put into position south of the canal, the15th Brigade attacked from the canal to the La Bassée-Estaires road, andthe 14th from the main road roughly to the Richebourgs. In the secondstage the French extended their line to the Canal, and the 13th became areserve brigade. In the third stage we had every man in the line--the13th Brigade being split up between the 14th and 15th, and the Frenchsent two battalions to the north bank of the canal. The work of the despatch riders was of two kinds. Three-quarters of usrode between the divisional and the brigade headquarters. The rest wereattached to the brigades, and either used for miscellaneous work or heldin reserve so that communication might not be broken if the wires werecut or smashed by shells. One motor-cyclist went out every day to Lieutenant Chapman, who wasacting as liaison officer with the French. This job never fell to mylot, but I am told it was exciting enough. The French general was anintrepid old fellow, who believed that a general should be near hisfighting men. So his headquarters were always being shelled. Then hewould not retire, but preferred to descend into the cellar until theevil times were overpast. The despatch rider with Chapman had his bellyful of shells. It waspleasant to sit calmly in a cellar and receive food at the hands of anaccomplished _chef_, and in more peaceful times there was opportunity tostudy the idiosyncrasies of German gunners and the peculiar merits ofthe Soixante-Quinze. But when the shelling was hottest there was usuallywork for the despatch rider--and getting away from the unhealthy areabefore scooting down the Annequin road was a heart-thumping job. French generals were always considerate and hospitable to us despatchriders. On our arrival at Béthune Huggie was sent off with a message toa certain French Corps Commander. The General received him with a properFrench embrace, congratulated him on our English bravery, and set himdown to some food and a glass of good wine. It was at La Bassée that we had our first experience of utterlyunrideable roads. North of the canal the roads were fair macadam in dryweather and to the south the main road Béthune-Beuvry-Annequin was ofthe finest pavé. Then it rained hard. First the roads became greasybeyond belief. Starting was perilous, and the slightest injudiciousswerve meant a bad skid. Between Gorre and Festubert the road was vile. It went on raining, and the roads were thickly covered with glutinousmud. The front mud-guard of George's Douglas choked up with a lamentablefrequency. The Blackburne alone, the finest and most even-running of allmotor-cycles, [16] ran with unswerving regularity. Finally, to our heartburning sorrow, there were nights on whichmotor-cycling became impossible, and we stayed restlessly at home whilemen on the despised horse carried our despatches. This we could notallow for long. Soon we became so skilled that, if I remember correctly, it was only on half a dozen nights in all right through the winter thatthe horsemen were required. It was at La Bassée too that we had our second casualty. A despatchrider whom we called "Moulders" came in one evening full of triumph. Abullet had just grazed his leg and the Government was compelled toprovide him with a new puttee. We were jealous, and he was proud. We slept in that room which was no room, the entrance-hall of BeuvryStation. It was small and crowded. The floor was covered with strawwhich we could not renew. After the first fortnight the population ofthis chamber increased rapidly; one or two of us spoke of himselfhereafter in the plural. They gave far less trouble than we hadexpected, and, though always with some of us until the spring, sufferedheavy casualties from the use of copious petrol and the baking of washedshirts in the village oven. We had been given a cook of our own. He was a youth of dreamy habits andacquisitive tastes, but sometimes made a good stew. Each one of usthought he himself was talented beyond the ordinary, so the cook neverwanted assistance--except perhaps in the preparing of breakfast. Foodwas good and plentiful, while the monotony of army rations was broken bysupplies from home and from Béthune. George, thank heaven, was stillwith us. Across the bridge was a shop where you could buy anything from a pair ofboots to a kilo of vermicelli. Those of us who were not on duty wouldwander in about eleven in the morning, drink multitudinous bowls ofcoffee at two sous the bowl, and pass the time of day with some of thecyclists who were billeted in the big brewery. Just down the road was atavern where infernal cognac could be got and occasionally good redwine. Even when there was little to do, the station was not dull. Frenchhussars, dainty men with thin and graceful horses, rode over the bridgeand along the canal every morning. Cuirassiers would clatter and swaggerby--and guns, both French and English. Behind the station muchammunition was stored, a source of keen pleasure if ever the Germans hadattempted to shell the station. It was well within range. During thelast week His Majesty's armoured train, "Jellicoe, " painted in wondrouscolours, would rumble in and on towards La Bassée. The crew were full ofAntwerp tales and late newspapers. The first time the train went intoaction it demolished a German battery, but afterwards it had littleluck. The corps was at Hinges. If work were slack and the Signal Sergeantwere kind, he would give one of us a bunch of messages for the corps, with the hint that the return might be made at leisure. Between Hingesand Beuvry lay Béthune. Hinges deserves a word. When first the corps came to Hinges, the inhabitants were exalted. Thesmall boys came out in puttees and the women put ribbons in their hair. Now, if you pronounce Hinges in the French fashion, you give forth anexclamation of distressful pain. The name cannot be shouted from amotor-cycle. It has its difficulties even for the student of French. Sowe all called it, plainly and bluntly, Hinges, as though it wereconnected to a door. The inhabitants noticed this. Thinking that theyand their forefathers had been wrong--for surely these fine men with redhats knew better than they--the English pronunciation spread. Thevillage became 'Ingees, and now only some unfashionable dotards inBéthune preserve the tradition of the old pronunciation. It is not onlyHinges that has been thus decently attired in British garb. Le Cateau isLee Catòo. Boescheppe is Bo-peep. Ouderdon is Eiderdown. Béthune was full of simple pleasures. First there were the public baths, cheap and good, and sundry coiffeurs who were much in demand, for theymade you smell sweetly. Then there was a little blue and white café. Thedaughter of the house was well-favoured and played the piano with someskill. One of us spent all his spare time at this café in silentadoration--of the piano, for his French was exiguous in the extreme. There was a patisserie crammed full of the most delicious cream-cakes. The despatch rider who went to Hinges about 3. 30 P. M. And did not returnwith cakes for tea, found life unpleasant. Near the station threedamsels ruled a tavern. They were friendly and eager to teach us French. We might have left them with a sigh of regret if we had not once arrivedas they were eating their midday meal. At one time the Germans dropped a few shells into Béthune, but didlittle damage. Bombs fell too. One nearly ended the existence of"Sadders"--also known as "Boo. " It dropped on the other side of thestreet; doing our despatch rider no damage, it slightly wounded SergeantCroucher of the Cyclists in a portion of his body that made him swearwhen he was classed as a "sitting-up case. " Of all the towns behind the lines--Béthune, Estaires, Armentières, Bailleul, Poperinghe--Béthune is the pleasantest. The people arecharming. There is nothing you cannot buy there. It is clean andwell-ordered, and cheerful in the rain. I pray that Béthune may survivethe war--that after peace has been declared and Berlin has been entered, I may spend a week there and much money to the profit of the people andthe satisfaction of myself. Now I will give some account of our adventures out with the brigadesround La Bassée. [Illustration: ROUND LA BASSÉE] FOOTNOTES: [15] The first--in October and November. [16] This is not an unthinking advertisement. After despatch riding fromAugust 16 to February 18 my judgment should be worth something. I amfirmly convinced that if the Government could have provided all despatchriders with Blackburnes, the percentage--at all times small--of messagesundelivered owing to mechanical breakdowns or the badness of the roadswould have been reduced to zero. I have no interest in the BlackburneCompany beyond a sincere admiration of the machine it produces. CHAPTER IX. ROUND LA BASSÉE. It had been a melancholy day, full of rain and doubting news. Those ofus who were not "out" were strolling up and down the platform arrangingthe order of cakes from home and trying to gather from the sound of thegunning and intermittent visits to the Signal Office what was happening. Someone had been told that the old 15th was being hard pressed. Each ofus regretted loudly that we had not been attached to it, though ourhearts spoke differently. Despatch riders have muddled thoughts. Thereis a longing for the excitement of danger and a very earnest desire tokeep away from it. The C. O. Walked on to the platform hurriedly, and in a minute or two Iwas off. It was lucky that the road was covered with unholy grease, thatthe light was bad and there was transport on the road--for it is notgood for a despatch rider to think too much of what is before him. Myinstructions were to report to the general and make myself useful. I wasalso cheerfully informed that the H. Q. Of the 15th were under a robustshell-fire. Little parties of sad-looking wounded that I passed, thenoise of the guns, and the evil dusk heartened me. I rode into Festubert, which was full of noise, and, very hastilydismounting, put my motor-cycle under the cover of an arch and reportedto the general. He was sitting at a table in the stuffy room of aparticularly dirty tavern. At the far end a fat and frightened woman wascrooning to her child. Beside her sat a wrinkled, leathery old man withbandaged head. He had wandered into the street, and he had been cutabout by shrapnel. The few wits he had ever possessed were gone, and hegave every few seconds little croaks of hate. Three telephone operatorswere working with strained faces at their highest speed. The windows hadbeen smashed by shrapnel, and bits of glass and things crunched underfoot. The room was full of noises--the crackle of the telephones, thecrooning of the woman, the croak of the wounded old man, the clear andincisive tones of the general and his brigade-major, the rattle of nottoo distant rifles, the booming of guns and occasionally the terrific, overwhelming crash of a shell bursting in the village. I was given a glass of wine. Cadell, the Brigade Signal Officer, and theVeterinary Officer, came up to me and talked cheerfully in whisperedtones about our friends. There was the sharp cry of shrapnel in the street and a sudden rattleagainst the whole house. The woman and child fled somewhere through adoor, followed feebly by the old man. The brigade-major persuaded thegeneral to work in some less unhealthy place. The telephone operatorsmoved. A moment's delay as the general endeavoured to persuade thebrigade-major to go first, and we found ourselves under a stalwart archthat led into the courtyard of the tavern. We lit pipes and cigarettes. The crashes of bursting shells grew more frequent, and the generalremarked in a dry and injured tone-- "Their usual little evening shoot before putting up the shutters, Isuppose. " But first the Germans "searched" the village. Now to search a villagemeans to start at one end of the village and place shells at discreetintervals until the other end of the village is reached. It is anunpleasant process for those in the middle of the village, even thoughthey be standing, as we were, in comparatively good shelter. We heard the Germans start at the other end of the village street. Thecrashes came nearer and nearer, until a shell burst with a scream and athunderous roar just on our right. We puffed away at our cigarettes fora second, and a certain despatch rider wished he were anywhere but inthe cursed village of Festubert by Béthune. There was another scream andoverwhelming relief. The next shell burst three houses away on our left. I knocked my pipe out and filled another. The Germans finished their little evening shoot. We marched back veryslowly in the darkness to 1910 Farm. This farm was neither savoury nor safe. It was built round a courtyardwhich consisted of a gigantic hole crammed with manure in all the stagesof unpleasant putrefaction. One side is a barn; two sides consist ofstables, and the third is the house inhabited not only by us but by anincredibly filthy and stinking old woman who was continually troublingthe general because some months ago a French cuirassier took one of herchickens. The day after we arrived at this farm I had few despatches totake, so I wrote to Robert. Here is some of the letter and bits ofother letters I wrote during the following days. They will give you anidea of our state of mind:[17] If you want something of the dramatic--I am writing in a farm undershrapnel fire, smoking a pipe that was broken by a shell. For trueeffect I suppose I should not tell you that the shrapnel is burstingabout fifty yards the other side of the house, that I am in a room lyingon the floor, and consequently that, so long as they go on firingshrapnel, I am perfectly safe. It's the dismallest of places. Two miles farther back the heavies arebanging away over our heads. There are a couple of batteries near thefarm. Two miles along the road the four battalions of our brigade areholding on for dear life in their trenches. The country is open plough, with little clumps of trees, sparse hedges, and isolated cottages giving a precarious cover. It's all very damp andmiserable, for it was raining hard last night and the day before. I am in a little bare room with the floor covered with straw. Twotelegraph operators are making that infernal jerky clicking sound I havebegun so to hate. Half a dozen men of the signal staff are lying aboutthe floor looking at week-old papers. In the next room I can hear thegeneral, seated at a table and intent on his map, talking to an officerthat has just come from the firing line. Outside the window a gun ismaking a fiendish row, shaking the whole house. Occasionally there is abit of a rattle--that's shrapnel bullets falling on the tiles of anouthouse. If you came out you might probably find this exhilarating. I have justhad a talk with our mutual friend Cadell, the Signal Officer of thisbrigade, and we have decided that we are fed up with it. For onething--after two months' experience of shell fire the sound of a shellbursting within measurable distance makes you start and shiver for amoment--reflex action of the nerves. That is annoying. We both decidedwe would willingly change places with you and take a turn at defendingyour doubtless excellently executed trenches at Liberton. The line to the ----[18] has just gone. It's almost certain death torelay it in the day-time. Cadell and his men are discussing the chanceswhile somebody else has started a musical-box. A man has gone out; Iwonder if he will come back. The rest of the men have gone to sleepagain. That gun outside the window is getting on my nerves. Well, well! The shrapnel fire appears to have stopped for the present. No, there's acouple together. If they fire over this farm I hope they don't send meback to D. H. Q. Do you know what I long for more than anything else? A clean, unhurriedbreakfast with spotless napery and shining silver and porridge andkippers. I don't think these long, lazy after-breakfast hours at Oxfordwere wasted. They are a memory and a hope out here. The shrapnel isgetting nearer and more frequent. We are all hoping it will kill somechickens in the courtyard. The laws against looting are so strict. What an excellent musical-box, playing quite a good imitation of_Cavalleria Rusticana_. I guess we shall have to move soon. Too manyshells. Too dark to write any more---- After all, quite the most important things out here are a fine meal anda good bath. If you consider the vast area of the war the facts that wehave lost two guns or advanced five miles are of very little importance. War, making one realise the hopeless insignificance of the individual, creates in one such an immense regard for self, that so long as onedoes well it matters little if four officers have been killedreconnoitring or some wounded have had to be left under an abandoned gunall night. I started with an immense interest in tactics. This hasnearly all left me and I remain a more or less efficientdespatch-carrying animal--a part of a machine realising the hopeless, enormous size of the machine. The infantry officer after two months of modern war is a curiousphenomenon. [19] He is probably one of three survivors of an originaltwenty-eight. He is not frightened of being killed; he has forgotten tothink about it. But there is a sort of reflex fright. He becomes eithercautious and liable to sudden panics, or very rash indeed, or absolutelymechanical in his actions. The first state means the approach of anervous breakdown, the second a near death. There are very few, indeed, who retain a nervous balance and a calm judgment. And all have a harshfrightened voice. If you came suddenly out here, you would think theywere all mortally afraid. But it is only giving orders for hourstogether under a heavy fire. Battle noises are terrific. At the present moment a howitzer is goingstrong behind this, and the concussion is tremendous. The noise is likedropping a traction-engine on a huge tin tray. A shell passing away fromyou over your head is like the loud crackling of a newspaper close toyour ear. It makes a sort of deep reverberating crackle in the air, gradually lessening, until there is a dull boom, and a mile or so awayyou see a thick little cloud of white smoke in the air or a pear-shapedcloud of grey-black smoke on the ground. Coming towards you a shellmakes a cutting, swishing note, gradually getting higher and higher, louder and louder. There is a longer note one instant and then itceases. Shrapnel bursting close to you has the worst sound. It is almost funny in a village that is being shelled. Things simplydisappear. You are standing in an archway a little back from the road--ashriek of shrapnel. The windows are broken and the tiles rush clatteringinto the street, while little bullets and bits of shell jump likered-hot devils from side to side of the street, ricochetting until theirforce is spent. Or a deeper bang, a crash, and a whole house tumblesdown. _3/4-hour later. _--Curious life this. Just after I had finished the lastsentence, I was called out to take a message to a battery telling themto shell a certain village. Here am I wandering out, taking orders forthe complete destruction of a village and probably for the death of acouple of hundred men[20] without a thought, except that the roads arevery greasy and that lunch time is near. Again, yesterday, I put our Heavies in action, and in a quarter of anhour a fine old church, with what appeared from the distance amagnificent tower, was nothing but a grotesque heap of ruins. TheGermans were loopholing it for defence. Oh the waste, the utter damnable waste of everything out here--men, horses, buildings, cars, everything. Those who talk about war being asalutary discipline are those who remain at home. In a modern war thereis little room for picturesque gallantry or picture-book heroism. We areall either animals or machines, with little gained except our emotionsdulled and brutalised and nightmare flashes of scenes that cannot bewritten about because they are unbelievable. I wonder what differenceyou will find in us when we come home---- Do you know what a night scare is? In our last H. Q. We were all diningwhen suddenly there was a terrific outburst of rifle-fire from ourlines. We went out into the road that passes the farm and stood therein the pitch darkness, wondering. The fire increased in intensity untilevery soldier within five miles seemed to be revelling in a lunaticsuccession of "mad minutes. " Was it a heavy attack on our lines? Soonpom-poms joined in sharp, heavy taps--and machine guns. The lines to thebattalions were at the moment working feebly, and what the operatorscould get through was scarcely intelligible. Ammunition limbers werehurried up, and I stood ready to dart anywhere. For twenty minutes therifle-fire seemed to grow wilder and wilder. At last stretcher-bearerscame in with a few wounded and reported that we seemed to be holding ourown. Satisfactory so far. Then there were great flashes of shrapnel overour lines; that comforted us, for if your troops are advancing you don'tfire shrapnel over the enemy's lines. You never know how soon they maybe yours. The firing soon died down until we heard nothing but littledesultory bursts. Finally an orderly came--the Germans hadhalf-heartedly charged our trenches but had been driven off with loss. We returned to the farm and found that in the few minutes we had beenoutside everything had been packed and half-frightened men were standingabout for orders. The explanation of it all came later and was simple enough. The French, without letting us know, had attacked the Germans on our right, and theGermans to keep us engaged had made a feint attack upon us. So we wentback to dinner. In modern war the infantryman hasn't much of a chance. Strategy nowadaysconsists in arranging for the mutual slaughter of infantry by theopposing guns, each general trusting that his guns will do the greaterslaughter. And half gunnery is luck. The day before yesterday we had alittle afternoon shoot at where we thought the German trenches might be. The Germans unaccountably retreated, and yesterday when we advanced wefound the trenches crammed full of dead. By a combination of intelligentanticipation and good luck we had hit them exactly---- From these letters you will be able to gather what mood we were in andsomething of what the brigade despatch rider was doing. After the firstday the Germans ceased shrapnelling the fields round the farm and leftus nearly in peace. There I met Major Ballard, commanding the 15thArtillery Brigade, one of the finest officers of my acquaintance, andCaptain Frost, the sole remaining officer of the Cheshires. He wascharming to me; I was particularly grateful for the loan of a razor, for my own had disappeared and there were no despatch riders handy fromwhom I could borrow. Talking of the Cheshires reminds me of a story illustrating the troublesof a brigadier. The general was dining calmly one night after havingarranged an attack. All orders had been sent out. Everything wascomplete and ready. Suddenly there was a knock at the door and in walkedCaptain M----, who reported his arrival with 200 reinforcements for theCheshires, a pleasant but irritating addition. The situation was furthercomplicated by the general's discovery that M---- was senior to theofficer then in command of the Cheshires. Poor M---- was not left longin command. A fortnight later the Germans broke through and over theCheshires, and M---- died where a commanding officer should. From 1910 Farm I had one good ride to the battalions, through Festubertand along to the Cuinchy bridge. For me it was interesting because itwas one of the few times I had ridden just behind our trenches, which atthe moment were just north of the road and were occupied by theBedfords. In a day or two we returned to Festubert, and Cadell gave me ashake-down on a mattress in his billet--gloriously comfortable. The roomwas a little draughty because the fuse of a shrapnel had gone rightthrough the door and the fireplace opposite. Except for a peppering onthe walls and some broken glass the house was not damaged; we almostlaughed at the father and mother and daughter who, returning while wewere there, wept because their home had been touched. Orders came to attack. A beautiful plan was drawn up by which thebattalions of the brigade were to finish their victorious career in thesquare of La Bassée. In connection with this attack I was sent with a message for the Devons. It was the blackest of black nights and I was riding without a light. Twice I ran into the ditch, and finally I piled up myself and my bicycleon a heap of stones lying by the side of the road. I did not damage mybicycle. That was enough. I left it and walked. When I got to Cuinchy bridge I found that the Devon headquarters hadshifted. Beyond that the sentry knew nothing. Luckily I met a Devonofficer who was bringing up ammunition. We searched the surroundingcottages for men with knowledge, and at last discovered that the Devonshad moved farther along the canal in the direction of La Bassée. So weset out along the tow-path, past a house that was burning fiercelyenough to make us conspicuous. We felt our way about a quarter of a mile and stopped, because we weregetting near the Germans. Indeed we could hear the rumble of theirtransport crossing the La Bassée bridge. We turned back, and a few yardsnearer home some one coughed high up the bank on our right. We found thecough to be a sentry, and behind the sentry were the Devons. The attack, as you know, was held up on the lineCuinchy-Givenchy-Violaines; we advanced our headquarters to a house justopposite the inn by which the road to Givenchy turns off. It was notvery safe, but the only shell that burst anywhere near the house itselfdid nothing but wound a little girl in the leg. On the previous day I had ridden to Violaines at dawn to draw a plan ofthe Cheshires' trenches for the general. I strolled out by the sugarfactory, and had a good look at the red houses of La Bassée. Half anhour later a patrol went out to explore the sugar factory. They did notreturn. It seems that the factory was full of machine-guns. I had notbeen fired upon, because the Germans did not wish to give their positionaway sooner than was necessary. A day or two later I had the happiness of avenging my potential death. First I took orders to a battery of 6-inch howitzers at the Rue deMarais to knock the factory to pieces, then I carried an observingofficer to some haystacks by Violaines, from which he could get a goodview of the factory. Finally I watched with supreme satisfaction thedemolition of the factory, and with regretful joy the slaughter of thefew Germans who, escaping, scuttled for shelter in some trenches justbehind and on either side of the factory. I left the 15th Brigade with regret, and the regret I felt would havebeen deeper if I had known what was going to happen to the brigade. Iwas given interesting work and made comfortable. No despatch rider couldwish for more. Not long after I had returned from the 15th Brigade, the Germansattacked and broke through. They had been heavily reinforced and ourtentative offensive had been replaced by a stern and anxious defensive. Now the Signal Office was established in the booking-office of BeuvryStation. The little narrow room was packed full of operators and vibrantwith buzz and click. The Signal Clerk sat at a table in a tiny room justoff the booking-office. Orderlies would rush in with messages, and theClerk would instantly decide whether to send them over the wire, bypush-cyclist, or by despatch rider. Again, he dealt with all messagesthat came in over the wire. Copies of these messages were filed. Thiswas our tape; from them we learned the news. We were not supposed toread them, but, as we often found that they contained information whichwas invaluable to despatch riders, we always looked through them andeach passed on what he had found to the others. The Signal Clerk mightnot know where a certain unit was at a given moment. We knew, because wehad put together information that we had gathered in the course of ourrides and information which--though the Clerk might think itunimportant--supplemented or completed or verified what we had alreadyobtained. So the history of this partially successful attack was known to us. Every few minutes one of us went into the Signal Office and read themessages. When the order came for us to pack up, we had already made ourpreparations, for Divisional Headquarters, the brain controlling theactions of seventeen thousand men, must never be left in a position ofdanger. And wounded were pouring into the Field Ambulances. The enemy had made a violent attack, preluded by heavy shelling, on theleft of the 15th, and what I think was a holding attack on the right. Violaines had been stormed, and the Cheshires had been driven, stillgrimly fighting, to beyond the Rue de Marais. The Norfolks on theirright and the K. O. S. B. 's on their left had been compelled to draw backtheir line with heavy loss, for their flanks had been uncovered by theretreat of the Cheshires. The Germans stopped a moment to consolidate their gains. This gave ustime to throw a couple of battalions against them. After desperatefighting Rue de Marais was retaken and some sort of line established. What was left of the Cheshires gradually rallied in Festubert. This German success, together with a later success against the 3rdDivision, that resulted in our evacuation of Neuve Chapelle, compelledus to withdraw and readjust our line. This second line was not sodefensible as the first. Until we were relieved the Germans battered atit with gunnery all day and attacks all night. How we managed to hold itis utterly beyond my understanding. The men were dog-tired. Few of theold officers were left, and they were "done to the world. " Never did theFighting Fifth more deserve the name. It fought dully and instinctively, like a boxer who, after receiving heavy punishment, just manages to keephimself from being knocked out until the call of time. Yet, when they had dragged themselves wearily and blindly out of thetrenches, the fighting men of the Fighting Fifth were given but a day'srest or two before the 15th and two battalions of the 13th were sent toHooge, and the remainder to hold sectors of the line farther south. Canyou wonder that we despatch riders, in comparative safety behind theline, did all we could to help the most glorious and amazing infantrythat the world has ever seen?[21] And when you praise the deeds of Ypresof the First Corps, who had experienced no La Bassée, spare a word forthe men of the Fighting Fifth who thought they could fight no more andyet fought. A few days after I had returned from the 15th Brigade I was sent out tothe 14th. I found them at the Estaminet de l'Epinette on theBéthune-Richebourg road. Headquarters had been compelled to shift, hastily enough, from the Estaminet de La Bombe on the La Bassée-Estairesroad. The estaminet had been shelled to destruction half an hour afterthe Brigade had moved. The Estaminet de l'Epinette was filthy and small. I slept in a stinking barn, half-full of dirty straw, and rose with thesun for the discomfort of it. Opposite the estaminet a road goes to Festubert. At the corner there isa cluster of dishevelled houses. I sat at the door and wrote letters, and looked for what might come to pass. In the early dawn the poplarsalongside the highway were grey and dull. There was mist on the road;the leaves that lay thick were black. Then as the sun rose higher thepoplars began to glisten and the mist rolled away, and the leaves werered and brown. An old woman came up the road and prayed the sentry to let her pass. Hecould not understand her and called to me. She told me that her familywere in the house at the corner fifty yards distant. I replied that shecould not go to them--that they, if they were content not to return, might come to her. But the family would not leave their chickens, andcows, and corn. So the old woman, who was tired, sank down by thewayside and wept. This sorrow was no sorrow to the sorrow of the war. Ileft the old woman, the sentry, and the family, and went into a finebreakfast. At this time there was much talk about spies. Our wires were often cutmysteriously. A sergeant had been set upon in a lane. The enemy werefinding our guns with uncanny accuracy. All our movements seemed to beanticipated by the enemy. Taking for granted the extraordinaryefficiency of the German Intelligence Corps, we were particularlynervous about spies when the Division was worn out, when things were notgoing well. At the Estaminet de l'Epinette I heard a certain story, and hearing itset about to make a fool of myself. This is the story--I have neverheard it substantiated, and give it as an illustration and not as fact. There was once an artillery brigade billeted in a house two miles or sobehind the lines. All the inhabitants of the house had fled, for thevillage had been heavily bombarded. Only a girl had had the courage toremain and do hostess to the English. She was so fresh and so charming, so clever in her cookery, and so modest in her demeanour that all themen of the brigade headquarters fell madly in love with her. They evenquarrelled. Now this brigade was suffering much from espionage. The gunscould not be moved without the Germans knowing their new position. Notransport or ammunition limbers were safe from the enemy's guns. Thebrigade grew mightily indignant. The girl was told by her numeroussweethearts what was the matter. She was angry and sympathetic, andswore that through her the spy should be discovered. She swore thetruth. One night a certain lewd fellow of the baser sort pursued the girl withimportunate pleadings. She confessed that she liked him, but not in thatway. He left her and stood sullenly by the door. The girl took a pailand went down into the cellar to fetch up a little coal, telling the manwith gentle mockery not to be so foolish. This angered him, and in aminute he had rushed after her into the cellar, snorting withdisappointed passion. Of course he slipped on the stairs and fell with acrash. The girl screamed. The fellow, his knee bruised, tried to feelhis way to the bottom of the stairs and touched a wire. Quickly runninghis hand along the wire he came to a telephone. The girl rushed to him, and, clasping his knees, offered him anything he might wish, if only hewould say nothing. I think he must have hesitated for a moment, but hedid not hesitate long. The girl was shot. Full of this suspiciously melodramatic story I caught sight of amysterious document fastened by nails to the house opposite the inn. Itwas covered with coloured signs which, whatever they were, certainly didnot form letters or make sense in any way. I examined the documentclosely. One sign looked like an aeroplane, another like a house, athird like the rough drawing of a wood. I took it to a certain officer, who agreed with me that it appeared suspicious. We carried it to the staff-captain, who pointed out very forcibly thatit had been raining lately, that colour ran, that the signs left formedportions of letters. I demanded the owner of the house upon which thedocument had been posted. She was frightened and almost unintelligible, but supplied the missing fragments. The document was a crude electionappeal. Being interpreted it read something like this:-- SUPPORT LEFÈVRE. HE IS NOT A LIAR LIKE DUBOIS. Talking of spies, here is another story. It is true. Certain wires were always being cut. At length a patrol was organised. While the operator was talking there was a little click and no furtheracknowledgment from the other end. The patrol started out and caught theman in the act of cutting a second wire. He said nothing. He was brought before the Mayor. Evidence was briefly given of hisguilt. He made no protest. It was stated that he had been born in thevillage. The Mayor turned to the man and said-- "You are a traitor. It is clear. Have you anything to say?" The man stood white and straight. Then he bowed his head and madeanswer-- "Priez pour moi. " That was no defence. So they led him away. The morning after I arrived at the 14th the Germans concentrated theirfire on a large turnip-field and exhumed multitudinous turnips. Nofurther damage was done, but the field was unhealthily near theEstaminet de l'Epinette. In the afternoon we moved our headquarters backa mile or so to a commodious and moderately clean farm with aforgettable name. That evening two prisoners were brought in. They owned to eighteen, butdid not look more than sixteen. The guard treated them with kindlycontempt. We all sat round a makeshift table in the loft where we sleptand told each other stories of fighting and love and fear, while theboys, squatting a little distance away, listened and looked at us inwonder. I came in from a ride about one in the morning and found thoseof the guard who were off duty and the two German boys sleeping side byside. Literally it was criminal negligence--some one ought to have beenawake--but, when I saw one of the boys was clasping tightly a packet ofwoodbines, I called it something else and went to sleep. A day or two later I was relieved. On the following afternoon I was sentto Estaires to bring back some details about the Lahore Division whichhad just arrived on the line. I had, of course, seen Spahis and Turcosand Senegalese, but when riding through Lestrem I saw these Indiantroops of ours the obvious thoughts tumbled over one another. We despatch riders when first we met the Indians wondered how they wouldfight, how they would stand shell-fire and the climate--but chiefly wewere filled with a sort of mental helplessness, riding among people whenwe could not even vaguely guess at what they were thinking. We could getno deeper than their appearance, dignified and clean and well-behaved. In a few days I was back again at the 14th with Huggie. At dusk theGeneral went out in his car to a certain village about three milesdistant. Huggie went with him. An hour or so, and I was sent after himwith a despatch. The road was almost unrideable with the worst sort ofgrease, the night was pitch-black and I was allowed no light. Islithered along at about six miles an hour, sticking out my legs for apermanent scaffolding. Many troops were lying down at the side of theroad. An officer in a strained voice just warned me in time for me toavoid a deep shell-hole by inches. I delivered my despatch to theGeneral. Outside the house I found two or three officers I knew. Two ofthem were young captains in command of battalions. Then I learned howhard put to it the Division was, and what the result is of nervousstrain. They had been fighting and fighting and fighting until their nerves werenothing but a jangling torture. And a counter-attack on Neuve Chapellewas being organised. Huggie told me afterwards that when the car hadcome along the road, all the men had jumped like startled animals and afew had turned to take cover. Why, if a child had met one of these menshe would have taken him by the hand instinctively and told him not tobe frightened, and defended him against anything that came. Yet it issaid there are still those at home who will not stir to help. I do notsee how this can possibly be true. It could not be true. First we talked about the counter-attack, and which battalion wouldlead; then with a little manipulation we began to discuss musical comedyand the beauty of certain ladies. Again the talk would wander back towhich battalion would lead. I returned perilously with a despatch and left Huggie, to spend adisturbed night and experience those curious sensations which are causedby a shell bursting just across the road from the house. The proposed attack was given up. If it had been carried out, those menwould have fought as finely as they could. I do not know whether myadmiration for the infantry or my hatred of war is the greater. I canexpress neither. On the following day the Brigadier moved to a farm farther north. It wasthe job of Huggie and myself to keep up communication between this farmand the brigade headquarters at the farm with the forgettable name. Toride four miles or so along country lanes from one farm to another doesnot sound particularly strenuous. It was. In the first place, theneighbourhood of the advanced farm was not healthy. The front gate wasmarked down by a sniper who fired not infrequently but a little high. Between the back gate and the main road was impassable mud. Again, thefarm was only three-quarters of a mile behind our trenches, and "overs"went zipping through the farm buildings at all sorts of unexpectedangles. There were German aeroplanes about, so we covered our stationarymotor-cycles with straw. Starting from brigade headquarters the despatch rider in half a mile wasforced to pass the transport of a Field Ambulance. The men seemed totake a perverted delight in wandering aimlessly and deafly across theroad, and in leaving anything on the road which could conceivablyobstruct or annoy a motor-cyclist. Then came two and a half miles ofwinding country lanes. They were covered with grease. Every corner wasblind. A particularly sharp turn to the right and the despatch riderrode a couple of hundred yards in front of a battery in action that theGermans were trying to find. A "hairpin" corner round a house followed. This he would take with remarkable skill and alacrity, because at thiscorner he was always sniped. The German's rifle was trained a triflehigh. Coming into the final straight the despatch rider or one despatchrider rode for all he was worth. It was unpleasant to find newshell-holes just off the road each time you passed, or, as you came intothe straight, to hear the shriek of shrapnel between you and the farm. Huggie once arrived at the house of the "hairpin" bend simultaneouslywith a shell. The shell hit the house, the house did not hit Huggie, andthe sniper forgot to snipe. So every one was pleased. On my last journey I passed a bunch of wounded Sikhs. They wereclinging to all their kit. One man was wounded in both his feet. He wasbeing carried by two of his fellows. In his hands he clutched his boots. The men did not know where to go or what to do. I could not make themunderstand, but I tried by gestures to show them where the ambulancewas. I saw two others--they were slightly wounded--talking fiercely together. At last they grasped their rifles firmly, and swinging round, limpedback towards the line. Huggie did most of the work that day, because during the greater part ofthe afternoon I was kept back at brigade headquarters. In the evening I went out in the car to fetch the general. The car, which was old but stout, had been left behind by the Germans. The driverof it was a reservist who had been taken from his battalion. Day andnight he tended and coaxed that car. He tied it together when it fell topieces. At all times and in all places he drove that car, for he had nowish at all to return to the trenches. On the following day Huggie and I were relieved. When we returned to ourgood old musty quarters at Beuvry men talked of a move. There wererumours of hard fighting in Ypres. Soon the Lahore Division came downtowards our line and began to take over from us. The 14th Brigade wasleft to strengthen them. The 15th and 13th began to move north. Early on the morning of October 29 we started, riding first along thecanal by Béthune. As for Festubert, Givenchy, Violaines, Rue de Marais, Quinque Rue, and La Bassée, we never want to see them again. [Illustration: YPRES _TO_ LA BASSÉE] FOOTNOTES: [17] The letters were written on the 14th October _et seq. _ The censorwas kind. [18] Dorsets, I think. [19] I do not say this paragraph is true. It is what I thought on 15thOctober 1914. The weather was depressing. [20] Optimist! [21] After nine months at the Front--six and a half months as a despatchrider and two and a half months as a cyclist officer--I have decidedthat the English language has no superlative sufficient to describe ourinfantry. CHAPTER X. THE BEGINNING OF WINTER. Before we came, Givenchy had been a little forgettable village upon ahill, Violaines a pleasant afternoon's walk for the working men in LaBassée, Festubert a gathering-place for the people who lived in thefilthy farms around. We left Givenchy a jumble of shuttered houses andbarricaded cellars. A few Germans were encamped upon the site ofViolaines. The great clock of Festubert rusted quickly against a tavernwall. We hated La Bassée, because against La Bassée the Division hadbeen broken. There are some square miles of earth that, like criminals, should not live. Our orders were to reach Caestre not later than the Signal Company. Caestre is on the Cassel-Bailleul road, three miles north-east ofHazebrouck. These unattached rides across country are the most joyousthings in the world for a despatch rider. There is never any need tohurry. You can take any road you will. You may choose your tavern forlunch with expert care. And when new ground is covered and new troopsare seen, we capture sometimes those sharp delightful moments ofthirsting interest that made the Retreat into an epic and the Advance atriumphant ballad. N'Soon and myself left together. We skidded along the tow-path, passedthe ever-cheerful cyclists, and, turning due north, ran into St Venant. The grease made us despatch riders look as if we were beginning tolearn. I rode gently but surely down the side of the road into thegutter time after time. Pulling ourselves together, we managed to slidepast some Indian transport without being kicked by the mules, who, whenever they smelt petrol, developed a strong offensive. Then we cameupon a big gun, discreetly covered by tarpaulins. It was drawn by amonster traction-engine, and sad-faced men walked beside it. Thesteering of the traction-engine was a trifle loose, so N'Soon and I drewoff into a field to let this solemn procession pass. One of the commandsin the unpublished "Book of the Despatch Rider" is this:-- _When you halt by the roadside to let guns pass or when you leave your motor-cycle unattended, first place it in a position of certain safety where it cannot possibly be knocked over, and then move it another fifty yards from the road. It is impossible for a gunner to see something by the roadside and not drive over it. Moreover, lorries when they skid, skid furiously. _ Four miles short of Hazebrouck we caught up the rest. Proceeding insingle file along the road, we endeavoured not to laugh, for--as onedespatch rider said--it makes all the difference on grease which side ofyour mouth you put your pipe in. We reached Hazebrouck at midday. Spreading out--the manoeuvre had become a fine art--we searched thetown. The "Chapeau Rouge" was well reported on, and there we lunched. All those tourists who will deluge Flanders after the war should go tothe "Chapeau Rouge" in Hazebrouck. There we had lentil soup and stewedkidneys, and roast veal with potatoes and leeks, fruit, cheese, and goodred wine. So little was the charge that one of us offered to pay it all. There are other more fashionable hotels in Hazebrouck, but, trust theword of a despatch rider, the "Chapeau Rouge" beats them all. Very content we rode on to Caestre, arriving there ten minutes beforethe advance-party of the Signal Company. Divisional Headquarters wereestablished at the House of the Spy. The owner of the house had beenwell treated by the Germans when they had passed through a month before. Upon his door had been written this damning legend-- HIER SIND GUETIGE LEUTE[22] and, when on the departure of the Germans the house had been searched byan indignant populace, German newspapers had been discovered in hisbedroom. It is the custom of the Germans to spare certain houses in every villageby chalking up some laudatory notice. We despatch riders had a theorythat the inhabitants of these marked houses, far from being spies, werethose against whom the Germans had some particular grievance. Imaginethe wretched family doing everything in its power to avoid the effusiveaffection of the Teuton, breaking all its own crockery, and stealing allits own silver, defiling its beds and tearing its clothing. For the manwhose goods have been spared by the German becomes an outcast. He livesin a state worse than death. He is hounded from his property, and drivenacross France with a character attached to him, like a kettle to acat's tail. Genuine spies, on the other hand--so we thought--were worsetreated than any and secretly recompensed. Such a man became a hero. Allhis neighbours brought their little offerings. The House of the Spy had a fine garden, hot and buzzing in thelanguorous heat. We bathed ourselves in it. And the sanitaryarrangements were good. Grimers arrived lunchless an hour later. He had been promoted to drivethe captured car. We took him to the tavern where beauty was allied withfine cooking. There he ate many omelettes. In the evening he and I suffered a great disappointment. We wanderedinto another tavern and were about to ask for our usual "Grenadine" whenwe saw behind the bar two bottles of Worthington. For a moment we weretoo stupefied to speak. Then, pulling ourselves together, we stammeredout an order for beer, but the girl only smiled. They were emptybottles, souvenirs left by some rascally A. S. C. For the eternaltemptation of all who might pass through. The girl in her sympathycomforted us with songs, one of which, "Les Serments, " I translated forthe benefit of Grimers, who knew no French. We sang cheerfully in Frenchand English until it was time to return to our billet. In the morning a German aeroplane passed over at a great height. All theyoungsters in the village tumbled over each other for shelter, shouting--Caput! caput![23] Later in the day we advanced to Bailleul, where we learnt that the 1stCorps was fighting furiously to the north. The square was full ofmotor-buses and staff-officers. They were the first of our ownmotor-buses we had seen out in Flanders. They cheered us greatly, andafter some drinks we sat in one and tried to learn from the mapsomething of the new country in which we were to ride. We rejoiced thatwe had come once again upon a Belgian sheet, because the old French mapwe had used, however admirable it might have been for brigadiers andsuchlike people, was extremely unsuited to a despatch rider's work. Infantry were pouring through, the stern remnants of fine battalions. Ever since the night after Le Cateau infantry in column of route havefascinated us, for a regiment on the march bares its character to theworld. First there were our brigades marching up to Mons, stalwart andcheering. After Le Cateau there were practically no battalions, just acrowd of men and transport pouring along the road to Paris. I watchedthe column pass for an hour, and in it there was no organised unitlarger than a platoon, and only one platoon. How it happened I do notknow, but, when we turned on the Germans, battalions, brigades, divisions, corps had been remade. The battalions were pitifully small. Many a time we who were watching said to one another: Surely that's notthe end of the K. O. Y. L. I. , or the Bedfords, or whatever regiment itmight be! A battalion going into action has some men singing, some smiling vaguelyto themselves, some looking raptly straight ahead, and some talkingquickly as if they must never stop. A battalion that has come many miles is nearly silent. The strong menstride tirelessly without a word. Little weak men, marching on theirnerves, hobble restlessly along. The men with bad feet limp and curse, wilting under the burden of their kit, and behind all come those whohave fallen out by the way--men dragging themselves along behind awaggon, white-faced men with uneasy smiles on top of the waggons. Alittle farther back those who are trying to catch up: these are tragicfigures, breaking into breathless little runs, but with a fine waveringattempt at striding out, as though they might be connecting files, whenthey march through a town or past an officer of high rank. A battalion that has just come out of action I cannot describe to you inthese letters, but let me tell you now about Princess Pat's. I ran intothem just as they were coming into Bailleul for the first time and werehearing the sound of the guns. They were the finest lot of men I haveever seen on the march. Gusts of great laughter were running throughthem. In the eyes of one or two were tears. And I told those civilians Ipassed that the Canadians, the fiercest of all soldiers, were come. Bailleul looked on them with more fright than admiration. The womenwhispered fearfully to each other--Les Canadiens, les Canadiens!... We despatch riders were given a large room in the house where theDivisional Staff was billeted. It had tables, chairs, a fireplace andgas that actually lit; so we were more comfortable than ever we had beenbefore--that is, all except N'Soon, who had by this time discovered thatcontinual riding on bad roads is apt to produce a fundamental soreness. N'Soon hung on nobly, but was at last sent away with blood-poisoning. Never getting home, he spent many weary months in peculiar convalescentcamps, and did not join up again until the end of January. Moral--before going sick or getting wounded become an officer and agentleman. The day after we arrived I was once more back in Belgium with a messageto the C. R. A. [24] at Neuve Eglise. I had last been in Belgium on August23, the day we left Dour. The general might have been posing for a war artist. He was seated at atable in the middle of a field, his staff-captain with him. The groundsloped away to a wooded valley in which two or three batteries, carefully concealed, were blazing away. To the north shrapnel wasbursting over Kemmel. In front the Messines ridge was almost hidden withthe smoke of our shells. I felt that each point of interest ought tohave been labelled in Mr Frederic Villiers' handwriting--"_Germanshrapnel bursting over Kemmel--our guns--this is a dead horse_. " I first saw Ypres on the 6th November. I was sent off with a bundle ofroutine matter to the 1st Corps, then at Brielen, a couple of miles N. W. Of Ypres. It was a nightmare ride. The road was _pavé_ in thecentre--villainous _pavé_. At the side of it were glutinous morassesabout six feet in width, and sixteen inches deep. I started off withtwo 2nd Corps motor-cyclists. There was an almost continuous line oftransport on the road--motor-lorries that did not dare deviate an inchfrom the centre of the road for fear of slipping into the mire, motorambulances, every kind of transport, and some infantry battalions. Afterfollowing a column of motor-lorries a couple of miles--we stuck twice intrying to get past the rearmost lorry--we tried the road by Dranoutreand Locre. But these country lanes were worse of surface than the mainroad--greasy _pavé_ is better that greasy rocks--and they were filledwith odd detachments of French artillery. The two 2nd Corpsmotor-cyclists turned back. I crawled on at the risk of smashing mymotor-cycle and myself, now skidding perilously between waggons, nowclogging up, now taking to the fields, now driving frightenedpedestrians off what the Belgians alone would call a footpath. I skiddedinto a subaltern, and each of us turned to curse, when--it was Gibson, ajunior "Greats" don at Balliol, and the finest of fellows. Beyond Dickebusch French artillery were in action on the road. Thehouses just outside Ypres had been pelted with shrapnel but notdestroyed. Just by the station, which had not then been badly knockedabout, I learnt where to go. Ypres was the first half-evacuated town Ihad entered. It was like motor-cycling into a village from Oxford veryearly on a Sunday morning. Half an hour later I saw the towers of thecity rising above a bank of mist which had begun to settle on theground: then out rose great clouds of black smoke. I came back by Poperinghe to avoid the grease and crowding of the directroad, and there being no hurry I stopped at an inn for a beefsteak. Thelandlord's daughter talked of the many difficulties before us, anddoubted of our success. I said, grandiloquently enough, that no victorywas worth winning unless there were difficulties. At which she smiledand remarked, laughing-- "There are no roses without thorns. " She asked me how long the war would last. I replied that the good Godalone knew. She shook her head-- "How can the good God look down without a tear on the miseries of hispeople? Are not the flower of the young cut off in the spring of theiryouth?" Then she pointed to the church across the way, and said humbly--"On abeaucoup prié. " She was of the true Flemish type, broad and big-breasted, but with aslight stoop, thick hips, dark and fresh-coloured, with large black eyesset too closely. Like all the Flemings, she spoke French slowly anddistinctly, with an accent like the German. She was easy to understand. I stopped too long at Poperinghe, for it was dark and very misty on theroad. Beyond Boescheppe--I was out of my way--the mist became a fog. Once I had to take to the ditch when some cuirassiers galloped out ofthe fog straight at me. It was all four French soldiers could do to getmy motor-cycle out. Another time I stuck endeavouring to avoid somelorries. It is a diabolical joke of the Comic Imps to put fog upon agreasy road for the confusion of a despatch rider. On the next day I was sent out to the 14th Brigade at the Rue de Paradisnear Laventie. You will remember that the 14th Brigade had been left tostrengthen the Indian Corps when the 2nd Corps had moved north. Iarrived at Rue de Paradis just as the Brigade Headquarters were cominginto the village. So, while everybody else was fixing wires andgenerally making themselves useful, I rushed upstairs and seized amattress and put it into a dark little dressing-room with hot and coldwater, a mirror and a wardrobe. Then I locked the door. There I slept, washed, and dressed in delicious luxury. The brigade gave another despatch rider and myself, who were attached, very little to do beyond an occasional forty-mile run to D. H. Q. And backover dull roads. The signal office was established in a large room onthe side of the house nearest to the Germans. It was constructed almostentirely of glass. Upon this the men commented with a grave fluency. Thewindows rattled with shrapnel bursting 600 yards away. The house wasjarred through and through by the concussion of a heavy battery firingover our heads. The room was like a toy-shop with a lot of smallchildren sounding all the musical toys. The vibrators and the buzzerswere like hoarse toy trumpets. Our only excitement was the nightly rumour that the General was going tomove nearer the trenches, that one of us would accompany him--I knewwhat that meant on greasy misty roads. After I had left, the Germans by chance or design made better practice. A shell burst in the garden and shattered all the windows of the room. The Staff took refuge in dug-outs that had been made in case of need. Tommy, then attached, took refuge in the cellar. According to his ownaccount, when he woke up in the morning he was floating. The house hadsome corners taken off it and all the glass was shattered, but no onewas hurt. When I returned to Bailleul, Divisional Headquarters were about to move. A puncture kept me at Bailleul after the others had gone on to Locre. Grimers stood by to help. We lunched well, and buying some suppliesstarted off along the Ypres road. By this time our kit had accumulated. It is difficult enough to pass lorries on a greasy road at any time. With an immense weight on the carrier it is almost impossible. So wedetermined to go by Dranoutre. An unfortunate bump dispersed my blanketsand my ground-sheet in the mud. Grimers said my language might havedried them. Finally, that other despatch rider arrived swathed aboutwith some filthy, grey, forlorn indescribables. We were quartered in a large schoolroom belonging to the Convent. We hadplenty of space and a table to feed at. Fresh milk and butter we couldbuy from the nuns, while a market-gardener just across the road suppliedus with a sack of miscellaneous vegetables--potatoes, carrots, turnips, onions, leeks--for practically nothing. We lived gloriously. There wasjust enough work to make us feel we really were doing something, and notenough to make us wish we were on the Staff. Bridge we played every hourof the day, and "Pollers, " our sergeant, would occasionally try alittle flutter in Dominoes and Patience. At Bailleul the Skipper had suggested our learning to manage theunmechanical horse. The suggestion became an order. We were bumped roundunmercifully at first, until many of us were so sore that the touch of amotor-cycle saddle on _pavé_ was like hot-iron to a tender skin. Then wewere handed over to a friendly sergeant, who believed in moregentlemanly methods, and at Locre we had great rides--though Pollers, who was gently unhorsed, is still firmly convinced that wind-mills formthe finest deterrent to cavalry. In an unlucky moment two of us had suggested that we should like tolearn signaller's work, so we fell upon evil days. First we went out forcable-drill. Sounds simple? But it is more arduous and dangerous thanany despatch riding. If you "pay out" too quickly, you get tangled up inthe wire and go with it nicely over the drum. If you pay out too slowly, you strangle the man on the horse behind you. The worst torture in theworld is paying out at the fast trot over cobbles. First you can't holdon, and if you can you can't pay out regularly. Cable-drill is simply nothing compared to the real laying of cable. Wedid it twice--once in rain and once in snow. The rainy day I paid out, I was never more miserable in my life than I was after two miles. Onlyhot coffee and singing good songs past cheery Piou-pious brought mehome. The snowy day I ran with ladders, and, perched on the topmostrung, endeavoured to pass the wire round a buxom tree-trunk. Then, whenit was round, it would always go slack before I could get it tied uptightly. It sounds so easy, laying a wire. But I swear it is the most wearyingbusiness in the world--punching holes in the ground with a 16-lb. Hammer, running up poles that won't go straight, unhooking wire that hascaught in a branch or in the eaves of a house, taking the strain of acable to prevent man and ladder and wire coming on top of you, when theman who pays out has forgotten to pay. Have a thought for the wretchedfellows who are getting out a wire on a dark and snowy night, troubledperhaps by persistent snipers and frequent shells! Shed a tear for themiserable linesman sent out to find where the line is broken ordefective.... When there was no chance of "a run" we would go for walks towardsKemmel. At the time the Germans were shelling the hill, but occasionallythey would break off, and then we would unofficially go up and see whathad happened. Now Mont Kemmel is nearly covered with trees. I have never been in awood under shell fire, and I do not wish to be. Where the Germans hadheavily shelled Kemmel there were great holes, trees thrown about andriven and scarred and crushed--a terrific immensity of blasphemouseffort. It was as if some great beast, wounded mortally, had plungedinto a forest, lashing and biting and tearing in his agony until hedied. On one side of the hill was a little crazy cottage which hadmarvellously escaped. Three shells had fallen within ten yards of it. Two had not burst, and the other, shrapnel, had exploded in the earth. The owner came out, a trifling, wizened old man in the usual Belgian capand blue overalls. We had a talk, using the _lingua franca_ of French, English with a Scottish accent, German, and the few words of Dutch Icould remember. We dug up for him a large bit of the casing of the shrapnel. He examinedit fearfully. It was an 11-inch shell, I think, nearly as big as his weegrotesque self. Then he made a noise, which we took to be a laugh, andtold us that he had been very frightened in his little house (häusling), and his cat, an immense white Tom, had been more frightened still. Buthe knew the Germans could not hit him. Thousands and thousands ofGermans had gone by, and a little after the last German came theEnglish. "Les Anglais sont bons. " This he said with an air of finality. It is a full-blooded judgmentwhich, though it sounds a trifle exiguous to describe our manifoldheroic efforts, is a sort of perpetual epithet. The children use itconfidingly when they run to our men in the cafés. The peasants use itas a parenthetical verdict whenever they mention our name. The Frenchfellows use it, and I have heard a German prisoner say the same. A few days later those who lived on Kemmel were "evacuated. " They wererounded up into the Convent yard, men and women and children, with theirhens and pigs. At first they were angry and sorrowful; but nobody, noteven the most indignant refugee, could resist our military policemen, and in three-quarters of an hour they all trudged off, cheerfullyenough, along the road to Bailleul. The wee grotesque man and his immense white cat were not with them. Perhaps they still live on Kemmel. Some time I shall go and see.... If we did not play Bridge after our walks, we would look in at thetheatre or stroll across to dinner and Bridge with Gibson and hisbrother officers of the K. O. S. B. , then billeted at Locre. Not all convents have theatres: this was a special convent. The SignalCompany slept in the theatre, and of an evening all the kit would bemoved aside. One of the military policemen could play anything; so wedanced and sang until the lights went out. The star performer was"Spot, " the servant of an A. D. C. "Spot" was a little man with a cheerful squint. He knew everything thathad ever been recited, and his knowledge of the more ungodly songs wasimmense. He would start off with an imitation of Mr H. B. Irving, and avery good imitation it would be--with soft music. He would leave theSignallers thrilled and silent. The lights flashed up, and "Spot" dartedoff on some catchy doggerel of an almost talented obscenity. In privatelife Spot was the best company imaginable. He could not talk for aminute without throwing in a bit of a recitation and striking anattitude. I have only known him serious on two subjects--his master andPosh. He would pour out with the keenest delight little stories of howhis master endeavoured to correct his servant's accent. There was afamous story of "a n'orse"--but that is untellable. Posh may be defined, very roughly, as a useless striving aftergentlemanly culture. Sometimes a chauffeur or an H. Q. Clerk wouldendeavour to speak very correct English in front of Spot. "'E was poshy, my dear boy, positively poshy. 'E made me shiver until Icried. 'Smith, old man, ' I said to 'im, 'you can't do it. You're notborn to it nor bred to it. Those that try is just demeaning themselves. Posh, my dear boy, pure posh. '" And Spot would give a cruel imitation of the wretched Smith's mincingEnglish. The punishment was the more bitter, because all the world knewthat Spot could speak the King's English as well as anybody if only hechose. To the poshy alone was Spot unkind. He was a generous, warm-hearted little man, with real wisdom and a fine appreciation of menand things.... There were other performers of the usual type, young menwho sang about the love-light in her eyes, older men with crude songs, and a Scotsman with an expressionless face, who mumbled about we couldnever discover what. The audience was usually strengthened by some half-witted girls that theConvent educated, and two angelic nuns. Luckily for them, they onlyunderstood a slow and grammatical English, and listened to crude songsand sentimental songs with the same expression of maternal content. Our work at Locre was not confined to riding and cable-laying. The 15thBrigade and two battalions of the 13th were fighting crazily at Ypres, the 14th had come up to Dranoutre, and the remaining two battalions ofthe 13th were at Neuve Eglise. I had two more runs to the Ypres district before we left Locre. On thefirst the road was tolerable to Ypres, though near the city I was nearlyblown off my bicycle by the fire of a concealed battery of 75's. Thehouses at the point where the Rue de Lille enters the Square had beenblown to bits. The Cloth Hall had barely been touched. In its gloriousdignity it was beautiful. Beyond Ypres, on the Hooge Road, I first experienced the extremeneighbourhood of a "J. J. " It fell about 90 yards in front of me and 20yards off the road. It makes a curiously low droning sound as it falls, like the groan of a vastly sorrowful soul in hell, --so I wrote at thetime: then there's a gigantic rushing plunk and overwhelming crash as ifall the houses in the world were falling. On the way back the road, which had been fairly greasy, becamepractically impassable. I struggled on until my lamp failed (sheercarelessness--I ought to have seen to it before starting), and a galearose which blew me all over the road. So I left my motor-bicycle safelybehind a cottage, and started tramping back to H. Q. By the light of mypocket flash-lamp. It was a pitch-black night. I was furiously hungry, and stopped at the first inn and gorged coffee with rum, and a largesandwich of bread and butter and fat bacon. I had barely startedagain--it had begun to pour--when a car came along with a Frenchstaff-officer inside. I stopped it, saying in hurried and weighty tonesthat I was carrying an important despatch (I had nothing on me, I amafraid, but a trifling bunch of receipts), and the rest of the way Itravelled lapped luxuriously in soft furs. The second time I rode along a frozen road between white fields. All theshells sounded alarmingly near. The noise in Ypres was terrific. At mydestination I came across some prisoners of the Prussian Guard, fierceand enormous men, nearly all with reddish hair, very sullen and rude. From accounts that have been published of the first battle of Ypres, itmight be inferred that the British Army knew it was on the point ofbeing annihilated. A despatch rider, though of course he does not knowvery much of the real meaning of the military situation, has unequalledopportunities for finding out the opinions and spirit of the men. Nowone of us went to Ypres every day and stopped for a few minutes todiscuss the state of affairs with other despatch riders and withsignal-sergeants. Right through the battle we were confident; in factthe idea that the line might be broken never entered our heads. We weresuffering very heavily. That we knew. Nothing like the shell fire hadever been heard before. Nobody realised how serious the situation musthave been until the accounts were published. Huggie has a perfect mania for getting frightened; so one day, insteadof leaving the routine matter that he carried at a place whence it mightbe forwarded at leisure, he rode along the Menin road to the Chateau atHooge, the headquarters of the 15th Brigade. He came back quietly happy, telling us that he had had a good time, though the noise had been alittle overwhelming. We learned afterwards that the enemy had beenregistering very accurately upon the Hooge road. So the time passed without any excitement until November 23, when firstwe caught hold of a definite rumour that we should be granted leave. Weexisted in restless excitement until the 27th. On that great day we weretold that we should be allowed a week's leave. We solemnly drew lots, and I drew the second batch. We left the Convent at Locre in a dream, and took up quarters at St JansCappel, two miles west of Bailleul. We hardly noticed that our billetwas confined and uncomfortable. Certainly we never realised that weshould stop there until the spring. The first batch went offhilariously, and with slow pace our day drew nearer and nearer. You may think it a little needless of me to write about my leave, if youdo not remember that we despatch riders of the Fifth Division enlistedon or about August 6. Few then realised that England had gone to war. Nobody realised what sort of a war the war was going to be. When wereturned in the beginning of December we were Martians. For three monthswe had been vividly soldiers. We had been fighting not in a savagecountry, but in a civilised country burnt by war; and it was because ofthis that the sights of war had struck us so fiercely that when we cameback our voyage in the good ship _Archimedes_ seemed so many yearsdistant. Besides, if I were not to tell you of my leave it would makesuch a gap in my memories that I should scarcely know how to continue mytale.... The week dragged more slowly than I can describe. Short-handed, we hadplenty of work to do, but it was all routine work, which gave us toomuch time to think. There was also a crazy doubt of the others' return. They were due back a few hours before we started. If they fell ill ormissed the boat... ! And the fools were motor-cycling to and fromBoulogne! On the great night we prepared some food for them, and having packed ourkits, tried to sleep. As the hour drew near we listened excitedly forthe noise of their engines. Several false alarms disturbed us: first, adespatch rider from the Third Division, and then another from the Corps. At last we heard the purr of three engines together, and then a momentlater the faint rustle of others in the distance. We recognised theengines and jumped up. All the birds came home save one. George hadnever quite recovered from his riding exercises. Slight blood poisoninghad set in. His leave had been extended at home. So poor "Tommy, " whohad joined us at Beuvry, was compelled to remain behind. Violent question and answer for an hour, then we piled ourselves on ourlight lorry. Singing like angels we rattled into Bailleul. Just oppositeCorps Headquarters, our old billet, we found a little crowd waiting. None of us could talk much for the excitement. We just wandered aboutgreeting friends. I met again that stoutest of warriors, Mr Potter ofthe 15th Artillery Brigade, a friend of Festubert days. Then a battalionof French infantry passed through, gallant and cheerful men. At last theold dark-green buses rolled up, and about three in the morning wepounded off at a good fifteen miles an hour along the Cassel road. Two of us sat on top, for it was a gorgeous night. We rattled over the_pavé_ alongside multitudinous transport sleeping at the side of theroad--through Metern, through Caestre of pleasant memories, and south toHazebrouck. Our driver was a man of mark, a racing motorist in times ofpeace. He left the other buses and swung along rapidly by himself. Heslowed down for nothing. Just before Hazebrouck we caught up a Frenchconvoy. I do not quite know what happened. The Frenchmen took cover inone ditch. We swayed past, half in the other, at a good round pace. Waggons seemed to disappear under our wheels, and frightened horsesplunged violently across the road. But we passed them without ascratch--to be stopped by the level-crossing at Hazebrouck. There wefilled up with coffee and cognac, while the driver told us of hisadventures in Antwerp. We rumbled out of Hazebrouck towards St Omer. It was a clear dawn insplashes of pure colour. All the villages were peaceful, untouched bywar. When we came to St Omer it was quite light. All the soldiers in thetown looked amateurish. We could not make out what was the matter withthem, until somebody noticed that their buttons shone. We drew up in thesquare, the happiest crew imaginable, but with a dignity such asbefitted chosen N. C. O. 's and officers. That was the first time I saw St Omer. When last I came to it I sawlittle, because I arrived in a motor-ambulance and left in ahospital-train. The top of the bus was crowded, and we talked "shop" together. _SixthDivision's having a pretty cushy time, what?--So you were at Mons!_ (ina tone of respect)--_I don't mind their shells, and I don't mind theirmachine-guns, but their Minenwerfer are the frozen limit!--I supposethere's no chance of our missing the boat. Yes, it was a pretty fairscrap--Smith? He's gone. Silly fool, wanted to have a look round--Fullof buck? Rather! Yes, heard there's a pretty good show on at theFrivolity--Beastly cold on top of this old wheezer_. It was, but none of us cared a scrap. We looked at the sign-posts thatshowed the distance to Boulogne, and then pretended that we had not seenthem. Lurching and skidding and toiling we came to the top of the hillabove Boulogne. With screaming brakes we rattled down to the harbour. That old sinner, Sergeant Maguire, who was in charge of us corporals, made all arrangements efficiently. We embarked, and after a year ofSundays cast off. There was a certain swell on, and Mr Potter, the bravest of men, grewgreener and greener. My faith in mankind went. We saw a dark line on the horizon. "By Jove, there's England!" We all produced our field-glasses and lookedthrough them very carefully for quite a long time. "So it is. Funny old country"--a pause--"Makes one feel quitesentimental, just like the books. That's what we're fighting for, Isuppose. Wouldn't fight for dirty old Dover! Wonder if they still chargeyou a penny for each sardine. I suppose we'll have to draw the blindsall the way up to London. Not a safe country by any means, far ratherstop in the jolly old trenches. " "You'll get the white feather, old man. " "No pretty young thing would give it you. Why, you wouldn't lookmedically fit in mufti!" "Fancy seeing a woman who isn't dirty and can talk one's own lingo!" So we came to Folkestone, and all the people on the pier smiled at us. We scuttled ashore and shook ourselves for delight. There was apoliceman, a postman. Who are these fussy fellows with badges on theirarms? Special constables, of course! Spurning cigarettes and bovril we rushed to the bar. We all noticed thecleanness of the barmaid, her beauty, the neatness of her dress, hercultivated talk. We almost squabbled about what drinks we should havefirst. Finally, we divided into parties--the Beers and theWhisky-and-Sodas. Then there were English papers to buy, and, of course, we must have a luncheon-basket.... The smell of the musty S. -E. & C. R. Compartment was the scent of easternroses. We sniffed with joy in the tunnels. We read all the notices withcare. Nearing London we became silent. Quite disregarding the order tolower the blinds, we gazed from the bridge at a darkened London and thesearchlight beams. Feverishly we packed our kit and stood up in thecarriage. We jerked into the flare of Victoria. Dazzled and confused, welooked at the dense crowd of beaming, anxious people. There was a tug atmy elbow, and a triumphant voice shouted-- "I've found him! Here he is! There's your Mother. " ... * * * * * This strange familiar country seemed to us clean, careless, and full ofmen. The streets were clean; the men and women were clean. Out inFlanders a little grime came as a matter of course. One's uniform wasdirty. Well, it had seen service. There was no need to be particularabout the set of the tunic and the exact way accoutrements should beput on. But here the few men in khaki sprinkled about the streets hadtheir buttons cleaned and not a thing was out of place. We wonderedwhich of them belonged to the New Armies. The women, too, were clean andbeautiful. This sounds perhaps to you a foolish thing to say, but it istrue. The Flemish woman is not so clean as she is painted, and as forwomen dressed with any attempt at fashionable display--we had seen nonesince August. Nadine at Dour had been neat; Hélène at Carlepont had beencompanionable; the pretty midinette at Maast had been friendly and notover-dirty. For a day or two after I returned to my own country I couldnot imagine how anybody ever could leave it. And all the people were free from care. However cheerful those brave butirritating folk who live behind the line may be, they have alwaysshadows in their eyes. We had never been to a village through which theGermans had not passed. Portly and hilarious the Teuton may have shownhimself--kindly and well-behaved he undoubtedly was in manyplaces--there came with him a terror which stayed after he had gone, just as a mist sways above the ground after the night has flown. At first we thought that no one at home cared about the war--then werealised it was impossible for anybody to care about the war who had notseen war. People might be intensely interested in the course ofoperations. They might burn for their country's success, and flame outagainst those who threatened her. They might suffer torments of anxietyfor a brother in danger, or the tortures of grief for a brother who haddied. The FACT of war, the terror and the shame, the bestiality and theawful horror, the pity and the disgust--they could never _know_ war. Sowe thought them careless.... Again, though we had been told very many had enlisted, the streetsseemed ludicrously full of men. In the streets of Flanders there arewomen and children and old men and others. These others would give allthat they had to put on uniform and march gravely or gaily to thetrenches. In Flanders a man who is fit and wears no uniform is instantlysuspected of espionage. I am grinding no axe. I am advocating nothing orattacking nothing. I am merely stating as a fact that, suspicious andcontemptuous as we had been in Flanders of every able-bodied man who wasnot helping to defend his country, it seemed grotesque to us to find somany civilian men in the streets of the country to which we hadreturned. Of the heavenly quietness and decency of life, of late breakfasts andlater dinners, there is no need to tell, but even before the week was upunrest troubled us. The Division might go violently into action. TheGermans might break through. The "old Div. " would be wanting us, and wewho felt towards the Division as others feel towards their Regimentswere eager to get back.... On the boat I met Gibson. At Boulogne we clambered into the same bus andpassed the time in sipping old rum, eating chocolate biscuits, readingthe second volume of 'Sinister Street, ' and sleeping. At St Omer ourcraving for an omelette nearly lost us the bus. Then we slept. All thatI can remember of the rest of the journey is that we stopped nearBailleul. An anxious corporal popped his head in. "Mr Brown here?" "Ye--e--s, " sleepily, "what the devil do you want?" "Our battery's in action, sir, a few miles from here. I've got yourhorses ready waiting, sir. " Mr Brown was thoroughly awake in a moment. He disturbed everybodycollecting his kit. Then he vanished. We were late at Bailleul, and there was no one to meet us. The Cyclistsas usual came to our help. Their gig was waiting, and climbing into itwe drove furiously to St Jans Cappel. Making some sort of beds forourselves, we fell asleep. When we woke up in the morning our leave wasa dream. FOOTNOTES: [22] Here are kindly people. [23] French, Flemish, and German slang expression. Done for! [24] An abbreviation for the general in command of the DivisionalArtillery. CHAPTER XI. ST JANS CAPPEL. Soon after our return there were rumours of a grand attack. Headquarterspositively sizzled with the most expensive preparations. At a given wordthe Staff were to dash out in motor-cars to a disreputable tavern, sothat they could see the shells bursting. A couple of despatch riderswere to keep with them in order to fetch their cars when the day's workwas over. A mobile reserve of motor-cyclists was to be established in afarm under cover. The whole scheme was perfect. There was good rabbit-shooting near thetavern. The atmosphere inside was so thick that it actually inducedslumber. The landlady possessed an excellent stove, upon which theStaff's lunch, prepared with quiet genius at St Jans, might be heatedup. The place was dirty enough to give all those in authority, who mightcome round to see that the British Army was really doing something, avivid conception of the horrors of war. And, as I have said, there was aslope behind the road from which lots and lots of shells could be seenbursting. The word came. We arrived at the tavern before dawn. The Staff saunteredabout outside in delicious anticipation. We all looked at our watches. Punctually at six the show began. Guns of all shapes and sizes had beenconcentrated. They made an overwhelming noise. Over the German trencheson the near slope of the Messines ridge flashed multitudinous points offlame. The Germans were being furiously shelled. The dawn came up whilethe Staff were drinking their matutinal tea. The Staff set itselfsternly to work. Messages describing events at La Bassée poured in. Theywere conscientiously read and rushed over the wires to our brigades. Theguns were making more noise than they had ever made before. The Germanswere cowering in their trenches. It was all our officers could do tohold back their men, who were straining like hounds in a leash to get atthe hated foe. A shell fell among some of the gunners' transport andwounded a man and two horses. That stiffened us. The news was flashedover the wire to G. H. Q. The transport was moved rapidly, but in goodorder, to a safer place. The guns fired more furiously than ever. As soon as there was sufficient light, the General's A. D. C. , crammedfull of the lust for blood, went out and shot some rabbits and someindescribable birds, who by this time were petrified with fear. They hadnever heard such a noise before. That other despatch rider satcomfortably in a car, finished at his leisure the second volume of'Sinister Street, ' and wrote a lurid description of a modern battle. Before the visitors came, the scene was improved by the construction ofa large dug-out near the tavern. It is true that if the Staff had takento the dug-out they would most certainly have been drowned. That did notmatter. Every well-behaved Divisional Staff must have a dug-out near itsAdvanced Headquarters. It is always "done. " Never was a Division so lucky in its visitors. A certain young prince ofhigh lineage arrived. Everybody saluted at the same time. He was, Ithink, duly impressed by the atmosphere of the tavern, the sight of theStaff's maps, the inundated dug-outs, the noise of the guns and thefunny balls of smoke that the shells made when they exploded over theGerman lines. What gave this battle a humorous twist for all time was the delectablevisit of a Cabinet Minister. He came in a car and brought with him hisown knife and fork and a loaf of bread as his contribution to theDivisional Lunch. When he entered the tavern he smelt among other smellsthe delicious odour of rabbit-pie. With hurried but charmingcondescension he left his loaf on the stove, where it dried for a day ortwo until the landlady had the temerity to appropriate it. He was fed, so far as I remember on-- Soup. Fish. Rabbit-pie. Potatoes. Cabbage. Apple-tart. Fruit. Coffee. Liqueurs. and after lunch, I am told, showed a marked disinclination to ascend thehill and watch the shells bursting. He was only a "civvy. "[25] The battle lasted about ten days. Each morning the Staff, like lazy menwho are "something in the city, " arrived a little later at the tavern. Each afternoon they departed a little earlier. The rabbits decreased innumber, and finally, when two days running the A. D. C. Had been able toshoot nothing at all, the Division returned for good to the Chateau atSt Jans Cappel. For this mercy the despatch riders were truly grateful. Sitting thewhole day in the tavern, we had all contracted bad headaches. Evenchess, the 'Red Magazine, ' and the writing of letters, could do nothingto dissipate our unutterable boredom. Never did we pass that tavernafterwards without a shudder of disgust. With joyous content we heard amonth or two later that it had been closed for providing drinks afterhours. Officially the grand attack had taken this course. The French to thenorth had been held up by the unexpected strength of the German defence. The 3rd Division on our immediate left had advanced a trifle, for theGordons had made a perilous charge into the Petit Bois, a wood at thebottom of the Wytschaete Heights. And the Royal Scots had put in somemagnificent work, for which they were afterwards very properlycongratulated. The Germans in front of our Division were so cowed by ourmagniloquent display of gunnery that they have remained moderately quietever since. After these December manoeuvres nothing of importance happened on ourfront until the spring, when the Germans, whom we had tickled withintermittent gunnery right through the winter, began to retaliate witha certain energy. The Division that has no history is not necessarily happy. There wereportions of the line, it is true, which provided a great deal of comfortand very little danger. Fine dug-outs were constructed--you haveprobably seen them in the illustrated papers. The men were more at homein such trenches than in the ramshackle farms behind the lines. Theseshow trenches were emphatically the exception. The average trench on theline during last winter was neither comfortable nor safe. Yellow clay, six inches to four feet or more of stinking water, many corpses behindthe trenches buried just underneath the surface-crust, and in front ofthe trenches not buried at all, inveterate sniping from a slightlysuperior position--these are not pleasant bedfellows. The old Division(or rather the new Division--the infantrymen of the old Division werenow pitifully few) worked right hard through the winter. When the earlyspring came and the trenches were dry, the Division was sent north tobear a hand in the two bloodiest actions of the war. So far as I know, in the whole history of British participation in this war there hasnever been a more murderous fight than one of these two actions--andthe Division, with slight outside help, managed the whole affair. Twice in the winter there was an attempted _rapprochement_ between theGermans and ourselves. The more famous gave the Division a mention by"Eyewitness, " so we all became swollen with pride. On the Kaiser's birthday one-and-twenty large shells were droppedaccurately into a farm suspected of being a battalion or brigadeheadquarters. The farm promptly acknowledged the compliment by blowingup, and all round it little explosions followed. Nothing pleases agunner more than to strike a magazine. He always swears he knew it wasthere the whole time, and, as gunners are dangerous people to quarrelwith, we always pretended to believe the tale. There are many people in England still who cannot stomach the story ofthe Christmas truce. "Out there, " we cannot understand why. Goodfighting men respect good fighting men. On our front, and on the frontsof other divisions, the Germans had behaved throughout the winter with apassable gentlemanliness. Besides, neither the British nor the Germansoldier--with the possible exception of the Prussians--has been able tostoke up that virulent hate which devastates so many German and Britishhomes. A certain lance-corporal puts the matter thus:[26]-- "We're fightin' for somethink what we've got. Those poor beggars isfightin' cos they've got to. An' old Bill Kayser's fightin' forsomethin' what 'e'll never get. But 'e will get somethink, and that's agood 'iding!"[27] We even had a sneaking regard for that "cunning old bird, Kayser Bill. "Our treatment of prisoners explains the Christmas Truce. The Britishsoldier, except when he is smarting under some dirty trick, sufferingunder terrible loss, or maddened by fighting or fatigue, treats hisprisoners with a tolerant, rather contemptuous kindness. May God in Hismercy help any poor German who falls into the hands of a British soldierwhen the said German has "done the dirty" or has "turned nasty"! Thereis no judge so remorseless, no executioner so ingenious in making thepunishment fit the crime. This is what I wrote home a day or two after Christmas: From six onChristmas Eve to six in the evening on Christmas Day there was a trucebetween two regiments of our Division and the Germans opposite them. Heads popped up and were not sniped. Greetings were called across. Oneventuresome, enthusiastic German got out of his trench and stood wavinga branch of Christmas Tree. Soon there was a fine pow-wow going on. Cigars were exchanged for tobacco. Friendship was pledged in socks. TheGermans brought out some beer and the English some rum. Finally, onChristmas Day, there was a great concert and dance. The Germans werespruce, elderly men, keen and well fed, with buttons cleaned for theoccasion. They appeared to have plenty of supplies, and were fullyequipped with everything necessary for a winter campaign. A thirdbattalion, wisely but churlishly, refused these seasonable advances, andshot four men who appeared with a large cask of what was laterdiscovered to be beer.... "The Div. " were billeted in a chateau on the slope of a hillthree-quarters of a mile above St Jans Cappel. This desirable residencestands in two acres of garden, just off the road. At the gate was alodge. Throughout the winter we despatch riders lived in two small roomsof this lodge. We averaged fourteen in number. Two were out with thebrigades, leaving twelve to live, eat, and sleep in two rooms, eachabout 15 ft. By 8 ft. We were distinctly cramped, and cursed the daythat had brought us to St Jans. It was a cruel stroke that gave us forour winter quarters the worst billets we had ever suffered. As we became inclined to breakfast late, nine o'clock parade wasinstituted. Breakfast took place before or after, as the spirit listed. Bacon, tea, and bread came from the cook. We added porridge andoccasionally eggs. The porridge we half-cooked the night before. After breakfast we began to clean our bicycles, no light task, and theartificers started on repairs. The cleaning process was usually brokeninto by the arrival of the post and the papers of the day before. Cleaning the bicycles, sweeping out the rooms, reading and writingletters, brought us to dinner at 1. This consisted of bully or fresh meat stew with vegetables (oroccasionally roast or fried meat), bread and jam. As we became moreluxurious we would provide for ourselves Yorkshire pudding, which wediscovered trying to make pancakes, and pancakes, which we discoveredtrying to make Yorkshire pudding. Worcester Sauce and the invaluablecurry powder were never wanting. After dinner we smoked a lethargicpipe. In the afternoon it was customary to take some exercise. To reduce thestrain on our back tyres we used to trudge manfully down into thevillage, or, if we were feeling energetic, to the ammunition column acouple of miles away. Any distance over two miles we covered onmotor-cycles. Their use demoralised us. Our legs shrunk away. Sometimes two or three of us would ride to a sand-pit on Mont Noir andblaze away with our revolvers. Incidentally, not one of us had fired ashot in anger since the war began. We treated our revolvers asunnecessary luggage. In time we became skilled in their use, andthereafter learnt to keep them moderately clean. We had been served outwith revolvers at Chatham, but had never practised with them--except atCarlow for a morning, and then we were suffering from the effects ofinoculation. They may be useful when we get to Germany. Shopping in Bailleul was less strenuous. We were always buying somethingfor supper--a kilo of liver, some onions, a few sausages--anything thatcould be cooked by the unskilled on a paraffin-stove. Then aftershopping there were cafés we could drop into, sure of a welcome. It wasimpossible to live from November to March "within easy reach of town"and not make friends. Milk for tea came from the farm in which No. 1 Section of the SignalCompany was billeted. When first we were quartered at St Jans thissection wallowed in some mud a little above the chateau. Because I had managed to make myself understood to some Germanprisoners, I was looked upon as a great linguist, and vulgarly creditedwith a knowledge of all the European languages. So I was sent, togetherwith the Quartermaster-Sergeant and the Sergeant-Major, on billetingexpeditions. Arranging for quarters at the farm, I made great friendswith the farmer. He was a tall, thin, lithe old man, with a crumpledwife and prodigiously large family. He was a man of affairs, too, foronce a month in peace time he would drive into Hazebrouck. While hiswife got me the milk, we used to sit by the fire and smoke our pipes anddiscuss the terrible war and the newspapers. One of the mostembarrassing moments I have ever experienced was when he bade me tellthe sergeants that he regarded them as brothers, and loved them all. Isaid it first in French, that he might hear, and then in English. Thesergeants blushed, while the old man beamed. We loved the Flemish, and, for the most part, they loved us. WhenBritish soldiers arrived in a village the men became clean, the womensmart, and the boys inevitably procured putties and wore them withpride. The British soldier is certainly not insular. He tries hard tounderstand the words and ways of his neighbours. He has a rough tact, acrude courtesy, and a great-hearted generosity. In theory no task couldbe more difficult than the administration of the British Area. Even afriendly military occupation is an uncomfortable burden. Yet never haveI known any case of real ill-feeling. Personally, during my nine monthsat the Front, I have always received from the French and the Belgiansamazing kindness and consideration. As an officer I came into contactwith village and town officials over questions of billets andrequisitions. In any difficulty I received courteous assistance. Notrouble was too great; no time was too valuable.... After tea of cakes and rolls the bridge-players settled down to a quietgame, with pipes to hand and whisky and siphons on the sideboard. Wetook it in turns to cook some delicacy for supper at 8--sausages, curried sardines, liver and bacon, or--rarely but joyously--fish. At onetime or another we feasted on all the luxuries, but fish was rarer thanrubies. When we had it we did not care if we stank out the whole lodgewith odours of its frying. We would lie down to sleep content in athick fishy, paraffin-y, dripping-y atmosphere. When I came home I couldnot think what the delicious smell was in a certain street. Then myimagination struck out a picture--Grimers laboriously frying a dab overa smoky paraffin-stove. On occasions after supper we would brew a large jorum of good rum-punch, sing songs with roaring choruses, and finish up the evening with a goodold scrap over somebody else's bed. The word went round to "mobilise, "and we would all stand ready, each on his bed, to repel boarders. If thesanctity of your bed were violated, the intruder would be castvigorously into outer darkness. Another song, another drink, a finalpipe, and to bed. Our Christmas would have been a grand day if it had not been away fromhome. At eight o'clock there was breakfast of porridge, bacon and eggs, andbloaters--everybody in the best of spirits. About nine the Skipperpresented us with cards from the King and Queen. Then the mail came in, but it was poor. By the time we had tidied up our places and done aspecial Christmas shave and wash, we were called upon to go down to thecookhouse and sign for Princess Mary's Christmas gift--a good pipe, andin a pleasant little brass box lay a Christmas card, a photograph, apacket of cigarettes, and another of excellent tobacco. It was now lunch-time--steak and potatoes. The afternoon was spent on preparations for our great and unexampleddinner. Grimers printed the menu, and while I made some cold curriedsardines, the rest went down into the village to stimulate the landladyof the inn where we were going to dine. In the village a brigade was billeted, and that brigade was, of course, "on the wire. " It was arranged that the despatch riders next on the listshould take their motor-cycles down and be summoned over the wire ifthey were needed. An order had come round that unimportant messages wereto be kept until the morning. We dined in the large kitchen of the _Maison Commune Estaminet_, at along table decorated with mistletoe and holly. The dinner--the result oftwo days' "scrounging" under the direction of George--was too good to betrue. We toasted each other and sang all the songs we knew. Two of theStaff clerks wandered in and told us we were the best of all possibledespatch riders. We drank to them uproariously. Then a Scotsman turnedup with a noisy recitation. Finally, we all strolled home up the hillsinging loudly and pleasantly, very exhilarated, in sure and certainbelief we had spent the best of all possible evenings. In the dwelling of the Staff there was noise of revelry. Respectablecaptains with false noses peered out of windows. Our Fat Boy declaimedin the signal office on the iniquities of the artillery telegraphists. Sadders sent gentle messages of greeting over the wires. He was still alittle piqued at his failure to secure the piper of the K. O. S. B. , whohad been commandeered by the Staff. Sadders waited for him until earlymorning and then steered him to our lodge, but the piper was by then tootired to play. Here is our bill of fare:-- CHRISTMAS, 1914. DINNER OF THE TEN SURVIVING MOTOR-CYCLISTS OF THE FAMOUS FIFTH DIVISION. Sardins très Moutard. Potage. Dindon Rôti-Saucisses. Oise Rôti. Petits Choux de Bruxelles. Pommes de Terre. Pouding de Noël Rhum. Dessert. Café. Liqueurs. _Vins. _--Champagne. Moselle. Port. Benedictine. Whisky. On the reverse page we put our battle-honours--Mons, Le Cateau, Crêpy-en-Valois, the Marne, the Aisne, La Bassée, the Defence ofYpres. [28] We beat the Staff on the sprouts, but the Staff countered byappropriating the piper. Work dwindled until it became a farce. One run for each despatch riderevery third day was the average. St Jans was not the place we shouldhave chosen for a winter resort. Life became monotonous, and we all withone accord began applying for commissions. Various means were used tobreak the monotony. Grimers, under the Skipper's instructions, began toplant vegetables for the spring, but I do not think he ever got muchbeyond mustard and cress. On particularly unpleasant days we were toldoff to make fascines. N'Soon assisted the Quartermaster-Sergeant. Cecildid vague things with the motor-lorry. I was called upon to write theCompany's War Diary. Even the Staff became restless and took tonight-walks behind the trenches. If it had not been for the generoussupply of "days off" that the Skipper allowed us, we should by Februaryhave begun to gibber. Despatches were of two kinds--ordinary and priority. "Priority"despatches could only be sent by the more important members of theStaff. They were supposed to be important, were marked "priority" in thecorner, and taken at once in a hurry. Ordinary despatches went by themorning and evening posts. During the winter a regular system ofmotor-cyclist posts was organised right through the British Area. Amessage could be sent from Neuve Eglise to Chartres in about two days. Our posts formed the first or last stage of the journey. The morningpost left at 7. 30 A. M. , and the evening at 3. 30 P. M. All the units ofthe division were visited. If the roads were moderately good and no great movements of troops wereproceeding, the post took about 1-1/4 hours; so the miserable postmanwas late either for breakfast or for tea. It was routine work pure andsimple. After six weeks we knew every stone in the roads. The postmannever came under fire. He passed through one village which wasoccasionally shelled, but, while I was with the Signal Company, thepostman and the shells never arrived at the village at the same time. There was far more danger from lorries and motor ambulances than fromshells. As for the long line of "postmen" that stretched back into the diminterior of France--it was rarely that they even heard the guns. Whenthey did hear them, they would, I am afraid, pluck a racing helmet fromtheir pockets, draw the ear-flaps well down over their ears, bend downover their racing handle-bars, and sprint for dear life. Returningsafely to Abbéville, they would write hair-raising accounts of thedangers they had passed through to the motor-cycling papers. It is onlyright that I should here once and for all confess--there is no finerteller of tall stories than the motor-cyclist despatch rider.... From December to February the only time I was under shell fire was latein December, when the Grand Attack was in full train. A certain brigadeheadquarters had taken refuge inconsiderately in advanced dug-outs. As Ipassed along the road to them some shrapnel was bursting a quarter of amile away. So long was it since I had been under fire that the noise ofour own guns disturbed me. In the spring, after I had left the SignalCompany, the roads were not so healthy. George experienced the delightsof a broken chain on a road upon which the Germans were registeringaccurately with shrapnel. Church, a fine fellow, and quite the mostpromising of our recruits, was killed in his billet by a shell whenattached to a brigade. Taking the post rarely meant just a pleasant spin, because it rained inFlanders from September to January. One day I started out from D. H. Q. At 3. 30 P. M. With the afternoon post, and reached the First Brigade well up to time. Then it began to rain, atfirst slightly, and then very heavily indeed, with a bagful of wind. Ona particularly open stretch of road--the rain was stinging sharply--theengine stopped. With a heroic effort I tugged the bicycle through somemud to the side of a shed, in the hope that when the wind changed--itdid not--I might be under cover. I could not see. I could not grip--andof course I could not find out what the matter was. After I had been working for about half an hour the two artillerymotor-cyclists came along. I stopped them to give me a hand and to do asmuch work as I could possibly avoid doing myself while preserving anappearance of omniscience. We worked for an hour or more. It was now so dark that I could notdistinguish one motor-cyclist from another. The rain rained faster thanit had ever rained before, and the gale was so violent that we couldscarcely keep our feet. Finally, we diagnosed a complaint that could notbe cured by the roadside. So we stopped working, to curse and admirethe German rockets. There was an estaminet close by. It had appeared shut, but when we beganto curse a light shone in one of the windows. So I went in and settledto take one of the artillery motor-cycles and deliver the rest of myquite unimportant despatches. It would not start. We worked for twentyminutes in the rain vainly, then a motor-cyclist turned up from thenearest brigade to see what had become of me, --the progress of the postis checked over the wire. We arranged matters--but then neither hismotor-cycle nor the motor-cycle of the second artillery motor-cyclistwould start. It was laughable. Eventually we got the brigade despatchrider started with my report. A fifth motor-cyclist, who discreetly did not stop his engine, took mydespatches back to "the Div. " The second artillery motor-cycle westarted after quarter of an hour's prodigious labour. The first and minewere still obstinate, so he and I retired to the inn, drank brandy andhot water, and conversed amiably with madame. Madame, who together with innumerable old men and children inhabited theinn, was young and pretty and intelligent--black hair, sallow andsymmetrical face, expressive mouth, slim and graceful limbs. Talkingthe language, we endeavoured to make our forced company pleasant. Thatother despatch rider, still steaming from the stove, sat beside acharming Flemish woman, and endeavoured, amid shrieks of laughter, totranslate the jokes in an old number of 'London Opinion. ' A Welsh lad came in--a perfect Celt of nineteen, dark and lithe, with amomentary smile and a wild desire to see India. Then some Cheshiresarrived. They were soaked and very weary. One old reservist staggered toa chair. We gave him some brandy and hot water. He chatteredunintelligibly for a moment about his wife and children. He began todoze, so his companion took him out, and they tottered along after theircompany. A dog of no possible breed belonged to the estaminet. Madame called him"Automobile Anglais, " because he was always rushing about for noconceivable reason. We were sorry when at 9. 50 the lorry came for the bicycles. Our seconddriver was an ex-London cabby, with a crude wit expressed in impossibleFrench that our hostess delightfully parried. On the way back he told mehow he had given up the three taxis he had owned to do "his bit, " howthe other men had laughed at him because he was so old, how he had meta prisoner who used to whistle for the taxis in Russell Square. Wetalked also of the men in the trenches, of fright, and of the end of thewar. We reached D. H. Q. About 10. 30, and after a large bowl of porridge Iturned in. FOOTNOTES: [25] The soldier's contemptuous expression for the inhabitants of thecivilian world. [26] I retired with some haste from Flanders the night after the Germansfirst began to use gas. Militant chemistry may have altered the Britishsoldier's convictions. [27] I have left out the usual monotonous epithet. Any soldier cansupply it. [28] To these may now be added--St Eloi, Hill 60, the Second Battle ofYpres. CHAPTER XII. BEHIND THE LINES. I had intended to write down a full description of the countryimmediately behind our present line. The Skipper, for fear we shouldbecome stale, allowed us plenty of leave. We would make littleexpeditions to Béthune for the baths, spend an afternoon riding roundArmentières, or run over to Poperinghe for a chop. We even arranged fora visit to the Belgian lines, but that excursion was forbidden by a neworder. Right through the winter we had "unrivalled opportunities"--asthe journalists would say--of becoming intimate with that strip ofFlanders which extends from Ypres to Béthune. Whether I can or maydescribe it is a matter for care. A too affectionate description of theneighbourhood of Wulverghem, for instance, would be unwise. But I see noreason why I should not state as a fact that a most excellent dryMartini could be obtained in Ypres up to the evening of April 22. Wretched Ypres has been badly over-written. Before the war it was apleasant city, little visited by travellers because it lay on a badlyserved branch line. The inhabitants tell me it was never much troubledwith tourists. One burgher explained the situation to me with a comicalmixture of sentiment and reason. "You see, sir, that our Cathedral is shattered and the Cloth Hall aruin. May those devils, the dirty Germans, roast in Hell! But after thewar we shall be the richest city in Belgium. All England will flock toYpres. Is it not a monstrous cemetery? Are there not woods and villagesand farms at which the brave English have fought like lions to earn forthemselves eternal fame, and for the city an added glory? The good Godgives His compensations after great wars. There will be many to buy ourlace and fill our restaurants. " Mr John Buchan and Mr Valentine Williams and others have "written up"Ypres. The exact state of the Cloth Hall at any given moment is theobject of solicitude. The shattered Belgian homes have been describedover and over again. The important things about Ypres have been leftunsaid. Near the station there was a man who really could mix cocktails. He wasno blundering amateur, but an expert with the subtlest touch. And in theRue de Lille a fashionable dressmaker turned her _atelier_ into atea-room. She used to provide coffee or chocolate, or even tea, and themost delicious little cakes. Of an afternoon you would sit oncomfortable chairs at a neat table covered with a fair cloth and talk toyour hostess. A few hats daintily remained on stands, but, as she said, they were last year's hats, unworthy of our notice. A pleasant afternoon could be spent on the old ramparts. We were there, as a matter of fact, to do a little building-up and clearing-away whenthe German itch for destruction proved too strong for their moregentlemanly feelings. We lay on the grass in the sun and smoked ourpipes, looking across the placid moat to Zillebeke Vyver, VerbrandenMolen, and the slight curve of Hill 60. The landscape was full ofinterest. Here was shrapnel bursting over entirely empty fields. Therewas a sapper repairing a line. The Germans were shelling the town, andit was a matter of skill to decide when the lumbersome old shell washeard exactly where it would fall. Then we would walk back into the townfor tea and look in at that particularly enterprising grocer's in theSquare to see his latest novelties in tinned goods. From Ypres the best road in Flanders runs by Vlamertinghe to Poperinghe. It is a good macadam road, made, doubtless by perfidious Albion's money, just before the war. Poperinghe has been an age-long rival of Ypres. Even to-day itsinhabitants delight to tell you the old municipal scandals of the largertown, and the burghers of Ypres, if they see a citizen of Poperinghe intheir streets, believe he has come to gloat over their misfortunes. Ypres is an Edinburgh and Poperinghe a Glasgow. Ypres wasself-consciously "old world" and loved its buildings. Poperinghe ismodern, and perpetrated a few years ago the most terrible of town halls. There are no cocktails in Poperinghe, but there is good whisky and mostexcellent beer. I shall never forget my feelings when one morning in a certainwine-merchant's cellar I saw several eighteen-gallon casks of Bass'sPale Ale. I left Poperinghe in a motor-ambulance, and the Germansshelled it next day, but my latest advices state that the ale is stillintact. Across the road from the wine-merchant's is a delectable tea-shop. Thereis a tea-shop at Bailleul, the "Allies Tea-Rooms. " It was started earlyin March. It is full of bad blue china and inordinately expensive. Ofthe tea-shop at Poperinghe I cannot speak too highly. There is a vastvariety of the most delicious cakes. The proprietress is pleasant andher maids are obliging. It is also cheap. I have only one fault to findwith it--the room is small. Infantry officers walk miles into Poperinghefor their tea and then find the room crowded with those young subalternswho supply us with our bully. They bring in bulldogs and stay a longtime. Dickebusch used to be a favourite Sunday afternoon's ride for thePoperinghe wheelers. They would have tea at the restaurant on the northof Dickebusch Vyver, and afterwards go for a row in the littleflat-bottomed boats, accompanied, no doubt, by some nice dark Flemishgirls. The village, never very pleasant, is now the worse for wear. Iremember it with no kindly feelings, because, having spent a night therewith the French, I left them in the morning too early to obtain asatisfactory meal, and arrived at Headquarters too late for anybreakfast. Not far from Dickebusch is the Desolate Chateau. Before the war it was ahandsome place, built by a rich coal-merchant from Lille. I visited iton a sunny morning. At the southern gate there was a little black andshapeless heap fluttering a rag in the wind. I saluted and passed on, sick at heart. The grounds were pitted with shell-holes: thecucumber-frames were shattered. Just behind the chateau was a weevillage of dug-outs. Now they are slowly falling in. And the chateauitself? It had been so proud of its finery, its pseudo-Greek columns, and itsrich furnishings. Battered and confused--there is not a room of it whichis not open to the wind from the sea. The pictures lie prostrate on thefloor before their ravisher. The curtains are torn and faded. The papersof its master are scattered over the carpet and on the rifled desk. Inthe bedroom of its mistress her linen has been thrown about wildly; yether two silver brushes still lie on the dressing-table. Even thechildren's room had been pillaged, and the books, torn and defaced, layin a rough heap. All was still. At the foot of the garden there was a little village halfhidden by trees. Not a sound came from it. Away on the ridge miserableWytschaete stood hard against the sky, a mass of trembling ruins. Thentwo soldiers came, and finding a boat rowed noisily round the tiny lake, and the shells murmured harshly as they flew across to Ypres. Some ruinsare dead stones, but the broken houses of Flanders are pitifullyalive--like the wounded men who lie between the trenches and cannot besaved.... Half a mile south from Dickebusch are cross-roads, and the sign-posttells you that the road to the left is the road to Wytschaete--butWytschaete faces Kemmel and Messines faces Wulverghem. I was once walking over the hills above Witzenhausen, --the cherries bythe roadside were wonderful that year, --and coming into a valley weasked a man how we might best strike a path into the next valley overthe shoulder of the hill. He said he did not know, because he had neverbeen over the hill. The people of the next valley were strangers to him. When first I came to a sign-post that told me how to get to a village Icould not reach with my life, I thought of those hills aboveWitzenhausen. From Wulverghem to Messines is exactly two kilometres. Itis ludicrous. Again, one afternoon I was riding over the pass between Mont Noir andMont Vidaigne. I looked to the east and saw in the distance the smoke ofa train, just as from Harrow you might see the Scottish Express on theNorth-Western main line. For a moment I did not realise that the trainwas German, that the purpose of its journey was to kill me and myfellow-men. But it is too easy to sentimentalise, to labour the starkfact that war is a grotesque, irrational absurdity.... Following the main road south from Dickebusch you cross the frontier andcome to Bailleul, a town of which we were heartily sick before thewinter was far gone. In peace it would be once seen and neverremembered. It has no character, though I suppose the "Faucon" is aswell known to Englishmen now as any hotel in Europe. There are bettershops in Béthune and better cafés in Poperinghe. Of the "AlliesTea-Rooms" I have already written. Bailleul is famous for one thing alone--its baths. Just outside the townis a large and modern asylum that contains a good plunge-bath for themen and gorgeous hot baths for officers. There are none better behindthe line. Tuesdays and Fridays were days of undiluted joy. Armentières is sprawling and ugly and full of dirt--a correct andmiddle-class town that reminded me of Bristol. In front of it are thosetrenches, of which many tales wandered up and down the line. Here theChristmas truce is said to have been prolonged for three weeks or more. Here the men are supposed to prefer their comfortable trenches to theirbillets, though when they "come out" they are cheered by the Follies andthe Fancies. On this section of the line is the notorious PlugstreetWood, that show-place to which all distinguished but valuable visitorsare taken. Other corps have sighed for the gentle delights of thissection of the line.... South-west from Armentières the country is as level as it can be. It isindeed possible to ride from Ypres to Béthune without meeting any hillexcept the slight ascent from La Clytte. Steenwerck, Erquinghem, Croixdu Bac, and, farther west, Merris and Vieux Berquin, have no virtuewhatsoever. There is little country flatter and uglier than the countrybetween Bailleul and Béthune. One morning Huggie, Cecil, and I obtained leave to visit Béthune and theLa Bassée district. It was in the middle of January, three months afterwe had left Beuvry. We tore into Bailleul and bumped along the firstmile of the Armentières road. That mile is without any doubt the mostexcruciatingly painful _pavé_ in the world. We crossed the railway andraced south. The roads were good and there was little traffic, but thesudden apparition of a motor-lorry round a sharp corner sent that otherdespatch rider into the ditch. Estaires, as always, produced muchgrease. It began to rain, but we held on by La Gorgue and Lestrem, halting only once for the necessary café-cognac. We were stopped for our passes at the bridge into Béthune by a privateof the London Scottish. I rejoiced exceedingly, and finding Alec, tookhim off to a bath and then to the restaurant where I had breakfastedwhen first we came to Béthune. The meal was as good as it had been threemonths before, and the flapper as charming. [29] After lunch we had ourhair cut. Then Cecil took us to the little blue-and-white café for tea. She did play the piano, but two subalterns of the less combatant typecame in and put us to flight. A corporal is sometimes at such adisadvantage. We rode along the canal bank to Beuvry Station, and found that ourfilthy old quarters had been cleaned up and turned into an Indiandressing-station. We went on past the cross-roads at Gorre, where anIndian battalion was waiting miserably under the dripping trees. The sunwas just setting behind some grey clouds. The fields were flooded withochreous water. Since last I had been along the road the country hadbeen "searched" too thoroughly. One wall of 1910 farm remained. Chickenspecked feebly among the rest of it. Coming into Festubert I felt that something was wrong. The village hadbeen damnably shelled--that I had expected--and there was not a soul tobe seen. I thought of the father and mother and daughter who, returningto their home while we were there in October, had wept because a fusehad gone through the door and the fireplace and all their glass had beenbroken. Their house was now a heap of nothing in particular. The mirrorI had used lay broken on the top of about quarter of a wall. Stillsomething was wrong, and Huggie, who had been smiling at my puzzledface, said gently in an off-hand way-- "Seen the church?" That was it! The church had simply disappeared. In the old days ridingup from Gorre the fine tower of the church rose above the houses at theend of the street. The tower had been shelled and had fallen crashingthrough the roof. We met a sapper coming out of a cottage. He was rather amused at oursentimental journey, and warned us that the trenches were considerablynearer the village than they had been in our time. We determined to pushon as it was now dusk, but my engine jibbed, and we worked on it in thegloom among the dark and broken houses. The men in the trenches rousedthemselves to a sleepless night, and intermittent rifle-shots rang outin the damp air. We rode north to the Estaminet de l'Epinette, passing a road whichforking to the right led to a German barricade. The estaminet stilllived, but farther down the road the old house which had sheltered afield ambulance was a pile of rubbish. On we rode by La Couture toEstaires, where we dined, and so to St Jans Cappel.... Do you know what the Line means? When first we came to Landrecies thethought of the Frontier as something strong and stark had thrilled usagain and again, but the Frontier was feeble and is nothing. A man ofPoperinghe told me his brother was professor, his son was serving, hiswife and children were "over there. " He pointed to the German lines. Ofhis wife and children he has heard nothing for four months. Some of usare fighting to free "German" Flanders, the country where life is darkand bitter. Those behind our line, however confident they may be, livein fear, for if the line were to retire a little some of them would becast into the bitter country. A day will come "when the whole line willadvance, " and the welcome we shall receive then from those who have comeout of servitude!... There are men and women in France who live only forthat day, just as there are those in this country who would welcome theday of death, so that they might see again those they love.... * * * * * You may have gathered from my former letters that no friction tookplace between the professional and amateur soldiers of the SignalCompany. I have tried all through my letters to give you a very truthfulidea of our life, and my account would not be complete without somedescription of the Signal Company and its domestic affairs. Think for a moment of what happened at the beginning of August. Morethan a dozen 'Varsity men were thrown like Daniels into a den ofmercenaries. We were awkwardly privileged persons--full corporals with afew days' service. Motor-cycling gave superlative opportunities offreedom. Our duties were "flashy, " and brought us into familiar contactwith officers of rank. We were highly paid, and thought to have muchmoney of our own. In short, we who were soldiers of no standingpossessed the privileges that a professional soldier could win onlyafter many years' hard work. Again, it did not help matters that our Corps was a Corps of intelligentexperts who looked down on the ordinary "Tommy, " that our Company haddeservedly the reputation of being one of the best Signal Companies inthe Army--a reputation which has been enhanced and duly rewarded in thepresent war. These motor-cyclists were not only experimentalinterlopers. They might even "let down" the Company. We expected jealousy and unpleasantness, which we hoped to overcome byhard work. We found a tactful kindness that was always smoothing therough way, helping us amusedly, and giving us more than our due, and athorough respect where respect was deserved. It was astonishing, butthen we did not know the professional soldier. During the winter therewas a trifle of friction over cooking, the work of the Signal Office, and the use and abuse of motor-cycles. It would have been apoor-spirited company if there had been none. But the friction wastransitory, and left no acid feeling. I should like to pay my compliments to a certain commanding officer, butsix months' work under him has convinced me that he does not likecompliments. Still, there remains that dinner at the end of the war, andthen... ! The Sergeant-Major frightened us badly at first. He looked so much likea Sergeant-Major, and a Sergeant-Major is more to be feared than theC. O. , or the General, or the A. P. M. , or anybody else in thisdisciplinary world. He can make life Hell or Heaven or a judiciouscompromise. Our Sergeant-Major believed in the judicious compromise witha tendency towards Heaven. When any question arose between professionaland amateur, he dealt with it impartially. At other times he wasinclined to let us work out our own salvation. I have always had amighty respect for the Sergeant-Major, but have never dared tell him so. Perhaps he will read this. The "Quarter-Bloke"[30] was a jewel. He was suddenly called upon to keepus supplied with things of which he had never even heard the names. Herose to the occasion like a hero or Mr Selfridge's buyer. Never did hepass by an unconsidered trifle. One day a rumour went round that wemight get side-cars. That was enough for the Quarter-Bloke. He picked upevery large-sized tyre he thought might come in useful. The side-carscame. There was a rush for tyres. The Quarter-Bloke did not rush. Heonly smiled. His great triumph was the affair of the leather jackets. A maternalGovernment thought to send us out leather jackets. After tea the Q. -B. Bustled in with them. We rode out with them the next morning. The 2ndCorps had not yet received theirs. We were the first motor-cyclists inour part of the world to appear in flaring chrome. The Q. -B. Smiledagain. I always think the Quarter-Bloke is wasted. He ought to be put in chargeof the Looting Department of a large invading army. Do notmisunderstand me. The Q. -B. Never "looted. " He never stepped ahair's-breadth outside those regulations that hedge round theQuartermaster. He was just a man with a prophetic instinct, who, whileothers passed blindly by, picked up things because they might come inuseful some day--and they always did. Finally, the Q. -B. Wascompanionable. He could tell a good story, and make merry decorously, asbefitted a Company Quartermaster-Sergeant. Of the other sergeants I will make no individual mention. We took somefor better, and some for worse, but they were all good men, who knewtheir job. Then there was "Ginger, " the cook. I dare not describe his personalappearance lest I should meet him again--and I want to--but it wasremarkable. So was his language. One of us had a fair gift that way, andduels were frequent, but "Ginger" always had the last word. He wouldkeep in reserve a monstrously crude sulphurous phrase with a sting ofhumour in its tail, and, when our fellow had concluded triumphantly withan exotic reference to Ginger's hereditary characteristics, Ginger wouldhesitate a moment, as if thinking, and then out with _it_. Obviouslythere was no more to be said. I have ever so much more to tell about the Signal Company in detail anddialogue. Perhaps some day I shall have the courage to say it, but Ishall be careful to hide about whom I am writing.... * * * * * The "commission fever, " which we had caught on the Aisne and, morestrongly, at Beuvry, swept over us late in January. Moulders, who hadlost his own company and joined on to us during the Retreat, had retiredinto the quietude of the A. S. C. Cecil was selected to go home and trainthe despatch riders of the New Armies. There were points in being "an officer and a gentleman. " Dirt anddiscomfort were all very well when there was plenty of work to do, andwe all decided that every officer should have been in the ranks, butdespatch-riding had lost its savour. We had become postmen. Thoughts ofthe days when we had dashed round picking-up brigades, had putbattalions on the right road, and generally made ourselves conspicuous, if not useful, discontented us. So we talked it over. Directing the operations of a very large gun seemed a good job. Therewould not be much moving to do, because monster guns were notoriouslyimmobile. Hours are regular; the food is good, and can generally beeaten in comparative safety. If the gun had a very long range it wouldbe quite difficult to hit. Unfortunately gunnery is a very technicaljob, and requires some acquaintance with Algebra. So we gave up theidea. We did not dote on the cavalry, for many reasons. First, when cavalry isnot in action it does nothing but clean its stables and exercise itshorses. Second, if ever we broke through the German lines the cavalrywould probably go ahead of anybody else. Third, we could not ride verywell, and the thought of falling off in front of our men when they werecharging daunted us. The sappers required brains, and we had too great an admiration for theinfantry to attempt commanding them. Besides, they walked and lived intrenches. Two of us struck upon a corps which combined the advantages of everybranch of the service. We drew up a list of each other's qualificationsto throw a sop to modesty, sent in our applications, and waited. At thesame time we adopted a slight tone of hauteur towards those who were notpotential officers. One night after tea "Ginger" brought in the orders. I had become agentleman, and, saying good-bye, I walked down into the village andreported myself to the officer commanding the Divisional Cyclists. I wasno longer a despatch rider but a very junior subaltern. I had worked with the others for nearly seven months--with Huggie, wholiked to be frightened; with George the arch scrounger; with Spuggy, whocould sing the rarest songs; with Sadders, who is as brave as any manalive; with N'Soon, the dashing, of the tender skin; with Fat Boy, wholoves "sustaining" food and dislikes frost; with Grimers and Cecil, bestof artificers; with Potters and Orr and Moulders and the Flapper. I cannot pay them a more sufficient tribute than the tribute of theCommander-in-Chief:-- "Carrying despatches and messages at all hours of the day and night, inevery kind of weather, and often traversing bad roads blocked withtransport, they have been conspicuously successful in maintaining anextraordinary degree of efficiency in the service of communications.... No amount of difficulty or danger has ever checked the energy and ardourwhich has distinguished their corps throughout the operations. " FINIS. PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS. FOOTNOTES: [29] I cannot remember the name of the restaurant. Go to the north-eastcorner of the Square and turn down a lane to your right. It is thefourth or fifth house on your right. In Béthune there is also, ofcourse, the big hotel where generals lunch. If you find the company ofgenerals a little trying go to the flapper's restaurant. [30] Company Quartermaster-Sergeant, now a Sergeant-Major. [Transcriber's Notes: page 56: Comma changed to period in "La Cateau. A good many" page 71: "off" changed to "of". "a great meal of lunch" page 109: "reopend" to "reopened". "reopened with cheers. " page 166: changed "BASSEE" to "BASSÉE" page 207: "that" changed to "than". "worse of surface than the main" page 213: word "for" inserted into text. "go for walks" page 246: period added after "Port. " page 261: "distinguised" changed to "distinguished". "to which all distinguished"]