234
THE YPRES TIMES
rations just when they happened to come, and slept at any odd time the oppor
tunity occurred. We were, I believe, in reserve, and waiting our turn. A boy
fresh from school and with no knowledge of war would have known that not very
far away a big battle was raging, and once or twice as we waited for our own
orders we saw long lines of German prisoners coming down, many of them
wounded but able to walk, and all of them looking like cowed and beaten animals,
struggling painfully away from some horror beyond their understanding. Later,
I saw that same look in the eyes of both British and German, and, doubtless, it was
in my own.
Our turn came on October 7th. Others have told the story of the fighting for
Passchendaele Ridge. My own tiny and badly-kept diary has no more than a few
notes written some days after we had gone over the top. I remember too well
many, many incidents, but my diary just says "Tuesday: A nightmare. Wednes
day morning: Buried Capt. BKept with Dicky; met Cotes and Johnny.
Johnny hit. Found Capt. G(my own company commander) and managed to
bring him down. Shelling still terrific. Thursday: Crossed through wood and
on till we fell in with H.A.C. again. Porridge and tea waiting."
No ration party had got anywhere near us from, I suppose, the Sunday night
when we moved up in readiness for the attack. Once back again nothing seemed
to matter very much. Except Dicky, all my pals had gone. Twenty-two officers,
I believe, had gone, too, though much later on I learned that my company
commander was back in Blighty," seriously wounded.
Neither diary nor memory recalls much of the next two weeks or so. We
went up the line again towards the end of the month, but only to lie in shell holes
and struggle back through the mud again in due course.
I fancy that at this period most of us had ceased to think. Everlasting mud
and ceaseless roar and crash have nothing inspiring to the tired mind, and imagina
tion cannot play with a reality that is beyond anything it has ever conceived. My
little diary jumps to November 15th, though a casual, undated entry just before
simply says Shelling and shelling." Repetition seems to have been my weak
ness, for November 15th merely says: "Moving and moving." Then comes
"November 20th: In the train. Going to Italy."
And now memory comes back and that question of contrast and comparison
comes in. In the big van labelled 8 chevaux ou 40 hommes we came late one
night to a station, dimly lighted, and the word came round that this was Nice.
We got down on the platform and beheld miraclesor at least one thought so for
a space. There were girls and older ladies, all dressed beautifully and charmingly
and wonderfully. They were offering us, ever so kindly and even coaxingly, coffee
and cakes and sandwiches, and speaking a language which was our own and yet
sounded curiously unrealamazingly soft and clear and pleasant. They said
Won't you have just one more cake? Doplease!" and held it out for us.
They didn't say: Get that downquick!"
I don't know that we had become really slipshod in our speech, for most of us
had doubtless spoken gently enough long years ago. But the trenches had a
language of their own, and even the purist called his rifle a blooming hipe," in
modest moments, or said "Push that back!" when he wished us to share some
special tit-bit from his parcel.
One suddenly realized the need for care, became conscious of unbuttoned
tunic, and felt afraid to approach too near because of one's uncleanliness. Going
on leave one had warning long before, and, metaphorically, went into training for
gentle customs. But coming so suddenly, it was in some ways a horrible yet
thrilling awakening. One realized how far one had fallen from the niceties of life.
