A Visit to Three Fronts, June 1916 | Page 3

tide. How strange that this monstrous oscillation of giant
forces, setting in from east to west, should find their equilibrium here
across this particular meadow of Flanders. 'How far?' I ask. '180 yards,'
says my guide. 'Pop!' remarks a third person just in front. 'A sniper,'
says my guide; 'take a look through the periscope.' I do so. There is
some rusty wire before me, then a field sloping slightly upwards with
knee-deep grass, then rusty wire again, and a red line of broken earth.
There is not a sign of movement, but sharp eyes are always watching us,
even as these crouching soldiers around me are watching them. There
are dead Germans in the grass before us. You need not see them to
know that they are there. A wounded soldier sits in a corner nursing his
leg. Here and there men pop out like rabbits from dug-outs and
mine-shafts. Others sit on the fire-step or lean smoking against the clay

wall. Who would dream to look at their bold, careless faces that this is
a front line, and that at any moment it is possible that a grey wave may
submerge them? With all their careless bearing I notice that every man
has his gas helmet and his rifle within easy reach.
A mile of front trenches and then we are on our way back down that
weary walk. Then I am whisked off upon a ten mile drive. There is a
pause for lunch at Corps Headquarters, and after it we are taken to a
medal presentation in a market square. Generals Munro, Haking and
Landon, famous fighting soldiers all three, are the British
representatives. Munro with a ruddy face, and brain above all bulldog
below; Haking, pale, distinguished, intellectual; Landon a pleasant,
genial country squire. An elderly French General stands beside them.
British infantry keep the ground. In front are about fifty Frenchmen in
civil dress of every grade of life, workmen and gentlemen, in a double
rank. They are all so wounded that they are back in civil life, but to-day
they are to have some solace for their wounds. They lean heavily on
sticks, their bodies are twisted and maimed, but their faces are shining
with pride and joy. The French General draws his sword and addresses
them. One catches words like 'honneur' and 'patrie.' They lean forward
on their crutches, hanging on every syllable which comes hissing and
rasping from under that heavy white moustache. Then the medals are
pinned on. One poor lad is terribly wounded and needs two sticks. A
little girl runs out with some flowers. He leans forward and tries to kiss
her, but the crutches slip and he nearly falls upon her. It was a pitiful
but beautiful little scene.
Now the British candidates march up one by one for their medals, hale,
hearty men, brown and fit. There is a smart young officer of Scottish
Rifles; and then a selection of Worcesters, Welsh Fusiliers and Scots
Fusiliers, with one funny little Highlander, a tiny figure with a
soup-bowl helmet, a grinning boy's face beneath it, and a bedraggled
uniform. 'Many acts of great bravery'--such was the record for which he
was decorated. Even the French wounded smiled at his quaint
appearance, as they did at another Briton who had acquired the
chewing-gum habit, and came up for his medal as if he had been called

suddenly in the middle of his dinner, which he was still endeavouring
to bolt. Then came the end, with the National Anthem. The British
regiment formed fours and went past. To me that was the most
impressive sight of any. They were the Queen's West Surreys, a veteran
regiment of the great Ypres battle. What grand fellows! As the order
came 'Eyes right,' and all those fierce, dark faces flashed round about us,
I felt the might of the British infantry, the intense individuality which is
not incompatible with the highest discipline. Much they had endured,
but a great spirit shone from their faces. I confess that as I looked at
those brave English lads, and thought of what we owe to them and to
their like who have passed on, I felt more emotional than befits a Briton
in foreign parts.
* * * * *
Now the ceremony was ended, and once again we set out for the front.
It was to an artillery observation post that we were bound, and once
again my description must be bounded by discretion. Suffice it, that in
an hour I found myself, together with a razor-keen young artillery
observer and an excellent old sportsman of a Russian prince, jammed
into a very small space, and staring through a slit at the German lines.
In front of us lay a vast plain, scarred and slashed, with