Letters to Helen | Page 7

exactly ... to whom? And would anyone thank me for it? Just a head of
St. John, very battered and faded. It's a fragment about a foot square,
and through all the mud one can see something like this: A head of St.
John in the corner; rays of light (two very thin small rays) shining on
him, and a look of great suffering on his face. The background a sort of
dull ochre. Evidently once a large composition. There are two books,
one with EVAN, and the other with, I think, BIBLIA SACRA, written
on it. It is quite worthless except from a sentimental point of view.
The exposure and the heat of the explosions have sadly cracked and
peeled the paint, but it seems vaguely symbolical. Near here I picked
up some minute bits of green glass.
However, there was a notice: "It is dangerous to loiter here." So I tore
myself away, and we remounted. The Boche can't see into the town
because of the remaining buildings, but the whole place is utterly
empty--not a dog even.
Soon the road to the next village is exposed to the Boche's view.
Therefore canvas screens about 20 feet high have been erected, so that,
if necessary, troops, and even lorries, can hurry by. It is most curious.
"But for that thin bit of canvas, my good Swallow, you would get
something into your tummy you wouldn't like," I remarked. At that
moment the sun came out. We were keeping to the side of the road
where it is soft going. Suddenly Swallow leaped like a stag into the
middle of the road all over the _pavé_. Panic terror. He had seen the
shadow of a starling flit across his path!
Jezebel was tittuping along behind, thinking only of her next feed. I
cannot get her to take any interest in these thrilling spots. Sometimes a
soldier or two would emerge from a cellar, the entrance to which would
be piled up with sand-bags. And once or twice bang! bang! goes a gun
quite close by.
Well, so we go through the next deserted and wrecked village, again
out of sight of the Boche, because of the ruins and a few trees. Then
into a very famous town indeed, and across a river three times by three

different bridges--not the old bridges, which are broken down, but
sapper-built bridges. Here is a party going into the trenches just on the
far side of the town. They look distinctly cheery, and are all of the same
ripe brown. Thence right-handed again and gradually back to
civilization, or, rather, to life first and civilization some way behind.
Eventually people strolling about and shops. I bought a pair of those
jolly French-tartan stockings for little Bun. With a grey dress they will
look most charming, I think.
[Sidenote: ARMENTIERES]
Again masses of soldiers with their field-kitchens in muddy fields from
which all traces of grass have been stamped long ago. And the
everlasting mule. There are mules everywhere out here.
Such attractive cottages, white with green shutters, and sometimes little
Dutch gardens. Many windmills, several pigeons always fluttering
round each. A lorry in a ditch. A roadside canteen, with perhaps an
A.S.C. camp near by. Fields and fields of corn and every other crop
under the sun. I long to sketch, but feel slightly nervous of so doing so
far from camp. I don't want to be arrested as a spy. We are practically
out of the danger area by now, but you never know. Some boring
A.P.M. might pounce on the sketch and create a botheration.
Meantime I have been laboriously making pretty maps to present to Sir
John, coloured maps showing where such and such a rise of ground
could be held, or where such and such a road offers difficulties to
transport, etc. But it's not easy to do, and we don't get back to camp till
five minutes before stables, having covered about thirty miles. Besides,
we had to stop and feed ourselves and the horses.
Then stables. Sergeant Hodge reprimanded for not having reported a
bad kick. Southcombe slacking a bit. Must keep an eagle eye on that
young man. At the end a whistle (no trumpets allowed). The horses all
neigh and toss their heads and paw. Nosebags are put on, and after
touring round to see that all is correct we slope off to tea, which Hale
and Co. have got all ready. Luxurious ménage as of yore. But good
when you're hungry, there's no doubt. We are moving again--probably

to-morrow.
_July 10._
We have moved. The sixth time altogether. Not far though. A close
view of the sweet-william hill. It must be sketched.
I am sitting on some sacks of corn, wondering why Fritz doesn't lob
over