The Red Horizon | Page 8

Claire. High up and far away to the west a Zeppelin was to
be seen travelling in a westerly direction; the farmer's wife, our
landlady, had just rescued a tin of bully beef from one of her
all-devouring pigs; at the barn door lay my recently cleaned rifle and
ordered equipment--how incongruous it all was (p. 038) with the home
of Marie Claire.
Suddenly I was brought back to realities by the recollection that the
battalion was to have a bath that afternoon and towels and soap must be

ready to take out on the next parade.
The next morning was beautifully clear; the sun rising over the firing
line lit up wood and field, river and pond. The hens were noisy in the
farmyard, the horse lines to the rear were full of movement, horses
strained at their tethers eager to break away and get free from the
captivity of the rope; the grooms were busy brushing the animals' legs
and flanks, and a slight dust arose into the air as the work was carried
on.
Over the red-brick houses of the village the church stood high, its spire
clearly defined against the blue of the sky. The door of the café across
the road opened, and the proprietress, a merry-faced, elderly woman,
came across to the farmhouse. She purchased some newly laid eggs for
breakfast, and entered into conversation with our men, some of whom
knew a little of her language. They asked about her son in the trenches;
she had heard from him the day before and he was (p. 039) quite well
and hoped to have a holiday very soon. He would come home then and
spend a fortnight with the family. She looked forward to his coming, he
had been away from her ever since the war started; she had not seen
him for eight whole months. What happiness would be hers when he
returned! She waved her hand to us as she went off, tripping lightly
across the roadway and disappearing into the café. She was going to
church presently; it was Holy Week when the Virgin listened to special
intercessors, and the good matron of the café prayed hourly for the
safety of her soldier boy.
At ten o'clock we went to chapel, our pipers playing The Wearing of the
Green as we marched along the crooked village streets, our rifles on
our shoulders and our bandoliers heavy with the ball cartridge which
we carried. The rifle is with us always now, on parade, on march, in
café, billet, and church; our "best friend" is our eternal companion. We
carried it into the church and fastened the sling to the chair as we knelt
in prayer before the altar. We occupied the larger part of the building,
only three able-bodied men in civilian clothing were in attendance.
The youth of the country were out in the trenches, and even here (p.
040) in the quiet little chapel with its crucifixes, images, and pictures,

there was the suggestion of war in the collection boxes for wounded
soldiers, in the crêpe worn by so many women; one in every ten was in
mourning, and above all in the general air of resignation which showed
on all the faces of the native worshippers.
The whole place breathed war, not in the splendid whirlwind rush of
men mad in the wild enthusiasm of battle, but in silent yearning,
heartfelt sorrow, and great bravery, the bravery of women who remain
at home. Opposite us sat the lady of the café, her head low down on her
breast, and the rosary slipping bead by bead through her fingers. Now
and again she would stir slightly, raise her eyes to the Virgin on the
right of the high altar, and move her lips in prayer, then she would
lower her head again and continue her rosary.
As far as I could ascertain singing in church was the sole privilege of
the choir, none of the congregation joined in the hymns. But to-day the
church had a new congregation--the soldiers from England, the men
who sing in the trenches, in the billet, and on the march; the men who
glory in song on the last lap of a long, killing journey in full (p. 041)
marching order. To-day they sang a hymn well-known and loved, the
clarion call of their faith was started by the choir. As one man the
soldiers joined in the singing, and their voices filled the building. The
other members of the congregation looked on for a moment in surprise,
then one after another they started to sing, and in a moment nearly all
in the place were aiding the choir. One was silent, however, the lady of
the café; still deep in prayer she scarcely glanced at the