The Ypres Times.
89
few years ago were veritable rubbish heaps, are now overgrown with grass, plants, shrubs
and the Somme can even rival Flanders for poppy-fields. Looking on scenes to-day of
peaceful villages, smiling green fields, and verdant woods, it is difficult to realize that
only a few years back raged tremendous battles, terrific bombardments by shell, and these
same places witnessed the lumbering of tanks in action, the traction of huge calibre guns
by caterpillars," the passing of Armies and
the whirr of giant aeroplanes. Then occa
sionally one passes a multitude of black
wooden crosses, enclosed by a wallthese
are the graves of German soldiers who fell
on the Somme. In fact, the Valley of the
Somme seems to be a world of the Dead
English, French, and German.
The British military cemeteries every
where brought into relief by the tall Cross
of Remembrance, are wonderfully arranged
and models of neatness. The headstones,
which in a number of cemeteries have taken
the place of wooden crosses, are inscribed
these are the graves of gerhan soediers."j with the rank, name and regiment of the
fallenthe regimental badge filling, more
or less, the centre of the stone, with the exception of the grave of an unknown warrior,"
in which case there is simply an inscription "A Soldier of the Great War," followed under
neath by Known unto God." A printed Register of Graves can usually be found in each
cemetery in which are set out full particulars of the Fallen buried there, with exact location
of each grave. Beautiful flowers adorn the graves, and in some cases I cannot conceive
more peaceful surroundings.
Whilst visiting one cemetery near Corbie on the Somme, I heard sounds of weeping,
and turning round caught sight of a pathetic figure prostrated before one of the graves.
The old soul, who had travelled all the way from Scotland, had completely broken down,
and a paroxysm of sobbing followed, which would have melted even the hardest of hearts.
All I could do was to look on in dismay, whilst the birds twittered merrily overhead in
the bright sunshine, wondering perhaps, why all the quaint old world was not twittering
as well.
After a time, the old lady recovereda woman of sorrow, a picture of lonelinessand
then stood by the headstone whilst a photograph was being taken. As I gazed on her
wrinkled, yet beautiful face, down which tears trickled like rain-drops on her son's grave,
I could not help realizing how terribly the mothers of England must have suffered during
the war, not only by day, but in the long reaches of the night, when fears and torment of
mind prevented sleep. Your mother does not cease to think of you for a single moment,"
is a pathetic message on the headstone of the grave of a Lieutenant of the 7th London
Regiment. Alas there are thousands of such inscriptions which speak for themselves.
The Scottish widow had lost two sons in the warone killed at Arras and the other
drowned in the Somme. Her husband died last year, but despite her triple loss, she bore
her burden bravely.
"I'm satisfied noo," she said to me, with deep emotion, casting a farewell glance at
her son's last resting place, I can go back hame to bonny Scotland feeling
different, feeling better theyT could not have done more for my wee laddie."
I shall never forget that simple, dear old Scottish widow.
In the car that same day was a man who had lost his brother, a mother her son, a girl
her brother, and a woman who had lost her husband.
A few days later, I left Amiens again by car, this time with Captain Oswald, and we