An Onlooker in France 1917 to 1919
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William Orpen >> An Onlooker in France 1917 to 1919
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[Illustration: VI. _No Man's Land._]
I found out afterwards that the Pilot had been hit in the wrist over
the lines early that morning and missed the direction back to his
aerodrome. Getting very weak, he landed, not very well, outside
Amiens. He got his wrist bound up and had asked someone to telephone
to the aerodrome to tell them that they were going to the "Rhin" for
breakfast, and would they send for them there?
After I had been in Amiens for about a fortnight, going out to the
Somme battlefields early in the morning and coming back when it got
dark, I received a message one evening from the Press "Major" to go to
his chateau and ring up the "Colonel" at Rollencourt, which I did. The
following was the conversation as far as I remember:--
"Is that Orpen?"
"Yes, sir."
"What do you mean by behaving this way?"
"What way, please, sir?"
"By not reporting to me."
"I'm sorry, sir, but I do not understand." (p. 022)
"Don't you know you must report to me, and show me
what work you have been doing?"
"I've practically done nothing yet, sir."
"What have you been doing?"
"Looking round, sir."
"Are you aware you are being paid for your services?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, report to me and show me your work regularly.--Tell
the Major to speak to me."
The Major spoke, and I clearly heard him say my behaviour was
damnable.
This wonderful Colonel expected me to work all day, and apparently, in
the evening, to take what I had done and show it to him--the distance
by motor to him and back was something like 110 miles!
I saw there was nothing for it, if I wanted to do my work, but to
fight, so I decided to lay my views of people and things before those
who were above the Colonel. This I did, and had comparative peace, but
the seed of hostility was sown in the Colonel's Intelligence (F)
Section, G.H.Q., as I think it was then called, and they made me
suffer as much as was in their power.
* * * * *
"BEAUMONT-HAMEL" (p. 023)
A MEMORY OF THE SOMME (SPRING 1917)
A fair spring morning--not a living soul is near,
Far, far away there is the faint grumble of the guns;
The battle has passed long since--
All is Peace.
At times there is the faint drone of aeroplanes as
They pass overhead, amber specks, high up in the blue;
Occasionally there is the movement of a rat in the
Old battered trench on which I sit, still in the
Confusion in which it was hurriedly left.
The sun is baking hot.
Strange odours come from the door of a dug-out
With its endless steps running down into blackness.
The land is white--dazzling.
The distance is all shimmering in heat.
A few little spring flowers have forced their way
Through the chalk.
He lies a few yards in front of the trench.
We are quite alone.
He makes me feel very awed, very small, very ashamed.
He has been there a long, long time--
Hundreds of eyes have seen him,
Hundreds of bodies have felt faint and sick
Because of him.
Then this place was Hell,
But now all is Peace.
And the sun has made him Holy and Pure--
He and his garments are bleached white and clean.
A daffodil is by his head, and his curly, golden (p. 024)
Hair is moving in the slight breeze.
He, the man who died in "No Man's Land," doing
Some great act of bravery for his comrades and
Country--
Here he lies, Pure and Holy, his face upward turned;
No earth between him and his Maker.
I have no right to be so near.
[Illustration: VII. _Three Weeks in France. Shell shock._]
CHAPTER III (p. 025)
AT BRIGADE HEADQUARTERS AND ST. POL (MAY-JUNE 1917)
About this time Freddie Fane (Major Fane, A.P.M.) sent me up to his
old division, which was then fighting in front of Peronne. We arrived
on a lovely afternoon at Divisional H.Q., which were in a pretty
fir-wood, and consisted of beautifully camouflaged little huts. The
guns were booming a few miles off, but everything was very peaceful
there, and the dinner was excellent; but, just as we finished, the
first shell shrieked overhead, and this I was told afterwards went on
all night. Personally I had another large whisky-and-soda, and slept
like a log.
The next morning the General's A.D.C. motored me to a village about
four kilometres off and handed me over to a 2nd Lieutenant, who walked
me off to Brigade H.Q. These were behind an old railway embankment.
Everyone was most kind, but I saw no quiet place to work. Everyone was
rushing about, and the noise of the guns was terrific. The young 2nd
Lieutenant advised me to take the men I wanted to draw and to go to
the other side of the embankment. He said that there was no one there
and that I could work in peace, and he was right. The noise from our
batteries immediately gave me a bad headache, but apparently the Boche
did not respond at all till the afternoon. Then they started, and the
noise was HELL. Whenever there was a big bang I couldn't help giving (p. 026)
a jump. The old Tommy I was drawing said, "It's all right, Guv'ner,
you'll get used to it very soon." _I_ didn't think so, but to make
conversation I said: "How long is it since you were home?"
"Twenty-two months," said he.
"Twenty-two months!" said I.
"Yes," said he, "but one can't complain. That bloke over there hasn't
been home for twenty-eight."
What a life! Twenty-four hours of it was enough for me at a time.
Before evening came my head felt as if it were filled with pebbles
which were rattling about inside it. After lunch I sat with the
Brigadier for a time and watched the men coming out from the trenches.
Some sick; some with trench feet; some on stretchers; some walking;
worn, sad and dirty--all stumbling along in the glare. The General
spoke to each as they passed. I noticed that their faces had no change
of expression. Their eyes were wide open, the pupils very small, and
their mouths always sagged a bit. They seemed like men in a dream,
hardly realising where they were or what they were doing. They showed
no sign of pleasure at the idea of leaving Hell for a bit. It was as
if they had gone through so much that nothing mattered. I was glad
when I was back at Divisional H.Q. that evening. We had difficulty on
one part of the road, as a "Sausage" had been brought down across it.
Shortly afterwards I went to live at St. Pol, a dirty little town, but
full of character. The hotel was filthy and the food impossible. We
ate tinned tongue and bully-beef for the most part. Here I met
Laboreur, a Frenchman, who was acting as interpreter--a very good
artist. I think his etchings are as good as any line work the war has
produced. A most amusing man. We had many happy dinners together at (p. 027)
a little restaurant, where the old lady used to give us her bedroom as
a private sitting-room dining-room. It was a bit stuffy, but the food
was eatable.
[Illustration: VIII. _Man in the Glare. Two miles from the Hindenburg Line._]
One fine morning I got a message, "Would I ring up the P.S. of the
C.-in-C. at once?" so I went to the Camp Commandant's office. No one
was there except a corporal, so I asked him to get through to Sir
Philip Sassoon, and said that I would wait outside till he did so.
Presently he called me in, and Sassoon said I was to paint the Chief,
and would I come to lunch the next day at Advanced H.Q., G.H.Q.? after
which we talked and laughed a bit. When I hung up the receiver, I
turned round, and there was a large A.S.C. Colonel glaring at me. I
was so taken aback, as I had not heard him come in, that I didn't even
salute him. He roared at me, "Are you an S.S.O.?" (Senior Supply
Officer). "No," said I, "I'm a painter!" I never saw a man in such a
fury in my life. I thought he was going to hit me. However, I made him
understand in the end that I really was speaking the truth and in no
way wanted to be cheeky.
I had lunch at Advanced G.H.Q. the next day. The C.-in-C. was very
kind, and brought me into his room afterwards, and asked me if
everything was going all right with me. I told him I had a few
troubles and was not very popular with certain people. He said: "If
you get any more letters that annoy you, send them to me and I'll
answer them." I went back to St. Pol with my head in the air. A great
weight seemed to have been lifted off me.
Sir Douglas was a strong man, a true Northerner, well inside
himself--no pose. It seemed it would be impossible to upset him,
impossible to make him show any strong feeling, and yet one felt he (p. 028)
understood, knew all, and felt for all his men, and that he truly
loved them; and I knew they loved him. Never once, all the time I was
in France, did I hear a "Tommy" say one word against "'Aig." Whenever
it became my honour to be allowed to visit him, I always left feeling
happier--feeling more sure that the fighting men being killed were not
dying for nothing. One felt he knew, and would never allow them to
suffer and die except for final victory.
When I started painting him he said, "Why waste your time painting me?
Go and paint the men. They're the fellows who are saving the world,
and they're getting killed every day."
The second time I was there, just after lunch, the Chief had gone to
his room, and several Generals, Colonel Fletcher, Sassoon and myself
were standing in the hall, when suddenly a most violent explosion went
off, all the windows came tumbling in, and there was great excitement,
as they thought the Boche had spotted the Chiefs whereabouts. The
explosions went on, and out came the Chief. He walked straight up to
me, laid his hand on my shoulder and said: "That's the worst of having
a fellow like you here, Major. I thought the Huns would spot it," and,
having had his joke, went back to his work. He was a great man. It
turned out to be a munition dump which had exploded near by, and the
noise was deafening for about eight hours.
This was the time of the great fight round the chemical works at
Roeux, and I was drawing the men as they came out for rest. They
were mostly in a bad state, but some were quite calm. One, I remember,
was quite happy. He had ten days' leave and was going back to some
village near Manchester to be married. He showed me her photograph, (p. 029)
a pretty girl. Perhaps he was killed afterwards.
[Illustration: IX. _Air-Marshal Sir H. M. Trenchard, Bart., K.C.B.,
etc._]
The view from Mont St. Eloy was fine, with the guns belching out flame
on the plain in the midday sun.
One day I was painting the C.-in-C., and at lunch-time the news came
in that General Trenchard was there. The C.-in-C. said: "Orpen must
see 'Boom,' he's great," so I was taken off and we met him in the
garden. A huge man with a little head and a great personality, proud
of one thing only, that is, that he is a descendant of Jack Sheppard.
With him, to my delight, was Maurice Baring (his A.D.C.). The General
was told that I wanted to see the aerodromes, and Maurice shyly said:
"May I take Orpen round, sir? I know him." Gee! How happy I was when
the General said: "All right, you see to it, Baring."
I painted "Boom" a few days later in a beautiful chateau with the most
wonderful old stables. They have all been burnt down since. "Boom"
worked hard all the time I painted. A few days later Baring told me
that he had spoken to "Boom" and told him how much I admired his head.
"Boom" replied: "Damned if he showed it in his painting." And yet he
was worshipped by all the flying boys.
About this time I had sent from England Maurice Baring's "In Memoriam"
to Lord Lucas. It made a tremendous impression on me then, and still
does. I think it is one of the greatest poems ever written, and by far
the greatest work of art the war has produced.
Baring took me out for a great day round the aerodromes. We visited
several and lunched with a Wing-Commander, Colonel Freeman, who was
most kind, a great lover of books, a lot of which Maurice used to
supply him with. After this, we visited a squadron where there was to (p. 030)
be a test fight between a German Albatross, which had been captured
intact, and one of our machines. The fight was a failure, however, as
just after they got up something went wrong with the radiator of the
Albatross; but later Captain Little did some wonderful stunts on a
triplane. I also saw Robert Gregory there, but had no chance to speak
to him. But I learnt that he was doing very well and was most popular
in the squadron, and that he had painted some fine scenery for their
theatre.
St. Pol possessed an open-air swimming-bath, a strange thing for St.
Pol, but there it was--a fine large swimming-bath, full of warm water
which came from some chemical works. I used to swim there every
evening when I got back from work. The one thing that struck me at
that time was the difference between nudity and uniform--while bathing
one could look at and study all these fine lads, and I would think of
one, "Gee! there's an aristocrat. What a figure! What refinement!" and
of another, "What a badly-bred, vulgar, common brute!" Later they
would both come out of their bathing-boxes, and the "brute" would be a
smartly dressed officer carrying himself with ease and distinction,
and the "aristocrat" would be an untidy, uncouth "Tommy" shambling
along. Truly on sight one should never judge a man with his clothes
on.
[Illustration: X. _Howitzer in Action._]
CHAPTER IV (p. 031)
THE YPRES SALIENT (JUNE-JULY 1917)
It was about this time we moved to Cassel. Nothing very interesting in
the journey till one comes to Arques and St. Omer (at one time Lord
French's G.H.Q.). The road from Arques to the station at the foot of
Cassel Hill was always lined on each side by lorries, guns, pontoons
and all manner of war material. A gloomy road, thick with mud for the
most part, if not dust. It was always a pleasure to start climbing
Cassel Hill, past the seven windmills and up to the little town
perched on the summit.
Cassel is a picturesque little spot, with its glazed tiles and
sprinkling of Spanish buildings, and the view from it is marvellous.
On a clear day one could see practically the whole line from Nieuport
to Armentieres and the coast from Nieuport to Boulogne. At that time,
the 2nd Army H.Q. were in the one-time casino, which was the summit of
the town, and from its roof one got a clear view all round. Cassel was
to the Ypres Salient what Amiens was to the Somme, and the little
"Hotel Sauvage" stood for the "Godbert," the "Cathedral" and
"Charlie's Bar" all in one. The dining-room, with its long row of
windows showing the wonderful view, like the Rubens landscape in the
National Gallery, was packed every night for the most part with
fighting boys from the Salient, who had come in for a couple of hours
to eat, drink, play the piano and sing, forgetting their misery and (p. 032)
discomfort for the moment. It was enormously interesting to watch and
study what happened in that room. One saw gaiety, misery, fear,
thoughtfulness and unthoughtfulness all mixed up like a kaleidoscope.
It was a well-run, romantic little hotel, built round a small
courtyard, which was always noisy with the tramp of cavalry horses and
the rattle of harness. The hotel was managed by Madame Loorius and her
two daughters, Suzanne and Blanche, who were known as "The Peaches."
Suzanne was undoubtedly the Queen of the Ypres Salient, as sure as
Marguerite was that of the Somme. One look from the eyes of Suzanne,
one smile, and these wonderful lads would go back to their
gun-pits--or who knows where?--proud.
Suzanne wore an R.F.C. badge on her breast. She was engaged to be
married to an R.F.C. officer at that time. Whether the marriage ever
came off I know not. Certainly not before the end of the war, and now
Madame is dead, and they have given up the "Sauvage," and are, as far
as I am concerned, lost.
Here the Press used to come when any particular operation was going on
in the North. In my mind now I can look clearly from my room across
the courtyard and can see Beach Thomas by his open window, in his
shirt-sleeves, writing like fury at some terrific tale for the _Daily
Mail_. It seemed strange his writing this stuff, this mild-eyed,
country-loving dreamer; but he knew his job.
Philip Gibbs was also there--despondent, gloomy, nervy, realising to
the full the horror of the whole business; his face drawn very fine,
and intense sadness in his very kind eyes; also Percival
Phillips--that deep thinker on war, who probably knew more about it (p. 033)
than all the rest of the correspondents put together.
[Illustration: XI. _German 'Planes visiting Cassel._]
The people of Cassel loved the Tommy, so the latter had a good time
there.
One day I drew German prisoners at Bailleul. They had just been
captured, 3,500 in one cage, all covered with lice--3,500 men, some
nude, some half-nude, trying to clean the lice off themselves. It was
a strange business. The Boche at the time were sending over Jack
Johnsons at the station, and these men used to cheer as each shell
shrieked overhead.
It was at Cassel I first began to realise how wonderful the women of
the working class in France were, how absolutely different and
infinitely superior they were to the same class at home; in fact no
class in England corresponded to them at all. Clean, neat, prim women,
working from early dawn till late at night, apparently with unceasing
energy, they never seemed to tire and usually wore a smile.
I remember one girl, a widow; her name was Madame Blanche, who worked
at the "Hotel Sauvage." She was about twenty-two years of age, and she
owned a house in Cassel. A few months before I arrived there her
husband had contracted some sort of poisoning in the trenches and had
been brought back to Cassel, where he died. Madame Blanche interested
me; she was very slim and prim and neat and tightly laced. Her fair
hair was always very carefully crimped. She looked like a girl out of
a painting by Metsu or Van Meer. I could see her posing at a piano for
either, calm, gentle and silent; and could imagine her in the midst of
all the refined surroundings in which these artists would have painted
her. But now her surroundings were khaki, and her background was the
wonderful Flemish view from the windows--miles and miles of country, (p. 034)
with the old sausage balloons floating sleepily in the distance.
I must have looked at Madame Blanche a lot--perhaps too much. I
remember she used to smile at me; but that was as far as our
friendship could get--smiles, as I only knew about ten words of
French, and she less of English.
But one day she surprised me, and left me thinking and wondering more
of the strange, unbelievable things that happen to one in this world.
It was after lunch one Sunday: I had just got back to my room to work
when there was a knock on the door, and in walked Madame Blanche, who,
after much trouble to us both, I gathered wished me to go for a walk
with her. Impossible! I, a major, a Field Officer, to walk at large
through the streets of Cassel, 2nd Army H.Q., with a serving-girl from
the "Hotel Sauvage"! I succeeded in explaining this after some time;
and then, to my amazement, she broke down and wept. The convulsive
sobbing continued, and I thought and wondered, and in the end decided
that I was crazy to make a woman weep because I would not go for a
walk with her. So I told her I would do so; and she dried her eyes and
asked me to meet her in the hotel yard in ten minutes.
When I got down to the yard the rain was coming down in torrents, and
there she was, dressed in her widow's weeds and holding in her arms a
mass of flowers. Solemnly we went out into the streets. Not a
civilian, not a soldier, not even a military policeman was to be seen.
All other human beings had taken refuge from the deluge: we were quite
alone. Right through the town we went and out to the little cemetery,
into which she brought me and led to her husband's grave, on which she
placed the mass of flowers, and then knelt in the mud and prayed for (p. 035)
about half an hour in the pouring rain; after which we walked solemnly
and silently back to the hotel, soaked through and through. It was a
strange affair. I may be stupid, but I cannot yet see her reason for
wishing to take me out in the wet.
[Illustration: XII. _Soldiers and Peasants, Cassel._]
After working up there for about six weeks I began to feel very tired,
and thought I would go for a change; so I decided to run away and go
and see some "Bases"--Dieppe, Le Havre and Rouen. The day after I
reached Dieppe I received a telegram from the "Colonel": "When do you
return?" to which I replied: "Return where, please?" to which
apparently no reply could be made. But two days later I received a
letter from him saying he was moving to another job, but would always
remember the honour of his having had me working under him. This was a
nasty one for me, and I had no answer to give. About the same time I
received a telegram from Sir Philip Sassoon: "Where the devil are you?
_aaa_ Philip." Months later he sent me a great parcel of
correspondence as to whether this telegram, sent by the P.S. of the
C.-in-C., could be regarded as an official telegram, its language,
etc. The minutes were signed by Lieutenants, Captains, Majors,
Colonels, all up to the last one, which was signed by a General, and
ran thus: "What the ---- hell were you using this disgusting language
for, Philip?"
After a week I went back to Cassel, packed up and went south to
Amiens.
CHAPTER V (p. 036)
THE SOMME IN SUMMER-TIME (AUGUST 1917)
Never shall I forget my first sight of the Somme in summer-time. I had
left it mud, nothing but water, shell-holes and mud--the most gloomy,
dreary abomination of desolation the mind could imagine; and now, in
the summer of 1917, no words could express the beauty of it. The
dreary, dismal mud was baked white and pure--dazzling white. White
daisies, red poppies and a blue flower, great masses of them,
stretched for miles and miles. The sky a pure dark blue, and the whole
air, up to a height of about forty feet, thick with white butterflies:
your clothes were covered with butterflies. It was like an enchanted
land; but in the place of fairies there were thousands of little white
crosses, marked "Unknown British Soldier," for the most part. (Later,
all these bodies were taken up and nearly all were identified and
re-buried in Army cemeteries.) Through the masses of white
butterflies, blue dragon-flies darted about; high up the larks sang;
higher still the aeroplanes droned. Everything shimmered in the heat.
Clothes, guns, all that had been left in confusion when the war passed
on, had now been baked by the sun into one wonderful combination of
colour--white, pale grey and pale gold. The only dark colours were the
deep red bronze of the "wire" and one black cat which lived in a
shelter in what once was the main street of Thiepval. It was strange,
this black cat living there all alone. No humans, or those of her own (p. 037)
species, lived within miles of her. It took me days to make friends
and get her to come to me; and when at last I succeeded, the
friendship did not last long. No matter where I worked round that
district, the black cat of Thiepval would find me, and would approach
silently, and would suddenly jump on my knees and dig all her long
nails deeply into my flesh, with affection. I stood it for a little
time, and then gave her a good smack, after which I never saw my
little black friend again.
[Illustration: XIII. _German Prisoners._]
Thiepval Chateau, one of the largest in the north of France, was
practically flattened. What little mound was left was covered with
flowers. Some bricks had been collected from it and marked the grave
of "An Unknown British Soldier." Even Albert, that deadly
uninteresting little town, looked almost beautiful and cheerful.
Flowers grew by the sides of the streets; roses were abundant in what
were once back-gardens; a hut was up at the corner by the Cathedral
and _Daily Mails_ were sold there every evening at four o'clock, and
the golden leaning Lady holding her Baby, looking down towards the
street, gleamed in the sun on top of the Cathedral tower.
A family had come back from Corbie and re-started their restaurant--a
father and three charming girls. They patched up the little house by
the station and did a roaring trade, and some few other families came
back. Once more a skirt could be seen, even a few silk stockings
occasionally tripping about.
Peronne was now like a polished skeleton--very clean, but very
brittle: a little breeze, and whole houses would tumble to bits. I
started painting, one day, a little picture from the hall of the
College for Young Ladies. When I went the next day I found my point of
view had been raised several feet: the top walls had come down. But (p. 038)
here again they had patched up a great big house as a club. It was
airy, not intentionally so, but on a hot day it was ideal, with its
view down over the Somme. Bully-beef pie, cheese and beer--if one
could only have had French coffee instead of that terrible black
mixture imported from England, things would have been more perfectly
complete.
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