228
THE YPRES TIMES
"We can find a ready market abroad for all we make," she said, "and the demand
for 'Point de Paris' is exceptionally heavy. There is no fine lace that is so much in
request, because it combines durability with beauty. Our great enemy is the middle
man, for the price we receive for our work compared with that obtained for it in
the shops is out of all proportion."
Third of an Inch—A Week's Work
Before I left I was shown a flounce of priceless Valenciennes lace attached to
a vestment. This had been made in Ypres. The thread, manufactured from Brabant
flax, cost £260 a pound, and it was so fine that it was imperceptible to the naked eye.
One third of an inch represented a week's work, and the flounce had taken twelve
years to complete.
It is of interest to note that in Turnhout alone 1,800 children are attending the
lace schools, whilst there are 500 lace workers in Poperinghe. Most of the latter
are engaged in making the world-famed "Point d'Aiguille."
H.B.
POLDERHOEK Chateau, as doubtless many of my readers will remember, was
the name given to what was once a chateau, but which was just a pile of
bricks, mortar and mud in the autumn of 1917.
This chateau was situated approximately one mile north of the Menin Road,
above Gheluvelt, and about two and a half miles in front of Stirling Castle.
My brigade (the 13th, 5th Division) had already made several attacks around
Tower Hamlets and Inverness Copse in September, 1917. We were at rest, at
Dickebusch, when the orders came through to attack Polderhoek Chateau.
The stunt was to come off on October 4th, and zero hour was fixed for 6 a.m.
About 3 a.m. on the fateful day my gun-team (Vickers machine gun) consisting
of Lieut. W., my pal Kirk from Newcastle, a young fellow from Manchester, myself,
and eight men from the Warwickshire Regiment who were to act as ammunition and
water carriers, etc., were assembled in a couple of shell holes some dozen yards or so
in front of our first line. On either side of us were other machine-gun teams.
The King's Own Scottish Borderers, Royal Warwickshire Regiment, Royal
West Kents, etc., were to advance past us and we were to follow up just behind the
first wave, take Polderhoek Chateau, and hang on.
A steady drizzle of rain was falling and a ground mist added to the general
discomfort of our shell hole. Soon we were soaked through, and the equivalent of a
thimbleful of rum per man, brought to us by our section officer, was very welcome.
There was the usual rumble of guns, when a shell burst just behind our hole,
and in a few seconds we were greeted by the head of some unfortunate comrade,
which dropped right among us.
At last, after what seemed an eternity, our barrage opened, and from the British
Tommies' point of view it was "some" barrage, but I have no doubt the Germans
had a different opinion.
The whole sky for miles around on the British front was lit up with vivid flashes
from the massed guns, while a dull red glow hung over the gun-lines behind us.
Guns of every calibre added their voices to the inferno, and to make a pal hear one
had to shout in his ear.
Machine-gun fire literally poured ,from the enemy's lines, while shrapnel hurled
mud and earth in all directions; even at such a time we pitied the occupants of
those trenches, and afterwards marvelled that anyone could come out of such a
hell alive.
