France at War | Page 5

went through the gross nakedness of streets without people, till we
reached the railway station, which was very fairly knocked about, but,
as my friends said, nothing like as much as the cathedral. Then we had
to cross the end of a long street down which the Boche could see
clearly. As one glanced up it, one perceived how the weeds, to whom

men's war is the truce of God, had come back and were well established
the whole length of it, watched by the long perspective of open, empty
windows.

II
THE NATION'S SPIRIT AND A NEW INHERITANCE
We left that stricken but undefeated town, dodged a few miles down the
roads beside which the women tended their cows, and dropped into a
place on a hill where a Moroccan regiment of many experiences was in
billets.
They were Mohammedans bafflingly like half a dozen of our Indian
frontier types, though they spoke no accessible tongue. They had, of
course, turned the farm buildings where they lay into a little bit of
Africa in colour and smell. They had been gassed in the north; shot
over and shot down, and set up to be shelled again; and their officers
talked of North African wars that we had never heard of--sultry days
against long odds in the desert years ago. "Afterward--is it not so with
you also?--we get our best recruits from the tribes we have fought.
These men are children. They make no trouble. They only want to go
where cartridges are burnt. They are of the few races to whom fighting
is a pleasure."
"And how long have you dealt with them?"
"A long time--a long time. I helped to organize the corps. I am one of
those whose heart is in Africa." He spoke slowly, almost feeling for his
French words, and gave some order. I shall not forget his eyes as he
turned to a huge, brown, Afreedee-like Mussulman hunkering down
beside his accoutrements. He had two sides to his head, that bearded,
burned, slow-spoken officer, met and parted with in an hour.
The day closed--(after an amazing interlude in the chateau of a dream,
which was all glassy ponds, stately trees, and vistas of white and gold
saloons. The proprietor was somebody's chauffeur at the front, and we

drank to his excellent health) --at a little village in a twilight full of the
petrol of many cars and the wholesome flavour of healthy troops. There
is no better guide to camp than one's own thoughtful nose; and though I
poked mine everywhere, in no place then or later did it strike that vile
betraying taint of underfed, unclean men. And the same with the
horses.
THE LINE THAT NEVER SLEEPS
It is difficult to keep an edge after hours of fresh air and experiences; so
one does not get the most from the most interesting part of the day--the
dinner with the local headquarters. Here the professionals meet--the
Line, the Gunners, the Intelligence with stupefying photo-plans of the
enemy's trenches; the Supply; the Staff, who collect and note all things,
and are very properly chaffed; and, be sure, the Interpreter, who, by
force of questioning prisoners, naturally develops into a Sadducee. It is
their little asides to each other, the slang, and the half-words which, if
one understood, instead of blinking drowsily at one's plate, would give
the day's history in little. But tire and the difficulties of a sister (not a
foreign) tongue cloud everything, and one goes to billets amid a
murmur of voices, the rush of single cars through the night, the passage
of battalions, and behind it all, the echo of the deep voices calling one
to the other, along the line that never sleeps.
. . . . . . .
The ridge with the scattered pines might have hidden children at play.
Certainly a horse would have been quite visible, but there was no hint
of guns, except a semaphore which announced it was forbidden to pass
that way, as the battery was firing. The Boches must have looked for
that battery, too. The ground was pitted with shell holes of all
calibres--some of them as fresh as mole-casts in the misty damp
morning; others where the poppies had grown from seed to flower all
through the summer.
"And where are the guns?" I demanded at last.
They were almost under one's hand, their ammunition in cellars and

dug-outs beside them. As far as one can make out, the 75 gun has no
pet name. The bayonet is Rosalie the virgin of Bayonne, but the 75, the
watchful nurse of the trenches and little sister of the Line, seems to be
always "soixante- quinze." Even those who love her best do not insist
that she is beautiful. Her merits are French--logic,