THE ARTIST.
102
The Ypres Times.
The glorious, patient, immortal work of the middle ages, the stupendous results of
the labours of dead monks and artisans, lay everywhere around me. Here, with the
fitful gleams of the autumn sunlight breaking through their coloured panes, were the
glorious windows there, the beautiful, graceful statues of saints and martyrs. Then I
turned to admire the graceful vaulting of the nave (for the nave is one of the many archi
tectural wonders of Tours Cathedralthat jewel lacking only a casket as Henry IV of
France called it). Finally, I stood before the beautiful western rose window. There an
artist with easel and pencil was putting the finishing touches to a sketch he had been
executing of the window. I casually glanced in his direction and then, impelled by
some unaccountable prompting (for the light was dim), went closer to him. A cold shiver
ran through me when I thus really discerned the details of his features. But to explain
the reason for this sudden burst of emotion on my part it is necessary for me to go back
nearly six years from the time (1923) when this incident in Tours Cathedral took place
to go back, that is to say, to the dark November days of 1917, and the rain-swept, treeless,
muddy wastes of Passchendaele.
There is no need for me, in a paper like the Ypres Times, to go into details over the
events which prefaced our 1917 attack at Passchendaele. They are common knowledge
being taken from some quieter sector lower down the line, the billeting in some
peaceful village over against Ypres, the glorious month's restglorious even in spite of
the hard company drill, the incessant bayonet exercises, the route marches and the sham
attacksand then the final orders to pack-up and march.
Well, here we were, our training over, marching now past Elverdinghe Chateau on
our way up the line. We knew what was before us, but like all the rest of our kind we
had long since learnt to "pack up our troubles" and smile." I hitched my pack for
the five-hundredth time and looked across at
What's yours'," I jocularly asked.
Just a small one in the fleshy part of the arm and Blighty to-morrow," he smiled
back.
His smile brought back to me the old school days whenand I had sat in the
same form together. was always up to mischief, and that smile, that identical
smile, was always a warning sign that some game was afoot.
Yes, it was very fortunate that, in the War,and I had been so long together.
At school (as I have said) together, we joined-up on the same dav, were drafted to
the same regiment and platoon, went through a host of scrapes and adventures together,
never had previously received a scratchand here we were, both going up to Passchendaele.
The typical events of the rest of that day. are no doubt familiar to all who saw sendee
in the Immortal Salientso I will merely indicate them. We piled arms during
the afternoon at a spot somewhere round the heavies and were issued with extra iron
rations, S.A. ammunition, and Mills bombs. Then, as night began to set in, we lined up
and the long, dismal fatiguing march up the duck walk track began. Soon we came
to the open country with its wastes of mud, stunted tree trunks, and the deadghastly
and pitiful in the cold light of the moon.
Well, we reached our destination somewhere about one o'clock in the morning, and
began to make ourselves at home in the shell holes that served in lieu of trenches in that
part. had secured the shell hole next to mine.
Our attack was made at about six o'clock the next morning, just when the first streaks
of grey dawn light were beginning to show themselves in the skv. The lights flared up,
the guns opened out, the machine guns rattled, and we prepared to get out of our shell holes.
Just as I was coming out of mine a great clod of mud caught me in the face and hurled