TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE

Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources.

More detail can be found at the [end of the book.]

WITH CAVALRY IN 1915

THE AUTHOR

Frontispiece

WITH CAVALRY
IN 1915

THE BRITISH TROOPER
IN THE TRENCH LINE

Through the Second Battle of Ypres

BY
FREDERIC COLEMAN, F.R.G.S.
(Author of "From Mons to Ypres with French")

ILLUSTRATED

LONDON
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON & CO., LIMITED
1916

LONDON:
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
DUKE STREET, STAMFORD STREET, S.E., AND GREAT WINDMILL STREET, W.

Dedicated
TO
MY WIFE
Whose bravery and self-sacrifice in the face of trying
circumstances made it possible for me so long
to continue to do the little that lay
in my power to help the
Cause we both
thought
JUST AND RIGHT.

[AUTHOR'S PREFACE.]

The more than kind reception that Press and Public accorded my first book on the War, "From Mons to Ypres with French," has encouraged me to put together a chronicle of further events.

"With Cavalry in 1915" takes up the thread of its narrative where its predecessor left it—with the closing days of 1914.

If some notes of frank criticism have been included in this volume, it has been with no unkindly feeling, or with any other object than to try to give a fair picture of things at the Front as I saw them.

My unbounded admiration for the splendid soldiers of the British Army, gained in the darker days of the Great Retreat from Mons, has never wavered in its allegiance to them.

Never have I had occasion to change my opinion, formed in the first few weeks of the War, that the British Tommy is worth five or six of any German soldiers with whom he has yet come into contact.

In the machinery and organisation of war, the small British Army was at a disadvantage, particularly when faced with the necessity of great and rapid expansion. That mistakes should have been made was more than natural—it was inevitable.

I would not be so presumptuous as to criticise so freely, but that "the old order changeth": to write of the past is, I hope, permissible, and likely to lead to no misconstruction. I mean no more than that which the plain interpretation of my simple phraseology will convey. I have no axes to grind.

The right men are in the British Army, and the right men are at the head of it.

For its work to be crowned with complete and lasting victory, it has but to have the undivided Empire behind it, and that, thank God, it has.

The man who cannot see that the Allies will win this war, and win it conclusively, is indeed blind to what the future holds for civilisation.

Frederic Coleman.

Melbourne, Australia,

June, 1916.

[CONTENTS.]

CHAPTER I.

January.

PAGES

General De Lisle and the 1st Cavalry Division Staff—Resting—Wet winter campaigning—Echoes of the Christmas truce—A would-be Hun prisoner—A visit to Furnes—A Belgian Officer's standpoint—Luncheon with Colonel Tom Bridges—The Belgian Army—Nieuport-les-Bains—The trenches along the Yser Canal—The ruined lighthouse in the sand dunes—Snow's 27th Division in the line in Flanders—Bad feet—Wrecked Vermelles—The devastation of "75" shells—"Le Sport"—General Robertson appointed Chief of Staff

[1-36]

CHAPTER II.

February.

Army Service Corps vagaries—Motor cars at the Front—Poperinghe—French Chasseurs—The equipment of the French foot-soldier—Belgian peasants—Flemish fatalism—The selection of trench positions—A cavalry counter-attack—French Staff work—British Staff officers—A run to Ypres—Scenes in the old Flemish city—On duty in the Salient—The Menin Road—A humble shop in the shell area—Ypres shelled—Belgian funerals under fire—The trench-line—General De Lisle has a narrow escape—The ruined Cloth Hall and Ypres Cathedral—Disappearing mural paintings—An Irish giant-powder experience—Wonderful marksmanship of the French "75's"—The way to the firing line—Past "Cavan's House"—Under fire—Brigade Headquarters in a dug-out

[37-73]

CHAPTER III.

March.

Through the mud to the trenches—French reserves in the woods—Hidden batteries—Unwise photography—Shrapnel too close for comfort—Chased by shell-fire—In Hooge dug-outs—Reminiscences of the first Battle of Ypres—A tour of the first-line trenches in the rain—Loopholes—Views by periscope—Sharpshooting—A mouthful of glass—Photographs in Zillebeke Churchyard—Calling down shrapnel fire—A scamper out of Zillebeke—Hooge at night—A mine explosion—Mixed plans—Storming the mine-crater—Amusing German prisoners—The London "'bus" abroad—A timely evacuation of a house in Ypres—General Haig's order before Neuve Chapelle—Heavy British gunning—The taking of the town of Neuve Chapelle—The failure to go on—The reasons—The blame—German attack on St. Eloi—Fine work by the Rifle Brigade—Territorials—Ploegsteert and the Ploegsteert Wood—A run from Kemmel to Dickebusch—A shell in La Clytte

[74-120]

CHAPTER IV.

April.

Rumours—Lord Kitchener's visit—A horticultural joke—German hate manufactured in Lille—Red Cross assistance—The peculiar exploit of Mapplebeck of the Flying Corps—A joy-ride through Ypres and up the Menin Road—The commencement of the fight for Hill 60—The first coming of the German gas—The plight of the French Reservists—The magnificent work of the Canadian Division—In support of the French line—Tangled traffic on the road to Ypres—Shelled in Elverdinghe—Deadly howitzer shells—Poperinghe bombarded—Belgian refugees—The aviation park evacuated—The want of traffic organisation—The 200 Canadian heroes in St. Julian—Conflicting reports about the capture of Lizerne—International failure to coincide as to the results of battle—British infantry attacks to win back the lost ground—Children at play near a battle-field—Artillery work in modern warfare—An attack on Lizerne by British field guns and French Zouaves—The ethics of gun-fire—Lizerne proves a hard nut to crack—British counter-attacks along the salient line abortive—17-inch Hun shells—A big shell lights in a château garden—Shell plus chandelier—A car in a Belgian ditch—Billets in Wormhoudt—Welcome rest

[121-177]

CHAPTER V.

May.

The shortening of the Ypres Salient—More Hun gas—Strange equipment for fighting the gas—The eve of Rawlinson's attack along the Fromelles road—Great hopes of winning through to Lille—The 1st Cavalry Division sent to Ypres—The French attack at Arras—The British horseshoe around Ypres—Through the ruined town of Potijze—Scenes of devastation—Under the shells—Awful smells—Streams of wounded—Shell-splinters—The G.H.Q. line—The St. Jean dug-outs—The hell of constant enemy howitzer fire—Preponderance of numbers of German heavy guns over British—The Auber ridge attack fails—Splendid examples of heroism among the wounded—The French attack fails to break through—Holding on at Ypres—Discovery of a dug-out at Potijze—The solitary old woman in wrecked Ypres—Wonderful pyrotechnic displays at night in the trenches—Blocked by shell and conflagration in Ypres—Unable to get through—An abandoned attempt at photography under bursting shells—A scared collie—The last inhabitants to escape from the ruins of Ypres—The "Princess Pat's"—A "Mother" gun and aeroplane artillery observations—General De Lisle given command of the eastern portion of the Salient—The remnants of the Northumberland Brigade—To bed by the light of the fires in Ypres—The composition of the Salient line on the night of May 12th

[178-222]

CHAPTER VI.

May (continued).

The great German attack on May 13th—Twelve hours of Hun howitzer fire—Terrible and awe-inspiring spectacle—The niagara of shell-sound—Around impassable Ypres to Potijze—Close work by a coal-box—Through a black shell-cloud—The York and Durham "Terriers"—Bombarded in a Potijze dug-out—The shell-swept line—Colonel Budworth's wisdom and the German General's lost opportunity—The super-human work of the Queen's Bays saves the line—The Life Guards shelled from their trenches—Bits of position lost wholesale—Good work by an armoured car—Accurate and invaluable gunning by British Artillery—German attacks dispersed—Heavy casualties among the 18th Hussars—The splendid charge of the Blues, 10th Hussars and Essex Yeomanry—David Campbell's 6th Brigade holds a line of obliterated trenches—Reports of heavy losses—The remnants form a new line—A talk with two of the Blues on the battle-field—A plucky Essex Yeoman—Over 1,600 casualties in the two cavalry divisions engaged—A lost despatch case—In the "huts" near Vlamertinghe—An unnecessary run up the Menin Road at night—The flotsam and jetsam of a divisional relief in the dark—A cellar headquarters on the Menin Road—The position at Hooge—Cheery K.R.R. cyclists—A gunner's curious story—The composition of the Salient line on the morning of May 24th—In the thick of a Hun gas attack—The 28th Division lose their line—The 18th Hussars outflanked—A "Gas Diary"—The 9th Lancers hold the trench-line—Fine work by the York and Durham Territorials—The 15th Hussars win laurels—Gas everywhere—A shell demolishes an ammunition limber—A brave Cheshire sergeant—A wounded Tommy and his yarn—Huns refuse to take prisoners—A counter-attack by the Royal Fusiliers—D.S.O.'s and Military Crosses—18th Hussars casualties—Captain Grenfell and Captain Court of the 9th Lancers buried at Vlamertinghe—General De Lisle given command of the 29th Division and leaves France for the Dardanelles

[223-296]

[LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.]

WITH CAVALRY IN 1915.

[CHAPTER I.]

January 1st, 1915, found me in damp, sodden Flanders. I was one of the dozen remaining members of the original Royal Automobile Club Corps, which had joined the British Expeditionary Force in France before Mons and the great retreat on Paris.

I was attached, with my car, to the Headquarters Staff of the 1st Cavalry Division, Major-General H. de B. de Lisle, C.B., D.S.O., commanding. The Echelon A Divisional Staff Mess consisted of General de Lisle; Colonel "Sally" Home, 11th Hussars, G.S.O. 1; Major Percy Hambro, 15th Hussars, G.S.O. 2; Captain Cecil Howard, 16th Lancers, G.S.O. 3; Major Wilfred Jelf, R.H.A., Divisional Artillery Commander; Captain "Mouse" Tomkinson, "Royals," A.P.M.; Captain Hardress Lloyd, 4th Dragoon Guards, A.D.C.; Lieutenant "Pat" Armstrong, 10th Hussars, A.D.C., and myself.

We were housed in a château between Cassel and St. Omer. In the latter town General French and General Headquarters (G.H.Q.) were located.

The 1st Cavalry Division contained the 1st and 2nd Cavalry Brigades. The 1st Brigade, under Major-General Briggs, was composed of the 2nd Dragoons (Queen's Bays), 5th Dragoon Guards and 11th Hussars. Brigadier-General Mullens commanded the 2nd Cavalry Brigade, in which were the 4th Dragoon Guards, 9th Lancers and 18th Hussars.

These troops were billeted in Flemish farms and villages north of the road that led from Cassel to Bailleul.

Sir John French's army in the field at that time was composed of the 1st Army under General Sir Douglas Haig, and the 2nd Army under General Sir Horace Smith-Dorrien. The corps units were as follows:—1st Corps, General C. C. Monro; 2nd Corps, General Sir Charles Fergusson; 3rd Corps, General Pulteney; 4th Corps, General Sir Henry Rawlinson; Cavalry Corps, General Allenby; Indian Corps, General Sir James Willcocks; Indian Cavalry Corps, General Rimington; and the Flying Corps under General Henderson. Of the new 5th Corps, which was to be under the command of General Sir Herbert Plumer, only the 27th Division was as yet "out," though the 28th Division was ready to embark.

Most of the news parcelled out to those who were "resting" in billets back of the line came from the London newspapers.

Typed sheets, dubbed "summaries of information," and issued by G.H.Q., were distributed daily, but were never valuable and rarely really informative.

The G.H.Q. information sheet of January 1st, 1915, read: "The Germans made an attack on the right of our line, south of Givenchy, yesterday evening, and captured an observation post. This post was retaken by a counter-attack early this morning, but later on was again captured by the enemy. The line has now been reorganized."

A friend in the 1st Army, which was covering the part of the line thus attacked, showed me the 1st Army summary of 7 p.m., January 1st, which added the following to the news on the situation: "All is quiet in front. Fighting on right of 1st Corps last night was not as serious as at first reported. Casualties in Scots Guards believed to be about five officers and fifty other ranks. Most of these casualties occurred owing to the regiment pushing on beyond the original trench, and attacking the enemy's position. This wet weather is entailing great hardship on the men, who are fully engaged repairing trenches, some of which have had to be abandoned owing to water. The Germans are reported to be no better off."

Such brief, dry, official summaries applied to most of the wet days of January, 1915. Trench warfare in winter has a very stoggy sameness about it.

A 3rd Corps advance in front of the Ploegsteert Wood resulted in several of our men being drowned while attacking, so deep was the water in the submerged shell-holes in the flooded area.

Discipline, the capacity to go forward in pursuance of an order, in spite of the fact that doing so seems utterly futile, is possessed by the British troops to a remarkable degree. Small operations, comparatively unimportant in scope and result, served to demonstrate daily the splendid spirit of the men under inconceivably trying conditions.

One trench at Givenchy was taken and retaken time after time, and the men ordered to capture the trench were ever found ready to "go up" in the same dashing way, though they knew to a man that the assault meant inevitable loss, and would more than likely be followed by a further enforced evacuation, by their own comrades, of the untenable position.

The Huns were well supplied with trench-mortars, bombs and hand-grenades, and used them with great effect. Our men had practically none of these indispensable attributes to trench warfare, or at least had so few of them that their use produced comparatively negligible results.

The Christmas truce between British and German units confronting each other in the trenches produced echoes for weeks. The order from General French stating clearly that "the Commander-in-Chief views with the greatest displeasure" such fraternizing with the enemy had produced a partial effect, but instances still occurred where the Huns took the initiative in the matter of peace overtures for short periods.

A visit to one part of our front line unearthed the following story: The opposing trenches were separated by a highway, across which, one morning, a German soldier shouted, "Let's have a truce for to-day. We don't want to kill you fellows. Why should we kill each other? We are to be relieved by the Prussians to-morrow night. You can kill them if you like. We don't care. We are Saxons."

The extraordinary proposal was taken in good part, and the truce kept for thirty-six hours. No men of either army left their trenches, but not a shot was fired from German or English trench at that point.

A few miles from the scene of this incident the men of the opposing armies became quite accustomed to calling across the intervening ground to their enemies. Each side, one day, boasted of the excellence of its food supply. A British Tommy declared his lunch ration included an incomparable tin of sardines. A German soldier shouted his disbelief that Tommy possessed any such delicacy. Thereupon an empty sardine tin on the point of a bayonet was raised above the British trench parapet in proof of Tommy's statement.

"That's a sardine tin," yelled a Hun derisively, "but there is no sardine in it, mein friend."

A few minutes passed, then a tin of sardines, unopened and temptingly whole and sound was thrown from the English trench towards the trench of the enemy. It fell short. Over his parapet vaulted a big German, who dashed at the tin with outstretched hand. As his fingers were closing over it, it jumped from his grasp. Again he stooped and reached for it. Again it leaped away. Tommy had attached a thin but stout line to his sardine tin, willing to prove his assertion, but with no idea of losing his luncheon.

Two or three times the big Hun grabbed wildly at the elusive prize, amid the shouts and laughter of the men of both armies, who cheered in unison as Hans was at last convinced of the futility of further effort and retired in confusion to his trench.

In the early hours of the New Year a trench full of Westphalians and a party from a section of our line held by the 4th Corps, fraternised to such an extent that visits were paid by each contingent to the "no-man's land" between the trenches. When the British soldiers returned to their trench, they found a man curled up in the bottom of it. Investigation showed him to be a German soldier.

"'Ere, git out o' this," said Tommy indignantly. "You're bloomin' well in the wrong 'ouse."

"No," said the Hun decidedly, "me prisoner, prisoner!"

"Not you," was the indignant reply. "Play the gime, you silly old 'Un, an' 'ook it."

But such was not the intention of the Saxon lad. With hands in air to indicate his abject surrender, he insisted he was a prisoner and refused to budge.

Nonplussed, the Tommies shouted over to the Germans: "'Ere's one o' your chaps 'ere as won't go 'ome, the silly beggar. 'E's lorst 'is way, poor chap, an' don't know where 'e are."

"Send him back to us, please," was the prompt request from the Deutschers.

Members of the Staff outside the headquarters of the 1st Cavalry Division

face p. 8

Between Philosophe and Vermelles; on the left, the château wall

[see p. 27]

But not a move would the Hun make, until at last half a dozen stout Tommies hoisted him over the parapet with the butts of their rifles. Still he tarried. With an oath a burly British corporal called two of his comrades. They leaped out of the trench, grabbed the hesitating Hun, and marched him at quick time to his own lines. There they turned him over to his officer, presented arms in salute, wheeled and marched gravely back to their own trench.

"What did the German bloke say when you chucked the chap to him?" was asked the corporal.

"Thynks," laconically replied that worthy, "an' no more, except to sye, 'We'll fix the rotter.' An' so they bloomin' well should—desertin' durin' a bally troose that wye—the dirty dog."

As the 1st Cavalry Division was "resting," visits to points of interest were the order of the day. On Monday, January 4th, General de Lisle, Captain Hardress Lloyd, and I ran, viâ quaint old Bergues and Dunkirk, to Furnes, where King Albert of the Belgians had his Headquarters.

Belgian sentries were plentiful after Dunkirk. They frequently stopped us, but generally the word "Anglais" was a sufficient passport. Now and again Lloyd produced a British pass, at which the Belgians would invariably look blandly, if uncomprehendingly, then salute and urbanely wave us on our way. Any sort of pass would have served with ninety-nine out of a hundred such sentries.

The coast district in Belgium was not interesting in itself. Roadways ran between sluggish, morbid-looking canals and flat, dispirited fields—a sad, soggy, flabby land, in very truth.

Furnes was a picturesque relief. The architectural beauties of the Hotel de Ville and one or two other buildings in its fine old square were undeniable. Not long after our visit Furnes was viciously shelled by the Huns. Later it was practically devastated by big howitzer shells. Three or four days before our visit to the town a Black Maria had landed in a busy spot near the square one noontide, killing ten people and wounding a dozen others.

Nieuport, not far away, was under a heavy bombardment when we arrived in Furnes. Three days before sixty French soldiers had been killed in one day in Nieuport, which had proved so great a death-trap that all troops had been moved to dug-outs outside the town.

I had a chat with one of King Albert's Staff whom I had previously met in London. He was a very outspoken critic of the Belgian officers, and of the policy that had resulted in the Belgian evacuation of Antwerp before such a débâcle was absolutely necessary.

We had lunch in Furnes with Colonel Tom Bridges. I had seen much of Bridges during the first months of the War, when he was attached to the 4th Dragoon Guards as a major. He led a charge at Tour de Paissy, on the Aisne, which saved the British line. Promoted to the rank of Colonel, he was given command of the 4th Hussars. A very few days afterwards, while on a night march, he was sent for by General Sir John French. Arriving at G.H.Q., Bridges, who had been the British Military Attaché in Belgium prior to the War and knew the Belgian Army well, was given certain instructions, placed in a Rolls-Royce car, and at once started for Antwerp. He arrived late at night, after a continuous run of over 600 kilometres, and saw King Albert, who at once convened a Council of War. Bridges then jumped into the work at hand without a moment's delay.

Tom Bridges arrived in Antwerp on November 3rd. The city was evacuated by the Belgians on November 8th.

Having heard so much of the prominent part Bridges had played in the affairs of the Belgians, I looked forward with all the more anticipation to again meeting him.

Major Prince Alexander of Teck, attached to Colonel Bridges' mission, and Mrs. Bridges, who had recently been at work in the Duchess of Sutherland's hospital at Dunkirk, were at luncheon.

Colonel Bridges talked of King Albert. "The King gives to a stranger the impression that he comes to a decision slowly. I have heard men, who have met him, say they thought him extremely deliberate, but all recognise his solid foundation of determination. But for that rock on which the King's stern determination is set, there would be but little Belgian Army left to-day. To King Albert personally much more is due than is likely ever to be known."

The more I saw of the Belgian Army along the Yser, the more I appreciated what Bridges had said of the King.

After luncheon, I drove General de Lisle, Colonel Bridges and Hardress Lloyd to Nieuport-les-Bains, once a sea-coast summer resort at the mouth of the Yser. The Allied trench line was roughly the line of the canal. On the coast in the sandy dunes, the Allies' trenches had been pushed a bit to the Ostend side, but Dixmude was still in German hands.

Not a single inhabitant of Nieuport-les-Bains was in the town—not a man, woman or child. The French Tirailleurs d'Afrique, part of a splendid division of French Colonials that had been sent by Foch to "stiffen" that part of the line, occupied the ruins of the summer resort that was. The typical French summer hotels in Nieuport-les-Bains were, for the most part, shapeless piles of débris.

The Huns never succeeded in actually penetrating the town, though Von Beseler's troops tried hard to take it. The Germans reached the river bank which formed the town's boundary on the north.

The main thoroughfare was blocked at frequent intervals by great barricades made from bathing machines, hauled in a row and filled with sand and paving stones. Asphalt tennis courts were scarred with shell-holes. No open space had been spared during the weeks of itinerant bombardment.

As we approached the town French batteries of "75's" were firing hard from positions in the dunes by the roadway.

The French General Officer Commanding arrived as we alighted from our car. But one house was standing in the northern edge of the town. Into it we filed on the heels of the French General, up its stair to the garret, and still up a rickety ladder to a point of vantage under the very eaves. Through shell-holes in the tile roofing, French observers directed the fire of the batteries below. Across the Yser, in front of us, we would see the French and German trenches among the low sand hills. For long spaces they ran but fifteen to twenty yards apart and in one sector a German sap was but five yards from the French escarpment.

For a time we watched the shells from the "75's" bursting over the German trenches. Descending, we crossed the Yser practically at its mouth. A pontoon bridge, vaunting a placard showing it had been christened the "Pont Gal Joffre," led between twin piers. The bridge swayed and tossed like the deck of a channel steamer as we picked our way gingerly across it. Some months later a Jack Johnson, luckily placed by the enemy, entirely smashed that pontoon bridge.

Gaining the northern bank we zig-zagged through deep trenches in the sand, reinforced here and there with timbers and stone. An open crater and a pile of débris marked what had once been a lighthouse. Dug-outs, shelters in miniature, lined the sides of the crater nearest the Huns. The open bowl of sand was about forty feet in diameter. Near its centre gaped a shell-hole in the soft sand made by an unwelcome visitor which had come less than a half hour previously. Digging for a few moments, I unearthed the still warm timing-fuse of the 105-millimetre shell that had made the hole.

The lighthouse position was, the sergeant of Tirailleurs said, a mauvais place. From morning until night of the day before the Huns had shelled it. Many shells had fallen in the hours just preceding our arrival. General de Lisle and Colonel Bridges left Hardress Lloyd and me there, "for safety," while they walked through the front line positions, which were from a hundred to a hundred and sixty yards further forward.

I investigated the interiors of the tiny dug-outs during the General's absence. No shell fell near, however, and soon we were all retracing our steps to Nieuport-les-Bains. Once a sniper spied one of the party, and a bullet from his rifle kicked up a spurt of sand a few feet from my head. We acknowledged the attention by an additional foot or so of "stoop" thenceforth.

Over a cup of tea at Colonel Bridges' headquarters, I met an old acquaintance in Lady Ross, who had that day handed to the Queen of the Belgians a cheque for £1,000 for Belgian sufferers. Lady Ross told me of an interesting conversation with King Albert at luncheon. After discussing at length the general subject of the difficulty of realisation of war's hardships and atrocities by those whose homes have been far from the actual scenes of war, the conversation drifted to the refugee question. King Albert agreed that all able-bodied Belgians of military age should be with the Army, and declared emphatically his intention to press for steps that would lead to such a consummation.

The result of my visit to Furnes and Nieuport-les-Bains was to confirm my impression that the Germans had fortified their positions along the coast, and so entrenched themselves that to take Ostend by direct land attack was impossible, except at very great cost indeed.

The assistance that could be given by the Admiralty to such a project was greatly discounted by the fact that the ships available were out of range when outside the sandbanks that lay near the coast, and outclassed by the enemy's land batteries when inside the banks.

Many folk visited the Belgian Army in the trenches during those January days. Less than a week after we had visited Furnes, a couple of us ran to Dunkirk on Sunday to buy some fresh fish, a delicacy as rare as it was wholesome. While in Dunkirk I saw Lord Northcliffe and my old friend Max Pemberton, who had come over for a "weekend at the Front" with the Belgians. The next day eighteen German aeroplanes flew over Dunkirk and dropped several bombs, doing some material damage and killing one civilian.

On Tuesday, January 12th, General de Lisle ran to Boeschoeppe, south-west of the St. Eloi area, to see General T. O'D. Snow and his 27th Division. While waiting for the General I had good opportunity to see and talk to some of the newly arrived men. They had been marched about fourteen miles before being put into the trench-line, then marched back to billets when relieved. Some had come back from eight to eleven miles on foot. As they were not supplied with changes of socks or any sort of patent solution for their feet, and as the trenches were at places knee-deep in water, a general epidemic of frost-bitten feet could but be expected.

Limping along the frozen road, with socks wound about their poor feet, I felt great sympathy for the Tommies. Before three days had passed I heard that the 27th Division sick-list had been augmented by over two thousand cases of "bad feet." One Brigade Major in the Division told of over one thousand cases in his Brigade alone. A bad business, entailing great suffering and more permanent disablement than a little, all for want of proper foresight.

Small engagements with the enemy all along the line were constantly taking place. Official reports teemed with briefly and baldly told stories such as the following:—

"The following are details of the capture of a German trench to the north of La Bassée on the night of the 3rd-4th January.

"Time—8 p.m. January 3rd, 1915.

"Artillery—Nil.

"Strength of attack—One officer, twenty-five men.

"Distance between opposing trenches—150 to 200 yards.

"Enemy's trench consisted of a short length of trench which had been dug outwards from a saphead, and which was occupied by one officer and twenty-five to thirty men. (Two sentries.)

"Attack—The attack crept forward noiselessly to the trench A A, two German sentries were awake and were bayoneted, the occupants were asleep and were all bayoneted; the officer's head was broken in with the butt end of a rifle—not a shot was fired—some men set to work at once and cut the ground A B, thus flooding the trench A A.

"The attackers were only fifteen minutes in the German trench and left the bayoneted Germans in the water, which was then running in from the water ditch. A A was only a short length of trench without wire.

"British casualties—One wounded and two missing. The latter may have since returned."

Quiet days found many a British soldier hard at work over a French-English "conversation-book." Some of these were hurriedly prepared and of a character truly extraordinary. One such book, made up for the benefit of an industrious young man, contained a question that, translated, ran thus:—

"Q. Where is the cat of my mother's aunt?"

"A. No, but the kittens are drowned."

In Vermelles, on January 15th, I took a dozen photographs showing the devastation that can be worked by French high explosive shells.

Vermelles was an object lesson. Held by the Germans as strongly as any town was held in front of the French position south of the La Bassée canal, trenched and barricaded with wonderful skill, and well supported by a mass of guns, its capture was only effected after weeks of sapping and an artillery bombardment that had up to that time been without parallel. Its ruins held texts for innumerable sermons on the newer strategy of present-day warfare.

A French officer of standing had told me that he considered the taking of Vermelles from the Germans a most hopeful sign that the French could take any and all German positions in like manner, if they cared to pay the price in men and ammunition.

Geographically, Vermelles was in what was bound to prove a "warm corner." The German thrust westward from La Bassée, with Bethune as an objective, had cost the British Expeditionary Force some of the hardest fighting it had seen.

In that area our Second Corps, then the Indian Corps, and lastly our First Corps, with the French troops at times in action with us, had withstood a battering that no other point in the long line from the sea to the Vosges, save possibly the Ypres Salient, had been called upon to stand.

The German advance to the westward had reached Vermelles, and there been held. Their farthermost line was in front of the western edge of the town, and close to the main road that led through it. The enemy was in possession of Vermelles for a couple of months.

As no English troops had participated in the taking of Vermelles from the Huns, except for the assistance rendered by some of our heavier batteries, we knew little of what had happened in that theatre save that six weeks of sapping, a mad rush after an unprecedented bombardment, and terrific hand-to-hand bayonet fighting in the streets, had resulted in the French occupation of the town on December 7th.

Our visit had been arranged for us by Captain Fresson, the French liaison officer attached to 1st Cavalry Division Headquarters. General de Lisle, Colonel Home, Major Hambro, Fresson and I were in the party.

Coming out of Bethune, on the Lens road, we passed through Beuvry, then through Shilly-Labourse.

In the fields by the roadside were trenches, increasing in frequency along the road from Sailly to Noyelles-lez-Vermelles.

When Noyelles was passed, and we could glance across the slightly rolling fields that led eastwards to Vermelles, a mile distant, a little world of trenches met the eye. Some giant, prehistoric mole, crazed with pain and bent on expending his agony on the surface of Mother Earth, might have so ripped the fields.

Not rows of trenches, but curved and twisting galleries upon galleries of them. For the first time I began to get an inkling of what real trench warfare—the battles of the pick and shovel—meant.

At the headquarters of the French General who was in command of that section of the line a most elaborate déjeuner had been prepared for the party, with the result that it was well into the afternoon before we left the hospitable Frenchman and, in tow of a member of his staff, commenced our tour of sight-seeing.

Most buildings thereabouts were shell-scarred; some were burned. No inhabitants were to be seen. The boom of distant shells was ever present, and now and then one burst in sight of us. Detachments of French infantry marched past frequently.

We ran to Noyelles, which was full of hard-as-nails-looking French soldiers.

There the party alighted, and guided by a young French infantry officer, who had seen the fighting over that ground, walked across the trench-scarred battle-field eastward to Vermelles.

I followed sufficiently far to gain an idea of the lie of the land, then returned to Noyelles and took my car to Vermelles by road, arriving in advance of the others. This allowed me a long stroll of inspection, to be augmented later by a second tour in the company of the General, with a French Staff officer as escort.

The German first line trenches to the west of the town were well constructed. Though they had been considerably damaged by the rain of shells that had been poured on them, they were not as badly demolished as one might expect. Back of this first line of defence was a second line, weaving in and out—here in front, now behind, now through, the string of houses on the west of Vermelles' main street.

In the southern portion of the town were the ruins of the Château Watteble. The grounds of the once imposing château allowed a sufficiently clear space for still another formidable trench-line. Behind that the enemy had placed other lines, burrowing here and there at points of vantage through the town. Adjacent to the château were piles of bricks that once had been a fine farm, the Ferme Brion, and in front of it, completely demolished, and bearing no semblance of shape or form that would indicate its original outlines, was a chapel, where a German gun had been placed. This gun, a French officer told me, had been served gallantly until the French were but fifty yards distant, when a battery of the famous "75's" found the range and totally annihilated the gun, the chapel, and any of the enemy who were so unfortunate as to be in its vicinity.

The church, its square tower battered out of shape, was still the most conspicuous landmark of the country round. Another sample of devastation was the brewery, and attached to it an elaborate dwelling, one portion of which was built over a metal frame. All the covering had been torn from the iron girders, leaving the mere skeleton of the framework practically intact, a weird sight.

The German trenches and communications burrowed so consistently everywhere from the western edge of the town, and on through to the eastward, that every foot of ground afforded opportunity for study. These lines of defence, all connected and fed by approach trenches, cleverly constructed, with their traverses and reserve off-shoots, led away for hundreds of yards to the rear of the front line.

That, then, was the town the French had to face, defended by machine-guns in splendid emplacements, every position well manned. The first line commanded an open front of slightly rising ground, clear of all obstacles and capable of being swept for 800 to 1,000 yards. Military science in trench construction had been aided by ingenuity of a high order, and hours of wandering over and through the rabbit warrens made for men, as cleverly as ever rodent designed his burrow, found one discovering new wonders at every step.

The trenches proper were for the most part deep and narrow, stout of wall, reinforced with every manner of material likely to strengthen the defensive ramparts and bastions. Here the thickness of a piece of house wall had been doubled by sandbags. There the face of a trench had been reinforced by huge stones, interspersed with all sorts of receptacles, such as water-buckets, cooking utensils, wheel-barrows, and all manner of tins, filled with brick, small stones or cement.

A woman's bodice neatly tied about a few pounds of stone, the wooden cover of a household sewing-machine, loaded with brick, and even a stout brown-paper cardboard box full of mortar, caught my eye as I searched the stoutly-built wall curved round and back and round again through what had once been a house-yard. Traverses that demanded admiration from the most apathetic student of engineering, loops of trenches that commanded every front, approach trenches that wriggled like some great yellow-brown snake off toward the rear, were perfect each one in its own way.

Practically every point in the town could be reached by a German on tour of inspection of its defences, without the necessity of his leaving cover, save to cross the roadway of the main thoroughfare. Beside all this under-the-surface protection, the shelter of the buildings, all constructed of brick or stone and strongly built, was by no means to be despised.

Truly, when the French officer said no place could be made more secure, there was some reason for his words. But strong as it was, and in spite of its splendid artillery support, the position was one that the French had to take, whether or no. Six long weeks of constant work was represented by those torn and wounded fields that stretched away westward to Noyelles. Sapping their way, entrenching and consolidating every forward step, the little men in red and blue crept up to a line varying by from one to two hundred yards, and even nearer at one point, to the German front.

A bird's-eye view of shattered Vermelles, January, 1915

face p. 28

Major Desmond Fitzgerald of the Lancers and a gas-pipe trench-mortar

[see p. 50]

But sapping and mining, and entrenching and consolidating, so valuable in themselves, responsible for the finely fortified position of the Germans in Vermelles, and the splendid mole-advance against them by the French, was not the chief factor that was to play the decisive part in the war-game that culminated in the capture of the town on December 7th.

Gun-fire was the decisive element. To the beloved "soixante-quinze" was to go the chief honour. Only a careful personal inspection of the town could tell one the real story of Vermelles as I saw it on January 15th. The camera might assist, and, in spite of the dull weather, I obtained a few pictures with that end in view, but the camera could give one the story only haltingly and in part.

Not one building in all the town was unwrecked. The French "75's," with some aid from the British howitzers, reduced Vermelles to ruins in the most literal and complete sense. Every edifice, from the piles of brick around the few tottering walls that was once a proud château to the humblest barn or outbuilding, was in itself a study. The evidence left by such shell-fire of its power for evil is of fascinating interest owing to its infinite variety. One wall had withstood half-a-dozen punctures of varying diameter, holes four or five feet in width, some of them, while its fellow beside it had crumbled into a formless mass of débris. Side by side were two houses, one with front practically intact, its roof gone and its interior and back portion blown to bits, the other minus front wall, but still standing, its roof at a crazy angle, resting insecurely on the remainder of the building, which, save for a scar here and there, escaped comparatively untouched.

It is this caprice of shell-fire that makes such a veritable hell of it.

Trenches with sides blown in; here a hole like a good-sized cellar; there a traverse filled to the level of the ground around it; a gap in the defence wall in front; iron-work twisted into grotesque shapes; stone-work pulverised; débris in piles; with clothing, bedding, household implements, farm machinery and gear, child's toys, religious emblems, personal effects, and bundles of every description, all jumbled together in such an odd, unnatural way, that a laugh and a catch in the throat often came together.

Vermelles on that sodden day in January was full of French soldiers in reserve—men of the 131st and 262nd Infantry Brigades, some from 16th and some from 18th Corps units. The firing line proper was from three to four kilometres to the eastward. On the west side of the town a French battery was firing regularly, the shells singing over our heads. The German shells were falling frequently half a mile in front of us.

It was my good fortune to discover a French soldier who had seen the actual final bayonet attack which won the position. His story was graphic, but told in few words. The creeping up to the forward French trenches, the fierce bombardment, the wild charge, the discovery that in spite of the fact that the place had been literally blown to bits, and German dead strewn everywhere, some defenders still held on and manned the murderous machine-guns, until they felt the cold steel—it all seemed so matter-of-fact, and such a matter-of-course sort of story in such surroundings.

In each of the yards of the better-class dwellings and farms, including the grounds of the château and brewery, were graves of German soldiers. Many of these were marked with rude crosses bearing touching inscriptions. One such epitaph that caught my eye described the dead soldier as a good comrade; another as a brave man who had died for the Fatherland. Many of them bore a simple religious touch. One grave covered a German officer, buried by the French after the capture of the town. The French soldiers had marked his name and a respectful word or two on the rude cross above it, in obvious keeping with the inscriptions the Germans had written on adjacent crosses raised while they were in occupation.

In an effort to tell me how full the redoubts were of German dead, when Vermelles was at last taken, my soldier guide found that words failed him. They were everywhere, he said.

A winter Cavalry shelter in France

face p. 32

Construction of Cavalry shelter in France

face p. 33

Many of the graves, particularly those of the French soldiers buried thereabouts, were headed by black or white metal wreaths.

"It cost dear," said my soldier, "and we paid. But a Boche who lived through the last few days of the fighting here, and escaped from that last charge, will be able to tell a story."

The deep cellar of a ruined house—a mere brick arched cell of a place without a ray of daylight—had been quite habitably fitted up as a cave-dwelling by the Germans, who had saved a piano from one of the wrecked rooms above and cosily stowed it away in a corner.

One or two underground caves just back of the German front line of trenches, bomb-proofs for the officers apparently, were ingeniously secure.

Though Vermelles at the time of our visit had been in French hands for more than a month, one could find many such souvenirs as shell-heads and timing-fuses without troubling to stir the piles of wreckage.

I could, I thought, sit in Vermelles and write reams of detail in description of the terrible havoc of war, but I found that mere generality as to the scenes of desolation wrought in the town soon used up my vocabulary. The place was no less a graveyard of brave men than of strenuous human effort, none the less to be admired because it proved abortive. Over all brooded the horror of war and the more specific and tangible horror of gun-fire. "Low trajectory and high explosive are twin demons, and this is their devil's work," the shattered town seemed to say.

Knots of French soldiers or visiting British officers walked about sombrely and spoke in low tones, as if in the actual presence of the dead, in spite of the weeks that had flown by since Vermelles had echoed to the crash of a bursting shell.

The French soldiers were a tough-looking lot of customers. A bit nondescript as to uniform, and universally campaign worn, unshaven, and mud-plastered, they looked stout and fit for anything. A friendly class of men, respectful to British officers to a degree, a fact that spoke not only of good discipline, but of fine French traditions of politeness. They impressed me as splendid war material, and more, as men of fine character and indomitable determination.

Sport behind the lines began to assume quite a healthy state in January. Packs of beagles and hounds and pairs of greyhounds were brought "out" by enthusiasts, and cross-country courses with rare jumps were carefully mapped out.

Alas! for "Le Sport." An order came along one day from G.H.Q. which stated that "the Commander-in-Chief regrets that it is necessary to prohibit any more hunting, coursing, shooting, or paper-chasing. This order comes into effect at once."

The 2nd Cavalry Brigade drew up a splendid steeplechase programme, which the state of the ground would not have allowed, had no order from G.H.Q. been promulgated.

A card of "beagle-meets" was issued, and formed the following somewhat pretentious propaganda:—

"THE 2ND CAVALRY BRIGADE BEAGLES
WILL MEET—

The Prince of Wales ran more than once with that pack of beagles, and ran well.

Football matches were allowed, and were daily fought out between the various regimental teams.

General Robertson succeeded General Murray as Chief of the Staff at G.H.Q., a change generally welcomed, as Robertson was held in very high esteem throughout the Army. Many of us considered him the greatest man the British Army had produced throughout the campaign. That is certainly how I should describe him.

[CHAPTER II.]

Broken car springs on February 1st took me to Poperinghe, where a Belgian carriage-maker made a villainous repair for a considerable charge.

Motor car repairs were fearfully and wonderfully executed at the front in the earlier stages of the war. The G.H.Q. shops were not bad, and once in a while I found clever, conscientious young chaps in charge of a road-side repair shop attached to a division, an ammunition supply column, or some such unit, who had managed to organise a very creditable "first-aid and emergency hospital" for the ills a car was heir to.

All too often some A.S.C. officer in charge, however, knew as little of the mechanism of an automobile and how to put it in order as one could well imagine. I remember one youth, possessed of a wonderful opinion of his own efficiency, whose mechanical experience had been gained in a railway workshop. He ordered repairs to be done in weird fashion at times. As soon as he had delivered his dictum and departed, his chief non-commissioned officer would put the men right, generally by a complete reversal of the youngster's orders, and all would go happily until he might again put in an appearance, when the work would suffer proportionately to the time he spent in its vicinity.

Stories of the excellence of the performance of individual cars were often marvellous. One big limousine, which had been "out since the first of the show," was ever the boast of the Major to whom it was assigned and of his faithful chauffeur. At tea one day it transpired that the car, which the Major was always ready to declare had run sans repaire et sans reproche during the whole campaign, was in the repair park for its "initial derangement." Calling at the repair lorry early next morning, I was astounded to hear the A.S.C. sergeant-major in charge say to the major's chauffeur: "So you have done in the old girl again, have you? Let's see, that's the third time this month, ain't it? Why the Major hasn't sent the bally old wreck in months ago to get her put in decent shape, I don't know. Not a bit of use tinkering at her all the time. She's given us more bother than any car in the division."

How we did chip the Major! Motorists' yarns bear some odd relationship to fishermen's stories, so I have heard.

Taken generally, the British cars at the Front ran most creditably. The conditions could not have been more trying, and the Daimlers and Rolls-Royces lived up to their reputations in fine style. Cars of half a score of makes were attached to the 1st Cavalry Division while I was with it, and I studied their performances with close attention. For reliability and lack of trouble a large Daimler easily bore away the honours.

Cold forges and a disinclination on the part of the smith to light them on an afternoon necessitated my spending a night in Poperinghe. The town was crowded with Belgian inhabitants and refugees, and with French troops of the 16th Corps, which was at that time being relieved from the trench work by British soldiers, and was mobilising in Poperinghe to be sent south and east, detachment after detachment, to its own dear France.

A winter in Flanders, particularly in Flemish trenches, is not a happy experience. The French were therefore openly delighted at the prospect of departure to more pleasant and congenial climes.

I should have had to sleep in my car but for the kindly offices of a French Staff officer, who procured for me a clean, soft bed in the Hotel La Bourse.

An evening among French soldiers, though they might be tired, trench-stained and campaign worn, was sure to be a pleasurable one. Songs from chansons d'amour to grand opera, from poor Harry Fragson's "Marguerita," to swinging marching airs of older wars, were sung with a vim.

The French troopers possessed a suspicion of the grand air when drinking a toast, carolling a love-ditty, or roaring out a rousing chorus. One or two veterans I met in Poperinghe might have stepped from a volume of Dumas. An elder one was a bachelor of arts and science, a man of studious and thoughtful mien. His comrade was a true Gascon, and a third of the group was blessed with powers of mimicry that made us laugh long and loud before the night was over.

Every man of them was proud and fond of his British allies.

French soldiers did not pay the same attention to cleanliness of uniform and kit that was given to such details by the British Tommy. An English battalion, relieved from muddy trenches, at once smartened its external appearance to a degree that had to be seen to be believed. Tommy worked wonders in a day.

The long-tailed blue coats of the French infantry were difficult to clean, once they became mud-caked.

The amount of equipment, and its variety, that the average French foot-soldier strapped upon his back, was wonderful. I saw one black-bearded "poilu," with a typical load, start off with his company for a long, long march, with literally as much as he could pack about him, fastened securely by ingenious means. Over either shoulder was a strap supporting two good-sized canvas haversacks, one on each hip, both bulging with food. To his belt were attached two ample cartridge-pouches, one in front and one behind. A water-bottle dangled against a haversack. His principal pack, hung at the shoulder, was, he told me, full of spare clothing. A blanket, rolled in a sheepskin jacket, surmounted this and towered above his cap. A cooking-pot adorned the back of his pack, while to one side of it was strapped a tin cup of ample dimensions, and to the other a loaf of bread, already become soggy in the steady drizzle. A bundle of firewood at his side, and a roll of clothing, holding an extra shirt or two, at the other, flanked him.

My examination of his equipment concluded, he said he must be off, and picked up his rifle with a cheery smile. A comrade rushed up and handed him a sort of leather portmanteau. He grabbed it without a word, threw the strap over his head, settled his various pieces of baggage into place with a strenuous shake, and stamped away sturdily, with a firm step and head held high.

He left me wondering that this sort of soldier should make marching records of which any army in the world might be proud, yet such was undeniably the case.

In billets, the British cavalry were having a thorough course of instruction in the work of the foot soldier. Dismounted attack, trench digging, musketry instruction, bomb-throwing classes, and all manner of miscellaneous tutelage progressed steadily.

I had a look at Ypres one morning. It was again peopled with a sufficient number of civilians to give me a sense of forgetfulness as to its proximity to the German gun positions.

Of all the attributes of the Belgian people, their persistence in making back to their homes in a shelled area, as soon as the shells ceased falling, was the most prominent.

Many of the peasants pursued their daily round of labour under shell-fire. Many others left the bombarded fields or villages, albeit reluctantly, only to return as soon as the shell splinters had ceased to spatter about.

What feeling actuated them was a psychological study. They were phlegmatic as a people. I have seen Russian soldiers perform feats that were described by different observers of the same episode as bravery or stupidity, according to the reading of the onlooker. Was the Belgian who drifted back to his own or some other man's home in shell-ruined Ypres brave or thick-headed? I left one opinion for another, only to abandon it in turn. A study of various types in Flanders helped me but little.

Hard-worked toilers, whose lives have been one continual round of labour, are, more often than not, fatalists. Such lives produce men and women who accept conditions blindly and uncomplainingly. A peculiar love of the soil which they have tilled, and from which they have sprung, seemed to take the place in many Flemish peasants of the more definite and definable Anglo-Saxon or Gallic spirit of intense patriotism. Many poor folk seemed possessed of a blind instinct that "home" was safest, and once "home" was lost, nothing worthy of preservation remained. Their attitude toward death bordered on indifference.

Motor-buses were bringing the 28th Division to the Ypres Salient as I passed on my homeward journey.

Rumours of an attack on the German line flew from lip to lip. That night I read from an eminent French military authority that "to attack, unless with a definite object in view, with a very reasonable chance of success, and with the surety that you can hold what you gain if the attack succeeds, is a crime."

In the second week in February, at a dinner in St. Omer, a member of the French Mission at British Headquarters told me that eighty-seven French general officers had been "relieved of their command" since the commencement of the war. These generals were "sent down" for incompetency, evidenced in various ways, to command the troops under them. The extremely small number of British generals who had been "replaced" stood out in very sharp contrast to this total, with which fact should be remembered the complete difference as to policy with reference to such replacements between the French and British War Office methods.

Early in February, the 1st Cavalry Division staff was blessed with the arrival of Major Desmond Fitzgerald (11th Hussars), who took Major Hambro's place as G.S.O. 2.

The total tally of British casualties was announced during the first week in the month as 104,000, having exceeded, in less than six months of warfare, the numerical strength of the original British Expeditionary Force.

A day "in front," with the engineers, mapping out new trenches and reserve positions, showed to how great an extent modern gun-fire had changed military theory.

Before the War, a trench line was sought in a position that commanded a good "field of fire," i.e., that had in front of it as much open ground as possible.

This war had taught that the most important item in the selection of a trench position was the extent to which the line could be hidden from the enemy gunners. The space commanded by the occupants of the trench and the nature of the terrain were secondary to the cardinal point of keeping the trenches well out of sight of enemy observers.

Thus engineers might, years ago, select a hilltop as a trench position, the line commanding the receding slope to the valley below. After the experience of the greatest of all wars, they would preferably place it fifty yards behind the summit. More than fifty yards of "field of fire" was desirable, but not absolutely necessary. A fifty-yard space could be so covered with wire entanglements as sufficiently to delay an attacking enemy. Deep, narrow trenches with traverses to restrict the area of damage from shells bursting in the actual trench, and to protect from enfilade fire, were demanded by the newer conditions, but great care had to be taken that they should not be constructed in ground of so soft a nature that howitzer fire could too easily cave in the trench sides.

We found it possible to select a trench line that could be well concealed, which, if taken by the enemy, would be under perfect observation from our own gunners and by them easily rendered untenable for the Huns.

That the British were clever in this work of placing trenches in invisible positions was proven by the following report of an interview in Courtrai with a wounded German officer, whose regiment had been badly handled when attacking an English position in the Ypres Salient:—

"Our artillery cannonaded incessantly the enemy trench which our company was to storm—we could see it in the distance. Towards evening we were ordered to advance. We marched forward without taking cover, confident enough, because not a shot came from the British trench. We thought it had been abandoned after the terrible bombardment to which it had been subjected all day long. To make things quite safe, when we were 200 metres from the trench our mitrailleuses were brought into action and we gave the silent enemy another good peppering. Still there is no reply. The place must certainly be empty. Shouting 'Hurrah,' we rush forward to seize it, but we have not gone more than 100 metres before our whole front rank is stricken down by a volley from a point much nearer than the trench we had been shelling, and in addition to this terrible infantry fire the British quick-firing guns are brought into play, and simply mow our men down. Six times we reform to continue our assault; six times we are knocked to pieces before we can get going. At last such officers as are left realise that there is nothing to be done, and we retreat to our original position.

"This is how the English work it. The entrenchment, visible from afar, which we had bombarded, was not the spot where their troops were to be found. They were stationed in small subsidiary trenches in front of the principal trench, with which they were connected by means of narrow passages. The little advance trenches were concealed to perfection, and the troops sheltered beneath sheets of metal on which our German bullets ricocheted. So we had been shelling an unoccupied trench and had done no damage to the place where the enemy actually was hidden. Hence it is not surprising that our 'assault' should have proved to be—for us—a veritable massacre."

Careful study of German methods of counter-attack were productive of many an idea.

The Hun counter-attacks were delivered immediately after the loss of a position—as successful counter-attacks must be.

A trench which was thought a good defensive one by its occupants was sometimes attacked by the Germans, taken, and immediately transformed into a good defensive trench from the other point of view. The way in which the German first line of attack was followed by a second line, bearing shovels, barbed wire, bombs, and grenades, and the manner in which this second line was put to work, showed that the brain conducting operations was close at hand, if not actually on the spot.

The planning and carrying out of some of these small attacks were worthy of great praise. Our troops soon caught the idea and put it into practice with increasingly beneficial results.

On Sunday, February 21st, the 2nd Cavalry Division were in the trenches in the Ypres Salient. The Huns exploded a mine in front of Zillebeke and took sixty yards of trenches that were occupied by the 16th Lancers. A counter-attack, delayed a bit, was launched unsuccessfully, and cost the cavalry four officers killed, one died of wounds, one missing (thought sure to be killed), and four wounded—ten officers in all, and about fifty per cent. of the men engaged.

The Canadian Division arrived in France in mid-February—a splendid lot of men.

Trench-mortars and bombs of various sorts put in an appearance and classes were held daily to accustom the men to the new types of trench weapons. A 3·7 affair of gas-pipe, throwing a 4½-pound projectile, was the most prevalent mortar. Prematures and accidents of all kinds accompanied its introduction, and more than one good man was killed before the troops learned the intricacies of the bombs.

General Foch was at Cassel with his Headquarters. Dinner in Cassel was always productive of a talk on instructive and entertaining subjects. The average French Staff officer was wonderfully "keen on his job."

The French system of espionage was by no means to be despised. The reports from their "agents" were astonishingly accurate.

That Staff work should be the subject of many an after-dinner chat was but natural. The French view of the difference between French and British Staff work, compiled from many a conversation with officers of all ranks, I understood to be generally as follows:—

British Staff work could not fairly be compared to French Staff work, because of the lack of opportunity accorded the British Army, before the War, to handle large bodies of troops. Furthermore, the English Army contained many officers who entered the Army as something in the nature of a pastime rather than a serious profession. Some of these officers even went through the Staff School, though lacking that devoted concentration on their profession as a life-work, which characterised their French prototypes. Very few officers entered the French Army and qualified for staff positions who did not look upon a military career in a very serious light. French Staff officers gained their steps by force of sheer merit and close application to their work.

Nothing else counted, they said. Not a big staff, but one that was efficient beyond all question, was the French aim.

The British soldier, I found, was in most instances frankly conceded to be the best war material in the field—friend or foe. That the British leaders often bungled was openly alleged, but by no means always proven in argument, at least, to my satisfaction.

A failure to arrange support, a badly planned attack, bad Staff work here and there, were quoted in more than one instance.

"It is the soldier who suffers," said one of the most brilliant Frenchmen with whom I met. "He suffers in silence. Perhaps he what you call 'grouses,' but he stands it. The French soldier would not do so in anything like the same spirit. The waste of men and the bad handling of them that once or twice I have seen on the British front, would ruin a French commander for ever."

Universally the French officers praised General Sir Douglas Haig. He had completely won their admiration at Ypres.

"But the best of the British Staff work," said another French officer, "is that it is improving. The English are not afraid to admit they don't know, and are quick to absorb new ideas. Give them time."

I have quoted the more trenchant criticisms that came to my ears, for they fell from the lips of the keenest and most brilliant French Staff officers, invariably those who held the British Tommy in the highest possible esteem.

These officers were from the class of man one would choose to put in charge of a dry dock, a line of railway, a huge business or a gigantic manufactory. They impressed me as good "business men." More than a few British Staff officers I met, particularly in the Cavalry arm of the Service, were equally clever, and every whit as keen on their work, but no one who wished to be impartial could fail to note the inclusion now and then, on the Staff, of men to whom one would never dream of entrusting the management of a large commercial organisation or the conduct of an important factory plant.

The 3rd and 2nd Cavalry Divisions having each done ten days of trench occupation in the Ypres Salient, on February 23rd, the 1st Cavalry Division moved to Ypres to take its ten days of duty in the firing line.

The run to Ypres, viâ Steenvoorde and Poperinghe, was a trying one. The road surface was inconceivably damaged and very slippery. All manner of French and British transport and general traffic filled the highway.

The Rue de Menin in March, 1915, looking west over the Menin Bridge across the canal moat

face p. 54