An Onlooker in France 1917 to 1919
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William Orpen >> An Onlooker in France 1917 to 1919
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AN ONLOOKER IN FRANCE
[Illustration: I. _Field-Marshal Earl Haig of
Bemersyde, O.M., K.T., etc._]
AN ONLOOKER IN
FRANCE
1917-1919
BY
SIR WILLIAM ORPEN, K.B.E., R.A.
LONDON
WILLIAMS AND NORGATE
1921
Pictures and Text, Copyright 1921
by
Sir William Orpen, K.B.E., R.A.
Printed in Great Britain by Richard Clay & Sons, Limited,
Paris Garden, Stamford St., S.E. 1, and Bungay, Suffolk.
PREFACE (p. v)
This book must not be considered as a serious work on life in France
behind the lines, it is merely an attempt to record some certain
little incidents that occurred in my own life there.
The only thought I wish to convey is my sincere thanks for the
wonderful opportunity that was given me to look on and see the
fighting man, and to learn to revere and worship him--that is the only
serious thing. I wish to express my worship and reverence to that
gallant company, and to convey to those who are left my most sincere
thanks for all their marvellous kindness to me, a mere looker on.
CONTENTS
Chap. Page
PREFACE v
I. TO FRANCE (APRIL 1917) 11
II. THE SOMME (APRIL 1917) 16
III. AT BRIGADE HEADQUARTERS AND ST. POL (MAY-JUNE 1917) 25
IV. THE YPRES SALIENT (JUNE-JULY 1917) 31
V. THE SOMME IN SUMMER-TIME (AUGUST 1917) 36
VI. THE SOMME (SEPTEMBER 1917) 42
VII. WITH THE FLYING CORPS (OCTOBER 1917) 50
VIII. CASSEL AND IN HOSPITAL (NOVEMBER 1917) 55
IX. WINTER (1917-1918) 62
X. LONDON (MARCH-JUNE 1918) 67
XI. BACK IN FRANCE (JULY-SEPTEMBER 1918) 75
XII. AMIENS (OCTOBER 1918) 84
XIII. NEARING THE END (OCTOBER 1918) 90
XIV. THE PEACE CONFERENCE 98
XV. PARIS DURING THE PEACE CONFERENCE 111
XVI. THE SIGNING OF THE PEACE 116
INDEX 121
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Plate
I. Field-Marshal Earl Haig of
Bemersyde, O.M., K.T., etc. _Frontispiece_
II. The Bapaume Road. 12
III. Men Resting, La Boisselle. 15
IV. A Tank, Pozieres. 17
V. Warwickshires entering Peronne. 19
VI. No Man's Land. 21
VII. Three Weeks in France: Shell-shock. 24
VIII. Man in the Glare, Two Miles from the Hindenburg
Line. 27
IX. Air-Marshal Sir H. M. Trenchard, Bart., K.C.B., etc. 29
X. A Howitzer in Action. 30
XI. German 'Planes visiting Cassel. 33
XII. Soldiers and Peasants, Cassel. 35
XIII. German Prisoners 37
XIV. View from the old English Trenches, looking towards
La Boisselle. 39
XV. Adam and Eve at Peronne. 41
XVI. A Grave in a Trench. 43
XVII. The Deserter. 45
XVIII. The Great Mine, La Boisselle. 47
XIX. The Butte de Warlencourt 48
XX. Lieut. A. P. F. Rhys Davids, D.S.O., M.C., etc. 51
XXI. Lieut. R. T. C. Hoidge, M.C. 53
XXII. The Return of a Patrol. 54
XXIII. Changing Billets. 57
XXIV. The Receiving-room, 42nd Stationary Hospital. 58
XXV. A Death among the Wounded in the Snow. 61
XXVI. Some Members of the Allied Press Camp. 63
XXVII. Poilu and Tommy. 65
XXVIII. Major-General The Right Hon. J. E. B. Seely, C.B.,
etc. 66
XXIX. Bombing: Night. 66
XXX. Major J. B. McCudden, V.C., D.S.O., etc. 71
XXXI. The Refugee. 73
XXXII. Lieut.-Col. A. N. Lee, D.S.O., etc. 74
XXXIII. Marshal Foch, O.M. 77
XXXIV. A German 'Plane passing St. Denis. 79
XXXV. British and French A.P.M.'s, Amiens. 81
XXXVI. General Lord Rawlinson, Bart., G.C.B., etc. 83
XXXVII. Albert. 87
XXXVIII. The Mad Woman of Douai. 91
XXXIX. Field-Marshal Lord Plumer of Messines, G.C.B., etc. 93
XL. Armistice Night, Amiens. 95
XLI. The Official Entry of the Kaiser. 97
XLII. General Sir J. S. Cowans, G.C.B., etc. 99
XLIII. Field-Marshal Sir Henry H. Wilson, Bart., K.C.B.,
etc. 101
XLIV. The Right Hon. Louis Botha, P.C., LL.D. 103
XLV. The Right Hon. A. J. Balfour, O.M. 105
XLVI. President Woodrow Wilson. 107
XLVII. The Marquis Siongi. 109
XLVIII. A Polish Messenger. 110
XLIX. Lord Riddell. 113
L. The Right Hon. The Earl of Derby, E.G., etc. 117
LI. Signing the Peace Treaty. 119
LII. The End of a Hero and a Tank, Courcelette. _At the end_
LIII. General Birdwood returning to his Headquarters,
Grevillers. "
LIV. A Skeleton in a Trench. "
LV. Flight-Sergeant, R.F.C. "
LVI. N.C.O., Grenadier Guards. "
LVII. Stretcher-bearers. "
LVIII. Man Resting, near Arras. "
LIX. Going Home to be Married. "
LX. Household Brigade passing to the Ypres Salient.
Cassel. "
LXI. Ready to Start. "
LXII. A German Prisoner with the Iron Cross. "
LXIII. A Big Gun and its Guardian. "
LXIV. Good-bye-ee. "
LXV. The Chateau, Thiepval. "
LXVI. German Wire, Thiepval. "
LXVII. Thiepval. "
LXVIII. Highlander passing a Grave. "
LXIX. M. R. D. de Maratray. "
LXX. A Man, Thinking, on the Butte de Warlencourt. "
LXXI. Major-General Sir Henry Burstall, K.C.B., etc. "
LXXII. Major-General L. J. Lipsett, C.M.G., etc. "
LXXIII. A Village, Evening (Monchy). "
LXXIV. Christmas Night, Cassel. "
LXXV. Blown Up: Mad. "
LXXVI. A Support Trench. "
LXXVII. Major-General Sir H. J. Elles, K.C.M.G., etc. "
LXXVIII. Dead Germans in a Trench. "
LXXIX. A German Prisoner. "
LXXX. A Highlander Resting. "
LXXXI. Man with a Cigarette. "
LXXXII. Mr. Lloyd George, President Wilson, M. Clemenceau. "
LXXXIII. A Meeting of the Peace Conference. "
LXXXIV. Admiral of the Fleet Lord Wester Wemyss, G.C.B.,
etc. "
LXXXV. Colonel Edward M. House. "
LXXXVI. Mr. Robert Lansing. "
LXXXVII. The Emir Feisul. "
LXXXVIII. M. Eleutherios Venezelos. "
LXXXIX. Admiral of the Fleet Sir David Beatty, Viscount
Borodale of Wexford, O.M., G.C.B., etc. "
XC. The Right Hon. W. F. Massey, P.C. "
XCI. General The Right Hon. J. C. Smuts, P.C., C.H. "
XCII. The Right Hon. G. N. Barnes, P.C. "
XCIII. The Right Hon. W. M. Hughes, P.C., K.C. "
XCIV. Brigadier-General A. Carton de Wiart, K.C., C.B.,
etc. "
XCV. M. Paul Hymans. "
XCVI. The Right Hon. Sir Robert Borden, G.C.M.G., etc. "
AN ONLOOKER IN FRANCE (p. 011)
CHAPTER I
TO FRANCE (APRIL 1917)
The boat was crowded. Khaki, everywhere khaki; lifebelts, rain and
storm, everything soaked. Destroyers, churning through the waves,
played strange games all round us. Some old-time Tommies, taking
everything for granted, smoked and laughed and told funny stories.
Others had the look of dumb animals in pain, going to what they knew
only too well. The new hands for France asked many questions,
pretended to laugh, pretended not to care, but for the most part were
in terror of the unknown.
It was strange to watch this huddled heap of humanity, study their
faces and realise that perhaps half of them would meet a bloody end
before a new moon was over, and wonder how they could do it, why they
did it--Patriotism? Yes, and perhaps it was the chance of getting home
again when the war was over. Think of the life they would have! The
old song:--
"We don't want to lose you,
But we think you ought to go,
For your King and your Country
Both need you so.
"We shall-want you and miss you, (p. 012)
But with all our might and main
We shall cheer you, thank you, kiss you,
When you come back again."
Did they think of that, and all the joys it seemed to promise them? I
pray not.
What a change had come over the world for me since the day before! On
that evening I had dined with friends who had laughed and talked small
scandal about their friends. One, also, was rather upset because he
had an appointment at 10.30 the next day--and there was I, a few hours
later, being tossed about and soaked in company with men who knew they
would run a big chance of never seeing England again, and were
certainly going to suffer terrible hardships from cold, filth,
discomfort and fatigue. There they stood, sat and lay--a mass of
humanity which would be shortly bundled off the boat at Boulogne like
so many animals, to wait in the rain, perhaps for hours, before being
sent off again to whatever spot the unknown at G.H.Q. had allotted for
them, to kill or to be killed; and there was I among them, going
quietly to G.H.Q., everything arranged by the War Office, all in
comfort. Yet my stomach was twitching about with nerves. What would I
have been like had I been one of them?
At Boulogne we lunched at the "Mony" (my companion, Aikman, had been
to France before during the war and knew a few things). It was an
excellent lunch, and, as we were not to report at G.H.Q. till the next
day, we walked about looking at lorries and trains, all going off to
the unknown, filled with humanity in khaki weighed down with their
packs.
[Illustration: II. _The Bapaume Road._]
The following morning at breakfast at the "Folkestone Hotel" we sat (p. 013)
at the next table to a Major with red tabs. He did not speak to us,
but after breakfast he said: "Is your name Orpen?" "Yes, sir," said I.
"Have you got your car ready?" "Yes, sir," said I. "Well, you had
better drive back with me. Pack all your things in your car." "Yes,
sir," said I. He explained to me that he had come to Boulogne to fetch
General Smuts' luggage, otherwise he gave us no idea of who or what he
was, and off we drove to the C.-in-C.'s house, where he went in with
the General's luggage and left us in the car for about an hour. Then
we went on to Hesdin, where he reported us to the Town Major, who said
he had found billets for us. The Red Tab Major departed, as he said he
was only just in time for his lunch, and told us to come to
Rollencourt soon and report to the Colonel. The Town Major brought us
round to our billet--the most filthy, disgusting house in all Hesdin,
and the owner, an old woman, cursed us soundly, hating the idea of
people being billeted with her. Anyway, there he left us and went off
to his "Mess."
This was all very depressing, so we talked together and went on a
voyage of discovery and found an hotel; then we went back to the
billet and said "good-bye" to Madame and moved our stuff there. But
the hotel wasn't a dream--at least we had no chance of dreaming--bugs,
lice and all sorts of little things were active all night. I had been
told by the War Office to go slow and not try to hustle people, so we
decided we would not go and report to the Colonel till the next day
after lunch.
Looking into the yard from my window in the afternoon, I saw two men I
knew, one an artist from Chelsea, the other a Dublin man, who (p. 014)
used to play lawn tennis. They were "Graves." My Dublin friend was
"Adjutant, Graves," in fact he proudly told me that "Adjutant, Graves,
B.E.F., France," would always find him. We dined with them that night
at H.Q. Graves. They were very friendly, and said we could travel all
over the back of the line by going from one "Graves" to another
"Graves." All good chaps, I'm sure, and cheerful, but we did not do
it.
The next day after lunch we drove to Rollencourt, and found the Major
in his office (a hut on the lawn in front of the chateau). He left,
and returned to say the Colonel could not see us then. Would we come
back at 5 p.m.? So off we went and sat by the side of the road for two
hours. Then again to the Major's at 5 p.m., when he informed us the
Colonel had gone out. Would we come back at 7 p.m.? (No tea offered.)
This we did and waited until 7.50, when the Major informed us that the
Colonel would not see us that evening, but we were to report the next
morning at 9 a.m. (No dinner offered.) We left thinking very
hard--things did not seem so simple after all. We reported at 9 a.m.
and waited, and got a message at 11 a.m. that the Colonel would see
us, and we were shown in to a wizened, sour-faced little man, his
breast ablaze with strange colours. I explained to him that I did not
like the billets at Hesdin, that Hesdin was too far away from anything
near the front, and that I intended to go to Amiens at once. To my
surprise he did not seem to object, and just as we were leaving, he
said: "By the way, General Charteris wants you to go and see him this
morning. You had better go at once." So that was it! If General
Charteris had not sent that message I might not have been admitted to
the presence of the Colonel for weeks. Off we went, full of hope, (p. 015)
packed our bags and on to G.H.Q. proper, and got in to see the General
at once--a bluff, jovial fellow who said: "You go anywhere you like,
do anything you like, but don't ask me to get any Generals to sit to
you; they're fed up with artists." I said: "That's the last thing I
want." "Right," said he, "off you go." So we "offed" it to Amiens,
arriving there about 7 p.m. on a cold, black, wet night. We went to
see the Allied Press "Major," to find out some place to stop in, etc.
Again we were rather depressed. The meeting was very chilly, the
importance of the Major was great--the full weight and responsibility
of the war seemed on him. "The Importance of being Ernest" wasn't in
it with him. As I learnt afterwards, when he came in late for a meal
all the other officers and Allied Press correspondents stood up. Many
a time I got a black look for not doing so. However, he advised the
worst and most expensive hotel in the town, and off we went (no dinner
offered), rather depressed and sad.
[Illustration: III. _Men resting. La Boisselle._]
CHAPTER II (p. 016)
THE SOMME (APRIL 1917)
Amiens was the one big town that could be reached easily from the
Somme front for dinner, so every night it was crowded with officers
and men who had come back in cars, motor-bikes, lorries or any old
thing in or on which they could get a lift. After dinner they would
stand near the station and hail anything passing, till they found
something that would drop them near their destination. As there was an
endless stream of traffic going out over the Albert and Peronne Roads
during that time (April 1917), it was easy.
Amiens is a dirty old town with its seven canals. The cathedral,
belfry and the theatre are, of course, wonderful, but there is little
else except the dirt.
I remember later lunching with John Sargent in Amiens, after which I
asked him if he would like to see the front of the theatre. He said he
would. When we were looking at it he said: "Yes, I suppose it is one
of the most perfect things in Europe. I've had a photograph of it
hanging over my bed for the last thirty years."
But Amiens was a danger trap for the young officer from the line, also
for the men. "Charlie's Bar" was always full of officers; mirth ran
high, also the bills for drinks--and the drink the Tommies got in the
little cafes was terrible stuff, and often doped.
Then, when darkness came on, strange women--the riff-raff from (p. 017)
Paris, the expelled from Rouen, in fact the badly diseased from all
parts of France--hovered about in the blackness with their electric
torches, and led the unknowing away to blackened side-streets and up
dim stairways--to what? Anyway, for an hour or so they were out of the
rain and mud, but afterwards? Often did I go with Freddie Fane, the
A.P.M., to these dens of filth to drag fine men away from disease.
[Illustration: IV. _A Tank. Pozieres._]
The wise ones dined well--if not too well--at the "Godbert," with its
Madeleine, or the "Cathedral," with its Marguerite, who was the queen
of the British Army in Picardy, or, not so expensively, at the "Hotel
de la Paix." Some months later the club started, a well-run place. I
remember a Major who used to have his bath there once a week at 4 p.m.
It was prepared for him, with a large whisky-and-soda by its side.
What more comfort could one wish? Then there were dinners at the
Allied Press, after which the Major would give a discourse amid heavy
silence; then music. The favourite song at that time was:--
"Jackie Boy!
Master?
Singie well?
Very well.
Hey down,
Ho down,
Derry, Derry down,
All among the leaves so green, O.
"With my Hey down, down,
With my Ho down, down,
Hey down,
Ho down,
Derry, Derry down,
All among the leaves so green, O."
Later, perhaps, if the night was fine, the Major would retire to the (p. 018)
garden and play the flute. This was a serious moment--a great hush was
felt, nobody dared to move; but he really didn't play badly. And old
Hale would tell stories which no one could understand, and de Maratray
would play ping-pong with extraordinary agility. It would all have
been great fun if people had not been killing each other so near. Why,
during that time, the Boche did not bomb Amiens, I cannot understand,
it was thick every week-end with the British Army. One could hardly
jamb oneself through the crowd in the Place Gambetta or up the Rue des
Trois Cailloux. It was a struggling mass of khaki, bumping over the
uneven cobblestones. What streets they were! I remember walking back
from dinner one night with a Major, the agricultural expert of the
Somme, and he said, "Don't you think the pavement is very hostile
to-night?"
I shall never forget my first sight of the Somme battlefields. It
was snowing fast, but the ground was not covered, and there was this
endless waste of mud, holes and water. Nothing but mud, water, crosses
and broken Tanks; miles and miles of it, horrible and terrible, but
with a noble dignity of its own, and, running through it, the great
artery, the Albert-Bapaume Road, with its endless stream of men, guns,
food lorries, mules and cars, all pressing along with apparently
unceasing energy towards the front. Past all the little crosses where
their comrades had fallen, nothing daunted, they pressed on towards
the Hell that awaited them on the far side of Bapaume. The mud, the
cold, the noise, the misery, and perhaps death;--on they went,
plodding through the mud, those wonderful men, perhaps singing one of
their cheer-making songs, such as:--
"I want to go home. (p. 019)
I want to go home.
I don't want to go to the trenches no more,
Where the Whizz-bangs and Johnsons do rattle and roar.
Take me right over the sea,
Where the Allemande can't bayonet me.
Oh, my!
I don't want to die,
I want to go home."
[Illustration: V. _Warwickshires entering Peronne._]
How did they do it? "I want to go home."--Does anyone realise what
those words must have meant to them then? I believe I do now--a little
bit. Even I, from my back, looking-on position, sometimes felt the
terrible fear, the longing to get away. What must they have felt?
"From battle, murder and sudden death, Good Lord, deliver us."
On up the hill past the mines to Pozieres. An Army railway was then
running through Pozieres, and the station was marked by a big wooden
sign painted black and white, like you see at any country station in
England, with POZIERES in large Roman letters, but that's all there
was of Pozieres except a little red in the mud. I remember later, at
the R.F.C. H.Q., Maurice Baring showed me a series of air-photographs
of Pozieres as it was in 1914, with its peaceful little streets and
rows of trees. What a contrast to the Pozieres as it was in 1917--MUD.
Further on, the Butte stood out on the right, a heap of chalky mud,
not a blade of grass round it then--nothing but mud, with a white
cross on the top. On the left, the Crown Prince's dug-out and
Gibraltar--I suppose these have gone now--and Le Sars and Grevillers,
at that time General Birdwood's H.Q., where the church had been
knocked into a fine shape. I tried to draw it, but was much put off by
air fighting. It seemed a favourite spot for this.
Bapaume must always have been a dismal place, like Albert, but (p. 020)
Peronne must have been lovely, looking up from the water; and the
main _Place_ must have been most imposing, but then it was very sad.
The Boche had only left it about three weeks, and it had not been
"cleaned up." But the real terribleness of the Somme was not in the
towns or on the roads. One felt it as one wandered over the old
battlefields of La Boisselle, Courcelette, Thiepval, Grandcourt,
Miraumont, Beaumont-Hamel, Bazentin-le-Grand and Bazentin-le-Petit--the
whole country practically untouched since the great day when the Boche
was pushed back and it was left in peace once more.
A hand lying on the duckboards; a Boche and a Highlander locked in a
deadly embrace at the edge of Highwood; the "Cough-drop" with the
stench coming from its watery bottom; the shell-holes with the shapes
of bodies faintly showing through the putrid water--all these things
made one think terribly of what human beings had been through, and
were going through a bit further on, and would be going through for
perhaps years more--who knew how many?
I remember an officer saying to me, "Paint the Somme? I could do it
from memory--just a flat horizon-line and mud-holes and water, with
the stumps of a few battered trees," but one could not paint the
smell.
Early one morning in Amiens I got a message from Colonel John Buchan
asking me to breakfast at the "Hotel du Rhin." While we were having
breakfast, there was a great noise outside--an English voice was
cursing someone else hard and telling him to get on and not make an
ass of himself. Then a Flying Pilot was pushed in by an Observer. The
Pilot's hand and arm were temporarily bound up, but blood was (p. 021)
dropping through. The Observer had his face badly scratched and one of
his legs was not quite right. They sat at a table, and the waiter
brought them eggs and coffee, which they took with relish, but the
Pilot was constantly drooping towards his left, and the drooping
always continued, till he went crack on the floor. Then the Observer
would curse him soundly and put him back in his chair, where he would
eat again till the next fall. When they had finished, the waiter put a
cigarette in each of their mouths and lit them. After a few minutes
four men walked in with two stretchers, put the two breakfasters on
the stretchers, and walked out with them--not a word was spoken.
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