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worry, however. I was met by Captain de Trafford, the Secretary of the Ypres League
in London, who soon made me feel as though I had known him for years, a true type of
British Army officer, with shrewd eyes born to wear a Sam Browne belt.
Having regard to the ground covered and first-class hotel accommodation provided,
the pilgrimage is very cheap, and there were no worries about passports indeed, under
the guidance of the League, it is almost as easy to get to the Salient now as it was in
1914-1918
The Pilgrimage really begins at Victoria Station, London, that place of hateful
memory for many thousands the gateway to death, and the Road to Golgotha. In
those tragic days when troubles came to all of us tied up in bunches and not in pink
ribbon either the station presented a busy scene as we watched the hands of the
big clock move towards the time of departure of the Trench-train.'
After twenty years therè still remain memories that are veritable nightmares for
some of us, and other memories we would not part with for any consideration. Strangely
enough, the killing part of the business is fading away, but there were certain periods
of time during those four years that stand out in bold relief against the background
of drama by virtue of some trivial event closely preceding, or following, the period
in question like the pattern of the wall-paper in a dentist's waiting-room
What a strange emotion all objects stir when we look upon them wondering if we
do so for the last time. Going back from a little drop o' leaf there was our own railway
station crowded with khaki figures thinly interspersed with civilians, mostly women
dressed in black, who had come to watch their menfolk off back to the Line the men
in khaki loaded up until they looked like a cross between an ironmonger's shop and a
travelling Scotchman waiting as though, for some ghost-train, sticking fast to the
soldier's Best Friend,' and wondering who among one's acquaintances would soon
be wearing wings instead of waders. We were all afraid, for in spite of mass-production
death in its 57 varieties every man had to die all by himself.'
Came the inevitable moment of parting. The air was electrical, charged with
repressed emotion. The main topic of conversation was How long will it last We
searched the latest editions of the newspapers1 for some crumb of comfort.
Standing there, one was conscious of a desire to fix impressions, even of common
place things, like the curve of the shining rails when they enter the tunnel, with the
lighted signal-box at its entrance, the silhouette of a factory chimney against a wintry
sky, and the picture of the Pompey sailor on the next platform, he with the cast-iron
face and a Mona Lisa smile, advertising cigarettes that suit old and young.
Came the last fierce moment of parting and a clatter of gear drowned by the noise
of the approaching train as it glides round the bend. We move off at length and a girlish
figure with her heart in her eyes walks along the platform still waving. Then we settle
down with heavy brooding looks like Town Councillors frowning at the naughtiness
of a modern world.
But we are keeping that Continental train waiting at No. 1 Platform, Victoria
The party reaches Skindles Hotel at length, and we hear again that familiar accent
which somehow reminds us of the accent of a Tyneside Geordie with its rising in
flexion. This is my first visit since the war, and, of course, tremendous changes have
taken place. It is a brand-new country from the sub-soil up roads, houses, shops,
churches, public buildings, estaminets, all are new, and every tree from Popto Pass-
chendaele is a sapling.
Yet in spite of the change in the countryside, it is still possible to find many land
marks. We rode up that main artery, the famous Poperinghe Road, where first im
pressions broke on our minds and we began to feel the tragic event laying hold of our
lives when fear came as a deep depression, a wet misery. Then the Salient was a
wilderness of mud, an abomination and desolation of mud beastly, sticky stuff that
seeped into one's very soul, mucking up one's rifle and clothes, making the fingers rough
when they dried. The world must have been something like the Salient before the
