122
The Ypres Times.
did not require any keen perception to notice the marked difference in the people. (They
seemed dull and serious and mooned about as though they were strangers in a strange land.
The children did not seem to play, but they watched the endless armies marching hourly
up to Ypres and wondered what it all could have meant.
There are a few people in the world who have a passion for gardens. Never did
the horrors of battlefields appear so magnified as when one was near the serenity of lovely
flowers. The actual garden of which I am thinking was situated about a couple of
kilometres from Ypres, and in front of what was known as Bivouac Farm. Many will
remember that one stone on the top of another sometimes went by the name of a farm
out there, but this was really a considerable place. The garden was overgrown with
weeds and grasses, and I had crawled among the unkempt bushes all day long picking
the few remaining currants and raspberries. Beside the sagging gate the last lonely rose
was drooping its head as if for shame, while the jasmine twinkled defiantly at the sun
as though nothing unusual were happening. Only a stone-throw from this regular old-
world garden there was a bubbling stream, and lilies and irises floated gaily among its
waters. The willows, too, were hanging as artistically as they do in England. Even
the little birds seemed to twitter and chirp differently. I wondered how they could sing
at all. The calmness was uncanny and the spell was only broken by the hum of winged
insects which incessantly fluttered by. One could scarcely have believed that the war
was so terribly near.
At Dickebusch could be heard the mournful and plaintive cry of wild-fowl
that haunted the eerie lake. Passchendaele has become quite proverbial on account
of its mud and slaughterwhile the site of the little village of Hooge is to-day
barely discernible. All that remained of it was the sign-board. How many fellows
were chased for dear life by ghosts and goblins and gas-shells along the Menin Road
Not very far from the Menin Gate was the first field dressing-station at the White Chateau.
Neatly hidden among the shattered trees there were usually a couple of watercarts from
which thirsty troops eagerly filled their bottles on their way to the line. Vlamertinghe,
which lies almost midway on the Ypres-Poperinghe road, one associated with the perpetual
rattle of heavy guns, motor-transports, and ammunition columns. It was in the ditches
or under the camouflage screens near Ploegstreet (Plug Street) that we used to hide until
the straffing was over. There was nothing of great interest in Poperinghe other than
the uniqueness of its narrow streets, for there are comparatively few old houses, as the
town has been destroyed several times during its history. It was not particularly clean
even taking into consideration the conditions under which the people were living, and
the windows of the few dingy shops could not have been washed since war broke out.
At almost every street corner one could drink the inevitable vin-blanc. There are several
other names, such as St. Jean, Pilckem, Frezenberg, which are more than familiar to
many of us.
It would have been beyond all the genius and strategy of Napoleon to have broken
the British resistance round this old-world city during those long years of weariness and
pain. Certainly it proved too much for the German legions when our exhausted divisions
successfully withstood the onslaught of their army corps. And still, for many of us
there was a certain amount of fascination even among these ruins. Little pleased us
better than to light a fire from the wood of the débris in the subterranean passages of the
Cloth Hall or in some unshattered nook of St. Martin's Cathedral and to warm up some
tins of pork and beans or Maconochie ration. It was jolly to watch the juice bubble
through the bayonet-holes in the tops of the tins. But death lurked in every corner.
If the orchestras of war should be silent for a few minutes in the Place Vanderpeereboom,
they made up for it by giving concerts at the Lille Gate or in the Rue au Beurre. Their
pandemonium was unending. The chimes of that same old Belfry had long ceased to
be heard across the Plaine d'Amour, and the pigeons from the turrets no longer cooed.
Nothing but the spirit of Eternity hovering over naked ruins.
