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coming of the Piltdown sub-man and the ground-ape. Even now, when riding down
the Pop road, one can easily visualise the rhythmic swing of entrenching-tool handles
and boots, boots, boots, boots, moving up and down agen
There is the estaminet where we first met the girl with the ravishing eyes and
deliciously tilted nose. She was a cross between Anna Neagle and Helen Twelvetrees,
but Anno Domini has fortified her breastworks.' Several new editions of her helped
to serve us with Bock. These lovely girls were the result of an international agreement
between England and Belgium. Their father, an old sweat,' was delighted to let the
peg fly in the accent of the north of England, and everybody was matey.'
Travelling round the Salient on the Sunday afternoon we passed the studs that
carried the chain that held the Channel Ports St. Jean, St. Julien, Zonnebeke, Ghelu-
velt, Clapham Junction, Hooge, Maple Avenue, Hill 62, Sanctuary Wood, Hill 60 and
Hell Fire Corner quiet enough now with the damper shut offUp on Passchendaele
there were fields of waving poppies and huge tomatoes growing out in the open. We
thought of the men who went through Ypres along the Menin Road, seeking cover in
the slimy ditches of Hooge, whose bodies enriched this soil.
In Sanctuary Wood, left un
touched since the war, one can
imagine hostilities to be still
in progress. There is the spot
where Sandy Logan instinctively
turned up the collar of his
coat when there came crescendo
scream and a ringing crash.
Sandy was a complete variety
show and cabaret on two
legs. He had a deep and
husky voice a whisky voice
In civil life he was a rag and
bone dealer, and his loaded cart
had the sound of a tin chariot
going into action over a corrugat
ed-iron bridge, while his familiar
call seemed to get chewed up by
the only couple of teeth in his
head. It was here where Sandy was killed in 1917. He died bloodily, and his end
was terrible. Sanctuary Wood is still a gruesome place. Memory plays strange tricks
while one is standing in these trenches. We remember the old haunting fear of
being buried alive and the Wrath to Come from Jerry the parcel from home,
and of how the familiar handwriting of wife or mother seemed to carry one nearer that
desirable spot.
The most impressive sight was Tyne Cot Cemetery and Memorial to the Missing
at Passchendaele. Nobody could look on this vast cemetery with Lines Properly
Dressed Everywhere without being deeply moved. A soldier of the British Army,"
A soldier of the Regiment with cap badge chiselled in the headstone were" to
be seen on all sides, while on the impressive walls was the inscription Their names
live for evermore." With the help of the Ypres League I easily found the panel on which
was the name of a younger brother missing at Passchendaele.
Turning to lighter things the League places no restrictions on the movements
of individual members of the party. On the contrary, it enables groups to cross the
frontier into France without fuss. Some of the Bright Lads decided on a trip to Lille
on the Sunday night. We had some fun The female of the species in this French town
is a fast worker and seems to know all the answers. Verb. Sap
TYNE COT CEMETERY
