Part 7 (1/2)
Fred rubbed his chin and started: ”Well, Bill, the first thing I remember was that I found myself walking along a country road, and I met a M.P. man. Said I: 'Can you please direct me to the Gare du Nord?' 'Straight on,' said he, 'and you'll find it on your left. It's about a twenty-minute walk.' So I went straight on, and sure enough I came to the Gare du Nord, and I came on here and found Tom juggling with the wheel of the old ambulance with its radiator against the wall.” ”Yes,” said Tom, ”and look here, b.l.o.o.d.y old Bill, I had spent half the night juggling with death with that wheel--thank goodness the engine wasn't going. Then Fred woke me up. What do you make of it all, Bill?” I couldn't make anything of it, so I dressed and we had breakfast and they went off to their aerodrome in the Somme mud.
After this we became great friends and we had many happy evenings, (p. 086) in some of which Tom looked for a ”spot of bother,” and Fred warned him ”it was a bad show.” On ”good nights for the troops,” which meant that the weather was impossible for bombing (they were night-bombers), they would come into Amiens for dinner. These nights were ”not devoid of attraction,” and on the ”bad nights for the troops” I would often dine at the aerodrome and see the raiders off. It was uncanny, these great birds starting off into the blackness--to what?
Tom and Fred lived together in a little hut in the Somme mud, off the Peronne Road, which they called ”Virtue Villa,” and when I worked anywhere away up this old East-West Road, I never could resist visiting ”Virtue Villa” on the way back. ”Virtue Villa” with its blazing stove, its two bunks--Tom's below, Fred's upstairs--its photographs (especially the one of Fred with the M.C. smile), the biscuit-box seats and the good gla.s.ses of whisky--truly ”Virtue Villa,” with its Tom and Fred, was not ”devoid of attraction” on a cold October evening, with the rain splas.h.i.+ng on the water in the old Somme sh.e.l.l-holes.
They were a great couple and devoted to each other. One could not eat, drink or be merry without the other, yet they were completely different. Fred was a calm, thoughtful English boy, very much in love and longing to get married; but Tom was just a heap of fun, a man who had travelled to many corners of the earth, but at heart was still a romping school-boy.
About this time George Hoidge's squadron came to a place near Albert, and I had the pleasure of seeing Colonel Bloomfield there again, still as hearty and full of fire as ever. He was going to sit, but things began to happen too quickly then, and I never got a chance of (p. 087) painting him.
[Ill.u.s.tration: x.x.xVII. _Albert._]
Some weeks later, Hoidge came in and said: ”I have bad news for you, Orps. Tom and Fred have gone West.” It was bad news. Tom and Fred, two gallant hearts, dead! I was told afterwards how it happened. One of the last days of the fighting, Fred went out to test his machine with his mechanic. He taxied off down the aerodrome, which was a huge old Boche one that his squadron had moved forward to. As he was taxi-ing he hit a Boche b.o.o.by trap, planted in the ground, and up went the machine and fell in flames. The mechanic was thrown clear, but not Fred. Poor Tom saw it all from the door of ”Virtue Villa.” Out he rushed straight into the flames to Fred. I feel sure Fred's spirit cried out when it saw Tom coming in to the flames: ”You're looking for a spot of bother, Tom, but it's a good show, Tom, a good show!”
When the petrol burnt out and they got to them, they found Tom with his arms round Fred. Greater love hath no man. That is how Tom and Fred ”went West.” I hope they have found another ”Virtue Villa” not ”devoid of attraction” high up in the blue sky, where they were often together in this life. Let us admit they were a ”good show”--in death they were not divided. Their Major wrote to me: ”The Mess has never been the same since.” The world itself will never be the same to those who loved Tom and Fred and their like who have ”gone West.”
Thinking of them reminds me of those good lines by Carroll Carstairs, written in hospital after he was so badly wounded:--
”I have friends among the dead, (p. 088) Such a gallant company, Lads whose laugh is scarcely sped To the far country.
”Jolly fellows, it would seem That they have not really gone-- Rather while I've stayed to dream They have marched serenely on.”
THE CHURCH, ZILLEBEKE (p. 089)
OCTOBER 1918
”Mud Everywhere-- Nothing but mud.
The very air seems thick with it, The few tufts of gra.s.s are all smeared with it-- Mud!
The Church a heap of it; One look, and weep for it.
That's what they've made of it-- Mud!
Slimy and wet, Churned and upset; Here Bones that once mattered With crosses lie scattered, Broken and battered, Covered in mud, Here, where the Church's bell Tolled when our heroes fell In that mad start of h.e.l.l-- Mud!
That's all that's left of it--mud!”
CHAPTER XIII (p. 090)
NEARING THE END (OCTOBER 1918)
The Boche were now nearly on the run. I remember one day I went out with General Stuart and Colonel Angus McDonnell--the General was the railway expert, and was out to ascertain what amount of damage the Boche had done to the lines, permanent way, etc. General Stuart was a quaint little man. He seldom spoke, but when he did it was very much to the point and full of dry humour. The Hon. Angus McDonnell, a true Irishman, was a most attractive person, full of charm. He'd kissed more than the Blarney Stone, and had received all the good effects, and we had some most interesting days together. On the particular one I mention, we went away beyond Cambrai to a place called Caudry, where the General inspected the station and the general damage to the metals and permanent way, after which we left and lunched by the side of a road which ran through fields. All was peace, not a sound from the guns--when suddenly shrapnel started bursting over these fields. No one was in sight; a few Englishmen on horseback galloped past, apparently for exercise. The Boche, I presume, couldn't see, but just let off on chance. It was better than leaving the sh.e.l.ls there for us.
After lunch we motored down to St. Quentin, and on the way stopped and explored the great tunnel in the Ca.n.a.l du Nord. What a stronghold! It seemed impossible that the Boche could have been driven out of it. (p. 091) On the way down we travelled along a road _pave_ in the middle, with mud on each side and the usual rows of trees, then a dip down to the fields. These fields were full of dead Boche and horses. The road had evidently been under observation a very little while back, as the Labour Corps were hard at work filling in sh.e.l.l-holes, and the traffic was held up a lot. In one spot in the mud at the side of the road lay two British Tommies who had evidently just been killed. They had been laid out ready for something to take them away. Standing beside them were three French girls, all dressed up, silk stockings and crimped hair. There they were, standing over the dead Tommies, asking if you would not like ”a little love.” What a place to choose! Death all round, and they themselves might be blown into eternity at any moment.
Death and the dead had become as nothing to the young generation. They had lived through four years of h.e.l.l with the enemy, and now they were free. Another day I went to Douai, and there I saw the mad woman. Her son told us she had been quite well until two days before the Boche left, then they had done such things to her that she had lost her reason. There she sat, silent and motionless, except for one thumb which constantly twitched. But if one of us in uniform pa.s.sed close to her, she would give a convulsive shudder. It was sad, this woman with her beautiful, curly-headed son. Later she was moved to Amiens, where she had relatives. After about six months she became quite normal again, and does not remember anything about it. The last time I saw her she was cleaning the upstairs rooms at ”Josephine's,” the little oyster-shop off the Street of the Three Pebbles.
[Ill.u.s.tration: x.x.xVIII. _The Mad Woman of Douai._]
One night at the ”Hotel de la Paix” a weird thing happened. One (p. 092) often hears strange stories of the powers different men and women have over individuals of the opposite s.e.x. As a rule, one hears, one smiles, or one is rather disgusted; but seldom do we admit to ourselves that these stories may be absolutely true--we nearly always smile and think we are clever, and say to ourselves: ”Ah! there's something behind that.” Rasputin, for instance, what was he? Had he power? We wonder a little and dismiss the thought.