THE YPRES TIMES
110
we were reasonably comfortable even by the civilian standards of those days. It is
doubtful how many of us realised how lucky we were. Certainly there were a handful
who did, but these were the temporarystaff officers, the creepers," gate
crashers into the red-tabbed hierarchy, whose experience of war was confined to the
front line, from which they had most of them not long been absent. They had not had
time to become blasé and still uttered a silent prayer of thanks each night they undressed
and got into their pyjamas instead of lying down fully clad on a muddy firestep, or
crawling into some rat-ridden dug-out. They realised in short that this sort of life was
a privilege. They did not enjoy it by right, and in all probability it would only be a
respite, a short peep info civilisation before a return to the trenches.
It was all so new to us that we took every opportunity of visiting friends in other
units. I was particularly lucky in that I found that the rear H.Qrs. of my brother's
battery were at Kruisstraat, about a mile away, and we had some cheery re-unions.
But that's another story, as Kipling would say.
One bright morning I was wending my way across to have a word with the R.E.
doctor, when someone drew my attention to a little group of men in mufti, moving with
bowed heads and hurried gait towards Divisional H.Qrs. They looked like a party of
official visitors come to see how the gallant defenders of democracy lived in the battle
zone. Curious as always, I hastened back to see what was afoot, to find that the party
were indeed English north-country town councillors on a tour of inspection. I was
spotted by someone and told to stand by in case I might be wanted to take the visitors
further up the line. Meanwhile the Divisional Commander would entertain them to
lunch in "A" mess.
I should rather have liked the job of taking them into the forward area and of
showing them what the ground looked like around Gravenstafel, but all chances of
my doing so were destroyed by the wretched Hun, who had to start his trick of firing
at the balloons during the time the delegates were enjoying a very excellent meal in
what they probably imagined was a typical dug-out. With a resounding crash, two
heavy shells burst near the balloon line. I do not say that those shells definitely in
fluenced the visitors, but it is a fact that they came out from lunch determined to get
back as quickly as possible to the safety of G.H.Q. or wherever they were being billeted
for the night.
As they went they turned to pour out their thanks to their host, not only for the
refreshment he had provided, but as a representative of the men who were fighting their
country's battle. Their protestations of admiration for Mr. Atkins were most effusive.
They praised the divisional commander to his face, and told him what a wonderful
fellow he was and one of them finished up by declaring, If you ever come to Bootle
—I think it was Bootle-" we will be ready to black your boots for you." With which
offer they departed.
In the years since, I often wondered about those words. What would be the feelings
of the parties concerned now What are they all doing The divisional commander,
after a distinguished career, is probably now retired, having to stint himself no doubt
in order to keep his sons in the army. And what of the town councillors One of
them may probably be a leading Labour M.P., another a profiteer who did well out of
the war and is now sitting back to enjoy the luxuries that his money can buy. Does
one of them remember the sentiments uttered in 1917, or were they to meet again, would
there be the same sense of gratitude and fellowship
S.R.
